#&& a legend reburied; deadmans return | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

brothersgrim · 3 months

Note

Valentine’s Day Application

Name: Bray Wyatt Age: 28 Do you like to cuddle? "We would be so close it's as if we shared ribs and a heart. I would teach you the meaning of true intimacy." Can we make-out? "Yeah, sure. A night in or dinner out? "A night in would be so much more intimate. I would rather have you to myself." Whip cream or chocolate syrup? "On you, both." Chocolates and roses? "Please, neither of us are so sentimental. We don't care for such simple pleasantries that are nothing more than cultural artifacts manufactured by corporate greed. No, for a gift I'd find you something far more suitable, more morbid, even." What makes you a good Valentine? "I love you more than anyone ever would or could. I understand you. I will never let you go." Would you cook for me? "Of course, how do you feel about jambalaya?" Would you let me cook for you? "I would love to have you cook for me." Where would you take me on a date? "The depths of the swamp to show you the beauty of the dark waters at night, when the moonlight shines in the refraction of the ripples."

Who’s paying? "For you, my time is always free." What did you get me for Valentine’s Day? "Eternity."

He doesn't know why he bothered leaving his room. ... Then he downs his shot. Right, right. That's why he was here.

To get absolutely fucking plastered.

To forget.

It's a dark bar, the opposite of reputable, and everything reeks of cigarettes and stale beer and something else. Probably vomit. It's acrid like vomit, at least. He pours himself another glass from the bottle and it makes his nose burn enough he doesn't smell the bar anymore. He drinks that, too. It tastes like paint thinner.

Good.

He's not sure how long he's been sitting here. A few hours, at least. Long enough that the bartender's started giving him glances, but it had taken only one snarling glare to convince the skinny punk there were better ways to spend his time.

He likes to think his bad mood is justified. He's been dealing with today alone, as he deals with most things. Alone is safe. Alone is smart. If he handles it alone, he doesn't have to worry about someone else screwing up. (Or someone else getting hurt.) The only problem is, he's not sure how to deal with Valentine's Day.

He shouldn't care. It shouldn't matter what day this is. This is not a day of sacrifice. He doesn't have a fight tonight (he wishes he did). He has to plan his order schedule for when he gets back, he'll have to check on the Yard soon - it's been a while. A week, give or take, and that's too long. He'd rather be there. Give him souls to govern, skulls to break, laws to lay down, a three-count on the mat. Anything but being alone with his thoughts.

Kane is out with Cody, and Taker is happy for his brother, he is. Cody's a good man. Kane is happy. At the end of everything, that's all Taker wants. His brother is happy. He won't get in the way of that. He'd never dream of it. But still...

"Fuck Chris Jericho." He mutters around the rim of his glass. ('And why should you matter? You're nothing special. You've never been anything - you're just a man.') He swallows back another mouthful of fiery swill. "And fuck Steve Austin." ('What, son, did it bother you when I made those calls? Did it eat you up hearing the truth, remembering what you did? Or maybe, maybe it's the way your baby brother squealed when I snapped his arm again and again and again--')

"And fuck that driver--" ('ADAM-!') He tries to pour another drink. The bottle comes up short. He pulls up from his slouch and raises the empty bottle to the barkeep. "'M gonna need another one of these." And, as the stool beside him creaks, he grimaces. "Make it a double." He keeps his eyes stubbornly forward as Bray talks. He's waxing poetic, spouting off about this bullshit and that bullshit. He's really laying it on thick. If it were any other day, he'd tell Bray he was barking up the wrong tree. In a different situation, he'd take the bottle the barkeep had handed him (accepted with a grunt of gratitude) and smash it on Bray's head. As warped as Taker's perception is, he knows this is weird. There's an ominous river weaving its way through Bray's words that should send up every warning flag in the book.

But you know what?

He's drunk.

He's immortal.

He's miserable.

He's alone.

So he downs one more mouthful from the bottle, swallows, and takes the entire thing with him as he pushes away.

"Fine, fuck it." He mumbles, rising to his feet and glancing at Bray.

"What'd you say 'bout jambalaya?"

#perditos #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

3 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 3 months

Text

send a 😈 if your character has a crush on mine! || ACCEPTING

alternatively, send a “ 😈+” if it’s more than a crush!

@perditos asked: 😈+ “so obsessed he would literally eat you” Bray Wyatt w/ ‘Taker

He shudders. Full-body shudders.

"I coulda gone an awful long time without hearing that." He says, then cracks his knuckles.

"But if he shows his face? I will gladly crush Bray Wyatt."

#perditos #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

3 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 4 months

Text

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING!

@perditos asked: Neraine sat at the kitchen table, hands folded over her forehead, staring at a bowl of placid, unmoving water. Water that had remained stubbornly liquid for the past ten minutes. “This is ridiculous,” she growled. “I have been accidentally freezing everything I touch for the past six months and now that I want to do it, I can’t. This makes no sense.”

The reaper says nothing; only hums a single note and nods. He is thinking, digesting. It’s an interesting situation. … In a lot of ways. He’s trying not to think about all of it at once. He can deal with it later. He had to help Neraine right now.

‘“You’re overthinking it.” He says, crossing his arms as he leans against the doorframe. The floorboards creak quietly under his weight. He regards her carefully, brow furrowed. Notes the tension in her frame that seems almost alien in a dancer. “Tryin’ to force it when you’re not actually ready. And it knows you ain't there.” He shrugs off the door and walks a careful arc around the table. For another moment, he studies her. She still looks so rough after the past few days she had. Thin, dark circles under her eyes, barely holding on. He could relate. She’s frustrated, too, but that’s no deduction. It’s obvious. And underneath that frustration is desperation, panic, and fear.

Again, he could relate. It was different for him and Kane, he knew - whether or not they remembered a time before they were entirely what they were, they had been born to the left of humanity. They could always do things others couldn’t. From what she’d told him, her own abilities were a newer development. For Kane and himself, while they didn’t remember their childhood, he at least remembered enough to know that for their family, this was normal; Neraine had no such roots to try tracing back. This was a mystery to her. He stands to the side, keeps his eyes on the bowl. After a forced exhale, he reaches out and puts his own fingers into the water. Frost seeps out from his touch, but that’s not the main point. He tugs the bowl away from her, carefully. And then a burst of sparks. The water shoots up then falls back in the bowl - or, mostly. There’s the usual splatter on the table. He turns and reaches to grab a dish towel off the knife before he continues.

“The more you try to force it, the harder it’s gonna fight back, until you figure out how it works. It’s a damn good way to get yourself hurt.” He pauses again, surveying the table to make sure that he’s gotten every last drop cleaned up. … He makes a note to himself to polish the table tonight, then hangs the towel back up. He pulls out the chair opposite her, takes a seat, and folds his arms on the table.

“You gotta start from the beginning. I want you to think about all those times you accidentally froze something. What was happening? What were you feeling?”

#perditos #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

3 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 2 months

Text

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@teardownheaven asked: "i can't leave you alone for one minute, can i?" Aeleus sounds exasperated but he's still gazing at 'Taker with nothing but love and adoration on his face.

He huffs a laugh, even as he scrubs some blood from his lip. It’ll be sore in the morning.

“Guess not.” He says, letting the door close behind him. He rolls his neck from side to side, grunting at the release of stiffness. That's also going to hurt tomorrow. Oh well. He’s had worse. He’ll live. He’s got some scrapes and scuffs, some bruises, but he’s fine. He won. (Not like he’s surprised. It was the goddamn Spirit Squad. Sure, it was five on one; if they’d brought a few more friends it would’ve been fair.)

He reaches forward to hook his fingers through the belt loops of Ael’s jeans to tug him closer for a quick kiss. It’s safe here - the door to his dressing room remains closed, the lock obediently clicking into place as he bunts his forehead against his husband’s.

“You knew I was a headache when you proposed, can’t be all that surprised.”

#teardownheaven #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& tombstone; undertaker and aeleus #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

2 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 2 months

Text

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY ANSWERING

@drkroots asked: tali: “ and, despite it all, i survived. “ - taker

He nods. She did. They all did. Somehow, impossible as it may have been, they’d survived. It was spite on his end; he imagined it was the same for her. For all of them. For whatever reason, they had decided not to die. And for whatever reason, they had ended up here. Here, in the Valley, at the funeral home.

“Sometimes, that’s all you can do.” He says, crossing his arms and looking out at the horizon. It’s a still day, a quiet day. Almost too quiet - he’ll have to be sure to do some extra rounds today. “Question is, now that you have survived…” He turns his attention back to her.

“What comes next?”

#drkrts #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

0 notes

brothersgrim · 7 months

Text

Send 🗣 to hear what my muse thinks of yours || ACCEPTING

@perditos asked: 🗣 Celia and ‘Taker

“She’s got a long way to go.” He says with a sniff, crossing his arms before scratching at his jaw. “I don’t mean in her craft. I’m not gonna pretend I know enough about that to comment. I mean for herself.” He sighs through his nose and shakes his head.

“Her soul is marked by guilt, and those kinds of stains don’t wash away easily.”

“For her sake, she better hope she can come to terms with her sins before they devour her whole.”

#&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #perditos

2 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 3 months

Text

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: Which one of you really deserved to put an end to Paul?

“Either of us.” Taker says with his arms folded. Kane nods. In spite of his agreement, he’s looking down. He shuffles a bit, but Taker reaches over and gives his brother’s shoulder a nudge with the back of his knuckles. That seems to help a bit.

“We needed him gone.” Kane crosses his arms tighter over his chest as he speaks. It’s hard for him to admit, even now, but… He’s figuring it out. It’s not a linear process, but he’s figuring it out. His words are stilted, almost rehearsed. Something he’s saying whether or not he believes it. A part of him knows, he knows, that Paul wasn’t a ‘dad’. He was barely even a father. … But for so many years, Paul was all he had. Paul was the one who brought him food (when he remembered). Paul was the one who kept him safe (Paul was the one who locked him away). Paul was the only one who spoke to him (Paul screamed at him for every little mistake).

It was complicated.

That’s why his next words are almost a struggle.

“He was only making things worse.” He has to look down when he says this. It’s true, isn’t it? In the end, Paul had only been out to hurt them. He hadn’t cared about them. … So why did it hurt so much to admit? Why did it hurt at all? His grip on his own arms tightens. And then there’s a cool pressure on the back of his neck when his brother reaches over.

“You did what you had to, little brother.” He says. And then, “Kane is right. What matters is he’s gone. He’s gone, and he’s not coming back.”

#anonymous #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& the world aflame; demon ic #&& incendiary remarks; demon answers #&& erase my humanity; demon kane #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

1 note · View note

brothersgrim · 3 months

Text

𝐒𝐄𝐍𝐃 " 𝐒𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐎𝐑 𝐏𝐀𝐒𝐒 “ 𝐅𝐎𝐑 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐎 𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐖𝐄𝐑 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝐀𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒. 𝐍𝐎 𝐋𝐘𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐀𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐖𝐄𝐃 || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: Smash or pass, Bray Wyatt

"Pass."

"Pass. I'm not interested in anyone who drools over my brother like that."

"I'm not interested in anyone who gargles with gator piss."

#anonymous #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& the world aflame; demon ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& incendiary remarks; demon answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #&& erase my humanity; demon kane

1 note · View note

brothersgrim · 3 months

Text

OLD ASKS JAY IS FINALLY GETTING TO

@cltchmps asked: “ you should know me better than that by now . “ ( for undertaker <3 )

“I should, shouldn’t I?” He snorts. She had never hidden who she was, not from him, not from anyone. It’s something he’d always respected about her. … But he still had to admit this was stupid. Real stupid. The lengths this kid would go to… She was gonna get herself killed. Probably sooner, rather than later. He hoped he was wrong about that.

“All things the same, you might wanna be ready. When she sees you’re still standing, she’s gonna come for you.” With a sniff, he scrubs at his jaw and looks her up and down.

“Put her in the ground, girl.”

#cltchmps #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

1 note · View note

brothersgrim · 3 months

Text

OLD MEMES JAY IS FINALLY GETTING TO

@telekinela asked: “I don’t see you as a monster.” (taker)

That… Catches him off guard. He blinks at her.

“What brought that on?” He asks, tilting his head to the side. He’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t understand kids. Maybe there’s a reason for that. He doesn’t think too hard about it. Instead, he just goes back to his work. In this case, washing his hands. The water still runs red, soap bubbles foaming pink as he scrubs. He’s used to it, though he idly wishes he had some of the soap from the morgue back home. It would do the job so much faster. But, he wasn’t at home. He was here. So he would have to make do. He finally gets enough grime off that he’s satisfied, cuts the water off, and shakes his hands once, twice, before reaching for some paper towel.

“You alright?”

#telekinela #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return

1 note · View note

brothersgrim · 10 months

Text

this is your daily reminder that kane hates almost every holiday with the exception of halloween and devils night.

but he is also going to set off every firework he can get his hands on for the fourth.

#&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #&& ars goetia; demon headcanons #taker is neutral on most of them but #kane wants to get into a fist fight with santa

3 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 1 year

Text

RANDOM ASKS || ACCEPTING

@asteraex asked:

It’s been sixty-five days and when she turns the handle on the back door her hand trembles. It’s unlocked, it has always been unlocked, (it will always be unlocked). Xion emerges into the kitchen and she doesn’t say a word of the stupid speech she had planned. She just crosses the kitchen and hugs her dad.

It’s been days, and days, and days. It’s been months. It’s been an eternity.

He’s had those days, those months, that eternity, to do a lot of thinking. Thinking about what happened. What he had done.

He’s done what he can to help Kane process it all. It’s easier than having to confront it himself. That was the hard part. It was also inevitable. He would have to face it all eventually. His actions, Kane’s, the outcomes… … If she’d ever come back again. He wonders if she will.

He wouldn’t blame her if she didn’t.

All the same, the world didn’t stop just because he needed it to. There were still bills to be paid, orders to fill, matches to enter. Graves to dig. And Kane needed him (he needed Kane). There was no such thing as a day off.

As a matter of fact, he’s just come in from the workshop. The scent of sawdust still clings to his clothing like cologne. (He’s pretty sure it’s just the scent. He brushed himself off before he came inside, but he knew better than most that that shit was impossible to get rid of.) It’s a hot day out, even by his standards. The whirr of the air conditioning from upstairs lets him know how Kane’s handling things. Not well. Taker can’t blame him. He wipes his hand down his face, leans his elbow against the counter.

He’s tired.

More tired than he usually is. His shoulders sag under an intangible weight. He knows what it is. He stays there for– Well, he’s not keeping track. A while. Too long. Not long enough. He isn’t sure.

There’s a faint creak of the porch that shatters the silence like a thundercrack, and he tenses. That wasn’t Kane. Kane is upstairs.

That’s not Aeleus or Mox. The steps are wrong. Keith always knocks, and he hadn’t gotten any calls. Who else-?

He barely has a chance to process how small the approaching form is, who it must be, before her face is pressed into the flannel of his shirt.

He freezes.

He can’t help it, he just… Freezes. Tenses up and doesn’t move. He’s not even sure he’s breathing. He can’t react. He can’t. If he moves, it’ll break the illusion. If he moves, it might all disappear. If he moves, he could startle her. If he moves, he could hurt her. He could ruin this.

He could wake up.

Slowly, slowly, the shock ebbs. Slowly, the situation settles around him. She’s home. She’s actually home. She's okay. She's alive.

He had wondered about that.

Yes, she's tough. She always had been. And yes, she had walked away from the fight. But she had been in rough shape after, and he hadn’t heard from her in so long (not that he thought he’d any right to know). He had worried. And he realises now that he’s just been standing there while she waits for him.

He’s hesitant when he moves again, still with the lingering sense that she might be hurt, that he might hurt her again, that she might vanish into the ether if he makes too sudden a gesture. But his arms settle around her, and she’s still so small, small enough that she all but disappears when he finally returns her embrace. He holds her like a lifeline, pressing his cheek against the top of her head and lifting her feet off the floor.

“I’m sorry.”

#asteraex #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #&& quoth the ravens three; deadman drabbles

6 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 10 months

Text

Also, at the end of this run, one of these men winds up completely unhinged and wildly off the rails, and the other gets a steady job.

#&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #team hell no was absolutely ridiculous and yet a huge moment of character growth for kane

2 notes · View notes

brothersgrim · 1 year

Text

RANDOM ASKS || ALWAYS ACCEPTING

@asteraex asked:

"Paul is dead." (For 'Taker)

The darkness of the Abyss releases him slowly. It is never happy to let him go; he is rarely happy to leave. A taste, a glimpse, of what he can never have. But leave he must. It is not up to him. He has to claw his way back to awareness. The world swims drunkenly around his perception, pulsating along with the agony behind his skull even as he furrows his brow.

Each breath hurts. They pull in ragged, rasping, sandpaper against his throat and the inside of his lungs. It burns. Burns, even though his mouth is coated in something thick and foetid. Burns, even though his lungs feel full of fluid. It hurts. He breathes anyway.

The first one tastes of smoke, as it always does. Scorched wood and grief. The second tastes of ash and rust. … Salt. The last one just tastes like blood. Fresh, red, still in the process of clotting. It had been a quick death, not a clean one.

How had he died? It always took a second for him to remember. It was frustrating. It felt important, but–

He shifted his weight, and something beneath him creaked.

What?

Creaked?

Where was he? This wasn’t the slab he normally came back to after traumatic deaths. There was light filtering through his eyelids, no matter how tightly he closed them. Harsh, white, sterile. This wasn’t the crypt. Not cold enough, not dark enough. Whatever he’s lying on is solid, which feels right, and cold, but it moves all the same, shifting with his movements and giving off an odd metallic whine as it does. He knows that sound. It’s…

Familiar.

It was very familiar, and–

Ah, fuck!

Sitting up hurt. Shouldn’t have moved so fast. Knocked the breath out of him. Sharp and shooting through his chest–

And then it was gone.

The next breath smells like nothing - or, rather, it smells like home. Like a very specific part of the home. The air is cold, dry. The acrid scent of chemicals tangs in the air. The sting of bleach from tools freshly cleaned. Either a mortuary, or some kind of hospital or lab. This could either be good, or very, very bad. He hunches forward, scrubs his hand against his forehead as his other palm braces against the cool surface he’s been lying on. It’s so bright - too hard to open his eyes right now. He knows he should. He has to figure out what happened. Where is he? How had he died this time? What had–

The fog clears like a thunder clap. Adrenaline spiked mercilessly.

He knows what happened.

Kane.

Xion.

The old auto yard.

Paul.

The urn.

The fight. Oh, god, the fight. They had– He had–! The lights flicker wildly overhead as the temperature plummets. Kane. Xion. Glass crackles ominously overhead. It's a barrage of memory and sensation that would have lasted only a heartbeat - if he had one - but hits him harder than any blow dealt in the ring.

Kane.

Xion.

His boots hit the tile with a dull thud. This was his mortuary. This was the funeral home. Why was he not in the crypt? How had he gotten back home? Paul didn't have the strength, Kane might have, if he was alright– If–

A lightbulb pops overhead and he curses. (Flinches.) Even his own voice sounds like a gunshot. Too loud, too loud, too loud. Ignores the shower of glass for now. It glints off the searingly white floor, taunting, taunting, taunting, and he ignores it. (Paul would be mad. The home had to be perfect. Don’t make a mess. Don’t ruin it–)

The front hall was empty. The door was closed. There was sun coming in through the front door, but not much. Nobody in the sitting room. Light in the kitchen. Someone there. Not Paul, no yelling. Not Kane, didn’t feel right. (Nothing felt right.) Someone else. Who?

There's a tightness to his jaw that's echoed in the balling of his fists. Nails bite into his palms. Each step is quick and direct. Forced and yet not fast enough. It feels like struggling through molasses and he continues anyway. The air has no taste but it is so thick, so choking. He feels like he’s drowning. Like he’s been buried.

Kane.

Xion.

Who is–

He rounds the corner and the soft yellow light gouges at his vision. If the temperature was low before, it's freezing now. The sky echoes his thoughts with a low rumble. There’s no sun filtering through the back door. It’s a fact that he barely registers. He’s too busy looking at the table. No, at the person behind it.

He sees her sitting there and the air doesn't taste like nothing anymore. It tastes like bile.

It's still choking.

Xion.

He doesn't move. Doesn't know if he can (hasn't been told to). He doesn't speak, either. He knows he can't. If he does, he'll be sick. If he does, he won't know what to say. If he does…

She looks up at him and locks eyes and it doesn't matter that, if he were to hug her right now, she would still slot under his chin (so small, so precious, and he still–) (no right to touch her. No right to be close). He sees the exhaustion in her eyes, the slump in her shoulders, smudges of dirt and blood and he feels so, so small.

This is his fault.

He did this to her.

He did this to her and there is no turning back from it. She knows. She knows, she knows, she knows that he did this, and she knows that it could happen again. He isn't safe. She isn't safe with him.

This is all his fault.

"You're awake." She says, and he shies away. Ducks his head enough that his hair falls in front of his face and it helps in that the pain scrawled across her is obscured. A shield against the horrors he inflicted. He put that misery there. (He did so much worse than that.)

"I-" He starts, then stops. Swallows. Closes his eyes and turns his head away as he once again clenches his jaw. His hands feel awkward and useless and filthy at his sides. He wrings his fingers, clutches at his own wrist. Ends up with his palms in a vice grip of his own creation and it almost stops his skin from feeling like it's crawling off.

Almost.

There's a clink that must be her glass being set down. It's cold and metallic and hollow and jolts down his spine and he doesn't have the wherewithal to stop himself from snapping upright (look at me when I'm talking to you, boy).

"You look like hell." She says and he still can't meet her gaze. In a better day, he might say that she isn’t one to talk, or that she looks much the same. Shoot off something sarcastic. Ruffle her hair and reassure her he was fine. That was their way.

…

Had been their way.

He didn't have the right to speak to her like that after what he did. To speak–

Speak.

Kane.

Where's Kane?

Despite the thoughts that scream in his head it's quiet, so quiet, so empty and it's just like it was back then, where–? No answer when he reaches out and if he had a pulse it would have stopped.

No.

No, no, no no no no not Kane, it didn't end like that did it? She wouldn’t have. She wouldn’t have, but Paul would have. Paul would have, and he wouldn’t have made it a choice, and Kane– If his little brother thought he was protecting him, then of course– Kane, no, not Kane. Was he okay? Taker didn't know, didn't see, not Kane not because of him, should have left him shouldn't have come, could have ran but didn't they BOTH could have ran but they didn't because of him–

Xion's saying something but the words swim by him, sluggish and taunting and completely unintelligible. Kane. It’s a haze. Kane. He didn’t see him go down. Kane. That didn’t mean it didn’t happen.

Kane.

Where–

He's already turning to look up the stairs when he finds his voice. It’s rough and unsteady but he doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter.

"Is he-"

"Kane is fine." She says, and he looks back to her through the veil of his hair. It takes a moment to register. Fine? "He's upstairs in his room. He's asleep." Asleep? She must have noticed the furrow in his brow. He blinked. She sighed. "I had to use magic, but it's just sleep. He's fine."

For a moment, he just watches her. Comprehends. Then he lets out an unsteady breath he had no idea he was holding.

It still tastes bitter.

"But I-" Another grimace. He stays angled off, not facing her fully. Not opening his posture up. "You could have been killed."

"But I wasn't." She has another sip of her drink and the indifference of the remark sparks at his gut. (Anger has always been easier than fear.)

"You could have been!" There's an edge to his voice and his hands tighten once more at his sides. Holding himself together. Holding himself back. Her life had been at risk. Did that not matter to her? Did she not care?! She could have been killed! "You could have DIED, Xion! This isn't a damn joke!"

"And you DID die!" She returns with the stubbornness they both shared. An unstoppable force and an immovable object. It would not end well.

"That's different!" Even behind his hair, the budding anger is unmistakable. How could she just brush that off? "I come back! I always come back!"

She could have died!

"In how long?!" She demands.

She could have died, and it would have all been his fault.

"That doesn't matter!" He says.

She could have died, and he in his eternity would never get to see her again.

"It matters to me! It matters to Aeleus, and to Kane, and to Mox!" She stands. He tenses.

She could have died, and he never would have gotten to say goodbye.

Those are low blows and she knows it. Teeth are grit so hard his jaw hurts and the fear and desperation that sprints through his system claws viciously at the inside of his throat. A similar frustration settles over her frame. Then she lets out a breath. She sits heavily in her seat and scrubs the heels of her hands against her eyes, muttering some expletive he can’t make out. His eyes catch the red stains smudged along her skin.

Stains that he had caused.

And now he was yelling at her.

Hadn't he hurt her enough?

Was this all he ever did?

All he was good for?

What was wrong with him?

His stance shifts as he feels himself deflate. Why is he doing this to her? She doesn’t deserve this. She hadn’t deserved any of this. He’s about to apologise when–

"Paul is dead."

…

What?

He freezes in place. Blinks. Opens his mouth and closes it again. Then gives his bewilderment a voice, and speaks his question allowed.

"What did you say?"

"Paul's dead. I killed him." She cups her drink in her hands. As a comfort, perhaps, and he kicks himself mentally for driving her to need it. And then the words sink in.

Paul’s dead.

Paul’s dead? … He doesn’t understand. Those words– They don’t make sense put together like that. His brow furrows and he looks away for a different reason. Paul is dead. Paul is dead. Paul is…

His hands are shaking. The floor feels like it’s shifting under his feet. Like it’s about to fall away. Like it’s about to swallow him whole. The room sways- Or maybe that’s him-? Movement off to the side. The sound of a chair scraping against wood in a way that scrapes down his nerves. Nails on a chalkboard. She takes a step towards him and he steps back at the same moment. His balance lurches and he braces his hand against the doorframe. The wood is solid, tangible, and it helps. He grips it tightly, squeezes his eyes shut. His head hurts. (Actually, everything hurt, but his head most of all.) This is too much. He pinches the bridge of his nose between his fingers and scowls. Paul is dead? He’s actually dead? This is feeling more and more like a dream. A nightmare, when he remembers the hot copper of his daughter’s blood gushing over his hands. Perhaps both. The memory brings another wave of nausea over him and if he didn’t think he’d collapse, he might have run to the toilet. (Funny, blood never bothered him before. He knows it won’t after. But hers- But Kane’s- When it was because of him–) Instead, he just swallows, utters a low growl.

This was too much.

He needed to sit down. He stands regardless.

“You’re sure?” He doesn’t open his eyes. He hears a faint shuffling as she shifts her weight, but she doesn’t step closer. He appreciates that.

“I cut off his head.” It’s said so bluntly, and is so ridiculous to hear, that he almost laughs.

Almost.

He only lets out an exhausted, half-hysterical huff that borders on a chuckle, and rests his forehead against the wood. It helps a little less now.

"Does Kane know?" He asks. The answer is immediate.

"No. You woke up first."

"Fuck." That's going to be a messy conversation. Paul and Kane had a different dynamic between the two of them. Twenty years was a long time, and the jolly old mortician had spent all of it twisting Kane's mind this way and that. There was no telling how he would react, though if Taker was a betting man, he'd wager on taking a few punches at the very least.

Might wake up in the crypt again.

He was probably waking up in the crypt again.

"I should tell him." This, the Undertaker stands up straight for, glancing sidelong in his daughter's direction. "He needs to hear it from me." Partly because nobody else understood Kane, understood Paul, understood the two of them like he did; partly because she had suffered enough already. He couldn't burden her with anything else. There's a pause, pregnant and bleak, before Xion speaks again.

"I know it’s a lot to take in. It’s okay if you’re not happy about it - I wasn’t."

It catches him off guard. Is he happy? He should be, shouldn’t he? He hated Paul. He always had. And he himself had tried to put Bearer in the ground on numerous occasions.It had almost worked, and he’d spent many nights wishing that it had. He had always wanted Paul dead. If Paul was dead, he couldn't hurt them anymore. If Paul was dead, he wouldn't take Kane away anymore. If Paul was dead, he wouldn't try to take the home away anymore. If Paul was dead, that meant that forty years of pain and suffering were finally over. It was done. They were safe - or at least, safer. By all accounts, the Deadman should be happy.

He should be damn thrilled; and, maybe someday in the future, he would be.

But right now, he wasn't.

He was just tired.

So, so tired.

His body feels like concrete as he angles towards her, and though he still can't look her in the eyes, he can at least face the daughter he almost killed when he responds with,

"It’s done. That’s what matters."

Another silence. He feels like he should say something, but he doesn’t know what. ‘I’m sorry’ feels too insignificant. Did it even matter? It wouldn’t change anything. It had already happened. He couldn’t turn back the clock, no matter how much he wished he could (a recurring theme for him). Because he had almost killed her. And she had killed Paul. And Paul was dead. And Kane didn’t know.

Not for the first time, he wished that the universe would just stop. Not for the first time, he knows it won’t.

…

Oh, right - he has to remember to breathe.

It still hurts, but it’s not as much of a struggle, not so putrid across his tongue. That will change if he looks up, he knows, so he doesn’t. Instead, he glances back up the stairs, to where his brother (his little brother, invaluable and precious beyond words) lies sleeping.

Just sleeping.

He’s just sleeping. He’s okay. (Won’t be okay when he wakes up. That is a conversation that Taker is not looking forward to - but one that he can’t shy away from. He will not lie to Kane again. He only hopes Kane will forgive him for this, and that he will understand.) He shifts his weight, flexing his fingers as he looks back in her direction (as much as he allowed himself).

“Are you alright?” He asks, even though he dreads the answer.

“I’m fine.” She says, and he’s told the same lie enough to know that she isn’t. He doesn’t know if he wants to challenge that. “What about you?” … He wishes he’d challenged it.

“I’m fine.” He’s sure she can see through it all, too. A habit that he passed down. Her footsteps on the tile are light, almost hesitant. He wonders if it’s from concern or fear.

(He wonders if that’s another thing he instilled in her.)

“I-” It’s her turn to falter, now. It’s unlike her. He glances up enough to see her bowing her head. “I’m going away for a while.” That makes him look up completely. Leaving? She’s leaving? He should argue. Tell her that she doesn’t have to go. This is her home, too, isn’t it? She’s supposed to be safe here. He promised her she would be safe. And now she wanted to leave. But if she leaves, he can’t–! … He can’t protect her. He can’t protect her here.

This is for the best. He sighs as his shoulders slump.

She’ll be better off away from all of this. Away from them. (Another recurring theme.) So he just nods, tugs at the edges of his duster to adjust the way it sits across his shoulders. It doesn’t help much. He still feels ready to shatter at any moment.

The dull ache in his chest suggests he might have done that already.

“Be safe.” He says, and then nothing more. He’s never been good at goodbyes. She gives some last parting words - perhaps promising she will - but he’s not listening, not really. He’s too tired for that. His head hurts too much. (His heart hurts.)

He stays there, in the door frame, for a long while after she’s gone. (Gone. Gone. She’s gone, she’s gone, she’s gone.) He’s not sure how long he’s there. Could have been minutes. Could have been hours. He wasn’t sure. He didn’t care. He just didn’t.

And then, when he could put off his duty no longer, he turned back to the stairs to check on his brother.

Kane still needed him. As much of a failure as he may be, he cannot abandon his brother again.

#asteraex #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& a legend reburied; deadmans return #&& quoth the ravens three; deadman drabbles

5 notes · View notes