Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2016-03-10
Updated:
2025-06-21
Words:
3,293
Chapters:
11/?
Comments:
88
Kudos:
195
Bookmarks:
10
Hits:
4,675

The Doodle Collection

Summary:

A collection of Walking Dead doodles, random little scenes that don't fit anywhere else (yet). Ratings and tags may vary from chapter to chapter.

Chapter 1: Coming out

Summary:

Rick tells Shane about the new person in his life.

Notes:

AU - no zombie apocalypse.

Chapter Text

“Are you kidding me right now, Shane?” The tone of Rick's voice wavers somewhere between angry and incredulous.

“What??” Shane shrugs. “It’s a legitimate question.”

“Seriously?” Rick can feel his face heat up. He tries hard not to raise his voice, not to give in to the anger, but it’s a losing battle. “I’m telling you I’m dating for the first time since Lori died, and you think asking me whether I top or bottom is a legitimate question, or even in any way relevant?”

“But you’re dating a dude!” Shane almost whines.

“So what?!” Rick explodes. “Did you ask Glenn whether he and Maggie do it doggy or missionary style when they announced their engagement last week? Because that’s about as appropriate as asking me whether I top or bottom when I tell you I’m dating Daryl.”

“No I d…”, Shane starts, but Rick keeps talking right over him. “What do you wanna hear Shane? Huh? That I top, because that somehow makes it less gay? Because that means I’m not the girl in the relationship? Newsflash, Walsh: I’m dating a guy. There is no girl in the relationship. And for your information, I bottom because I fucking like it up the ass, you dumb shit!” By the end of his tirade Rick is shouting. Shaking with anger, he throws open the car door, climbs out and slams the door behind him. It’s that or punch Shane and break his nose. Again.

Chapter 2: Good Boy

Summary:

One minute they're getting frisky on the sofa, the next he's standing on the porch buck-naked, wondering what the hell just happened.

Notes:

AU - no zombie apocalypse.

Chapter Text

“What did you just call me?”

The icy calm of Daryl’s voice and the other man going completely still underneath him give Rick a split-second’s warning before the hands that were clutching at his shoulders just seconds ago land on his chest instead, and he is unceremoniously shoved aside. When he is a little slow to take the hint Daryl gives him another push, and this time Rick overbalances and falls off of the sofa to land on his ass with a thud. Before he can do more than huff out a surprised noise of pain, Daryl is standing over him, looking colder and more closed off than Rick has ever seen him.

“Get out”, he growls.

Rick climbs to his feet, rubbing his sore backside. “I'm sorry Daryl!” he apologises hastily, still scrambling to catch up with what is happening. He goes over the last few moments in his head, trying to figure out what he might have said to upset Daryl, but his mind has suddenly gone blank. “Whatever I said, I didn't mean it”, he adds, at a loss for what else to say.

“You better not”, Daryl hisses. He closes the distance between them, practically plasters himself to Rick’s front, and there's nothing arousing about it whatsoever - what was left of Rick’s erection quickly wilts in the face of Daryl’s cold fury.

“Just cos I letchou fuck me don't mean I'm yer boy”, Daryl continues, his accent growing thicker by the minute. Rick can feel Daryl’s breath on his lips, and yet kissing is the furthest thing from his mind right now. “Just cos I like ta bottom don't make me a ‘good boy’. So take yer stuff and get the fuck outta here.”

Suddenly Rick’s balled up clothes are in his hands, and he's roughly pushed towards the door.

“Daryl, I'm sorry”, he tries again. “I just-”

“I ain't interested”, Daryl interrupts him. “Git. I ain't nobody's bitch.”

The words are as final as the door slamming shut behind Rick.

Chapter 3: Bad day

Summary:

There's a first time for everything.

Notes:

AU - No zombie apocalypse. Wherein actor Rick asks photographer Daryl not to take a picture.

Chapter Text

“Hey, Rick!”

Rick looks up from the glass he's been staring into, and for the first time since they started this project he lifts his hand to block Daryl’s shot. “It's been a bad day”, he says. “Please don't take a picture.”

Daryl’s eyebrows shoot up, but it takes him a moment to drag his gaze away from his viewfinder to look at Rick.

“Red”, Rick says, and Daryl lowers his camera.

“You alright?” the photographer asks, taking in the dark circles under Rick's eyes, the messy hair and rumpled shirt.

Rick shakes his head with a snort. “Does this look alright to you?” he counters, indicating the half-empty bottle and glass in front of him with a tilt of his head. “No. I’m not fucking alright”, he adds before Daryl can say anything, “and despite my best efforts, I'm still way too fucking sober.”

“Uhm… Do you want me to leave?” Daryl offers, but Rick shakes his head again.

“Stay”, he says, attention already back on the glass in his hands. “Have a drink with me.”

 

That was last night. This morning, for the first time since he took on the assignment of documenting a month in the life of Richard Grimes, Oscar winner and Hollywood A-lister, Daryl doesn't have to get up early to make the 90-minute drive over to Beverly Hills, because he's about as close to Richard Grimes as he can get already. He's in Rick's bed, and for a split-second he wonders whether he should take a picture.

Chapter 4: I heard you

Summary:

Rick and Shane's reunion after Rick joins the group at the quarry.

Chapter Text

“I… I thought you were dead, man.” Shane looks at Rick a little wildly. “I swear brother, I tried to get you, but…”

“I know”, Rick interrupts. “It’s okay.”

“No”, Shane shakes his head. “You don’t understand! I was at the hospital, I wanted to get you out of there, but you wouldn’t wake up.” He runs a hand through his hair, up and down, twice in quick succession. “I tried to lift you out of the bed, and you weren’t moving.” He drops his hand back down to his side, fingers twitching. “I even li-”

“I know”, Rick interrupts again, but Shane makes a wounded noise deep in his throat.

“No you don’t!” he whisper-shouts, voice no less full of emotion for all that he’s trying to keep quiet. He screws his eyes shut, face scrunching up. “Everything was falling apart. The hospital said they’d medevac the patients, but when I got there staff were leaving, and nobody would stop to help me. And then…”

“I know”, Rick calmly repeats a third time. His hand finds its way onto the back of Shane’s neck, and he pulls the other man closer. “I heard you. I felt your ear on my chest. Your hand on my face.” He sighs, dropping his forehead to Shane’s. “I heard the gunshots.”

Shane jerks back, eyes flying open. “No.” He takes a stumbling step back, shakes his head. “Naw, man…” He keeps shaking his head and backs up another step, paling beneath his tan. At Rick’s slight nod, his too bright eyes overflow.

“I’m sorry, man. I’m so sorry. I didn’t want to leave ya.”

“I know”, Rick says again.

Chapter 5: The stuff of nightmares

Summary:

Hindsight is 20/20.

Chapter Text

It's - literally - the stuff of nightmares.

Shane rising.

The gunshot.

The herd.

They were so naive back then.

Didn't realise that everybody would turn, bitten or not. Didn't appreciate the repercussions of a single gunshot, and what a shitstorm it could bring down on them. Didn't have a clue how to deal with herds.

They've learned.

Now they know to put everyone down after death, bitten or not, and they know to do it quietly. Hell, they even know how to drive a herd of walkers, like a freaking bunch of post-apocalyptic cowboys.

It's hard earned experience, and they've all done things they aren't proud of along the way.

If he'd known then what he knows now, he would've done some things differently. But Carl would still do it all over again if he had to.

Chapter 6: No return

Summary:

When the line is crossed, there's no going back.

Notes:

This one is for Tiofrean, who puts the best ideas in my head.

Chapter Text

First the world went dim, then quiet, and then everything stopped.

When the film re-started, the world was no longer in colour. It was grey, and blurry. Only a few things stood out in stark detail:

Carl’s body. Gone.

Judith in Daryl’s arms. Safe.

The rifle, his Python, and the red machete. Tools.

“I gotta go", Rick said to no one in particular, and settled the sheriff hat on his head.

Chapter 7: The Day Will Come When You Won't Be

Summary:

How Shane might've dealt with Negan, or: a shortcut to seasons 7 and 8.

Notes:

This has been sitting in my documents for ages. It was meant to be the beginning of a longer fic, and who knows, if the stars align it might still get there one day, but in the meantime it isn't doing anyone any good in my documents, is it.

Chapter Text

“... killed my people, a whole damn lot of them. More than I'm comfortable with. And for that, for that you're gonna pay. So, now... I'm gonna beat the holy hell outta one of you. This - this is Lu-”

Shane whipped out the gun he had hidden up his sleeve and shot Negan in the head. While the Saviours were still staring, stunned, the Alexandrians scrambled as if they'd practiced for this situation, and disappeared into the trees.

Chapter 8: No gays allowed

Summary:

Joe Claiborne reserves the right to refuse service to anyone he doesn't like the look of. In fact, he'd rather "those people" didn't come into his store in the first place - or so he thinks.

Notes:

This was somewhat sadly inspired by an article I stumbled across the other day. On closer inspection the news is from 2015, and the store owners have since changed their signage, but the message remains the same. Because it still bothers some people so badly what consenting adults do in the privacy of their own home that they'd rather lose business than stop sticking their noses in things that are truly none of their business.

Chapter Text

"Merle." Joe Claiborne, purveyor of King County's finest - and only - outdoor, sports and hunting goods store, slid onto the barstool next to the man who once upon a time used to single-handedly supply him with all the fresh, out-of-season game he could sell, and signalled the barkeeper for a drink. “Fancy seeing you here.”

Merle acknowledged the newcomer with a nod and a tip of his beer. "Joe", he drawled. “ ‘ brings you here?”

“Damn fridge is broken again", the tall, grey-haired man complained, “ ‘n I need a cold beer worse than a sinner needs salvation. Too damn hot out there.”

Merle snorted. “Got that right", he agreed, returning his attention to his drink.

“Say, Merle", Joe reached for the fresh beer the barkeeper had put in front of him and gulped down nearly half of it before putting the bottle back on the counter with a belch. “How come yer brother don't shop with me no more?”

“Huh?” Merle looked up from his beer with a frown.

“Yer brother", Joe repeated. “He don't shop with me no more. Ain't selling me anymore game, either.”

“Since when?” Merle asked, his frown deepening.

“Coupla months", Joe retorted. “Bad enough half ’a the damn pigs stopped buying from me, but now yer brother don't buy his arrows from me anymore, an’ I'm losing more customers cos he ain't selling me no game no more, neither.”

Merle narrowed his eyes in thought, then his expression cleared. “ ' be that damn sign”, he said, as if that explained anything, and leaned back on his barstool.

Joe simply stared at him for a few moments. “What sign?” he eventually asked.

“That new sign ‘a yers", Merle repeated impatiently. “I done told ya it were a mistake.”

“What, the ‘no gays allowed’ sign?” Joe huffed incredulously. “Ya still griping about that? The hell’s it gotta do with yer brother, or the damn pigs fer that matter, anyway?”

Merle shrugged. “One ‘a them deputies is gay, so I reckon him ‘n’ his friends took their business elsewhere.” He shrugged again and took a sip of his beer. “Told ya it were a mistake.”

“One ‘a them dep-...” Joe shook his head. “Merle Dixon, quit fucking with me”, he demanded, stabbing a finger at Merle’s chest. “I know all ‘a them deputies, an’ they ain't no faggots.”

Merle winced. “Grimes is”, he ground out.

“Rick Grimes?” Joe hooted with laughter. “Shit Merle, yer as windy as a sack full ‘a farts!” He shook his head. “Grimes was married ‘n’ he got kids, ain't no way he's gay.”

Merle raised an eyebrow. “He ain't married now, is he?” he pointed out.

“No", Joe was forced to admit, “but that's cos that jackass Blake done killed his wife in that drunk-driving accident on the interstate. ‘sides, even if Grimes were gay, that might explain the pigs, but it still don't explain why Daryl don't do business with me no more.”

“Yeah it does." Merle snorted, shaking his head darkly. “Ain’t you heard?” He tipped back the rest of his beer, wiped his mouth on the back of his wrist and dropped a few crumpled notes on the bar. “Daryl ‘n’ Officer Friendly, they’s gay for each other, an' I reckon it'll be a cold day in hell a‘fore you get either of their business back.”

Chapter 9: Until the sky is bleeding pink

Summary:

Rick wasn't a great dancer, but he did know how to move with Daryl.

Notes:

Young Rick and Daryl, AU - no zombie apocalypse.

Chapter Text

Rick wasn't a great dancer. He didn't have two left feet, or lack a sense of rhythm; he just didn't know how to move on a dance floor. He did know how to move with Daryl though, and move with Daryl he did.

They were practically plastered against each other, Daryl's back to Rick's chest, and all Rick had to do was follow Daryl's lead; dancing, sweating and grinding until the sky was bleeding pink, and the last of the ravers stumbled away to leave the dilapidated warehouse in the run-down industrial estate on the edge of town as deserted as they'd found it.

Chapter 10: What's your poison?

Summary:

Daryl didn't think he'd ever seen anybody look as much of a sad mess as the man approaching his bar.

Meet-drunk.

Chapter Text

Daryl'd seen his share of drunk people in his time. Hell, he grew up with a raging alcoholic, but he didn't think he'd ever seen anybody look as much of a sad mess as the man approaching his bar. A sheriff’s hat balanced precariously on wild black curls, the uniform shirt was half tucked in, half hanging over his rumpled trousers, and wild, red-rimmed eyes stared out of a ghostly pale face. The man weaved his way to the bar with the single-minded focus of the severely intoxicated, and Daryl watched his progress with narrowed eyes.

“I'll ‘ve a rim ‘n’ come”, the officer slurred in Daryl's direction as soon as he reached the bar.

“I think you've had quite enough, b-”, Daryl said, then his brain caught up with his ears. “What?”

The sheriff stood swaying for a moment, brow furrowed in concentration. “Gimme… a rum ‘n’ come”, he mumbled eventually.

Daryl felt his lips twitch. “Come again?” he asked. He couldn't help himself.

The sheriff took a deep breath, then hiccuped. “Look Dar'l”, he started, somehow still managing that officer-trying-to-be reasonable-tone despite the fact he could barely seem to string a sentence together. “Iss Daryl, right?” he interrupted himself.

Daryl nodded, and the sheriff continued:

“I jus’ caught ma wife in partner wi’ ma bed, okay?” He leaned across the bar and gave Daryl an earnest - if slightly cross-eyed - look. “’m tryna get too drunk to do sumthang A'll regret.” He tilted his head. “Help me ou’ here. Please.”

Daryl lifted his hands. “Look man, I'm sorry, you know I can't do that”, he said, shaking his head. “You've had more than enough, I can't serve you.”

The sheriff closed his eyes. “But A still wanna shoot that sumbirch.” He hiccuped again. “Bitch. Sorry, Mrs Walsh.” The blood-shot eyes slowly opened again. “‘m not drink enough if A still wanna shoot ‘im in the ass”, the sheriff insisted.

“Uh-huh”, Daryl nodded. Eyeing the still very much present handgun in the sheriff's holster, he made a decision. “Tell you what, Officer… “, he tilted his head to read the name tag hanging off the sheriff's shirt at an angle, “Grimes - “

“C’ll me Rick”, the sheriff interjected.

Daryl nodded again. “Okay, Rick. Tell you what:”, he poured some water into a tumbler and handed it to Rick, “here's a vodka on the house. Why don't you have a seat, and when we close in twenty minutes, I'll take you to your station, you hand your gun over to the duty officer, and then I'll give you a ride, okay?”

Rick took the glass from him, knocked back the contents and dropped onto the nearest barstool.

“Thass very nice ‘f you Dar'l, but A’m not looking fora hook-up”, he politely declined.

It took Daryl a moment to follow the sheriff's mental gymnastics, then he snorted. “I ain't offerin’ you a hook-up, Officer Grimes, I'm giving you a lift home.”

“Ah.” Rick nodded, and shrugged. “Shame. You're pretty.”

“Right back atcha, Rick, but you’re very drunk, and I ain’t gonna take advantage of that”, Daryl replied smoothly. “You just sit tight for a bit, alright?”

“A’ight”, the sheriff agreed.

 

Half an hour later Officer Rick Grimes sat in the passenger seat of Daryl’s truck, sans gun, looking grateful, but also faintly green.

“Thanks Dar’l, really ‘preciate it. Youra gen’leman”, he slurred, before adding in a stage whisper: “A think A may’ve drunk a lil’ much.”

“No shit”, Daryl muttered under his breath. Louder, he asked: “You ain't gonna puke in my truck, are ya, Officer?”

Rick leaned back in the seat. “Nah”, he assured Daryl with a happy little smile. “A'ma get home an’ puke on Lori's fucking Afghan.”

The sheriff looked so pleased with himself that Daryl couldn’t help but laugh. “You do that, Officer”, he grinned. “You do that.”

Chapter 11: A Day in the Life of Paul Rovia

Summary:

S6, e10 from Jesus's point of view.

Chapter Text

Running into Curly Head and Shoulders and, more importantly, their working truck, was a stroke of luck.

Or so Paul thought.

He should’ve known lady luck wasn’t on his side when the two men came after him and the stolen truck on foot and managed to catch up with him.

He definitely should’ve left well enough alone after their demonstration with the walker. Seeing them aim, fire and hit in perfect unison, as if they'd done this countless times before, should've given him pause, and the fact that they didn’t think twice about wasting two bullets on a roamer should’ve made him think twice. As far as warnings went, the message was pretty clear.

The problem was that Paul had never been great at heeding warnings.

So he climbed back onto the truck.

He really should’ve known that playing tag with the pissed off redneck once he got made was just delaying the inevitable, though.

 

Paul came around to Curly Head and Shoulders arguing, albeit calmly. It took him a moment to work out they were debating whether bringing people into their community - he knew they'd lied just as hard as he had on that point - was a risk worth taking. With his head pounding from the hit he'd taken, it took Paul a little longer to realise that they were sitting in a moving car.

Just as he decided to give his captors the benefit of the doubt and admit to being awake, the car swerved, and he was thrown into someone, who immediately and none too gently shrugged him off, giving Paul whiplash on top of the concussion he probably already had.

By the time Paul’s head had cleared enough for him to start listening to his captors again, Curly Head and Shoulders’s argument had devolved into bickering. Something about their exchange was nagging at Paul, but before he could put a finger on what exactly his subconscious was trying to tell him, the car swerved again. Unable to catch himself, Paul was first thrown sideways like a ragdoll, then pushed back; his head made contact with the window, and the lights went out again.

 

The first thing Paul noticed when he came back to was that wherever he was now was mercifully not moving. The second thing he noticed was that he was lying down, and that made him open his eyes in a hurry.

It took him a moment to focus on the fuzzy white rectangle with the black markings right in front of him, and when he finally did - ‘It's a note Paul, well done’, his mind mocked him - he disregarded it in favour of gingerly rolling to his front and pushing himself up on his knees to get his bearings.

It took a few moments for his head to stop spinning, and when it did, Paul was none the wiser. Neither the bare mattress under his knees nor the unfinished room he found himself in gave him any clues as to where he was.

He looked back at the note.

"You were hurt. We brought you here. You’re safe. Talk soon, Rick."

For a few seconds, Paul simply stared at the message his captors had left him. They brought him here. Was that supposed to reassure him? He didn't even know where the hell 'here' was, let alone how safe 'safe' might actually be; all things considered, Paul decided he'd rather talk to "Rick" - he briefly wondered whether that was Shoulders, or Curly Head - now than soon.

With that in mind, he let himself out of the room to go in search of Rick and Shoulders. Or Curly Head, who knew.