FIC: Imposter (HIMYM-Zombie!verse)
Fandom: How I Met Your Mother (zombie!verse)
Rating: PG-13 for zombies and cannibalism mentions
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Word Count: 7 x 100 exactly
Summary:
- In the series so far: Barney was shot dead in 2030 but came back in the zombie uprising. Coming back to life, however, was not without its price.
- In this part: Zombie!Barney acts normal, even though he's far from it.
Author's Note: The long-awaited return of zombie!fic!! So... what I'd really love is to get this 'verse to a coherent ending, just so I can say I finally finished something. And I have ideas, but... I don't know. I need to work things out. And maybe not stick so firmly to the drabble form. But yay! Zombies!
Previous installments: Afterdeath // Suspension // Sleep // Closure // High-Four
His stiff fingers are clumsy as they tie the Windsor knot around his neck, looking sharp in his new suit. Robin looks on anxiously.
“It fits, doesn’t it?” she asks. “I’m sorry. We can probably find some way to get it tailored, not that I know many tailors who’d take on undead clientele...”
“It’s fine,” he says shortly, still fidgeting with the tie. It stops her tongue. He’s been so short-tempered since he came back, snappish and perpetually frustrated. She wishes she understood why.
Doesn’t he understand what a miracle it is for him to be standing here at all?
---
He can’t smoke cigars anymore, unable to hold air in his lungs thanks to the bullet hole that still mars his back, a bloody crater in his torso. Laser tag’s out, his reflexes slowed by death so that 12-year-olds destroy him.
And every time he has even a drop of alcohol, he becomes violently sick to his stomach. Marshall tells him it’s not his fault, he can’t absorb it into his bloodstream, since his blood’s long gone from his veins. But he’s angry anyway.
This condition, this eternal condition, has made him weak. He’s become a feeble imitation of himself.
---
He sits with them, jokes and laughs because he knows it’s what they want from him, what they need. Normalcy. Some kind of compensation from the loss of equilibrium they suffered after his loss.
But he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. He’s lost all need for sleep, but simply lies in the dark all night next to Robin as she uses his icy chest as a pillow. As for food, he’s dying (heh) for a good steak. But the food he used to eat now makes him ill.
His kind only eats human flesh, which Barney knows he must never do.
---
“Stumbling around squawking for brains is not how I roll,” he’d said.
Ted believes him. He lets the zombie sit across from him at the table, ignoring the way his eyes rove around, pretending that the hunger growing in their undead friend’s eyes is just a trick of the light.
Maybe Barney’s putting them all in danger the longer they let him stick around. But it’s preferable to believe that this can last, that this is normal, that he won’t turn around and eat them.
His kind may be monsters, but Barney’s their friend. He’d never hurt any of them.
---
Ted’s a smart guy. Architect, ex-Columbia professor, font of useless knowledge. He corrects everyone’s grammar and spelling on an hourly basis and does the New York Times crossword in ink. If he ever went on Jeopardy, he’d probably be the next Ken Jennings. He knows what wines you pair with certain meals, how to make a girl feel like a lady, how to criticize art and literature while sounding like a douche. And despite his terrible fashion sense, he knows how to suit up when it counts.
Yes, thinks the zombie, Ted’s a smart guy.
His brains are probably delicious.
---
He’s supposed to get the zombie nutrients administered through IV, but he tears into the packet with his teeth in an attempt to quickly quell the horrible pain of his hunger.
The red goop dribbles onto the floor tiles, and his face is a sticky mess, but he doesn’t care. He needs this violent way of eating. It’s better than slipping and finding himself gnawing on Marshall’s bones, chewing on Ted’s brains, sinking his pearly teeth into Robin’s soft, warm skin.
He’s a monster. The longer he’s here, the longer they’re in danger.
And somehow, they just don’t see that.
---
But he keeps up the charade, somehow.
He suits up even though his fingers can barely tie a knot, and he drinks even though it makes him sick, and he smiles around at everyone while trying not to fantasize about eating their flesh.
Because this is it for him. He’s accepted that for whatever reason, he’s trapped in this mortal sphere forever, stuck in the afterdeath. Death came and went... his only release would be destruction of his body, which his friends won’t permit.
So he keeps acting like a human being, even though he can never be one again.
Rating: PG-13 for zombies and cannibalism mentions
Pairing: Barney/Robin
Word Count: 7 x 100 exactly
Summary:
- In the series so far: Barney was shot dead in 2030 but came back in the zombie uprising. Coming back to life, however, was not without its price.
- In this part: Zombie!Barney acts normal, even though he's far from it.
Author's Note: The long-awaited return of zombie!fic!! So... what I'd really love is to get this 'verse to a coherent ending, just so I can say I finally finished something. And I have ideas, but... I don't know. I need to work things out. And maybe not stick so firmly to the drabble form. But yay! Zombies!
Previous installments: Afterdeath // Suspension // Sleep // Closure // High-Four
His stiff fingers are clumsy as they tie the Windsor knot around his neck, looking sharp in his new suit. Robin looks on anxiously.
“It fits, doesn’t it?” she asks. “I’m sorry. We can probably find some way to get it tailored, not that I know many tailors who’d take on undead clientele...”
“It’s fine,” he says shortly, still fidgeting with the tie. It stops her tongue. He’s been so short-tempered since he came back, snappish and perpetually frustrated. She wishes she understood why.
Doesn’t he understand what a miracle it is for him to be standing here at all?
---
He can’t smoke cigars anymore, unable to hold air in his lungs thanks to the bullet hole that still mars his back, a bloody crater in his torso. Laser tag’s out, his reflexes slowed by death so that 12-year-olds destroy him.
And every time he has even a drop of alcohol, he becomes violently sick to his stomach. Marshall tells him it’s not his fault, he can’t absorb it into his bloodstream, since his blood’s long gone from his veins. But he’s angry anyway.
This condition, this eternal condition, has made him weak. He’s become a feeble imitation of himself.
---
He sits with them, jokes and laughs because he knows it’s what they want from him, what they need. Normalcy. Some kind of compensation from the loss of equilibrium they suffered after his loss.
But he doesn’t eat, doesn’t sleep. He’s lost all need for sleep, but simply lies in the dark all night next to Robin as she uses his icy chest as a pillow. As for food, he’s dying (heh) for a good steak. But the food he used to eat now makes him ill.
His kind only eats human flesh, which Barney knows he must never do.
---
“Stumbling around squawking for brains is not how I roll,” he’d said.
Ted believes him. He lets the zombie sit across from him at the table, ignoring the way his eyes rove around, pretending that the hunger growing in their undead friend’s eyes is just a trick of the light.
Maybe Barney’s putting them all in danger the longer they let him stick around. But it’s preferable to believe that this can last, that this is normal, that he won’t turn around and eat them.
His kind may be monsters, but Barney’s their friend. He’d never hurt any of them.
---
Ted’s a smart guy. Architect, ex-Columbia professor, font of useless knowledge. He corrects everyone’s grammar and spelling on an hourly basis and does the New York Times crossword in ink. If he ever went on Jeopardy, he’d probably be the next Ken Jennings. He knows what wines you pair with certain meals, how to make a girl feel like a lady, how to criticize art and literature while sounding like a douche. And despite his terrible fashion sense, he knows how to suit up when it counts.
Yes, thinks the zombie, Ted’s a smart guy.
His brains are probably delicious.
---
He’s supposed to get the zombie nutrients administered through IV, but he tears into the packet with his teeth in an attempt to quickly quell the horrible pain of his hunger.
The red goop dribbles onto the floor tiles, and his face is a sticky mess, but he doesn’t care. He needs this violent way of eating. It’s better than slipping and finding himself gnawing on Marshall’s bones, chewing on Ted’s brains, sinking his pearly teeth into Robin’s soft, warm skin.
He’s a monster. The longer he’s here, the longer they’re in danger.
And somehow, they just don’t see that.
---
But he keeps up the charade, somehow.
He suits up even though his fingers can barely tie a knot, and he drinks even though it makes him sick, and he smiles around at everyone while trying not to fantasize about eating their flesh.
Because this is it for him. He’s accepted that for whatever reason, he’s trapped in this mortal sphere forever, stuck in the afterdeath. Death came and went... his only release would be destruction of his body, which his friends won’t permit.
So he keeps acting like a human being, even though he can never be one again.