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Just Like That

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You had always hated zombies. Sick, rotting, rancid, undead pieces of shit that refused to remain dead. Didn’t matter how they came to be—magic, illness, whatever; you hated them with a passion.

 

You couldn’t hate them any more than you do now, cradling a certain troll splattered with his own lime green blood in his last moments.

It was a simple mistake you had made just minutes ago. You turned your back on him, pushing forward through a crowd of zombies, festering in the evening air.


 

They had come out of butt-fucking nowhere, if you could recall. Maybe it was that looted gas station he and you had neglected to check. If only you had taken those few moments, instead of hurrying further out of town to find some suburban house to take shelter in for the night. Because, you know, there were less nooks and crannies for them to hide in. And sometimes, if you were lucky enough, there were cans of soup. Or beans. Either way, those popped up occasionally if you found an out-of-the-way home.

 

Anyways. How it happened. You had turned your back on him to push through the mob, to try and clear a pathway through the horde. You hadn’t predicted that a swarm would form behind you around him, overwhelm him faster than he could yell your name.

 

When you turned back around to answer the cry, your breath caught in your throat, and your heart stopped beating for all the wrong reasons.

 

Bright, lime-green blood trickled steadily from his neck, staining his shirt and skin. He closed his eyes, frantic as he shook his arm to rid himself of some zombie in a tuxedo that had gripped onto his arm, jabbing his bloodstained trident at another advancing towards him from the front.

 

It took some blunt force and a few hasty hacks at necks before you were close enough to him to grab him by the arm, pulling him to your side as you attempted to fend off those nearest to the two of you.

 

You lost track of what happened next, only miraculously making it out of the swarm of zombies and running, far, far away, now holding the troll like he was made of gold-encrusted diamonds. Considering his current state, the comparison wasn’t too far off the mark. You stopped only when you couldn’t see anybody else except the two of you and could only hear the pounding of your own heart, the labored breathing of your companion in your arms. It was a classic suburban neighborhood—white picket fences lining pastel blues and browns and whites.

 

“Shit,” you had cursed all the way here, but this one was more forceful than the rest. “Damnit, no, no, no!


That brings us up to speed with where you are now.

 

You duck into the nearest garage, feeling a swell of relief when his hands grip on tighter to your shirt to avoid being dropped on the floor.

 

There’s nothing to lay him down on other than the concrete floor, so with a quick apology, you lower him to the ground and stand up to pull the garage door just so only an inch or two of the outside world could be seen. You stand up and lean a shelf stocked with various boxes of tools against the door leading to the house, ensuring you can be left in peace to try and patch him up.

 

“No,” He gasps, twisting away from the washcloth you have in hand. “M’ neck…too deep, too deep.”

 

He doesn’t have to articulate himself properly for you to understand the severity of his wound.

 

“Stuck,” You whisper, hand moving forward again to wipe off the grime from his arm at the very least. “It’s okay. You’ll survive.”

 

The lie is so blatant that you can’t even begin to convince yourself of it. Neither can he, from the way he closes his eyes and turns his head.

 

Never mind, that was just to cough up a few drops of blood.

 

“Gabr’l,” Using your real name—he usually reserves that for more serious talks (not that this wasn’t serious, but you really hope that it isn’t), he raises a hand to wipe his mouth clean. “it’s too late.”

 

His voice chokes up as he closes his eyes again, fighting back tears that mirror your own. He’s afraid of dying. So are you. You aren’t quite familiar with anybody that isn’t somewhat afraid of death.

 

“Let me finish,” he puts a finger up, just as you open your mouth to deny that he’s straight up bleeding out. “Let m’ finish.”

 

He takes a stuttering breath, chest quivering as more blood streams from his neck. You’d give anything to not see that much green bleeding out from him—hell, you’d rather take his place than watch him die first.

 

“You ha-ave to kill me. Now.” The words don’t register clearly in your head the first time.

 

Then it clicks.

 

“No,” Again, you deny the severity of the situation, however much your voice quivers like a young child’s. “You’ll make it. Okay, Stuck? I just need to clean up your neck, yeah?”

 

He laughs. A soft, garbled laugh that ends in him choking and spitting up blood. A laugh that has you holding on tighter and fretting more, wiping the blood from his mouth before grabbing a cleaner rag to begin mopping up the blood on his neck. Because somehow, somehow, you’ve deluded yourself into believing he can still live through this.

 

“Gabe,” He says again, whispering your name in earnest urgency. “Nat, enough.”

 

It’s enough to get you to pause for a moment, eyes sweeping over his own.

 

“Stop dicking around.” Homestuck says bluntly, green eyes staring up at you with what was probably his last expression of determination. “Get your gun, get your knife. Take my shit once it’s over.”

 

You open your mouth, yet again, then choose to close it.

 

You can’t magic away a gash that deep in his neck. You’re not even a doctor, you’re a former law student. Even if you could clean it out entirely, he could turn within a matter of days—an excruciatingly painful process to undergo. Ironically enough, a clean shot to the head or decapitation might be the most humane way to end this mess.

 

Your hands shake as you reach into the duffel bag besides you, feeling for that familiar grip of cool metal.

 

They shake more violently as you check to see if your pistol is loaded and click off the safety.

 

You can barely see through your tears as you double check the safety out of habit.

 

For some strange, subconscious reason, you hold him to your shoulder to do this. You rest his head just barely on your collar, willing your hands to stop trembling as you hold your pistol up to the side of his head.

 

He doesn’t grip onto you as tight as before. One of his hands finds its way to your free arm, giving your hand a gentle squeeze. He doesn’t do anything more.

 

You pull the trigger.

 

Bang!

 

Your ears are ringing when you drop the gun, just as his full weight slumps into your lap.

 

The tears come in waves now, streaking down your face as you pick him up once more. It hurts to look at his face. It hurts to look at the speckles of green littering the floor, seeping into your shirt. It hurts to hold him up, hurts to hold his cooling corpse.

 

It hurts.

 

You don’t scream, or wail. But you let the tears continue to flow as you hold him tighter, staining his shirt once over again.

 

It hurts.

 

Even your wings are shaking from how hard you’re crying, and you’re holding him even tighter than before as if that would save him now, that you could amend that simple, stupid mistake that led to all of this.

 

It hurts.

 

You are the Supernatural fandom. And you have just lost the Homestuck fandom, just like that.