And just like that, the question gets way more complicated than just how he's not a zombie anymore. Drake's smile fades.
"Magic, basically. The thing was, being infected made me stronger in a lot of ways. So I'd stayed a zombie to better protect the city, but there were some really close calls. Earlier tonight when we were talking about going hungry when we were cut off from that one alien? Most people could stockpile while he was at full power and usually we could hunt or fish, people had gardens... worst case they'd lose some weight. But me?"
It's rare that Drake's visibly tense, but this is one of those times. He doesn't talk about this much, and since he's comfortable enough to do so there's no point in hiding how he feels about it. The memories are traumatic.
"You manage the symptoms by feeding. That's the only thing that keeps you yourself. It sucks, but you do it because a zombie from my world who doesn't eat essentially turns into a zombie from your world. A mindless, rotting monster. I came close once, the second time I definitely would've turned if there hadn't been somebody willing to put me on ice. Defrosting hurt like hell, but nobody I loved had to put me down." He hesitates, jaw working, before deciding to just get through the rest of the explanation quickly. "Anyway, when the war was really coming to a head, I decided I was gonna be selfish for once. I didn't want to die as a zombie again, or worse... win or lose the war, if we lost Hope for good somebody would have to put me down. So I finally made a deal. What you're looking at now isn't the same body I was born in."
A cure for what Drake had wouldn't have been anything like a cure for what Jesus has. He knows that. But there's a part of him that is always hoping there is a cure somewhere, that someone can figure it out, and if he could have had some vicarious hope...
"They did a good job," he says, with a little smile, but it fades.
"I'm infected. Everyone is. When I die, if my friends don't put me down, I'll try to kill them." At least that had been true before he died and came here. The fear of it, the absolute terror of it, hasn't gone away. If anything it's become worse, being forced to get close to so many people. He could become Patient Zero here.
"I'm looking into magic to cure it here. I dont' know if I believe in magic, but I'm desperate."
That's really worrying, since it couldn't have always been that way. Jesus' world was normal once and now everyone is infected?
"Are you sure you're still infected?" Drake asks, brow furrowed with thought as much as concern. "Cuz I've been told that anything that could be sexually transmitted or life threatening is cured when we wind up here. No idea how, but it does track. And there's no explanation behind how people just come back from the dead. Who knows what they do to us?"
"I don't trust anyone I could ask." All the doctors who could possibly test for it belong to the city. He's not sure even they would be able to tell, though; it's not like the Wild Fire virus is here to compare his sample against.
"Well if they didn't cure it, there's pretty much no chance you haven't given it to people already. Literally everyone in your world being infected means it's gotta be easier to spread than by fluids." He's not saying this to freak Jesus out, it's just realistic. "I might know somebody who'd be able to tell, if you'd see him."
The question of how bad it was, though?
"Horrible, but you know it's not the same. I wasn't dead. Even once I wasn't me anymore, I wasn't really dead. Just gone. So at that point it was only bad for Liv because she had to put me down, and I don't remember that part. Just what they did to me before."
He knows and he also knows there is nothing he could have done to prevent it. The guilt of it could choke the air right out of him if he thinks about it, though.
Jesus doesn't address the subject of his infection, and Drake's not the pushy type. He'll answer first, give the other man a moment to consider it while he does... because it's not Jesus' fault. They just have to know, for either peace of mind or to take proper precautions.
He doesn't see the guilt because he isn't looking up, though. Talking about this is still difficult for him.
"They called it medical research," he starts, debating how much to say before remembering how wary and protective Rosita is. Jesus has probably dealt with things similarly terrible back home, just different. "They crammed a couple dozen of us into a cell and treated us like lab rats, poking and prodding and shooting us up with mystery syringes to see what would happen. We were told they were testing formulas for a cure but they also had romeros chained to treadmills with brains just out of reach, to see how fast they could run when the scientists added different things into the iv, so... it wasn't about cures. It's not 'research' when they drag people away with control poles and cattle prods and their bodies come back empty."
Drake's voice is low and bitter, because as much as he's made his peace with it and doesn't regret his death, he's still angry that any of it happened to any of them. That nobody in that basement realized they were still people, or the irony of calling them the expendable monsters while doing such horrible shit. He finally looks up at Jesus again, tilting his chin up in an unconscious reenactment of how he'd faced his own march into the testing room.
"I could only watch it happen so many times before I made them take me next instead of the guy crying about never seeing his kids again. Liv said I was the last one before they rescued the others."
It's an offer he'll take. Drake relaxes his hand and shifts very slightly, resting just one finger over Jesus' as his expression softens. Now he sounds more sad than bitter.
"I wish they could've rescued everyone. But I don't regret buying the others that time." A hesitation, then, gently... "You should find out if it's still in you, Jesus. Let me make some calls?"
They're not quite familiar enough for Drake to be sure leaning over to hug Jesus would be welcome, but he can't do nothing. The small bit of contact turns to Drake covering Jesus' hand completely, curling his fingers underneath to give a reassuring squeeze.
"One step at a time, don't jump to that. Nothing's ever hopeless. I've got your back, okay?"
"Hey, no. There's no way in any universe that you'd be responsible. You didn't choose to come here. You weren't even the first one from your world to show up. Whatever or whoever's dragging us in probably caught it, but if not we'll find a way to deal before the world falls. Just gotta know whether or not it's a problem first, yeah?"
He shifts a little closer, nudging Jesus's shoulder with his to try and get him to look up.
"If you infected me? It's already done. I might be the only other person in the whole city besides you three with personal experience telling friends where they've gotta shoot if I ever turn, and I'm saying it's not your fault."
It is a sick fact, maybe, that knowing Drake understands those rules helps. Drake knows what it is to tell a friend to shoot; he knows what it is to count your real friends as the people who would pull that trigger.
"Okay," he's not okay, but he'll get there. Drake is right. "We'll find out if it's a problem. We can't do anything without knowing, right?"
Jesus is in luck, then, because Drake gives excellent hugs. Their size difference only helps in this regard because he can just sort of envelop the smaller man, his hold gentle but secure.
This is still an absolutely insane thing to have in common, but it feels like it has to be more than coincidence. Drake's determined to help whether they wind up signing or not.
Drake's not about to rush comforting somebody. He only loosens his hold when Jesus lifts his head because he thinks that's the signal the other man is about to pull back... but that bit doesn't happen. Instead they're just very close, and every second that passes without either of them moving away makes that feel more deliberate.
Leaving the arm wrapped around Jesus' middle where is it, Drake reclaims the one around his shoulders to rest that hand on the nape of his neck. He's getting another vibe, that's for sure. There's gentle amusement in his voice when he speaks again, low and soft since they're so close.
"Should I be trusting my intuition again right now?" he asks, looking into Jesus' still very close and extremely blue eyes.
He brushes his lips against Drake's, brief but not particularly chaste. He pulls back to look at him, to be sure it's okay. "Depends. Was it telling you to do that?"
"Yup." The reply comes with a grin, and Drake's thumb caressing the side of Jesus' neck. It's good to know he can still read people -- being around so many outliers lately has shaken his confidence in that arena but Jesus is doing a lot to reassure him he hasn't lost the skill.
Gently, his grip still loose enough to pull out of just in case, Drake tugs Jesus back in for more than a teasing brush of lips. And it's definitely not brief. There's no urgency or demand present, but he teases Jesus' mouth open for a deep, slow, affectionate kiss. One that clearly says 'I like you, and I'm not scared.'
This is not something it would ever have occurred to him to ask for, but he realizes now how badly he needed it.
Telling someone about the Wild Fire virus, and that he has it, is difficult enough. Telling it to someone who had nearly become a Romero had, he'd been sure, been a nail in the friendship's coffin.
When Drake instead kisses him like that, he deepens it further, hand in Drake's hair at the nape of his neck to pull him closer.
There's a huge difference between the situations, in Drake's opinion. His experience as a zombie had been miserable, yes, and he'd taken every possible precaution not to pass the condition to anyone else because of that... but he'd been deliberately turned without consent. In the long run he forgave the scratch because it had saved his life and the information he was able to give and things he was able to do because of that had saved many other lives, but it was still a choice someone else made.
Jesus didn't get a choice, not about catching it or passing it along. He has absolutely no control over the fact that he's infected, if he even actually is here. Either way it's already done in that case and they'll figure it out. They're not symptomatic, which is already a huge step up from how it works in Drake's world, and most importantly? Jesus is worried about what might happen in the long run because he's a good person who doesn't want anyone to get hurt. Drake's very much used to criminal and terrorist zombies who only care about using the virus for their own gain, who infect people to extort them, who murder to stay fed. Jesus is a fucking breath of fresh air, as zombie apocalypse backstories go.
So there's absolutely no reason not to keep kissing, really. The fingers in his hair earn Jesus a little shiver and he does press in, the arm he's got around the smaller man's waist tightening to hold him close.
Drake lets it drag on, sweet and unhurried, until he needs to breathe. At which point he doesn't so much pull back as tip his head forward to break the kiss and press their foreheads together instead, staying right where he is. This is the ideal 'speak now if we're stopping' moment, because much more of this and it'll be far more difficult for him to do so. He will, obviously, but. It's easier to drop from a lower height.
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"Magic, basically. The thing was, being infected made me stronger in a lot of ways. So I'd stayed a zombie to better protect the city, but there were some really close calls. Earlier tonight when we were talking about going hungry when we were cut off from that one alien? Most people could stockpile while he was at full power and usually we could hunt or fish, people had gardens... worst case they'd lose some weight. But me?"
It's rare that Drake's visibly tense, but this is one of those times. He doesn't talk about this much, and since he's comfortable enough to do so there's no point in hiding how he feels about it. The memories are traumatic.
"You manage the symptoms by feeding. That's the only thing that keeps you yourself. It sucks, but you do it because a zombie from my world who doesn't eat essentially turns into a zombie from your world. A mindless, rotting monster. I came close once, the second time I definitely would've turned if there hadn't been somebody willing to put me on ice. Defrosting hurt like hell, but nobody I loved had to put me down." He hesitates, jaw working, before deciding to just get through the rest of the explanation quickly. "Anyway, when the war was really coming to a head, I decided I was gonna be selfish for once. I didn't want to die as a zombie again, or worse... win or lose the war, if we lost Hope for good somebody would have to put me down. So I finally made a deal. What you're looking at now isn't the same body I was born in."
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"They did a good job," he says, with a little smile, but it fades.
"I'm infected. Everyone is. When I die, if my friends don't put me down, I'll try to kill them." At least that had been true before he died and came here. The fear of it, the absolute terror of it, hasn't gone away. If anything it's become worse, being forced to get close to so many people. He could become Patient Zero here.
"I'm looking into magic to cure it here. I dont' know if I believe in magic, but I'm desperate."
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"Are you sure you're still infected?" Drake asks, brow furrowed with thought as much as concern. "Cuz I've been told that anything that could be sexually transmitted or life threatening is cured when we wind up here. No idea how, but it does track. And there's no explanation behind how people just come back from the dead. Who knows what they do to us?"
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"...How bad was it?" Being a zombie.
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The question of how bad it was, though?
"Horrible, but you know it's not the same. I wasn't dead. Even once I wasn't me anymore, I wasn't really dead. Just gone. So at that point it was only bad for Liv because she had to put me down, and I don't remember that part. Just what they did to me before."
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"... What they did to you before?"
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He doesn't see the guilt because he isn't looking up, though. Talking about this is still difficult for him.
"They called it medical research," he starts, debating how much to say before remembering how wary and protective Rosita is. Jesus has probably dealt with things similarly terrible back home, just different. "They crammed a couple dozen of us into a cell and treated us like lab rats, poking and prodding and shooting us up with mystery syringes to see what would happen. We were told they were testing formulas for a cure but they also had romeros chained to treadmills with brains just out of reach, to see how fast they could run when the scientists added different things into the iv, so... it wasn't about cures. It's not 'research' when they drag people away with control poles and cattle prods and their bodies come back empty."
Drake's voice is low and bitter, because as much as he's made his peace with it and doesn't regret his death, he's still angry that any of it happened to any of them. That nobody in that basement realized they were still people, or the irony of calling them the expendable monsters while doing such horrible shit. He finally looks up at Jesus again, tilting his chin up in an unconscious reenactment of how he'd faced his own march into the testing room.
"I could only watch it happen so many times before I made them take me next instead of the guy crying about never seeing his kids again. Liv said I was the last one before they rescued the others."
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It doesn't matter how many times he hears about things like this, sees them happen, has them done to him, it never stops effecting him.
"I wish they could have rescued you, too."
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"I wish they could've rescued everyone. But I don't regret buying the others that time." A hesitation, then, gently... "You should find out if it's still in you, Jesus. Let me make some calls?"
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"If they can't cure it, I don't know what I'll do, Drake."
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"One step at a time, don't jump to that. Nothing's ever hopeless. I've got your back, okay?"
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He shifts a little closer, nudging Jesus's shoulder with his to try and get him to look up.
"If you infected me? It's already done. I might be the only other person in the whole city besides you three with personal experience telling friends where they've gotta shoot if I ever turn, and I'm saying it's not your fault."
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"Okay," he's not okay, but he'll get there. Drake is right. "We'll find out if it's a problem. We can't do anything without knowing, right?"
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"We'll figure it out." He hesitates for another moment, obviously considering something... "You need a hug? You can say no but I'm getting a vibe."
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He leans against Drake, arm around him, and just lets himself feel the fractures that have been slowly forming since he got here.
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This is still an absolutely insane thing to have in common, but it feels like it has to be more than coincidence. Drake's determined to help whether they wind up signing or not.
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He starts to lift his head, but pauses with his face still close to Drake's, close enough he can feel Drake's breath on his skin.
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Leaving the arm wrapped around Jesus' middle where is it, Drake reclaims the one around his shoulders to rest that hand on the nape of his neck. He's getting another vibe, that's for sure. There's gentle amusement in his voice when he speaks again, low and soft since they're so close.
"Should I be trusting my intuition again right now?" he asks, looking into Jesus' still very close and extremely blue eyes.
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Gently, his grip still loose enough to pull out of just in case, Drake tugs Jesus back in for more than a teasing brush of lips. And it's definitely not brief. There's no urgency or demand present, but he teases Jesus' mouth open for a deep, slow, affectionate kiss. One that clearly says 'I like you, and I'm not scared.'
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Telling someone about the Wild Fire virus, and that he has it, is difficult enough. Telling it to someone who had nearly become a Romero had, he'd been sure, been a nail in the friendship's coffin.
When Drake instead kisses him like that, he deepens it further, hand in Drake's hair at the nape of his neck to pull him closer.
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Jesus didn't get a choice, not about catching it or passing it along. He has absolutely no control over the fact that he's infected, if he even actually is here. Either way it's already done in that case and they'll figure it out. They're not symptomatic, which is already a huge step up from how it works in Drake's world, and most importantly? Jesus is worried about what might happen in the long run because he's a good person who doesn't want anyone to get hurt. Drake's very much used to criminal and terrorist zombies who only care about using the virus for their own gain, who infect people to extort them, who murder to stay fed. Jesus is a fucking breath of fresh air, as zombie apocalypse backstories go.
So there's absolutely no reason not to keep kissing, really. The fingers in his hair earn Jesus a little shiver and he does press in, the arm he's got around the smaller man's waist tightening to hold him close.
Drake lets it drag on, sweet and unhurried, until he needs to breathe. At which point he doesn't so much pull back as tip his head forward to break the kiss and press their foreheads together instead, staying right where he is. This is the ideal 'speak now if we're stopping' moment, because much more of this and it'll be far more difficult for him to do so. He will, obviously, but. It's easier to drop from a lower height.
"Should I back off?" he asks, voice a low rumble.
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