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ded-and-gonne · 1 year

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by @firstpersonnarrator || Header gif by the divine @salvador-daley || possession prompt by anon

Part 4: Somebody’s in the garden

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TW: main character injury; possession; two not-brothers flirting; my absurdist sense of humor heavily featuring a not-so-bright, omniscient-first-person narrator; a hazy grasp of Pilgrim-speak; bad gardeners; mimes.

AN: The night before Halloween is Devil’s Night, when the veil between the living and the dead is at its 2nd thinnest. After Klaus’s delightfully successful Devil’s Night prank, he’s feeling moderately guilty for scaring the shit out of Ben. So he has decided it would be best to target Ben’s vanity, and boost his not-brother’s self esteem by finally giving in and substituting ‘Evil’ in place of ‘Mean.’ Don’t worry, it doesn’t last.

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“Evil Ben? Is it just me, or is this garden surprising?”

They’d agreed to attempt a search for a hypothetical concept called a “kitchen” somewhere in their wing of the building. It had worked. But instead of being knee-deep in champagne like Ben prefers to be, they’re off bumping, unintentionally, into creepy buried gardens, and things of that nature.

Klaus had popped wood at the mere thought of owning a secret garden. To be fair, he had also just been fondling a green man.

Now, atop a set of low, rough-hewn steps, Klaus and Evil Ben stand looking out over a broad, circular patio of stone, surveying the strangeness beyond.

A perfectly Devil’s Night-ish kind of garden lies beyond, full of dead things that had formerly been alive.

It’s clear that the flagstones had once been leveled, engraved, and polished to a high shine. But the frost heaves that bedevil New England in winter have utterly destroyed the flat perfection of the patio over time. Flagstones thrust up like fallen gravestones, with ropes of ivy pulling at the gaps between.

Sad patches of brown grass dot bald earth where once there had been a lawn. The remains of an ancient orchard have devolved into nothing but a twisted stand of five skeletons and their splintered deadfall, all of it jagged and aggressively stabby. An intricate design of garden beds has been overtaken and strangled to death by tall weeds, persistently poking through years of matted, decaying leaves. Darkness. And urns.

Ben is currently scanning with intense eyes beneath matchingly intense eyebrows, and croaks, “What?”

“Wow. Bennerino, you still don’t sound so good,” Klaus unhelpfully points out. “Huh. I wonder how your threats will sound now. Will you be miming them?”

Ben turns a face full of anger and accusations on Klaus. But he’s forced to admit to himself that he will not be picking any more tantrums for the foreseeable future. He deflates, and finally mimes *huh?* followed by *I fucking hate you.*

“No you don’t,” Klaus replies, exaggerating the shaking of his head no, as if he, too, has to mime.

Ben rolls his eyes, then nods with exaggeration, accompanied by miming, *Yes, I do. I really do.*

“This is fun! We should make up our own miming language!” Klaus exclaims. “We can use it as code when we get our first job detecting supernatural stuff and things.”

Ben mimes, *That’s stupid.*

“No it’s not,” says Klaus, once more exaggerating his head-shaking.

Ben mimes, *Yes it is. It really is.*

“We should probably discuss this when you don’t have to play charades. I hate to say it, babe, but you’re not very good at it.” Klaus flaps his hands, effectively miming *Nevermind all that.* “So, hey. Remember what I was saying before? About the surprising garden?”

Rolling his eyes, Ben huffs a deeply frustrated breath.

“Is this place supposed to have a garden?” Klaus asks, side-eyeing the vegetation.

Ben again looks to the heavens, then gives in and mimes, *I am unrolling invisible architectural blueprints with my hands, see me pointing? See me shaking my head no? There was no garden in the blueprints.*

Klaus mimes back, *You’re getting better at this, good job!*

Ben again mimes, *I hate you. I really do.*

*No you don’t.* Klaus is again exaggerating his head-shaking, when he remembers that he’s the one who can speak. “Blueprints? What blueprints? You got to see blueprints? I don’t believe you.”

Ben starts tapping his foot to indicate annoyance.

“So what was I saying?” Then Klaus remembers what he was saying, “Oh right.” He puffs himself up a bit to declare, “I, too, find this garden surprising.”

Ben slumps, indicating to Klaus that his not-brother is experiencing strong feelings of negativity, and should probably be left alone in contemplation. Lucky guess.

The entirety of the secret garden is enclosed by the building’s stone walls. Ben’s hidden excitement mounts as he descends the steps and takes in the view from a new vantage. It appears that the only point of access to this world of death and dead things is through the head of a green man.

Klaus wonders aloud, “How old is this place? Hey, Bennerino.” Ben bothers to turn and face Klaus, which is a start. “How old do you think this place is?”

*How the fuck am I supposed to know?* Ben really is getting better at being a mime. Especially the swear words. The next one’s easy: *I am feeling snarky and Evil as I ask you, ‘Why?’*

“Well, for starters, there’s the fact that this place looks really old.”

Ben’s eye rolling is just a safe assumption at this point.

“I mean, look at the walls.”

They both gaze about, mounting interest still mounting.

Klaus is correct. It does look old. Really old.

Ben needs Klaus’s attention in order to mime, so he yells “Klaus!” as loud as he possibly can. Unfortunately, that isn’t very loud. His cracked wheezing hasn’t managed to break through the sound of Klaus thinking thoughts. In the meantime, Ben is gripping his poor, damaged throat with both hands, eyes scrunched in pain, and wishing he could whimper. Self care would help, but this is neither the time nor the place.

“Did you say something, Benji?”

Ben mimes, *There are no windows.*

“Anywhere!” Klaus agrees. “I know! That’s why I asked!”

*Yes, I too would like to know why there are no windows,* is hopefully what that body language conveyed to Klaus.

“Friday,” Klaus answers.

Yeah, that one was unclear. Maybe Ben just needs a little more practice.

*Same stone,* Ben mimes, gesturing toward the patio. *All the way,* Ben mimes, gesturing at the walls. *Nobody builds stuff like this anymore. It’s probably old old.*

“Tuesday,” answers Klaus. “Kidding! Just kidding. Old old. Yeah, real old old. Like maybe even Harvard-old. Did you know that our prissy ol’ dame was founded in 1636? I’m serious, silly! First institute of higher education in America. I looked it up in case it affected our property taxes.”

*Are you shitting me?*

“No, Ben. I don’t kink shame, but no, I will not take a shit on you. Not if I don’t want to. I do not give you my consent.”

*I hate you. I reeeelly do.*

“That’s ok. I grow on people.”

*Gross,* Ben mimes. A bentacle shoves Klaus away.

Ok, what was that? Ben hadn’t been able to keep himself from doing it. Literally and precisely, he had not been able to avoid doing it. One of his bentacles has just shown free will.

Ben comes close to that realization, or pretty close, and shies away before he can take in the full impact of that truly horrorfying thought. Ben is so nauseous right now.

Rough one. Meanwhile, Klaus is blissfully unaware of what has just taken place. “Very funny, Mr. Grumpy Guts. My guess is,” Klaus strokes his beard to increase the suspense, “it never had any windows. ooooWOOOOooooo” [insert scary twinkle fingers here]. “I mean, there’s no way to know that for sure, other than tracking down the architect or the stonemason’s ghosts. How deep do you think we are?”

Ben looks uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

He keeps miming what might mean *under* or *underneath,* or even more likely, *inside,* and pointing at his nauseous bellybutton.

“What? Under? Under what? Oh, are you hungry? I gotta be honest, babe, these charades are getting a little old. A little tired. No offense.” Klaus sighs, and pats Ol’ Grumpy Guts tenderly on the shoulder. “Nevermind, I’ll do the talking. Ok, ready? 3 words, 1st word, 6 syllables.”

Klaus is taking his life into his own hands by talking. He should know that by now, but he’s still happily pushing Ben’s buttons. “Kidding, kidding! Ok, so,” Klaus begins counting, “this is the sub-sub-basement, and these walls are wicked high, so that includes the sub-basement, too. Ben, I really think it might be as tall as the basement! That’s tall!”

All Ben can do is nod.

“I know what this feels like!” Klaus crows. “This feels exactly like I’m in a box with no lid. Buried in the ground. Doesn’t it feel a little klaustrophobic?” he asks. “Now that you know we’re at the bottom of three basements?”

Ben mimes in agreement, *Like I’m at the bottom of an open grave, looking up at a rectangular patch of sky.*

Klaus scratches his beard again, trying to look like he’s ruminating on whatever it was Ben just acted out. “Ben, I’ve thought about it, and there’s never a good enough reason to mime shooting yourself in the head. That’s not funny. I’d miss you.” Klaus is 100% serious.

*No no no, that’s not what I meant. Look,* Ben mimes, and draws a knife across his throat.

“Ben,” Klaus looks hurt. “Stop offing yourself. It hurts.”

Ben goes to grab handfuls of his hair in frustration, then realizes his fingers would just get stuck in all the product. He tries again. *You, look at me. I am digging in the ground with a shovel. See me shoveling? Good. Thumbs up. Second word: I have dug a long rectangle with four sides. A four-sided rectangle. See it? Good. Thumbs up. Third word: I have two fingers that are pretending to be legs walking. But they stumble into the rectangle and look upward to the sky.*

“Huh?”

Ben continues. *All of that, see me drawing a circle, it means all of that, all of it taken together = a grave.*

“Huh?”

Ben tries to growl, and grips his throat in pain. It’s obvious that Klaus thinks he’s miming strangulation.

*No, no, no, look at me, you.* Ben tries to mouth the word ‘grave,’ skipping all the theatrics.

“To blave? To klave? A rave? What, you want to go dancing?” Klaus shakes his head in acknowledgement that that’s probably not what Ben is saying. “Nah, that can’t be it. Took me way too long to make you shake a tail feather at the wedding, why should a pit in the ground be any different. OH! Now I get it. A grave! Where?”

Ben wants to take a nap. Instead, he points at himself, then points toward the bracken vegetation beyond. It’s a wise choice, and evidence that Ben is capable of practicing self care. Maybe some peace and quiet will keep him sane while he contemplates the potential that his belly monster is sentient.

There’s something wyrd and wrong about the direction Ben has chosen to walk, but no matter how hard he squints, Klaus can’t quite make it out in the macabre gloom. Being Klaus, he naturally wants to explore it. But he also wants to naturally explore everything else, and anyway, Ben needs some alone time.

But, being Klaus, he gets distracted and addresses Ben, anyway. “Hey look!” Klaus excitedly points out a small rise to one side of the lawn. “We get our own tiny little miniature grassy knoll!” More like a lump in the lawn. A bump, a tiny mound.

Ben is past caring about something called a ‘grassy knoll.’ What the hell even is that, anyway? He’s also past paying attention to Klaus.

That happens a lot. With Ben and people other than Ben. Sometimes Klaus minds, but other times the lack of supervision suits his purposes nicely. It’s just that today, he minds. Because it’s Devil’s Night, and they have to be paying attention to each other if anyone is going to get scared. He would have thought that went without saying, but Ben seems to be playing dumb about this whole Devil’s Night business. They all had the same Dad, so they should all play the same games. Flawless logic. More or less.

Watching Ben follow a stone path off into the murk, Klaus tisks at the sere remains of their lawn. “We need a new gardener. This is just shameful.”

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Klaus is now tip-toeing through the frost heaves.

Looking about, he calls after Ben. “Would you call this a garden? Or a courtyard? Courtyard sounds way too much like the Academy, and that is not my idea of heaven, so it’s a garden. Officially. It’s an official garden. Even if it’s a court- Ben, wait, hey wait a minute.” Ben has been ignoring him, ever since he started wandering away.

“Rude!” Klaus squawks in disapproval. “Has it ever occurred to you that I might have- Hey, wa-wait! Baby, baby, stop. Ben’nuh!”

Klaus decides that the frost-heaved patio is difficult enough to walk on even without falling to his detriment. At least falling to his detriment would give Klaus a chance to take a closer look at the swooping, interlocking designs carved on the stones beneath his feet. He makes a mental note to come back and fall elaborately (so as to catch Ben’s attention), and then moves on to poke about the patio’s periphery.

Dotted at regular intervals around the edges stand five huge stone urns, and — possibly to his own detriment — they have drawn Klaus’s attention. From a distance, it looks a bit like there might once have been some kind of dense, black liquid flowing over their lips, coating the outward swell of the great pots with slow droplets of the black, sticky-looking stuff. Up close they give off a sickening sweet molasses smell. Yet a faint note of something perfumy can be caught quietly lingering beneath the brutish odor of the burnt substance. Almost as if someone set fire to flowers, consigning them to the flames licking skyward from the urns. It’s as though Klaus can see the phantom flames — an image so strong and clear that he reaches up and rubs his eyes.

“Who the fuck were these people, and why?”

Klaus has to remember where he stashed his self control, if he wants to keep himself from touching. But despite all his stupidity, Klaus is not stupid. There’s enough about this space that seems just a bit off (or a whole lot off), that Klaus decides against living his most chaotic life. Under these wyrd circumstances, he decides to lean conservative, instead, figuring now is as good a time as any to give self-conservation a try.

“Wow. These guys were serious,” he observes aloud as he walks toward the tiny little miniature grassy knoll. “I don’t know what these people were up to, but it involved five mammoth burning urns filled with fire to accomplish it.” He kicks at the weeds as he passes.

He wants to know if Ben has any theories. “Yoo-hoo, Benneriiiinooo,” he calls after his not-brother, but Ben is busy following the path to the dark side.

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Ben has set his sights beyond Klaus’s grassy knoll. It looks as if all this dead vegetation might be screening something beyond. There’s an impenetrable darkness back there, which strikes Ben as rather concerning.

He sniffs the air, and pulls back. Freshly turned earth, and a faint rotting smell. He flashes back to the Oily Darkness of Terror in Klaus’s room. The hair on the back of his neck stands up once more. He whips around, but neither Klaus nor anyone else is behind him.

Ben is coming to terms with the fact that he will be doing a lot of post-traumatic jumping from now on, whenever he gets that foreboding prickle at the base of his skull. Or his Bentacles announce they have (always had?) a mind of their own.

*Focus, Ben,* he mimes to himself.

“Sorry, did you say something?” Klaus calls out. Ben just flips him off while walking away. It’s his favorite way to end conversations. Second favorite being hanging up on Klaus, but he doesn’t get to do that much anymore.

A phantom gust of wind buffets him and sets the dead leaves still clinging to the trees a-rattling. Like teeth. Like bones. Rattle them bones. Like a death rattle.

Ben jolts at the sound of something distinctly alive, skittering off the stones ahead of him. It’s a purposeful sound, and Ben shivers. Was that something moving out of the corner of his eye? Something too big to skitter. Much too big.

Ben refuses to be terrified again tonight. He doesn’t have any terror left to give. It’s just not going to happen, he promises himself. But he’s still unsure of exactly what he’s walking into. Particularly because the light has gone dim and heavy, and all sound from the world behind him is dulled.

<<———😵‍💫———>>

Klaus tries the Yoo-Hoo approach again. “Yoo-hoo, Bennerino!”

He descends the mound, ready to take off after Ben, like a little brother who keeps following you around, being annoying to get your attention. Exactly like that. But after only a few steps he halts, goes still, and stays still.

Klaus does not usually stfu without being told to. Ben is intrigued enough by the silent stillness to pause. Swinging around to see what could possibly have caused this miracle, Ben watches slack-jawed as Klaus is yanked backward with a jolt, heels dragging parallel lines in the dirt back up the knoll. Ben’s no engineer, but quite frankly, whatever just made that happen to Klaus’s body clearly considered the laws of physics more as suggested-guidelines-of-physics than laws.

“Klaus?” Ben’s voice sounds small to his own ears, because it is. It’s tiny, if it actually has a sound at all.

But the memory of Klaus’s prank still really gets under his nails. And anyway, he’s panicking.

*Oh, no. No no no noooo.* Ben gets his whole body into it.

*You are not doing this to me again, you. Whatever nasty little joke you have fumbling through the darkness in your skull, you can forget it. You, I’m not falling for your shit again, you Klaus.* This tirade featured pointing really hard, a lot.

Eyes glazed and oblivious to Ben, Klaus starts to sing. Or not so much singing as chanting. Picture a little kid reciting a nursery rhyme, and name him Klaus. It would be cute if it wasn’t so worrisome. Something about that flat monotone.

Somebody is in the garden

Somebody’s in the garden

Somebodies in the garden

Some body is in the garden

Some body’s in the garden

Some bodies in the garden

Ben mimes at Klaus. *This possession-face you’re trying to sell me? I’m not buying. No really, Klaus, stop. You’re embarrassing yourself.* ‘Embarrassing’ is actually a rather difficult word to mime, but nowhere near as difficult as ‘possession-face’. Ben continues, undaunted. *This is sad. And boring.* He huffs and again turns to the dark side of the garden. *Whatever,* he mimes.

Klaus’s unflagging chanting is eerie, nonsensical. Every line sounds the same to Ben, like a Gregorian chant, and he can’t decide if the words are relevant, or just blather.

Ben finally digests what he’s heard. “Somebody is in the garden,” he mouths to himself. His nerves are now amped to full alert. Somebody’s in the garden?

Klaus’s phrasing is all running together. There’s no pause, now. No rhythm. As if it’s all just an infinite series of syllables. It’s fucking creepy, is what it is.

“Ok, Klaus. That’s enough!”

Klaus hasn’t heard him, because Ben can only mouth the words, stomp his foot, and hope he’s understood. Especially when Klaus with his eyes closed is a blind Klaus. And even with his eyes open, Klaus is somewhere else. In a galaxy far, far away.

It has to be said, and it has to be admitted, that Ben isn’t usually the first to jump into battle. He likes to peacock, in red leathers, and to snap at people, literally, to indicate that it’s their time to do his bidding. And the Sparrows did do his bidding. Until they quickly agreed not to do that anymore, twice. But as proven unto Oblivion, when Ben needs to step up, he does. And he’s certainly well trained.

Meanwhile, Ben is just standing there slack-jawed, and he probably wouldn’t want you to know that. Moving on.

“Some bodies in the garden some body’s in the garden somebody’s in the garden…”

Ben powers up his courage and rushes the knoll. Charging purposefully, he’s half way up when he hits an invisible wall. In the blink of an eye, Ben is dragged backward, leaving two jagged marks in the dirt just as Klaus had done. The moment he reaches flat earth, Ben is tossed aside like an argumentative drunk from a bar (which Ben has no experience with whatsoever).

Oh Jesus, that looks like it hurt. Yeah, so, Ben has just been flung into the air at a high enough height that 1. he is flying, without touching the ground; 2. sailing straight over the stabby orchard of trees; 3. into the formerly impenetrable darkness beyond which no one can see except Ben; and finally, 4. so far that he crumples painfully against a hedge. Understandably, this causes Ben to have a fear-based emotional response. Looks like Ben, acts like Ben, but a Ben with his eyes huge and round, and a permanently ‘oh!’ shaped mouth.

From between Klaus’s normally-flirtatious lips blasts a harsh, grating baritone — a blast far louder and lower than Klaus could ever achieve, not in his wildest, most depraved dreams. “The key!” it booms. This is sufficient to distract Ben from pretty much everything else in life.

*Huh?* Ben is quick and to the point when he’s buying time. Which has never been terribly helpful.

“Seek, and thou shalt findeth to this prison a key! Such key that hidest in sight most plain. Do this bidding with haste, or thy next breath shall grow weak. The next, so much the weaker. Telleth me, shall I press thee to death as thou hast hastened and chastened me?”

*Do you ever shut up?* Ben’s compulsion to snark overrules any pesky fear he might be experiencing. The ghost had lost Ben at the beginning, when the first ‘thou’ dropped.

“What am I to shut up?” Mr. Mouthy Withoutamouth is confused. “But no! I shan’t be diverted by thy Devil’s word-perversion. You speak it so recklessly, heathen sorcerer!”

No he didn’t just call Ben a heathen. But actually yeah, he did.

*What did you just say?* The ghost has crossed a line. In addition to allllll the other lines already crossed. Starting with possession. *Say that again.*

“Which part dost thou wisheth me to repeateth, heathen sorcerer?”

As Ben officially loses his shit and once again rushes the mound, the ghost expands his bouncy rubber force field beyond the mound in every direction. Ben is bounced back at the shrubbery like a ricochet from a trampoline.

Take a short break from contemplating what might be happening to Ben next, and instead take a moment to contemplate one of Ben’s key characteristics. During interrogation training, Dad had impressed upon the Sparrows that someday they might need to interrogate each other, and possibly even themselves. Ben defaults to training whenever he loses his mind. ‘First question,’ he thinks to himself. ‘How does this whoever-it-is have powers? He can’t be one of us, can he? He sounds wayyyy too old to have been born in 1989, even if he’s only talking all old-timey like that to get into character for Halloween. Or maybe for community theatre.’

The deep-voiced possessor of Klaus growls, “I pledge to thee an oath! This body shalt tear itself to shreds most small, shouldst thou tarry in thy quest.”

*I never agreed to a quest! Kiss my ass, Dusty McRotsalot.*

“Know of this McRotsalot, I do not. But of thee, Hargreeves? Thou art known to me.”

*I am?*

“Thou art, young Hargreeves. Thou art he who wakes the dead with screams. Thou dost dissemble in thy feigned ignorance! By the pricking of mine thumb, thine head dost now stand hexed. Hear, oh Hargreeves, thou art hexed! Be it ever so! Didst thou takest Giles Corey for a man to be so vexed?”

Most unwisely, Ben dost snarketh, *Are you done yet?*

To prove his hex genuine, the threat real, The Ghost of Giles Corey splits Klaus’s mouth as wide open as it will stretch. The spirit of the dead man gathers aether to itself, accreting his physical form in a way Ben never dreamt possible. In a feat of what can only be called magic, or possession, or the exorcist, or an exorcism, a head that is not Klaus’s head attempts to squeeze out of Klaus’s mouth. And not in the cute, messy way that Ghost Ben did. Remember? Way back in the olden days? The ghost accretes aether steadily until wispy, smoke-like hair and one eyeball try to emerge from an orifice that truly cannot open further.

Does Klaus scream? No. Does Ben scream? In his own way. Plus tears, because he’s afraid for Klaus. Deeply afraid for Klaus.

There is only one thought in his mind: getting his superhero on and saving the fuck out of Klaus.

Ben has just come to the startling realization that his damned not-brother Klaus is a light-bringer to this jaded world, even if it’s a red flashing light accompanied by sirens.

*So? What? You want me to find some key, is that it? Hey, moron!* he mimes through his tears. *I can’t find it if you don’t tell me where it is, now can I! Is it on one of the key rings?*

“Strange is thy speech. From whence dost thou come, and wherefore?”

*LA, and because it’s LA. Not for…other reasons. It’s not cuz I wanted to live here in Boston, or anything.*

“CAMBRIDGE!”

*Yeah, whatever.* Ben flips The Ghost of Giles Corey off. Or at least the Ghost of Giles Corey’s eyeball.

“Thou dost err most grievously, when thou mistaketh mine own self for a moron.”

*Do you ever stop talking? Threats, pfft.* Ben sneers in disgust. *You are talking to the only threatener in this household, Bitch Cassidy, and that’s me! See how I’m pointing at myself in the chestal region? I will be making all the threats in this house.*

“But I, young Hargreeves, I maketh good on mine own threats.”

Klaus drops to the ground, head bouncing off the dirt.

“HEY!” Ben attempts to shout. Though it comes out in barely a whisper, the eyeball hears him well enough.

Again Ben rushes the knoll, and again he flies backward into the hedges.

Ben takes a little longer to get up than he did the last time he hit shrubbery from a height. Rolling to his stomach, he catches a glimpse of Klaus.

His not-brother is on his knees atop the knoll. Ben’s eyes burn with hot tears. Klaus is digging. Klaus is digging with his fingers.

“STOP!” Ben whispers. “MAKE IT STOP!!!! Klaus! Can you hear me, too? Klaus!” he whispers with everything he’s got.

Klaus does not stop. The two wet tracks down his cheeks are enough for Ben to know that Klaus is still in there somewhere. And he’s in pain.

*STOP! Stop,* Ben pleads. He drops to his knees and mouths the words, “Please. What do you want? Some kind of key? I’ll get you the key, I’ll get it for you, I’ll do it, please, just stop!“

“I was of the mind that thou wouldst. Given the encouragement most right and good in the eyes of-”

*STOP! You got what you want! I’m helping! So stop!* Ben mimes as loud as he can.

“Why shouldst I? Verily. Let the sight serve thee as thy inspiration.”

*But you’ve given me NOTHING! NOTHING! Some key? Is that it? That’s supposed to be enough to go on?* Ben jangles two mammoth key rings.

“Such tiny things as these?”

“In this century they are!” Ben whispers.

This century.

Despite not liking history, Ben is certain that Giles Corey is not of this century.

*A skeleton key?* Ben asks, then realizes that with this guy, they might get hung up in a debate about bones. *About this big?* Ben’s back to miming illustratively.

Aaaand now back to whispering again. “Black, solid, heavy, metal. Iron? It wouldn’t be lead, would it?”

“Bone.”

Giving him Ben’s signature head bobble/shoulder wobble, Ben sneers. *Ah. Of course it is.*

The entire conversation turns to bones after all.

“AND?! COME ON! LET HIM GO! You fucking bastard bitch, sad, BORING fuckin…violence…in your face!” Ben is trying so very hard to mask the feeling of panic overtaking his body, by getting pretty bitchy.

“Speakest thee English?”

*Get talking, asshole!* Ben vibrates with rage as he mimes.

“No sane, godly man would suggest such base, vile blasphemy,” the ghost declares in horror. “To speak from thy- Thou art no sane man.”

Ben looks again at Klaus’s poor, bloodied hands, still brutally attacking the baked earth.

Ben realizes he can see bones, and finally lets himself panic. *WHERE? WHERE? WHERE AM I SUPPOSED TO GET the bone key, fuckin asshole, motherfucking fuck my life, I-*

‘I can’t do this,’ is what Ben had intended to say. The feeling of inadequacy is stifling. Ben can’t breathe. For the second time tonight, Ben hyperventilates from sheer, blinding terror.

Which is not a thing that Ben would want you to know. Moving on.

“Thou art weak, heathen blasphemer. Thou art repugnant.” Ouch.

*Tell me what to do,* Ben whispers, in abject defeat.

The Ghost of Giles Corey begins to laugh.

Cold, man, cold. That’s just cold.

Two trickles of blood wend their way down from the corners of Klaus’s splitting mouth. Two trickles of tears wend their way down from the corners of Ben’s streaming eyes.

Klaus’s hands. His poor hands. Klaus. Maddening and lovable. His poor, mangled hands.

This, friends of the occult, is called ‘leverage.’

“The key, young Hargreeves. The key of Solomon ist what thou seekest. Fashioned of skin and bone, thou shalt find it in the ground amongst the bones before me. Seek, and ye shall findeth the key in the ossuary.”

“*Where?!*” Ben both whispers, and mimes. Ben is all in, raging and ready to bring this thing to an end. “*And WHAT THE FUCK is a motherfucking OSSUARY?*”

<<———😵‍💫———>>

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<<———😵‍💫———>>

I’m kinda hoping you won’t look up Giles Corey. I’m kinda hoping you will reblog, though. 🙏

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simon-x-billy · 1 year

Text

Simon x Billy

The Year of OTP: January

Chapter 1: Where’s Giuseppe WTF?

January prompt: Historical au (because 2015 counts as the past)

Note: Simon x Billy is a slow-burn m/m fic; turns NSFW (male/male, consensual) beginning tamely at Chapter 7.

Meet the OTP: Simon Lewis, author and star of The Mortal Instruments, who keeps writing himself into his novels; and Billy Delaney, Irish handsome devil and international chef of mystery; and also Italy. It’s sort of like a threesome. TMI AU: Instead of Simon Lewis being only a character in the best-selling YA series, he is now also the author of that series. TW: References to having been cheated on, bad language, bad humor, Irish-isms, calling young people criminals, making fun of Americans, LGBTQIA+ themes, having to wait for the NSFW chapters to show up.

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Chapter 1: Where’s Giuseppe WTF?

———/Simon/———

OK, fine, baggage claim was a little rough. Finding baggage claim was a little rough. Finding Customs was a little rough. Customs was Customs. I mean, what’s to know, they look at you suspiciously, and if you smile excitedly cuz you’re in a new country, they look at you suspiciously some more, and you start wondering if they’ve noticed something you haven’t.

At least that’s how I felt. Like, maybe I have a single very long nose hair or something horrifying like that. I don’t know? They’re Customs. They notice shit like that.

On a positive note, they’re just fine communicating with people who only “have” one language. They asked me if I had Italian, and I kept waiting for them to finish their sentence. You know? Like, do I have Italian… Food? Relatives? Then they were like, “Do you have any other languages?” And I’m thinking, maybe I caught one in-flight. Planes are well known for making people ill. Or I could’ve caught something cool, like Norwegian! In fact, I could’ve had it my whole life and it’s just never had any symptoms. You never know.

Meanwhile, the train ran on time. And the Red Sea parted. Two impossibilities amounting to miracles.

So yeah, sure, I’d done some prepping for the trip. I refuse to reveal my sources as they are completely mortifying. OK fine, it wasn’t even an app. It was a book. With pictures in it. More specifically, the one my parents used when they planned their trip to the Amalfi Coast.

I used it to plan Our Trip. The one that became My Trip. Flying solo. In so, so many ways.

Believe me, and you need to trust me on this one: Never propose to a girl you met in costume. And if you did and it turned out great, shut up. And mazel tov. May all your children have bar and bat mitzvahs with a good dj. And puppies.

Just remember, your first impression of her is while she’s cosplaying someone else. You might find you’re falling for a personality that isn’t really her on the inside. The whole thing is exhausting. Because my beautiful but cruel shiki found somebody else to cosplay with.

She revealed this shortly after breaking up with me.

No, Simon. I do not choose you. No, Simon. I never choose you. Said every girl ever.

She gave me lots of reasons why. Constructive observations for my next relationship, she said. So at least I had something to think about on the plane to Naples that made me feel really good about myself. For 22 hours including two layovers and a bonus train ride from the airport to downtown Naples. (Trust me, just fly into Rome. Why didn’t it occur to me to fly into Rome?)

I once read a book where the most flamboyant, exciting character said something of extreme poetry and wisdom. (Because poetry and wisdom can both be extreme. Whatever.) It went a little something like this: “Unsolicited advice is just criticism.” Ok fine, I’ve read it more like 25-30 times. Alright look, I can’t be coy. I wrote it. And 25-30 is how many revisions my editor tried to convince me to take it out. (I won.)

I like stories that stretch out over like 20 books in a series. You get to stay with the characters you love until you finally stop re-starting the series the minute you close the last page of the last book. Again.

I think I’d be a vampire irl. And I have thought a lot about it. I mean a lot of thinking on this topic. And you can’t convince me that fairies and werewolves are even in the running for best paranormal destiny.

I like stories where choosing to be a vampire is one of the safer bets. Because you’re already dead.

Don’t start. I’ve fought table top duels over this and I refuse to go over that ground again. Take my word for it. You want to be a vamp.

She was a vamp. I was a vamp. (D, because who else?) We thought we were made for each other. Until she didn’t. Think that anymore. I guess she’d been not-thinking that anymore for months and months. And here I am, presenting her with a trip to Italy where I was going to propose. I had it all planned out. I mean I had it all planned out. Because that’s how I roll. (A 20-sided die, obviously.) Ugh. So when she says she doesn’t want to leave the city, I’m like, “But it’s Italy! And me!”

Turns out the trip wasn’t the only thing she didn’t want.

Turns out she was also being quite literal about not leaving the city. And so, like the heartless traitor she is, she abandoned Brooklyn for the Upper West Side and a yoga instructor with a man bun and half a million followers on Twitter.

Half a million? What even is that? I mean, I get 100 followers -- wow, friend, you are on fire! I get a million followers -- wow, somewhat famous person, you are on fire! But, like, what’s halfway between the two?

So the “hot yoga instructor” -- her words, not mine -- is a person that exists. I told her that she didn’t have to be mean about another, hotter guy. And you know what’s coming next. You totally do.

The hot yoga instructor is an instructor of hot yoga.

But since I mentioned it, she laughed and said he is also a hot instructor, of yoga.

Thanks. I don’t feel angry tears at all when I think about that.

Anyways, I was talking about trains in Italy running on time, and somehow I land on vamps. Welcome to the brain of Simon Lewis, enjoy your stay.

Oh my god. There’s a McDonalds here. It’s like a crime against Italian humanity. “That should be illegal,” I announce to no one in particular. Followed by “Shut up, Lewis, that guy over there is staring.” And yes, I do use my last name when I scold myself out loud in public. Because people find that attractive and charismatic.

So the train in Italy running on time is actually my problem. “My driver” isn’t due for another 30 minutes. Which means I get to spend an additional 30 minutes enjoying my own company some more. And also avoiding talking to any strangers. Which is particularly difficult in the Naples train station. And even more unlikely when you’re standing in the same spot forever and ever.

I’m full of my mother’s dire predictions of criminal young people offering their services to help you find your way around the train station. And when that fails, they’re supposed to start begging for money. And when that fails, Oliver and the Artful Dodger pick your pocket. So put your money and your passport down the back of your underwear or something equally unworkable when you’re dealing with Customs.

That little gem was actually written in the margins of the travel book. By my mother. So I wouldn’t forget to keep it in my pants. “Simon, don’t forget about the criminal young people. Keep it all in your underpants.”

So standing here looking like I’m waiting (and waiting and waiting), I’m an easy target. But as my t-shirt says, I’m from Brooklyn. We do not pay people to tell us where we are and which line to stand in. It’s a matter of pride. Unbelievable. Being from Brooklyn, I understand trains. I can find my way around any train station in the world. Hubris! But it’s true. Even in foreign alphabets. It’s in my blood, it’s in the East River, it’s in the soot-flecked air we New Yorkers are born breathing.

So here I am in the Naples train station with my underwear full of credit cards, IDs, and my emergency contacts laminated in both English and Italian. And now I also have that hot tingling in my eyes and the slight burn in my sinuses that threaten angry tears again.

I’m supposed to see a little old man with a big old mercedes, holding up a sign saying “Simon Lewis.” His name is Giuseppe and he came very highly rated on travelbookie.com. Very highly rated.

So, ok, ummm- This guy is definitely not Giuseppe. He doesn’t look that much older than I am. He’s an awfully chatty Irishman named Billy. So I’m like, “What’s Billy in Italian?”

“Fuck if I know,” he laughs. “They just say Beelee. Which puts me off every time, if I’m honest. God bless ‘em, they’re beautiful people, right, but Beelee is so wrong.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Delaney.”

“So in Italian, you’re Beelee Day-la-nay.”

“Y’speak Italian then, do yeh?” he laughs.

“Fluently. This app taught me how to say ‘dog’ and ‘blouse’ and I leveled up really fast — one of my great talents, by the way.”

“Leveling up, is it? Or Italian?”

“Italian. Certo. That means ‘certainly,’ but you use it kind of like you would use ‘obviously.’ Why is it pronounced ‘chair toe?’ No seriously, I’m asking.”

“Obviously,” he snorts, ignoring my lingual curiosity. “Are you mansplainin the language of the place I live to me?”

“Certo.”

Billy rewards me with a low chuckle. It may have been low and just a chuckle, but it was real. Being a connoisseur and collector of bad puns and dad jokes, I have a finely tuned ear for real laughter, as opposed to the usual laughing-just-to-be-nice.

“So I’m better off with Beelee Daylanay. I’ll have a talk with my boss and ask him to use my full name or nothin at all.” That at least gets a snort out of me. Until he says, “What about you? Are you lookin forward to bein Seemon? Sorry, mate. I think yours might be worse than mine.”

———/-/———

We’ve been talking all this time and I forgot to look out the window. As if I’m not on my dream vacation. Runner-up, actually. I’m holding my best dream vacation (Venice) for when Ms. I Do Lewis actually says, “I do.” And I will not book the rooms til after she does.

“Sorry, what was that?” I’ve been staring into space and ignoring Mr. Daylanay, who is now looking at me funny in the rear view mirror.

“Nothin important. Where’d you go, mate?”

“New York to Frankfurt to Milan to Naples. I flew out of JFK.”

“I’ll pretend to know where that is. No,” he says, “I meant just now. You disappeared behind your face.”

Um… “I did what?”

“I’ve been the only one enjoyin the sound of my voice, apparently, since you went quiet about five minutes ago. So where’d you go? Back behind your face,” he prompts.

“That’s an awfully private question, Mr. Daylanay. I’m not sure we’re good enough friends for letting you behind my face.” I kinda stumble on the word friends, cuz, well, we’re not.

“What. Is that like bein let in to visit the little man behind the curtain? That sounds a bit-”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how it sounds.” I make sure to roll my eyes loudly so he can hear. My mother always says she can hear my eyes rolling from the next room.

“Cagey one, aren’t ya?”

“Nosey, intrusive one, aren’t ya?” I counter.

He bobs his head and gives me a simple, “Ok.”

And now it’s gone quiet. I decide to disappear behind my face again for a while. I quite like it there. Maybe one day the whole world will join me. (Obscure movie reference, don’t bother.)

“Does she have a name?” he breaks into my sinking mood.

“What- Why?”

“Well, Seemon, because every story worth tellin about people generally has a name or two in it. Unless yer feelin all avant-garde while you're busy behind your face, contemplatin. Things.”

Ok, now I’m starting to get tired of his persistence. “I like to think of her as She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“Like Voldemort. In a nighty.”

The bark of a laugh just erupts out of me before I can stop it from encouraging him. “That is the most disturbing image I’ve ever had.” My dull ache of a mood evaporates as quickly as it came, uninvited and unwelcome on this trip.

“You’re off the hook for now, but if I see you again, I’ll want to hear more about Ms. She Who Shall Not Be Named.”

And just like that, I’m annoyed again. “No.”

“Ok,” he says again.

———/-/———

While apparently spending more time behind my face, I realize I’ve ignored over 45 minutes of the view in a foreign country. Again I’m annoyed. Isn’t he supposed to be narrating the countryside or something? Giuseppe would be narrating the countryside. I frickin paid for that narration.

“So what am I looking at?” I lob at him.

“Naples.”

“Funny.” I hope he can hear my eyes rolling.

“Hold up, I haven’t finished! That great U-shape, right, that’s the Bay of Naples. The city herself is over there in the distance, all the way at the far end of the bay. All the wee towns strung out and all bunched up against the sea as tight as can be sketch out the shape of the bay and on along to the Sorrentine Peninsula -- where we’re goin. The big blue bit beyond the bay-”

“Is the Mediterranean. Yeah, I got that much.”

“Nah, mate. You don’t. See, it’s the Tyrrhenian Sea, which is just the part of the Mediterranean between the boot of Italy and Spain.”

“Thanks so much for the oceanography lesson.”

“Bit tetchy, aren’t yeh?” he says, eyeing me in the rearview mirror. “Look, mate. I’m sorry if I rubbed ye up the wrong way with makin conversation. I’m just not used to fillin in on the guest delivery service. That’s a specific kind of hospitality. Mine might be a bit more suited to conversatin across a bar. In that situation, all of this would have been charming.”

I can see him smiling at me in the rearview, trying to reset the mood.

“So you’re a bartender, not a driver. But you do work at the hotel. Right? Or…”

“Yeah sure’n I’ve been known to fill in at the bar when I’m needed.” He clarifies, “Acourse it’s the height of the high season, and all the staff are absolutely inundated with guests. It’s a busy kitchen, and no mistake.”

“So you’re not a bar-”

“Aaaaand, here we are,” he declares, pulling off the road going way too fast into what appears to be open air. But when I don’t feel us driving off a cliff, I open my eyes to see an ornate iron gate, a tile roof, a million flowering bushes, and more than one fountain.

“Allow me to be the first to welcome yeh to the Hotel Terrazze di Limoni. I’ll just fetch your bags, shall I?”

———/Read More/———