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brothersgrim · 4 months

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SEND 'WHAT IF' SCENARIOS FOR MY MUSES TO REACT TO! || ACCEPTING

Anonymous asked: What if Taker was in a situation in which he felt extremely confused by something 👀 sorry, I’m not that creative with asks

He shifts in his bed, scrunching his face in displeasure at the hazy notion of waking up. He's tired. He's sore. He knows his duties will summon him soon, but for now, his bed is comfortable, and that is enough. It is so much more than he had for so long.

There's a noise from out in the hall. Footsteps. Now, enough people came and went these days that that noise wouldn’t normally bother him. But even with so many people, the Undertaker knew them all - he wouldn’t bring them here otherwise. He knew their voices, their habits, their rhythms, and, while he wasn’t as keen at it as Kane was, he knew their footsteps. He could usually tell who it was walking past his door.

He does not recognize those steps.

The Undertaker opens his eyes with a frown, brow knotting as he sits up, and–

And this isn’t his room.

This isn’t his room, even if it feels painfully familiar. It’s still small, though he wonders if it feels bigger simply because there are more things in it than usual - where did they come from? The rug, the desk, the chair, the lamp… The posters were different, but he recognized the room itself. He knows, if he were to look out the window to his left, he would see the Yard. His Yard. He pushes carefully off the bed and freezes when his feet brush something soft. He looks down, and things get stranger still. A set of slippers rests against his feet. Soft ones, hand-made by a matron in town for a church fundraiser.

He remembered these. He didn’t know why - they should be inconsequential - but he remembers them. And the feet that brush against them move when he wills them to, the toes flex and curl, but these aren’t his feet; they lack the weathering and callouses, the scars on the sides where poorly-maintained boots had worn skin away to bloody messes more times than he could count. He raises his hands to his face, and they’re similarly smaller, unblemished, nails neatly groomed without any traces of grave-dirt or blood or motor oil stuck underneath. This–

This didn’t make any sense. There was an answer, an explanation, to all of this, but it danced and spun and swirled around in illogical circles until all it looked like was a dream. This was a dream. This was a dream, it had to be, it was the only thing that possibly made sense. He pushes off the bed (the blankets felt too soft, too real, and wasn’t this different from how these dreams normally went?) and is halfway to the mirror in the corner when the footsteps come back, and there’s three steady knocks on the door. The voice comes through the door just as he catches his reflection - just in time to see the agony flash across his younger self’s features as recognition twists the knife of grief.

“Hey in there. You ready for bed yet?”

That’s his father’s voice. A voice he had longed to hear and failed to properly remember for so long. Any response is caught in his throat, stopped by the lump and the sickly taste of bile that he clamps his jaw against, by breaths that trip and stumble as they make a rapid escape from his lungs without leaving any oxygen behind.

“Adam?” Another knock and he knew, he’d known for so long, that he hadn’t quite gotten it right in his mind, but he hadn’t realised how many little details time had worn away. That was his father’s voice. The way his accent shaped each vowel, dulled the edge of some consonants and sharpened some others. The hint of concern mingled with confusion, so genuine and authentic and different, so different from how Paul had spoken of them. “You there?”

This had to be a dream. It had to be. The door handle rattles and his entire body tenses. He knows what will happen next. The door will open and he will see his father’s face, burned and disfigured, and it will tell him that everything was his fault and he will wake up for real, in the master bedroom in his own– His grown– body. That’s what will happen. That’s what will happen because nothing else makes sense. That’s what will happen because he does not know what he will do if it doesn’t. The door opens and it is not his father’s corpse he sees. It is his father. Just his father, but like his voice, the memories of his face, even the photo kept hidden away, lacked so many details. The faint scar on his lip. The furrow in his brow. The way his hair flopped when he tilted his head, the creases at the corner of his eyes from a lifetime of smiling and thinking and squinting alike.

“Ad-?” His father begins, but cuts off when he meets his son’s eyes. The Undertaker - Adam - does not move. He’s not sure he can. His father’s eyes widen a bit, and he reaches in the room to set his mug (his favourite mug, off-white and coffee-stained from years of use, it had a soup recipe on the side but he always filled it with everything but instead) on the dresser (handmade by Grandpa Abe, years and years before Adam was ever born and longer still before the fire claimed it and everything else).

“Whoa, whoa, easy.” His father closes the door behind him and crouches down, close enough to study his son’s face but far enough to not crowd. The Undertaker - Adam - studies him in kind through wide, shellshocked eyes. Green eyes, not like his father’s brown. A soft green-and-navy flannel shirt hung on shoulders made broad from ranching, from grave-digging, from casket-building, a strong nose wrinkled just enough as he frowned down. This was his father. “What happened?” (You died.) “What’s wrong?” (I killed you.That’s what’s wrong. You died, I killed you, I didn’t mean to but I did and you’re dead and I lost you and–) His father’s hands, work-rough but gentle, come to rest on his shoulders and he flinches. If he hadn’t felt sick before, he did now. This is his father.

This is his father, and this is not a dream.

“Jesus, c’mere.” His father sighs and pulls him in for a hug. It’s crushing, it’s suffocating, it’s ensnaring, it’s safe, and it isn’t until his father holds even tighter that Adam realises he is leaving tear stains on his father’s shirt. Oh. He’s crying. He’s crying, and he’s not sure he will ever be able to stop. He is Death. He is the Reaper. Men the size of mountains ran at the mere idea of his presence. His name was a legend, a warning, a curse, a promise. He is the Omega, the ugly truth of the world, and the truth he cannot bring himself to accept is just how much he had wanted this for so, so many years. His hands shake as he takes tentative fistfuls of flannel, then grips hard enough his knuckles turn white as he presses his face against his father’s shoulder.The shuddering, messy inhale that he forces smells like coffee and wood chips and spiced aftershave, fabric softener and earth and embalming fluid. It smells like comfort. It is a smell he had long since forgotten, and even though his lungs don’t work and his chest burns he forces himself to breathe it in again.

“You hurt?” His father asks and the Undertaker has no idea how to respond, so Adam doesn’t. Only manages another breath that sounds deceptively like a hiccup. His father hums a single note and stands, tightening his arms just enough to lift Adam up off his feet. “Think there’s a bit more cocoa in the pot downstairs. Why don’t we get you some?” The offer only makes Adam cling to him even tighter. (How long had it been since anyone had offered the Undertaker cocoa? The Devil Himself did not need comfort. The Pale Rider had no use for warmth.) “C’mon.” His father opens the door with one hand and shuts it as they step through, leaving the soup mug behind. (That’s right, he had a habit of forgetting where he left things, hadn’t he? Another detail long forgotten.) He clings to his father and one of the boards creaks, and oh, right, he’d always had to be careful of that when he was young, right? And then there’s another creak as a door opens. Another voice the Deadman had resigned himself to never hearing - at least, not like this. Another set of spectral hands ripping into his chest.

“What’s wrong with Adam?”

“Nothing, Fireball.” His - their - father says, reaching down with one arm to tousle Kane’s hair. His little brother looks up and his throat seizes again. The eyes he meets are grey - both grey, not mis-matched by smoke and flame and infection. His brother, little brother, baby brother, is just how he had tried to remember him for so many years and even through blurring vision he can’t look away. It’s how he was always meant to be. How he should have been, until– “Just a bit under the weather, is all. Go turn down your bed, I’ll be up in a few minutes.”

“Okay.” Kane says, not bothering to keep the frown out of his voice. The door closes and Adam thinks more than feels the nudge through the air, that voice he had grieved so deeply peeking in through the disoriented haze of his own thoughts.

You okay?

Kane. He sent back, squeezing his eyes shut and once again burrowing his face into his father’s shoulder. Is it really you?

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be Kane. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be. It had to be a trick. A lie. It would all fall apart because it always did. It would go wrong and twist and he would lose it - them - again because he always did.

It’s me. Kane’s voice says and it’s a punch to the gut all over again. Why? Did something get out? Do we need to find Mama?

Mama.

Their mother.

Was she here, too? The last time he had seen her had been when Kane - grown, scarred, furious Kane - had thrown him into her casket. Before that, it had been when Paul had brought him to the other funeral home. When he had seen a skeletal grin and blackened glass and bloody, charred flesh– Another shudder wracks his too-small body as the revulsion hits him anew.

“You’re okay.” His father says, carefully setting Adam down on a chair. It feels so much bigger than chairs are supposed to. He doesn’t let go of his father. He wasn't sure that he could. If he does, his father will slip away again. If he does, he will wake up as he was yesterday and he will never see his father again, outside of photographs. If he does–

His father rests a hand on Adam’s head before pulling away.

“Sit tight.” His father says, moving to a pot resting on the stove. He rummages around for a mug and finds one, smaller than the now-discarded soup mug with two little mice painted on the side. He lifts the pot by its long wooden handle, pours cocoa into the mug, then returns to Adam’s side. “Here y’are. Drink slow, but see if it helps you any.” Adam takes the mug in his hands and stares.

“It’s warm.” He says, and even he notices the incredulity in his voice. His father lets out a surprised snort.

“Well, yeah. It’s hot chocolate.” And yes, he’s right, the name should make its temperature obvious, but that’s not the point. The point is that Adam - the Undertaker - can feel it. The point is that it’s another sign that this is all, somehow, impossibly, inexplicably real. He hesitates a moment longer before taking a sip. It’s warm, yes, but it’s rich, sweet, comforting. Something homemade, from scratch, not from a packet.

“My mama - your Granny Jules - used to make this whenever my siblings and I had a rough night.” His father leans against the counter with a grunt belying stiff muscles. “‘Course, when we started getting bigger, she put whiskey in it. … You still got a few more years before you can give that a try.” His father offers him a smile, and though it still twists at his heart, Adam manages a smile back. This is real. He has to accept that. Maybe… Maybe everything else had been a dream? No. That didn’t make sense, either. It had been fifty years, and he had felt every second of it. … Maybe he should give up trying to rationalise this. His mere existence had defied logic for so long; why would this be any different? (But at the same time, nothing good, logical or otherwise, ever lasted with him. Everything he loved had been taken away over, and over, and over again. Accepting this as reality would only make it hurt more when it was ripped from his grasp.) It’s a debate he’s still having with himself when he takes another sip of his drink. Then there are more footsteps, and these ones are not difficult to recognize.

“JT! You down there?”

Paul.

So many things happen at once. Adam chokes on his drink. The light overhead explodes. His father flinches back into the counter and curses. Paul bangs into something upstairs and says something similar. He comes downstairs and Adam cannot stop staring. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. That’s Paul. Paul is here. Why is Paul here? Paul stares at him with a furrowed brow.

“The hell was that?” Paul asked. Adam gripped the mug so tightly his hands shook.

“Just a light.” His father said, but there was a different tone to his voice. His words were just a bit slower, a bit more thoughtful. “Think you can go find Iza for me? We’re gonna need to clean this up, get a replacement. She’s out back.” Paul watched Adam a moment longer, then shrugged and made his way to the back door. Adam did not take his eyes off him, nor did he loosen his grip. Paul was here. Paul was here. Paul was here. It’s a thought that consumes him so much he doesn’t realise his father has moved until they’re in front of each other.

“Adam.” His own name makes him jump again, sloshing cocoa onto his fingers. It burns. The sensation, unpleasant as it is, helps ground him. His father carefully pries the mug from his grasp and sets it on the table, before work-worn hands rest on Adam’s shoulders. “You’re not in trouble, but I need you to be honest with me. Did he do something to you?” Adam didn’t answer. How could he? How could he explain forty years of torture to the father who only knew him as– How old was he? Ten years? Eleven?

“I-” He starts, then stops. Forty years of suffering. Forty years of misery, of slavery, of pain and fear and what he had done to Kane and– Without being aware of it, his hands had moved to his throat. And then he swallows, looks down, and clutches at his own hands. “I…” His father’s jaw clenched and he looked over his shoulder to the back door. After another beat, he turns back and scoops Adam back into his arms.

“Y’know what? Grab your cup, Mr. Man. We’re having a sleepover tonight.”

It’s almost robotic, the way Adam does as he’s told. It’s easy to fall back onto that old habit. It’s familiar. Far more familiar than the way his father carries him up the stairs, stopping only to knock on Kane’s door.

“Hey, Kane! C’mon. You’re sleeping in our room tonight.” His words were met with some shuffling noises from the other side of the door, before the knob turned and Kane’s ruffled head poked out.

“I am?” He asked, blinking groggily. He must have been settling down already. Their father reached down to smooth Kane’s hair back into place.

“Yup. Sleepover night.” Their father nodded. “Grab your bear if you want, but hurry it up. It’s getting late.”

“Okay.” Kane disappeared into his room again, then reappeared and trotted after their father. Adam found himself deposited on their parents’ bed. His father squeezed his shoulders one last time, pressing a kiss to the crown of Adam’s head.

“Stay here, I’m gonna go find your mama.” And then he leaves. He leaves, and those words cling to Adam like an embrace, like a security blanket, like brambles, like a noose. The bed shifted behind him, but Kane’s voice still almost made him jump.

“You’re not sick, are you?” He asked. Adam worked his jaw, then carefully set the mug down on the nightstand.

“I dunno what I am.” He said after a while. Kane flopped against his back. The warmth, the pressure, helped. The closeness to his brother helped. It didn’t chase the tightness in his chest away, but it helped.

“You’re scared.” That did not help.

“Kane-” He started. He didn’t need his brother digging through his head. Not now. He didn’t want Kane to see. Kane didn’t need to know. (He didn’t want Kane to know.)

“It’s okay.” Kane said, shrugging the shoulder that wasn’t smushed against his brother’s back. “It’s like Mama always says. Nothing can hurt us in this house.” … Adam was glad his brother didn’t see the expression that just flashed across his face. How he wished that was true. How he’d used to believe that was true. How many years he had desperately, desperately longed for it to be true. But it wasn’t. He grips the mug tighter and leans back against Kane. The warmth of both and the weight of his brother feel a million miles away. His chest is tight and he closes his eyes as though that will banish the pain. He needs to breathe. He knows he needs to breathe, but this is all too much, too much, too much– The creak of the stairs.

He’s not ready for this.

His father’s muffled voice.

He’s not ready.

“... Look in his eyes, almost didn’t look like him.” His father was saying. “I’ve only seen that look two other places. Soldiers, and the pigs you bring in on Halloween.” The pigs. Livestock only in the loosest sense. Shepherded in from death row, or rounded up in the wild if they hadn’t been caught yet. Serial killers, repeat abusers, the worst of humanity, and they all squealed when they realised what was going to happen to them. He knew that well enough from his own experience. (He’d had to keep the tradition going. He had to. And he had done it, like all things, alone.) And the door opens. And the air leaves the room again. And he no longer feels the cup, or his brother. And he knows he’s shaking but he doesn’t feel that, either. And he imagines he’s crying again but even that escapes sensation. There’s an image juxtaposed over his mother’s face. One he’d never forgotten, not in forty years. Charred, blistered skin. Lips peeled back to reveal ash-coated teeth. Glass lacerating through reddened skin. Patches of skull where hair had been eaten away. A hole where her nose was meant to be. And only congealed, half-boiled pits where her blue, blue eyes had once been. That is what his mother had looked like, the last time he’d seen her face. And he sees it now. And he feels sick. And his head is spinning. And it’s too light and too dark and his heart is pounding, deafening in his ears and that’s his mother. And he feels like he is falling apart and compressing all at once and his own hair feels hot and itchy against the back of his neck and that is his mother.

That is his mother.

That is his mother and she’s getting closer.

That’s his mother and he still remembers how her charred flesh smelled.

That’s his mother and she’s in front of him. And he can’t breathe. And it smells like smoke and cooked flesh. And it smells like cinnamon and lavender. And she is burned and she is beautiful. And she is in front of him. And his vision is blurring so much it no longer matters what her face looked like; he couldn’t make it out anyways. She folded her hands on the blankets near him - an invitation for comfort, but not making contact yet.

“Addie, baby?” Her voice was a lance through his heart. “What’s wrong?” The floorboards creak (so loud, so shrill) as his father moves to his mother’s side. Another fuzzy shape in front of him.

“I’m sorry.” He manages. His voice croaks and it hurts to say the words. He tries again anyway. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry for what?” The indistinct shape of his mother shifts, likely looking up at his father, but she will find no answers there. He wouldn’t know. Neither of them would know the blood and soot that stained their oldest’s hands. They wouldn’t know how badly he’d hurt them. How he’d-

“I’m sorry.” He repeated, though even he barely understood it. “I’m sorry.” It’s a mess of syllables, fumbled together and dropped from the shaking grasp of his lips until they fell on a floor in a heap. He curls in on himself, wrapping his arms around his chest as though that might stop the last pieces of his heart from shattering further.

It doesn’t work.

“Oh, baby.” His mother says, wrapping him in her arms and pulling him close. She kisses the top of his head and it aches, it burns, it’s agony and it’s a redemption and a forgiveness that he has done nothing to deserve. He does not deserve her love and yet he has craved it so desperately he can’t bring himself to pull away. She holds him tighter still and at some point, he had started clinging to her in kind. He doesn’t remember when. All he knows is if he tried to hold on to the back of her blouse any tighter his hands would break. He tries anyways. He tries another apology, too. Neither attempt is successful. His mother holds him anyway. And just like with his father, eventually, he wears himself out. He does not let go, but the tears slow down. His breathing steadies to shaky hiccups. But he doesn’t let go until she pulls away and he has to. Her hands find his face and her thumbs brush away the lingering moisture on his cheeks. He raises his own hands to hold on to her wrists, pressing his face into her palms. He had tried to memorise this feeling after she had been gone. (He’d had no way of knowing he’d be forced to forget.)

Feeling the real thing now, his memories didn’t come anywhere close.

His mother sighs. It’s not an annoyed sigh, nor is it condescending. It’s a release of tension. It’s permission to relax. She leans in and kisses the top of his head again. For another moment, she stays with her face pressed against his scalp. He blinks; his eyes still sting.

“You okay, baby?” She asks. He sniffs, and for the first time since he could remember, he answered that question honestly.

“I don’t know.”

“And that’s okay.” She smooths his hair and smiles down at him and he sees her face, and it’s even more beautiful than he remembered. “Why don’t you stay here with your brother? I gotta talk to your daddy for a minute.” She moves to stand and the ‘no’ that leaves him is involuntary. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, not again. I just got you all back, don’t go.

I need you.

Her lips flicker into a frown, concerned and- angry?- but it vanishes just as fast. There’s a fluctuation in temperature, a drop that he swears must have been his, but her hand is freezing when it runs through his hair again.

“We’ll be back, Adam, sweet boy. I promise.” And despite the warning signs, she was as gentle towards him in tone and action as she had ever been. She turns and leaves quickly, their father following behind. The door closes behind them. Adam sniffs and wipes at his face again. There’s silence, filled by the staccato ticking of the clock on the night stand and the soft rustling of Kane squirming around in the sheets. Adam keeps staring at the door. Then Kane plops his chin on Adam’s shoulder and speaks.

“Would it make you feel better if we listened?” He asked. “Then we won’t be so far away.” Adam scrunched up his faze and scrubbed at his eyes one last time. Kane was right. Adam didn’t want to know how much he’d picked up–

“Not a lot.” Kane shrugged.

“Cut that out.” Adam mumbled into his own sleeve. Kane huffed, flopping backwards onto the thick down-stuffed pillows his parents enjoyed.

“Well, you won’t tell me what’s going on! I’m worried.” He said, pouting at the ceiling. “You’re never like this.” And maybe he was right. Adam absolutely hadn’t been that way when he had stopped being Adam. He didn’t remember what he was supposed to be before the fire. Apparently, not like this.

“Yeah.” Adam ended up saying. “Let’s go listen.” Anything to avoid letting his brother know what he was thinking. They both slipped off the bed, their socks helping to muffle the impact of their feet against the floor. And the door opens slowly, quietly, careful of the potential squeaking hinges, and Adam leaves first, finding his spot at the top of the stairs. He can’t see his parents, no matter how he manoeuvres. They must be in the back entryway. But he can hear them, and hear them well.

“What happened, JT?” She was asking. She sounded mad again. “What happened to my little boy?”

“I don’t know.” Their father said. His voice was more level than their mother’s, but had a hard edge. He’d had enough time to gather himself. “I was doing the usual bedtime routine and found him like that, just like I told you. Had him calmed down a bit, but…” Their father sighed.

“... What is it?” Their mother still seemed agitated, but concern had returned to her voice. Adam leaned forward, grasping the bannister for support and pressing his face between the beams. He could just see their shadows in the butter-yellow light that spilled in front of the staircase. It was a good thing he’d leaned in, because his father spoke much more softly now.

“I think it was Paul.”

“What?!” He could see their mother’s shadow take a step back. “What do you mean? What did he do?”

“All I know is, he showed up, and Adam looked like someone just walked over his grave. Pale as anything, kept staring, I swear, I called his name three times and he didn’t hear me. Something happened even if I don’t know what.”

“You’re sure?” Their mother asked, and this time, their father replied instantly.

“Sure as I need to be.”

“Fine.” Their mother says. “So we get rid of him, then. Nobody gets to hurt our boys, I don’t care who they are.” Their father hummed his agreement, and his shadow nodded.

"I’m with you on that. Only thing I'm hung up on," his father says, a creak of wood belying a shifting of weight, "is what we tell Keith."

"Why does he have to be told anything?" It's mama's voice, a coldness in it he isn't sure he ever heard.

"Because. No more disappearances, remember?"

"J." His mother tuts. "It's only a disappearance if someone comes looking." Adam tightens his hands on the bannister. It’s a struggle to keep his breathing quiet. It's them. It's really them. And he still does not know for how long he will have them back, so he is determined to re-learn their voices. Even if they are talking about murder. They are going to kill Paul. It is a thought that calms and terrifies him in kind - Paul is a monster. He deserves what he is getting. But what could someone like him do when cornered-?

“Got a point.” His father says with a sniff. “Don’t think I’ve heard him really talk much about his family, so I don’t imagine they’re close.”

“So we should be fine.” His mother replies. There’s a moment of silence that he imagines is filled with his father nodding.

“Mind if I take the shovel?” His father’s voice again. “I just-” And then his father’s voice lowers and Adam has to strain even harder, leaning forward to not miss a single syllable. “The way Adam was when I found him-”

“It’s all yours, J.” His mother said. “But that’s my baby too. So I get his heart.” In spite of the nature of the situation, a faint smile tugs at Adam’s face. He had been told before that he took after his mother; apparently they were right. Then he heard Paul’s voice, muffled and unintelligible, and the smile vanished as he shrank back.

“Yeah, Paul, we’re coming.” His father called, loud enough to be heard in the back, and loud enough for Adam to hear easily. And as the door slid open, his mother’s voice, in a promise that would be terrifying if it was aimed at him, but as it was, carried a sense of security, of safety.

“We’ll be right behind you.”

And then the door slides closed. Adam lets out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding and eased away from the bannister. His fingers ached when he uncurled them. He glances behind him, and Kane is peering out the door to their parents’ room.

“What was that about?” He asks, but Adam just shakes his head.

“I dunno. I’m tired.” He slouches into the room, and as much as it’s a deflection, it’s the truth. He’s tired. No, he’s exhausted. His eyes ache and his head throbs and his shoulders feel so heavy he feels like he’ll collapse at any moment.

“You still feel sick?” Kane asks, clambering up into the bed. Adam nods.

“Yeah. But I think I’ll be better soon.”

“That’s good.” Kane says as they both make themselves comfortable under the old duvet (one Nana Tulip had embroidered herself, if Adam remembers right). “It’s always boring when you’re not feeling well.” Adam closed his eyes, pressing his face into the pillow even as he shifted closer to his brother.

“Night, Kane.” He mumbles.

“Night, Adam.” His little brother, his happy, healthy, safe little brother, replies, and it’s the last thing Adam hears before he starts nodding off - aside from some screams that might have been a coyote, if you didn’t listen closely enough.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he hears his parents enter the room. They’re trying to be quiet, and if he slept like he used to, they’d have succeeded. But he still has the world-weariness from the life he lived, so he peeks his eyes open as they approach. His mother sits on the bed first, sighs, then notices his stare and smiles.

“Hey, baby.” She says, reaching down to stroke his hair. “You can get some sleep now, alright? You’re safe.” And somehow, somehow, he believes her. It might have something to do with the flecks of red on her teeth when she leans down to kiss his head - the same red he catches traces of under his father’s nails when a strong arm pulls him close. Whatever the reason, he feels safe - safer than he had in decades, even with the immense power he’d held. Regardless of the reason, he feels safe enough that this time when he sleeps, he sleeps heavily, and does not wake up until morning. And when he does wake, he’s still in his parents’ bed. And it is their bed. It still has the duvet his grandmother decorated, with the jewellery strand his father had made for his mother perched on the vanity. He’d been convinced he would wake up and find it all had been a dream, or hallucination - that it would vanish when he opened his eyes. That the other shoe would drop.

But it didn’t.

Every day, he would wake up and check his hands, check his face, check his surroundings. And every day, aside from the ordinary signs of time’s passing, he stayed the same. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, months to years. The other shoe never came. Eventually, he stopped waiting for it. Yes, he would still get dreams. Yes, some things still scared him more than they should. (He never truly reconciled with the smell of burnt meat.) But he carried less tension in his shoulders, he stopped thinking he would lose this new chance, he stopped worrying so much about the future. Somehow, this was just going to continue. Something about gift horses and mouths or whatever. But he was happy.

He was happy.

His days became too busy to worry about a forgotten past and a discarded future. Going to school (again, in some aspects, but for the first time as he grew older), tending the yard (under his parents, not alone), spending time with his brother… Taking care of the dog. They hadn’t had a dog before. But a few years after the fire should’ve happened, a stray mutt had shown up on their doorstep. Now the mutt - lovingly named Fish - was a fixture of the family. And now, years later, Fish was running around the yard, barking happily, while his humans sat about getting various graves dug, cleaned, or otherwise looked after. So it was that Adam found himself in a hole, six-by-eight-by-three, shovel in hand as he dug with his brother. They’d fallen into a steady rhythm, as well as a comfortable silence after the usual chatter had died down. (They didn’t have to bury that.) The weather, homework, the upcoming school dance (now that they were both in high school) and what to watch on TV before bed had all been discussed. Now they just worked. The sun beat down mercilessly and left sweat beading on their backs and dripping down their necks. Neither light clothing nor trying back their hair had helped any. There weren’t even any clouds to offer shade. But Mama had a fresh pitcher of home-made strawberry lemonade in the fridge waiting for them, and the thought of it was enough to spur them on. (Though Kane had asked a few times if Adam would cause a storm - just enough to block the sun. Adam had refused, though he was tempted to agree, now.) It was shaping up to be another usual day, until his brother almost bowled Adam over with one simple question.

“Are Mom and Dad supposed to be dead?” Kane doesn’t look away from his hands, but Adam’s head snaps up.

“What?”

“I dunno. I get these… Dreams, sometimes. But they’re not dreams. They’re hazy, but they’re real.” Kane shakes his head as though he might dislodge those thoughts and find the answer underneath. Adam hopes he doesn’t notice how tense his shoulders are, how his breathing has quickened.

“And I feel like you know something you’re not telling me.” Here, Kane does look up. “We’re supposed to tell each other everything. We don’t do secrets.” Adam runs his tongue across his lips like that could change the dryness in his throat. He can’t look at Kane. Can’t stomach whatever he thinks he might see, so he looks anywhere else.

“Kane, I-”

“This isn’t the first time you’ve been here, is it?”

He could argue that it is. That before, he had never gotten this chance. The chance to watch his brother grow up, the chance to ease into their future as the caretakers. This was new. But that was not what Kane meant, and they both knew it. He sighs, closes his eyes, and lets his chin drop to his chest, gripping his own hand so tight the bones in his fingers creak.

“No.” The silence that follows the admission is infinite, an abyss, stretching out to swallow him whole. He wants to beg Kane not to hate him. That he’s sorry for what happened. That he’s worked hard, so hard, to leave that reality behind and just be happy for what they had now, their home, their family, their freedom, but those words don’t come. Much like his brother in a faded world, he cannot speak.

“Well,” Kane says after an era, “I don’t know how you did what you did, or- Really, I don’t even know what made you do it. But I’m glad you did.” That makes Adam open his eyes again. There’s a weight off his shoulders and an ache in his heart as he looks at his brother, his baby brother, his little brother who he had once sold his soul for (who he would sell his soul for again, should this life demand it). Kane isn’t looking at him, now, using his teeth to stretch a hair elastic over his fingers before he continues. “Like I said, it’s hazy. I don’t really understand it. But I get the feeling I wouldn’t’ve liked it much.” The absurdity of the thought, the wild understatement, makes Adam laugh. It’s quiet and surprised, but it’s still genuine.

“No,” he says, wiping his hand down his face and sniffing. “No, you wouldn’t’ve.”

“So thanks.” Kane finishes tying his hair back and butts his shoulder against Adam’s, then bends to grab his shovel. He jams it into the earth, stomps it lower with his foot, and throws his reward back over his shoulder. Adam does the same. Once, twice, three times. He steals another glance at Kane, then frowns down at the dirt.

“How much do you…” He trails off. ‘Remember’ isn't right. Kane shakes his head.

“Not the word for it.” He agrees. Another shovelful of earth moved before he answers. “I dunno. It’s dark, mostly. Sometimes it’s the opposite - just blinding white. But it always feels like- Like I can’t move.” Adam grits his teeth and represses a shudder. Kane nods. “Yeah. And I wake up hungry some nights. Real hungry. And there’s this weird taste in my mouth I can’t place. It’s almost like the time we went to the Davids’ barbecue, and the burgers weren’t cooked all the way.” Adam grimaces. He has an idea about why that might be. He doesn’t say it, though. … He doesn’t need to. Kane coughs.

“Please, please tell me there’s a different reason you’re thinking about rats.”

“I dunno for sure.” Adam says quickly. Judging by the pathetic look his brother gives him, it doesn’t make him feel any better. “I could be wrong.” Kane wretched and choked back a gag.

“I hope you are.” He manages. Adam shrugs. Another moment where the silence is broken only by the sound of their shovels impaling the earth, the distant croak of ravens lounging on a tree somewhere overhead.

“It’s the opposite for me.” Adam finally says. “It feels like every day, more and more of- ‘the other time’, it’s fading away. There are some things I still remember really well, but other parts… Ain’t nothing there anymore.”

“Huh. Weird.” Kane mumbled. More silence, more work. At some point, they’d gotten close to being finished; just needed to sharpen up the corners. Take pride in the details, their parents had taught them. It’s the family business. It’s our reputation. Gotta do it right. It had been strange to relearn everything. It had been eye-opening to see how much he had missed. The little tricks he had never been taught. Even just having the extra hands helped more than he could say. There’s a dull chink as Kane’s shovel hits a rock. He frowned, stooped down, and dug the rock out with his hands. With a grunt, he heaved it out of the hole, then reached to pull in an armload of the dirt they’d removed and fill in the dent the rock had left. Adam shoved his own shovel into the dirt and wiped his forehead again. He was exhausted - from the work, yes, but from the conversation, too. Kane looked over at him again.

“Can I ask one more thing?”

“Shoot.” Adam replied, even though he wished they’d never broached the concept. (On some level, he was glad that someone else knew the truth. Kane was right; they didn’t do secrets. And it made him feel less crazy. But he didn’t want to think too deeply about that, not now.)

“How did they–”

“Boys!” There were few times his mother’s voice had been more of a mercy than it was now.

“Yeah?” He and Kane call in unison. They look up just in time to see their parents approach the edge of the grave. They were silhouetted by the sun, but if Adam squinted, he could make out their faces.

“It’s almost noon; we’re going inside.” Their father said, tilting his hat up. “Break time.”

“Come on, both of you, before you wear yourselves out.” Their mother crouched down, tilting her head with a smile.

“Don’t gotta twist my leg.” Adam said. Their father reached down, and Adam accepted his hand as he clambered out of the grave. Kane was given the same help, and then, after dusting themselves off, they headed back to the home. Adam knew what his brother wanted to ask. He hoped he would never complete that question.

He hoped they would both forget before it ever came up again.

Fish trotted up beside them, whuffing a greeting. Adam reached down to scratch his ears. Well, if it did come up, he would have to address it. For now, he could focus on living the (relatively) normal life he had been gifted. A normal life that included lunch breaks and lemonade with his family, and dinners together later in the night, and regular school, and homework, and weekends, and high school football games - kind of like this one.

The whistle ran through the air, sharp and splitting.

“Let’s go, get your warm up in!” Coach shouted. Across the field, Victoria’s coach was barking similar instructions at his players. Adam was aware of this because he’d been staring in that direction since they’d gotten off the bus.

“Careful,” Kane said in between up-downs. “Look any harder and your eyes’ll fall outta your skull.”

“Shut up.” Adam grumbles. He strands and rolls his shoulders; a moment later, Kane stands with him and stretches his neck from side to side.

“How do you know he’ll even be here?” He asked. “Everything’s so different now. Maybe he doesn’t play football anymore.”

“I guessed.” Adam narrowed his eyes at the opposing team, searching for any hint of the person he was looking for. It was hard to make anything out. That was the point of a uniform, but it didn’t stop it from being annoying. Had he ever mentioned a number–?

“Hey, witchblood!” Chester’s voice. Adam and Kane rolled their eyes and turned in unison.

“What, Hanson?” They said. Chester knew them well enough to not be put off by this. He stopped a few steps away from them, helmet under his arm. The light breeze blew his fluffy blonde hair out around him, and he scrunched his face in annoyance as he pushed it back behind his ear.

“Stop drooling over the enemy and get in position. Coach wants to give us a pep talk.” He says. He shoots one last glare towards the opposing team, one more glance at the brothers, and jogs back to where the rest of their schoolmates were gathering.

“Told you it was obvious.” Kane bumps his shoulder against Adam’s, who rolls his eyes and scoffs in return.

“‘Drooling over the enemy’, shut up. Why’s he gotta be such a dipshit when he talks?”

“Yeah, sure sounds like an asshole.” And the voice is younger, not as gravelly, but Adam would know it anywhere. He turns, shock melting to hope melting to a brilliant grin on his face. Pale blond hair, big blue eyes, a lopsided smile - that’s what greeted him. He reached for the person he’d been looking for, and his hand was accepted, held close, stroked with gentle movements of his forever’s thumb.

“There you are, Cueball.” Any bite left in the insult was erased by the pure relief in Adam’s voice. He was greeted with a laugh, genuine as ever.

“Missed you, too, ya big dead bastard.” Steve Austin - Stevie Williams, toughest player on Victoria’s team - smiled back. “You too, little brother.”

“Oh, my god.” Kane said, letting his helmet hang at his side. “You had a bowl cut.”

Of all the things that had changed, sometimes, it was those that stayed the same that reassured him. It reminded him that he wasn’t losing his mind. By now, most of what had been was gone. It had faded away - and he didn’t make any effort to think about it. Not before, not now, not ever. But even with so much of those memories leaving, he never forgot her.

Coming here had been half his idea, half Steve’s. He’d been talking about her - he wasn’t even sure how she came up in the conversation - and how he wondered if she was okay. What she was like in this version of reality.

“Why not find out?” Steve had asked. It was a thought Adam had humoured more than once, but it had been different. He and Steve had still been married when whatever happened had happened. Adam and Kane’s parents had died. In each case, he knew how that story ended. He knew what happened to them. But Liz… He’d been the one who left her. In a way, she’d died because she met him. So, if he never met her, would she live longer? Would she get the chance to grow old like she deserved? (But what about his boy? What would happen to Jon? His son, his perfect boy who he had failed in a different world–)

“All you can do is try. You changed so much, why not change that?” And Steve had said it so confidently Adam couldn’t argue. Nor did he want to. (He missed her.)

And so he came to the coffee shop. He hadn’t been sure it was the right one until he stepped inside and got hit with the nostalgia. This was it. This was the place. … But he had no idea what the date had been when he’d first seen her. He’d been nineteen, that much he knew, but beyond that? He had no idea. So he’d become somewhat of a regular here. Whenever he went to the city, he’d stop for a coffee. Sometimes he’d bring Steve or Kane or both up just to pass time. Every visit would be at least thirty minutes, but he’d always try for longer, just in case. It had been a fluke meeting before. Fate, chance, whatever you would call it. Not something he could plan for. But he hoped for it. And that hope kept him coming back, time after time. This time was in June, about midway through the year. He’d come up to get some cosmetic supplies and a few replacement parts for the cremation oven (his parents had wondered, once, why he was so thorough in maintaining it, but had settled on it being good practice and leaving it at that), and he’d stopped in at the coffee shop for a full meal. He’d finished his sandwich already, and worked his way through two cookies (his treat to himself for surviving the Bywater funeral last week). Every time the door opened, he looked up, like he always did. Every time he looked up, he was disappointed, like he always was. She still wasn’t here. When had he met her-? He’d asked himself that so many times. He sighed, let his head drop in resignation. He downed the last dregs of his coffee and crumpled the sandwich and cookie wrappers into a ball. A quick glance to make sure he hadn’t left a mess before he made his way to the recycling. He stopped one last time, looked over his shoulder on the off chance he’d missed her. Still nothing. (He wondered if he would recognize her. If maybe he’d passed her a hundred times and the fading had taken her face from him–) The bell jangled as he pushed through the door. His Harley was where he left it, still gleaming from the last polish. Dark blue paint that he retouched when needed, the custom V-and-skull hood ornament Dad had made him for his birthday that year (difficult to get in all the nooks to clean, but worth it). And the saddlebags, black leather, sturdy and reliable. He crouched down, ignoring the gravel that tried to bite into the knee of his jeans. He just had to put his wallet away, and then he’d head home. Maybe he’d come back another day. Maybe he’d see if Anything Else knew where she might–

“Hey.” And that voice immediately sent a flush of calm through him, of security, even if he hadn’t been afraid, even if he hadn’t heard it in so long. “Cool bike.”

And he did what he could to keep the emotion off his face as he looked up at her and gave a nod.

“Thanks, nice to meet a fellow Harley fan. I’m Adam, by the way.”

#anyway this is 21 pages and tumblr kept crashing when i tried to format it #&& rest in peace; deadman ic #&& whispers from the crypt; deadman answers #&& the world aflame; demon ic #&& a tale of two brothers; undertaker and kane #&& quoth the ravens three; deadman drabbles #&& when my problems began; demon drabbles #&& the light in the dark; undertaker and liz #&& when the world was kind; tiny kane #&& cold embrace warms us; undertaker and steve #&& a happier time; tiny taker #&& eyes like yours; undertaker and jt #&& guidance and grief; undertaker and isabelle #&& tell them the truth; undertaker and paul

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 4 months

Text

R̸̜̈́u̵̟͘t̶̺̓ḧ̵͇l̷̟̋ē̶̘s̵̨̎s̵̩͒ṋ̵̋e̵͙̐s̵̡̈́ś̸͙

Get in the Water prompt Storm alternate version Animatic Fanart

There was a spell, Constantine had explained after his own trip to the afterlife. Something to contain Danyal's soul long enough to resolve his unfinished business, to keep him still and away from the influences of his fellow dead. And if that didn't work, Constantine continued, then there were ways to force a spirit to rest. It was better for a ghost to move on by themselves, but if there was no other choice...

Damian hoped Danyal would choose to rest on his own. That he'd let him explain, finally.

Danyal had been weak. Strong in a fight, but too weak to kill, and that infuriated Damian. But he was scared more than he was angry. Because that weakness would get Danyal killed, could get Damian killed, could get the League killed. Even the newest recruits had a stronger desire to kill than Danyal.

He was the weakest link in the chain. And while their mother had taught them to be ruthless, Danyal had remained limp with mercy.

They needed Danyal's body. It would be Danyal's tie to the earth, Constantine explained as he joined them on the Batplane. The souls of the dead don't often linger on the mortal plain. The magician had speculated that the only reason Danyal had managed to manifest in the waters below Gotham was because of Damian's presence, but his remains would keep him stable this side of life for however long it took to heal his soul.

But was that even possible?

"I don't know, kid," Constantine admitted during the plane ride. "Wish I had a better answer for you, but... Your brother is a siren now. And from the sound of it? He really wants you dead."

"Then why didn't he kill me?" Damian argued. "He had hours to do it... or minutes..." The time he spent in that green world felt longer than the ten minutes Father couldn't find him, but... "He had me in his grasp and let me go. Doesn't that mean he didn't want to-"

"Have you ever heard the phrase 'Playing with your food?'" Constantine asked instead. "Sirens aren't known for letting their prey go. If we're out here, its because he wants us here."

They--Damian, Father, Constantine, Grayson, and Todd--landed in Nanda Parbat after a few hours. There was a crypt inside for members of the Al Ghul family who didn't use the Lazarus Pits. It was there Danyal's body was entombed. They would have to steal it.

And it was unfortunate that Constantine got them caught within five minutes of entry.

Damian glared daggers at the man as they were led towards the Lazarus Pit. Constantine shrugged. "What? I don't want assassins chasing after me because of some light grave robbing! Besides, we need to explain the situation anyway-"

"And what, precisely, needs to be explained?" asked a woman from inside the chamber. The heroes were pushed inside, only to see Talia Al Ghul standing where her father should have been. The Lazarus Pit hissed and boiled behind her, casing the cave in a ghoulish light.

Damian could hear laughing.

Father stepped forward. "Talia. Where's Ra's?" Grandfather was the biggest threat to their plan succeeding.

Mother... looked away, unable to meet his gaze. "I do not know. At the present moment... the Demon Head is missing."

You could hear a pin drop. "What do you mean?" Father demanded.

"It's as I said; he is missing. Yesterday, he was alone in the Pit, and hours later, no one could find him." She glanced behind her, at the waters, before looking back at them. "I had assumed he'd left to care for the League's interests. Now-" She tilted her chin up, looking down at them. "What exactly do you need to explain? What is so important that you break into my home to tell me?"

Stepping forward, Constantine explained. Mother looked grim as he spoke of Danyal, but did not interrupt. "We want to put his soul to rest. But for that, we need access to his body-"

"You dare ask for such a thing?" Mother snarled. "As if I even believe you. My son would never-"

"Your son?" Grayson snapped. "From the looks of it, you didn't care for either of your children!"

As the group descended into an argument, Damian heard laughter again, Danyal's high pitched giggle harmonizing with something deep and bone shaking. The Lazarus Pits loomed over him, beckoning him, whispering. Damian took a step towards it as his mother said, "I don't even have his body!"

"What?" Damian snapped at his mother, focusing back on the conversation. "But the crypts-"

"After your brother's murder, the Demon Head ordered for the culprit to be found. But they were never discovered." Because the culprit was Damian, he knew, and no one else ever learned about it. "I wanted to place him in the Pits immediately, but I was ordered to stay my hand until the murderer was caught. But..."

"He never was," Damian finished for her. "And then you put Danyal into the waters?"

"Yes." She closed her eyes. "And he never came back out. Even if it was too late, he'd still come back as the undead, but he never rose from the waters."

"Then this is entirely my fault."

"Finally," Danyal whispered in his ear, breath chilling his skin.

Damian did his best to ignore it. Danyal was haunting him. Danyal needed to be put to rest. If they couldn't do it Constantine's way, then they had to put him to rest another way.

Grayson looked troubled. "Robin, it's not your fault-"

"I'm the one who killed him," Damian confessed. Everyone stared at him. Grayson, horrified; Mother, blank; Father, betrayed. Damian continued, "I overheard you and Grandfather arranging a fight to the death, and I knew who would win. I couldn't... I couldn't allow Danyal to die without the Al Ghul name, in disgrace as the one who wasn't good enough. So I killed him, assassinated him, and now he's haunting me for revenge." Damian looked at the Pit. "So go ahead, Danyal."

"Damian, what are you saying?"

"Danyal wants revenge on the person who killed him; I'm giving it to him." Todd was staring at him. Damian might not be able to see past his helmet, but he could feel the respect coming off the man. "Danyal, I know you're here. Please come out." If he focused long enough, he could just making out wheezing breaths. "I can hear you, please-"

Father grabbed Damian by the shoulders. "Damian, listen to what you're saying! You're offering your life up for nothing!"

"B's right." Grayson placed a hand on his shoulder. "There's got to be another way. You don't have to do this!"

"Yes I do!" Damian ripped himself out of Nightwing's grip. "I'm the one who killed him! I'm the one at fault! My brother is suffering because of me, I have to save him-"

Stepping between them all, Mother slapped him across the face.

And the Pit's whispers fell silent.

Damian stared up at his mother, cheek throbbing with pain. She glared back. "Cease this behavior at once," she snapped. "There's no need to get so worked up over a ghost, of all thing-"

"T̴̯̃al̵̬͂ị̴̿a̵̮̕ ̵̼͐A̴̗̕l̷͈̆ ̴͚̓G̵͎̀h̷̻͒u̶̜͋l̴͍̀."

This time, everyone could hear Danyal's voice, filled with static and corrupted. Damian swallowed as his dead brother continued,

"D̸͕͠o̶̪̅ ̸͍̆ỹ̵̗ö̸̲ũ̸̧ ̶͖̚k̶̻͊ņ̸͐o̸̹̚ẘ̸̙w̷̛̹ḧ̸͚́o̷͉̅ ̵͈̑I̶̪̽ á̵̞m̶͙̂?̸̻͂"

The cavern shook as the Lazarus Pit bucked, a wave forming in the absolute center of the water. The wave rose, pillaring up above their head and brushing the ceiling. A cold wind rushed through the room and blew out the torches on the walls, leaving only embers and the occasional florescent behind. Damian braced himself for the waters to rush out and flood.

Instead, the water fell back into the pit, like it had never risen in the first place, leaving behind a lone figure in its wake.

"Danyal," Mother whispered.

And the dead boy glared back at her with pure contempt.

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