kiss Kiss, Bang,Bang

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang.

Fandom: ‘Dof tof the Dead’ (Romero) 1978

Pairing: Peter/Roger

Rating: PG for lurve? Angst (although I said I’d never write it- argh!)

Backstory: A zombie plague is gripping America. Peter and Roger, two cops who have met clearing out a zombie infested project, escape in a helicopter piloted by Roger’s friend Steven (Flyboy) with his girlfriend Fran. They land at a shopping mall where they hole up. When Roger and Peter attempt to seal off the mall by blocking the entrances with lorries, Roger momentarily ‘loses it’ and is bitten by a zombie. Here is what follows (at least in my mind). Not really a follow up to ‘Down to the Line’, but if you liked that you might just like this too…

Thanks to anyone who reviewed my previous fic on this site & others. You see- you’ve only encouraged me…

Warning: character death, slash, spoilers. And if anyone thinks all that chest-stroking in the film is straight, well…..

If you read this fic PLEASE review it- even if you hate it, I’d like to know why! Thank you!

Disclaimer: Not mine, though I sincerely wish they were…

Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang

The cry was hoarse and faint, but Peter, who had been expecting it to come at any moment all that morning, suddenly froze at the sound, his paintbrush paused mid-stroke.
But only for the briefest instant.

Before the echo had died away down the corridor he had quickly put down the paint pot and brush and was swarming expertly up the rope ladder. His face was calm, his movements efficient and precise like the professional that he was trained to be; no one watching him would suspect the knot he was feeling ravelling up his guts.
Peter hoped no-one would suspect.
But Roger had been calling out his name.
He knew as he rounded the corner that it was bad; the worst yet. Through the door he could see the thrashing blankets, the floor strewn with a confusion of things knocked over and discarded, medicine vials, sterile swabs. And above it all the horribly sweet smell of illness.
The yelling had subsided now, and a childlike monotonous whimper had taken its place, which was somehow worse. Peter shivered as he pushed past Fran in the doorway, barely registering her presence.
Steven looked up as Peter entered. He was lying half across the makeshift bed in a tangle of blankets, holding Roger’s arms as he quieted down. So the morphine was already in him, then.
Peter squatted beside the bed and gently touched Roger’s face with the back of his hand, cool skin against hot. Roger leant into the touch, and seemed to relax a little, reaching out and gently stroking Peter’s arm in return, as if the movement soothed him.
“You go” Peter said levelly “I’ll stay with him”
A moment’s eye contact, a tight, tired smile and Steven was gone. Did he guess? His willingness to leave his dangerously ill friend, the one he’d chosen over all his others to save, made Peter think so, but he was in no mood to worry about that now.
He sat down slowly on the bed, and carefully slid his arm along the cold wall and around Roger’s shoulders until Roger was leaning limply against his chest, his fine light hair clinging to his damp skin. Peter tenderly smoothed it back with his free hand and Roger smiled painfully, his eyes still tightly closed. Peter felt the knot in his stomach relax a little. The old Rog was still there; the pain that had grabbed him and shaken him until he was like a little kid, unable to make any decipherable words was receding, at least for a while. At least until the morphine wore off again. But, Peter realised, Roger’d always been able to call for him, even at his worst.
It wasn’t too bad at first. Fran had been able to take care of him, and Peter had been silently grateful for that-tried to keep busy, building the wall, collecting the bodies, anything but think about the poison that was spreading through Roger’s body. But as the infection had spread- as they all knew it would- the fever set in and all he seemed to crave was Peter’s strong arms holding him, rocking him, quieting him “hush now”. A kid after a nightmare.

Peter ran a light hand down over Roger’s bare chest to his stomach, then, a sad wry smile, and he began to pull the two sides of Roger’s pyjama top together, keep him warm.
At the movement Roger opened his eyes, looked straight into Peter’s face, bleary recognition.
“hey….baby”
They were glassier now and bruise-dark around the lids, but their intense blue still invited Peter. His hand paused.

“Do you think it’s right to run?”
Roger had asked the question, but the look in his eyes, that electric moment that started it all off, had said something different, some challenge that Peter had never seen before, a question that couldn’t be spoken aloud.
And Peter had answered him, though not in words, even though he knew how risky it was, how harsh and possibly final the punishment if they’d been caught.
It was that electricity that had caused it all- Peter could see that now, the heady rush, whooping, yelling, showing off- it should have been carefree and careless, but Rog in his exhilaration hadn’t seen the danger. And neither had Peter until it was too late.
In the lift he’d tried to tell Rog he was sorry.
“Look here man…”
But Roger cut him off without even looking round.
“I know. Shaddup willya?”
Peter was somehow glad he couldn’t see his face. The doors opened silently and it was a long moment before he could bring himself to wheel Rog out again. Into more danger.
And now they were here. And as quickly as he’d found Roger, Peter was going to lose him.

“You’ll take care of me, won’t you Peter?”
Peter realised Roger was still looking up at him glassily
“I mean…you’ll take care of me when I go”
Peter swallowed, tried to think of something useful to say, although he knew anything he said would be hopelessly inadequate.
“Try and get some sleep man, save your strength”
Needing to do something, anything, Peter got hold of a cloth and touched it to Roger’s forehead, his chest. His hand lingered for a moment.
“I don’t wanna be walking around like that”
Roger spat the last word.
Peter co’t b’t bear it, the unfairness, slammed his fist against the chilly white wall.
“Peter….Peter!”
The childlike terror was rising again in his voice; the morphine must be going fast.
“Yeah… I’m here man”
For a second their eyes caught, their faces too close. Abruptly, without meaning to, Peter leaned forward, a sudden unthinking desire to kiss, to make it all better, but a strange steeliness in Roger’s blue eyes stopped him. The old Rog was still fighting for control.
“Don’t do it till you’re sure I’m coming back”
His eyes still firmly holding Peter’s gaze, Roger reached up his hand and tenderly touched it to Peter’s chest.
“I’m going to try not to…”
the hand circled gently over Peter’s torso, barely touching him through the fabric. Peter sharply caught his breath.
“I’m going to try not to…come back”
Peter closed his eyes
“I’m going to try….not to”
The hand stopped, resting against Peter’s stomach. A sigh of regret and longing escaped Roger.
Peter couldn’t bear that sigh.
He grabbed the hand that now lay still, and held it tightly in his.
Roger looked from their clenched hands up to Peter’s face sadly
“Man, I…”
Peter pulled Roger up towards him and wrapped his strong arms tight around the slender body, feeling the heart racing in the bare chest, burying his hot face in Roger’s fine blond hair.
He felt Roger’s arms slide easily around his waist, grasping at his shoulders. His warm lips pressed against Peter’s neck, half kissing half whispering.
“Take care of me Peter. You’ll take care of me, won’t you?”
Suddenly Peter pulled away.
They looked at each other for a long moment. Then Peter softly rested his forehead against Roger’s, the fine hair brushing against his eyelashes. He felt the warm erratic breath on his face as it slowed to normal.
“Yeah man…”
“Promise you’ll…”
“Yeah baby , I promise”
Slowly, sweetly, without thinking, without even seeming to move, their lips met.

A couple of hours later. Maybe more, Peter wasn’t sure.
The bottle of Jack Daniels was nearly empty. He took a resolute swig, and his eyes flicked up.
In the next room he could hear the TV, hear someone moving plates around, but the sound barely registered.
His eyes were on the form in front of him.
Under the blanket was the man he loved. Dead. Dead but not dead.
The gun was in his hand.
A movement. He could hardly bear to look. But his eyes were steady, his arms were steady. Not a flicker betrayed his feelings.
The gun came up. The gun fired. The gun lowered.
His movements were efficient and precise.
Like the professional that he was trained to be.