Walking Dead Fanfic: "Pain Management"
Title: Pain Management
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Hershel, Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1031
Summary: The war never stops. The walkers are always at the gate.
Notes: Post Episode 405. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt 'post traumatic stress disorder'
Pain Management
by Severina
The last of the dead walkers have been disposed of, the smoke of the burning still lingering in the air, on his skin. Daryl wrinkles his nose and turns back to scan the courtyard, searching beyond the makeshift barricades and the old bus parked in front of the gap in the fence to the fields beyond. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, squints against the sunlight. Not a walker in sight.
Daryl turns his back on the field and straddles the picnic table bench, determinedly doesn't look at the man sitting at the other table.
He stirs idly at the porridge in his bowl, lets his shoulders slump. He knows he should force himself to eat, knows how important it is to keep his strength up. But sitting was a bad move. He knew it as soon as his ass hit the bench. Sitting means that he isn't out there doing, and if he isn't doing then his brain's got free rein to think whatever crazy worrying thoughts it wants. All of them swirl round and round in his mind - the flimsy barricades and the sickness and the madness on that run, Carol and the endless parade of walkers and Glenn still pale and weak in a stuffy cell. It isn't like he expected this life to be fair, 'cause life never has been. He just figured at some point they'd get a single damn break. That maybe the people that they care for wouldn't betray them at the blink of an eye.
When Bob shifts on the other bench, Daryl glares at him, clenches his fingers more tightly around his spoon. He's still glaring when Hershel shuffles up and sits across from him.
"You ought to eat," Hershel says mildly.
Daryl grunts, flicks his eyes toward Hershel's untouched bowl of oatmeal. "Could say the same for you," he says before turning his gaze back to Bob. If the other man notices, he gives no sign.
Daryl narrows his eyes. He doesn't have to be a genius to know why he's fixated on Bob. Can't do shit to stop the walkers from coming, can't go back in time to fix what Carol did or make it so Glenn and Sasha and all the others didn't get sick. But Bob's in the here and now. Bob he can deal with.
He doesn't know how long he's sitting there, chewing on his cheek and mentally daring Bob to just make one move, just glance at him and give him an excuse. Doesn't know how long he would have sat, or how badly he would have made everything worse, if Hershel hadn't spoken up.
"You got so much anger in you, Daryl," Hershel says.
Daryl whips his head around, narrows his eyes at the old man. "You don't know what he did," he hisses.
"I heard," Hershel says. "It was a bad time. And I know something else. I know he's hurting. Have you ever heard of post traumatic stress disorder?"
Daryl huffs out a breath. "Ain't an idiot, Hershel. It's what them soldiers get when they come home from the war. Mind's are all fucked up." He cocks his head, watches Bob slumped at the table. "You sayin' he's got PTSD?"
"No," Hershel says slowly. "I'm saying we all do. We're in a war that never ends, Daryl. Oh, sometimes we get a little respite like my farm, or this prison, and we think that maybe we'll get a handle on things now, get to take a breather. But the war never stops. The walkers are always at the gate."
"So?" Daryl says. He shakes his hair out of his eyes, looks away from the other man. "We deal with it. Man up. What we've always done."
"We try," Hershel agrees. "But sometimes we do things that we regret. Sometimes we believe things that don't make a hell of a lot of sense, just because the alternative would be enough to break us. I've been there myself, more times than I can count. You've been witness to some of them."
Daryl straightens his shoulders. "You justifyin' what he done? Man tried to draw down on me!"
"I didn't say that. Let's just say I understand the desire to make all the bad things go away for a little while. For Bob, you got in the way of that." Daryl shakes his head, moves to push away from the table but stops short when Hershel reaches out quickly to snag at his arm. "Do you really think he'd have shot you over that bottle of whiskey?"
"Hell yes," Daryl says. But he can't help his mind going back to when he first found Bob. The man had stood silently on the grassy verge, watching his car approach blankly. No fear in his eyes, but no relief either. He was like a dog that'd been kicked one too many times until the mutt just don't know who he can trust anymore.
"If that's true, it's an even sadder tale," Hershel says. "I had my girls to keep me going. I had Rick to remind me of that, and to give me a swift kick in the posterior when I needed it. And sometimes I still failed." Hershel pushes himself to his feet, waves a hand in the direction of the other picnic table. "Bob? He only has himself. And that bottle."
Daryl watches Hershel make his lurching way across the courtyard, curses under his breath. Damn old man and his damn fucking sense. He snatches up his oatmeal and walks over to Bob's bench before he can change his mind, slams the bowl down on the picnic table. "You ever try to draw on me again, I'll-"
"Beat my ass into the ground," Bob says listlessly. "I know."
Daryl glares at him again for good measure before taking a seat, snags a spoonful of oatmeal and hesitates with it halfway to his mouth. "Gotta do a circuit of the fence line, look for any other weaknesses 'fore we figure out how to shore 'em up better."
He watches Bob blink once, slowly. "I could help with that."
"Yeah," Daryl says. "You can."
7 down, 18 to go!
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Hershel, Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1031
Summary: The war never stops. The walkers are always at the gate.
Notes: Post Episode 405. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt 'post traumatic stress disorder'
Pain Management
by Severina
The last of the dead walkers have been disposed of, the smoke of the burning still lingering in the air, on his skin. Daryl wrinkles his nose and turns back to scan the courtyard, searching beyond the makeshift barricades and the old bus parked in front of the gap in the fence to the fields beyond. He raises a hand to shield his eyes, squints against the sunlight. Not a walker in sight.
Daryl turns his back on the field and straddles the picnic table bench, determinedly doesn't look at the man sitting at the other table.
He stirs idly at the porridge in his bowl, lets his shoulders slump. He knows he should force himself to eat, knows how important it is to keep his strength up. But sitting was a bad move. He knew it as soon as his ass hit the bench. Sitting means that he isn't out there doing, and if he isn't doing then his brain's got free rein to think whatever crazy worrying thoughts it wants. All of them swirl round and round in his mind - the flimsy barricades and the sickness and the madness on that run, Carol and the endless parade of walkers and Glenn still pale and weak in a stuffy cell. It isn't like he expected this life to be fair, 'cause life never has been. He just figured at some point they'd get a single damn break. That maybe the people that they care for wouldn't betray them at the blink of an eye.
When Bob shifts on the other bench, Daryl glares at him, clenches his fingers more tightly around his spoon. He's still glaring when Hershel shuffles up and sits across from him.
"You ought to eat," Hershel says mildly.
Daryl grunts, flicks his eyes toward Hershel's untouched bowl of oatmeal. "Could say the same for you," he says before turning his gaze back to Bob. If the other man notices, he gives no sign.
Daryl narrows his eyes. He doesn't have to be a genius to know why he's fixated on Bob. Can't do shit to stop the walkers from coming, can't go back in time to fix what Carol did or make it so Glenn and Sasha and all the others didn't get sick. But Bob's in the here and now. Bob he can deal with.
He doesn't know how long he's sitting there, chewing on his cheek and mentally daring Bob to just make one move, just glance at him and give him an excuse. Doesn't know how long he would have sat, or how badly he would have made everything worse, if Hershel hadn't spoken up.
"You got so much anger in you, Daryl," Hershel says.
Daryl whips his head around, narrows his eyes at the old man. "You don't know what he did," he hisses.
"I heard," Hershel says. "It was a bad time. And I know something else. I know he's hurting. Have you ever heard of post traumatic stress disorder?"
Daryl huffs out a breath. "Ain't an idiot, Hershel. It's what them soldiers get when they come home from the war. Mind's are all fucked up." He cocks his head, watches Bob slumped at the table. "You sayin' he's got PTSD?"
"No," Hershel says slowly. "I'm saying we all do. We're in a war that never ends, Daryl. Oh, sometimes we get a little respite like my farm, or this prison, and we think that maybe we'll get a handle on things now, get to take a breather. But the war never stops. The walkers are always at the gate."
"So?" Daryl says. He shakes his hair out of his eyes, looks away from the other man. "We deal with it. Man up. What we've always done."
"We try," Hershel agrees. "But sometimes we do things that we regret. Sometimes we believe things that don't make a hell of a lot of sense, just because the alternative would be enough to break us. I've been there myself, more times than I can count. You've been witness to some of them."
Daryl straightens his shoulders. "You justifyin' what he done? Man tried to draw down on me!"
"I didn't say that. Let's just say I understand the desire to make all the bad things go away for a little while. For Bob, you got in the way of that." Daryl shakes his head, moves to push away from the table but stops short when Hershel reaches out quickly to snag at his arm. "Do you really think he'd have shot you over that bottle of whiskey?"
"Hell yes," Daryl says. But he can't help his mind going back to when he first found Bob. The man had stood silently on the grassy verge, watching his car approach blankly. No fear in his eyes, but no relief either. He was like a dog that'd been kicked one too many times until the mutt just don't know who he can trust anymore.
"If that's true, it's an even sadder tale," Hershel says. "I had my girls to keep me going. I had Rick to remind me of that, and to give me a swift kick in the posterior when I needed it. And sometimes I still failed." Hershel pushes himself to his feet, waves a hand in the direction of the other picnic table. "Bob? He only has himself. And that bottle."
Daryl watches Hershel make his lurching way across the courtyard, curses under his breath. Damn old man and his damn fucking sense. He snatches up his oatmeal and walks over to Bob's bench before he can change his mind, slams the bowl down on the picnic table. "You ever try to draw on me again, I'll-"
"Beat my ass into the ground," Bob says listlessly. "I know."
Daryl glares at him again for good measure before taking a seat, snags a spoonful of oatmeal and hesitates with it halfway to his mouth. "Gotta do a circuit of the fence line, look for any other weaknesses 'fore we figure out how to shore 'em up better."
He watches Bob blink once, slowly. "I could help with that."
"Yeah," Daryl says. "You can."
7 down, 18 to go!
.