A/N: For BruAbba week day 6 prompt: AU.
Zombie!Bruno and disgruntled survivor Abbacchio ahead.
Long Dead Affair
There's a zombie in his living room.
Abbacchio blinks like that's gonna change what he's seeing. Because there's no way that this is real.
There's no way one of those things even got in here, he keeps the place so locked and boarded up – especially at night, which it happens to be right now. Very late at night, actually.
No matter how impossible, though, there is a very real zombie in his living room. It's standing there, glassy eyes fixed in Abbacchio's general direction. In one hand, it's holding Abbacchio's best black zip-up hoodie while its other forearm is pressed tight over its abdomen.
Ordinarily, in this situation, you should shoot on sight. Abbacchio's gun, however, is half lowered at the moment from shock and hesitation alike. And because there's…something different about this zombie.
He can't put a finger on what it is exactly, only that – even from across the room – he can tell that those eyes have light in them. This one…doesn't look like a flesh eating monster. Which sucks. Because that's what it is; that's what they all are, and even as an immune, Abbacchio harbors a hatred for the creatures that flat out murdered his old life.
With that thought (the memory of everyone and everything he's lost) in mind, Abbacchio raises his weapon. Aiming the shotgun, he takes a threatening step forward.
And this zombie must be an unusual one, because it releases his jacket to slowly raise both hands in the air. It's a universal gesture of surrender. From a zombie.
Their highest brain function is supposed to be something like hunt, eat, kill, right?
Seems like this one didn't get the memo.
Looks like it had an arm pressed over its stomach for a reason, too, because now its guts are spilling out of a gaping gash there. Abbacchio's seen some nasty shit in his life, but this might take the cake. The fact that the zombie is very definitely dead doesn't make the innards spilling over Abbacchio's living room carpet any less gross.
He realizes he's letting the gun slip lower, but his arms feel like uncooperative jelly.
The zombie seems to think that Abbacchio won't shoot, so it lowers both hands to start stuffing its insides back…well, inside. Abbacchio wants to look away from the gruesome sight, but he can't.
When its work is finished, the zombie only stares at him, both arms wrapped firm around its stomach. Somehow, without realizing it, Abbacchio has gotten closer to it – him, he sees now – and can now tell that his eyes are clinging to blue. His hair is black, cut in a bob, and his clothes were simple but expensive before they were tarnished by the undead lifestyle.
The oddest part, though, is that this zombie seems to be held together with a patchwork of zippers.
That's weird.
And a bit cool, maybe.
…Why doesn't he just sew himself together and skip the zippers?
Anyway.
Zombie guy is still watching Abbacchio, eyes focused on the shotgun. Abbacchio really should shoot him. One good headshot, some quick cleanup, and he can go back to his peaceful, solitary life of only interacting with others when escorting survivors or receiving his monthly supply shipment from the sanctuary city.
How hard can it be? Abbacchio's killed plenty of zombies. Hunted a specific pack of them down for revenge, even. He protects people from zombies for a living.
But those eyes are staring at him, shifting to the gun every once in a while, and they look…worried? Afraid? Unless Abbacchio is reading way too much into this. It's the middle of the night, after all, and his living room lamp isn't the brightest.
So Abbacchio hesitates. This zombie is acting awfully alive for the undead.
Slowly, Abbacchio lowers his gun, watching for any kind of reaction. The less the gun is pointed at him, the more at ease the zombie looks, though he keeps his eyes on it the whole way. Abbacchio lets the gun slip until he's holding it one-handed, and then leans it against the couch.
If he has to, he can fight a zombie barehanded. Not like he hasn't done it before, and not like zombies are especially fast. But this one doesn't feel like a threat, anyway.
"What are you doing here?" Now, that's probably a stupid question. Just because the zombie is afraid of guns doesn't mean he can actually understand words, and even if he can, there's no guarantee of a coherent response.
The zombie blinks at Abbacchio, and then tips his head to look down at the floor.
Abbacchio follows his gaze, and sees his own black zip-up lying at their feet. "My jacket?"
There's a real, actual nod from the zombie when Abbacchio glances back up at him. He lifts one hand a tiny bit to bend a finger in the direction of his abdomen.
It takes a minute of thinking, but Abbacchio figures it out. Zombie guy can't be serious. He broke into Abbacchio's house in the dead of night, damn near got shot to a second death – all for a zipper. Crouching while keeping an eye on the zombie, Abbacchio picks up his jacket. "You want the zipper?"
Another nod, along with what's clearly supposed to be an affirmative noise.
Abbacchio doesn't know what he's doing. Is he about to help this flesh eating, decaying monster? There's too much going through his head right now, and an entire pool of quarreling emotions in the pit of his stomach.
Anger, fear, pity…the worst of them all is the curiosity, though. That's the one that's spurning him on, even though he knows he should throw the zombie out, at the least.
Nothing good can come from letting zombie guy stick around even for a moment.
These creatures bring death wherever they go, after all! That's the whole reason for this fucking apocalypse!
His partner is dead! His friends are dead!
Just because this zombie here is communicating, and has comprehension, and experiences fear, and has bright eyes, and is stubbornly not letting himself rot to pieces, doesn't mean that Abbacchio can just….
"You'll need something to attach it with."
This is a bad idea. This is a very, very horrible idea, actually.
Abbacchio walks past the lifelike undead and carries his jacket to the dining room. The sewing kit is still on the table, and he snatches it up on the way to the bathroom. There's a first aid kit in there. Maybe it has a suturing kit, that'd be better. Do zombies get infections?
As he passes through the dining room, a cool breeze hits him, interrupting his thoughts. Fresh air should not be blowing through this musty old house, so that's probably not a good thing.
He flicks the bathroom light on, deposits the sewing kit and jacket on the counter, and then heads straight for the kitchen. Sure enough, the back door is hanging open, which is a terrible idea for so many reasons and he definitely didn't leave it like that.
Hopefully that mild-tempered zombie is the only thing that wandered in, Abbacchio thinks as he slams the door shut and twists every lock. He slides the chain in place, too.
Speaking of that zombie, how the fuck did it break in, in the first place? Abbacchio hasn't left the house in days and he sure as shit keeps all doors firmly locked at all times regardless. There're no obvious signs of tampering, at least none that Abbacchio can see in the dark, so how…?
No use worrying over it now. If zombie guy could speak, Abbacchio would ask, but no such luck. For now he better just head back to the living room and see if he can coax the zombie into the bathroom.
He turns around, and jumps out of his skin.
The zombie is right behind him, looking especially creepy in the dark. Those zippers are ominous.
"Holy fuck." Abbacchio's heart is pounding. Hasn't he had enough scares for one night? "Don't do that!"
It can't be possible, but the zombie looks confused – are the undead capable of making facial expressions? Abbacchio can't say he's ever spent much time with one, considering he's usually trying to kill them before they eat him.
But he's never seen one even look afraid, and he swears he's been seeing this one emote left and right….
The expressions are only ever subtle, though, as if he can't quite get his dead face to fully form them. That zipper across his face can't help, either. His eyes are very telling, though, and okay Abbacchio time to stop thinking so much.
He steps past the zombie, and then makes a beckoning motion over his shoulder. "C'mon, the bathroom has the best lighting."
This time, Abbacchio can hear the zombie's footsteps when he moves, which makes him wonder why he didn't earlier. Questions keep piling up tonight, with the most pressing of which being why is he helping a real actual zombie so much – but he sets them all aside, for now.
Back in the bathroom, Abbacchio flips on the overhead lights as well as the lights above the mirror. He sits on the closed toilet seat lid, and goes about cutting the zipper out of his jacket stitch by stitch. The menial task isn't much good for not thinking, but oh well.
Zombie guy lingers in front of him, watching. Still holding his stomach together.
…Abbacchio's lived alone for years now, but somehow this is the first time he's ever felt that it's too damn quiet in this house. Maybe because that not-so-dead-eyed zombie stare is penetrating his skull and grazing him from head to toe.
"Why do you use zippers, anyway?" he asks, mostly to fill the silence, because he's sure the zombie's communication skills can't be that good. "Can't you just…sew yourself together?"
The zombie's head tilts to the side, a bit, and he fingers the zipper on his face. Seems like he's thinking that one over which is…zombies shouldn't be capable of that much thought, should they?
"D'you like the way they look?" Abbacchio guesses. Once you get past how unsettling the idea is, it's not a bad aesthetic. Doesn't hurt that this zombie was probably very handsome when he was alive, before all the decay set in.
…Abbacchio is going to stop that line of thought right there.
Zombie guy doesn't move to confirm that, only tilts his head more. He gives it a minute shake.
"Then what?" Tearing the first strip of the zipper free, Abbacchio looks down to start cutting at the other, glancing back up once he gets in the rhythm.
He's just in time to see the zombie undo one of the zippers on his torso, letting a heating pack fall out onto the floor.
Abbacchio stares.
It…makes sense. After all, dead bodies aren't exactly warm. But can they feel cold? Apparently this one can, to some degree, and cares enough about being warm to…stuff himself full of heating packs. It's disgusting yet ingenious.
"…I see."
Zombie guy zips himself back up there, and then unzips another spot over where his heart should be. Abbacchio is afraid that the organ itself will spill out, but nothing does. Instead, the zombie reaches inside and pulls out a pocket sewing kit, and what looks like a small folding picture frame.
"Oh," Abbacchio says, pausing his work, "storage?" This is infinitely more than he bargained for when he asked.
After replacing his items and zipping himself back up, the zombie holds up a finger as if to signal that this isn't all, and Abbacchio almost doesn't want to see what else there could possibly be.
Reaching up, the zombie starts to undo a zipper that goes around his upper arm, and oh fuck no. With each inch that he unzips, his arm hangs looser and looser, until he leaves it hanging on by just a bit, watching what he does so that it doesn't fall the whole way off. (He needs that arm to hold in his guts, after all, since the other is busy showing off.)
"Why the fuck would you need a removable arm?!" Abbacchio blurts. He yanks the zipper the rest of the way free, and feels his jacket fall on the ground. That's not normal – but then again, none of this is.
The zombie offers a real, actual shrug at that, zipping his arm back on. And there might be a teeny tiny smirk on his face, too, the absolute asshole.
"That's not funny," Abbacchio grumbles, "it's disgusting."
Faded blue eyes lock on him, nearly shining with humor. How does he look so alive, with all his removable parts and body pockets and…undeadness?
Abbacchio shoves the two sections of zipper at him, and the zombie takes them with a slow and stiff hand.
"You don't…need my help putting that on, do you?"
Zombie guy shakes his head.
"Thank fuck." Abbacchio thinks he's seen enough gore for one day. He's also pretty sure he doesn't qualify as a zombie doctor.
Sliding down the wall, the zombie situates himself until he's nearly lying down. When he carefully removes his arm, his guts mostly stay in place, which is fantastic. Eager to leave him to it, Abbacchio sets both kits – sewing and first aid – within reach next to him.
The zombie picks through both with something akin to curiosity, grabbing his preferred supplies. Abbacchio's attention is, admittedly, wandering again.
There's too much to think about. Something about his undead guest is…charming? He's been in here for less than an hour and despite the very obvious quirk of him being dead, Abbacchio doesn't think he's bad company. That's not normal, right?
Abbacchio has felt a murderous rage toward every other zombie he's met, but this one – this one is different. Something about him is more human than every human Abbacchio has the misfortune of knowing. Including himself.
And zombie guy has a personality. Zombies aren't supposed to have those. It's almost like there's still a soul in there, trapped in an uncooperative, dying body and trying to make the most of it.
When he's done sewing on his zipper, the zombie will probably leave. Abbacchio doesn't know how to feel about the fact that he doesn't want him to.
What the hell is wrong with him? There's no guarantee that just because the zombie isn't eating him now doesn't mean he won't later. Hell, only forty-five minutes ago Abbacchio was ready to shoot him in the head, and now….
"Do you have a name?" Okay, that's a stupid, unanswerable question. But Abbacchio is curious, and needs something lighter to think about.
The zombie is in the middle of sewing his zipper on, but he stops to look up at Abbacchio. He stares for a moment, and then lifts a hand, fingers curled as though around a pencil, and mimes writing in the air.
…Hold the phone.
"You can write?"
A nod.
"Why didn't you say something?"
That one gets him a look that's downright deadpan, which really is the most easy to read on a dead face. Kudos to zombie guy for that one.
And it's completely fair, because that's easily the dumbest comment Abbacchio's ever made in his life. "Sorry. I'll be right back." He leaves the bathroom and crosses the hall to the dining room in record time, thrumming with an odd sort of excitement.
Here he is, close to having a real actual conversation with a zombie. Fucking surreal.
Pen and notepad acquired, he goes back to the bathroom. The zombie watches him come in, and his eyes follow as Abbacchio hands him the pen and paper.
Eyes lighting up a little, he takes them, and by the time Abbacchio sits back down, he's already writing something. His hand is slow over the page, and when he's done, he turns it around and shows Abbacchio.
Bruno, the paper says. The handwriting is neat, slightly crooked and bulky.
"Bruno," Abbacchio tries out, getting a nod in return. "Suits you." He doesn't know why he says that.
The zombie – Bruno rests the tablet on his chest, above his half-done zipper work. There's an expectant expression on his face, and Abbacchio is curious about it until he remembers his manners.
"Oh, right," when someone introduces themselves to you, you're supposed to do the same, "I'm…Leone Abbacchio."
It's been so long since he spoke his full name out loud, and it tastes a little bitter on his tongue. Bruno doesn't seem to notice anything off, nodding before going back to work. Abbacchio watches him for a while – his stitches are clean, if heavy handed. Honestly, Abbacchio's impressed that he can even thread a needle in the first place.
Now he's on a first name basis with the zombie that broke into his house to steal his zippers. What a night.
"Do you…have anywhere to go?" Might as well make tonight even weirder.
Bruno lifts a hand, palm parallel to the floor and fingers out, and tips it side to side a couple times. 'Kind of' Abbacchio assumes that means, or maybe 'not really'. Either way, it's nothing concrete, which isn't helpful.
So Abbacchio watches as he finishes off his zipper, trying not to have an opinion on whether or not he wants Bruno to stick around. He can't be that desperate for company.
When the zipper is fully on and zipped, Bruno gets slowly to his feet, running a hand over it. He seems pleased with his work, and it really does look like a neat job, Abbacchio thinks. Bruno reaches for his shirt, then, tugging it on with mild difficulty.
As soon as he's dressed, he grabs the notepad and starts writing. 'Thanks for not shooting me,' it says.
Abbacchio snorts. "Thanks for not eating me."
If zombies can roll their eyes, Abbacchio is sure that Bruno does just that. He turns his notepad back around, scrawling something else across the page.
'Staying here'
"What?"
But Bruno is already shuffling out of the bathroom and down the hall – it only takes two of Abbacchio's long strides to catch up with him.
"You can't just decide that shit for yourself!"
A/N: If you've ever seen/heard of the movie Warm Bodies, you'll know where this is ending up.
Been wanting to write an actual multi-chapter of this idea for years now, with like, details and a plot and Falling In Love, but oneshots are all I'm capable of atm. I'd like to maybe expand this someday, which is why there's unexplained points throughout, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯
The title is from Dead Or Alive's song Something In My House - which imo deserves to be on every Halloween playlist.
Thanks for reading!