A/N: I told my friend I wanted to make and sell Gryffindor scarves. She said she wanted to sell Zombie Apocalypse Survival kits. This basically stemmed from that conversation.

So the Zombie fell in love with the Human?

What is the proper etiquette for a moment like this?

Does she roll up a newspaper and swat him on the nose, lecturing him for making her worry like some runaway pet? Does she welcome him with open arms, not even needing to hold her breath against his stench because she's just so euphoric over his return?

It's a serious question that she contemplates as she stares at Edward through her living room curtains.

The first option would be kind of funny, although she would never admit to being worried about what was essentially a dead animal. Besides, where the hell was she going to get a newspaper?

The second option is almost a taboo—a fact that makes it even more appealing—but she knows she just can't do that.

Indecision—a really crippling issue that she has yet to overcome, despite the need to make quick choices while living in the apocalypse—results in the utilization of neither option.

Instead, she busies herself around the house. There's a zombie staring at her—she can feel it—but she continues to dust and pick up trash because he was the one who abandoned her and she isn't going to drop everything just because he has returned.

Part of her worries her lack of acknowledgement will drive him away, but that other, far more stubborn part of her glues her focus to a stain on the carpet.

"Grape juice?" she murmurs, wondering if there was ever a time when this stain wasn't here.

She can't find a memory in which the carpet is spotless, so it's entirely likely that this blemish has been here since before she was born.

She scrubs at it, regardless.

So intent is she on her task—and ignoring a certain zombie—that when she hears a crash from outside, she kind of screams.

"Damn those noisy neighbors," she grumbles to herself, pretending that the girly shriek hadn't come from her, and moves to sit back on her feet to take a peek out the window.

Inconspicuously, of course.

The garbage has been knocked over, leaving bits of trash strewn across the sidewalk in front of her house. It will attract unwanted visitors if she doesn't clean it up—a realization that serves to annoy her further.

It's difficult to dispose of waste when there isn't anyone around to facilitate that kind of thing. Good thing Forks had its own dump and Charlie bought her that behemoth of a truck with an excellent amount of trunk space.

He's still there, but instead of that tilted statue-like stance he generally adopts, he's sitting on the ground with his arms wrapped around his knees, rocking.

He looks so much like a broken little boy, she thinks. If he were able, she imagines he would probably be crying.

This is when she realizes it's time for her little silent treatment to end because—you never interfere in the affairs of other peoples or planets unless there's children crying.

"Of all the fantastical things to exist, why did it have to be zombies? Why couldn't it have been the Doctor?" she complains.

So maybe Edward isn't a child—or even crying, really—but he's...close enough and this gives her the perfect excuse to do something entirely stupid.

His head doesn't snap up like it usually does when she approaches. A troublesome detail, indeed.

Now that she's standing right beside him, she can see a difference from the zombie she had met days ago.

His once sickly skin has lost its green tone and seems more like that industrial white color than anything. Evidence of his decomposing—which had already been remarkably minor—is now completely gone. Even his hair is brighter, although still as dirty as it had been.


She expects him to move at the sound of her voice, but he doesn't. He is still completely oblivious to her presence and she isn't quite sure what she plans to do, but her hand is extending toward his head.

Armed with her index finger, she pokes at his head and immediately marvels at the soft hair her wayward appendage brushes. Of its own accord, the rest of her hand joins her finger, and begins running through his oddly luxurious hair.

It takes a moment for her to realize that his rocking has stopped, but when she does, her hand is gone.

"Holy personal-space-invader, Batman!" she exclaims, laughing uneasily.

This is what she does when the moment gets awkward—she uses humor. Of course, she conveniently forgets that all of her jokes are more than likely flying right over his head, meaning...well...

That he's kind of just paying attention to her actions.

Quite a scary thought.

More shocking than her unusual display of affection is finding her hand back in that head of hair not a moment later.

"Um..." she trails off, eyes growing progressively wider. "Can I have my hand back?"

As she begins to remove her hand, an odd sound makes her freeze.

"Did you just...growl?" she asks uncertainly, staring into the less sunken eyes of the zombie her hand is currently attached to.

A determined gaze stares right back at her incredulous one, practically daring her to remove her hand. He continues looking at her in this new way—not unlike the predator he is supposed to be—until she resumes her stroking.

Several minutes pass before she speaks again.

"I'm not going to do this all day, you know," she points out.

His eyelids slip down and she notices how innocent he appears with those intent dark eyes hidden away.

"I'm serious. At the first sign of hand-cramping, I'm gone."

She takes his silence as confirmation of his understanding.

Several hours later, she wakes, finding herself comfortably tucked into her bed.

"Just a dream, then," she mumbles, allowing sleep to claim her once again before she begins to think about why that bothers her so much.

She doesn't notice the form rocking gently in the corner of her room with a small satisfied smile on his face.


I'm probably going to start posting my Zombie doodles at some point.
(In case any of you care)
Here's one:
(Inspired by this story)