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07 September 2008 @ 06:09 pm
Fic: "Burnout" // Original  
Title: Burnout
Author: catalyst_roses
Rating: M
Words: 993
Warnings: Cursing. Slash. ZOMBIES.
Fandom: Original
Summary: Gray matter splatters the pavement outside their little fortress. Neither of them so much as blink.
Notes: Wheee~ So, this is my zombie!fic. No, really. I got a hankerin’ to write some end-of-the-world two-guys-kicking-zombie-ass fic. So I did. And I love it. I seriously love these two guys so much, man. They’re amazing. <3 Anyway, not much more than that. Quote at the beginning is from Cobra Starship’s "Bring It". Hope you like. ♥

So kiss me goodbye--
Honey, I’m gonna make it out alive.

As Gabriel lights up, Hart gives him a sidelong glance and says, with no small amount of amusement, "Those things’ll kill you." His tone of voice suggests that he knows exactly how ironic the statement is.

"Yeah," Gabriel says, and draws in a deep breath, savoring the sensation. "So’ll zombies, interestingly enough."

Hart grins and repositions himself. He’s been propped against the windowsill for a while now, on his knees the entire time. Neither of them are as young as they once were (especially not when it comes to this shit, Jesus) and so Gabriel knows Hart’s knees must be killing him. Never a word about it, though, not even once.

Gabriel thinks he might be a little bit in love, and he doesn’t even buy shit like that.

Hart settles again; he rolls his eyes, cocks his pistol (they’re saving the heavy-hitters--the shotguns and a couple others that are probably on the far side of legal--for the midday rush hour) and expertly pops a staggering teenage boy right between the eyes. Gray matter splatters the pavement outside their little fortress.

Neither of them so much as blink.

Once the threat is gone, Hart shakes dark, shaggy hair out of his eyes, thumbs the safety catch for his pistol, and sets it down. Then he turns back to Gabriel like he didn’t just kill another human being (an already-dead one, admittedly) in cold blood.

"You could quit the cancer sticks, if you wanted," he says, tossing his bangs out of his eyes again. They’ve both been on the move for months, and as per end-of-the-world rules, they’re not exactly striving to be the best beaus at the ball. And anyway, even though that little huff-blink-toss of the other man’s hair should be laughable in every sense of the word--it’s not.

Because somewhere deep down in Gabriel, it chills him a little. It’s like watching a predator sink back onto its haunches only after there’s fresh blood dripping from its fangs (or watching a desperado blow casually across the double barrel of his still-cooling weapon).

Hart looks at him then, coffee brown eyes sort of narrowed, like he’s suspicious. Gabriel realizes he still hasn’t answered, and shifts. The tip of his middle finger lightly touches the heavy weight of the .45 tucked into his waistband, just for a moment; it’s a nervous gesture of his that he’s no long conscious of. However, Hart’s eyes follow the movement, and then flit back to his face when he finally mutters out a response.

"Fuck no you can’t quit 'em." Gabriel snorts, folds his arms, and Hart smiles. "No more’n you can quit the fucking zombies. Bastards."

"Whatever," Hart shoots back smoothly. "You’re just the worse sort of coward, aren’t you? Gotta blame everything on the fucking zom--"

Hart breaks off like he’s been sucker-punched, eyes going wide and snapping toward the open window they’ve been taking shots out of all day. He scrambles to his feet (Gabriel can hear the creak and crack of his knees and winces for him) and moves to brace his hands on the windowsill. Hart no longer looks like a seasoned predator so much as a gangly-limbed cub who’s learned a moment too late that he’s just pissed off the only thing higher than himself on the food chain.

Hart’s almost leaning all the way out the window now, fingers nervously tap-tap-tapping along the sill and eyes still painfully wide. Gabriel swallows and says, as calmly as possible:

"Talk, Hart."

The other man starts, like coming out of a trance, and bites his lip.

"Damnit, Gabe. I was watching...there was one of them. Older than us? And he was just sort of wanderin’ around, you know how they do--"


"Yeah," Hart says, and in one smooth movement, he’s bent down, grabbed his gun, stood back up, and flipped the safety off. "Yeah. So, I looked at you for like five seconds, and damnit, he’s gone. I was waiting for him to get in range, you know, ‘cause they’re fucking slow, and. Motherfucker."

And then Hart’s slender finger is tightening on the trigger of his pistol and he’s skitter-sliding backwards, deer-in-headlight eyes locking with Gabriel’s and conveying pretty much the only word that describes the situation: fuck.

At the same time Gabriel’s cursing a mile a minute and digging through their pile of Guns ‘N’ Shit, trying to find that one they’ve been saving, the one that kicks back like a motherfucker, but damn if it doesn’t blow the hell out of anything it sets its sights on.

Above him, Hart hisses through his teeth and murmurs, "Stairwell."

Gabriel gives up the search, instead straightening and, almost as an afterthought, plucking the heavy Colt from his waistband. Hart gives him a shaky look, and Gabriel nods, flicking the safety off.

Something crash-clatters in the stairwell of the little suburban home they’ve camped out in, and both of them flinch. It sounds like something of heavy mass slamming into a door and getting it open because of it, and really, that’s pretty much what it is.

They lock eyes--a startled predator and determined prey.

Seamlessly, they lean in toward each other. Their lips catch, briefly; that might be Hart’s breath hitching right there, but Gabriel’s not saying a word because that’s definitely his own weak-ass moan in his ears.

Then they’re pulling away, grinning like lunatics, and Hart laughs.

"You taste like cigarettes," he says.

"Fuck you," Gabriel replies, and doesn’t feel the need to voice his want to do that, someday. "You taste like zombies, motherfucker."

Hart can’t help but laugh again, slightly saner this time, eyes sparking. He does that flick with his bangs, and there it is, there’s that beast sinking low in the grass, tail twitching, teeth bared (that outlaw cocking his six-guns and grinning recklessly at the sky).

"Let’s go fuck with fate," Hart says.

They proceed to do just that.


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