#zombies make

Amelia makes Simon deeply uncomfortable.

There. He’s managed to admit it to himself. The woman perhaps has the most unnerving manner of anybody he’s ever met, and he’s met a lot of unnerving people. He can’t, try as he might, manage to properly piss her off, and he can bring almost anyone to apoplectic anger when he wants to. It’s by far the least trustworthy thing about her.

Of course, she gets short-tempered when he puts off showering or stops seeing the point of getting up in the morning, and has been known to take extreme action just to rouse him when the smell of his socks becomes unbearably cloying. His gran used to have similar ideas about projectiles or a bucket of cold water to the face whenever he was late for school, so it usually isn’t too difficult to flip her off and flip his pillow the other way up.

But this. This is something else. A step too far.

“Amelia! For God’s sake, put your bloody clothes on!”

“You’re not even a teensy bit interested?” Amelia raises an eyebrow, a hand on one very bare hip, another cupping a breast. Simon blinks the crust of sleep from his eyelashes. He’s long stopped bothering with the mask around her.

“Jesus Christ, is this an attempt to seduce me? Because I’m really not interested in you like-“

Amelia throws her head back in a sweep of platinum hair and laughs in ringing peals. “Seduce you? Seduce… you?! Simon, bless you, sweetie, no offence, but I can do better than a brooding misery guts with half a face.”

“I’ll have you know I used to be a catch,” Simon manages crossly, pulling his blanket self-consciously over the remainder of his hands. “And the face is regrowing.”

“I know. I heard,” Amelia replies. “You were yelling blue murder last night until I chloroformed you.”

“What the Hell!”

“What? You were bringing on a migraine!” She moves her hand from her hip to her temple and massages it, her face pained.

“You chloroformed me?!” Once again, he’s shouting while she remains calm. He has no idea how she does it.

“I’m no good with a migraine! Also, you were screaming ‘oh please someone, someone make it stop, Mother Mary save me, help me, it burns’, blah blah blah. I thought you’d be grateful.” Then, more brightly, she adds. “You’re looking vaguely less dead today, though!”

“Whoopee. Now fuck off and get dressed.” He rolls over, trying to avoid the glare of the daylight streaming in through thin curtains. This apartment is their third hiding spot since they took the boat, and in his opinion, it isn’t nearly dark enough.

“No, you’re awake, you’re getting up, you’re starting the day and allowing me to do you a favour.”

“What do you want, Amy?”

“I thought, as we’ve scheduled a day off for you to recover, I’ve no plans in the works, we can get to know one another. Bond. Build our professional relationship.”

“This is not a professional relationship. You are not wearing knickers.”

“I’ve heard you used to wander round Abel Township shirtless all the time.”

“Firstly, where the hell did you hear that? Secondly, I’m a bloke. It’s… it’s different.”

She smirks, looking him up and down. “You’re what, thirty? And still such a good little Catholic boy. It’s rather cute.”

“I’m an agnostic who would prefer some common decency in his very, very small living space.”

“Oh no, I think you talk a big game, but you, Simon Lauchlan, are a prude.”

“I am not a prude!” Simon growls. “I just don’t want to see you naked after spending a night attempting to regrow my flesh with experimental drugs! Is that really so much to ask?”

“You can always get up and move if you don’t want to have to look at me.”

“Fine.” He clambers out of his campbed, still wrapped tightly in his blanket, and pushes past her with as much dignity as he can muster to the stove, putting on a saucepan of water. He catches a glimpse of himself in the bubbles, and realises the treatment failed. Again. He’s just as disfigured as before. All that pain, all the bullshit and for what?

“It didn’t work, did it.”

“Afraid not, nope. We’re going to have to try again!”

He closes his eyes, and feels his wounds throb, the sound of his heartbeat rushing through his head. “Amy, I… I don’t… I don’t know how much longer I can…”

“Grow a pair of balls, Simon. You’re going to grow your face back if we have to kill you trying to do it. Also, if you’re making tea, I want a cup. I’m absolutely shattered.”

Obediently, he reaches for both the mugs he’d salvaged, knocking a jar of paintbrushes in his search for the caddy. He turns, surprised, and then remembers that she's nude and swings his head back quickly enough to get whiplash. “This is what you were out getting while I slept?”

“I told you, I wanted to spend a day bonding. Getting to know each other. I thought you might like to try life drawing. It could put your mind off things while we try the next vial? If you’re concentrating on something, it might make it easier.”

She’s rendered him momentarily speechless. He stirs the tea.

“Jesus. Okay. But if you ask me to paint you like one of my French girls I’m leaving with the weapons and I’m never coming back.”

“Done. I’ve always wanted a portrait. I do at least expect you to put in a reasonable amount of effort. Try and capture my best side.”

“You are completely shameless,” he says, almost impressed.