Don't Let It Happen
By Laura Schiller
Based on: Dearly, Departed
Copyright: Lia Habel
For Dr. Baldwin Samedi, unrequited love is not unlike losing one's head. He is used to both things by now; he doesn't even think about them most days. But every now and then, that sense of disorientation, of loss, leaves him dizzy and reeling like a drunken man. At times like these, there is nothing he can do but reattach his head, lock himself in his room and take deep, unnecessary breaths until he feels like himself again.
It's the smallest things that set him off; ridiculous things, really. Just the other day, as he was talking to young Bram Griswold and Miss Dearly about computer passwords – something about searching for information about her missing father – Beryl Chase walked by.
Beryl, her eyes the soft green of her namesake jewel, golden hair bouncing across her shoulders, her white coat flowing behind her. Beryl, smiling, a breath of violets in the air around her.
"You know your name is my password," she said.
It was just a joke. The kind of mock-flirty line they trade back and forth all the time, as light and inconsequential as ping-pong balls. He started it, shortly after what they call The Incident on the rare occasions they do talk about it. He made sure that, between his sardonic wit and her friendly laughter, all of Company Z entertains itself with the idea of Doc Sam, headless zombie, and Doc Chase, his brilliant and lovely colleague, falling madly in love.
Because of course, if it's a joke, no one would dream of taking it seriously. If it's a joke, it's not true and never will be.
And yet … even his neck didn't hurt much after he sawed off his head. It takes a great deal for a zombie to feel pain. But this hurts, and even the best damn engineering team in the Company (which Sam and Beryl are, as everyone knows) cannot possibly repair it.
Perhaps it was the fact that they do know each other's passwords, as they know almost everything about each other. His is gemstone. Hers is a string of numbers.
Perhaps it was Bram, whose beyond-his-years maturity makes him one of the very few people who knows Sam's story, watching him with deep and thoroughly unwelcome sympathy. Well may he sympathize; after all, anyone can see the way he looks at little Miss Dearly, his clouded eyes drinking in her every move. Even though short brunettes are the complete opposite of Sam's type, he can see why. The girl is smart as a whip, cute as a button, and has a most endearing way of hiding behind Bram when she's startled. She's enough to turn the head of any teenage boy, let alone one whose only female peer these past two years has been the redoubtable Chas. Still, a living girl and a zombie boy? No chance in hell.
Poor little bastard. So much for that maturity.
"Don't let it happen," Sam warned. Don't be me. It can only end in heartbreak.
But for all the boy pretended not to understand, it was obviously too late.