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zensations35 · 1 year

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Soulful Sneezes (A Beckett Fic)

Okay. I lost myself in ghostly sneezy writing. It's much shorter than my normal stuff. And yall. I am freaking out. @onetrickponi, in all of her grace, drew my new bby Beckett. He is a cemetery groundskeeper allergic to ghosts. Pic and fic below.

Beckett’s mother wouldn’t be proud that he’s a groundskeeper. Although, what did she expect? He isn’t brilliant enough for medicine, he has few skills, and every job he’s applied to has been…well, Beckett really should be used to it by now. The jokes, the stifled giggles. His tendency to be nervous and shy and…all around strange. Plus, he’s very self conscious about his nose.

Hawkish. That’s how they describe him. His nose is a bit too big, and he's been poked fun of for it. Then there’s his tendency to ruin outings with his allergies. His very…unique…allergies.

But at least, working this job, he won’t be hounded by living people, making fun of him. No, the attention he gets in the cemetery is vastly different from anything he’s encountered before. Fitting, for him, though. Almost familiar in its strangeness.

As he picks up the shovel, two spirits pass him by. He shivers from the cold of their souls. Then two more walk beside him, as if waiting…just waiting for him to--

“Hhhieh-HET’Shhh-eu!” Beckett sniffs and rubs his clothed forearm across his nose. It’s already getting drippy from dozens of sneezes today.

It’s not always this bad. Usually he can get in a day’s work with a handful of sneezes. But tonight is almost the full moon. The fuller and brighter it gets, the more restless the spirits get. The more solid. Powerful. Itchy.

Today, they’re out in full force and they’re slowly getting drunk on moonlight.

Beckett can feel them, like forceless wind. Chilling the air that contains them.

He hefts the corner of a cracked headstone and the materials to adhere it back to the body of the stone memento. He tries to be delicate with it, aligning it properly so the crack doesn’t show as badly, but souls push against him, the wind carrying their laughter in the form of whistling gusts. His lip buries itself under his teeth as he flexes his nostrils.

"Hhgghhh…" Ugh.

His fingers whiten around the solid headstone, nose tipped up. He can’t cover it. His hands are holding the stone and--hih…he doesn’t whh-NGK…want to drop it--

“Hih-HAXzzzhhuuu!” The mist from his sneeze polishes the stone into a shine much like the moonlight. Another spirit grazes his nose with icy breath.

“Please…” he groans…”Please just let me--hhhIH!!" His back straightens, chin tipping up as his nostrils expand, “Hid’CHzzhh-EH..hgg…EXchhZzzh-hieh!! HXST’chh…egh…”

His lips are damp by the time he gets the epoxy and clamp on the cracked corner of the stone.

At first he didn’t understand it. He thought he had allergies, but could never figure out what triggered them. It was shortly after starting this job as groundskeeper that he figured out he was allergic to ghosts. Ghosts!

Once he’s able to free his hands, he runs a leather clad finger under his nose, rubbing the pink skin above his lip. The leather is rough and caked with dirt, his cheeks and nose are likely smeared with earth and salt, mixing with the dark stubble on his chin.

“Becket!!” he hears his boss’s call. The time is 6:54. He should have been done an hour ago. “Becket,” Samuel approaches and the ghosts part like the sea for him. For some reason, they don’t like Samuel much. Samuel cannot see, hear, or sneeze because of the ghosts. He finds Beckett’s allergies and constant outbursts at them to be odd. Senile, even. "But the man is a good worker." Samuel says. "Young people are like that. Maybe something off, but good hearts in the end."

“Young man,” Samuel puts a hand on Beckett’s shoulder. “I know full moons are rough for ya. Some special pollen or whatnot.”

“No, it’s--” Beckett clamps his mouth shut. He has told two people about his allergy. One believed him. One did not. He lost a lot of friends to the nonbeliever. He won’t be making that mistake again. “Yessir,” Beckett says. “I apologize. I can stay late and finish up. I--” a cold patch rubs up to his back. Beckett’s eyes water. “I hnn…geh-errhmm! “ He forces himself to clear his throat and swallow the sneeze. “If you’ll give me a-hhh…”

Damn. It’s not gone. “Ahhiehh…EXSHH-SSHZZZH!! EXTshhhuuU!” each sneeze bows his spine, curling him further toward the ground. Liquid drips from his nose and lips and he covers his face with a glove, pinching back more sneezes even as his nostrils fight back, winging out beneath his finger’s grasp.

Samuel frowns. “I’ll give you two hours to get this done. Overtime pay.” He points at Beckett, “Don’t make me regret it, Beck.”

“Yessir,” Beckett snuffles, chattering the word. He sighs, feeling like he could just flop onto the grass and sleep. But instead, he turns back to the grounds. He tugs at the shirt beneath his overalls and pulls the collar over his nose, giving it a squishy massage. Ghh…what he would give for something softer to wipe his nose with, but he’s out of tissues. Again.

He ambles toward the bushes with a trimmer and begins snipping the overgrowth. The giggling gust of ghosts prod his cheeks, tug his ears, fingers of frost kissing the tip of his nose. They’re toying with him. He can sense their glee--their capriciousness. Batting at his ears and face. Teasing…tickling.

“HgSZTT! ExzzsH! HrSCHH-eiu!!” He gasps a breath and realizes all of the sneezing has caused him to misalign the shape of the bush. Dammit. He spins on the ghosts, voice pitching with abnormal aggression. “Do you all want me to fix this or not!! Shoo! Quit making me sneeze!”

More laughter. Soft. Barely a sound. Whispers on the wind. He grunts and picks up the trimmers, marching across the grounds to hang them back up.

He’s almost done. His next task is simply clearing out the broken glass near the graves and picking up trash. People aren’t supposed to leave breakable vases or anything but flowers and coins, but they do anyway. More work for Beckett.

He fills two bags with junk, mostly already broken breakables like glass picture frames and pottery. The ghosts back off as he does this. They know making him sneeze while handling sharp glass could actually harm him. They’re mischievous, not vicious.

But as soon as he’s done, he is surrounded by impatient spirits. They circle him, closing in for one last pester before they lose him to sleep. Beckett sighs and pauses. “Get it over with, then.”

The chill grows closer to him. Like a pocket of winter just in front of his face. The air thickens with rogueish glee as they vandalize his nose.

“Hih-ihh-eih-!” his vision distorts and he blinks trails of tears down his ruddy cheek. “J-just-hieh! Get it-EIH-stop…teasing!!” his back arches with the inhales. He can feel the icy tendrils, nimble but steady as a surgeon. They reach inside him, through the tunnels of his nostrils to pull the sneeze out of him. “Hieh! AXSZZ-UE!” his head jackknifes forward, sneezes exploding out of him, “EXSZZH-ih! EGSHHZZ-UU!” They ring through the grounds like striking chimes of the clock. “SHHZZ! SHHHzzHH-iehggg..ehhh…” his face is wet with multiple streams of clear liquid, his vision trapped behind a saline lens. His hand washes over his face, surely muddying his cheeks and chin as he sways back to his tiny cottage on the edge of the cemetery.

The ghosts leave him alone. Finally. They had their fun with him. His lungs feel sore as if from a long track race. At least he’ll finally get to shower and sleep before tomorrow. Surely the spirits have had their fill?

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