Atropos

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/Your love is a garland, resting atop my body as if it were a tomb./

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Note(s): This is all sorts of fucked up. Just sayin'. Inspired by my course of Christianity and a pretty picture ( LilaTelrunya Deviantart). Re-edit; fixed some time-related mistakes :D

Warning(s): Death, both character and non-character, doubtful sexual content, graphic depictions of overdoses, questionable length, etc.

Summary: /Reaper!AU/ He's a chill she can't shake off, and it's killing them. SpaBel.

I hereby disclaim any rights.

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i.

"You look silly."

His mouth splits open into a wide grin, mauve gums and nacre teeth, and he angles his head to regard her more properly. He feels the weight of his halberd's staff in the crook of his neck, his fingers clench around the smooth wood, and he shifts a bit, mindful of the basket of carnations next to him.

"Do I now?"

She nods, this tiny thing, frumpish curling blonde tresses bobbing boldly with the motion. Her eyes are catlike, gleaming grass green in the afternoon sunlight. Playful rays trickle through the windows of the flower shop, casting white smoldering spots on the glass and dripping off the petals of the petunias on sale.

Antonio inspects his attire which has remained unchanged for centuries; a charming crimson coat, bright as blood and daunting as death with brass buttons, leather boots with sturdy soles, and a wisteria white linen shirt revealing the bronze of his chest and the dip of his breastbone. In comparison with the shopkeeper, an Asian woman in Converse sneakers and an ecologically approved cotton apron, he looks terribly outdated.

He chuckles, a pleasant rumble bubbling from his stomach and offers the girl a non-committed shrug. Crouching on one knee, the blade of his fearsome weapon dangerously close to the salesperson's bare throat, he stares openly, unabashedly at the tiny thing's face, all rosy cheeks and plump wet lips.

"Well, I guess, I might not look like a Vogue model.."

Her hand darts out, stubby fingertips swaying straight through the polished wood of his halberd and she inevitably retreats her appendage in frustration. Her cheeks puff into two twin apples and she releases the air between her pursed lips in an exaggerated huff.

"Why can't I touch it?"

"Because you're not supposed to see me."

Raising one delicate eyebrow, she seems astonished about his exclamation and promptly retaliates in childish rhetoric.

"Maybe you're just bad at hiding."

He laughs.

"I'm not hiding from anyone. Nobody actively searches for me, querida. Well, not most of the time." He jerks his thumb into the shopkeeper's direction. "You see that lady over there, si?"

"Uhu. That's miss Chang. She sometimes gives me candy when mommy's buying cry.. chrysan.." She sighs. "Those flowers you put on dead people's beds."

Smiling, Antonio stands up straight again, sweeps the calloused palm of his hand over her crumpled curls and stands closer to miss Chang. She doesn't notice him, but her posture straightens, her breathing becomes slightly labored, her forehead sheens with salty sweat and her hands place themselves flatly on the counter. He doesn't take her eyes off the little girl.

"Miss Chang will be going into cardiac arrest in approximately two minutes." He states matter-of-fact, his fingers tip-tapping down the expanse of her throat, down her arm, over the curve of her elbow and settle upon her thin wrist. "She feels a slight tingle in her left arm now." Antonio brings the iron of his halberd underneath her chin. "Your mother is going to call the paramedics in a minute, after she's turned around and noticed what's wrong."

She stares transfixed at how her mother indeed stops paying attention to a bouquet of mixed roses and sprints over to the shopkeeper, how she immediately grabs the phone next to the old-fashioned cash register and dials 911.

"She won't make it." Antonio whispers into her ear after the ambulance slams the breaks in front of the flower shop and one of the paramedics scrambles out of the passenger's seat.

"Why not?" Her mother pulls her against her chest and mutters reassurances against the coral shell of her ear, patting her hair franticly, in shock.

Antonio taps the hilt of his halberd upon the linoleum tiles of the floor and offers a consoling smile.

"Otherwise I wouldn't be here."

ii.

For approximately four-hundred thirty-seven years, Antonio Carriedo-Fernandez carries out the duty of death-bearer.

It takes approximately four-hundred thirty-seven years for someone to actually see him as a palpable entity.

He almost fears he could fall in love with this child.

(Now that would be an utterly foolish thing to do.)

iii.

"My name is Annabelle Sax." She introduces herself, a bit too proudly and a bit too sweetly for a six year-old.

He offers her a simper and a poppy, "I am Antonio Carriedo-Fernandez. Former conquistadore for the glorious empire of España. Pleased to meet your acquaintance, Annabelle, mi querida."

The flower's vibrant vermillion petals crumple in her small, frail hand, slip inevitably like dust and ash between the cracks of her tightly-pressed together fingers.

She giggles childishly. It tickles. Gray flakes pile together into a stub of desolation upon the grass in the park.

"You have a really, really long name."

"It's customary for the Spanish to have both of their parents' names." Antonio explains, settling himself against the stem of a beech, folding his arms behind his head. One of his buttons prods uncomfortably against his nape.

Annabelle nods and sits upon both knees, effectively staining her white summer dress with patches of smeared grass-green. "But, what do you do now? If you're not a con.. conkwee.."

"Conquistadore?"

"Yes! That. If you're not that anymore. And why can only I see you? And why can't my brothers see you?" Her gaze flits over to the two crouched figures near the sandpit, playing with the plastic multi-colored buckets and shovels.

He grins, obviously amused with her enthusiastic antics, "So many questions." He scratches his chin idly, "Do you know las Parcas? Oh, in English they call them differently.. And.. Hmm.." He closes his eyes for a second, "Grim.. Ah, claro. The grim reaper?"

Something sweeps over their heads, a crass crow disappears in the foliage of the beech and caws coldly at nothing and no one in particular. Antonio frowns momentarily, chewing the inside of his cheek.

"But." She starts, "I can't see your bones. You're no ske.. Skel.."

"Skeleton." He finishes for her, a twinkle in his eyes.

"Yes." Repositioning herself so she's seated on her behind, the girl grips her patellae and rocks to and fro. "That. And, and.. You wear no cape! You're all pretty in reds."

Antonio returns his attention to the sky, only to notice another black blot traversing the endless azure. "Pretty in reds, huh?" Despite himself, he breaks in a genuine smile. How long since he last heard sincerity dangling from someone's lips? He shakes his head, a few chestnut curls sticking to his tanned cheeks.

When he looks at her again, she seems pensive, her fringe casting a metaphorical curtain upon her forehead and hiding her gorgeous greens away from him. "Mommy.. Mommy says some boys are handsum. Or something." She dips her head deeper. "I, uh.. I think you're handsum too."

If his heart was indeed still his heart and not some concept, because he does indeed not exist anymore, Antonio honestly thinks his heart would've been broken from the sheer desperation this situation brings him.

He braces himself and is proud his voice doesn't waver.

"Gracias, mi bella."

Her mother calls her and her brothers for dinner and they say their goodbyes. Promises of tomorrow flutter in the air.

(He brings three people to their demise that evening. One of them is a little girl.)

Antonio weeps that night, near a wrecked Ford Fiesta, underneath the cooling shade of a young platan, his halberd stained with the ethereal substance of souls and mortality.

iv.

Occupying the sofa, the eldest of the two siblings is sprawled all over the cushions on his side and the little sister is comfortable in the space behind him, peeking from underneath his arm at the rapidly moving images on the television screen. They're watching the latest installment of a pirate-related franchise, there's a plastic bag of Lays on the table in front of them and twin diet cokes on the floor aside of the couch. Nils grabbles listlessly and stuffs a few chips into his mouth with all the grace of a thirteen-year old.

Antonio sits in front of the fauteuil, cross-legged and attentive. His eyelids shift closed as the violent sounds of swords clashing on film fills his eardrum steadily, surely, triggering snippets of memories from centuries past. Gulls glide between the majestic sails of the Imperial fleet, their white wings spread and their beaks shimmering in the crude summer-sun, Antonio smells gunpowder and the salty sea breeze, the familiarity flaring in his nostrils and he exhales loudly. Nothing is solid underneath his feet, just the wood of the deck wobbling on the waves. Then suddenly, the warning bell, cupper clapper clanking and the distraught shouts of his crewmembers filling the previously calm air.

"How does it feel to be dead?" She asks aloud, keeping up the appearance her idle wondering concerns only herself and her brother.

Nils crooks his neck to regard his sibling curiously, "I dun' know." He mutters, a voice too deep for a boy his age, "We'll see once we get there." His gaze flits back to the screen, his arm rolls off the couch and swats effortlessly at the closed cans.

Details, generally more accustomed to linger in the crevices of his memory rather than chronologic events, rake over his brain like sharp steel talons and Antonio forces himself to crack an eyelid open. "I wouldn't know, mi hermosa." He coos, cloying molasses and sugar-sweet saccharine, "I'm a special kind of dead." His lips twitch, mold and curl into a sincere smile, somewhat reassuring.

"I wanna be a special kind of dead." Annabelle adds softly, "Too." Yet her brother pays her nonsensical rambling no heed and raises the coke to take a sip.

He vaguely envisions a pirate ship, dark and dreary although that might've been time fogging up the particularities; but he could -if you asked him- describe the flag meticulously; a beige skull against stark black, two meager bones depicting a saggy 'x' and the curve of the figurehead, the shade of the wood and the church-glass green of the pirate captain's coat. There were shouts in a crude tongue, English, a language he hadn't mastered back then and they mingled with the melodic syllables of Spanish into a cacophony of chaos. Someone pushed him towards the prow, because he recalls stumbling and the feeling of wood upon his palms, and he ended up in a dangerous proximity to the enemy.

Something shifts, Antonio notes faintly, and when he tilts his head back and stares at the ceiling, his vision is obstructed by a feline smile and a pair of twinkling eyes and a mop of golden tresses.

"Wake up, sleepy-head. Movie's over."

"I.. Huh? Ah, my apologies, bella. My mind was elsewhere."

She huddles closer to the armrest, a blanket over her shoulders, and hums lowly, "I sa-aw." Her smile dims, "What where you thinkin' about? You didn't look happy."

"Nightmares. Scary nasty things." He turns around so he's facing her and raises his arms, his hands curling into claws, "Like monsters and ghouls." Antonio draws out the last word for emphasis and she giggles.

Annabelle lets out a few more chortles before saying, "Com'on, I need to go to bed. Don't want the bedbugs to bite.."

Promptly apologizing, he gathers his halberd and prepares to stand up. "I'll protect you from harm. Promise, mi bella Anna."

A pout crosses her features, she crosses her arms in front of her chest and raises her chin, "You were gone in the morning."

(47 year-old; lung failure; died on the operating table. He's never been fond of hospitals and their sterile whites.)

"Oh. That. I was called to duty."

Her brows dip together into a frown.

"I wish I could touch you.. So I could give you a hug and make it all better."

Evading her gaze, Antonio plucks at the material of his crimson coat and sighs.

And eventually. "Si, I wish so too."

v.

By the time she's fourteen, he can't disentangle himself from her presence.

If he doesn't go around being the Harbinger, he is just Him.

It feels wonderful and amazing. It also feel so terribly wrong.

(She's going to die one day and Dios mió, he'll be the one ending her. He can't end her. Her end will be the end of him.)

vi.

"Ah, so you're awake, great, yeah, great."

Antonio blinks slowly, -wasn't there a lead bullet nestled in his heart? Wasn't he on the dregs of a sinking ship?-

"I'm.. I'm alive?" He touches his chest, pokes and prods at his ribs, searches for the hole, for the crusty flakes of dried blood on his shirt and he settles himself upright.

"No.. That's to say, not really. Not exactly, no." He snaps his head to the right and sees a man with... He blinks again.

The man stands next to him, white garb and white hair, a black cross spread across his torso and his eyes are the color of flames.

"Who are you?"

"Name's Gilbert, I'm kind of God's secretary or somethin'. So, uh, I'm here to inform you of your new calling. If you can call it that."

"What?" He stutters out unintelligibly, still a bit fuzzy around the edges.

He sighs dramatically, "You're Antonio Carriedo-Fernandez. Right?"

"Right."

"Wrong."

Antonio draws his knees to his chest and leans on them with his chin, he's on a beach -Santo Domingo? One of the other colonies?- and his halberd is about a foot away from him. "Amigo, I'm pretty sure I'm Antonio Carriedo-Fernandez."

The man, Gilbert, shakes his head and replies, "And I'm pretty sure you're dead. Listen, we all pass this point. Well, not all, all of us, but.. Urgh.." He grumbles, "They should really let Francis handle this.. Deal."

"But I was on a ship, and we were attacked by pirates. Those bastard English ones. And, and there was a barrel of a gun pressed against my heart and then a shot. A shot."

"Yeah, I know. I saw."

His pupils enlarge at this revelation. "You saw?!" He scrambles, but the sand is treacherous and he almost loses his footing. "Then why didn't you do anything?!"

"Because it was supposed to end up the way it ended up!" Gilbert stalks over to his halberd, lifts it up and trusts the weapon into his arms. "And you're supposed to collect the souls of the dead!"

Antonio, forlorn and shell-shocked, stares at the other, his bottom lip trembles and there's this tremor sneaking up his right calf, settling in his thigh. "Souls of the dead?"

"You're really dense, you know."

His eyes snap open, he tilts his head to the left and notices a vaguely familiar persona; too much white, like hospitals. "Is that a laptop?"

Normally speaking, although the term sporadically would be more appropriate regarding this particular context, Gilbert only appears when he is supposed to receive a big job; like a serial killer or a pandemic.

"Times are a-changing, mein Freund. Wer kan etwas dagegen tun?" He lifts one leg over the other, sitting absolutely at ease on the abandoned bench and props his elbow on the garbage bin next to him.

Antonio nods, but can't resist a little jab, "I liked your typewriter better. It was a Hansen Writing Ball, si? Very stylish."

"Yet slow. And ineffective." His index finger sweeps over the mouse-pad, the screen's light reflects upon his retinas.

"So what's the.. Deal?"

"Yeah, well, Roderich thinks about reassigning you to a different area."

He swallows down a ball of saliva, it slides uncomfortably down his esophagus. "Por qué?"

Gilbert rolls his eyes with the usual theatrics. "Com'on, Antonio. Two words. Blonde. Bombshell."

They both glance at the teenager at the other side of the courtyard. Her laughter is infectious, in a matter of moments the entire clique of girls are giggling and chuckling.

Desperation colors his tone of voice. "Why can she see me, amigo? Why only her? It must be a sign, no?" His fingers curl around the collar of Gilbert's tunic. "I can't.." He chokes. "I can't leave her. I.. I just can't."

"Listen. -get your paws off me, jeez.- Francis probably fucked up during the assembly of her soul or something. I'm just the secretary 'ere."

"Tell Roderich I'm staying. I'm not leaving."

Groaning, Gilbert wipes his face with the back of his hand and sinks into the bench. "She is mortal, Antonio."

He smiles, ruefully so, "Perhaps she'll turn a special kind of dead. Like us."

"Whatever, but I'll pass on the message." He dematerializes and disappears into thin air.

vii.

Tonight is her homecoming.

Her date is the president of the debate club and the most frequently tipped candidate for valedictorian Ludwig Beilschmidt; he looks positively nervous, uncomfortable even as she flits around him with coy summertime smiles and cheeky remarks. Her velveteen headband glimmers underneath the fluorescent lights in the sports hall, just like her eyes, a reflector in the relative darkness.

They never leave his form, not even when she leans into the sturdy frame of the stoic teenager, not even when she slips her arm around his narrow waist and flashes him a flattering simper; she's always watching him from the corner of those wicked green stones. Antonio blends back in the shadows near the convolved tennis nets; his halberd resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder, gleaming restlessly as it's laid to rest.

Annabelle creeps up on her tip-toes and whispers something into the blonde's ear. He recoils, a bit shocked and even without the proper lights, Antonio can percept the ruby hue on those usually pale cheeks. He bristles lowly, almost unconsciously and grips his weapon tighter, knuckles a shade of snow, canines exposed.

His arms wind around her, clasping her closer to him, gently guiding her into the comfort of his chest. Her fingers tangle into his gel-sleeked hair, rearranging the neat coiffure into a straw-colored mess and he dips low. Ludwig kisses like most boys; eyelids firmly shut and trepidation wrecking his spine.

She still watches Antonio from over Ludwig's shoulder. He instinctually knows what she's thinking, what she's imagining. Her nails crease the fabric of the tuxedo vest as they delve themselves into the material.

He slinks towards the exit, the gaze pinned upon his back molding into a glowering, smoldering glare.

(23 year-old intern. Addict. Injects a cocktail of cocaine, heroin and morphine into the vein of his right arm behind the bleachers.)

Something sinks, crashes onto the bottom of his stomach, explodes into a million tiny pieces.

They cut him up like the sharp shards of glass.

(He drops the syringe. Goes with the flow. Five minutes left.)

She's in love with him. This revelation echoes into his brain, a faint fabrication of truth and fact and he hadn't even noticed until that little stunt. His hand threads through his chestnut locks in an act of desperation, the options on how to continue unfolding like an endless checklist in his mind. Should he leave? Does he even want to leave?

(His pulse drums underneath his skin. He starts clawing at the vein, annoyed and itchy. His pupils dwindle down to two black dots. He can't breathe, why can't he breathe? He needs air, doesn't he?)

"Antonio?!"

"I don't think you want to see this, mi corazón." His gaze doesn't leave the intern, a heap of dress shoes and hyperventilation. There's a trail of brownish spittle gliding down his chin, it beams like amber, is thick like syrup.

(Heart-rate is off the charts. It's thumping in his chest. Like it's tap-dancing or something. Where's my air? He thinks, tugging on his collar, hand flailing.)

"His movements are uncoordinated, he's going to try and crawl towards you. Don't bother taking a step back, querida. He won't get far."

"I don't care!" She all-but screams at him, anger dripping off the syllables like metaphorical poison. "Why.. Why didn't you stop me?"

He halts his movements for a moment, the blade a mere inch away from splitting the skull in two. "It wasn't my place..."

"Bullshit!"

Craning his neck, Antonio looks at her from over his shoulder, "I'm not real, Belle. Estoy muerto."

(He shudders, everything is so cold and crowded. Falls forwards on his knees. One minute left.)

She sighs, presses her hands together, glares at him from underneath her fringe, "You are to me. You.. You are to me."

It falls upon the ground, the brownish bulb splatters like molten gold, there's still a string of saliva dangling from the open cavern of the intern's mouth. He coughs.

"I love you." Annabelle says, without conviction, without guilt and blame.

Antonio swings his weapon and slices straight through the intern's body, successfully separating soul from matter.

(Game over.)

"Annabelle? Why did you run off?" Ludwig jogs over to the bleachers, a concerned expression replacing his usual stoic one. He gasps when he notices the last convulsions rake over the intern's bare skin.

His arms are around her, pulling her into a consoling hug. She wiggles free defiantly. Staring at Antonio, awaiting his answer.

"Please, go back inside. I'll call 911."

He pulls out his cell phone, starts dialing, gaze flicking over the corpse, the brownish pool of saliva and the discarded syringe.

Antonio stands a bit closer to her, his presence making the hairs on her arms stand upright. He's a chill she can't shake off.

"I'd like to report a case of, what looks like, an overdose.. I'll check for a pulse.." He crouches down, touches the wrist. "I'm afraid I'm too late... Yes, I'll give you the address..."

His halberd still drips with a bright blue, splish-splash into nothing. He turns towards her, leans on closer. Always acted on impulse.

"Te amo mucho, mi querida." His fingers caress her cheek.

She smiles sincerely. Tears glittering in her green-green eyes.

viii.

After graduation, Annabelle chases her academic aspirations and enrolls at the community college. Her brother asks her why she didn't go for Knoxville or didn't apply for a scholarship to get into the Ivy League; even the university up-state is more promising. Waving away his inquisitions with poor excuses of home-sickness and a desire for familiarity, she follows a course of psychology and sociology.

"You shouldn't have stayed for me." He remarks relatively tranquil, a tad solemn even. His hands rummaging over the hilt of his halberd, his gaze downcast.

She shrugs her cardigan off her shoulders and throws the clothing article over the chair in front of the desk. "I can help around here as well." Her fingers unbutton the beady baubles of her blouse swiftly, with practiced ease.

Antonio tilts his head, "But, querida, you have so much potential."

"And I will see to it that it's realized." Her bra falls to the ground, a lacy black fanciful garment. She pulls a wide sleeping T-shirt over her mop of blonde curls and makes work of her skinny denims.

Walking over to him, crouching and offering him a meaningful simper, Annabelle whispers, "I have an internship at the local community centre." He scrambles half-upright, mouth splitting into a grin, the chasm only widening when she rolls her eyes at his antics.

"It's not a big deal. Not even the worst cases. Counts about thirty percent for my final grade. I start next week."

"That's wonderful!" He puckers his lips and presses them faintly against the bulb of her blushing cheek. She shudders slightly, as if it were frost biting her instead.

(Two hours from now. Short-circuiting of an overheated laptop charger. Spark. Fire.)

"I.. Los siento, mi carina.. I simply forgot about.." He gestures helplessly at his near-transparence, his specter-state of being.

Putting her index-finger against her mouth, she dissuades him to drop the subject, it doesn't matter to her. Her fingers then curl around the elastic of her underwear, peels them off her skin and she lets them slide down her legs.

Antonio puts the halberd in the corner of her bedroom, then concentrates exclusively on her, the width of her hips pronounced even underneath the wide sleeping shirt, the curve of her calves, the tiny scars on her knees.

"Let's celebrate." Her timbre is low, the sleeve of her shirt slips off her shoulder and she doesn't bother putting it back.

His apex darts out, a thin elfin tip, and moistens his bottom lip, skirts the inside of his mouth and retreats. "Si."

Annabelle settles down on the mattress, her legs dangling off the edge, knees reasonably apart to give him a good view and regards him quizzically.

"Wonderful.. Bella, you are.. Wonderful." He stalks over to her, sits and eases her on her back. "I.. I simply wish I could.. Return the favor."

Pulling up the T-shirt to reveal the plush of her abdomen, her ribcage and eventually her breasts, she give him a reassuring smile. "Just you watching is enough."

"Not for me." He wants to touch, wants to revel in her warmth but the last time he got a tad too enthusiastic, she nearly asphyxiated from his tempting and teasing.

She arches her back, her right palm wedging itself upon her sternum and her other hand resting on her bare hipbone. Right moves first, fingers spread over the camber of one of her breasts, edges downwards slowly, the pads of her fingers igniting sparks, it makes her breath hitch.

"Move your other hand." Antonio instructs, his eyes sparkle like emeralds in their sockets.

It dips to her inner thigh, slides skittishly over her clitoris, swipes a line down her labia and sluggishly retraces its trail. Her tips are wet, they glisten in the meager light. Her thumb pushes down on her clit and by doing so, her head falls back, heavy on her shoulders.

Feeling his own faux-breathing turning into uncontrolled pants at the sight, he prowls even closer and hovers over her torso. She shivers at the sensation, her nipples become perky, two rosy buds upon a canvas of creamy flesh.

"Touch them, querida. You like that, no?"

Her right hand cups and fondles one of her breasts, lightly she tugs on one of her nipples and bucks her pelvis. The corners of his lips twirl into a delighted sneer, he blows a puff of air over her navel and she whines weakly.

"Go on, go on." Urging her onwards, his gaze shifts to her left hand, relentlessly rubbing her clitoris now. "I like it when you use your fingers, hermosa." He admits lowly and she groans in accordance.

She readjusts her position, leaning against the wall sitting up straight and she spreads her legs a bit wider. Her right hand now focuses on stimulating her clit, while one finger of her left hand dips in between the folds. Moans gush from her mouth as the finger crooks inside of her.

"We both know you want more." His mouth is so close to the shell of her ear and every word he utters makes the hairs on her bare arms stand up straight.

"Antonio.." Annabelle manages to groan out, now using two fingers to pleasure herself, pushing in and out methodically, "Say.. Say something." She feels the orgasm nearing and buckles over, her frumpish curls gliding down her flustered cheeks.

He wants to touch her so badly, wants to be the one to finger-fuck her senseless, boneless and he doesn't refrain from telling her. "I would make you come so violently, Anna, amor. I would fuck you against the headboard, make you scream, so so loud." He sees a bead of sweat glissading down her stomach and refuses to lick it off.

"Mo.. More."

"I'd tease your clit mercilessly, Anna. Make you come from the feeling of my tongue against your clit alone." He ends up driveling in Spanish, obscenities masked by the melody of his language.

She draws a deep breath, her shoulders sag and her toes curl, and she exhales loudly, both of her hands still, both of them wet.

(Her husband yells at her, she forgets about the switch-plug and rushes upstairs. Goes to check on her baby boys. Electricity sputters through the cupper wires.)

"I.. I should clean up." Annabelle offers him a weak smile, still glowing from their little session and skips over to her panties. Her thighs are sleek and he loves watching her parade over to the door, halt for a moment, and mouthing 'I love you' to him.

Antonio hears a weak knock on the window, observes how a raven with pitch-black feathers and seemingly soulless eyes stares at him. Stretching his arms above his head, he walks to his halberd and prepares for duty.

(Grandfather rings the doorbell. Takes his grandchildren with him and bids his daughter goodnight. Kiss kiss on the cheek. She won't make it through the night.)

Beak tapping against the glass impatiently, the raven motions him to get moving. Nevermore, nevermore and all that jazz.

ix.

She yawns, head pounding -no doubt a hangover from the house-warming party she threw last night- and eyes bleary. Stretching her arms and throwing on a pair of turquoise shorts and a bra, she saunters over to the kitchen for a glass of orange juice, where she finds Antonio, inclusive of his trademark crimson coat and wide, excited grin, seated on her small circular table. He winks when she scowls petulantly at him, gesturing at her temple and her dry, raspy throat.

"I told you that last shot of tequila was one too much." He scolds cheerfully, playfully even and she's glad his volume remains the same.

Annabelle shrugs, pours the juice and strolls over to the fruit basket her younger brother brought along. She takes one of the pears in her right hand and bites down, the flesh is soft and sweet and she can't resist releasing a delighted groan. "These are so good."

Antonio falls on his back, half-dangling off the table with his upper-torso, glancing at her, upside-down. "I wish I could taste one."

"I wish you could have hangover as well, you're way too happy, honey." She grabs her pear, her glass and her pack of smokes, making her way over to the balcony of her apartment; the summer sun already burning high and bold above the other buildings. Her cheeks warm immediately and she sinks down onto the stone tiles, her legs fitting perfectly between the railings of the fence.

He follows her outside, basking in the warmth and standing proudly next to her, his gaze focused on the construction site down the street, the crane hoisting a beam twenty feet above ground and the workers lazing around. Is it noon already?

Lighting one of the cigarettes, she stares contently at the scenery around her; she's recently moved to this apartment building and out of her parents' home and she's pretty happy with the price/quality ratio of this place. Affordable, tidy and close enough to the community centre where she works, it was a quick and easy decision to make. Antonio, of course, goes where she goes, and she stays where he stays. They're literally made for forever. She inhales deeply, blows out a few streams of gray and wonders if, when she dies, she'll actually turn into that special kind of dead.

"Did you mean it?" Tilting her head to regard him, she hums lowly in confusion.

"What?"

Antonio crouches and envelops her hand, tries to at least, because the appendage just blends into hers. It would be considered discomforting if they weren't so used to it. "What you said to Lucas?"

Her memory is foggy, as to be expected when both of her brothers and their respective girlfriends come over to drink, not to mention Ludwig made an appearance so there was plenty of beer and, ugh, she remembers bits and scraps of conversation.

He helps her by adding, "About remaining here, because.." His eyes are incandescent, such a shade of precious green, "I can't give you the affection you deserve. Dios mió, I'm a specter. And I'm robbing you of all you deserve, mi carina, mi hermosa.." Annabelle shushes him and sips from her juice.

"Don't make me repeat myself, my brain is practically scouring against my skull and ugh, it hurts." She finishes the fresh beverage. "But I meant what I said; There is something holding me here, tying me down and I don't regret it. I could never regret this." She gazes at their hands, linked together, never-ending, "Us."

Leaning closer , their noses barely touch, except they can't ever actually touch, and Antonio breathes out, "You were so young when you first told me you loved me. You were a niña."

Annabelle chortles, smoke escaping her mouth as she does, "I'm twenty-three now and I love you still. Jesus, Toni, we know each other inside out. How could anyone ever compete with you? I'm the one who should be afraid." Realizing what she's blurted out, the blonde turns away and focuses again on the horizon.

"Huh?" He lets out, unintelligently, scratching the side of his head like he usually does.

She shakes her head, "Don't worry 'bout it." With this reassurance, she continues her cigarette.

There's a crow, cawing and crowing in annoyance, settling down on the balcony floor besides Antonio. Nothing special what this animal signifies, just a quick, accidental death.

"Is it the crane?" Annabelle inquires, a few drops of juice sliding down her chin. He wants to wipe them off, but it wouldn't be any use.

He nods, chestnut curls sticking to his earlobe as he does, "Pulley will defect, the chains'll start whirling out of control and the beam..." Antonio trails off, mimicking a collision.

"Ugh, and all of that this early in the morning? How unsavory." She remarks with a smirk. When did she turn into such a cynic, he wonders absentmindedly before grinning.

"You should get up earlier, it's already half past twelve."

"Remind me to drink less, then." They share a laugh together, before she stands up, knees a bit wobbly and ass a bit sore from the cold, hard tiles.

Eying the cigarette butt, he says, "Those'll kill you, you know."

Her smile is docile, apologetic almost, "I'm counting on it."

Antonio sighs, "We'll discuss this later, you're supposed to enjoy your life, bella."

"How can I?" She retorts, lips still wet from the pear, "When I'll grow old and ugly..."

"I care for your soul and your heart." Impatiently, the crow flutters its wings, flaps them with mild irritation, successful in disrupting their conversation.

He shuts up, looking at her for permission to leave. She gathers the remnants from the fruit and gives him a curt nod, "Go on, then."

Disappearing back inside to take his trustworthy weapon, he leaves for the construction site, his coat bellowing behind him, a wave of crimson and embroidered gold.

Annabelle closes her eyes, chest heaving from sudden exhaustion and recollecting herself, turns to the open doorway.

(Cables snap. People scream. Something falls, faster and faster.)

Goes into the living area, doesn't bother waiting for the splat.

(29 year-old, dies immediately from impact, leaves a wife and a toddler behind.)

x.

When she's 25, she gets hired as a psychologist at the town's elementary school; she mostly ends up on supervision-duty though, playing ball sports on the courtyard with the young boys and acting as mother when the girls play house. There's one troublemaker who frequently visits her office, a cross child who spews curses and doesn't deal well with authority.

"Romano." Annabelle places her fountain pen on the desk, gestures at the dreary chair and gives him a smile, smudged with disappointment and weariness. "This is the third time."

He obediently trudges towards the customary seating place, sits down and glares at the tips of his shoes. "Not my fault." His hair is messy, a mop of chestnut and mahogany with one resilient curl bouncing whenever he walks about.

Her fingers tread together to form a bridge for her chin to rest upon. "What isn't?" She inquires softly, her eyes inquisitive but encouraging.

"Stupid Jones kid was laughing at me." Romano scowls at the boy's name and puffs his chest, crossing his arms in front of it. "So I told him he was a shithead."

Raising her eyebrow, she leans back against the rest of her comfortable swirly chair and sighs. "Where do you even learn all those words?"

"M' dad. He always says those things on the phone." His irises are a shade of murky hazel when he mentions his father.

She proffers him a sweet simper, "Well, don't use them. That's adult talk, Romano. And even then, it's a showing of bad taste."

The kid shrugs, pointedly ignoring her gaze.

He once told her she reminded her of his mother; she always kept faith in him. She died seven years back, in a fire.

(Antonio watched her die. Smoke got to her first. Asphyxiation is more probable to kill you before the flames engulf you, he expatiated.)

"Where's your friend, miss Annabelle? The one who dresses like a red clown." He suddenly asks.

"Beg your pardon?"

Romano sighs, with all the petulance of a child unanswered. "The one you always talk to during breaks." He motions with his hands, "He has a staff, like this tall. And he's always smiling at you."

She stares at him, intense and astonished, and he shifts in his seat, suddenly hyperaware of his appearance and the timbre of his voice. "Uhm.. I won't tell anyone, but I think, he likes you or something."

Moistening her plump lips and drumming her painted nails upon the armrest of her chair, Annabelle focuses on the boy and eventually utters, "So.. You, you can see him."

"Well, yeah. Am I not supposed to or something?"

She shakes her head, "Romano, sweetheart." She starts in a placating tone, "Don't speak of him, okay? He's, uh, not supposed to be here."

"Alright, miss Annabelle." He looks directly at her, his glossy red cheeks a contrast with his tanned skin, "But, if he ever gets caught, I'll be there for you. Promise."

Her grin illuminates the entire office, "You're simply wonderful, Romano."

He waves her compliments away, blushing more brightly than before.

xi.

"He can see you, as well."

Antonio startles, kick-starts into a sitting position and gazes down on her, chest heaving and feigning sleep. Blankets weave through her legs like silk, a messy tangle of sleep and idle laziness. Her hair blooms underneath her head like a halo of gold, blanketing her pillows and shielding them from his sight. Annabelle has the flower-print sheets and it's funny how a cherry blossom trails up her calves.

"Who can?"

She shifts, silently, "Romano. The child I've told you about."

"I think..." Annabelle starts, tilting her head, nose up in the air, he wants to touch her (but he can't), "I want to commit suicide."

Turning solemn, he lets out a sigh, a burdened exhale, and he says, quietly as if not to upset her, "Don't say things as rashly as that, mi hermosa."

"I've spent a lot of time thinking this over." Arching her back, curving her spine, she turns to face him, eyelids still firmly shifted shut, "I want to become like you. There is a chance, right?"

Mulling this over, chin on his knuckles, lips stretched thin, Antonio calmly contemplates the implications of her statement. He can't actively kill her, his job is only to separate the soul from the matter and he is to remain a neutral party. Yet, passively, he's pushed death into her peripheral vision, pumped her full of ice.

And yet... Forever doesn't sound so bad. He regards her, his beautiful Belle, and allows himself to finally dream after centuries of loneliness and invisibility. There must be a reason why she can percept him and as it turns out, this boy as well; Francis cannot have messed up twice; she cannot be an anomaly. Surely, God would not be so cruel to proffer the apple underneath his nose just for it to rot into ash.

"Perhaps, there is."

What are the odds?

The corners of her mouth twitch, unfurling into a seductive catlike smirk. "We could look after Romano. Be his guardian angels, or something."

Her irises are a spark of green fire, a soul without equal and all his, his, his.

Antonio likes the sound of forever.

(He's a chill she can't shake off, and it's killing them.)

"And what if there isn't?"

Annabelle doesn't let the smirk wither, her eyes blazing still, "You've been a reaper for too long, perhaps you could ask for retirement. Then we could terrorize the afterlife together."

Despite himself, he laughs, optimism flooding his senses like a sweet, mindless lullaby. Maybe she just wasn't meant to grow old and frail. Like the cherry blossom around her calves.

xii.

Plans hatch inside her brain; she's written herself a prescription of Dipiperon, an antipsychotic with quite a sturdy leaflet, goes to the pharmacy and the supermarket, gets herself a package of capsules and a bottle of Beaujolais. She puts it in the fridge, dumps the pills on the kitchen table and makes herself ready.

"Are you going to write a note?" His coat flutters when he moves about the apartment, his halberd gleams in the corner of the kitchen and he coughs awkwardly, nervously.

Annabelle stands in front of her closet, doors wide open, already a few dresses are sprawled all over the mattress, and she hums lowly. "I'm going to call my brothers, my parents, maybe Ludwig too, to apologize for nine years ago."

"And what are you going to tell them?" Antonio wonders aloud, leaning against the doorway like a majestic tomcat, crossed arms and eyelids half-closed.

She chuckles, "Thank you, goodbye, take care? Toni, I'll make something up along the way." Her fingers slip over the material of a fancy silk dress shirt. Her approval splits her mouth apart in a grin.

Changing into just the creamy button-up and a pair of black shorts, Annabelle sways over to the nightstand, unlocks the touch-screen of her smart phone and thumbs through her contacts. Nils is first; then Lucas; then her parents, eventually Ludwig and Monique, one of her colleagues. She offers them small-talk, a few hearty laughs and a sincere, almost heartfelt 'take care'. Then, she saunters over to the refrigerator, opens the wine, pours herself a glass and pops a few pills out of the case.

Antonio watches her precariously, trailing behind her fluent movements like an obedient puppy, spilling compliments and comments and his near-transparent hands settle on her shoulders. She doesn't even flinch, just drowns down one bolus after the other with the sweet white wine.

Turning on the radio, she settles for a station with old-fashioned music. Her steps turn into skips; there goes another tablet, chugging it down her throat. They start to sing along with Otis Redding. Fluttering around each other, pretending to dance. Another pretty pill passes her plump lips. Annabelle starts laughing, she hasn't eaten all day and she's drugging herself into oblivion for the man she loves.

"Look like nothing's gonna chance." Antonio squeals, trying to steady her when she comes flailing forwards. Popping pill number twelve, now dissolving in the acids of her stomach, it's stirring with the Beaujolais. His arms go straight through her. Everything still remains the same.

Annabelle shudders, chewing bitterly on two capsules at once. "And.. This loneliness.. Won't leave.." Her hand reaches out for the chair, but she collapses. Somehow she can hear her heart beating slower and slower. Momentarily she's retreating into the blankness of the mind, balancing on the edge between light and dark. She comes to her senses a minute or two later, yet her vision is frayed on the edges, emerald stones a blurry mess of familiarity.

"I love you, Toni. I love you, love you.." She lurches, but manages to keep everything inside. Bile and saliva. He grimaces and settles down on one knee. His touch calms her despite the chill. He can't quite tell whether she's convulsing because of him or because of the overdose.

Antonio cups her cheeks, "Te amo." He blows the words against the tip of her nose.

She forces herself to smile, heartbeat dropping, lower and lower. Until the flat line. Annabelle tries to keep her eyes open, tries to burn Antonio's face onto her retina, tries to merge him into her soul.

Otis Redding starts to whistle. Antonio starts to weep, worst of all, he couldn't even properly close her eyes.

xiii.

Why isn't Gilbert here yet?-

He has a flock of crows picking and poking at each other on the balcony; Obama gives his inauguration speech with a statuesque, solemn air of authority and untouched resolve on the radio and the sick smell of her glass of wine lets the apartment wallow in a state of neglect. Antonio tries to forget how her lips turn a bruised blue, opting to kiss them as to press a hint of comfort upon them, upon her.

Tasting her soul as he does; a resilient, restless essence, dripping into the cavern of his mouth, fuels his own entity with anger, infatuation and love.

Perhaps Gilbert is busy.- Perhaps, it wasn't meant to.. No, he vows and pledges, not daring to utter the possibility of failure, not even in the safety of his mind. Cognitive dissonance masters his reasoning; her strength still blazes through her frigid veins, her rigid rigor mortis limbs, her nevermore-beating heart, he can sense her soul clawing at the cage of matter. He cannot quite tell how long the interlude between his mortal life and his immortal one lasted; perhaps a half an hour, perhaps a day or two.

Antonio settles next to his Belle; the dead can wait, even himself.

Gilbert will come.-

xiv.

"I swear you are retarded."

The accusation falls between them; Antonio shifts to regard the white-haired specter, perched atop the rest of the sofa, holding a tablet and pointedly ignoring the other's heated glare.

"Gilbert, amigo." He starts, tone of voice devoid of any noticeable emotions. "I've been waiting for you." His palm rests on her elbow, "We've been waiting."

He rolls his eyes, crosses one leg over the other while his finger scrolls leisurely over the touch-screen, "Antonio, I don't know how to break it to you. But I'll break it anyways. Listen, there ain't a 'we', there won't be a 'we' and there will never be a 'we'."

Leaning over her, he hisses lowly, "Pardon?"

"Francis fucked up, okay?" He waves his hand around, "And then Roderich fucked up by actually letting you stay here. And you fucked up by not stopping her! She isn't gonna be a reaper, Toni. And.." He huffs, exhausted, "And, there are a shitload of souls waiting to be relinquished. Including miss bombshell down there."

Shaking his head in resistance, disbelief, the reaper tries to clutch onto her tighter, but almost falls right through her. "No. No. I quit. I quit, amigo. I quit and I'm passing on. I will not be parted from her." His eyes turn into slits, narrow and venomous.

"There isn't an afterlife. Not in the traditional sense; all that heaven and hell fairytale shit? Human existentialism, ba-by. The afterlife is just a pitch-black load of nothin'." Gilbert concentrates on his tablet again, "Her brother is going to come visit her soon, actually in approximately two and a half hours. I suggest to you reap her soul and leave it at that."

Antonio remains still, his spine a ramrod, his knuckles bleached white. "And what if I don't?"

"Then she's forced to remain attached to the corpse until it disintegrates and ain't that just a nasty business?" It's mostly rhetorical, but there's a challenge in his voice.

"However," Gilbert mumbles, almost to himself, "You could always slurp 'er up. It's one of the perks of being..." He gestures at Antonio's stature wildly, "You, basically. If you don't mind being haunted from the inside out, of course."

Antonio doesn't hesitate, drinks her up immediately, drains the ectoplasm from her bones, her ligaments, until the last drop, until he is whole again.

"That was the grossest thing I have ever seen in my life. And I'm counting the practice of predicting the future from bowels."

xv.

"Hey, weirdo. What are you doing?"

She claws at him from the inside, her whispers are sharp talons raking his metaphorical brain, carving 'i l y' into his own essence. They are a Russian doll; if you cleaved Antonio in half, Annabelle would appear. Their souls shall never unbundle.

"Ah, Romano. Do you see that rambunctious teenager over there, near the traffic lights? Mmh?"

Annabelle scolds him for being so playful with the boy; he shouldn't see death this often, it warps the mind in ways only she can imagine. He hushes her affectionately and eyes the youth expectantly;

Crossing his arms in front of his chest, Romano looks over to the crossing, an expression of near-boredom dragging on the corners of his mouth. "Let me guess, a car-crash? How fucking original."

He clacks his tongue in disapproval, "Annabelle doesn't like it when you curse. Claro?"

"I can't understand what she ever saw in you." His gaze flits back to the teenager, the tip of his tongue drags a moist line over his bottom lip as he does, "Can't be your wits, clearly. Nor your sense of humor."

Antonio feels her rumble from laughter within him, feels her coveting the inside of his ribcage with hollow hands, fingering every ivory bar individually. "Count to three, Romano. It's show time."

He leans into the teenager's frame, sending a trail of slick, slippery ice down the youth's back, "She fell for my good looks, obviously." Says it to his ear seductively, for good measure. Annabelle is practically howling.

(16 year-old. Potential mathematician. Dies from his injuries.)

Romano shudders, "Yeah, well, then I must be a blind motherfucker, because I wouldn't so much bat my eyes at you."

She slithers within him, pulls at his muscles, stretches his vocal chords like ribbons and speaks through Antonio's mouth, "Sweetie, be nice to Antonio, he's your guardian angel."

"Pretty sure you are, Annabelle. He couldn't save shit from anyone."

In the distance, an ambulance beckons, accompanied by the inaudible flapping of black wings. His halberd glitters impatiently. Romano opens the lid of his pack of cigarettes, lights one while he watches Antonio go about to do his job and wonders exactly what the world is coming to. A whole lot of disappointment, naturally.

.

.

Ehehe, penny for your thoughts?