Finnegan's Wake

Rating: PG
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Nathan/Charles.
Warnings: Accents
Summary: Pickles throws a wake for a friend, but it is Nathan who is mourning.
Notes:

Charles glanced up from his paperwork, hearing in the hallway some thumping and laughter, and voices softly accented. But this was not a Swedish or Norwegian accent, or indeed even a Wisconsin one. This was an Irish accent, and Charles found he was grinning in spite of himself. He left the desk and walked over to his office door, opening it. There he saw five large men, piss drunk, dressed in traditional garb, carrying a coffin in which a sixth man was seated. Charles crossed his arms and feigned annoyance.

“And what is the meaning of this?” he asked.

The men paused and looked at him. The sixth man pulled a bottle of whiskey out of his casket and had a drink before speaking.

“G’day to you friend, by chance d’ya know where the wake is being held this fine day?”

Ah yes. March 17th, Saint Patrick’s Day, the day when everyone was just a little bit Irish. And when a certain red-haired drummer forgot he was anything but, and Mordhaus briefly became part of Ireland.

“The wake?” said Charles. “Who died?”

The largest of the men, Mickey, indicated the fellow in the coffin. “Poor Tim Finnegan passed away last night.”

“Alas is true,” said Tim. “I was much too young to die.”

“I thought you died last year,” said Charles.

“I did but I’m the only one who can get a casket.”

“I see. Well I believe you will find the wake is happening in the main hall just right down there, see it?”

Six heads looked in the direction Charles indicated.

“Well what’s it doing down there?” said Tim.

“Told you we were too sober to be finding our way around this bloody great castle,” said another man, Seamus.

Charles watched the lot head off down the hall. “Well I can see I’m not going to get anything useful done today,” he said quietly to himself.

Pickles’ yearly St. Patrick’s Day wakes were the stuff of legend, and the shameless pleading and begging to be allowed admittance by other celebrities bordered on pathetic. But Pickles insisted this day be set aside for just his friends from Ireland, where his family hailed from before moving to Wisconsin. His bandmates of course could come, and Charles, but no one else. The wakes were a private affair, and Charles was charged with ensuring they stayed that way.

Charles returned to his office and put his things away, then locked up his office. No sooner had he put the key in his pocket when he became aware of a large form nuzzling at the back of his neck.

“Are you aware that there’s an IRA meeting going on in our hall?”

“They are not IRA,” said Charles. “Believe me I checked. We should join them.”

Nathan made a face. “Brutal.”

“It would mean a lot to Pickles, you know,” said Charles. “Every year he throws these parties and every year he invites the four people he loves the most and you never come.”

“I just don’t know what to do,” said Nathan. “I feel like… like I don’t belong. It’s a part of Pickles I don’t know. And I don’t understand the point of a wake anyway. It’s creepy! Propping your dead friend up in the room and throwing a party around him… it’s wrong. Kinda metal yeah, but wrong.”

“It’s not wrong,” said Charles. “And it’s not hard to understand. In the days before medical science was advanced enough to determine if someone was truly dead a wake was very important. It’s a very old and complex custom, tradition layered upon tradition, pagan faiths mixed in with Christian beliefs.”

“I hate it. I don’t care if Pickles is just using St. Patrick’s Day and this ‘wake’ thing to have a party with his friends. It… it bothers me. I don’t know why.”

“Well I suggest you warm up to the custom,” said Charles. “Because if anything happens to Pickles you’ll be holding one for him.”

Nathan stared, blinking. “You’re kidding.”

“No I’m not. His will is very specific. There will be a wake, and you, Toki, Skwisgaar and Murderface will be hosting it.”

Nathan blinked. “No,” he finally said. “No there is no way in hell I am gonna throw a fucking party with… with him…. No! I’m not doing it!”

Charles watched Nathan flee the conversation. Charles had never seen Nathan flee anything. Leave in a disdainful huff certainly but not flee. He could only stare in shock as Nathan tore off, clearly deeply upset. From down the hall came Pickles’ voice, singing a few haunting strains of a song Charles did not know.

Back to the glen I rode again
and my heart with grief was sore.
For I parted with those valiant men whom I never would see no more.
And to and fro in my dreams I will go
And I'd kneel and I'd pray for you,
For slavery fled, O glorious dead,
When you fell in the foggy dew…

Toki came to stand beside Charles, watching Nathan depart down the hall. “What’s bothering Nat’ans?”

“I wish I knew,” said Charles. “I don’t think Nathan is very comfortable with death.”

“Oh buts nots for real wakes!” said Toki. “Is just Tim pretendings.”

Charles looked at Toki. “Are you going? Last year you just stood outside the hall and watched.”

“Oh I was just scareds. I didn’t know Tim was alives.”

“Did you know Pickles wants a wake when he dies?”

“Dat’s brutal,” said Toki. “Woulds be hards to be happies and has fun if Pickles was dead.”

“But you’d go?” said Charles.

“Oh ja I go, is for Pickle. Be hards to play dose Irish songs on elec-strecks guitar though.”

Charles smiled. “I’m sure you could do it, Toki.”

“Just so longs as dey don’ts ask me to sing. Dat accents dreadsfuls.”

By some act of sheer bloody willpower, Charles Offdensen kept a straight face. “Yes, well… shall we go?”

“Is Nat’ans coming?”

“We’ll see. I think he has a few things to work out.”

They walked into the main fire hall, which was decorated in a manner suitable for an Irish wake, complete with traditional Irish food. In the middle of the hall was poor “dead” Tim Finnegan, propped up in his casket, drinking a Guinness. Murderface was standing by the casket with Skwisgaar at his side.

“Looksh jusht like he did when he wash alive,” said Murderface.

“Aye, I was much too young to die,” agreed Tim.

“So if you is beings dead does dat mean I is can be askings outs you wife?” said Skwisgaar.

Tim narrowed his eyes and pointed at Skwisgaar with the hand he held the bottle in. “Don’t be given me reason t’ come back t’ life and give ye a thrashing.”

Just then their attention was drawn by Pickles and three of his friends stepping onto the small makeshift stage, Pickles holding a four-string banjo decorated with running stags and the Irish knot. His friend Mickey, who was already well into his cups, raised a glass and addressed the crowd. There were muted giggles and chuckles as he spoke.

“My lord Bishop, reverend Fathers, reverend Mothers, your excellencies, my Lord Mayor, ladies and gentlemen, and fellow peasants.” He paused, thinking, then looked at Pickles. “Did I miss anyone?”

Pickles was already plenty tanked himself, and had shamrocks stuck in his dreads. “If we did we can pick them up on the way back.”

Mickey returned to addressing the crowd. “Once again we are assembled here in this bloody Viking warship to mourn the loss of our good friend Tim Finnegan. This is the eighth time Tim has died, and the saddest. He was run over by a herd of horses after being thrown out of a house of ill repute for being too short.”

“Was not at all!” said Tim. “I was struck by lightening on me way to church.”

“After you were thrown out of the whorehouse and run over by horses,” said Pickles.

“And he wasn’t a customer,” said Mike. “He was working there.”

“Mind your talk,” said Tim. “Or next year I’ll make you get your own coffin.”

“I’ve got one,” said Murderface.

“There you go,” said Mickey. “Next year William will die.” He looked over at Pickles. “Liam if you please…?”

“Liam?!” exclaimed Toki.

Mickey looked at Toki. “T’be sure you didn’t think his mother named him Pickles, did you?”

Murderface opened his mouth, but then caught the look Pickles gave him. Pickles began to play, and Mickey began to sing;

“Tim Finnegan lived in Walkin Street,
A gentle Irishman mighty odd.
He had a brogue both rich and sweet,
An' to rise in the world he carried a hod.
You see he'd a sort of a tipplers way,
With the love for the liquor poor Tim was born.
To help him on his way each day,
he'd a drop of the craythur every morn.

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner,
round the flure yer trotters shake.
Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye,
we had lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

One morning Tim got rather full,
his head felt heavy which made him shake
Fell from a ladder and he broke his skull, and
they carried him home his corpse to wake
Rolled him up in a nice clean sheet,
and laid him out upon the bed
A bottle of whiskey at his feet
and a barrel of porter at his head

His friends assembled at the wake,
and Widow Finnegan called for lunch
First she brought in tay and cake,
then pipes, tobacco and whiskey punch
Biddy O'Brien began to cry,
'Such a nice clean corpse, did you ever see,
Tim, auvreem! O, why did you die?',
'Will ye hould your gob?' said Paddy McGee

Then Maggie O'Connor took up the cry,
'O Biddy' says she 'you're wrong, I'm sure'
Biddy gave her a belt in the gob
and sent her sprawling on the floor
Then the war did soon engage,
t'was woman to woman and man to man
Shillelagh law was all the rage
and a row and a ruction soon began

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner,
round the flure yer trotters shake.
Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye,
we had lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

Mickey Maloney ducked his head
when a bucket of whiskey flew at him
It missed, and falling on the bed,
the liquor scattered over Tim
Now the spirits new life gave the corpse, my joy!
Tim jumped like a Trojan from the bed
Cryin’ “Will ye walup each girl and boy,
t'underin' Jaysus, do ye think I'm dead?'”

Whack fol the dah now dance to yer partner,
round the flure yer trotters shake.
Bend an ear to the truth they tell ye,
we had lots of fun at Finnegan's Wake.

There were cheers all around. Toki looked at Skwisgaar.

“Whats was he just sing?”

Skwisgaar raised an eyebrow. “I has no idea.”

“Boy I sure glads we don’ts has dildos accent.”

Charles slipped out of the party, going off in search of Nathan. He soon located him, lying in the dark in his room. Charles entered the chamber, quietly closing the door after himself, then walking over to the immense black bed.

“Nathan,” he said softly, “come to the party. Please.”

“No. I’ll… I’ll just stay here.”

Charles moved closer, reaching out to take Nathan’s hand. “What’s the matter, Nathan?”

“I just…. think I’m scared. I don’t understand how death can be cause for a party.”

“Well you should probably get Pickles to explain it to you. I’m not very knowledgeable on the subtleties of the Irish Wake myself.”

“It’s not the party. Or maybe it is. I don’t know. Maybe…” Nathan sighed, gathering his thoughts. “Long before I met you or any of the guys, I knew this guitar player. He was a lot like Murderface, you know, real son of a bitch on the outside, complete sweetheart on the inside. And I loved the guy, I did, he was my best buddy for a long time but… well… he had his moments. I mean he had some real moments and if you didn’t know what was inside of him and what kind of demons he was facing… he wasn’t an easy guy to know. But… I loved him. Not in the way I love you, I mean… he was my friend. But it was a really intense friendship. Anyway… one night… he died. Just keeled over right on stage.”

“Aneurism?” asked Charles softly.

Nathan nodded. “Yeah. In his heart. Was… well… I never forgot it. And then later on that week a group of our mutual acquaintances got together behind my back and threw a celebration party.”

Charles gasped in horror. “Oh Nathan I’m so sorry, that must have been so hard for you.”

Nathan balled his hands into fists and pressed them to his eyes, fighting the tears. “I was the only person on the planet who knew what he was like! And… and I never got to grieve. And… there was no one to grieve with. Yeah okay Danny was a five star gold plated bastard but…. But he was my friend. And… and that pretend wake bothers the fuck out of me.”

“Nathan I’m so sorry. I… I really am. What did he look like? Do you have any pictures of him?”

Nathan pointed to a small photo beside his bed, still fighting down his pain. Charles picked up the photo, gazing at a shaggy, roguish-looking young man with cold, mistrustful blue eyes.

“Was he Irish?” asked Charles.

Nathan thought, sniffling. “Don’t know. Charlie just… just let me be, okay?”

“Okay,” said Charles softly. “I’ll come look in on you a bit later.”

Nathan nodded. Charles gave him a gentle kiss on the lips, then left the room, secretly bringing the photo with him.

***---***

Two hours later, Charles returned to the room, gently nudging Nathan awake.

“Nathan?”

“Mph.”

“Wake up.”

“No don’ wanna.”

Charles kissed him softly. “Come on. I have a surprise for you.”

Nathan peered at Charles, one green eye peeking out from beneath his arm. “Can I drink it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

Nathan got up and dressed. Charles could tell by looking at him that he probably had been indulging in a long private cry. His eyes were red and swollen, and had a strange glazed look to them. After Nathan finished dressing, Charles took his arm and began leading him towards the fire hall.

“Charlie I told you I don’t want to be part of this.”

“You will this time, Nathan.”

Charles could see Nathan was puzzled, but he didn’t protest. He allowed Charles to lead him into the hall, then stopped, blinking in surprise. The hall was still decorated for the wake, but Tim was no longer in the casket. He was standing with his friends, and the photo of Nathan’s friend sat on the silk pillow within the black coffin. On either side of the casket were lined up Pickles, Toki, Skwisgaar, Murderface, and Pickles’ friends.

“I don’t understand,” said Nathan as Pickles approached him.

“We can wake Tim anytime,” said Pickles softly. “It’s time your friend was given a proper send off.”

Nathan thought for a few moments, then nodded. “What do I do?”

“Just… say a few words, share a few stories. Tell us what made him special to you.”

Nathan nodded. “Okay.” He turned his head to look at Charles, and grinned. “You’re a conniving little shit aren’t you?”

“Yes. Yes I am.”

“And that’s exactly why I love you.” He kissed him. “Thanks Charlie.”

“It’s only fair,” said Charles. “He was important to you.”

Nathan kissed him again, touching his face. “Yeah almost as important as you are.” Then he turned to the group assembled. “Right. First story I’m gonna tell is about the time we got pissed drunk and watched The Blues Brothers and decided to sing ‘Rawhide’ at our next gig.”

“Oh yeah,” said Pickles. “And where was your next gig?”

“Gay wedding,” said Nathan. “Went over really well too.”

Charles helped himself to a pint of Guinness and smiled fondly at Nathan. Too damned bad St. Patty’s only came once a year.