Hey guys,

This is the first Misfits fanfiction I've written, and as a result its probably pretty amateur :D I'm not all that familiar with the series, so please forgive me if I get some of the details wrong. Anyway, this is set directly after the end of the first series, so SPOILER ALERT. As a warning, there will probably be some Kelly/Nathan in later chapters. If there are later chapters, that is. :D

Disclaimer: I don't own Misfits.

Heavy, thick, dry air that smelt of death. Darkness pressing in on all sides that looked like death. Silence screaming in his ears that sounded like death. And, of course, what could feel more like death than the silk of a brand new coffin, prepared to carry its lifeless corpse into the afterlife or non-afterlife or whatever waited in the 'beyond.' Death was all around him; death lay heavy in his mouth and in his ears and in his hands like a disease that had crawled into his body and taken hold of it. It sniggered at him from the corners of his coffin and brushed his face with ghostly fingers and teased him with the occasional trickle of shifting dirt that could have heralded a rescue, but always turned out to be nothing. Death surrounded him like a curse.

And yet, Nathan lay six feet below the cold ground, surrounded by death and yet somehow alive. And it would have been immortality. It was typical for him to have been stuck with a power that was next to useless, if only to render him recyclable in a sticky situation. It could have been anything - the ability to transport himself from place to place in the blink of an eye, the power to fly faster than god-damn superman, the chance to run faster than any other living thing in existence, hell the ability to render clothing invisible... anything would have been better than this.

Fuck, he thought suddenly, scowling. I'm never going to find out what happens when you get offed. Fuck!

He lashed out with one foot at the lid of the coffin, more out of exasperation than in any real escape attempt. He had contemplated performing a 'Kill Bill' move and simply climbing up through the earth, but after attempting to punch the lid of the coffin had earned himself nothing but bleeding knuckles and had given up. Yes, he had been beaten by an American blonde who apparently could punch through solid wood. Freak. That power would have been handy at this moment...

Without his I-pod - which had mocked him by dying itself after a few hours - the world was terrifyingly dark and silent. He had no idea how long he had been trapped down here for, no idea how much longer it would be before he was rescued... and rescued by who? He had no mobile, no way of communicating to the rest of the world, and no ideas at all. His mind went round and round in helpless circles, always returning to the same cold fact - he was screwed. Totally and completely screwed to hell and back again, quite literally.

He stared at the darkness above him and rubbed his chest absently, wincing. It hurt a lot. He hadn't had a chance to look, but he could feel a definite lump where the post had emerged from his chest. How did this immortality even work? Was he still going to bear scars, or would they all simply vanish? Would the wounds disappear when he came back to life, or just hamper him naturally? He couldn't feel any blood, but the area seared with pain if he pressed down too hard or twisted his chest. Come to think of it, his head was pounding too. And he was hungry. And sweat was clinging to his skin even though it was damn cold, and his hands were clammy, and his lungs were aching again...

Fuck.

He slipped away from himself for the fifth time. When he opened his eyes, he had no idea how much time had passed. The first time he had suffocated inside his coffin, he had been able to estimate by the number of songs that had passed on his I-pod that he had been dead for at least a day. Every time was chilling, and every time he remembered nothing of 'death', or whatever it was he did. Each time he returned to life, he lived for at least five hours before dying again. He had no idea how it worked - perhaps when he died the coffin somehow managed to fill up with air again from tiny holes in the earth or whatever. He didn't really care. He just wanted out.

He swallowed hard. His throat had turned hoarse and painful, only worsening as time crawled by, but shouting was the only plan he had that had half a chance of working. If anyone heard him, if anyone listened... well, it was a pathetic plan. He took a deep breath.

"Hey!" he yelled dryly, his voice grating and thin. "Hey! Get me outta here you dicks! Hey! I'm alive, fucking alive! Get me out! Hey!"

His voice deteriorated further with every passing second, and he could have sworn as he lay there in the blackness that somewhere death was laughing its fucking head off at him.

Simon didn't like to make an occasion of it. He didn't like people seeing him there - if there was anyone else in the graveyard at the same time as himself, he would quickly switch his body into invisible and complete his visit in complete silence to avoid discovery. He didn't come at the same time as Kelly, and if when he arrived she was already there he would lurk in the shadows of the graves around her invisible until she left. It had become a habit, a ritual, and he could no longer put it off. And so, every day, whether in the morning or late at night, he found himself slinking into the graveyard and standing awkwardly beside Nathan's grave until his hands turned numb with the cold, and he could no longer endure the silence.

It was as if he was guilty to be there, crouched on his heels beside the place Nathan had been buried. Like the area had a sign over it reading 'Friends or family only. Visitors who barely knew or liked the deceased are not welcome.' It would surely be less strange to just visit with Kelly, or better yet not visit at all and just go home like everyone else. But the sight of Kelly made his stomach clench. He knew she didn't blame him - she understood, she didn't ever complain that he hadn't tried to do something. He thought she had liked the DVD he had made her; she had smiled at him the next day in a way that could have meant a little more than 'thank you', if you really looked... but he couldn't have those kinds of thoughts about her. Especially not now, with Nathan barely in the ground. Especially not when he had been setting a date in his diary for a corpse in a freezer for the past few days...

He wondered if crazy people ever wondered if they were crazy, or if they just believed they were completely sane. He wasn't sure what he thought.

The ground was damp, and the air was cold. Plumes of smoke roared from his nose as he pushed himself up to his feet, his visit complete for the day. He stared down at Nathan's tombstone for a few moments longer, pushing his hands deep into his pockets. It had all been so very fast, when it had happened. He had just slipped, his fingers had vanished from Simon's grasp, and then he was gone. Scarlet blood on metal, on concrete. Bloodless skin. Strange that those kinds of images didn't bother Simon any more. Considering all that had happened since, he no longer had any reason to feel sick at the sight of death. He shut his eyes for a moment, and then flinched sharply as a muffled cry reached his ears, barely there. He whirled around, flickering invisible at once, certain that he had been caught. He didn't want anyone to see, no one should know... His eyes roved over the motionless grey stone, the shadowed corners of the graveyard. No one. No one was there. So now he was going to start hearing voices. Perfect.

He huffed angrily, shook himself. And he had barely taken a single step away from the grave when the sound came again - like someone standing behind him, shouting through a pillow. He span in a full circle, crying out in surprise, his fists clenching tightly at his sides. He opened his mouth, and then closed it again. The graveyard stared back at him, simple, normal, and completely empty. No stranger emerged from the darkness, no figure was walking towards him along the paths. He was completely alone. And as he stood in the cold air, listening to the strange, mumbled scream come again and again, he came to the realization that it was coming from beneath him. Which was stupid. Which was impossible. And yet... He found himself kneeling, pressing his ear to the grass. Silence. No, there it was again. He could hear it, it was real, whatever 'it' was...

Unless...

He didn't let himself finish the thought. He just stayed hunched over on the ground, ear pressed to the mud, listening, holding his breath. And just as suddenly as they had come, the cries vanished once more. As if they had never been there. As if he had simply imagined the whole damn thing. He rose slowly to his feet, gazing at the grave. At Nathan's grave.

He was late.

He turned his back on the grave and strode away towards the gates, his hands buried in his pockets, his head bent. He didn't let himself look back. And yet, with every step he took, he grew more certain that he had not imaged it, that he truly had heard Nathan screaming at him from somewhere below the ground... He didn't know what to think. So he just kept walking.

He couldn't keep shouting this time. His body wouldn't take it. His head thudded with raw agony every time he lifted his voice above a whisper, his throat ached, his chest seared. The icy cold of the earth was eating into his skin, sending sudden, violent shivers through him that only made him ache even more. He squeezed his eyes shut and prayed for a miracle, then screamed and swore, and then just lay still. He could hear himself hyperventilating again. Maybe if he died enough times he would eventually just stay dead... he clawed a clammy hand through his curly hair, struggling to find his way to a single clear thought.

One thing was very obvious. He was steadily feeling worse and worse. He could not go on like this, couldn't endure this kind of hell for much longer. He could tell that something was wrong with him, whether it was the hard, painful lump in his chest or the throb in his head or the shivery, icy skin clinging to him. He could no longer tell if his eyes were open or closed.

"Shit," he breathed, his own voice unrecognisable to his ears. "Shit. Kelly. Shit."

This was shorter than usual, hope you enjoyed it anyway. Reviews are welcome. Not sure whether to continue with this or not.

Thanks for reading.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.