tiny_white_hats (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
tiny_white_hats) wrote2013-01-07 03:47 am
tiny_white_hats) wrote2013-01-07 03:47 am
Fic: Survivors
I wrote this for ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
fandom_stocking just as I discovered the 100 AU community on Livejournal, and the requests in this particular stocking and the prompts for 100 AUs really kickstarted my imagination, and a Willow/Oz Zombie!Verse became a thing. I've actually already expanded on this ficlet further, because the Zompocalypse is a fun AU to play with. I'll add a link to this post to the extended Willow/Oz vs. zombies fic when I finish editing it and post it.
This was written forevil_little_dog for 2012 Fandom Stocking, so I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and enjoy the fic!
fandom_stocking just as I discovered the 100 AU community on Livejournal, and the requests in this particular stocking and the prompts for 100 AUs really kickstarted my imagination, and a Willow/Oz Zombie!Verse became a thing. I've actually already expanded on this ficlet further, because the Zompocalypse is a fun AU to play with. I'll add a link to this post to the extended Willow/Oz vs. zombies fic when I finish editing it and post it.This was written for
evil_little_dog for 2012 Fandom Stocking, so I hope you had a wonderful holiday season and enjoy the fic!Title: Survivors
Characters: Willow Rosenberg, Daniel "Oz" Osbourne
Pairing: Oz/Willow
Rating: PG-13, for zombie related violence + death
Summary: Willow rescues Oz from zombies, in an AU where the Zombie Apocalypse is in full swing.
Disclaimer: Willow, Oz, and any other people or places mentioned in this unofficial fanwork are property of Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. Not mine.
A/N: I'm really fond of AU's, especially apocalyptic ones, so this was fun to write. I hope it's as fun to read! Happy holidays!
Survivors
Willow found him cornered in an alley, broken and crunched guitar neck in his hands, slivered wooden scraps of the instrument’s body jutting out of it like thorns. She’d followed the sounds of a scuffle back here, hopingwishingpraying that she wouldn’t find another chewed up corpse, just waiting to walk again. She hadn’t, thank god, and for the first time since she’d lost everyone, she felt a flash of hope light up in some deep, forgotten part of her.
The man with the broken guitar held its neck like a weapon, lashing out at the two zombies edging in on him. A third and a fourth body lay at his feet, one starting to feebly stir, the other still as a gravestone. Silently, sword raised, Willow slipped behind the first zombie and swung, sword ripping through the neck as if the corpse were woven from tissue paper. Before the head could hit the ground she had turned, slicing through the dead skin and bone and tendons of the other one’s neck, and watched the body crumple, head dropping after it and rolling to a stop. Whirling once more, she came to stand by the shoulders of the rustling corpse, swinging her sword like an executioner’s axe and severing her third head. She flowed to a stop, burst of violence clearly over, giving the living man a concerned look. He was standing over the final body, protecting it, makeshift weapon still raised, this time towards her.
“Whoa there,” she soothed, sheathing her sword in the scabbard slung across her back. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he answered warily, narrowed blue eyes darting quickly to the downed man at his feet.
“Was your friend bitten at all?” she asked, waving vaguely at the body splayed behind the standing man. The still living man was her height, with messy red hair and the same hard look in his eyes that she saw in her own. Surviving this long had been hard on him.
“Uh, yeah,” he nodded, head cocked to the side in confusion. He lowered the guitar neck wearily, letting it fall to the ground with a dull thud, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“I’m so sorry.” Willow sighed and unsheathed her sword again, whispery hiss of metal on metal like a snake in the grass.
“What?”
“Your friend is dead. He’ll rise soon, but not all the way, not really.” Willow took a step closer to the undead body, just to find the man stepping into her way. “He’s diseased now. He’ll be a Walker, a zombie, but that’s not alive. That’s just moving.”
He didn’t show any signs of moving or of getting in her way, so Willow slipped behind him, sliding out her sword, and beheaded her fourth Walker that hour. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, head bowed, as she walked back in front of the quiet man, remembering the bodies of friends that still haunted her. “But it was better this way. You won’t ever have to see him undead. That’s always the worst part.”
The man stayed quiet for another minute, mind visibly elsewhere, but, just as Willow was starting to worry, he snapped to attention, glowing blue eyes focused on her face. “The zombies or, I think you called them Walkers: what’s their story?”
“I wish I knew, but nobody, nobody that I’ve met at least, has any idea.”
He paused, eyes dropping to his dead friend for just a second, and took a deep breath. “I want to help fight,” he continued calmly, and Willow was struck by the intensity in his eyes. His voice, posture, expression all suggested a casual nonchalance, but his eyes, locked on hers, were angry and grieving and violently mad.
Willow smiled tiredly at him, holding out a hand for him to shake. “I sure wouldn’t say no to some help. I’m Willow.”
“Oz.” He had a firm grip, fingers calloused and palms smooth. He was a musician, not a fighter, but she hadn’t been a fighter in the days before either. He would learn, just like she had.
“I have a place,” Willow smiled tentatively. “You can come with me, learn to fight. If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to.”
“I’d like that. Thanks,” Oz nodded, and followed her out into the street.
“Hold on,” he called as they reached the mouth of the alley. There was a blue van parked there, tired-looking, with ruined tires and rust around the edges, and Oz yanked open the side door to hop inside. Outside, Willow waited, scanning the road stretching out in either direction, until she heard the soft slam of the decrepit van door. “Alright,” Oz smiled faintly, lips just barely twitching up, a cloth guitar case slung across his back like a scabbard.
“Let’s go,” Willow nodded resolutely and, Oz at her side, began walking as far away from the town and the Walkers and his friend’s dead body as possible. It was scarcely believable but, after months all by herself, Willow wasn’t alone anymore.
fin.
Survivors
Willow found him cornered in an alley, broken and crunched guitar neck in his hands, slivered wooden scraps of the instrument’s body jutting out of it like thorns. She’d followed the sounds of a scuffle back here, hopingwishingpraying that she wouldn’t find another chewed up corpse, just waiting to walk again. She hadn’t, thank god, and for the first time since she’d lost everyone, she felt a flash of hope light up in some deep, forgotten part of her.
The man with the broken guitar held its neck like a weapon, lashing out at the two zombies edging in on him. A third and a fourth body lay at his feet, one starting to feebly stir, the other still as a gravestone. Silently, sword raised, Willow slipped behind the first zombie and swung, sword ripping through the neck as if the corpse were woven from tissue paper. Before the head could hit the ground she had turned, slicing through the dead skin and bone and tendons of the other one’s neck, and watched the body crumple, head dropping after it and rolling to a stop. Whirling once more, she came to stand by the shoulders of the rustling corpse, swinging her sword like an executioner’s axe and severing her third head. She flowed to a stop, burst of violence clearly over, giving the living man a concerned look. He was standing over the final body, protecting it, makeshift weapon still raised, this time towards her.
“Whoa there,” she soothed, sheathing her sword in the scabbard slung across her back. “I’m not gonna hurt you.”
“It’s not me I’m worried about,” he answered warily, narrowed blue eyes darting quickly to the downed man at his feet.
“Was your friend bitten at all?” she asked, waving vaguely at the body splayed behind the standing man. The still living man was her height, with messy red hair and the same hard look in his eyes that she saw in her own. Surviving this long had been hard on him.
“Uh, yeah,” he nodded, head cocked to the side in confusion. He lowered the guitar neck wearily, letting it fall to the ground with a dull thud, his arms hanging limply at his sides.
“I’m so sorry.” Willow sighed and unsheathed her sword again, whispery hiss of metal on metal like a snake in the grass.
“What?”
“Your friend is dead. He’ll rise soon, but not all the way, not really.” Willow took a step closer to the undead body, just to find the man stepping into her way. “He’s diseased now. He’ll be a Walker, a zombie, but that’s not alive. That’s just moving.”
He didn’t show any signs of moving or of getting in her way, so Willow slipped behind him, sliding out her sword, and beheaded her fourth Walker that hour. “I’m so sorry,” she said quietly, head bowed, as she walked back in front of the quiet man, remembering the bodies of friends that still haunted her. “But it was better this way. You won’t ever have to see him undead. That’s always the worst part.”
The man stayed quiet for another minute, mind visibly elsewhere, but, just as Willow was starting to worry, he snapped to attention, glowing blue eyes focused on her face. “The zombies or, I think you called them Walkers: what’s their story?”
“I wish I knew, but nobody, nobody that I’ve met at least, has any idea.”
He paused, eyes dropping to his dead friend for just a second, and took a deep breath. “I want to help fight,” he continued calmly, and Willow was struck by the intensity in his eyes. His voice, posture, expression all suggested a casual nonchalance, but his eyes, locked on hers, were angry and grieving and violently mad.
Willow smiled tiredly at him, holding out a hand for him to shake. “I sure wouldn’t say no to some help. I’m Willow.”
“Oz.” He had a firm grip, fingers calloused and palms smooth. He was a musician, not a fighter, but she hadn’t been a fighter in the days before either. He would learn, just like she had.
“I have a place,” Willow smiled tentatively. “You can come with me, learn to fight. If you want to, I mean. You don’t have to, not if you don’t want to.”
“I’d like that. Thanks,” Oz nodded, and followed her out into the street.
“Hold on,” he called as they reached the mouth of the alley. There was a blue van parked there, tired-looking, with ruined tires and rust around the edges, and Oz yanked open the side door to hop inside. Outside, Willow waited, scanning the road stretching out in either direction, until she heard the soft slam of the decrepit van door. “Alright,” Oz smiled faintly, lips just barely twitching up, a cloth guitar case slung across his back like a scabbard.
“Let’s go,” Willow nodded resolutely and, Oz at her side, began walking as far away from the town and the Walkers and his friend’s dead body as possible. It was scarcely believable but, after months all by herself, Willow wasn’t alone anymore.
fin.
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