Walking Dead Fanfic: "Alive"
Title: Alive
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 572
Summary: "This is the most space we've had since we left the farm," she shouts, once the walkers have gone down, once the field belongs to them.
Notes: Episode 301 Gapfiller. Written for tamingthemuse, prompt 'vibrant'.
Alive
by Severina
They live a life of sepia-tones, of ashen hues. Hunkering down in abandoned homes, dull brown boards nailed over the windows. Sitting hunched in dirty, dusty storefronts, wiping grey-grimy hands on filthy trousers and tensing whenever the sound of shuffling feet occurs outside the barricaded doors.
That a prison could be such a source of colour and light is astounding, really.
"This is the most space we've had since we left the farm," she shouts, once the walkers have gone down, once the field belongs to them. The grass is green, lush despite the constant tread of the walker's feet. It smells fresh, alive; makes her feel alive in a way that she hasn't felt in months. She wants to bend down and run the palms of her hands over it, take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in it, lie down and roll on it like a puppy. She spreads her arms instead, a spring in her step; hesitates only a moment before finally giving in to temptation and swinging around in a circle, feeling for all intents and purposes like a poor man's Julie Andrews and not caring one fig what anyone thinks.
What everyone thinks, it turns out, is that it is a damn fine idea.
T-Dog catches her by the waist, spins her around dizzyingly until she laughs and begs him to stop. He pouts for a second before spotting Lori and advancing with his arms held out, and Carol swears Lori giggles like a schoolgirl when she shakes her head and backs away. Even Daryl chuckles, ducking his head to hide his smile.
At dinner, even the fire looks brighter, orange-yellow flames blazing against the night sky. Perhaps it's just because they don't have to hide the fire, can sit beside it in the open and still be safe, but the flames seem to kindle sparks of light in Beth's hair, make Maggie's eyes sparkle even more when she looks at her Glenn.
The walkers still clamber at the fences, and not even the tantalizing scent of the last of the rabbit can cover the rotting stench of them. But they can't get in… for once, they are sure that the walkers are exiled from their lives, at least for tonight - so Carol ignores them, crosses her legs and props herself up on her forearms, leans her head back to watch the glimmer of the stars. The soft, equally-unconcerned murmurs of the voices of her friends is comforting, and for a moment she just closes her eyes and lets herself bask in it.
Then she opens her eyes, tilts her head and squints until she spots Daryl atop the overturned bus. He, of all of them, should be enjoying this respite from the terrors of the road. It was Daryl who caught the hares that they broiled up for their dinner; Daryl who took down the walker playing possum behind the watch tower.
She sits up, brushes the grass stains from her hands and reaches for a dish. There are no serving utensils, not anymore, but she uses just the tips of her fingers to handle the meat, dropping each piece quickly onto the plate.
"Where're you off to?" Hershel asks after she's stood and drawn on her sweater.
"Bring Daryl some dinner," she answers.
She grins as she walks through the fresh-smelling grass. She'll bring him some dinner. And maybe, she thinks, something else besides.
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead (TV)
Rating: PG
Word Count: 572
Summary: "This is the most space we've had since we left the farm," she shouts, once the walkers have gone down, once the field belongs to them.
Notes: Episode 301 Gapfiller. Written for tamingthemuse, prompt 'vibrant'.
Alive
by Severina
They live a life of sepia-tones, of ashen hues. Hunkering down in abandoned homes, dull brown boards nailed over the windows. Sitting hunched in dirty, dusty storefronts, wiping grey-grimy hands on filthy trousers and tensing whenever the sound of shuffling feet occurs outside the barricaded doors.
That a prison could be such a source of colour and light is astounding, really.
"This is the most space we've had since we left the farm," she shouts, once the walkers have gone down, once the field belongs to them. The grass is green, lush despite the constant tread of the walker's feet. It smells fresh, alive; makes her feel alive in a way that she hasn't felt in months. She wants to bend down and run the palms of her hands over it, take off her shoes and wiggle her toes in it, lie down and roll on it like a puppy. She spreads her arms instead, a spring in her step; hesitates only a moment before finally giving in to temptation and swinging around in a circle, feeling for all intents and purposes like a poor man's Julie Andrews and not caring one fig what anyone thinks.
What everyone thinks, it turns out, is that it is a damn fine idea.
T-Dog catches her by the waist, spins her around dizzyingly until she laughs and begs him to stop. He pouts for a second before spotting Lori and advancing with his arms held out, and Carol swears Lori giggles like a schoolgirl when she shakes her head and backs away. Even Daryl chuckles, ducking his head to hide his smile.
At dinner, even the fire looks brighter, orange-yellow flames blazing against the night sky. Perhaps it's just because they don't have to hide the fire, can sit beside it in the open and still be safe, but the flames seem to kindle sparks of light in Beth's hair, make Maggie's eyes sparkle even more when she looks at her Glenn.
The walkers still clamber at the fences, and not even the tantalizing scent of the last of the rabbit can cover the rotting stench of them. But they can't get in… for once, they are sure that the walkers are exiled from their lives, at least for tonight - so Carol ignores them, crosses her legs and props herself up on her forearms, leans her head back to watch the glimmer of the stars. The soft, equally-unconcerned murmurs of the voices of her friends is comforting, and for a moment she just closes her eyes and lets herself bask in it.
Then she opens her eyes, tilts her head and squints until she spots Daryl atop the overturned bus. He, of all of them, should be enjoying this respite from the terrors of the road. It was Daryl who caught the hares that they broiled up for their dinner; Daryl who took down the walker playing possum behind the watch tower.
She sits up, brushes the grass stains from her hands and reaches for a dish. There are no serving utensils, not anymore, but she uses just the tips of her fingers to handle the meat, dropping each piece quickly onto the plate.
"Where're you off to?" Hershel asks after she's stood and drawn on her sweater.
"Bring Daryl some dinner," she answers.
She grins as she walks through the fresh-smelling grass. She'll bring him some dinner. And maybe, she thinks, something else besides.
.