Night of the Living Abed 3/3
Title: Night of the Living Abed 3/3
Fandom: Community
Author: buffyaddict13
Pairing: Gen, ensemble, with cameo appearances by characters from other fandoms (Spencer Reid, River Tam, George Luz, Ray Person).
Rating: PG-13 for language
Length: ~17,000 total
Summary: Abed discovers the reason he's always been different. Plus: fish stick jenga, inappropriate Pierceness, zombiehood, and giant cookies!
Timing/Spoilers: This takes place a few months after Abed's Uncontrollable Christmas. Spoilers for all eps up to, and including, 2x11.
Disclaimer: I own nothing but an endless love for Community...and Dan Harmon's brain.
Author's Notes: I've written in the Supernatural, Criminal Minds, Band of Brothers, and Generation Kill fandoms, but this is my first Community fic. I hope you're not too disappointed. Thank you to entwinedangels and rain_1975 for the beta. You're both streets ahead!
Warnings: Off screen minor character death, weird (2nd person) pov, and eleventy billion pop culture references. This fic is a standalone story, but it also works as a kind of sequel to my multi-fandom fic Wonderland. You can read Wonderland here, if you so wish. P.S. I love Abed Nadir more than air.
Posted to: my fic journal. If people don't hate the crap out of this, I might post on a Community comm.
When you wake up the next morning, there's hair on your pillow. At this rate you're going to look like Dean Pelton by the end of the week. You sit on the edge of your bed and stretch. Something snaps above your shoulder blade. You imagine a cartoon window shade rolling up, spinning round and round. That's about all the complex thought you can muster. You feel lethargic. Tired. It takes you almost five minutes to remember Chandler and Joey's TV Guide subscription was addressed to Miss Chenandler Bong. That's a sure sign your brain is shutting down.
You stumble down to the kitchen with the others. William and Adam ignore you, but River takes your arm again. You're glad, actually. You might fall without her support.
Simon surprises you with a container of strawberry yogurt. You eat it slowly, methodically. You can't even taste it. You have that floating feeling again, like you're more balloon than boy. Not that you're a boy. You're a man now. Your mother made that clear.
You're in the recliner in the day room when Spencer comes to get you. George covered you with a blanket earlier, and it's hard to keep your eyes open. Today you're wearing both sweaters and you're still cold. You'd rather stay in your blankety cocoon than go with Doctor Reid, but the man is persistent.
"This won't take long," Spencer says. "I promise. I just want to show you something."
It takes a while to extricate yourself from the chair. When you finally do, Spencer guides you to one of the windows. He gestures to the male nurse below. He's leaning against a tree, arms folded, cigarette dangling from one corner of his mouth. The nurse is watching a boy with curly brown hair plant marigolds in a flower bed. There's a young man next to the boy, and you stare in shock as he casually picks up a handful of wood chips and stuffs them into his mouth. The nurse stalks over to the younger man and swats his arm.
You can't hear what the nurse is saying, but from his expression you get the gist. Eventually the young man spits his mouthful of mulch back onto the ground, but not before he lifts his middle finger and waves it in the nurse's face. The nurse flips the bird right back at his patient.
You didn't mean to be interested in what Spencer wanted to show you, but you are.
"That's a unique form of therapy," you say mildly.
Spencer chuckles. "Tate's a pretty unique guy." He taps against the glass with one thin finger. "You see the nurse down there?"
"Yes."
"His name is Ray. He was attacked by a patient last year. He was stabbed."
Spencer doesn't put any special emphasis on the last word, but you can tell from the way his Adam's apple bobs, it's hard for him to say.
You study Ray carefully. He has an easy smile. His hair sticks up almost as much as Spencer's. You can make out the outline of a pack of cigarettes beneath his scrub top. He talks a lot, makes jokes with Tate and the curly-haired boy, his anger at Tate's snack choice forgotten. When he walks over to inspect the freshly-planted flowers, you notice he has a faint limp.
"Ray died on the operating table," Spencer informs you. He speaks so softly you have to step closer to catch the words. "Does he look like a zombie to you?"
You switch your gaze from Ray to the trees. You watch the leaves rustle in the wind.
Spencer asks again. "Does he?"
"I don't know." It's an honest answer.
"Ray was revived, just like you. He lived. He healed. He is alive. And," Spencer adds, "he is my friend."
From the corner of your eye, you can see River pull Adam out of the day room so you and Spencer have privacy. You wish she'd come back.
"I'd like to be your friend too, Abed," Spencer says, one hand fluttering near your arm, but not actually touching you. Spencer's hand looks like a butterfly. If Troy had his robot arm, he could catch it.
"I have friends," you say stiffly, hoping he picks up on the part left unsaid: I don't need you.
"I know you have friends. Good friends. But...I think it might be hard to tell them what's bothering you."
You roll your eyes. "But it won't be hard to tell you, is that it?"
"I don't know," Spencer says simply, mirroring your earlier answer. He sounds just as honest.
You feel light-headed so you drag yourself back to the chair.
Spencer sits on the low table in front of the couch. He's facing you. "Listen to me, Abed. You have to stop starving yourself. You're a naturally thin person. If you keep this up, we're going to have to feed you intravenously."
"Would you rather I ate people? I thought that was frowned upon."
"You're not a zombie," Spencer says.
You stop listening.
"This isn't 28 Days or Zombieland, Abed."
You start listening again, because those are awesome movies. Dead and Breakfast is good too. Not to mention the whole George Romero oeuvre.
"You know your movies," you say. You try hard not to sound impressed.
Spencer nods. "I do."
"Do you watch The Walking Dead?"
"No, but I read the graphic novels." He clasps his hands around one knee, leans toward you. "Can I ask why you want to be a zombie, Abed?"
That's a stupid question. "I don't want to be. It's just obvious that's what I am."
"I understand it's obvious to you, but it it isn't to me. What am I missing?"
You roll your eyes. "Zombies never fit in. They scare and confuse people. No one understands them. Zombies don't understand emotions. Then again, emotions have never made much sense to me. It's better--" you stop abruptly.
"Not to have any?" Spencer finishes gently. He lets go of his knee and rubs the back of his neck absently. "Your...episode at Christmas was caused when your mother left you. I understand she left you physically several years ago, but now she did something worse. She left you emotionally."
You don't want to let on that his words bother you. You don't want to admit part of you feels betrayed that Annie told this man about you. You want to walk out on him the way you did yesterday, but you're not sure you'd get very far.
"And now your father left," Spencer says. His voice is very soft. Sort of whispery. He sounds very kind. You find yourself itching to tell the doctor his tie and vest don't match, that he missed a patch of whiskers on his chin while shaving, and he should consider investing in shampoo for oily hair.
"He didn't leave me," you say. The words are hard to get out. Your throat is too small.
"But he's not coming back," Spencer tells you. "And that's a big loss to deal with." He rubs his hands together. "I just think, if I were you, I'd do anything to trade places with my father. That I'd do anything to get him back. Or, if I couldn't get him back, I'd figure out how to be with him. I'd want to know how I could die." Spencer looks at you with his shadowy eyes. "You're not dead, Abed. You want to be, but you're not. You're depressed. You're guilty."
You shake your head. This man doesn't know you. You are not a delusional Hawkeye Pierce; you didn't see a woman smother her baby and call it a chicken. You're Radar O'Reilly. You sleep with a teddy bear and drink Grape Nehi. You're Radar, Jeff said. Only...Radar lived. He went home. So maybe you're really Colonel Blake.
"Is it possible you have a hard time identifying with people, so you decided it's easier to not even try, to just give up? I think you told yourself you don't have to try because you're dead. But you're not, Abed. I'm not lying to you."
You purse your lips and stare at the ceiling.
"I want to help you," Spencer says.
You wonder if he'll ever stop talking.
You don't say anything.
"It's not your fault," Spencer tells you. "It's not your fault your father died."
And you don't mean to cry, you don't want to cry, you never cry, that's Troy's thing. But the tears are hot on your face and your eyes burn like you've been shot with pepper water. Your throat aches and your chest is too tight.
"But it is," you say. And here, just like Lost's season three finale, is the big reveal.
* * *
"I was supposed to be with him," you say.
You wipe your eyes, take a deep breath. You are calm. You are Jack Bauer, minus the head in a bag. You are FBI Agent Dale Cooper. You are Oz before Willow chooses Tara. You don't know where to look. You certainly can't look at Spencer. You might be calm, but you're still ashamed. You focus on the scuffed carpet.
"He asked me to close the restaurant for him. But I--I told him I was busy. And I was. Troy and I had plans to dress up as Crow and Tom Servo and make fun of Keanu Reeve's terrible remake of The Day the Earth Stood Still. I said I'd help him the next night. I even offered to work over the weekend. I picked Keanu Reeves, a man with the acting skills of a tree stump, over my father." You bow your head, feel fresh tears. "I should have been there. I should have died instead of him. Or--at the very least--with him." You shake your head in disgust. "He died alone because of me." You can't even tell him you're sorry.
"Abed, your father didn't die because you chose to watch a movie. I promise you that. He died because of a faulty valve. It had nothing to do with you. He wouldn't want you to die, Abed. He would want you to live a long and happy life, not give your life up out of guilt."
You ignore Spencer's weak attempt to make you feel better.
"If this were the movies," you tell him, sniffing, "I'd have learned a valuable lesson. I would have realized how much Fadel Nadir loved me even though he said I was weird. My mom would have come to the funeral and told me she missed me. She'd have told me that even though I'm an adult, she'll always want me in her life. But none of those things happened. The only thing I know is, I feel more dead than alive, so why shouldn't I be a zombie? My father didn't understand me, and my mom doesn't want me," your tone is matter-of-fact. You're trying to stay calm, but only your voice seems to have the hang of it. You feel physically ill, which is disappointing. If you are a zombie (and you are, you are), you're obviously at the remedial level. You even need a study group for zombiedom.
You want a blueprint, a map, a script for how to be. How to feel. But there is none, there is no movie, no television show you can draw upon. You are lost, adrift. You're going to float away into nothingness. You grip the arms of your chair tightly, in case gravity reverses on top of everything else.
You're done talking. You've already said too much. But even as you decide to keep quiet, words are coming out of your mouth. You can't be mad at Annie for talking about you when you're guilty of the same betrayal.
"I just thought...if I was dead, everything finally made sense. It explained why I was so different from everyone else, why I can't connect to anyone. Why I'd rather spend time inside my head than out of it. I thought---if I said I was dead enough times, it would eventually come true."
* * *
You spend the next day in bed. George tries to cajole you out of your room. Simon threatens. Spencer sits in the corner, waiting for you to say something, but you're all talked out. When he tells you to stop punishing yourself, you just pull the blankets over your head.
Eventually the blankets shift and River crawls in beside you. She pulls them over her head as well. You stare at each other for a while, silent.
Finally, River whispers a question. "Are you hiding?"
"Yes." But you're not doing a very good job.
"I used to hide in my room," she says softly. "I wanted to hide from everyone. Even myself." She reaches out and gently pokes the blanket stretched above you. "Have you ever made a blanket fort? Simon and I used to make them all the time when we were little." Her eyebrows knit. "Back when hiding was fun instead of...necessary."
You press your face into your pillow. You miss Troy.
"Come on," River says, prodding you in the ribs. "You have to get up."
"Why?" Your voice is muffled.
River huffs in annoyance. "Because we need the blankets."
You turn to look at her. "What for?"
"Because," she says, in a tone indicating you are a complete and utter moron, "we're going to make a big ass fort."
* * *
Adam helps. So does George. You get the feeling building blanket forts in the day room is against nurse protocol, but George just makes a whatever face when you point that out.
"Listen pal," George says, "fun is never against protocol."
You're starting to feel a little better until you stand too quickly. The room spins and suddenly you're on your back looking up at River's concerned face. Simon and George are instantly at your side. They take you back to your room, deposit you into bed. Simon checks your blood pressure, George takes blood. You feel like you're stuck in a repeat of your own life. Zombhog Day.
Spencer shows up a few minutes later, looking harried.
"I was wrong," he says. "Apparently you are a zombie."
You blink. "What?"
"Your body is starting to consume itself," he says bluntly. "When you deprive your body of food, it uses your fat and muscle for nutrients. Without that fat and muscle, your body breaks down and you end up feeling extremely tired, sluggish, and drained." Spencer lifts his eyebrows. "If that doesn't sound like the walking dead, I don't know what does.
"I'm not asking you to eat a three-course meal, Abed. Just something more than a cup of yogurt. Maybe some soup. Some macaroni and cheese. Something.."
You study your hands. It might be your imagination, but your skin looks slightly less decayed. You can't see the bones in your wrist as well either.
"Are you still missing fingers?" Spencer asks.
"Yes."
"Abed, I think it frustrates you that you can't control your emotions. I think it's easier for you to see yourself as literally falling apart, than to deal with your actual feelings."
"I think you talk a lot."
Spencer laughs. "Thank you for noticing. It's kind of my job. But you're not alone in wanting to ignore your emotions. Most people don't want to deal with them. Emotions are messy. They're hard. It can take practice to feel them, to even recognize what you're feeling."
"I'd rather watch television and see other peoples' emotions." They're usually more interesting. And sometimes there are theme songs.
"Do you know what an ElectroLarynx is?"
The question is so unexpected you sit up. You think a moment. "A voice box. For people who've had their vocal chords removed."
Spencer nods. "That's right, exactly. Some people need a machine to communicate. You just happen to use a TV instead of an ElectroLarynx. You don't know how to express your own emotions, so you borrow from fictional characters. You've been speaking through television, Abed. I would like to help you learn how to communicate all on your own."
Everything Doctor Reid's telling you is true. You're not sure you can change the way you communicate. You're not sure you want to. But you do want to go home. So maybe it's time you tried. Buffy would.
* * *
"Abed!"
Annie, Troy and Jeff are all smiles as they hurry over.
It's Saturday. Visiting day. The whole group wanted to come, but Doctor Reid said three visitors were enough for now.
Jeff is wearing his bad ass billiards-playing leather jacket, and, incongruously, a Buster Keaton porkpie hat.
"Britta made everybody watch Benny and Joon," Jeff explains, somewhat sheepish.
You stare at the hat. "Are you saying you're the Johnny Depp character?"
Jeff nods. "Yes."
"And I'm Mary Stuart Masterson, who portrays someone with a homogenized and vaguely comedic version of a mental illness?"
"Yes."
You smile. "Thank you." Mary Stuart Masterson was amazing in Fried Green Tomatoes. "So are you here to break me out of the hospital?"
"Totally," Troy says.
"Not yet," Annie says.
"I'd say this is more of a visit," Jeff admits, removing the hat and gently setting it on your head.
You consider this. "Okay, but would you walk 500 miles to fall down at my door?"
"No," Jeff says with a faint smile, "but I'd drive 45 minutes in weekend traffic, trapped in a car with these two." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Troy and Annie.
"Fair enough."
They join you at the table. "Pierce offered to come, but frankly, we weren't sure they'd let him leave once the doctors got a look at him," Troy says.
"I love you, Abed," Annie says abruptly, surprising you. You know she doesn't love you love you, but that's okay. Annie is still the more competent, slightly less whiny Dawn to your Buffy. It's not like you have to rescue her every week. Which is good, since you're stuck in here.
She reaches for your hand. "I just want you to be okay."
"I know. I'm trying to be."
"Dude, look," Troy says. He points to his t-shirt. It's decorated with a screen print of the Fist Jumper picture you sent him. He grins. "Whut, whut?"
You give him a thumb's up. Cool cool cool. "Nice shirt."
"Dude," Troy says desperately. "You have got to come back to school. Everyone else is boring." He looks from Annie to Jeff. "No offense."
"None taken," Jeff says.
Annie releases your hand and you adjust the hat. Now you kind of wish you had a cane. And a jaunty mustache.
Troy grimaces. "Did you notice how rough Annie's hands are? They're like sandpaper. She has sandpaper lumberjack hands." He looks at Annie, his expression half disappointment, half reprimand. "Your hands aren't half as soft as Abed's."
Annie squeaks out a horrified what, then glares at Troy. She grabs Jeff's hand. "Do this feel like a lumberjack to you?" she demands.
You look at your own hands. You're not sure how soft they are at the moment, but most of the bruises and discoloration are gone. You even have all of your fingers, which: weird. But you're not going to complain.
"Hey, no, definitely not a lumberjack," Jeff mutters, pulling away from Annie. He stands, grinning manically. "Anybody want some coffee?" He points to the carafe and tray of cookies on the counter. "I want coffee."
"Nah. Help yourself."
Jeff's smile unclenches and he gives you a very dad-like look. "Abed."
Oh right. You're supposed to eat. "Can you bring me a cookie?"
"I would be delighted," Jeff says, "to bring you two."
You lean toward Troy. "I asked George to make you Special Drink."
"Right on!" Troy says gleefully, pumping his fist. He and Jeff head for the counter.
That leaves just you and Annie. "You don't want anything?"
She shakes her head. "No thank you." She folds her hands primly in her lap. "Abed, can I tell you something?"
"Sure." Annie's hands don't look lumberjacky to you either. Troy's just spoiled by your Burt's Bee's hand salve.
"Can we keep this between us?"
"Of course."
"Okay. I, um, well." She takes a deep breath, starts over. "I had a really hard time when I went to Rehab. For a little while--not for very long--but for the first few days I was really depressed over what I'd done with my life. And I kind of wanted to die. I thought about killing myself, but I chickened out because I just couldn't stand leaving a big mess for someone to clean up, you know?" There are tears in her eyes. "I'm really glad I didn't go through with it, because then I'd never have had the chance to go to Greendale. And I never would have met you."
"I'm not trying to kill myself," you tell her, and then amend, "much."
She wipes her eyes and laughs hoarsely. She punches your shoulder, but not hard. "Don't try at all, you big goof. Who would I watch Indiana Jones movies with, if you weren't around?"
You nod sagely. "Good point."
She leans forward and hugs you.
You hug her back tightly. A world without Annie is not a world you're interested in visiting. You look over her shoulder and see Jeff inspecting his reflection in the metal carafe. He runs his hand surreptitiously though his hair so it looks just the right amount of tousled.
"Are you mad at me?"
You pull back and look at Annie, surprised. "What? Why?"
Her eyes slide toward the floor and she bites her lip. "Because I talked to my cousin about you," she says in a small voice.
"I'm not mad," you tell her. You're not going to punish Annie for caring about you.
Annie studies your face. "So are you feeling better? Do you...do you still think you're a zombie?"
"Hmm." You consider the question. "I think I'm closer to Kirsten's downward spiral on Party of Five than to żywy trup."
"I'm sorry," Annie says, "but being depressed is better than being a zombie. And, my gosh, did I ever love that show! Bailey was so cute! Speaking of cute," she says, nodding toward Simon, "who's that?"
"One of the nurses. He's nice. But not as nice as George."
Jeff and Troy return with their drinks and cookies. "I love George," Troy says dreamily. He sips the cold cocoa, sniffs it. "Ah," he breaths in deeply. "It smells like Rudolph nose."
You slap your chest with one hand, Troy's with the other. "Word."
Jeff hands you two cookies. You give one to Annie. You tap your cookies together like wine glasses, and each take a bite.
Jeff stares at his mug in surprise. "Huh. This is actually decent coffee."
"Yeah. Simon adds a pinch of cinnamon to every pot."
Jeff nods in approval. "We should try that."
River walks over, peering from behind her dark curtain of hair. She balances a plastic tray of tiny teacups easily on one hand.
"Guys, this is my friend River. River, these are my friends Jeff, Annie, and Troy."
River smiles shyly and offers a heart-shaped cup to each of you.
"Thank you," Annie says brightly, taking a cup.
You take a cup and drink delicately, your regrown pinky raised. You nod appreciatively at River. "Good call. Earl Gray is my favorite."
"No thank you," Troy says politely, "I have Special Drink."
Jeff takes a cup, frowns into it uncertainly. He looks up at River. "There's nothing in here."
"Doy," River says loudly, blowing the hair out of her face. "Of course there's not, you boob. Like I'm going to risk you guys spilling all over the place."
Annie whispers angrily at Jeff, "Haven't you ever had a tea party?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Jeff says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "I didn't realize I magically turned into a little girl. I guess I need a refresher course in crazy pretend-time invisible tea party etiquette!"
River narrows her eyes at Jeff in a way that makes you nervous. "Uh, why don't we watch a movie," you suggest, trying to diffuse the tension.
Troy pulls a DVD case from his jacket pocket and holds it up proudly. "I brought Marmaduke."
Sweet.
* * *
The sun shines on your face. For the first time in a long while, you're not tired. Your stomach doesn't hurt. You're only wearing one hoodie, but you're not cold.
You're sitting on a bench outside. Simon is walking one of the paths with William. Adam is lying on the ground, hands behind his head, looking up at the clouds. River is running lazy figure-eights, blowing bubbles from a pink bottle.
George and his friend Ray are smoking a few feet away. Ray squints at you, walks over. He sits beside you.
"I heard you died," he says.
"I heard you died."
He looks at you from the corner of his eye, exhales a lungful of smoke. "Just so you know, I'm not a zombie."
You shrug, watch one of River's bubbles float toward the tree tops. "I guess I'm not either."
Ray snorts derisively. "And thank Christ for that. Can you imagine how hard it would be to get chicks? I like to eat pussy, but fuck, man. Not literally."
You can actually feel your face radiate heat as you blush. Now you know what would happen if you really did look at the Ark of the Covenant.
You sit in silence, waiting for your core temperature to drop back toward normal. River is still blowing bubbles. She twirls, laughing, and her skirt flies out revealing striped leggings.
You start tapping your knee. You have all your fingers, you might as well use them. Before you know it, you're beatboxing.
Ray lifts his eyebrows, nods in approval. He flicks his cigarette butt to the ground.
You hadn't planned to start rapping, but the rhythm feels good and the words start flowing.
"I'm a crazy nutjob, got toys up in my attic."
Ray aims a thumb at you. "He's thinner than a broomstick, brain all full of static."
You grin, think fast. "I got zombie skillz, like I'm numb to the bone."
River caps the bubbles, drops the bottle to the ground. She moves closer, dancing, moving her arms just the way you showed her.
Adam sits up on his elbows, laughing.
Ray shrugs. "He's like ET and just wants to go home."
You point to George. "Let me outta here quick, one, two, three--stat!"
Ray salutes you. "Good riddance kid, don't you fuckin' come back."
You burst into laughter, Ray chuckles.
George claps slowly. "Very nice." He gives Ray a look. "Don't ever make me listen to you rap again. I mean it."
Simon stares at River's wild dance. "What in the world are you doing?"
River grins at you, crooks a finger.
You get up and join her, beatboxing a new rhythm.
"Isn't it obvious?" she asks. "We're krumping."
* * *
Troy's waiting at the front entrance. He's not holding a boom box, but that's okay.
He slaps your shoulder. "Welcome back!"
"Thanks."
Troy lowers his voice. "Look man, I gotta warn you. We're having a welcome back party thing." He steps back, studies your face. "Are you okay with that?"
You think about it. "I'm okay." You reconsider and waggle your hand back and forth. "Ish."
"It's whatever you want to do, Abed. I'm with you."
You glance down the familiar hallway. You can imagine everyone waiting in the study room. "No, it's okay. Let's go."
Dean Pelton walks past you. Stops. Backtracks.
He wags a finger at you. "I'm perfectly fine with taking a bite out of crime, Abed, but I do notwant you taking a bite out of any of my students. Because that is a crime. Do you understand?"
"I understand," you say.
Troy glares at the Dean and snaps his teeth together a few times. Troy looks more like a berserk ventriloquist dummy than a zombie, but it's a nice gesture of solidarity all the same.
The Dean shrieks and scurries away.
Troy grins at you. You grin back. Together, you head for the study room.
Everyone is gathered in front of the table except for Pierce. Jeff steps out of the way to reveal a giant, red Jello brain on a silver tray.
"I'm sorry," Britta says, clearly disgusted with Jeff. "I told him it was a terrible idea."
You shake your head. "Don't worry. I like it." After macaroni and Lucky Charms, Jello is easily your third favorite.
Jeff grins. "Nothing says 'we missed you' like a brain-shaped Jello mold." He points to your chair. "Can you sit, Abed? We have sort of a presentation."
You sit.
Annie clears her throat. She glances from face to face, then nods, like she's about to give a report. "I wanted to get you a welcome back gift," she says, twirling a strand of hair around her finger nervously. "And when I told Shirley, she wanted to do something too. So we all decided we'd get you a little something." She pulls a gift wrapped package from her backpack. "Welcome back, Abed."
You reach for the present, a little hesitant. You weren't expecting gifts. You pull off the paper carefully. Inside is a journal. The cover reads My Favorite Movies in a font that looks like movie tickets. Attached to the journal with a ribbon is one of Annie's infamous purple pens. The pen has been inscribed with the words I love you, Abed. You hold the journal in one hand, the pen in the other, speechless.
She smiles. "I thought maybe it would be fun to write down your favorite movies. Like, maybe it would cheer you up, give you something to do, when you're feeling down."
Shirley pulls up her sleeve to reveal the bracelet she's wearing. It bears the initials WWAD. "See this bracelet, Abed? It stands for 'What Would Abed Do'. Now, I love Jesus," Shirley says, "but He's not the only one who can teach me to be a better person. You teach me how to be better every day, Abed. And this bracelet reminds me of that."
"You make all of us better," Britta says, and there are nods all around the table.
Troy lifts something off his chair, sets a large box in front of you. The logo Mrs. Fields provides a pretty good indication of what's inside. When you left the lid, there's a giant cookie with a dotted line of frosting down the middle. One half of the cookie reads Troy, the other half reads Abed.
"I have learned from first-hand experience that a giant cookie is too much for one person, but half a giant cookie is just right. There's no one else I'd rather share half a giant cookie with." Troy smiles. "Together, we make one awesome friendship."
You nod emphatically. "We do." You're still holding the pen Annie gave you. "Guys, I don't know what--"
Jeff holds up a hand. "Uh-uh. We're not done yet. Britta?"
Britta grins and bends down to pull a long package from beneath the table. It's bulky and tall, you have no idea what it could be. A large umbrella? Jeff helps her stand it in front of you. Tentatively, you pull at the ribbon that holds the wrapping paper in place.
"It's for your dorm room," Britta explains, clearly excited.
You stare.
It's a coat rack.
It's old fashioned, sturdy, made of oak. It looks kind of Art Deco. It looks like something you'd throw a fedora on. Or a purple boa. Or a bicycle helmet and goggles.
"I know Britta and I treated you like one of these once, and we're sorry. We have since learned to tell the difference between you and a coat rack."
Britta nods. "Definitely. We'll never treat you like one again, no matter how much we drink."
Jeff slings an arm around the coat rack. "Want to watch a movie this weekend?" He glances from the coat rack to you, does an exaggerated double take. "Oops, my bad."
Britta shoves Jeff, but you laugh.
"Just kidding," Jeff says.
"That's okay," you say, and hold out your arms. "You can hang your leather jacket right here."
Everyone laughs when Jeff backs away, shaking his head vehemently.
The laughter is good. It gives you a chance to think. Your brain works furiously to come up with an appropriate response to your friends' kindness. To their generosity. You should be Chandler and make a self-deprecating joke. You should say something nonsensical but funny, like Tracy Jordan. You should cry like Jack on Lost. You should break into a rousing rendition of 'Danke Schoen' like Ferris Beuller. You put a hand to your head and take a deep breath. You have all your fingers and a full head of hair. You are loved. You are not dead. You can communicate without television or movies. You can. It's just difficult--and occasionally terrifying. Even more terrifying than being a zombie.
You clear your throat, but the words still come out wobbly. "Thank you."
You turn to Troy. "I love being half a cookie with you."
Troy envelopes you in a bear hug. You hug him back. He smells like Orange Crush, Sharpies, and popcorn. He smells like friendship.
You're still hugging Troy when the rest of the group joins in.
"Abed, I'm so glad you're back," Britta whispers in your ear.
You look at the bracelet around Shirley's wrist and put your hand on hers. "Thank you for what you said," you say, and kiss the top of her head.
"Oh my god!" Pierce shrieks from the doorway. "Abed's trying to eat Shirley's brain! Get him! No, Abed--go for the lesbian!" He grabs the coat rack and wields it like an oversized baseball bat.
Jeff extricates himself from the group hug and blocks Pierce. "Abed's not eating Shirley's brain, Pierce. Calm down."
"For the last time," Britta says, rolling her eyes further than you thought possible, "I'm not a lesbian."
Pierce shrugs. "Don't hide your true self, Britta, or you'll end up like Abed here." He sets the coat rack down, adjusts his glasses. "As long as you're not trying to eat Shirley's brain, I'm glad they sprung you from the loony bin." He hands you a pack of handi-wipes. "Feast your eyes on these. Gen-u-wine Hawthorne Moist Towlettes. I found them in the back of a guest room closet. You're welcome." Pierce lowers his voice. "This way, if you do go completely psycho and eat someone's face, you can just wipe off the evidence like so much barbecue sauce." Peirce leans closer. "I bet they're good for wiping fingerprints from homemade bombs, too."
Britta gives Pierce a withering look. "Wow. That's beautiful."
Pierce beams, oblivious. "Isn't it? Sometimes I surprise myself."
You look from the pack of wipes to Pierce's smiling face. "Thank you," you say. Pierce might be a doddering, misanthropic racist, but under the bluster, under the mispronunciation of your name, you know he cares. He's here, after all.
"Hey man, this cookie is awesome," Troy says. "Anybody else want some? I'll share, but only for a limited time." He glances at his watch. "You have 30 seconds starting...now."
You point to your half of the cookie. "Help yourself, you guys."
You return to your usual chair and watch the others break off pieces from your giant cookie of friendship. Your face hurts from smiling.
Annie hugs you from behind. "Don't ever leave us again," she says into the side of your head.
You look up at her, lift an eyebrow.
"Or what?"
She smiles innocently. "I've still got your bottle of chloroform, you know."
You both laugh, but you get the feeling she's not entirely joking. That's okay.
"All right everybody," Jeff calls, holding a giant spoon above the Jello. "It's time for cherry-flavored brains. Who wants the first bite?" Everyone turns to look at you.
"Don't worry," Britta says. "If this is too gross, you can just dump the whole thing on Jeff's head. As a supportive friend, I'd be happy to help."
Jeff elbows Britta. "Nobody asked for your input." He looks at you expectantly. "What do you say, Abed?"
You look at your friends. You look from the pen to Shirley's bracelet to the coat rack to the cookie crumbs on the table. You can't always understand your friends' emotions or responses, but you can feel how much they love you. Your mom moved on and your dad is gone, but you're not alone. For the first time since the police called about your father, there's a flicker of something in your chest. It's not hope. It's not even happiness. It's just...life. You feel alive. You feel.
"I could go for some brains," you say, and mean it.
Night of the Living Abed Music Mix