Awareness

Eric Slingby had never planned to survive any of this.

For most reapers, life was made up of all things condensed. Socialization, such as it was, was to be had at the water cooler in between periods of uninterrupted work. Conversations themselves were restrained to after-work plans or the occasional piece of office gossip that managed to make the rounds, usually focusing on some other member of their organization. Pleasures were often indistinguishable from vices: the usual selection of sex, alcohol, and gambling made up the pastimes that might have easily been confused for addictions among the many reapers that made up the Dispatch Society.

Whatever minor details might make up the day, the work never varied. The death schedule was updated by some unseen hand and assignments were handed out accordingly. Novices found themselves paired with older mentors for their collections, or more senior reapers would be deployed solo. Once they were out in the world, they would take to their hiding places and wait for whatever human met the fate predestined for them. Collections were followed by the tedious but brief returns process, which itself was followed by the matter and mess that made up more than 90% of their workday in the form of files, reports, and regulatory slips.

With poorly defined work weeks and long hours, the monotony of daily life gave new meaning to immortality. Unaging, uncaring, and generally oblivious to the matters of all others in the office, Eric Slingby's life was primarily defined by the exceptions to the rules around him. In the six months since a new wave of novices had been unleashed on the London office, there had only been one remarkable incident: that of the trainee who dared to sympathize with the humans he was sent to collect.

Eric was always careful to refer to them as humans. This wasn't due to ignorance on his part; he was as aware as any of them that they had all once been human. But that was a past life, something most of them had little, if any, recollection of. Whatever they were now, it certainly wasn't human. Not in any real, tangible, mortal sense. And when they had been human, things clearly hadn't been all roses and sunshine. If they had, they wouldn't have chosen to take their own lives.

And so, as a good reaper should, Eric kept the line in place: reapers collected souls. Humans were nothing more than a task set before them. Reapers performed a duty that held an importance about any possible personal matter. This was the company line, but one he was happy to perpetuate.

At least, until he met Alan Humphries.

( )

"Don't you feel the least bit sorry for them?" The rookie asked, watching from his position on the corner of the bakery roof. Alan Humphries was a small man, slight in both build and presence. He was perched on the edges of the building like a particularly well-dressed piece of statuary, soaking in the sunlight.

In the middle of the day, the sun beat down surprisingly warm on the small courtyard that made up the center of a neighborhood. The clutter of buildings ran together to form a tangle of homes and buildings. Down below, a group of housewives socialized around the open window of one home while children played under the branches of a grand old oak tree. The scene was idyllic, something out of one of the novels Eric was always reading, but more than that it was convenient. Collections out of doors were much easier to manage, since it didn't require gaining entry to some secret space. Their assignment for the day was slated to happen on the far side of the yard, with the exact address landing directly between the two far homes.

Alan had spent their first five minutes remarking on the happiness of the scene below them. Eric hadn't been able to figure out how that mattered.

"Not really," Eric told him dismissively. Not bothering to peer over the edge to see what his underling was indicating, Eric shrugged and checked his pocket watch. Still fourteen minutes off. "This is just one bad day for them. They'll get past it."

From his place on the corner, Alan Humphries turned to frown at him, searching for some further meaning in the words. When there was none to be found, the junior reaper stood up and walked over to where Eric was standing, taking in the broader view of the courtyard.

"You really believe that, don't you? Just one bad day," Alan said, feeling the words out.

Without meeting his eyes, Eric searched the space below for their intended target. 48, male, heavyset. Heart attack. Routine. "They're just human."

"They have feelings," Alan told him. "Those kids playing down there under that tree are probably his children. They're about to lose their father. That isn't something that just lasts a day. Not for them."

Not for the first time, the supervisor couldn't help but wonder why Alan had been selected for his department. When the Higher Ups, whoever they might be, took all the new blood and decided what departments they would be best suited to joining, they gave some weight to emotional fortitude and stability. Alan seemed to have far too much of one and not nearly enough of the other, something that Eric received constant reminders of whenever they were anywhere but the office proper.

Reapers should not care about the people they collected. They shouldn't wonder what would happen to the people their targets left behind. That was why everyone manning the collections department fit a certain profile: no matter what their other personal flaws, they were all quite ambivalent when it came to humans. All except one, evidently.

Seven minutes, twenty-six seconds to go.

"Like I said, they're just human," Eric repeated. "Why do you care?"

The words were harsh, but Alan's lips turned up in response. With a sigh, he watched as one of the little girls playing under the tree ran over to the group of women, tugging at their skirts. One of the women shoed the little girl away but went and gave her a hug a moment later.

When he responded nearly a full minute later, the words were soft. "Maybe I'm envious."

Eric raised an eyebrow as the smile on Alan's lips widened slightly.

"I'm sure we had people around us like that when we were human," Alan explained. "Family, friends, lovers. I don't remember any of it. And now, we've just got the office. And it seems like no matter what we do, we're always alone. No friends or family, not like that. I'd like to remember what it was like, even just a little."

"You've got plenty of friends," Eric pointed out, doing a quick tally of the office headcount. "Hell, probably more than you want."

"It's not the same."

On the far side of the courtyard, a heavy-set man with a thick beard stumbled through the gate and into the yard. His back sagged with the weight of the bags he was carrying, which were quickly discarded beside the brick wall. This was their target: the notes in the case had mentioned something about the human owning the bakery they were standing on, and even from that distance they could read the letters of "FLOUR" printed on the burlap. The man wiped his brow with a sleeve and leaned back against the sacks he'd just brought in, looking every bit like he'd just returned from a long, difficult walk.

Keeping his eyes fixed on the target, Eric shifted his scythe to the other shoulder. "Close enough. We don't need family. Sure as hell don't need that kind of drama. Friends are fine, and you'd figure out that you've got plenty of those if you took a look around once and a while."

"I think we have different definitions of friendship," Alan replied quietly.

Together, the two reapers dropped to the ground and made their way through the afternoon sun to stand under the eaves of the building nearest to the gate. Less than five minutes to go and the human was having trouble breathing. Sitting on the sacks of flour, one hand massaged his left arm as he struggled for breath. When he started fanning himself, the other humans in the courtyard noticed and headed towards him.

There was a groan, low and loud. Both reapers watched from a careful distance, maintaining their rule of observance without interference. The human pitched forward, clutching at his shirt.

Two minutes after the shout, the man was dead. A little girl held her doll to her chest, tugging at the man's sleeve. One of the women from the window conversation was on her knees, crying. A bag of flour had broken open, spilling its contents onto the ground.

Next to Eric, Alan Humphries stepped forward, still keeping a respectful distance from the humans that acted as though the two of them weren't even there. A single swipe of Alan's arm and the blade of his scythe cut through the man's corpse, beginning the condensed replay of every moment of his life up until the very end.

The soul had been collected, the cinematic record was uncorrupted. Eric marked off the case as a success in their ledger. But when he turned to see if Alan was ready to leave, he found that the other reaper was standing amongst the crowd, his eyes fixed on the form of the crying woman kneeling beside the body.

"We need to go," Eric told him. "We've got a case in Oxford in 41 minutes. Old lady's due to kick off before supper."

Instead of pulling away, Alan shifted ever so slightly toward the crowd of people around the body. "Eric, if I died, would you cry for me?"

This was the first time that Eric realized that there was something wrong. Something more than Alan's over-sympathizing with humans. Typically speaking, death was only something they dealt with as a part of their daily work. After all, such things would never be a concern for creatures who had no natural end. They were reapers who were fated to repay eternity with service. But the words didn't make him uncomfortable because of their incongruous nature. They made him uncomfortable simply for how personal they were.

Eric stared, clearing his throat before he trusted his voice to stay steady. When the words came out, they felt ineffectual.

"You're immortal, Alan," he said, placing a hand on the trainee's shoulder. "Not something you have to worry about. We've got to go."

Obediently, the novice turned away from the scene and made to follow, but the look on his face said more than their entire conversation.

( )

Words were powerful things.

Eric Slingby learned that fact as the simple, strange inquiry that Alan had made during that one collection stuck in his mind and dug itself deeper. It wasn't as though he saw Alan on a regular basis. It wasn't as though they were paired together often, with Alan slinging bizarre questions about life after death for reapers at him daily. More, Eric couldn't figure out where the question had come from in the first place. He wasn't the sort of person who liked not knowing answers, and this stood out as a mystery he couldn't solve. In a life of predictable paperwork and blanks filled with easy-to-find answers, Alan had left one of those spaces empty.

( )

At half past two, this wasn't a scheduled break time. In fact, most of the company workers were seated at their desks, noses buried in paperwork from the Rexham Incident the week before. The Rexham Incident was only the latest in a series which were being cited as fodder for the needed creation of departments specifically designed to handle domestic disasters.

In this case, electrical incidents were a concern. With the introduction of the new electric light fast replacing gaslight, accidents were becoming a daily trial. Inevitably, someone would fail to close a gas vent and then hit the switch for the electric light and, suddenly, three departments were granted overtime for a week.

In theory, everyone in the office should have been present and accounted for, taking their portion of the forms for this incident. Fiddling with his pen and glaring at a list of errors found in paperwork from his juniors across the previous week, Eric should have been fully focused on getting his department back into ship-shape. Instead, he found himself continually distracted by the sight of the empty desk on the other side of the office.

Employment with the Dispatch Society came with several provisions for the health and well-being, which included several optional days off to be used in the incident that a reaper was either injured in the line of duty or contracted a cold that made it impossible for them to function normally at work. While illness and injury were invariably short-lived for reapers, the company had found it easier to gain compliance from their workers if they offered these benefits.

Alan Humphries hadn't chosen to use one of his sick days. Theoretically, he was in the office. Even though he was on the clock, he had spent more time on break or in the WC than at his desk. His absence was particularly noticeable since he was ordinarily one of the best workers in the office. Staring at his desk and the large stack of neglected forms just sitting on the corner, the contrast bothered Eric Slingby more than it should have.

Unable to focus, the supervisor shoved his chair away from the desk and made his way toward the break room. Ostensibly, he told himself, it was time for a smoke break, but the smoking area was in the other direction. Instead, when he stepped into the outsize closet that served as their break area, Eric felt inexplicable relief when he found his missing co-worker sitting in a chair in the far corner. Alan was leaned back against the wall, eyes closed and mouth hanging open slightly. He looked paler than he had at the start of the day.

"You okay?" Eric asked, walking up next to him. When the other man didn't stir, the blond put a hand on the other's shoulder and shook him slightly. "Alan."

Blinking awake, Alan opened his eyes in confusion. Almost instantly, his cheeks flushed and he snapped up straight. "Mr. Slingby! Did I fall asleep?"

Eric stepped back to give him some room to breathe. "I'd say so. You've been in here for about forty minutes."

"Forty minutes?" Alan shifted uneasily in his chair, looking around the break room as though he couldn't quite remember how he had gotten there in the first place. His skin was still flushed, but now Eric wondered if it wasn't more from fever than embarrassment. There was sweat beading on his forehead. Even behind his glasses, he looked dazed. "I'm sorry. I had no idea I'd drifted off. I'll work through lunch to make up for it."

The missing time didn't bother Eric. Neither did the unfinished paperwork, or the report he would have to file with William concerning all the above. The only thing that stood out as problematic was the fact that Alan was visibly shaking. His hand trembled against the table top, making the loose iron legs rattle slightly against the floor. Whatever this was, it was more than a cold.

"Maybe you should take some time off and head home early," Eric suggested, resisting the temptation to offer a hand to help the junior reaper get to his feet. "You don't look so hot."

Alan smiled at him, the sort of look that said that he appreciated the gesture but wasn't likely to follow through. "You're such a good person, but I can't go home now. I've got too much to do."

Unable to formulate an appropriate counter-argument, Eric sighed and turned to head back to his desk. He detoured to grab a glass of water. Anything to stop himself from lowering to the level of telling Alan to stop putting on a brave face and take care of himself. He wasn't responsible for Alan. The other man was perfectly capable of taking care of himself. Besides, that would be inappropriate, and Grell already accounted for the Collections department's full allotment of inappropriate behaviors all on his own.

"Ah, Alan?" Eric said, remembering something he needed to address.

"Yes?"

"Don't worry about it today, since I know you're not up to par," Eric told him, "but when you get a chance this week, I need you to bring me up to speed with what happened with that Worcestershire case from last week. The one you worked with Ronald. There were some inconsistencies in the reports, so I just need to go over them with you."

The smile vanished from Alan's face, replaced with an unreadable expression. He nodded slowly. "Perhaps tomorrow."

"Perhaps tomorrow," Eric agreed. "And Alan?"

The other reaper looked at him expectantly. "Yes?"

"It's okay... if you don't get everything done on time. You can always ask if you need help.

"I don't need help," Alan replied, sharp, the look on his face tightening. "I can handle this."

Eric never doubted that he could.

( )

Deadlines might have been the bane of most reapers, but that had never been the case for Alan. Even when illnesses like the one Eric had witnessed became more consistent, he led the pack in getting all of his paperwork completed, double-checked and filed in a timely manner.

The more time that passed, however, the more that Eric noticed just how much Alan was struggling. None of the issues he witnessed were obvious or immediately apparent to others around them. They were small, just the occasional absence from work, or the need to stop and rest when out on collections.

However minor, these incidents should have caused considerable issues with late collections, faulty reports or possibly even missing cinematic records. Somehow, that never proved to be a problem. By the time the issues were detectable by other reapers in the office, Alan had been with the department long enough that he no longer required a partner for most of his collections. His junior status had long since faded, replaced by responsibility and duty the same as any other reaper.

With time also came a change in the dynamics of their office interactions. When Eric saw him then, it was passing in the halls or short conversations on breaks. Alan was no longer under the direct oversight of a senior reaper other than their department manager, William. Eric was no longer within his limits to suggest that Alan take a day off or head to the infirmary if he saw him leaning against a wall, exhausted from the simple effort of moving around the offices. Eric was just another body in a chair, one that had no place sticking his nose into someone else's business. Their conversations were nothing but brief and polite. Morning greetings had become routine for them.

In the blur of days, it was difficult to remember the little points of color that had once added light to grey days, like Alan's unconventional questions. They were still there, only now they hid among the shadows of ink stains and file folders, the marks of an individual against the backdrop of a faceless workforce.

That changed within the space of a single hour.

In a meeting arranged with all the department heads and senior reapers, William T. Spears had laid out facts, figures, and a dire warning to all in attendance. He illustrated the fact that there was a danger in their midst, one that any reaper might bring upon themselves. Sin, condensed into the body of a single reaper. More than that, this was a mortal sin, the sort that had the power to turn their kind into nothing more than one among the dead. He spoke at length about the Thorns of Death.

The words coming out of William's mouth were not the laments of someone who would soon lose a friend and co-worker. Instead, they were a condemnation of a choice. He gave each sentence as a dismissal, an explanation of a problem that would soon be finished by its own nature. The only problem he truly wanted to address was the possibility of such a terrible happening occurring again within the confines of their office. There was no concern for the individual presently affected.

The crowded room had contained more than a people, all of them vying for space around the large, wooden desk. Despite the number of reapers around him, Eric had never felt more alone than he had in that moment as he listened to what he was being told. He considered the information carefully, and then promptly took all the upper management suggestions on how to handle the situation and threw them out the window.

Within the space of that single meeting, Eric understood.

( )

Rain poured down in thick sheets on that November night, chilling Eric to the bone even through his thick overcoat. With a sigh, he pounded on the door again, praying the occupant would answer. Did he even have the right address? Bribing secretaries was not a reliable method of obtaining information.

Eric raised his fist once more, determined, but the door opened under his hand before he could knock again. Staring out at him through the entryway, Alan Humphries was bleary-eyed. He had a thick, plaid blanket wrapped around his shoulders, making him look much smaller than he was. Despite the unannounced visit, Alan almost looked as though he was expecting him. He didn't look happy about it.

"Mr. Slingby," he acknowledged. "What are you doing here?"

In truth, Eric had no plans beyond showing up. He had been prompted to action not only by the meeting he had attended, but also by the idle gossip and less than friendly sentiments that had been passed around once the meeting had ended. But he hadn't really thought about what he would do once he got there.

"It's Eric," the supervisor corrected without thinking. He scrambled for an explanation. " You weren't at work today. I was worried so I thought I'd come by."

Alan watched him for a moment before he finally shrugged and turned away from the door. "Come in."

Stepping into the flat, Eric found himself in a cozy, cluttered home with decorations covering every possible surface. Shelves held knick-knacks and picturesque miniature portraits of romantic characters. Several floral bouquets were displayed in painted vases on a sideboard next to the coat rack, interspersed with St. Valentines cards of the sort that were sold in druggist's shops to amuse ladies. Eric took off his overcoat and hung it on the otherwise empty rack before following the plaid blanket further into the apartment.

In the living room, a settee occupied most of the small room. Opposite the seat, a wooden mantle played stage to a sizable hearth, glowing warm with the coals of a dying fire. On either side of the fireplace, two large bookcases held a combination of classical texts and penny dreadfuls. In front of the sofa, a coffee table was covered by a large, hideous doily.

Eric took in his crowded surroundings the same way he took in the sight of Alan: slightly disbelieving. Alan sat as far away from him as it was possible to get, pressed against the arm of the sofa with a china tea cup clutched in his fingers. Dressed in blue striped pajamas and wrapped in the thick wool of the blanket, he looked small and insignificant, a far cry from the impeccably dressed reaper who charged around the halls of the Dispatch Society with so much energy.

With no invitation to sit, Eric hovered awkwardly at the other end of the couch. There wasn't set etiquette for these sorts of situations. After all, it wasn't as though they were friends who spent time together outside of work or anything along those lines. Supervisors never socialized with their juniors. The awkwardness of the situation hadn't occurred to him before he had made the decision to pay Alan a visit.

"So, I guess you've heard," Alan said, his voice weak. There was no question to the words, only a tired sort of resignation.

"William called a meeting with the department heads," Eric admitted.

At that, Alan let out a sharp laugh. "A meeting? About me?"

"Yeah."

"I suppose they'd want to warn against... well." Alan laughed again, mirthlessly. "So, you finished your meeting and thought you'd come see if it was true? I don't know what they told you, but there aren't any markings or anything."

Some part of Eric's mind had rebelled against what he and the group of senior reapers had been told in that stuffy office. The very notion that one of their own had allowed themselves to be violated by mortal records was troublesome. Not just once, but enough times that a sickness had taken hold. Even the name, the Thorns of Death, was ominous. While its existence was well-known, it was always treated as a sort of urban legend, used to scare new reapers into following the straight and narrow.

William T. Spears had not bothered to mince words. He had described the Thorns of Death as a sort of infection of mortality, digging its tendrils in deeper until they finally cut through whatever threads connected life to the reaper's body. But when William had said infection, what he had clearly meant was weakness. He regarded Alan as a flaw in their otherwise perfect system.

Fingers so tight around the tea cup in his hands that his knuckles were white, glaring holes in his fireplace, Alan had never looked stronger to Eric than he did just then.

"It's not like that," Eric insisted. The supervisor took a seat on the settee without being invited. "You weren't at work. I knew you weren't feeling well, but I felt I should come by and check on you. That's all."

No longer staring into the flames of the fire, Alan turned his attention on Eric. His expression was a challenge to ask about the Thorns of Death. When Eric didn't, his expression softened slightly. "You came over to check on me?"

Something about the way Alan looked at him made him feel self-conscious. Eric shrugged. "Yeah."

Releasing his death grip on the tea cup, Alan set it down on the doily-covered coffee table. He let out a breath that he had been holding. "I appreciate it. Grell came by earlier, but his intentions weren't... quite as polite."

Grell was incompatible with politeness, so that wasn't news. The fact that he had shown up in the first place was a surprise.

"What did he want?"

"To taunt me, I think," Alan told him. "Or maybe he was angry that William spent so long interrogating me last week. I think that was part of it. He didn't tell me about the meeting, though. I just assumed he had heard it from William."

"William interrogated you?" Eric sat up straight, more than a little alarmed by what he had just been told.

While William oversaw the Collections department and a few other areas, he was an operations man. Aside from the whole situation with Grell, which nobody had the stones to ask about, he was usually too preoccupied to handle matters unrelated to current cases. While that had changed in recent years and he had taken a more direct hand in the management of their department, William certainly didn't do things like questioning reapers, especially if they weren't in direct violation of company standards.

At least, Eric had thought that he didn't. William's particular style of management took on a slightly sinister light in view of this new information.

"Last week, I came back from that case in Sudbury a little late. I wasn't... feeling well," Alan explained, clearly sidestepping some detail he didn't feel like sharing. "I'm sure you remember."

Eric did. Instead of reporting back to his desk or checking in after his assignment, Alan had gone straight to the infirmary. He had needed help getting there. The fact that he had been paired with Ronald Knox for the case had been a saving grace. Ronald had been able to get him to the infirmary and had also covered the paperwork side of things. Eric had just assumed that Alan had been injured on assignment, since such things weren't unheard of. Clearly, that assumption had been wrong.

"William interrogated you in the infirmary?" That seemed beyond the bounds of decency, privacy and respect.

Alan's lips turned up into a humorless smile. "No, he waited until I was cleared by the staff. I think the doctor is the one who called him. He let me get dressed before he summoned me to his office."

Eric was at a loss for words. "I'm sorry."

"I guess I should be happy that it took them this long to figure out," Alan murmured. "At least they'll let me keep working."

Polite conversation left no avenues to explore. Eric couldn't very well ask how long Alan had been ill, or why he had hidden the sickness. The latter seemed obvious considering the fallout Eric had witnessed. Searching for something to say, he asked, "Do you want to keep working in Collections? I don't know much about all of this, but I could write a recommendation if you need a quiet-"

"I want to stay in Collections," Alan declared, cutting him off. "William says I'm allowed, and if you don't have a problem with it..."

The last part of that statement was baffling. While Eric was a supervisor, he wasn't Alan's direct supervisor and had no say whatsoever in the staffing of their department. "Why?"

The tea cup was back in Alan's hands again, his thin fingers playing across the fanciful patterns painted onto the porcelain. "Are you asking because we work together?"

"No. I'm asking because it's the right thing to do."

That wasn't a question that Alan should have needed to ask. But then again, there was a difference between friends and people who said hello now and again at work. Then again, people who did nothing more than exchange pleasantries didn't usually walk through a storm to check on their co-workers, either.

After a long moment of silence, Alan let out a quiet laugh. "You know, it's really a gift. Being what we are. What we do, even. It's very important. But the people who work in Records, or Research, or whatever, they're so far removed from everything we actually do... I just feel that, sometimes, I don't remember what it's like to be alive."

The words sounded wrong. After all, they were alive. And yet, everything Alan said was eerily familiar, reminding Eric of their conversation months before, when they were standing on a rooftop as they waited for a baker to die.

"William told me the other day that I would probably have an easier time if I asked for a transfer to Records or one of the other departments," Alan murmured, "but I want to be useful. And... I like being able to interact with them."

Humans.

"But Alan, we don't interact with them. They don't even know we're there most of the time." Eric shifted uncomfortably on the cushions. "It's not like we get to have a chat with them before their time's up."

That was the moment when the real meaning of what Alan was saying began to sunk in. There, between the other words, was the confession of something almost unthinkable. Knowing that it was happening, hearing the explanation from William earlier in the day, was something entirely different from hearing Alan admit to it, even if the words weren't explicit. Alan was interacting with humans, and he was doing so in the most intimate way a reaper ever could. Whether once or a dozen times, Alan had allowed the cinematic records of his targets to pierce him, allowing himself a momentary glimpse into what they had experienced.

Eric felt his jaw drop as he turned to look at the other man with new recognition. Sitting four feet away, Alan only smiled at him with the sweet, empty look of someone who had thought about all of these things in detail more times than he could count. Alan had not only touched the records, he had known what he was doing as he did so.

"Alan, why?"

"Does there really have to be a why?" Alan murmured.

"For something like this? Absolutely."

After considering him for a moment, Alan tightened his grip on his cup and went back to glaring at the fireplace. "I'm not the sort of person who can stand by and watch someone else suffering. That's what we do. We stand by and watch the hurt and the dying, sometimes letting these terrible, awful things happen for no real reason.

"And I know we can't stop it. But when I watch a man in the street get crushed by a carriage, or an old woman dying of cancer, I can't help but feel that it would be better if I could... take a little of their pain. Or at least understand it. A little kindness. Surely they deserve that."

Kindness had nothing to do with the work the Dispatch Society was tasked with. Theirs was a business of facts, figures, and business expectations.

Eric had a hard time processing what the other man was saying, a problem that worsened a moment later.

"... and I wanted to remember what it was like to feel."

"You're talking madness," Eric said firmly, still trying to let the words fall into place in his mind. "Alan, they're humans. You can't-"

"Is it really madness to want to feel something?" The tea cup found its way back to the doily once more, and Alan's hands busied themselves with pulling at the fringe on the edges of his blanket. He looked close to tears. "To want to remember what it feels like to be loved?"

This was where the company line and Eric's own wishful thinking were at odds. He knew all too well how the living element, the human element, got lost in their work. That was partially by design; their service wasn't a choice, their work not meant to be pleasurable. And yet, in between the black and white print of their paperwork, here was someone wishing for something more than the politic, regulatory normalcy of their lives.

"No," Eric allowed. "I never said that, but surely there's a better way. You've got friends here, Alan. You could have talked to somebody."

"Like who?" Getting to his feet, Alan collected his tea cup and the saucer that had blended in with the doily.

"Your... friends," Eric replied stupidly.

Dropping the plaid blanket onto the sofa, Alan walked past Eric on his way toward the apartment's small kitchen. He stopped beside the arm of the couch and placed a hand on Eric's shoulder, giving it a small squeeze. "Eric, other than Grell earlier, you're the only one who has come to see me. William says he thinks I'll probably be working solo from now on. Or, at least, I will be as soon as the gossip finally makes its way around the office and my condition becomes known. I'm sure you're only here to make sure I'll be at work tomorrow. What friends do you think I could talk to about these things?"

There was a tangible emptiness in the air as Alan's hand pulled away and he headed into the kitchen. When he returned, he was carrying a plate of biscuits, which he sat down in front of the older reaper. Taking one automatically, the supervisor couldn't help but think that these were also imitations of life. Things like giving refreshments to guests, filling a flat with flowers and painted cupids, and even curling up in front of a fire with wool blankets were all things that struggled against the regulation life of a reaper. For all the world, Eric couldn't help but wonder if their existence might have been better if more of them followed Alan's example.

"Look, I don't pretend to know who you usually hang out with," Eric admitted. "But if you ever need anything, you come talk to me. And I'm not saying you do, but if you do..."

"Are you saying that as a supervisor or a friend?"

Twiddling the biscuit between two fingers, Eric realized they were at a turning point. Whatever he said now, he was either going to reinforce a line carefully drawn by company policy or open himself up to something else entirely.

"A friend," he said after a slight hesitation. "I have always been your friend."

The words were simple, but the look Alan gave him was grateful. While he hadn't been sure of what he was doing when he decided to pay Alan a visit, Eric knew it was worth it. Worth it, just for that one small look. Maybe there was something to what Alan had said earlier. Kindness counted for more than he realized.

( )

There was no official company policy against friendship. In all the guidelines that were carefully approved by a committee, printed up in employee handbooks and given to every reaper, the phrasing was carefully crafted to give the illusion of brotherhood. Camaraderie was vital to the success of the organization, if only because it diffused possible dissent and difficult situations that arose. But never, in any of the 422 pages of the handbook, did it ever use the word "friendship," and even incidents of the word "team" were few and far between. Instead, there were terms like "associates" and "co-workers" and plenty of other neutral phrases.

The text went so far as to advise employees to limit their social interactions to work hours, focusing their after-hours efforts on rest and recovery so they could be prepared for the following workday.

The handbook made no mention of the after-hours work parties that happened on a semi-monthly basis. Eric knew this because he had reread the handbook that night after he left Alan's flat. He had reread it again several times in the months that followed, looking for ideas on how to help Alan through his unique situation and for guidance on his own behavior. No matter how many times he flipped through the pages, there were no guidelines written about supervisors who found themselves taking time out of their evenings to pay social visits to junior reapers once or twice a week. The workplace etiquette carefully phrased on each page somehow lacked any advice relating to compassion, care, or affection for anything other than work.

These social visits weren't a problem, Eric told himself, especially if they were framed in the setting of workplace events. Or at least, events that were vaguely work-related, like those after-hours parties at taverns friendly to their kind, even if work was the very last thing on anyone's mind there.

( )

The evening had moved into late night some hours before. From somewhere out of sight, thin fiddle music seeped into the smoke-filled tavern air in a way that made it seem like part of the haze. Most of the other reapers had already gone home. Ronald Knox was a hold out, flirting with two shapely brunettes from the secretary division. The weird guy from Compliance had managed to corner William, who had joined the festivities for unknown reasons. Standing off in the corner of the room, Alan was clutching his chest. His eyes were screwed tight, his breathing uneven. He was in pain.

"We should have got you home hours ago," Eric grumbled, standing a respectful distance away from him.

"No, I wanted to come." Alan opened his eyes and smiled over at him. "I never come to these things. What will everyone think if I don't make an appearance at least once?"

Glancing around at the remaining crowd to see if anyone even registered their presence, Eric rolled his eyes. "Maybe they'd think you have taste."

For a moment, the air was only filled with the sounds of the music and Alan's labored breathing. There should have been something for Eric to say to improve the situation, or some miraculous fix for not being a better friend and herding Alan off earlier. There wasn't. Just the vague sense of regret mixed with the leftovers of countless cigars wafting through the air.

"You had fun, though," Alan said softly.

Alan's words were small but they were loud enough to catch Eric's notice. Sagging against the wall, the brunet smiled again, looking even less genuine than before. He was fading fast and it was showing.

Letting out a string of curses, Eric ran a hand through his hair, tugging at the blond strands. "We've got to get you out of here."

"Just give me a few minutes and I'll be fine," Alan reassured him. "Just a few minutes."

Not for the first time, Eric registered the fact that Alan was a terrible liar. Even in the dim tavern lighting, he could see just how serious the situation was. Alan's hands were flexing over his chest with every breath. His skin was pale and his eyes were glazed. He was in a bad way, far more so than he should have been after two drinks and a few games of darts.

"Come on, give me your arm," Eric told him. "I'll help you home."

Alan scowled at him. "I'm not so far gone that I need your help walking."

Taking a deep breath, Alan steadied himself and started to walk towards the door. He made it four steps before he stumbled. Without a word, Eric stepped forward and grabbed him, hefting Alan's arm over his shoulder.

"Eric, stop."

"Stop being an idiot and let me help," Eric muttered. "You don't have to do everything on your own."

Alan didn't agree, but he also didn't bother trying to remove his arm from around Eric's neck as they made their way out of the tavern. Outside, the air was crisp with the chill of the season. Luck had favored them, however, and the bar was only a few streets away from Alan's flat, despite being several miles further to Eric's own home. Ordinarily, they would have made the walk in a few short minutes. This time, they covered the distance in just under an hour.

By the time they reached the doorway, Alan seemed only semi-coherent. What had started as a little paleness had turned into a sheen of sweat across his brow, eyes watering. Alan fumbled clumsily with his key for a full minute before Eric snatched it out of his grip and unlocked the front door, shoving it open. They made their way into the apartment much faster than they'd made their way to it. Alan collapsed on the sofa.

Once Alan was situated on the cushions, Eric busied himself by trying to get some light in the room. Digging around in the darkness, he searched for a box of matches and lit an oil lamp. Flickers of weak, orange light danced across the walls, throwing distorted shadows against the wall.

"You've got to take it easy," Eric said, returning to stand by the couch. He leaned down to help Alan pull his coat off, lifting the thick fabric out of the way and draping it across the coffee table.

Alan made a face at Eric's choice of coat racks, but he was too weak to protest further. Sinking back against the cushions, he sighed. "I know my limits, Eric."

"Like hell you do," Eric growled. He sank down on the couch next to Alan. "What if this had happened while you'd been out in the field?"

"Then I'd be a little late getting back."

While he had gotten used Alan's flippant way of dealing with his illness, the responses he was getting were driving him through the rough. His temper was set to catch fire. "Goddammit, Alan, you've got to take this seriously."

"Seriously!" Alan let out a sharp laugh. "I think I know exactly how to take this. It hurts! It's torture, just trying to breathe! Just trying to move! The thorns dig into me a little more every day and I can feel all of it. That doesn't mean I have to go through every day trying to avoid life. I can-"

"I never said anything about avoiding life, but-"

"But what?" Alan cut him off, looking at him directly. "But I should only live it on terms you're comfortable with?"

The staring contest began, and it wasn't the first. Eric knew from experience that it was impossible to use willpower to get Alan to back down from anything, but he still had to try. Even in the low light, Alan wasn't looking away.

Finally, Eric gave in and broke eye contact. "I'm just worried about you."

Shifting closer on the sofa, Alan sat up slightly, covering pain with a tight smile. Closer now, he seemed to catch his breath. "You care too much, Eric. What would William think?"

"Clearly not, if I'm still having to haul your ass home," Eric grumbled, slightly mollified by the unintended compliment. He didn't bother answering the question. Instead, he shifted his gaze away from the open, endearing look painted on Alan's features. Struggling to find something else to focus on, he settled on studying a pastoral figurine sitting on one of the bookshelves.

Eric's eyes snapped back the instant he felt fingertips on his jaw. Alan's hand felt hot as it slid along his skin, coming to rest gently on the side of his face.

"You don't have to help me out," Alan told him softly, leaning closer, "but I'm glad that you do."

Close. Too close. The earlier sensation of Alan's arm around his neck was entirely different than this singular touch of Alan's hand on his skin. Every point of contact stood out, heightened against the chill of the room. The feel of the fingertips against the roughness of his skin was hypnotic, pulling him in.

Sucking in a sharp breath, Eric reached up and grabbed Alan's wrist. He pulled the hand away from his face. "Don't."

Even against his palm, Alan's wrist was warm. His thin fingers were curled in such a way that it tempted Eric to abandon his actions and just press the hand back to his skin once more. That wasn't something he could allow himself to think about.

"Eric..." There was hurt in Alan's voice, not hidden, but he didn't try to touch him again.

Dropping Alan's hand, Eric got to his feet. Making a show of straightening his coat, he turned away from the couch. "I've got to head out. You take the day off tomorrow if you need to. I'll deal with the paperwork."

That was the same way this conversation always ended: before it began. Before he could take a step, Eric felt a hand on his sleeve, holding him back. Despite himself, he turned around, reading every ounce of disappointment in Alan's expression.

"Why do you push me away?" The question was nearly silent, but it seemed to hang in the air. When the words finally sank in, Eric did not have a good response.

"I just carried you home," he said roughly. "That's all this is."

Words had never sounded so artificial. They felt wrong leaving his tongue, but it was too late to take them back. Alan's fingers found their way to his hand, but Eric made no move to entwine them with his own. He pulled away, wondering why Alan seemed to want something like that from him in the first place. There were so many reasons against it that the notion barely made sense.

"Get some rest," he said unevenly. This time, when he turned and walked out, he didn't look back until he had shut the front door behind him.

( )

When life can be measured in moments, the way it is for humans, it becomes easier to regret mistakes as they are made. That perspective is lacking for most reapers. After all, they don't function within the confines of such a limited life expectancy. Mistakes can be corrected, missteps remade when their errors are erased by the shadow of time. That wasn't a luxury Alan Humphries shared with the rest of their kind, a realization that came too late for Eric.

When the knowledge finally struck, it was too late to go back and undo the things he might have handled differently. All the appreciation for the light and wonder that Alan had brought to his world was meaningless when painted against the backdrop of the inevitable darkness ahead. No amount of willpower or determination could overcome the finality of Death.

( )

Thunderstorms were rare in that part of England. Rain was plentiful, along with all the fog and dreariness that defined the country in general, but true storms were few and far between. Fitting, though, that the thunder outside was loud enough to rattle the windows like bones as Eric sat in an empty training room, listening to words he never wanted to hear. He stared at the thick glass panes, uncomprehending.

"Less than a year," he repeated, the words weighing him down.

"Probably," Alan agreed. He stood five feet away, one hand resting on the sill next to the windows. "The doctor said it might be a little longer if I'm careful, but it's moving faster than they thought, so..."

There was no other end point for the Thorns of Death. Eric knew that as well as he knew the shape of his own glasses. Since he had first learned about Alan's sickness, he had spent an unnaturally large portion of his time reading every piece of literature on the subject. There were just over a dozen properly sized books and about twice as many scholarly papers of varying credibility. Most of the authors couldn't agree on anything past the name, but the way the disease played out was never called into question.

The initial infection could go undetected for more than a year. Even when symptoms became apparent, there was still a good decade of life left for all but the least fortunate victims. Remarkable patients might manage as much as twenty years, even a quarter of a century, before matters became critical. And while symptoms were dire, patients could remain functional until the last month or so of life if they were diligent about rest and treatment.

Less than a year.

"Is there anything they can do?" Eric asked. The words were short, halted. He was dangerously close to tears. Alan didn't need to see him like that. Alan didn't need to see him crying like he was already at the funeral.

If he noticed anything off, Alan said nothing. He only shook his head. "The doctors offered medication for the pain, but I don't want to... be under the effects. They said I should take it easy-"

"You should resign-"

"-but I'm not going to retire just because of this." The words were firm. Some arguments would never end.

For all the world, Eric knew that he couldn't force Alan to do much of anything. That didn't mean he wanted him to have to deal with more than he had to. "You should at least consider working with a partner when you go out on assignment. I know you don't like doing that, but if something happened while you were in the f-"

"I can handle myself," Alan cut in. "I don't need a partner. If I do, I'll ask for one."

The words were as sharp as a knife, oblivious to the effect they were having. Eric couldn't see the look on Alan's face any longer. He couldn't see much of anything. The world was blurred, out of focus. The glasses did nothing to help.

"Alan, if you keep working, it's just going to make it worse. You know that-"

The words fell silent as Eric felt the soft pressure of a hand on his. Even through the thick leather of his gloves, he could feel the weight of Alan's hand against his. Alan was supporting him, offering him strength. Shouldn't it be the other way around?

"I have another year of life left," Alan told him gently. "I'm not going to waste that time sitting at home, trying my hardest not to do anything taxing just so I can have a few more minutes. I'd much rather live it as it comes. With you. In this office. Out in the field. Not shut away, waiting for Death to come to me."

Some of the words falling from Alan's lips stuck in Eric's ears more than others, but he couldn't find a good response. He just stared dumbly, wishing there was something he could do to erase the entire, terrible conversation. He wanted something to take away what he knew now.

"I want to find something beautiful before I die," Alan told him, as though it were a secret just between the two of them. "Who knows, maybe I'll be able to inspire someone else before I go."

Eric hated this. All of this. He hated all this talk about death, and dying, and what would happen when Alan was gone. He hated hearing Alan speak as though his life had no meaning.

Pulling off his glasses, Eric wiped his eyes with his sleeve. Looking over at his friend, Eric couldn't find the words to tell him that he was already an inspiration, or that Alan was more of a man than he would ever be.

"Why are you telling me?" Eric asked, when he finally found words once more.

Pulling his hand away from Eric's, Alan retreated to the safety of the windows. He stared out at the dismal sight of the campus outside. "Because you told me I could talk to you. I thought you would want to know."

For the first time in months, it was Eric's turn to reach out. Walking over to the windows, he took Alan's hand, squeezing his fingers tight between his own. "It's not going to happen. I won't let it."

Alan laughed, the sound ringing out in the emptiness of the room. "You're pretty amazing, Eric, but I don't think even you have power over life and death."

Eric felt like an idiot for his declaration, but the feeling was lost in his frustration at the situation in which they found themselves. "How can you be so calm about all of this?"

"There's no sense in getting worked up about it yet," Alan told him. "They told me that towards the end, there will be a lot of pain. They said I'll know the end is coming. I'll be able to feel it. Excruciating; that's the word the doctor used."

"Alan..."

"When I think about it, I start to panic. Like I can feel it happening already," he murmured, moving his free hand to his chest, wrinkling the fabric of his neatly pressed shirt. "But it's not. And I don't want to think about it. Not while I have good days left."

Alan's hand was warm even through their gloves, an insistent reminder that he still had life to be lived. Eric wondered if he would remember what it felt like to hold his hand after he had passed. As much as he hated the situation, he knew that Alan was right. He couldn't cure the Thorns of Death. He was a spectator, someone who was privileged to be able to witness a part of Alan's life for a little while. That was all he could be.

Even though the reality of the Thorns of Death was apparent, the situation felt wrong. The thought that someone like Alan could have an expiration date on his very existence made no sense.

"I'm glad you told me," Eric responded, though the words seemed insincere. The knowledge he had been given would eat him alive from the inside out. This wasn't a situation he could fix.

"It wouldn't be right if I didn't," Alan told him simply. His thin fingers flexed against Eric's before pulling away to smooth out his suit shirt and straighten his bolo tie. "Would you take a walk with me this afternoon?"

Eric stared at him. "In this storm?"

"After the storm," Alan suggested, "if it clears before dark."

Walking around the city in the aftermath of weather wasn't really Eric's cup of tea, but he couldn't very well say no to something like that.

"Sure," he agreed, wishing he could still feel the weight of Alan's hand in his. "If it doesn't clear, we could always go tomorrow."

The other's face lit up at the suggestion. "I'd like that."

"We'll make it happen."

( )

The walk didn't happen, that afternoon or any other. While the doctor's declaration of less than a year had been serious, the real change was in just how quickly the symptoms of the Thorns of Death began to affect Alan's daily life.

As Eric watched, Alan went from requesting solo assignments several times a week to being placed with a partner for all but a few out of necessity. The quality of his work never faltered. He was easily one of the most respectable and reliable members of the Collections department. Even so, watching the changes that overcame him ate away at Eric with more than just the knowledge of the ticking clock.

Despite his own conflicted emotions, the supervisor kept his distance at work, respecting Alan's wishes to let that part of his life go unaffected. He counted the instances when Alan returned early from a collection and made his way to the infirmary instead of his desk, or when he asked for an alternate assignment instead of heading out into the field. Whenever he did, Eric felt some part of him dying right alongside Alan.

Still, the truth remained unchanged: reapers had no power over life and death. They simply kept the wheels turning. That hadn't stopped Eric from turning over every possible stone, searching for even the dimmest hope that Alan might somehow overcome the Thorns.

Late nights were spent with lamps burning, piles of texts stacked high on his desk at home. The writers all spoke of hopeless situations, the physicians of a disease destroying the reaper from the very depths of their soul. The more Eric learned about the accursed illness, the more he came to hate it. With every passing day, it became increasingly difficult to separate the illness from the man. Alan seemed to be vanishing behind a veil of pain.

( )

Six months after their conversation in the training room, Eric found himself once more in the darkened interior of Alan's apartment. That night, there were no warm fires glowing in the living room hearth. Instead, he found himself seated on the side of Alan's bed. He had trimmed the wick on the oil lamp resting on the nightstand, the light barely enough to illuminate Alan's features as he slept.

Throughout the room, a thick, unhealthy wheezing sound filled the air. Fingers tangled together with Alan's, Eric could feel the slight tremors that wracked his body even while he was unconscious. Alan had tossed and turned for more than an hour before sleep had finally stolen away the worst of the pain.

Before this, the attacks had gone as suddenly as they had come. This time had been different. Everything about this attack had changed. For the first time, the symptoms hadn't been the result of some sort of physical exertion. In fact, this had been a day off for them both. Eric had given in to Alan's request to share a cup of tea at the apartment. They had spent an easy afternoon talking about nothing more serious than the office's recent change in stationery. In a life full of tedious business, Eric had enjoyed the chance to relax with someone he cared about.

Halfway through his second cup of tea, the Thorns had struck. Alan had sat down and reached for his book. One moment he had been laughing and the next he was screaming. He had collapsed on the floor, unable even to pull himself to a sitting position.

There were no protests or fights as Eric helped him first to the chair, and then to the bedroom when it became clear that sitting wouldn't work. The situation was far more serious than anything they had dealt with before.

Once in the bedroom, Alan had needed help changing into his pajamas. He hadn't even been able to pull the blankets out of the way to lie down properly in the bed. These were small things, things that Eric did not mind helping with even though they could never be framed in the ordinary duties of a friend. Every small effort Alan could not manage tightened the knot in his heart, speaking volumes as to how little time they had left. Alan might have told him that this was just an attack, just one small moment of pain. To Eric, these were the fingers of Death, trying to find a way to tighten their hold on something he considered precious.

Alan shifted uneasily in his slumber, muttering nonsense words into the air of the room. His fingers tightened around Eric's hand, pulling it to his chest. Eric followed, letting himself lean close enough to hear the meaningless phrases spilling from Alan's lips, his own name tangled in the chaos.

For all his reading, Eric had come across only one possible solution to the Thorns of Death. He had found it buried away in an ancient book that had contained several fairytales. These were the sorts of stories that talked of witches and sleeping beauties and humans who charmed demons into releasing their souls; common entertainment for common reapers. They were folktales and nothing more. No one would ever be foolish enough to take them seriously. Eric knew that. He also knew that all myths had some foundation in truth.

It was a chance. Not even that, really. It was wishful thinking, the sort of thing only a desperate man could hold onto. As Eric pulled his hand out of Alan's grip, he stole a moment to let his fingers drift across the side of Alan's face. Just then, desperation made the impossible seem reasonable enough.

"I'll save you," Eric promised. "Whatever happens, I will do that much for you."

Under the blankets, Alan stirred. His eyes blinked open, staring up uncomprehendingly. "Eric?"

"I'm here."

"I thought you left."

The unasked question hung in the air, polite in the absence of another argument. Searching through the dimness, Eric found Alan's hand once more and threaded their fingers together. "Do you want me to leave?"

The question was worth the small upturning of lips and the sparkle in Alan's eyes, now from amusement rather than illness.

"You shouldn't ask me that," Alan told him, "unless you really want the answer."

More conversations they'd had too many times to count. Eric didn't need to be told what Alan was saying. There were endless reasons for the distance he still kept between them in moments other than these. And one, in particular, that never changed no matter his personal doubts. Alan's words were his cue to pull away, to douse the lamp and maybe find an extra blanket for the bed before he excused himself for the night.

Instead, he asked again, "Do you want me to leave?"

Silence marred only by the thick sound of Alan's breathing. There was a hesitation in the air that had nothing to do with the illness. After a moment, Alan whispered, "If I asked you to stay, would you?"

"Yes." It wasn't even a question, not then.

"Then stay with me."

( )

Reapers do not place a value on lives. Their own are a repayment of a debt to something greater than themselves. Their duty is to the end of those lives that are so easily taken from mortal men. But the soul, that means more than just fragile, temporary life. That is why reapers hate demons. Demons treat the soul with so little disregard that they treat it as though it were nothing more than sustenance. For a reaper, souls are more: they are duty, and duty matters above all things.

From the moment he made his decision to go forward with his attempt to save Alan, Eric Slingby knew how events might play out. The fairytale that offered a glimmer of hope for the one he cared so much about spoke to far more than the destruction of a single human soul. To take only one would corrupt his own soul beyond saving. To steal a thousand was beyond unthinkable. He knew that, even if he did not take his own life at the end, the Dispatch would most certainly discover what he had done. They would do it for him.

A lesser man might have wavered, questioning the sensibility of his actions. For Eric, it was only a question of what was worth more. To him, Alan Humphries was worth more than his own soul. Alan was worth more than Eric's own life. He was worth more than a thousand mortal souls. He was worth more than any sensible decision could have possibly allowed for. At some point he couldn't define, Alan had become the only thing that gave his world meaning. If he stood by and did nothing while Alan died, the world would be poorer for it.

( )

Ten feet away, Alan's features were barely illuminated by the scant light in the alleyway. He turned his glasses over in his hands, smiling down at them like they were old friends he hadn't seen in a long while.

"Alan..."

Eric could scarcely believe what he was hearing. What was Alan saying? Everything was out on the table now. All his secrets had been revealed. From the beginning, he had known he wouldn't be able to stay in Alan's life after the sum of his efforts had been discovered. What he had done was beyond any moral acceptance. His personal motivations mattered little when he had gone against everything they stood for.

But Alan was still standing there.

Eric had considered how this scenario would play out, if it ever did. No matter how many times he had considered the possibilities, the ending was always the same. He knew Alan would not accept what he had done. No amount of explanations or noble purpose could possibly trump the sins he had amassed. Slaughter on a grand scale, beginning with a few victims over the past six months. Truer now that he had managed to collect most of the souls he had needed at the Crystal Palace with the help of the absurd viscount.

Alan hadn't left despite his assumptions. He wasn't shouting condemnations or continuing his demands for an explanation. Instead, he had said that they were still partners. That word held deeper meaning for them than just another assignment by an organization that had already condemned Eric to death.

Walking past him, Alan wasn't looking his way, but he was smiling. "It's just like I thought. Without my glasses, I can't see clearly. Even your face is blurry."

Little by little, Eric's belief of being alone at the end began to break down. Even these words seemed like more than he deserved.

"I couldn't see either," he said, taking strength in Alan's presence. Following his example, he pulled his glasses off. "I didn't realize how stubborn you could be."

All the petty arguments, the disagreements and even the occasional distance Eric put between them seemed like small details in the light of recent events. For the first time in months, they were on even footing. There were no more secrets or pointless barriers between them. When he had removed his glasses, Alan had told him more than Eric had managed to convey in years. There were words that should have been said, mistakes that should have been admitted, but they didn't matter in that moment.

Alan took a step forward, and for a painful moment Eric thought that he might say something.

When he did speak, it was simply a call to action. "Come on. Let's go."

Four words, honest and simple. Whatever understanding they had reached, they didn't have time to stop and discuss their situation. The world around them was in motion. Eric was being hunted, both by a pet demon and owner, and by their own kind. Except now it wasn't only Eric who was running for his life. He wasn't alone any longer.

Leading the way, Alan headed for the stone stairs that would take them further into London proper. They would lose themselves in the maze of the city, or perhaps find some way to sneak away to somewhere their pursuers couldn't follow. There was no plan in place, only the knowledge that they were together, whatever might happen.

But something still wasn't right. Eric had to know.

"With all of these sins I've committed, can you really forgive me?"

Alan didn't hesitate. "Didn't I tell you that I can't see clearly without my glasses? All of these sins you've committed up to today, I can't see them clearly either."

Any lingering doubts were gone. Eric turned and followed Alan up the stairs, both stopping long enough to dispose of their glasses. Placed along a wall, carefully folded into Alan's kerchief, it was more like a burial than disposing of equipment their former employers might use to track them.

For Eric, his ties with the Society had ended the moment the demon had unveiled him as the murderer of the London women. The look on Alan's face spoke to a somewhat different experience. The younger reaper had never once shirked his duties or balked at the prospect of eternal servitude. For him, this was a sacrifice. But when the spectacles had been laid to rest and they moved to stand, Eric knew that this was something they had in common. Just has he had judged the consequences of his actions against the value of trying to save Alan's life, Alan valued him above any obligation he had to their kind. Whatever would happen now, he was grateful that Alan was at his side.

( )

But fate was never that simple or that kind.

( )

Eric Slingby had never planned to survive any of this.

Alan's body was still warm beneath his hands, green eyes staring lifelessly up at the sky. Some distance away, he could hear the voice of the demon butler, Sebastian, droning on in a lecture about the meaninglessness of everything they had done. He seemed to like that word, meaningless. Meaningless souls, meaningless actions, and how everything was just another way to meet Death.

He was correct.

Eric had poured everything into his efforts to save Alan. Alan had deserved every moment of his life that he had willingly given, even if the means hadn't been as romantic of a notion as the goal. But a thousand carefully collected souls would never be enough to raise the dead. From the instant he read the story in the book, he knew that his gambit might not pay off. In fact, he knew the likelihood of success was minimal. Either way, the end result was the same: he had never desired a life that didn't have Alan in it.

"Kill me, demon." Pulling away from Alan's body, Eric moved towards Sebastian. The demand was simultaneously bold and cowardly, something that should have been below a reaper of any standing. He didn't care. Reality seemed to be breaking down around him as the situation he found himself began to take hold. "Please, kill me."

Sebastian studied him, clearly amused. "Deliver death to Death? Unfortunately, that is outside the scope of my current duties." He turned back to his human boy. "Young master, how would you like me to handle this?"

"You don't have to ask," the boy earl said. "Kill him."

"Yes, my lord."

As Eric watched, the demon strode over to where Alan's death scythe had fallen by the way in the earlier commotion. When Eric had asked Sebastian to kill him, he hadn't considered the practicalities of such a request. Much like demons, reapers were immortal. Simply expecting the demon to tear out his heart might have been more suitable, but ultimately pointless. He should have known that a death scythe would have been needed, and there could not have been finer choice. That did nothing to make the sight of the weapon any less painful.

"Alan's death scythe?"

"Would you find that cruel?" Sebastian asked.

"No."

"Do you not want to dirty Mr. Alan's death scythe with your filthy soul?" he pressed. "Or do you want it to send you on to Eternity?"

Hadn't the demon taunted him enough? The firm grip Eric had on the world was starting to slip, lost in thoughts of why the weapon had been discarded in the first place. Would Alan care if his scythe were used to take such a filthy soul? Did it matter?

Eric turned away, feeling as though the air had gotten much thinner. "I don't know."

"Oh?" Another taunt. "I don't know, indeed."

The end did not come when he thought it would. Instead, the demon strolled away, leaving him to stew in his depression.

"I don't know," Eric admitted, hoping his words would bring an end to what he felt. "Everything is meaningless for me now."

"I see..."

Silence. Then, metal cutting through the air. The sound of a breath.

From inside of him, a thousand points of light seemed to pour into the air around him. The world moved in slow motion, with the details of the street nearby obscured in the glow. In the instant before the light faded to nothing, Eric thought he could see someone standing in front of him, reaching for him.

He knew then that there would be someone waiting for him in the dark.

End.

Author Notes and Shit:

My many thanks to my beta readers: my most glorious and beloved KuroNekoChan, queen of my heart* and my spell check, the indelible Howling Fantodd, and Olivia.
(* I am not involved with KuroNekoChan. She keeps turning me down, actually. But she told me to credit her however I like. So I did. HAH.)

For those of you who have actually rewatched TMBD recently enough to have it in recent memory, you already know that the cringe-worthy dialogue in the last two scenes of this is straight from the musical, so I won't apologize for that.

As for real author notes, I'll start by saying that a few weeks ago, I went on a massive Eric/Alan spree. I wound up writing six different stories (including a new version of The Language of Flowers, if you are old enough to remember that) and this was one of them. While I haven't felt the deep need to polish up the rest of the six stories, I really wanted to get this into shape and online. Shortly after writing it, I discovered that most of the really good Eric/Alan fics seem to have faded out of existence. That's a damned shame, considering they're easily the most romantic pairing in the fandom. Seriously, people! Write more Eric/Alan shit!

I really loved writing this, and will be releasing it as an eBook over on my DeviantArt. I haven't enjoyed writing something in... well, years, so it was nice to be able to feel a bit of that again. Hopefully you will enjoy reading it. If you do, please leave a comment. I am a bit of a comment whore. Cheers!