Walking Dead Ficlet: "Fault"
Title: Fault
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Glenn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 854
Summary: Too close for the guns, so he'd drawn his knife and jumped into the fray, swung and fought and listened to the screams, to the children's cries, to Beth shrieking Judith's name over and over.
Notes: Future Fic. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "lacerations/knife wounds"
Fault
by Severina
They were good, but he still should have known they were there. Should've known when he realized the woods had gone silent - no bird song, no rustling in the bushes from the smaller animals.
Instead he'd barely started to yell a warning before the bandits burst out of the trees, screaming bloody murder. He heard Michonne's blade singing as she spun, felt the splatter of blood on the side of his face when one of the raider's bullets caught Tyrese. Then everything was a blur of motion, of dirt-streaked faces and wild eyes.
"Stay still," Glenn says.
Daryl grimaces but stops fidgeting, stares down at the wound. The machete had dug a deep, jagged line into his bicep, and blood still oozes from the gash no matter how many pieces of old ripped-up T-shirt Glenn presses onto it.
"Wish we had some alcohol to sterilize the needle," Glenn says.
Daryl thinks back wistfully to the bottle Bob had shoved into his backpack, wonders if it's still there. Not that it matters none, since Bob and Rick and so many others ran west when him and Glenn ran east. They're been no time to mount a proper defense, no time when they were so badly outmanned and outgunned.
All his fault.
He grits his teeth when the needle pierces his flesh, looks down in time to see Glenn expertly make the first stitch, the thread strikingly dark even against his dirt-smudged skin. Gonna have another scar, but it's not like it's the first. Won't be the last, either, especially if he doesn't up his damn game.
He'd turned at the spray of hot blood on his face, turned in time to see the light go out of Tyrese's eyes. His bolt took down the killer, but by that time the raiders were all surging from their hiding spots, spilling out into the field like junkyard rats. Too close for the guns, so he'd drawn his knife and jumped into the fray, swung and fought and listened to the screams, to the children's cries, to Beth shrieking Judith's name over and over.
He was halfway across the clearing when the woman slipped past his defenses, slashed out at him with the machete.
His arm had gone numb, and that's why he couldn't…
"Stop blaming yourself," Glenn says.
Daryl shifts, glances down to see that Glenn has finished and is dousing the wound with what little water they have. He tugs his arm away before Glenn can waste all of their resources. "Think you're a mind reader now?"
"I've known you a long time," Glenn answers as he shoves their supplies back into the backpack. "If I didn't know how to read you by now I'd be a pretty piss-poor friend."
Daryl lets his head drop back against the post in the old shack.
The woman was clad in a tattered dress and a man's overcoat; had long, matted hair; yellowing teeth. She seemed little better than a walker herself, flying into the skirmish without any thought to her own safety. He saw the machete at the last instant, and if he hadn't dived to the right it would have buried itself in his neck instead of his arm. Tears had sprung to his eyes as he fell, struggled to keep his grip on his own knife, tried to get his feet under him as she yanked the axe out of his flesh. But she didn't return for the killing blow. She spun on the balls of her feet instead, hefted the weapon in one hand…
His arm was numb and he couldn't feel his fingers, but he tried to lift his own weapon. He tried.
Daryl shakes his head. "Should've seen it comin'," he says. He reaches out with his good hand to grab Glenn's arm, forces him to stop fussing with the supplies. "Maggie-"
"Maggie can take care of herself," Glenn says. "Don't worry about the others. We know where to meet. We found each other after the Governor took down the prison, and we'll find each other again. Rick and Maggie will keep everyone else safe until then. Okay?"
Daryl swallows dryly, glances from Glenn's confident face to his own fingers clenching into Glenn's bicep. He makes himself release his grip, tries a smile that feels wan and sickly on his face. He can't be the one to crush Glenn's hopes. Not now. Not yet.
His arm was numb and he couldn't feel his fingers, but he tried to lift his own weapon. The knife felt clumsy in his hand, the handle slick with the blood that was gushing down his arm from the gash in his bicep. He managed to make it to his knees, but the wild woman had already released the machete, sending it flying end over end across the clearing.
The machete caught Maggie in the back. She fell. She was still.
She was still even as Daryl dragged himself forward and slit the wild woman's throat.
He watches Glenn fuss with the straps on the backpack and closes his eyes. He should've known. It was all his fault.
20 down, 5 to go. *bites nails*
.
Fandom: The Walking Dead
Characters: Daryl, Glenn
Rating: PG
Word Count: 854
Summary: Too close for the guns, so he'd drawn his knife and jumped into the fray, swung and fought and listened to the screams, to the children's cries, to Beth shrieking Judith's name over and over.
Notes: Future Fic. Written for hc_bingo for the prompt "lacerations/knife wounds"
Fault
by Severina
They were good, but he still should have known they were there. Should've known when he realized the woods had gone silent - no bird song, no rustling in the bushes from the smaller animals.
Instead he'd barely started to yell a warning before the bandits burst out of the trees, screaming bloody murder. He heard Michonne's blade singing as she spun, felt the splatter of blood on the side of his face when one of the raider's bullets caught Tyrese. Then everything was a blur of motion, of dirt-streaked faces and wild eyes.
"Stay still," Glenn says.
Daryl grimaces but stops fidgeting, stares down at the wound. The machete had dug a deep, jagged line into his bicep, and blood still oozes from the gash no matter how many pieces of old ripped-up T-shirt Glenn presses onto it.
"Wish we had some alcohol to sterilize the needle," Glenn says.
Daryl thinks back wistfully to the bottle Bob had shoved into his backpack, wonders if it's still there. Not that it matters none, since Bob and Rick and so many others ran west when him and Glenn ran east. They're been no time to mount a proper defense, no time when they were so badly outmanned and outgunned.
All his fault.
He grits his teeth when the needle pierces his flesh, looks down in time to see Glenn expertly make the first stitch, the thread strikingly dark even against his dirt-smudged skin. Gonna have another scar, but it's not like it's the first. Won't be the last, either, especially if he doesn't up his damn game.
He'd turned at the spray of hot blood on his face, turned in time to see the light go out of Tyrese's eyes. His bolt took down the killer, but by that time the raiders were all surging from their hiding spots, spilling out into the field like junkyard rats. Too close for the guns, so he'd drawn his knife and jumped into the fray, swung and fought and listened to the screams, to the children's cries, to Beth shrieking Judith's name over and over.
He was halfway across the clearing when the woman slipped past his defenses, slashed out at him with the machete.
His arm had gone numb, and that's why he couldn't…
"Stop blaming yourself," Glenn says.
Daryl shifts, glances down to see that Glenn has finished and is dousing the wound with what little water they have. He tugs his arm away before Glenn can waste all of their resources. "Think you're a mind reader now?"
"I've known you a long time," Glenn answers as he shoves their supplies back into the backpack. "If I didn't know how to read you by now I'd be a pretty piss-poor friend."
Daryl lets his head drop back against the post in the old shack.
The woman was clad in a tattered dress and a man's overcoat; had long, matted hair; yellowing teeth. She seemed little better than a walker herself, flying into the skirmish without any thought to her own safety. He saw the machete at the last instant, and if he hadn't dived to the right it would have buried itself in his neck instead of his arm. Tears had sprung to his eyes as he fell, struggled to keep his grip on his own knife, tried to get his feet under him as she yanked the axe out of his flesh. But she didn't return for the killing blow. She spun on the balls of her feet instead, hefted the weapon in one hand…
His arm was numb and he couldn't feel his fingers, but he tried to lift his own weapon. He tried.
Daryl shakes his head. "Should've seen it comin'," he says. He reaches out with his good hand to grab Glenn's arm, forces him to stop fussing with the supplies. "Maggie-"
"Maggie can take care of herself," Glenn says. "Don't worry about the others. We know where to meet. We found each other after the Governor took down the prison, and we'll find each other again. Rick and Maggie will keep everyone else safe until then. Okay?"
Daryl swallows dryly, glances from Glenn's confident face to his own fingers clenching into Glenn's bicep. He makes himself release his grip, tries a smile that feels wan and sickly on his face. He can't be the one to crush Glenn's hopes. Not now. Not yet.
His arm was numb and he couldn't feel his fingers, but he tried to lift his own weapon. The knife felt clumsy in his hand, the handle slick with the blood that was gushing down his arm from the gash in his bicep. He managed to make it to his knees, but the wild woman had already released the machete, sending it flying end over end across the clearing.
The machete caught Maggie in the back. She fell. She was still.
She was still even as Daryl dragged himself forward and slit the wild woman's throat.
He watches Glenn fuss with the straps on the backpack and closes his eyes. He should've known. It was all his fault.
20 down, 5 to go. *bites nails*
.