tushanshu_logs | Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

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Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

Characters: (CLOSED) Skulduggery Pleasant, Erskine Ravel, Anton Shudder, and the fourth-wall Dead Men.
Date: April 15-30.
Location: Throughout Keeliai, but mostly in Erskine's new Earth Sector shelter.
Situation: The Dead Men haven't created something lasting together in a very long time. It's led to some spectacularly stupid decisions. This? This is their chance to fix things.
Warnings/Rating: Intimacy / non-serious flirting between grown men, some jokes of a sexual nature, massive spoilers for the entire Skulduggery Pleasant series (but notably the last two books), mentions of murder and betrayal, gratuitous amounts of violence and punching in response to said mentions of murder and betrayal (the Dead Men actually communicate by punching each other in the face). Also, broship. Lots of broship.

With Erskine and Skulduggery's relationship somehow even more strained than it was before Skulduggery vanished for a month, and Erskine growing maybe a little too dependent on Anton while living at the Hotel, the Dreaming's been getting a lot of wishes -- subconscious or otherwise -- for the arrival of very specific people.

They arrive on the 15th, scattered around the turtle. Over the day, they find each other, two or three at a time. There are hugs. There are punches. And when they all come together, they spend most of the following two weeks helping Erskine build and prepare a shelter for the kedan -- in between needing subtle reminders that the point of the reunion is to forgive each other.

Or, if not forgive, at least accept each other, flaws and all.

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Erskine was hunched over in the chair next to Hopeless, tucked as tightly against the mind-reader as he could manage without breaking some kind of law of space and matter, with his head down and his forehead resting in his hands. He didn't look up, didn't look at any of them, and he didn't say anything when Anton asked for one of the Elementals to volunteer. Without Skulduggery and Rover that left only two of them--himself, and Ghastly. They couldn't have planned it worse.

He didn't react to Saracen's goading either. Some part of him knew exactly what they were trying to do, both of them, but it felt awkward and misplaced. Before... before her he'd been able to joke about almost anything, even in some of the worst situations imaginable. He couldn't manage it now. Even with Hopeless back--Hopeless--and right next to him, smiling, he couldn't force up the necessary energy to get indignant about something so trivial. Let Ghastly make the damned tea.

At least Saracen had finally broken down and come over to hug Hopeless, as soon as Erskine had pulled away. Erskine couldn't even muster the energy to be upset about it. Saracen had the right to want to avoid him. They all did. That Hopeless wasn't was some kind of minor miracle.

He should have planned for this better. Should have decided what to say to Ghastly in the year he'd had safe and free. Should have known that Saracen's arrival was only the start.

Skulduggery. Then all they were missing would be Dexter and Rover. Ghastly, still, wasn't sure whether this merited laughing or crying, and as such settled for neither.

Water. He could do water.

Ghastly lifted a hand and pulled water out of the air, condensing it bit by bit into the pot Anton held out. It was a soothing sort of thing to focus on, and something he was practiced enough with that even in the midst of all the confusion he could still manage it credibly. "Tell me when," he said, not quite at the right angle to see the interior of the pot.

It was better, also, than standing in the corner and shifting awkwardly. They should have felt easier than this, back together again.

It hurt. All of it hurt, and all the more now when emotions were moving, shifting. Hopefully not settling. They hurt, and even as Hopeless raised a hand to grip Saracen's shoulder in a return hug, he had to bite his lip to withhold the whimper.

Something needed to give. Something needed to change.

Which was why, quite abruptly, Hopeless jerked back and yanked Saracen down onto their laps--both their laps. "Saracen was avoiding a hug because he feels guilty he didn't save me," Hopeless said into Erskine's hair, but loudly enough for them all to hear. He looked down at Saracen. "Erskine thinks it's his fault you didn't come over right away."

He turned his head toward Ghastly and Anton, across the room. "Erskine was put into unending agony for twenty-three hours out of every day, by Darquesse. He was like that for ten days before he arrived here. That's what Anton was going to tell you." He narrowed his eyes at Anton. Anton grunted. "Anton's having trouble with the gist."

Anton grunted again. "You're still as annoying as ever."

"Mind-reader."

With a noise that sounded vaguely like a cross between that of a wounded dog and a muted version of the Wilhelm scream, Saracen dropped into both Descry's and Erskine's laps with no warning and no small amount of surprise. At Descry's explanation -- which wasn't actually an explanation at all, but then, when had it ever been? -- Saracen twisted around to look at the golden-eyed brunet somewhere above him.

"Oh," he said. He looked surprised, then thoughtful, then turned to stare at Anton with confused shock. "You're --"

Which was about when the door opened and Skulduggery came in. The skeleton stopped and, after taking a moment to look around at everyone, tilted his head. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Erskine felt Hopeless move beside him, but that was the only warning he had before Saracen's weight--less than Erskine remembered from his own time, although he wasn't much in a mood to tease the younger mage about it anyway--plopped down unceremoniously into their laps. He sat up a little, no longer folded over against his own knees out of simple necessity, because neither he nor Saracen really needed to be that close to each other. Thank God it was Saracen at least, and not Ghastly. That... would have been more uncomfortable than any of them could have borne.

He was still trying to process the revelation about Saracen (if Saracen wasn't holding back because of him, then why...?) when Hopeless mentioned her. Erskine cringed involuntarily, couldn't help himself. He hadn't planned on bringing it up. Saracen already knew and Ghastly didn't need to know. Knowing wouldn't change anything. Knowing wouldn't bring Anton or Ghastly back, or repair the damage he'd done to the Dead Men, his brothers.

Regardless of the fact that Saracen was still sprawled across the two of them, Erskine turned his head and buried his face against Hopeless's shoulder. Deep breaths.

Everything was still happening too quickly. Ghastly hadn't gotten past unending agony for twenty-three hours a day when Skulduggery showed up and Saracen took a dive, and the end result was that his greeting to Skulduggery was a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and a lifted hand.

Skulduggery probably hadn't seen him since he died. Ghastly put a little more effort into the smile, but he couldn't quite get past what had happened to Erskine. The murder was a problem, to put things lightly, but that was-- inhumane. A completely disproportionate punishment, and Ghastly was one of the people most wronged.

"Are there any other staggering revelations anyone would like to drop on us?" he asked finally, as politely as he could. His voice rasped a little. "Just so I can brace myself, beforehand? --Tell me someone handled Darquesse, somehow."

And why was Anton having problems with the gist?

The attempt at levity hadn't worked, and maybe rightfully so. For all that Hopeless had heard from Raine, it was one thing to hear, another to experience; and Hopeless had come from a time long, long before the rest. He wasn't used to this, these connections being more fragile than they ought to be. Even the Dead Men had things that should be deadly serious.

So Hopeless said simply to Ghastly, "Ask Skulduggery and Anton," and turned to wrap one arm around Erskine, and one around Saracen, and stroked Erskine's temple.

"It changes everything," he said quietly. "Sharing burdens lightens them." If Hopeless had only made sure they'd share them in the event he was gone. He'd relied too much on his magic, on the assumption that he wouldn't die. Stupid, stupid. "You're still a brother. What you suffer still matters to us, whether or not it does to yourself."

Anton, meanwhile, grunted once more, shaking the tin pot gently and then pouring several different cups. "China's here. She and I--have not been on good terms."

~~Yes, because that's a complete explanation.~~

China. For a moment, Saracen brightened; then he remembered how different his memories were from everyone else's, and the brief smile faded. He'd known China for five years as a powerful ally and Grand Mage. Who else in the room had? China herself might not even remember.

"We handled Darquesse," Skulduggery answered Ghastly's question. "The world is still turning. Or at least it was; I've been told time stops passing until we return."

... Well, maybe Skulduggery remembered. That was something. Saracen shifted in his father's embrace and returned the one-armed hug, because he could, and because he only had a few weeks at most in which to enjoy that he could. How did things break so far, so badly? He couldn't trace when it started, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

Erskine stayed tucked against Hopeless's shoulder, stayed quiet. Let the others determine the course of the conversation. He would confess and apologize where required, whether the others chose to believe his sincerity or not.

"What you suffer still matters to us--"

Bullshit, he wanted to say, although the reaction was too harsh for Hopeless, after Erskine had finally got him back. He didn't doubt that the mind-reader might feel that way. He wasn't sure why, given that Hopeless knew what he'd done, but he cared too much about Hopeless to want to willfully lose that good opinion. Anton cared. He'd demonstrated that enough over the last year. The others, though....

Skulduggery and Saracen tolerated him. Even that was more than Skulduggery was willing to offer him at first. It had taken months for them to reach this uneasy truce. Ghastly... well. The only reason Ghastly hadn't smashed his face in was the fact that Anton had reached the two of them first.

And really, what was the pain he'd suffered against Anton and Ghastly's lives? What did it matter if he couldn't sleep? Couldn't remember what he'd eaten for breakfast, or even if he'd eaten at all? What did his discomfort matter in the face of the deaths of their brothers?

No. Hopeless was caring and kind and better than the rest of them. Hopeless was wrong.

At least Darquesse had been dealt with. There was some small comfort in that. Erskine had deserved to be punished for the murders of his brothers, deserved to be condemned to Hell, if it existed, but at least that bitch had got what was coming to her too.

Still a brother resonated in Ghastly's ears long after the reassurance that Darquesse had been dealt with. Did murder erase three hundred and some-odd years of companionship-- did those three hundred years just make the murder all that much worse-- could their history speak to forgiveness?

It felt like far, far too much all at once. Even the realization that China, too, was in this city and had been playing her typical mind games with Anton-- it paled beside the magnitude of everything else, though it needed to be dealt with just like the rest.

Ghastly felt un-grounded, adrift, like the world beneath his feet might spin on without him, and he put a hand out to steady himself on the nearest wall. He really should have actually sat down when they came into the office.

Hopeless shook his head, half to throw off the contrary opinions, the wallowing grief and guilt--and, above all, the resounding, aching question of how did we come to this? It was the one thing in which everyone was united, and the bitter wonderment of the thought was cutting.

"That's enough," he said, softly but with carrying tones, so they could all hear it. "That's--that's enough. No more hiding. No more assuming. Just--"

He stopped suddenly, and blinked, as a pair of very familiar minds oozed through the Hotel's unique interdimensional positioning, and his face turned toward the door into the lobby just before Dexter burst in. He was dragging Rover with, almost bowling Skulduggery over in the process.

Dexter stopped short just out of the doorway, his chest heaving and mind only clear due to that single-mindedness which was, frankly, exactly what Hopeless had just been talking about--an element of running. Dexter's gaze fell on Anton, and then on Ghastly ... and then on the rest of them, on Hopeless and Saracen and Skul and--

Dexter stared at Erskine for a moment, and Hopeless felt it when his mind ticked over from 'bursting emotional dam' to 'complete and total shutdown'. He shook his head and opened his mouth and nothing came out; so he sagged instead, with an exhaustion not just physical, and went to prop up Bespoke with a hug.

"--stop running," Hopeless finished. "It's time to stop running. Everyone. Just ... please."

His head hurt.

Rover wasn't far behind Dexter, and initially his reaction wasn't all that different. He'd dreamed of this happening before, the last time, all of the Dead Men together in one room. It hadn't happened. So he'd taken photographs -- or, more accurately, forced innocent bystanders to take photographs -- in the vain hope that if anyone else did arrive, they'd at least have photographic evidence Rover was there.

But now, after it was finally happening, when he could look around and see everyone all together, not a single face was happy. There wasn't a single smile. And all because Dexter told him that Erskine --

-- n o p e.

For anyone who knew Rover well, the change could be visibly tracked on his face. His expression flickered from surprise to shock to fear to cheer, all in a split second, and he turned that cheerfulness on Hopeless with all the inevitability of the sun rising in the east.

"Running?" he asked. "Running from what? From you? You're supposed to be dead, you know. We should probably all be really wary of you. But running?" He grinned. "Since when have any of us run from something that could kill us? You must be thinking of some other ragtag group of gorgeous men out to take the world by storm. Also, for the information of everyone here, with the exception of maybe Descry, you're all two prongs short of a gardening fork. Or is it a trowel? I don't remember which is which."

"Fork," Skulduggery said from near the doorway.

There were tears in Rover's eyes -- but they were happy tears, damn it, they were happy. "Fine. Fork. The point is, you're all idiots."

Even in the midst of this pile of misery that had been heaped upon them all (which wasn't fair at all; getting back together ought to be a happy occasion, not something so suffused with anger and pain) Erskine found the presence of mind to cringe internally at what poor Hopeless must be suffering through. He hadn't had to worry about the emotional state of the others in the unit for a century--no one's except his own, and what a Sensitive might glean from him. How he could shield himself, if possible, and avoid suspicion through guile otherwise. Now it was all coming back, tinged with the kind of nostalgia that made the heart ache.

As if it wasn't aching already.

If it hadn't been for Dexter, Rover's appearance might not have been so painful. Rover hadn't been there for the worst of it all. Rover was nothing but cheer and affection and Erskine would have gladly accepted a hug... if it weren't for Dexter. Ghastly. The rest of this mess. But Dexter had seemed more than willing to cut Erskine down on the spot after Anton and Ghastly's murders and according to Saracen, Vex himself was dead now too. Erskine could feel the mood in the room shift like a weight bearing down on him. He wondered, briefly, if that was how Hopeless felt.

And now they were all together, all eight of them, for the first time in a hundred years, and it only served to remind him of what they'd lost. What he'd destroyed. What the world now lacked, like the colors bled from a once vibrant painting.

And suddenly there were Dex and Rover. Ghastly felt like he might have been knocked over with a feather. He shouldn't have been surprised by their presence -- had jokingly predicted it himself -- but with this, all of them together again and his heart still heavy...

It was everything he'd ever dreamed of, but not at all how he would have wanted it. When Dex came over to hug him Ghastly leaned into him with a sort of heaviness, matching the exhaustion in the sagging of his shoulders.

He was running. Mentally, at least. Physically he would maybe get a few steps. But he didn't particularly want to stop, because stopping meant looking at Erskine and Ghastly didn't know how to be all right with him right now. If ever.

So he focused on Dexter and Rover instead, and he closed his eyes, and he held on tight.

[ooc: continued here.]

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Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

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