A/N: I don't own anything, all credit goes to the lovely writers of iZOMBIE, and to David Anders's amazing performance of this character. Please leave a review if you liked it, constructive criticism is always welcome as well (:

For a moment, death didn't feel like the worst option to him. Death would top this hell. Except for the fact that after all he'd done that would probably be exactly where he was headed the second he stopped breathing.

Maybe this was hell. He had expected it to be a little more flame-y. Luckily he had mastered the art of hiding his disappointments years ago.

Then he remembered.


Breathing. He needed air. Soon. He thought of his grandfather. Was this what his death had felt like?

Without even thinking about it, he could feel his hands digging through the dirt, fighting their way into freedom. He couldn't lose the image of the dying old man as his body tried to release itself from its cage. Was this what regret felt like? His brain hadn't caught up yet.


Oh, shit.

He could see the soft rays of sunlight shining through, reaching his skin. But he didn't feel it. He didn't feel it. It must be the dirt. The dirt was covering him and that was why he wasn't able to feel the warmth of that stupid yellow ball in the sky.

Children's laughter filled the morning. Blaine pushed himself up and up, dragging himself out of the grave like he was the star of a second-rate horror movie. Perhaps he was.


He looked at their young bodies, and all he could think about was their limited brain mass. No. This couldn't be happening. He had never wanted to taste grey matter on his tongue again, and he fought the urge to rip open their tiny skulls with every fiber of his being. It wasn't real. He could feel the sun on his face. He was sure of it. This wasn't happening, it was all just a bad dream.

Candy. Boss. Death. Grave. Brains.

He closed his eyes and felt. He felt and felt and tried to feel so deeply that it hurt. Nothing.

Carefully, Blaine opened his eyes, finding the world unchanged. He took a deep breath – a breath he hardly needed – before gritting his teeth and stepping forward, into his new life. His old life. Another life.

They yelled when he took their degraded tablecloth. At his appearance, at his manner. He wished they'd shut up. His head hurt. He was hungry. They should be happy he wasn't ripping him apart. People were so ungrateful these days.

Blaine wrapped the tablecloth around his body, even though he wasn't able to feel the cold. Perhaps it wasn't cold. He couldn't really tell. He would notice if he was freezing or melting, everything in between was a bit of a blur. He suddenly remembered Major's face in the freezer, and smiled. Liv's goody-two-shoes ex- or not-ex-lover would be changing soon as well. At least they'd have some incentive to find a cure. Blaine knew he couldn't be enough. He would never be.

The good Doctor. That was where he'd go.

Or home?


Funeral home.

He felt like sleeping for ten years, but he already knew that if he closed his eyes, he would feel the mounds of earth descending upon his body once more.


He had no home. Every time his life got even the least bit comfortable, it had to fall apart. It just had to. He had built a company. A trade. He had built a life, and it had been taken from him.

Perhaps it had never really been his to claim. Sweet wine doesn't last, and if Blaine believed in such a thing, he would say that karma catches up even with the cleverest of souls. That it was time to pay.

He had died, and this would be his hell.