Work Text:
Germany buries his workspace under paper, stacking research findings evenly across the top of his desk. Graphs get their own section opposite the output tables, leaving a pack of blank pages to cover the center.
“Man, not even a zombie infestation will leave your desk a mess, huh?” America had joked once, after delivering a captured zombie to the facility’s laboratory.
Germany doesn’t care. He doesn’t want a cluttered office any more than he wants to face his reflection in the shiny stainless steel. A chronic lack of sleep has left his skin pallid and the bags under his eyes dark and heavy.
The research center, which was creatively renamed Hamburg Research Center because of its location and not because of the subject it studied - no matter how often America swore he heard Germany call it a Hamburger four shun something - isn’t in any danger of winning an interior design award either. Its structure is massive and robust, built for utility over beauty and burdened by sheltering the ever growing number of survivors they find in the region.
Germany fares no better himself. He no longer needs to see himself in the mirror to know he looks like he’s had too many beers the night before - even if England maintains there’s no such thing. The lack of rest makes him look sickly, like the life’s been leached from his body and land. Like he’s been infected.
A possibility that used to gnaw at him, haunting his thoughts and supplying him with endless dreams of friends and family rotting away. Even when a run-in with a zombie revealed him to be immune. Even when tests showed Japan, Prussia, Hungary, all of them to be immune and they began to hope it might be a nation thing.
“Death and dissolution just can’t keep a good nation down,” Prussia had said. Why should this? Their confidence peaked after they discovered that biting Russia only killed the zombies themselves.
But then a zombie had scratched Italy during a supply run. While Italy insisted there was no need to worry between sniffles, that all their friends had turned out fine, Germany rushed him back to the center’s infirmary.
He had been right to worry.
For three hours straight, he’d ordered Italy not to give up and to fight the infection with a voice less steady than he’d hoped, but it didn’t help. The fever burned through Italy, turning his body into a furnace. When he brushed a pluck of sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, Germany could feel the heat even through his glove. All he could do was stay by Italy’s side, swallowing down his frustration and uselessness. His throat felt so constricted that he wanted to yell himself hoarse.
After nine more hours, Italy went quiet, and Germany went quiet with him.
In the morning, he’d been more difficult to wake than usual, even with the promise of pasta. When he finally did open his eyes, they had dulled to the same pale grey of his skin. Denying reality any longer would be a waste of time. The telltale dark, bruise-like blotches had already appeared and disappeared all over his body.
Following the regulations for infected humans, he muzzled Italy - an idea that had previously also supplied him with several dreams, but none he would ever admit to - and locked him in one of the laboratory’s empty holding cells. Though certain nations took longer to convince than others, everybody had agreed they shouldn’t kill zombies if they could avoid it. They might find a cure, after all.
Hours later, Germany woke up from an involuntary nap at his desk to find a dozen researchers crowded around Italy, poking and prodding him until he cried. The first case of a zombified nation intrigued scientists more than it frightened them. It must’ve helped that even as a zombie, Italy was cowering in the corner.
Germany chased away any nation or human that was a little too curious and ruled that harming Italy in any way was out of the question. He kept Italy in his sights as much as possible, letting him roam free in the lab whenever they were alone.
All measures that kept Italy from crying, though they wouldn’t keep him alive. Or, more accurately, in his current state.
Regular food couldn’t sustain the zombified humans. He’d tried potatoes, a variety of animal meat, fruits, vegetables, and even beer in a moment of desperation, but all experiments failed. The zombies still wasted away to a mere skeleton. Only donations of human blood postponed the inevitable, but humans were too greatly outnumbered for that to be a feasible solution.
The onset of decomposition took longer with a nation, but after five days, Italy’s flesh had clearly thinned out. Time healed nothing. Three weeks later found Italy emaciated and listlessly chewing on the iron bars of his cell. With the feeling of losing Italy for the first time fresh in mind, Germany marched into his cell and rolled up his sleeve with a determination he hadn’t felt in a month. He had to force Italy’s mouth open and sink his teeth into the meat of his own forearm before Italy’s jaw started working.
Germany closed his eyes as Italy’s teeth tore and ripped strips of flesh from his arm, wondering for a brief moment if he would’ve done the same if he hadn’t known he was immune.
Since there was no way to know for certain, Germany decided it was pointless to focus on the past and focused on the present instead.
One that included a zombified Italy tearing three large chunks of meat from the side of his forearm. He’d tried to pry Italy away after two chunks, but Italy clung to his arm and wailed so loudly that the only things to calm him down were another bite for dessert and a pat on the head. Next time he’d be more strict, Germany vowed.
And he was, but not just because of the innuendos that followed about stuffing German meat down Italy’s throat. Italy was already terrible when it came to discipline while he was alive. Germany didn’t intend to give zombie Italy any more leeway.
Thrice a day he repeated the process, feeding Italy until both his arms were littered with ridges of scarred flesh and teeth impressions. Quite the easy way to track whether or not Italy had lost a tooth, at least.
He studied Italy throughout his recovery, writing down a detailed account of events. It yielded enough data to calculate the exact amount of flesh needed to keep Italy docile but undead, and the hours it took for his body to regenerate missing flesh.
His worries have only piled up since then. One by one, they had to move the captured undead to the building’s basement. The cells are so overcrowded with decaying zombies that the stench of rotting flesh is impossible to mask otherwise, and the time it takes to clean up after queasy scientists and guards is time they could’ve spent researching or resting.
Ignoring the way Italy’s clinging to his back, Germany frowns at the computer screen in front of him, dismayed with the numbers it predicts. If the amount of rescued survivors continues to grow at the current rate, the food supply will run scarce.
Italy groans out a weak noise that Germany would almost describe as sympathetic, if not for the teeth suddenly nibbling at his neck. Clearly Italy is less concerned with the amount of oatmeal the facility has in reserve and more with staving off his own hunger.
Germany wraps his hands around bony wrists and frees himself from Italy’s grasp, careful so as to avoid loss of limb. Though he carries needle and thread with him everywhere, sewing body parts back on is not a pleasant experience for either of them. Italy bawls as loud as ever and only drags the process out by refusing to sit still.
He swivels his chair around and folds his arms across his chest, glaring at Italy. Even without the laboratory’s fluorescent lighting, Germany knows that his skin is still dappled with the weird blotches that mark every zombie.
To this day, Germany doesn’t know the cause of the discolorations, but he’s ruled out dirt or filth. Every morning he wakes Italy from his cell, leading him to his private bathroom to shower or bathe him. He had dreamt plenty of that as well, but - again - under different circumstances.
“Stop trying to get a snack, Italy! You know it’s not time yet.”
The chunks in his arm haven’t fully healed since Italy had lunch. Which is not much of a problem for Italy if he chooses to dine on his neck, but Germany’s done the math and knows the consequences. His combined injuries will require him to stop working and head back to his room, lest he faint at his desk with a zombie loose in the laboratory. Italy’s docile enough to classify as a low-risk zombie, but Germany doesn’t want to risk waking up to find that Italy ate his arm. Or worse, his paperwork.
Italy’s shoulders droop and he gurgles sadly, but Germany doesn’t relent. “I won’t pick up your haircurl for you when it falls off.”
For a handful of seconds Italy cocks his head and blinks, before his eyes widen and he seems to realize it’s a threat. Only when Italy shuffles to the office chair next to him does Germany turn around.
His eyelids feel as heavy as lead, and it’s a struggle to keep them open to compare the data his boss faxed over. But he must make sure the numbers match if they’re going to base their survival off of these equations.
The quiet lasts for all of ten seconds before the sound of a rumbling stomach breaks his concentration. There’s a quiet pause before Italy clutches at the remains of his stomach and gurgles needily.
With a heavy sigh, Germany saves his file and shuts off the computer. He can’t leave Italy alone, but he knows from experience that he can’t work with a hungry Italy at his side, either.
"Very well, then. Stay close to me."
He muzzles and handcuffs Italy, escorting him through the research center’s long corridors to his room for an early dinner. And maybe he can get enough sleep for once, too.