Clearly, SOMEONE didn't read the guide to surviving a zombie apocalypse.
...All right, let's just change that deadline from "January 1" to "Vaguely Sometime in January." XD OKAY THEN.
MORE HOLIDAY REQUEST FILLAGE. This one goes to sweetcarolanne (the beast is calling) who agreed that Misfits zombie!fic would make a lovely Christmas present. What does Michale do when he finds out his boyfriend is not-so-secretly a zombie? Read on to find out. XD
From the beginning, Michale had known the poor girl never even stood a chance.
He had witnessed the attack from the open bedroom window, his own body frozen cold with fright as the scene unfolded before his eyes in the silvery moonlight. It was painful to watch--the young woman scrambling over the slick grass, skirts tattered, knees buckling as she fought to keep her footing long enough to keep running. The creature pursuing her was close behind, a monstrous, strapping figure that shape-shifted out of the mist and moved with the deadly speed and strength of a predator. With a lunge and a single swipe of its bulky arm, the thing took the girl down. Through the dense night air, Michale could just make out shrieked semblances of words--oh God and no and please--as the beast dragged its prey back toward the forest.
A final primal scream cut the air, and all was silent.
It was dark that night and fog was rising thick from the rain-soaked earth. It happened almost too fast, but Michale knew well what he saw.
Still, it wasn’t until Michale found Doyle in the garage, shoving articles of shredded and bloodied clothing in the garbage bin--the wild, primal look in his eyes, the way he turned too quickly, Michale almost didn’t recognize him--no, it was then that it truly clicked.
Doyle was covered in blood. Not just splattered, covered. His hands and arms up to the elbows, his torso; there was the incriminating scarlet mark of a handprint smeared across his chest, deep scratches inflicted by his victim’s struggle marring his forearms and shoulders. The thing Michale found most disquieting, however, was the blood smeared across his face. As if he had--holy fucking hell--taken a bite out of something. Or someone, thought Michale grimly. He tried not to jump to conclusions, though his subconscious, he feared, had figured it out at first glance.
What have you done, Doyle? He wanted to ask. What the fuck have you done?
Instead, he regarded Doyle with as much calm composure as he could muster.
“Come inside,” he said. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
Michale sat on the edge of the sink while Doyle undressed and got into the shower. He turned on the water and stood beneath the spray, washing the blood and dirt and sweat from his body.
“How much of that did you see?” Doyle asked, in a voice that was too calm, too neutral.
“Enough,” answered Michale. Through the sliding glass of the shower door, he watched the water running red down the drain. He shuddered. “Doyle, do you want to tell me what the hell‘s going on?”
He didn’t respond directly. The water stopped and Doyle stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips.
“If you want to get out of this before it goes any further,” he said, not looking at Michale, “I suggest you do it now.” The thought, in all honesty, had not yet crossed Michale’s mind, nor did it now.
“No,” Michale said decidedly. “I‘m not leaving. Talk to me, Doyle,” He placed a hand on Doyle’s arm.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Doyle replied wearily, taking a seat on the edge of the tub.
“Everything. The truth.” Michale said evenly. “Tell me what happened out there tonight.” Doyle didn’t speak. Say it, goddamn it, thought Michale, silently willing Doyle to just outright admit it, to come right out and say what he was thinking and get it over with. Just fucking say it.
“You know what you saw,” replied Doyle. His tone was indifferent. “Why do you need to hear me say it? I killed a woman with my bare hands, dragged her body into the woods and ate her.” Michale felt his blood run cold in his veins. Jesus H. Christ.
“For fuck‘s sake, Doyle. Please tell me you were careful. Please tell me you didn’t just dump--”
“Don’t worry,” Doyle interjected. “It’s taken care of. Nobody will ever find the body.” He left an unspoken trust me dangling at the end of the statement, and Michale had to wonder just how many times he had done this before. He thought of the deadly quick creature he’d seen moving with such stealth and power, how effortlessly he went in for the kill. The thought made him shiver.
“That thing I saw out in the field,” he ventured cautiously. “Was that…was it you?”
“Yeah.” There was a lengthy silence as Michale considered this.
“Are you--” He trailed off, unsure (afraid, really) of where his question was headed.
“Human? No.”
“What are you?” he asked.
“I don‘t know,” answered Doyle.
“Are you alive or dead?”
“Both and neither.” Michale blinked a few times. “There are others who suffer from the same condition. We’re not dead, but we’re not among the living. We possess powers beyond the capacity of any mortal being.”
“Like what?” asked Michale.
“The power to self-heal would be one of them.” Doyle held out one arm, previously clawed and bloody; the surface of his skin was unmarred and perfect. Michale brushed his fingers over it wondrously.
“Holy shit,” he said. “What other powers do you have?”
“Mainly superhuman strength and endurance. We’re not affected by pain like other creatures. Some of the others are telepaths that can control minds.”
“Can you?”
“No.” A thoughtful look crept across Michale’s face as he absorbed all that Doyle had told him. “You aren‘t afraid, are you? We can end this conversation here if you want.”
“No,” Michale replied pensively. “I’m not scared, just curious. I mean--are you like, a zombie or something?”
“Give me your hand,” Michale did and Doyle took it, pressed two fingers to the inside of his own wrist, where his pulse point should have been. But where a beat should have thrummed beneath his fingertips, Michale felt nothing. “See? Nothing. Zilch.”
“Christ,” said Michale, completely taken aback. When he thought of zombies, he thought of the mindless, shambling shells of human beings he‘d seen in B-films, rotted flesh falling from their skeletons, out for blood. Braaaains, he thought, and nearly laughed--deranged a notion as it was. “I don’t understand. You don’t look like the undead.”
“Because of the way I’m afflicted, my existence is relatively normal. It’s not like, you know, ‘Night of the Living Dead’ or anything. It’s only during the full moon that we are affected. The full moon shows us for what we truly are. It’s during the full moon that we must kill and feast on the flesh of a human victim, or we’ll start to deteriorate. One victim is sufficient to restore our powers and keep us alive.”
“So, when you fulfill your urge for human flesh, that’s it. You go back to normal until the next full moon.”
“Right.”
“And if you were to bite someone during the phase of a full moon, that person would be turned into…what you are?”
“Yes.” Michale must have appeared vexed, because as soon as he answered, Doyle was taking his hand, squeezing it. “I promise that I would never harm you. Please believe that.” He wrapped his fingers around Michale’s hand, stroked the back of it with his thumb. Michale looked up at him.
“Who else knows? Does Jerry know?”
“Jerry knows. Chud doesn’t. I haven’t told him.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about this?”
“No,” answered Doyle. “I wasn’t planning to. I didn’t want my burden to be yours to carry.”
“Doyle.” Michale met Doyle’s eyes, the tempest in his gaze that was slowly calming. “I’m good with this. I want you to be open with me. Whatever happens, you can tell me.” He lifted Doyle’s hand to his lips and lightly kissed his fingers. “This changes nothing for how I feel about you, you know.” He smirked. “So my boyfriend’s a zombie. Big deal. It’s actually pretty hot if you think about it. You’re like this superhuman undead stud. It’s great.” Doyle rolled his eyes.
“You would think that,” he said, not without a smirk gracing his features. “So, where do we go from here?” Michale thought a moment.
“To bed,” he answered. “If there’s anything else you feel you need to tell me, we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay. You go ahead. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“All right.” Michale rose, stretching. “Don’t be long.”
He headed upstairs to their bedroom, pulling the heavy curtains shut before slipping into bed. Sleep, quite frankly, was out of the question; he lay there wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. He pondered on his new situation--wondering just how he had managed to miss this. He thought of all the times he lay with Doyle, his head resting upon his chest, and wondered how it had not registered that he’d not heard a heartbeat against his ear. He recalled occasions that Doyle had seemed restless and wondered if it had been because of the moon reaching fullness. Michale knew there were more questions than answers at this point. It was best, he thought, to take his own advice and leave it be until morning.
By and by, Doyle came upstairs and slipped into bed beside him. A strong arm found its way around his waist from behind and he shivered as Doyle pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, nuzzled the nape of his neck.
“I love you,” Doyle purred into his hair. Michale sighed and settled back against Doyle’s sturdy frame, letting him pull him tighter against him.
“I love you too, babe.”
With that, Michale closed his eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
FIN
MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS, BEEBS. <3 rekindle959, you're next, dear. XD
MORE HOLIDAY REQUEST FILLAGE. This one goes to sweetcarolanne (the beast is calling) who agreed that Misfits zombie!fic would make a lovely Christmas present. What does Michale do when he finds out his boyfriend is not-so-secretly a zombie? Read on to find out. XD
From the beginning, Michale had known the poor girl never even stood a chance.
He had witnessed the attack from the open bedroom window, his own body frozen cold with fright as the scene unfolded before his eyes in the silvery moonlight. It was painful to watch--the young woman scrambling over the slick grass, skirts tattered, knees buckling as she fought to keep her footing long enough to keep running. The creature pursuing her was close behind, a monstrous, strapping figure that shape-shifted out of the mist and moved with the deadly speed and strength of a predator. With a lunge and a single swipe of its bulky arm, the thing took the girl down. Through the dense night air, Michale could just make out shrieked semblances of words--oh God and no and please--as the beast dragged its prey back toward the forest.
A final primal scream cut the air, and all was silent.
It was dark that night and fog was rising thick from the rain-soaked earth. It happened almost too fast, but Michale knew well what he saw.
Still, it wasn’t until Michale found Doyle in the garage, shoving articles of shredded and bloodied clothing in the garbage bin--the wild, primal look in his eyes, the way he turned too quickly, Michale almost didn’t recognize him--no, it was then that it truly clicked.
Doyle was covered in blood. Not just splattered, covered. His hands and arms up to the elbows, his torso; there was the incriminating scarlet mark of a handprint smeared across his chest, deep scratches inflicted by his victim’s struggle marring his forearms and shoulders. The thing Michale found most disquieting, however, was the blood smeared across his face. As if he had--holy fucking hell--taken a bite out of something. Or someone, thought Michale grimly. He tried not to jump to conclusions, though his subconscious, he feared, had figured it out at first glance.
What have you done, Doyle? He wanted to ask. What the fuck have you done?
Instead, he regarded Doyle with as much calm composure as he could muster.
“Come inside,” he said. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
Michale sat on the edge of the sink while Doyle undressed and got into the shower. He turned on the water and stood beneath the spray, washing the blood and dirt and sweat from his body.
“How much of that did you see?” Doyle asked, in a voice that was too calm, too neutral.
“Enough,” answered Michale. Through the sliding glass of the shower door, he watched the water running red down the drain. He shuddered. “Doyle, do you want to tell me what the hell‘s going on?”
He didn’t respond directly. The water stopped and Doyle stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his hips.
“If you want to get out of this before it goes any further,” he said, not looking at Michale, “I suggest you do it now.” The thought, in all honesty, had not yet crossed Michale’s mind, nor did it now.
“No,” Michale said decidedly. “I‘m not leaving. Talk to me, Doyle,” He placed a hand on Doyle’s arm.
“I don’t know what you want me to say,” Doyle replied wearily, taking a seat on the edge of the tub.
“Everything. The truth.” Michale said evenly. “Tell me what happened out there tonight.” Doyle didn’t speak. Say it, goddamn it, thought Michale, silently willing Doyle to just outright admit it, to come right out and say what he was thinking and get it over with. Just fucking say it.
“You know what you saw,” replied Doyle. His tone was indifferent. “Why do you need to hear me say it? I killed a woman with my bare hands, dragged her body into the woods and ate her.” Michale felt his blood run cold in his veins. Jesus H. Christ.
“For fuck‘s sake, Doyle. Please tell me you were careful. Please tell me you didn’t just dump--”
“Don’t worry,” Doyle interjected. “It’s taken care of. Nobody will ever find the body.” He left an unspoken trust me dangling at the end of the statement, and Michale had to wonder just how many times he had done this before. He thought of the deadly quick creature he’d seen moving with such stealth and power, how effortlessly he went in for the kill. The thought made him shiver.
“That thing I saw out in the field,” he ventured cautiously. “Was that…was it you?”
“Yeah.” There was a lengthy silence as Michale considered this.
“Are you--” He trailed off, unsure (afraid, really) of where his question was headed.
“Human? No.”
“What are you?” he asked.
“I don‘t know,” answered Doyle.
“Are you alive or dead?”
“Both and neither.” Michale blinked a few times. “There are others who suffer from the same condition. We’re not dead, but we’re not among the living. We possess powers beyond the capacity of any mortal being.”
“Like what?” asked Michale.
“The power to self-heal would be one of them.” Doyle held out one arm, previously clawed and bloody; the surface of his skin was unmarred and perfect. Michale brushed his fingers over it wondrously.
“Holy shit,” he said. “What other powers do you have?”
“Mainly superhuman strength and endurance. We’re not affected by pain like other creatures. Some of the others are telepaths that can control minds.”
“Can you?”
“No.” A thoughtful look crept across Michale’s face as he absorbed all that Doyle had told him. “You aren‘t afraid, are you? We can end this conversation here if you want.”
“No,” Michale replied pensively. “I’m not scared, just curious. I mean--are you like, a zombie or something?”
“Give me your hand,” Michale did and Doyle took it, pressed two fingers to the inside of his own wrist, where his pulse point should have been. But where a beat should have thrummed beneath his fingertips, Michale felt nothing. “See? Nothing. Zilch.”
“Christ,” said Michale, completely taken aback. When he thought of zombies, he thought of the mindless, shambling shells of human beings he‘d seen in B-films, rotted flesh falling from their skeletons, out for blood. Braaaains, he thought, and nearly laughed--deranged a notion as it was. “I don’t understand. You don’t look like the undead.”
“Because of the way I’m afflicted, my existence is relatively normal. It’s not like, you know, ‘Night of the Living Dead’ or anything. It’s only during the full moon that we are affected. The full moon shows us for what we truly are. It’s during the full moon that we must kill and feast on the flesh of a human victim, or we’ll start to deteriorate. One victim is sufficient to restore our powers and keep us alive.”
“So, when you fulfill your urge for human flesh, that’s it. You go back to normal until the next full moon.”
“Right.”
“And if you were to bite someone during the phase of a full moon, that person would be turned into…what you are?”
“Yes.” Michale must have appeared vexed, because as soon as he answered, Doyle was taking his hand, squeezing it. “I promise that I would never harm you. Please believe that.” He wrapped his fingers around Michale’s hand, stroked the back of it with his thumb. Michale looked up at him.
“Who else knows? Does Jerry know?”
“Jerry knows. Chud doesn’t. I haven’t told him.”
“Were you ever going to tell me about this?”
“No,” answered Doyle. “I wasn’t planning to. I didn’t want my burden to be yours to carry.”
“Doyle.” Michale met Doyle’s eyes, the tempest in his gaze that was slowly calming. “I’m good with this. I want you to be open with me. Whatever happens, you can tell me.” He lifted Doyle’s hand to his lips and lightly kissed his fingers. “This changes nothing for how I feel about you, you know.” He smirked. “So my boyfriend’s a zombie. Big deal. It’s actually pretty hot if you think about it. You’re like this superhuman undead stud. It’s great.” Doyle rolled his eyes.
“You would think that,” he said, not without a smirk gracing his features. “So, where do we go from here?” Michale thought a moment.
“To bed,” he answered. “If there’s anything else you feel you need to tell me, we’ll talk in the morning.”
“Okay. You go ahead. I’ll be up in a minute.”
“All right.” Michale rose, stretching. “Don’t be long.”
He headed upstairs to their bedroom, pulling the heavy curtains shut before slipping into bed. Sleep, quite frankly, was out of the question; he lay there wide awake, staring up at the ceiling. He pondered on his new situation--wondering just how he had managed to miss this. He thought of all the times he lay with Doyle, his head resting upon his chest, and wondered how it had not registered that he’d not heard a heartbeat against his ear. He recalled occasions that Doyle had seemed restless and wondered if it had been because of the moon reaching fullness. Michale knew there were more questions than answers at this point. It was best, he thought, to take his own advice and leave it be until morning.
By and by, Doyle came upstairs and slipped into bed beside him. A strong arm found its way around his waist from behind and he shivered as Doyle pressed a kiss to the back of his shoulder, nuzzled the nape of his neck.
“I love you,” Doyle purred into his hair. Michale sighed and settled back against Doyle’s sturdy frame, letting him pull him tighter against him.
“I love you too, babe.”
With that, Michale closed his eyes and fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.
FIN
MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS, BEEBS. <3 rekindle959, you're next, dear. XD