CHAPTER 10

A/N – Hello everyone! I have to say, I'm so excited by this and also endlessly grateful to you all for the wonderful support you've given to this story along the way. It means so much to me! And now the time has come for the final chapter, which will be a little longer than the rest such as to fit the climax of things, and I hope you will enjoy it at least as much as I have enjoyed writing it ;)

Warning: major character death and some hot action ahead, exactly in this order

Francis stood just a step away from the bedroom doorframe, where he'd stopped upon observing the incubus maid from downstairs. There was a sort of awed scowl on the brunette's face as she was motionlessly watching something up the stairs. He genuinely wondered what could amaze a creature of demonic nature of such extent, and soon discovered it himself – there was a trail of dark, long sea weeds leading from Arthur's bedroom door all the way down the steps.

"Mademoiselle Sylvia…"

The red eyes broke their focus and looked up to him, questioningly. "Then… you've seen him too, Mr. Bonnefoy?" she asked, blinking. "The ghost? He was here?"

The blond nodded. That bloodcurdling presence from the night before was something he would probably not forget too soon, if ever.

"Right… "The maid shrugged awkwardly, motioning towards the stairs. "I'll… I'll clean this up."

"No, wait!" Francis pleaded as she was turning to head below the staircase. He descended quickly, mindful not to touch the awful, disgustingly wet things sprawled onto the steps with his bare feet. "Please, help me! I need to know how to get rid of him, before he does anything to… to hurt Arthur! Please…" He didn't say 'I know what you are' or any unnecessary, uncomfortable words. She would understand regardless.

Sylvia sighed. "I don't know how… I suppose the ghost wants something? All ghosts do, that's why they linger in this world."

"I know, and Arthur says that the ghost wants him to live his life in service of the greater good and do the right thing and whatever, but he's already been doing all that! So why does he still come?!"

"What's going on?"

They both looked up in the same time and discovered the Englishman standing on top of the stairs with a questioning scowl, and Francis quickly withdrew the hand he hadn't even realised he'd laid on the girl's shoulder, in a unconscious fear that she would just walk away.

But Arthur wasn't looking at him anymore, he'd already seen the dark weeds and his expression had morphed into one of pure horror as he stared, lips parted slightly. Then the green-eyed blond shook his head, clenching his fists, and marched into his own bedroom, slamming the door shut in his wake.

"Do you think this is because of… because of me?" Well, he had to ask.

"No, I don't think it's because of any of us," the brunette answered with unexpected openness. "The ghost has been in master's family for generations, and none of them – as far as it is known – has ever had demon familiars or has slept with a man before. Yet the ghost still didn't give them a break, so this can't be it. Somewhere along the way they must have misinterpreted what that man's soul wants."

"Arthur!"

The door was locked and there was no sound coming from the Englishman's bedroom, just ominous silence. He wouldn't even open it for Iggy's insistent meowing and scratching.

"Please open the door, this is ridiculous!"

In the end Francis had enough of the tension and shoved his shoulder full force into the old, dry wood, making it give in. His partner was sitting on his unmade bed, facing the window with a blank stare.

"Arthur, you don't have to-… I'm not scared, whatever this is, I'm okay, we'll deal with it, I'm not going to leave you alone!" The Frenchman kneeled in front of the smaller blond, taking both his hands in his. "Please, Arthur, just say something!"

The other detective sighed, shaking his head. "I can't anymore, Francis. Do you realise… that I never had a relationship before? With someone human I mean, because I cannot drag anyone into my hell. As long as he's here, breathing on the back of my neck, any attempt at a normal life is nothing but a lie." He paused, licking his chapped lips and sniffing. "And I was wrong all along, because I misinterpreted what he wants. The hell was my father thinking?! The man was a pirate, he was caught and executed for his crimes, for fuck's sake! He doesn't care whether I do the right thing or not, he is just pissed because he was caught and killed!"

The blue-eyed blond scowled, realizing that what his partner said made sense. "Then it can't be fixed? Because no one can give his life back…"

"Not in the traditional way of fulfilling the deceased's wish, no," Arthur confirmed. "There is one spell I haven't tried yet but… it's very… well it might be rubbish." He sighed, pushing himself off the mattress. "I'm going to take a bath, please go tell Sylvia that she can have the rest of the day off. I'll take care of everything as soon as… as soon as I'll feel like doing anything, really. And tell Braginski I'm sick or something, he won't mind us skipping work after we dealt with that problem yesterday."

Francis nodded, only half-convinced that everything was alright. Arthur was strangely calm and composed all the sudden, like someone who has finally come up with a plan and is hell-bent on seeing it done. Rather ominous, if he were to be completely honest. But in the end there was no point driving themselves up the wall over this issue – if Kirkland had lived with the ghost all his life it must have meant that the respective ancestor only sought to pester him in a harmless (albeit absolutely horrid) fashion.

As soon as his bathroom door was closed, leaving his lover on the other side, the Englishman's face dropped and he fought back a loud sob which the other could have heard. It was so, so unfair! And he was so tired of this endless bollocks. He'd thought of this before, only it had never been worth the risk, or the plain disappointment if it wasn't going to work. With faltering steps, he made his way to the sink and opened the small cupboard above, extracting an apparently misplaced jar. Sylvia had mopped the new seaweeds off the steps already and he wouldn't go dig them out of the trash now, in plain sight, but fortunately he still had the rest of them, from the ghost's previous apparitions, dried and minced properly.

Gulping, he unscrewed the lid of the jar and, while the bathtub was slowly filling with water, began pouring the seaweed powder in, murmuring a lengthy spell. Now, whatever would happen, it was worth it. Francis Bonnefoy was worth it.

As soon as he'd finished with the phone calls and all the rest, the French detective had gone to have a long, hot shower himself, only the moment he stepped out of it a dark premonition (the same one which had made him force the door and barge into Arthur's bedroom earlier) seized him anew, even stronger. There was no sound (and hell, each and every fucking sound could normally be heard in this damned house!), what the hell could Kirkland be doing in his bath that was taking so long?

Pulling on a pair of sweatpants and an undershirt, he marched into the other bedroom, where Iggy was now dozing peacefully, curled up in the middle of her master's bed. But the bathroom door was still closed and the light on.

"Arthur?" He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Instantly a cold shiver ran down his spine – was it possible that the Englishman had done something to hurt himself? Dieu, he couldn't stop thinking of the worst!

The door was unlocked and the blue-eyed blond barged in, stopping dead in his tracks as his gaze fell on the bathtub. The water filling it to the brim and partially spilling over the edge was murky and seaweeds had grown in it, tangling around the arms, legs and neck of the body lying in the middle of the whole mess, just beneath the surface, sheet-white and light green eyes wide open, staring blankly at the ceiling.

"ARTHUR!" he cried, plunging his arms in the bathtub and pulling the young man out. The soaked clothes he was still wearing were heavy, the weeds refused to release him and Francis desperately struggled to pull him out of the ice-cold water, eventually collapsing on the bathroom floor with his partner in his arms.

"Arthur, s'il vous plait… Please no… Please don't leave me!" His eyes filled with tears as he shook his head, refusing to accept the obvious truth – there was a corpse in his arms. The other was not breathing, he had no pulse and any trace of heat had already left his body. "Why?! God, why?!"

Francis didn't know for how long he just sat there, weeping, with his face buried in Arthur's damp hair, clutching his body to his chest.

"Don't… hah… sque-hahghhhh…. squeeze me, gah! Fu-…fuck , gah! Fu.. the fuck happened?" The Frenchman flinched brusquely, just before his lover's body was shaken by a violent coughing fit. Arthur's eyes looked up at him, bleary, while his fingers clutched the front of his shirt.

"ARTHUR! You're alive! Oh Dieu! Oh, Lord, thank you!"

"He's gone, Francis…" the smaller blond panted tiredly. "I can feel it. Gone…"

His lover continued to squeeze and rock him in his arms, kissing his hair, his forehead, his cheeks. "Shhh, it's alright, it doesn't matter! Nothing matters, except that you're still here, with me. I think we should take you to bed now. Mon Dieu, you gave me such a fright!"

But Arthur pulled away with unexpected energy and hauled himself up with a wry smile. "I-I'm fine, Francis. It was nothing. It's done, he's gone now. He won't come back."

"How can you say that?! A minute ago you were lying on the floor out cold, nearly… nearly gone! Lapin, I know this is the stuff of magic, but are you sure we shouldn't be taking you to the hospital?" the Frenchman cried, gripping the other's thin frame and barely resisting the urge to shake him violently. "You've been in the water for quite a while, I think-"

But the green-eyed blond suddenly pressed a finger against his lips, with a strange gleam in his eyes. "No, Francis, I'm good. I want, I need something else, I need you now…" he murmured, burrowing in the other's arms and seeking his lips with his own.

The next thing Francis knew was that they were back in Kirkland's bedroom and he'd been backed against the wardrobe, Arthur devouring his mouth as he was also trying to shimmy out of his wet clothes.

"Lapin, are you sure we should-"

The Englishman pulled away briefly, but instantly jerked his head to the side, squinting. "Ah! C-Could you pull down the blinds, please? T-The light bothers me…"

The blue-eyed blond fulfilled his wish, albeit finding it rather weird, and turned to see his lover stretched on the bed, most of his clothing already off. Impatient fingers clawed off the detective's shirt and raked over bare shoulders and back. His belt flew into some corner of the room, very soon followed by his trousers and underwear and then Arthur pushed him flat on his back onto the mattress.

"Mmm… " he said, brushing his lower lip against Francis's chin. "You smell so good, Bonnefoy… soo good…" Lips traveled hungrily down the Frenchman's neck, stopping to nip his collarbone and tease his nipples, then further down his toned abdomen. A skilled tongue delved into the crevice of his belly button and Arthur let out a throaty chuckle.

Francis let his head fall back against the pillows as he relaxed completely, all the energy he'd woken up with pretty much spent after what he'd just been through. Numb, he heard himself moaning loudly when his lover took him in his mouth, the pleasure like an afterthought in his clouded mind. Soon, whatever was left of his reason dissolved in a blissful nothingness, he was just body, just shivering flesh and heated skin under the other's fingers and lips.

Arthur sucked, licked and tried his pearly teeth on the sensitive skin, making it so good it almost hurt, only to pull away just when his partner was about to come.

"N-uh, uh, not… just… yet," he chided playfully, sitting back on his legs to admire his work with a wide grin.

The green-eyed blond moved to straddle his hips, parting his thighs and practically impaling himself with a satisfied, almost feral cry. Francis watched in a daze that gorgeous young man moving on top of him, pushing him closer to the brink of absolute bliss with every roll of his hips. And then there was something else, blurring at the edge of his vision as his gaze trailed towards the ceiling, something like a black flutter.

"Francis…." Arthur moaned, lips suddenly against his throat and breath cool against the sheen of sweat on his skin. "I'm so… so… hungry!"

And then there was nothing but darkness.

Francis stared numbly at his own reflection in the cup of black coffee as he leaned on his elbows, his vision swimming slightly. Why was he so damn tired, and why this feeling that something was amiss? Knowing that he should have been happy – hell, everything had worked out in the end – but having something akin to a dark shadow hanging over his happiness, clouding it all to a dull shade of grey.

"I've done it this time, haven't I?"

The Frenchman rested his forehead against the closed door of the living room, eavesdropping on the half-whispered conversation Arthur was having with the maid. He'd surely been up early, doing God knew what.

"Master, if you love him then you have to tell him," Sylvia was saying.

"I already told him everything. It's already a miracle that he's still here as it is. I can't… surely you see this tops all the rest by far! If I tell him what really happened yesterday, he will bolt through the door screaming, and with a bit of luck he'll tell Ivan Braginski too. And then we're all screwed with a capital S!"

"But you cannot hope to conceal it and still be with him, it's just not possible, Arthur. It's just-"

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Arthur?"

Francis leaned wearily on the doorframe, tilting his head curiously. Only he wasn't really expectant, he half-guessed what he was about to hear. "I suppose that after everything that's been said and done, you're still going to leave me…"

The Englishman looked like a cornered animal. His lower lip trembled, as if he were fighting back tears threatening to spill at any moment. His nostrils flared slightly as he took a long, shaky breath, throwing one fleeting glance towards the maid.

"I don't want… but you will. You will leave me, and I won't blame you. It's… um… "Arthur paused, hoping the other would say something, anything, whether encouraging or quite the opposite, but the blue-eyed blond was silent, waiting. "I think I'd better show you. Sylvia, draw the curtains please, there's too much light in here."

The brunette moved swiftly to pull the heavy cloths over the glass, sinking the room into a soothing semi-obscurity, while the detective began unbuttoning his dress shirt with clumsy, nervous fingers. Once the white fabric was slid off his pale skin, Arthur straightened and rolled his shoulders, grimacing a bit in discomfort, as if something was wrong with his back. Then, a moment later, a pair of black, bat-like wings sprang from his shoulder blades, fluttering briefly before settling into place.

Mère de Dieu!

Francis thought he had exclaimed those words out loud, but no sound had passed his lips. He blinked, stared at the creature in front of him, so beautiful and so terrible, and genuinely wondered if the man he loved was still in there, somewhere. Eyes trailed in awe over the flawless, milky skin, the deep black velvet of those absurd appendages, coming to rest eventually on the familiar yet now foreign face and those peridot green eyes, shining with a surreal glow.

"I-I'm not sure… w-what exactly you are telling me right now," the Frenchman stuttered, as soon as he regained control over his voice.

Arthur cleared his throat, wings folding awkwardly onto his back as he hunched, hugging his own upper arms. "Well, as you know, Francis, I was trying to get rid of the ghost, once and for all… and I did, uh… but the thing is… um… that he's not gone because I did what he wanted – because I don't think I knew or we'll ever know what it was that he wanted – but because… uh… actually because I accidentally kicked the bucket. And consequently he cannot haunt someone who is no longer alive."

"You accidentally kicked the-… you're DEAD?!"

The smaller blond nodded, shrugging apologetically. "Francis, it's not like I wanted-"

"Non, mais, you don't look dead! You look…"

"The thing is that when someone allows incubi to feed off them regularly for long enough, after they die they become an incubus too," Arthur explained so quickly that he nearly choked on his words. "But it's something I rather chose to disregard, because it wasn't a transition I was envisaging anytime soon… "

The blue-eyed detective slipped along the wall and plopped gingerly into an armchair, before he would collapse in an undignified heap on the floor. He needed something to drink, something really strong. Maybe some vodka? Speaking of which, Ivan Braginski would have probably been floored to hear that his best investigator was an incubus. A hysterical laughter bubbled in his throat at that particular thought, but he muffled it to a loud snort instead.

"And you think… you think that now I'll just up and leave you? Because you're an incubus?"

Arthur took a shy step closer. "Um… actually, Francis, there are some implications to this. Uh… I'm not saying that it won't be, um… safe, although, heh, last night… um… nevermind that. But in order for it to be safe, I will have to feed on other people. So, you do understand that under these circumstances I can't exactly be, uh, faithful to you, yes?"

Yes, he supposed that much. But still…

"Would it matter?" The Frenchman looked up almost pleadingly, reaching out to take one of his lover's hands in his own and bring it to his cheek. "Would it mean anything if these fingers touched another's skin, or your lips would kiss another's lips but mine?" He kissed the inside of his partner's cold palm, smooth and unexpectedly fragrant. "Would it mean that we don't love each other?"

Arthur slipped in his lap silently and pressed their bodies closer, snuggling into warm, welcoming arms. He sighed softly and shook his head. "No. No one will matter to me but you," he whispered, before leaning in to nibble onto his partner's bottom lip, affectionately, as he cupped the other blond's face with both hands.

"But Francis… Braginski had better not find out about this. He's got some connects at the Vatican, and he WILL fry us."

THE END