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strong-with-the-sarcasm · 7 months

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part 11- a thousand candles burn into the night

"When the ashes start to rise and the moon falls from the sky and a thousand candles burn into the night. When the angels softly cry on the flames below the sky, would a thousand souls still pray for you and I?" -Day of the Dead by Hollywood Undead

Masterlist Part 10

Just like the summer air began to cool into autumn winds, Jasmine and Jason began with a heated tension between them that dwindled into a slow simmer of what neither of them wanted to jinx by calling it love.

Both were aware of how unnatural their connection was, how quick one was able to trust the other with simple thoughts that roll off the tongue- Jazz’s favorite tea, Jason’s favorite book, her younger siblings, his many brothers. It was obvious that Jason held some lingering anger towards those he called family, but it was an old wound, infected yet healing. When it came to more in-depth questions about Jazz’s siblings, Danny and Ellie, there was a sad tinge to the affection. Jazz missed Ellie with every fiber of her being, but her little sister was free as her heart desired.

Jason spoke at length about his own, eventually admitting his anger issues that had led him to attempted murder on one of the younger boys, Tim, that he deeply regretted.

Jazz had only to listen, because who else could understand the deeply rooted rage that came with betrayal?

One slash, two, three

Blood is on your hands already.

Fourth, fifth slash

Ask the ghosts if honor matters, buried amongst the ash.

Slash six, seven

Sharpen your love into a weapon

They went out on several dates, each one special and lovely, but Jazz’s favorite was being wrapped in familiar arms as they watched Pride and Prejudice on Jason’s couch. It was a comfortable warmth that lulled the redhead into a deep sleep, the best she had gotten in a long time.

Jazz was the first to wake, lying on Jason’s firm chest and ear pressed firmly to where she could hear a faint purr from his Proto-Core, she felt no compulsion to move even though there were things she had to do as Regent and as Jasmine.

She had to talk to Frostbite, because she needed to understand why she was so connected to Jason. It frightened Jazz, to have her emotions so sharpened towards someone she hadn’t known for very long.

(She was in love.)

Her own Proto-core purred in tandem with Jason’s, happiness bubbling up in her chest. This was a peace she never wanted to let go, regardless of the reason why the two of them were brought and bound together.

Jason was in love.

There was zero doubt in his head or heart that he was fully committed to his darling Jazz, the beautiful woman who understood him in ways no one ever had. With her, the pit remnants were calm and he was happy.

Happy.

Sheer happiness was in his grasp, in his arms and resting on his chest as she slept. Her long hair smelled like strawberries and he never wanted to leave.

Yet, bat-trained paranoia reared its ugly head in moments like these.

Jasmine Nightingale was, by all accounts, a civilian with a trust fund who cared for her younger brother. No other records were found that could tie either Jazz or Danny to crime, but Jason didn’t want to see them if they existed anyway. He hadn’t even met Danny yet and the kid, despite being prime adoption bait, was already one of Jason’s favorite people. He made Jazz proud with his intelligence and good-natured attitude, so Jason would do his best to form a good relationship with the kid.

He guessed he should be more concerned with how quickly he fell for his darling, but he wasn’t. It felt right. It felt safe. Like he could trust Jazz with every thought, every dream, every hope, every nightmare and she wouldn’t run away. He wanted her, plain and simple.

Thankfully Jazz was more or less on the same page as him.

She never had to say a word about how she felt for him, it was obvious in the way she would gravitate towards him, want to be around him, talk to him, simply be with Jason. How honored he felt to be gifted such attention by Jazz.

He didn’t know how to tell her about Red Hood though.

The Nightingales lived outside Crime Alley’s borders, in a shitty neighborhood of Gotham recently claimed by two new vigilantes- Phantom and Regent.

Jason tried to shove back the horrifying images of a vivisectied Phantom, screaming, sobbing and whimpering, but he would ever be able to forget.

The video of Regent killing the Fentons was glitched, but cross referenced with the Ghost Files, it was obvious the Regent of Now and Then were the same woman…entity that saved Phantom, no, avenged the ghost kid.

The fact that the Fentons death prevented a war was karmic justice, in his humble opinion.

Yet, there was something familiar about the Regent. Something that called to him on a baser level… as if he knew the entity behind the helmet.

But that was ridiculous…right?

Right?

Jazz was going to kill him all the way this time, Danny bemoaned while in flight. He really stuck his foot in it this time and yikes, he really needed to learn to keep his mouth shut.

He just had to go behind Jazz’s back and give the Ghost Files to Batman instead of Superman or Constantine. Big and blue wasn’t available when Danny found an opportunity and for shame if he wasted it! Sad trench coat man being there was really just a bonus, honestly.

With the Acts getting the League’s attention, it was time for a desperate move on the part of the GIW.

They infiltrated Gotham.

Danny had no idea how they had found a way past the border Lady Gotham kept a tight leash on, but the agents were able to pick up his trail with a lucky break on their end. He had a haunt in Gotham, which meant his ecto-signature was strong in that area and weak in others. A glaring neon sign of where the Phantom often could be found.

But Danny would never give up his haunt again, not without a fight.

This haunt didn’t just belong to him, not like Amity had. This had become the home of the Nightingales, the Phantom and the Regent. They had shed blood to claim it and would shed more to keep it.

If it meant admitting to his mistake, then so be it, that’s where he would start.

“Bold of you to assume I thought that far ahead.” Was probably not the best response to Jazz’s irate question of ‘Did you even consider what Batman, Mr. Contingencies-out-the-ass and minion-acquisition-instead-of-therapy, would do with the files?’

Needless to say, Jazz wasn’t impressed.

She had been rather happier lately, with her boyfriend Jason constantly in her orbit, but responsibility still weighed on her.

(Danny’s fault, he was aware, but he still had so much growing up to do before he was ready for the crown.)

Getting the AEA demolished was sure to take some weight from her, even if it would be only the beginning of resolving the repercussions of the United States’ crimes against the Infinite Realms.

It would be years before it would be considered repaid, the blood shed and existences snuffed out. The deaths of the Dr. Fentons were only a consequence of their actions, not truly recompense for the torture they inflicted on the people of the Realms.

(Danny never told Jazz, but he knew they didn’t die when the portal was destroyed.)

(He knew his sister had killed their parents to save him.)

(He still didn’t know how to feel about that.)

Lady Gotham offered a sad croon as Phantom curled his form under a gargoyle’s wings, the heavy rain an ironic ambiance for his mood.

There was nothing he could do about the GIW in Gotham until they showed themselves and they were doing an unusually good job of keeping on the down low. If it hadn’t been for the frantic screeches of the friendly shades and a few blob ghosts cuddling him for comfort, he would have been caught off-guard by an attack. As long as he stayed out of his haunt for a while, let his signature be caught somewhere else, then Jazz would be able to defend their home until he could deal with the bastards.

He just needed to wait.

Jazz had been livid with him admitting his fuck up with the files and deeming the GIW’s presence his fault for claiming a Haunt. With a threat to hug him and make him talk about his feelings until he no longer believed such a lie, Jazz agreed to remain in their Haunt until he could draw some of their forces away. Lady Gotham’s ecto-siganture would be enough to scramble their trackers once further into her city and she would subtly lead her Knights to the agents when able.

It wasn’t much, but it would have to be enough.

Phantom curled his tail around his laid back form, mimicking a cat as he texted Sam and Tucker with updates. They had sworn to visit him during Summer Break, but the Halfa wasn’t holding his breath. Gotham wasn’t safe for them. It wasn’t safe for anyone and that’s coming from a kid who can punt a building into the sun at a moment’s notice.

Amity was (laughably) the best place for them.

Phantom wasn’t really paying attention, absentmindly petting a blob ghost that was cuddled into his side, when he was joined by none other than the Red Hood.

Badass armor and weapons aside, the Hood was an Antihero he admired. The avenged dead sung his praises for all who’d listen.

And… he was very familiar.

Red Hood possessed a Proto-core, one he’d sensed before in his own home….with Jazz.

It couldn’t be. There was no way the Fenton luck could be that wonky that his big sister was dating Red Hood of all people, Jason Todd when unmasked. She had to know right? There was no way Jazz could miss the Proto-core signature of the Once-Revenant they’d housed for a while. Was Jazz okay with Jason’s past? Sure, Red Hood didn’t kill much anymore, but he was still a crime lord who thought severed heads in a duffel bag was a great gift to leave on someone’s doorstep, like a particularly picky cat.

“Uh, hi?”

Hood crouched down, rain blocked by his huge body, water droplets dripping off his red helmet. The white lenses gave nothing away as the Anti-hero spoke, “Hey kid. You ok?”

(Danny was well aware of how gentle and caring Red Hood was towards kids.)

(He couldn’t wait to be an uncle.)

“I’m fine, dude. Just chilling.”

“Under a gargoyle in Gotham?” The disbeliving tone made Phantom snort in laughter, because wow not the scariest concept to a halfa.

“Hey, it was either this or the sewers. I wouldn’t be caught dead,” Phantom chuckled a bit at his joke. “Down there without hazmat gear and the Anti-Creep stick.”

Hood snorted, the sound stackity through the modulator, “Fair enough. Don’t get caught by the big bat, ok? He doesn’t like Metas in his city.”

“Oi, being dead is a meta-cal condition.”

“Ugh,” Hood groaned, “a punster. You’re not dead, kid.”

“‘Fraid I am, my good dude. Fourteen and fried alive, zero outta ten, would not recommend.”

“...You’re a ghost?”

“Right in one! Name’s Phantom.” the Halfa offered, seeing no point in correcting the Anti-hero.

“Red Hood.”

“Dude, I know. The shades sing your praises given half a chance.”

“Shades?”

Phantom shrugged, “The restless dead, unable to pass over without a lot of ectoplasm.”

Hood didn’t ask what ectoplasm was, which surprised the Halfa. Did Batman share the Ghost Files with Red Hood?

“You’re from Amity Park, right?”

Phantom cringed at the name of his former haunt, anger bubbling in his gut, “I died there. I haunt Gotham now.”

“....I’m sorry.” Even with the modulator, Hood sounded genuinely sad for Phantom.

(Batman definitely shared the Ghost Files with the Anti-Hero.)

“Are you alright here? Do you need help?”

Phantom shook his head, “The GIW invaded Gotham tracking my Ecto-signature, so I’m leading them away from my Haunt.” He raised an eyebrow, “You should be careful too. You’re a pretty strong liminal, but they’ll still try to capture you.”

“No, they won’t get me. Phantom, where’s your haunt?”

If Hood was anyone else, Phantom would keep his mouth shut. A Haunt is sacred, a home for a Fraid, it was not some measly address freely given. Yet, Red Hood was also Jason Todd, Once-Revenant Death-claimed Champion turned Proto-core Liminal dating his older sister. If Jazz trusted him enough to date him, then it was good enough for Phantom to offer him a place in his Fraid. (He really couldn’t wait to be an uncle.)

A/N: This was beta-read by @meditating-cat, thanks!

The little bit at the end there... foreshadowing, perhaps? Ooh... all those baby names I could give a Hardcover kid.

Perhaps, perhaps not. Who knows. I have the end of this series mostly planned out, but it could likely change.

Thanks for reading!

#dc x dp crossover #dp x dc #dp x dc au #dpxdc #jazz fenton #regent!jazz #jason todd #anger management ship #hardcover ship #I made myself squeal #They're just so CUTE #they're in love your honor #two dorks #two vigilantes #and only one knows the other is one #spoiler: not the one you'd think #In which Jason is kinda a sweetheart #He's in love with Jazz #she fell first he fell harder

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rebelsandtherest · 2 years

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Ghost Story

Words: 6,652

Summary: During a vacation to New England, a freak accident leaves Alfred in a tricky situation. Luckily, Matthew is there to help bail him out. Today's Halloween nightmare is tomorrow's urban legend, but sometimes, the truth behind the myth is just two brothers doing their best. A very belated Halloween oneshot.

TW: Death, dead bodies, mention of drunk driving and related accidents, general macabre themes—but it's more the spooky creepy variety than the dark and existential kind

Halloween? In December? It's more likely than you think! I'd meant to finish this in time for Halloween but it just wasn't meant to be. A VERY belated Happy Halloween, everyone!

I know literally nothing about how a morgue/medical examiner's office works. Whatever inaccuracies exist are just pure, indulgent campiness.

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Friday October 30, 1990

Burlington, Vermont

It was a cool and damp Friday evening, as evenings tended to be this time of year. The moon was a middling sliver of light behind a blanket of clouds, which was anticlimactic all things considered.

The cool and the damp had leached indoors, and after a long and tiring workweek, Linda was entirely ready to wash up, hang up her coat, and return home where a pile of green and yellow fleece was waiting for a fairy godmother to turn it into a 10-year-old-sized t-rex costume. She'd promised her son it would be ready, claws, teeth, zipper, and all, in time to go trick-or-treating with his father, but the clock was ticking alarmingly close to midnight.

Linda's coat sleeves were down to her elbows when the phone rang. She sighed and glanced at the clock with equal parts annoyance and resignation before flipping her coat back on and falling into her creaky desk chair with deliberate aggravation.

"What," she griped into the receiver, wrestling with the tangled cord. The voice on the other end told her what, and she rubbed a hand over her face, worried that there would be no fairy godmother for costumes this Halloween..

"Aw, jeez," she sighed into the phone, sounding sad despite herself. She leaned away from the desk to look to where her assistant was packing up to leave. "Don't go anywhere yet, Jen," she said. "Got one coming in from Windsor."

"Oh?" Jen, who'd already done up her lipstick and changed into heels, the poor thing, was clearly trying to be nonchalant through her disappointment. Linda couldn't blame her. It was 8:45 on a Friday night, for Christ's sake, the girl should be out with her friends. Still, Linda hadn't made her take the job. If she was going to stick around, she might as well learn.

"Yeah," she sighed, pausing to let her caller finish his report before hanging up. "They're bound to be here in fifteen, twenty minutes. Go ahead and start filling out the paperwork so we can make this quick."

"Paperwork?" to her credit, Jen was swapping out her heels for clogs once more without complaint. "Did they give you the details?"

"No," Linda said sadly, standing from the desk and going immediately to clear off the exam table. "It's a John Doe." Jen frowned.

"Oh."

"You tag one of them before?"

"No."

"Well, it's depressingly uncomplicated. Grab a new folder and I'll show you how to start. We'll fill out the rest when he gets here."

Pedestrian deaths were, unfortunately, a common enough occurrence that Linda probably could've written the police report herself. Vermont drivers were confident even in the pitch black of an October night, sometimes too confident when rounding blind bends in the backroads. The driver in this particular incident was currently in Windsor county jail after blowing a 0.14 on the scene. But the poor soul who'd got caught on the passenger side headlight was here in Burlington, in a morgue on a slab looking considerably worse for wear.

"His face isn't in too bad of shape… I'm sure they'll want to put out a public notice to see if he's got family," Linda sighed, standing by as moral as well as clerical support as Jen recorded what little details were available. The body was blue-lipped and mottled with bruises, some pre-mortem but most of them wine-red stains of pooling blood. He was tall, handsome, and depressingly young. He also had a graphically broken arm and a skull cracked in two places. bloodying the back of his blond hair.

"Did he really have no ID?" Jen asked, looking up from the typewriter. "It's strange for someone to be out on the roads so late without a wallet or keys or something."

"Maybe he lived in the area," Linda shrugged. "I mean, I hope he's got someone looking for him." She glanced at the body, which they'd only just cut out of its clothes. "No wedding ring, though. Parents, maybe? Looks a bit old to be in school." She sighed. "Any which way, I'm glad I'm not the one who has to make that phone call."

"Yeah," Jen agreed quietly, click-clacking on the keyboard slowing to a stop. She reviewed the page before pulling it free of the machine. "I guess this is it," she handed the report to Linda for review, who trusted her assistant enough to give it only the briefest of skims.

"We'll have to call in tomorrow and ask if there's another photographer available while Jordan is out. But this is good for now. Come on, let's get him on ice and clean up."

"I can do it," Jen said confidently. "I know you wanted to be home tonight, go on ahead and go, I can finish up here."

"You sure?" Linda asked, hesitant to take the young assistant up on her offer, but preoccupied in equal measure by the tissue paper pattern that had been ingrained into her memory since her son told her he wanted to be a dinosaur.

"Yeah," Jen gave her a smile, "don't worry about it, I got it."

Jen cursed quietly, digging around in the top drawer for the White-Out. She'd grown adept at typing during her undergraduate degree, earning higher marks than her peers. Unfortunately, one summer using her boyfriend's desktop computer had ruined her for manual typing, and though she'd only had a "backspace" key for four months, she had no idea how she'd ever done without.

"If you'd gotten better grades in English, maybe this wouldn't be a problem," she grumbled to herself, fingers jittering in frustration. The sooner she finished up her notes, the sooner she could leave. "You know how to type, stupid hands, just do it." It was perhaps a bad habit, talking to yourself, but she worked in a morgue, and tonight she worked in a morgue alone. It wasn't as if her office-mates minded.

"Fuck," she hissed when the "E" key stuck for the umpteenth time. She pried it back to rights and resumed typing. : 5 8. R— the "E" key stuck again. "Oh, for the love of—

BANG

Jen jerked so hard she'd have to use White-Out for half the last line. She didn't notice, head jerking automatically to look at the locked door of the freezer room.

BANG

She jerked again, the creaky office chair wheeled halfway across the room from the force of her standing up.

BANG

Jen reached a shaking hand out toward the coffee mug full of pens and pencils, fishing around until she found the letter opener. The blade was only an inch and a half long, but she wielded it like a dagger in front of her, staring at the freezer room door.

BA—

She jumped again, and rushed to the door, keys in hand. Missing the lock several times, she had to hold her right hand still with her left to fit the key into the lock. Turn, turn, and the bolt unlocked. She pressed the handle down and pulled. Reached around the doorframe with her right hand, hit the lights.

She met eyes with the corpse heaving for breath on the floor, and screamed.

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It was 1 am on October 31, and Matthew Williams was still sleeping off the inadvisable amount of cinnamon whiskey and chocolate he'd consumed at the office Halloween party the night before. When his phone began to ring, he thought it must've been his hangover headache trying to wake him up, so he dug his head deeper into his flannel-clad pillows and pulled the duvet up over his head.

When the phone rang a second time, he thought it was a phone in his dream, but it was the prime minister's job to answer it. The third time, he realized it was real, and that it was his, and that it might actually be something important. Unwilling to sacrifice warmth for the sake of whoever was on the other line, he shuffled into the kitchen with his duvet as a cloak, eyes opened only by a sliver with which to see. He was wincing when he got to the phone, not sure if the sound hurt because he was hungover or because he was tired. It was probably both. With effort, he yanked the phone free of the receiver, tucking his arm back under his duvet as he smushed it to his face.

"This had better be good," he groused, voice deep and groggy.

"Mattie,"

Matt opened his eyes fully. It was just a name, his name, spoken by a voice who'd usually receive an earful of colorful language for calling at this time of night. But tonight, there was a strange timbre in those two syllables that rang too many alarm bells to ignore.

"Alfred?" He asked, still groggy but now trying to rouse himself.

"Mattie, I need help," and Alfred Jones could utter no scarier words than those. "Thank god you answered, you didn't pick up and I thought–I mean, I only just remembered your phone number, I thought maybe I'd—I'm sorry to call you, I didn't know who else–I'm stuck in here, there's no way I can get out on foot like this, she's going to wake up sooner or later and I'm going to be even more in the shit—"

"Al, slow down,slow down," Matt's head felt like it was at sea, so he pinched the bridge of his nose to anchor himself. "What happened? Who's going to wake up? Are you hurt?"

"I'm in the morgue," Alfred told him. "I broke out of the freezer and scared this woman so badly she fainted."

"The morgue? Al what the fuck did you–"

"I got hit, I think? Didn't see him–look, we can talk when my brain is back online, I was—report said my skull's been bashed in, I'm not doing so hot at the whole thinking thing—god why does this always have to be so fucking cold."

Matthew was fully awake now. Head throbbing, mouth dry, entire body engulfed by a duvet, he looked around for his car keys.

"Where are you?" He asked, testing the length of the phone cord while he rummaged around his countertops.

"The city name is long, my eyes are patchy–starts with a B. Vermont."

"Burlington?" Matt found the keys buried under some potholders.

"Yes, that one. Morgue. Medical examiner's office I think."

"Okay. How long have you been back?"

"I don't know. I didn't–wasn't fully back

Until I turned and saw this chick screaming in the doorway."

"You're not still in the freezer, are you?"

"No, but it's cold as fuck in here. Or in my brain. Borrowed lab coat but they make them cheap and thin now."

"I'm going to be there in a few hours. Hang in there, okay?"

"Hanging sucks, I don't want–oh wait you meant. Yeah. Okay. I'll be here."

Matt hung up the phone and went back to his room, groaning as his headache intensified. Not changing out of his fleece pajamas, he pulled on jeans and a hoodie and shoved his feet into boots, tossing back three advil and a pint of water before he retrieved his keys.

"Honestly," he complained aloud, no real heat in his voice, "couldn't have picked a better time to die, could you?"

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It was beginning to mist by the time Matt's wheezing Pontiac rolled to a stop outside of the Medical Examiner's office. The night was slowly turning into morning, but the human world would be slumbering for a while yet. Matt turned off his headlights but left the engine running, heat on full blast. Pulling up his hood and tucking some clothes under his arm, he followed the sidewalk up to the front door.

"Alfred?" He whispered into the night, glancing this way and that. As far as he could tell, he was well and truly alone, but this was a morgue, after all. Matt had seen his fair share of ghosts in his life and deaths. He had no doubts this place was home to a handful of unlucky souls, and normally he would've shown more respect than to go right up to the door and wiggle the handle, press his face against the window with hands cupped and leave fog on the glass. However, he was only here to fetch one particular ghost. When the back of his neck burned with the stare of something unseen, he resisted the urge to look over his shoulder and instead ducked down, quietly sneaking around the building.

Past the dumpsters and AC units, he found the back door had already been opened, a clipboard wedged between the door and its frame. Slowly, he pulled it open, not sure what to expect on the other side. The building was dark save for a few safety lamps and the red flicker of a smoke detector.

"Alfred?" He called, and let the slight echo hang in the air.

"Mattie?" came the response several seconds later. Matt followed it into a nearby office, where he found his brother: muddy, shivering, nude but for a lab coat and what looked like a white bedsheet, sitting curled up knees-to-chest right on top of the medical examiner's desk.

"Al, holy shit, are you okay?" Matt rushed forward immediately.

"The floors are cold," Alfred explained, aware of his bizarre perch. He let Matt come to him rather than attempt to move himself. "This building is cold," he added, bringing his legs over the side of the desk, shivering so violently it took a few tries to get his left leg out from under him. "I know I'm a wimp, I know your place is worse, but god I'm just cold, coming back didn't used to be this cold, I swear to Christ."

"You are a wimp," Matt said, shaking out a bulky flannel. "But not today. Come on, this is way warmer, give me the coat." Alfred struggled to do so, so Matt helped him. Absurdly, he was struck with a childhood memory of Alfred doing the same thing for him, when he was small. Alfred shucked the thin lab coat, but the bedsheet remained wrapped around his hips.

"I don't suppose you brought pants, did you?" he asked, nodding at the bundle of clothes.

"I did, actually," Matt looked his brother up and down. "Do you need help putting them on?" When Alfred did not immediately respond with indignance, Matt realized how nasty a return he must've had. Alfred heaved a sigh.

"My brain is still mush, let's just do it before I remember how to feel embarrassed." Normally one to tease Alfred for his puritanical sense of modesty, Matt only unfurled the clothes.

"Okay," he said, glancing at Alfred's bluing toes. "Socks first, though."

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Matt ended up carrying Alfred piggyback to the car so as not to get his socks wet. He'd tried to lighten the mood by teasing Alfred about his weight, which was familiar and comfortable bickering territory between them. Alfred, to his credit, tried to bicker back, but ended up blacking out in the crucial few seconds where he'd usually be telling Matt that he was a vain bitch.

"Oh hey, there you are," Matt said, and Alfred looked over at his brother, disoriented for a moment to realize he was buckled into the passenger side of Matt's hatchback and they were moving. The outside world was a blur, and not only because of the rain, which was coming down heavier than before. His face scrunched and he rubbed his eyes, which were sore. Everything was sore.

"I want my glasses," he whined, knowing it would do no good.

"Sorry, bud," Matt said, looking over in sympathy but unable to help. "I've got some spares at my place, it's not the same prescription, but–"

"Your place? Alfred looked up, momentarily distracted from his pain. "We're going north?"

"Um, yeah," Matt said, glancing quickly between Alfred and the road, newfound concern putting a wrinkle in between his eyebrows. "Why wouldn't we be?"

"I don't have my passport."

"Alfred, you're with me. It'll be fine," Matt assured. Alfred stared at him for several long heartbeats, blinking as though to clear the blurry world around him, before his brain found the right synapses.

"Oh, right," he said, sinking down in his chair and enjoying the brush of the fleece against his neck as he let the lined flannel collar bunch around his chin. "Right, I forgot."

Matt chuckled, glancing over at him. "Forgot? You were the one who kept pestering me to carry those fancy-ass ID cards around with me in the first place." Matt's laugh faded, and, not hearing Alfred laugh or make some other comment, glanced at his brother. "Al, are you–ah."

Alfred, who'd forgotten that he and his brother were not human, had fallen asleep.

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When Alfred next awoke, his whole body had woken up, too. They were only just over the border, Matt told him, and had crossed without issue. The Canadian began describing the rest of their route up through Ontario to his house outside of Ottawa, but Alfred was not listening.

His insides felt as though they were on fire, or frozen, or melted, or shot full of lead. He struggled to arrange himself in a position that was not excruciating. Eventually, he settled for sitting in his chair sideways, bent over his knees with one foot underneath him. Unfortunately, his regenerating guts were also stealing the heat he'd been enjoying in his hands and feet, and just as the cramps seemed to have passed, he started shivering again. He stayed huddled in his bent position, no longer out of pain, but against the cold.

It had stopped raining, so the cab was quiet save for the hum of the engine and tires. Alfred's shivering must've caused some amount of disturbance, however, because Mat reached over to him.

"Hey," he gave his brother's arm a gentle squeeze. "You okay?"

"Hungry," Alfred said quietly, curled in on himself. Matt did a double take and frowned at him.

"Are you ready for food yet? I brought a thermos of bread broth if you want some, it should still be warm."

"Bread broth," Alfred huffed out in surprise. "Jesus, Mattie, did I wake up in the Hoover administration? I want real food."

"Alfred, you were dead a few hours ago, you know food is a bad idea."

"I'm hungry."

"Al, you're not ready for–"

"The first vacation I've had in ten months on my property in my states, one of my stupid-ass, careless fucking idiot citizens beamed me in my own fucking driveway and landed me in a goddamn freezer, and now I'm going to be spending my remaining days off regrowing my guts and remembering how to count backwards from 100, I want a goddamn burger, okay?!" The outburst left Alfred winded, but his face remained pink and angry, glaring out at the out-of-focus road.

Matt chewed on the inside of his lip. He knew better. He knew that real food this soon was a doomed idea. He also knew that Alfred's habit of self-soothing with food was not something he ought to indulge. But Alfred hadn't done a very good job of hiding it when he wiped away his tears of frustration, and Matt knew the feeling acutely well.

"How about a breakfast sandwich?" He suggested. "There's a Timmies coming up soon, does that sound good?" Alfred nodded, and then, as if realizing he'd not spoken out loud, said,

"Yeah, that's great."

"Okay. I was wanting some coffee anyway." Matt flipped his blinker on to move into the right lane.

"Thanks, Mattie," Alfred muttered softly. Matt sighed softly.

"Let's just get you home, eh?"

------------------------

In a few days, Alfred would be willing to admit that, in retrospect, the Timmies had been a bad idea. Matt had warned him, and had even talked him out of adding cheese to his order, but even so, Alfred had ordered two of them. They'd tasted divine and he'd felt immediately better after eating. However, even while he tried to drift off into a food-fueled coma, it didn't take very long for him to regret his choices.

Alfred was sitting up straight now, and was warm from head to toes, so Matt could finally turn down the heat (he'd stripped down to his t-shirt). He was coherent and talkative and, despite the lack of glasses, was at least able to figure out more or less where they were as they approached Ottawa.

Unfortunately, coming back from the grave—or freezer, in this instance—always came in fits and starts. It was still dark out, and in the light of the headlights, the trees and grass were like zoetrope figures, slip-sliding this way and that across Alfred's vision in a way that made the world feel tilted.

"Matt," Alfred said, staring at the dashboard in an attempt to ground himself. It wasn't working. "Matt, can you pull over?"

"Huh?"

"Pull over."

"Is something wrong?"

"Now."

Matt did, cursing as cars whizzed past him and honked as he threw on his hazard lights. They'd not yet come to a complete stop on the gravel shoulder before Alfred undid his seatbelt, opened the door, and threw up his hard-bargained breakfast into the grass. In the car, Matt sighed and rubbed his eyes. Undoing his own seatbelt, he reached into the backseat and dug around for a fresh bottle of water. Once Alfred was done retching and coughing, Matt tapped his shoulder with the bottle.

"Careful," he said, instead of the tempting 'I told you so' that rang in his mind. "Don't want you to start choking all over again." Al just groaned and took the water, sitting slumped halfway out of the car staring at nothing and trying not to gag.

"How much farther to your place?" Alfred asked, sounding desperate and exhausted.

"Not far. Little less than an hour." Alfred groaned pitifully, shoulders slumped.

"I know," Matt said, scratching his brow and thinking of his warm bed. "Almost there. You okay?"

"I fucking hate dying," Alfred said, spitting and rising his mouth out with more water. "But I think I hate coming back even more."

"I know," Matt said, not knowing what else to say. It had been a long, long night. "I'm sorry, Al."

------------------------

A little less than an hour later, they were safely back at Matt's house. Alfred carefully tread across the path to the door, trying not to muddy his borrowed socks. By the time Matt followed him inside, Alfred was lying on the couch with an arm thrown over his eyes to stop the world from spinning. They showered and changed—Alfred showered again when he decided he still smelled like the inside of a morgue freezer. Matt dug out a small pharmacy of drugs for Alfred to take, and then made breakfast: waffles for Matt and a plain piece of white bread with a glass of water for Alfred.

Just as the sun was coming up, the brothers turned in for bed. Like they had when they were small, they bunked together. However, in a reversal of their childhood custom, it was Alfred who was snuggling into Matt's side for warmth. Matt, still awake and yawning, combed his fingers through Alfred's clean hair, which sent the American drifting toward sleep as fast as a rocket. Matt yawned again and looked down at Alfred's smushed, drooling face. He paused in his combing for a moment to appreciate his brother like this: alive, warm, close. He resumed moving his fingers and glanced at his clock—and beside it, the calendar.

"Oh, by the way, Al," Matt whispered.

"Mmnh?" Alfred grunted, only barely lucid.

"Happy Halloween," Matt told him. Alfred snorted softly into the blanket that cushioned his face against Matt's side.

"Should I go as a zombie this year?" he slurred. It was Matt's turn to snort, and for a moment both brothers shook with tired, contained laughter.

"I'm going as a bear," Matt decided through a yawn, hand slowing, eyelids heavy. "So I can sleep through the whole thing."

"Mmmm," Alfred groaned, falling alongside his brother towards a much needed rest. "Sounds good."

Matt's hand slipped from Alfred's hair and landed near his shoulder, where it would stay until they woke up in November.

------------------------

Tuesday October 31, 2000

Burlington, Vermont

It was a cool and damp Tuesday afternoon, as afternoons tended to be this time of year. Alfred Jones had camped out at the diner booth for nearly an hour, and had for the past half hour or so been occupying himself with spinning his Nokia on the table like a top. He watched it spin and clatter to the table, before picking it up and trying to make it spin longer. Occasionally, he would look out into the parking lot, craning his neck this way and that.

"Did you want a refill, sir?" Asked a feminine voice, which distracted him from the cars outside. Alfred turned to the waitress, who was wearing striped stockings under her apron and a glittery witch's hat over a stern and uncompromising face. She was also holding a full pot of over-brewed coffee in one hand.

"Oooh, witch's brew, huh?" Alfred smiled up at her. Longsuffering expression unchanged, she blinked at him. His smile wobbled and he winced.

"Sorry, that was. Um, yeah, if you could just leave the pot, actually?" The waitress glanced at the clock—it was nearly four.

"Suit yourself," she shrugged, sliding the pot onto his table. As he was pouring himself a cup, the bell on the door announced a new arrival, who paused to wipe his feet at the door.

"Ayyy, there he is!" Alfred shouted across the diner, not caring if others stared. The newcomer rolled his eyes and took off his scarf and jacket. "Long time no see!" Alfred smiled as he approached.

"It's been ten months, Alfred."

"Is a man not allowed to miss his brother after nearly a year of radio silence?" Alfred asked, feigning magnanimity. He stood and hugged Matt hard before the Canadian could protest. Matt smiled and hugged back just as hard despite himself. Once they withdrew, Matt threw his things into the bench opposite his brother and slid into the booth.

"Radio silence," He scoffed,."You're the one who's been holed away at NASA this whole time, not me—weren't you literally in space last week?"

"Details, shmetails," Alfred waved him off, slurping at his coffee.

"Is that decaf?" Matt asked. Alfred regarded the mug.

"No, why?"

"It's an hour till sunset."

"So?" Alfred took another sip. Matt only tilted his head and gave his brother a quizzical look. Uncomfortable with such scrutiny, Alfred leaned back in his seat. "So, what's up with you?"

"Oh you know, same old hat."

"Aw come on, don't give me that. The Kiwi said you got your ass handed to you in some kind of drunken rugby match against uncle Alisdair?"

"Oh god," Matt winced, "she told you about that?"

"Not nearly enough. Spill."

The brothers launched into conversation as though they'd seen each other yesterday. The waiter came back around and seemed to appreciate Matthew's mild manners better than those of his brother, which gave the two something to argue about while she fetched them both a slice of apple pie. It was beginning to grow dark outside, and in between the ever-present rainclouds, shades of orange and pink peaked through to a hidden sunset.

"Thanks for coming down," Alfred said, drawing Matt's attention from the sky. "I know it's odd timing. I'm flying back down to Maryland on Thursday, Houston on Saturday, but I wanted to say hi before I left town."

"It's no problem," Matt demurred, holding back a comment about how Alfred ought to take a vacation. "NASA must have you busy to make you miss Halloween, you're not even dressed up."

"Ugh, I know," Alfred complained, pausing when the waiter arrived with their pie. "I thought about wearing part of a space suit or something, but apparently that's 'abuse of government property,'" he rolled his eyes, making dramatic air quotes with his fingers. "And 'a waste of taxpayer dollars.'" He took a bite of his pie. Still chewing, he added, "so I just went with this," he flicked the collar of his windbreaker, which Matt only just realized had an Apollo mission patch on the left breast. Behind them, the door bell rang and a gaggle of high schoolers piled into the diner, trying to decide whose parents' house was best suited to host a Blair Witch Project watch party.

"I mean," Matt said, fighting a smirk, "it's a better costume than the last time we did Halloween in Vermont." Alfred squinted at him for several seconds before realization dawned.

"Oh, shit, I'd nearly forgotten about that!" Alfred laughed, covering his mouth politely since he was unable to keep from smiling around a mouthful of pastry. "Oh, man, that was a bad vacation." Matt laughed, cleaning his plate of whipped cream before leaning back and propping his feet up beneath the table.

"Did you ever find out what happened to that assistant you scared half to death?"

"No," Alfred sounded disappointed, "I mean, I don't even remember what she looked like. I hope she wasn't too shaken up about it, I feel bad."

"I mean, I don't know, maybe the bump on the head made her forget about the whole thing."

"Maybe," Alfred continued eating, and did a double take at Matt's clean plate. "Did you finish your pie before me?"

"I had a light lunch."

"Do you want more?"

"God, no, I'm way too full."

"The owner's husband is Canadian, you know, makes a mean fried dough." Alfred told him, "they have some fresh-made beavertails up at the counter. Got little pumpkin and witch hat sprinkles."

"Wait, really?" Matt whipped his head around to look up at the counter. After a moment of indecision, he stood and scurried to the pastry display. The ensuing lack of conversation allowed Alfred to focus on his pie. It also allowed him to eavesdrop on the noisy teenagers who'd piled into the large corner booth at Alfred's back.

"Oh come on, it can't be that scary," a boy was saying.

"Have you seen it?" replied another male voice. "I don't know, man, I like that kind of shit, but it made me pretty jumpy, no joke."

"I didn't even realize how much it freaked me out until nighttime," said a fememine voice. "I got so paranoid, it really does get to you! I think you'll like it."

"I just don't get why fiction is supposed to be so scary," the first voice said. "There's plenty of scary stuff in real life! Like, make a movie about real horror stuff, if you really want to scare people."

"Oh, what, you're going to make a nature documentary about vampires in their natural habitat?" The group laughed at that. "Get real, Jamie."

"No but seriously!" Jamie insisted. "You don't even have to go that far. There's creepy stories everywhere—have any of you guys heard about the John Doe that disappeared from the morgue back when we were in elementary school?"

Alfred choked on his pie. Half the teeangers began to groan.

"Oh, come on, not this again."

"I knew it! I knew it would come back around to this."

"Jamie, it's just an urban legend."

"No! That's where my mom worked, there are pictures, it was like a whole–"

"A whole cover-up, we know,"

"Wait wait wait, I don't know," cut in a new voice, "What happened?"

"Please don't encourage him,"

"Okay so basically," Jamie began,

"Here we go."

"There was this hit and run accident down in Windsor county, and—"

"This thing is as big as my head," Matt announced, carrying over a truly massive beavertail. "You and your portion sizes. You're going to have to help me eat… this… thing…" Matt trailed off as he sat, because Alfred was shushing him with a finger over his lips and waving at him to stop talking. Matt frowned at him, glancing around.

"What?" He mouthed. Alfred, who was smiling and trying not to laugh, pointed over his shoulder at the booth behind him.

"–but in the middle of the night he just… disappeared. Literally walked out the door and was never seen again."

"What, were there like footprints or something?"

Matt took a large bite of his pastry and gave his brother another "what the hell" shrug. Alfred tapped his finger to his lips again and gestured for Matt to wait and listen.

"No footprints, but the freezer door was kicked open," Jamie said, pausing for dramatic effect, "from the inside."

"Oh come on, you can't just kick open a freezer door," complained a friend.

"No, I'm serious, look, there are pictures!"

"Oh my god, of course you would carry pictures around in your backpack."

"Only for Halloween," Jamie said, rifling through notebooks.

"So wait, when was this?" asked someone else.

"Almost exactly ten years ago," Jamie answered, and in the neighboring booth, Matt began to frown. "Midnight on October 30th—or Halloween morning."

"Ooh, witching hour," teased someone.

"Give me those. What the hell?"

"Right?"

"Come on, these have to be faked, right?"

"No one could kick that door open with just their feet," the most skeptical of the bunch said, "they'd break their ankles for sure."

"Yeah, if they were human," Jamie said.

"Oh my goddd," groaned the skeptic.

"So what, a whole ass dead body just. Disappeared?"

At last, Matt's eyes widened, and he fixed Alfred with a look.

"Are they talking about…?" he mouthed. Alfred began to nod his head rapidly, a maniacal smile on his face.

"Oh my god," Matt laughed, trying to muffle his laughter.

"So wait, how do you know it was at midnight?" Asked the girl who was unfamiliar with the story.

"My mom's assistant, Jennifer, she was staying late that night to finish the paperwork on this John Doe, she heard a big BANG, BANG, BANG, from where they keep the bodies," Jamie mimed, "she walked in to see what it was, and there was the dead body out of the freezer, standing up on its own two legs, staring at her."

"Oh jesus, so they stuck him in there when he was still alive?!"

"No, that's the thing, like I said, my mom was the medical examiner back then, they had to take photos whenever they got new bodies in, look at this!"

"Oh, fuck I didn't need to see that," someone complained, gagging.

"Wait is this a real photo?"

"Yeah."

"Oh my god that's so creepy."

"Aww, that poor man!"

"Damn, he was hot."

"Brittney, it's literally a dead body."

"Yeah but he was hot."

Alfred was biting his index finger, trying not to laugh. Matt rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, he'd be hotter if his brains were inside his skull."

"Ugh that's just… so gross—are you even allowed to have this stuff?"

"I mean, not really, but I made scans of it when I found it a few years ago. The police have the original file, but mom has a copy too."

"Wait, so the police investigated?"

"Yeah, but nothing really ever came of it. It never made it to the media, beyond a milk carton "have you seen me" kind of thing, they had a sketch artist do a portrait." Paper rustled as Jamie produced the sketch.

"Oh come on, that looks nothing like him."

"Eh, I see it."

"He's not nearly hot enough."

"Brittney."

"So did the police ever find anything?"

"That's where it gets really weird," Jamie said, dropping his voice to a loud whisper, "they started going through all the evidence—whoever this guy was he left the office a mess. They found hair and even blood, but before they could start testing any of it some people from the FBI showed up and shut it all down."

"Wait what?"

"Yeah, so no one even knows what all the police found, if they found anything. It never even made the evening news."

"Nuh uh," one of the teens snatched paper out of Jamie's hand. "This can't be legit. Someone would know something."

"I mean, my mom knows about it. Poor Jennifer was traumatized–she left mortuary school right afterwards."

"Ugh, I'm still mad he died, he's so cute."

"A reanimated corpse is covered up by the FBI, and you're worried about how cute the zombie is?"

"I have an idea," Alfred said softly, so only Matt would hear.

"What?"

"Just be ready to leave in a second. Not in a hurry." Alfred grabbed his phone and stretched out his right arm to rest on the top of the bench, tapping the Nokia idly on the wood.

"But if he wasn't actually dead, why would the FBI need to get involved?"

"He could be like, an informant or something?"

"He can't not be dead, you saw the photos! You can't fake those kinds of injuries."

"Yeah, unless you work for the F B fucking I."

Alfred dropped his phone over the booth, causing a few students to lean out of the way.

"Ah, shit, I'm so sorry," He said, bringing his knees up to the bench so he could lean over into the teenager's booth. "New phone, kinda slippery," he joked, making sure they could've gotten a good view of his face. The kid who Alfred assumed was Jamie had wide eyes and a suddenly-pale complexion. "Thanks so much, I'm so sorry," Alfred said to the girl who handed him his phone. He could see the moment when she recognized him, because her eyes went wide and darted immediately back to the photos spread out amidst their sodas and snacks. He followed her gaze and winced, which was not part of the act. He'd never seen the images before, and a part of him wished they didn't exist, but then again, this was going to be fun.

"Yeesh," he commented, eyes lingering on the photos. "I always hated those. Camera adds ten pounds, and all that. Anyway," he grinned at the group, "Happy Halloween!" He waved his phone at them and stood completely from the booth. Some of the students craned their necks and leaned out of the booth to see him better.

"Ready to go?" Alfred asked Matt, who to his credit, had somehow repressed his smile enough so that only the dimple in his left cheek gave him away.

"Yup," the Canadian said, holding his partially eaten beavertail in one hand and his coat in the other.

"Awesome," he spoke loudly enough to be overheard. "Just enough time to swing back by the house and change into costume."

"Oh?" Matt was willing to play along. "What are you dressing up as?"

"A ghost!" Alfred answered.

"Oh what, are you not already in costume?" Matt improvised, and Alfred burst out laughing. They left the diner with conspiratorial smiles, taking a moment in the parking lot to spy the group of shocked teenagers through the window.

"You're not going to be able to show your face here for a few years, at least," Matt commented.

"Worth it!"

"Alright, come on, Casper. I'll buy you a drink for your funeral." Alfred laughed as they climbed into Matt's aging Pontiac.

"Here, hold this," Matt said, handing Alfred his beavertail. Alfred took a large bite out of it, smearing chocolate across his mouth. When Matt looked over to check for cars, he caught Alfred's shit-eating grin as he watched the teenagers argue from a distance.

"Never even made the evening news," Matt tutted, ducking his head to follow Alfred's gaze. "It's a damn shame."

Alfred laughed, face and smile stained with chocolate and an errant pumpkin sprinkle. "I fucking love halloween!"

#hetalia #hws america #hws canada #aph america #aph canada #halloween #my fanfic #my writing #hurt/comfort #they're just dorks your honor #immortal dorks #but dorks all the same

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