The Last Song

Rating: R
Category: AU
Pairing(s): Nathan/Charles
Warnings: Angst, implied violence.
Summary: Charles finds himself facing slings and arrows alone.
Notes: For piedcrow! Not sure if it’s exactly what you wanted, but I hope it’s close enough

Did you know I go to sleep and
Leave the lights on?
Hoping you’d come by and know
That I was home, and still awake.
But two years go by and still
my light is on.
This is hard for me to say
But this is all that I can take.

It’s the last song I'll ever write for you.
It’s the last time that I'll tell you
Just how much I really care.
This is the last song I'll ever sing for you.
You’ll come looking for the light,
And it won’t be there.
But I love you
Oh yes I do
Yes I do

All the times that I spent waiting,
Wondering where you are.
Always knew the time would come
When I would start to wonder why.
Now the time is here,
I don’t know where you are.
So I’ll write you one more song,
But it’s the last time that I’ll ever try.

It’s the last song I'll ever write for you.
It’s the last time that I'll tell you
Just how much I really care.
This is the last song I’ll ever sing for you.
You’ll come looking for the light,
And it won’t be there.
But I love you
Oh yes I do
Yes I do…
-- Edward Bear, ‘Last Song’.

It had been a long, gruelling and harrowing tour. It had started in the States, then went international, heading up to Norway, then wandering down and around Europe, meandering all around the planet. It was a long tour, Charles having let Dethklok pick the route. Not surprisingly, it followed along after every single disaster, massacre, battle and atrocity known to historians. This wasn’t just a tour; it was a pilgrimage. Normally Charles went on tour with them. But this tour was a lot longer than usual, and therefore he was obligated from time to time to return to Mordhaus and attend to business. So that was where he was when the boys decided they wanted to get in a little fishing, since they were in Australia already.

And that was where he was when he received the news that Dethklok’s chartered fishing boat had vanished.

They had been out fishing for marlin. It had been a beautiful clear day, and the waters off Cairns, Australia were calm and beautiful. It was a perfect day for catching fish and a few rays of sun. Dethklok departed for what was supposed to be a five day trip that included snorkelling as well as fishing, dutifully sending their manager photos of all the fun he was missing. There were shots of Toki underwater, hand-feeding clouds of brightly-coloured fishes, shots of Skwisgaar lounging under a cover on the boat, keeping his white hide away from the sun’s wrath, as well as pictures of Murderface trailing after a manta ray and Nathan getting his ass kicked by a thousand pound marlin. The last photo Charles received was one from Nathan that showed Pickles being hung from the winch used for hoisting truly huge fish out of the water. Pickles was clearly not amused.

Then the pictures stopped.

Three days later, their charter boat was found washed up on the reef. The crew was dead, and Dethklok were simply gone. The only indication that they had ever even been on the boat was a line of bullet holes, and multiple splashes of blood that matched DNA from Toki, Nathan and Pickles.

The search went on for months, lasting far longer than any search normally would, Charles funnelling millions of dollars into looking for his boys. Clues were not to be found. There was no indication of another boat having been in the area, no bodies found in the crystal waters of the reef, no traces of shark-gnawed remains, nothing. It was as if aliens had dropped from the sky and stolen them away, and despite the blood there was no proof that they were dead. Of course there was no indication that they were alive, either. But as time wore on, most began to assume the worst, and one by one the search parties let up, leaving only small groups of dedicated fans, and roadies permanently assigned to the task of patrolling the Great Barrier Reef. Eventually, even the fans went home. Summer turned to Winter, snow fell down, and Charles found himself standing alone in the massive stone keep that was Mordhaus.

Charles didn’t really know what to do with himself. His entire life for the past five years had been Dethklok and the five idiots that made up the band. He hadn’t realized how much of his existence they had taken up. There had been tours to arrange and allergies to keep track of and finances to attend to and monsters to chase from under beds and… and now there was only silence, and loneliness.

And the rumours, of course. The rumours were the worst part. They ran rampant across fan sites and conspiracy groups like wild ferrets; erratic and nonsensical and vicious, and all pointing a finger square at Charles. Rumours that he had paid off pirates/drug runners/terrorists/aliens to kidnap Dethklok and kill them so he could have their wealth. Rumours that they had learned some terrible secret he possessed and were slaughtered to ensure their silence. And other… less rational theories.

Charles had never wanted the spotlight, and to suddenly have his every mood analyzed under a microscope was unhinging. If he bought a birthday gift for his niece it was national headlines, and the rumour mill went mad, screaming this was proof he now had all of Dethklok’s wealth. Except… Charles didn’t have their wealth. Nobody did. The wills the boys had left had been as exclusionary as the boys themselves. If one member of the band died, the other four got his share. If all five died it went into a trust, where it would stay for five years, providing for the estate and those running it. Charles would get paid, but he didn’t get the money. Dethklok Inc got the money. All Charles got was pension and the right to remain living in the keep. Frankly it was more than Charles had expected, and when he read the provisions made for him in the will it made him cry. He had been so certain they didn’t care about him. Apparently they had cared enough to make sure he was looked after long after they were gone.

Of course the families didn’t believe for a moment that the boys hadn’t provided for them at all, and there was little Charles could do to convince them otherwise. The will was very clear about where the money went, and few relatives had been graced with a portion of the mighty Dethklok fortune. Pickles had an aunt he loved, who had been deeply touched by his generosity, though it was clear she would have much rather had Pickles. Skwisgaar left some money to a man he called ‘Uncle’, who was in fact one of his mother’s ex-lovers who had been kind to him. Nathan left a bit to his Dad, Toki dutifully provided for his mother, and Murderface left a small amount to his grandmother. It hadn’t been very much, and at first Charles wondered if the paltry sum was intended as an insult. In the end Charles realized Murderface simply understood his grandmother better than anyone thought he did. Stella Murderface hadn’t wanted her grandson’s money, and initially wouldn’t accept even the small bit he gave her. It was one thing to have Murderface spend his money on her, but she wanted him, not his wealth. In the end she took it because she was an old woman in poor health on a fixed income, and it meant being able to hire a caregiver for her paralyzed husband. But Charles had no doubt that, had she not truly needed it, she would not have taken it.

Pickles’ brother Seth, however, was certain that he alone deserved the entirety of the Dethklok fortune. Charles had never liked him, but confronted daily with his hounding and wheedling and threats, Charles quickly learned to despise him. He honestly could not think why Pickles hadn’t killed him with his bare hands years ago. In the end Charles had to resign himself to Seth forever prowling the perimeters of his life, because he was not going to leave until he got something, and Charles was not giving him a nickel.

Skwisgaar’s mother too was prowling the ruins of her child’s life, looking to feed off his carcass. She hounded Charles with woeful tales about how she missed her darling baby boy and how much he had meant to her, and how Charles could not possibly comprehend her pain. She and Seth quickly paired up to form a match made in Hell, and when Charles would not give them money they added as much fuel to the rumours and conspiracies as they could.

Charles gradually faded from public view, shunned and disgraced, haunting the keep his boys had called home, convicted of a crime he had nothing to do with. Occasionally he still sent out search parties, but they never found anything, and they just seemed to enrage the fans, who would shriek about insincere ploys to divert suspicion. Dethklok were gone, and the blame had been irrefutably placed on the man who had loved them. The same man who refused to move Toki’s model making supplies out of his office because Toki had liked to work there, where the light was better.

***---***

“Good grief, Charles, you look like hell.”

Charles stared at Robert Anderson with dead eyes. His brown hair was getting longish and shaggy, weeks overdue for a cut. His Armani suits didn’t fit him right anymore; he’d lost far too much weight. In the two years since Dethklok had vanished, the stress and strain of their loss and the constant flinging of mud in his direction had nearly destroyed him. His joints had become inflamed from an illness the doctors could not seem to diagnose, as had portions of his intestines. He had ulcers in his stomach, and his heart no longer beat smoothly. Charles Foster Offdensen was a walking wreck.

“Let’s just get this over with,” said Charles, his voice a listless near-whisper.

“Yes, of course. Are… are you all right?”

“Just fucking peachy.” He seated himself at his desk and opened a drawer. In it was an unopened pack of two dozen laser pointers, just ripe for the stealing. He dug around for his ledger, slowly drawing it out, and tried to focus on the task at hand.

“Charles…” said Robert. “It’s been two years.”

“Yeah well when your kids die we’ll talk about how long it should take until you get over it.”

“Charles they were not your kids. They were a rock group.”

“They were my boys.”

“They were a pack of dumb-fuks and they’re gone. Go get another.”

Charles gave him a cold look. Robert sat back in his chair, raising his hands in surrender.

“All right, I’m sorry. But really, Charles, why can’t you move on?”

“Move on where? Go where? Do what? I killed them, don’t you read on-line gossip? I killed my boys. I sent them out on a fishing boat to be murdered.”

“Yeah I’ve… I’ve heard that. But Charles it isn’t true.”

“That doesn’t matter, does it? I loved them. I protected them. And none of it matters. I’ve got Servetta Skwigelf and Seth Nichols breathing down my neck, organizing rallies to ‘fight for justice’ and have me indicted for murder, hiring private investigators to go through my life… did you know Skwisgaar once fell into an open sewer at age five and was stuck down there for three days, until by some miracle he managed to escape and find his way home? And do you know what she said when he finally came back? She said she hoped he didn’t expect her to clean him off. That was it. Five years old and not only did his mother not even look for him, she wouldn’t even help clean off the sewage. But now that he’s dead, he’s her darling child who can never be replaced, and I’m making this worse for her by withholding her inheritance. She never gave a damn about Skwisgaar! But does anyone listen? No! They see me living in their house and assume I got everything.”

Robert raised an eyebrow. “What did you get?”

“Nothing! I get to keep my apartment on the estate and the same amount of pay I got when they were alive. I didn’t get anything, other than a financial dinosaur that keeps getting attacked from all sides by thieves and liars and vultures looking to pick the carcass. I’m losing my mind trying to make sure THEIR money goes where THEY wanted it to go! With all the extra fucking work I have to do now I’d get paid MORE if they were alive!” Charles leafed through the ledger, finding the entry he sought. He noticed he was late with the payment by three weeks.

“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”

“It’s all right,” said Robert. “It’s probably just as well. The job took longer than I thought it would. It’s not easy finding the right kind of stone to repair this place. Charles… I do wish you would find a way to move on. At least turn out the lights on the runway.”

“Robert you’re a terrific stone mason but you blow as a therapist.” Charles wrote out the cheque and handed it to him. “Thanks for fixing the dragon’s head.”

“Any time. Wanna go take in a film?”

“No, thanks,” said Charles. “I have to go make sure the airport door is open…”

“Charles,” said Robert softly. “We’ve been friends a long time. Take my advice. Close the door, turn out the light. You know they won’t be home tonight.”

Charles shook his head. “In three years, when they’re legally dead. Not before.”

“Charlie… It’s been two years.”

“Two years, two months, three weeks, four days, and seventeen hours, but who’s counting? Good night, Robert.”

“Charlie… it’s killing you. Look at you. Those suits are not fooling anyone. I bet you’ve lost fifty pounds…”

“They’re not dead yet,” said Charles in a hoarse, insistent whisper, unable to look Robert in the eye. “When they’re dead… I’ll turn off the lights.”

Robert nodded. “Okay. Good night, Charles.”

“Good night.”

Robert departed, and Charles went on his nightly pilgrimage to the small airport housed on the estate, ordering the lights turned on and the hanger doors opened. Then he returned to his quarters to fall asleep listening to CNN, hoping for word, a couple of bottles of Chivas his only company.

***---***

“Charlie! Charlie wake up!”

Charles slowly climbed out of a drunken sleep. He looked up blearily into a pair of familiar eyes.

“Badger? What is it? What are you doing in my room?”

Badger pointed to the TV. “Look!”

Charles pulled himself into a more upright seated position, picking up his glasses and putting them on before squinting at the TV. There was footage of military personnel wandering across a small sandbar pretending to be an island, and it appeared to be a rescue situation. The only real landmark was a jutting rise of black stone that may have once been a volcano, but not for millions of years. There was a cave in the stubby little cliff of black, dug over the millennia by ocean waves, and the soldiers were waiting expectantly near the entrance.

“What am I looking at?” asked Charles grumpily.

Badger snapped up the remote from a small rosewood table beside Charles’ chair and used it to turn up the sound. The feed was live, but no one was saying much. Then a very large man stepped out of the cave holding something in his arms, bundled up in a blanket. It was shivering, and the soldier was being very careful with it. He handed the bundle off to some rescue workers, and it was as they set the bundle down to examine it that the blanket fell away. Charles saw an emaciated little form with a wild mat of filthy red hair and enormous frightened green eyes. Without even realizing he had been about to stand, Charles shot to his feet.

“They found Pickles! They found Pickles! Where was he?”

“If you would listen…” chastised Badger.

Charles just stood, eyes focused on the TV screen, his body shivering. His mouth was dry, and his stomach was a sick knot. He watched as others were brought out; a woman with her teen son, some young girls, an elderly couple, and another woman holding a terrified three-year-old. None were as bad as Pickles, but they were all in pretty sorry shape. Gradually the story began coming out; all of them had been taken off their boats and brought to the sandbar, where they were kept in an underground bunker by a group of people who had never really identified themselves. The best guess anyone seemed to have as to who their captors were was a group of very disturbed religious fanatics.

“The Tribunal,” said Charles softly.

“That would be my guess,” said Badger.

The story was coming out in bits and pieces as the human drama slowly played out on the TV. The soldiers had been playing war games, become lost, and landed their boat on the sandbar to consult a map, have a snack and get their bearings. It was pure dumb luck they found the bunker, and the dungeons full of captives. Evidence indicated that culprits running this little prison camp had only very recently departed; silently slinking off into the pre-dawn light before the soldiers had a chance to realize what they had located.

None of the prisoners were in the best condition, though the mother and her toddler seemed as if they at least had been taken pity on. But Pickles was a mess. He was so thin and fragile it broke Charles’ heart. However the grief lifted when he heard that familiar irate yodel as a rescue worker began wiping off the dirt covering him.

“DOOD! I can do it myself, a’right? Gahd!”

Pickles was down. But he certainly wasn’t out.

“Where are the others?” Charles asked himself softly. “Come on. Where are the other four?”

“Here comes someone,” said Badger as a soldier emerged from the cave with someone wrapped in a blanket. Charles sat forward, hoping for a glimpse, some hint of identity…

He honestly didn’t recognize Skwisgaar. The arrogant blonde beauty was little more than bones and glazed eyes, and he was placed carefully on a stretcher. Charles would have sworn he was dead, but when Pickles reached for him, Skwisgaar reached back. Their hands joined, and they sat together, looking sad and battered. Charles felt himself dying by degrees as his heart broke.

“Badger… find out where they are. Let’s get them home. They’re not mentioning the location.”

“I’m on it, boss-man,” said Badger. He rose to his feet and left the room, leaving Charles alone, waiting in cold fear, dreading one of the band would not have survived the two year ordeal.

Murderface was the next to emerge. He was weak and shaky, but he was on his own two feet, though someone had clearly beaten the hell out of him. He was holding a rather dishevelled and dirty red squirrel which seemed to be in far better shape than he was, and it fiercely chattered and shrieked at all the unfamiliar people. Not far behind Murderface was Toki, who was being carried by the same large soldier who had brought out Pickles. Toki too had clearly been beaten with wanton cruelty, but he looked alert and lively, and he noticed the camera right away. He grinned widely and waved at it, then mouthed the words; “Hi Charlies!”

In tears, Charles returned the wave. “Hi Toki,” he said softly. “Now just one more…”

Nathan limped out under his own power, his massive frame shrunken to little more than large bones. He was filthy, bruised and starved, but he was on his feet. He limped over to his band mates, and together they sat, quiet and solitary, occasionally glancing up at the sky nervously. Charles wondered when last they had seen the sun.

The door to his room flew open, and Badger leaned in. “Found them.”

Charles grabbed his jacket and pulled it on. “Let’s go.”

***---***

Charles arrived on the little island before the military had a chance to evacuate everyone. He actually leapt out of the small black helicopter before it hit the ground, landing hard, then running over to his boys. Skwisgaar was in the worst condition, and Pickles was not far behind, but all of them were expected to recover physically. Their psychological state would take a little longer, but just being home in their own keep would do wonders. However what would forever remain in Charles’ mind about finally seeing his boys again after so long was Toki lying on his stretcher, staring up at Charles with eyes swollen and black, his nose broken, lip split and festering, and saying “Boy Charlies, you looks terrible!”

“I was worried,” Charles admitted sheepishly.

“Aw you shouldn’t has worried, Charlies! We nots leave you.”

Charles smiled, giving Toki’s hand a squeeze. Then he turned to ask Nathan how he was… and that was when things became terribly, terribly confusing. He was grabbed in a very intense and powerful grip and held hard against a broad chest that had once been heavily encased in muscle and… admittedly… some flab… and kissed.

Charles’ expression of complete and utter ‘W!T!F!?’ was broadcast around the world in an instant, but it would linger for years, followed by a many a lively debate as to when Nathan had last had a chance to brush his teeth and whether that counted for the look in some way. Then Charles was shoved into the small black helicopter he had arrived in, Nathan climbing in after him and slamming the door shut. Charles by now was confused and a little frightened.

“Nathan what the hell are you doing?!”

Nathan sat on the floor before Charles, clearly winded. Whatever strength he had left after his ordeal, he’d just spent. He coughed, and even without medical knowledge Charles could tell he was sick as well as starved.

“Charles…” Nathan panted, then coughed again, his dirty black hair hanging like dead serpents. Finally managing to catch his breath, he resumed speaking. “I had a lot of time to think over the last couple years.”

Charles wondered if he was about to be fired. “Yes?”

“People worry too much about the wrong kinda shit.”

“Well… yes… but…?”

Nathan made a motion for him to stop talking, and Charles fell silent.

“People worry too much about the wrong kinda shit. They worry about fashion and TV shows and appearances and what the neighbours say and how much money they make and what others think, and… and there were times… I really thought I wasn’t ever getting out of that pit. And I realized… I’d been a fucking moron.”

Not agreeing with that statement was the greatest act of sheer willpower of Charles’ existence. He swallowed nervously. “I don’t… understand.”

“Remember the night you sat in my lap and played with my hair?”

Charles smiled. “Vaguely. I was… pretty drunk.”

“Yeah well… When I was in that pit… there was nothing to do but think. And write. But… I didn’t have anything so write on so I kinda… had to make up the lyrics in my head and try to remember them. And… and I kept thinking about you and… and I kept saying to myself okay this is the last time I’m gonna do this. I won’t write anymore, I’ll find something else to write about, this is the last song…”

“Nathan calm down, you’re not making any sense.”

“I can’t calm down. I can’t. Not until I get all this out because I might die before I say it and….”

Charles reached out and gently took his hand. “You’re not going to die,” he said softly. “Just breathe, calm down, now…. What was it you wanted to say?”

Nathan gulped air, trying to get himself under control, his wasted frame shaking. “Okay. Okay. Starting… starting with the night you played with my hair…”

“Yes?”

“I wanted you but I was too scared to say so because I thought it wouldn’t look good for me to be with a man and be open about it because I thought maybe other people wouldn’t accept my music if I was in love with a man. And I was really freaking out because you… well until you sat in my lap I didn’t really know that… that I liked guys too. And Pickles said it was okay, he liked guys and Skwisgaar said yeah he’s done guys and Toki just said he only loves Skwisgaar and Murderface well fuck Murderface is so far in the closet he’s found another closet…” Nathan drew a deep breath, fighting back the tears. “I wanted you but I pretended I didn’t and then I ended up in that pit and I realized I’d been so fucking stupid! I’d thrown away something that could have been so good for nothing! For my career! I’m a multi-fucking-billionaire! I could fuck a llama if I wanted, who’s gonna say shit?!”

“Well that’s… very true, Nathan, but I like to think I’m preferable to a…” Charles cleared his throat. “Llama.”

“Well I dunno, llamas are all warm and fuzzy and they have kind of a cute overbite…”

“Please tell me you’re joking.”

Nathan grinned. “I’m joking.” He slowly flopped back to the carpeted floor of the private helicopter, lying on his back. “I must have written five hundred songs in that pit, and all about you. And all about how fucking stupid it is to overlook love for something as artificial as appearances. And I think the only thing that kept me alive was… was the idea that I might finally get to tell you how I feel. And every time I wrote another I’d say okay, that’s the last song. That’s the last time that I’ll tell you just how much… I really care…”

The voice became soft and distance. Gradually the big body relaxed, and within moments Nathan was asleep, too weak and exhausted to do anything else. Charles took Nathan’s filthy hand between his own and gently squeezed it, saying nothing.

The door to the copter opened, and Charles looked up. He watched as Skwisgaar was carefully loaded in, looking like the living dead.

“Are they letting me take you boys home?” asked Charles.

“Ja,” said Skwisgaar, lying on his back, so wasted it was hard for Charles to believe it really was him. “We has our own hospital, dis way dere is more rooms for da others people.” He noticed Charles and Nathan were holding hands. “So finallies he tells you, does he?”

Charles smiled. “Yeah. He told me.”

“Good,” said Skwisgaar, closing his eyes, his thin body sinking into the soft leather seat. “Maybes now he is shuttings up abouts it.”

***---***

Not surprisingly, they didn’t want to let each other out of their sight, and given their physical condition the Mordland doctor didn’t want to upset them by placing them in the keep’s hospital. The main fire room was converted into a sort of ward, and there they were able to keep tabs on one another while they recovered. Physically they had a very long way to go. Mentally they were perking up pretty quickly.

“Hey,” said Nathan, scowling at something on his computer screen. He was sitting up in bed, healing slowly from numerous infected wounds. “What’s all this crap about you knocking us off to take our money?”

“Don’t pay any attention to that,” said Charles.

“No I wanna know where the fuck these people get off.”

“It’s just pointless speculation and gossip,” said Charles, sighing as the other four promptly signed on to see what was up.

“Hey!” said Toki, outraged. “Is whole site bads-mouthing Charlies!”

“Just… don’t pay any attention to them,” said Charles.

Skwisgaar cocked his head at the screen. “Okies I nots knowng whats dat word mean.”

“What word?” asked Nathan.

Skwisgaar sounded it out slowly. “Shhhhhits-smmonnnn…gaar.”

“Shit-monger,” said Nathan.

“And what is dats being?”

“Means they think Charles was in on the whole disappearance and imprisonment thing,” said Nathan.

“Oh dat’s bull shit,” said Toki.

“Yeah Charles wouldn’t do that,” said Pickles. He glanced at Charles. “Would you?”

“No, I would not. Especially now that I know what it’s like to be blamed for your murders. I’ll just do what I’ve always done and just… quietly fantasize about smothering you all with a pillow over a glass of brandy.”

“That’sch the spirit,” said Murderface. “Creative vishualishzation. Hey Here’sh a shite that shays we were all cut up and shtored in freezers. Well that’sh pretty rude. I would think Charlesh could have at leasht packed ush in dry ice.”

“I was out that day,” said Charles.

“Dood,” said Pickles. “This is naht cool. None of it. I mean yeah okay it’s kinda cool people think Charles chopped us up and fed us to the yard wolves but…”

“Oh whats page is dat beings on?” said Toki. “I’m only ups to da one wit’s da aliens.”

“Page six,” said Pickles. “But… I dunno. Charles is probably the only person on the planet who loves us. I mean our families didn’t care. Skwisgaar’s mother is demanding proof he’s her son and my brother Seth just asked if he got his inheritance anyway. Nathan’s mom was asking for ten thousand dollars per interview! They didn’t come down to get us when we were found in the bunker, Charles did. They didn’t keep searching after everyone else gave up, Charles did. And he didn’t even ask us for anything for doing it!”

“You know maybe for the next album we should use some of the songs I wrote for Charles in the bunker,” said Nathan.

Murderface flopped back to his bed heavily. Beside his bed was a small nightstand with an open jar of Nutella on it. From the top of the jar emerged a red tail, thrashing fuzzily in glee.

“Oh… GAHD! If I have to lishten to one more of those sappy, drippy, whiney shongs… I’LL PERSHONELLY SCHTUFF YOU BACK INTO THAT BUNKER!”

“Yeah and seal the door,” said Pickles.

“Oh I likes dem!” said Toki.

“You would,” grumbled Murderface.

Charles raised an eyebrow. “Sappy? Drippy?”

“They were not sappy,” grumbled Nathan.

“Ja dey was,” said Skwisgaar.

“Yeah you turned into a complete snivelling wimp,” said Pickles.

“Is that so?” said Charles. Nathan glared hot molten death at Pickles.

“Okay maybe a couple of them were a little… you know… not real metal…”

“Enya is more metals,” muttered Skwisgaar.

“Hey I thought I was dying, okay?”

“Dood that’s no excuse for the slop you were spewing,” said Pickles. “We all thought we were dying.”

“Yeah and who wrote a seventeen minute power ballad to the dog he had when he was six?” shot Nathan.

“Dood, no need to get like… you know… personal.”

“I liked dat song!” said Toki.

“Oh… GAHD! I jusht don’t know you people anymore.” Murderface grabbed his pillow and pulled it over his face. The squirrel emerged briefly to consider this, covered in chocolate-hazelnut spread, then dove back into the jar.

“Look we were all pretty emotional down in that bunker,” said Pickles.

“That could play to your advantage you know,” said Charles. “Raw emotion usually makes for great art.”

There was silence as the five considered this.

“Yeah okay, we could try,” said Nathan.

“That’sh it,” said Murderface from under his pillow. “We’re all doomed. Let’sh jusht shtart planting flowers and playing in parksh now.”

“Well… you don’t have to… if you don’t want to,” said Nathan.

Murderface moved the pillow and sat up. “Who shaid I didn’t want to?”

Charles slowly stood up and quietly left the room, making his way to his office to let the record label know there would be an album forthcoming. Once he was out of sight of the main room, however, he sagged appreciably, moving slowly, almost limping. The stress of the last two years had taken a huge physical toll on him, and his joints were not what they had been. Ulcers had nibbled away at his stomach, and his heart no longer beat as it should. The boys would recover physically from their ordeal. But Charles would never be the same again.

Something very large fell into step beside him. “Did you ever read ‘The Picture of Dorian Gray’?”

Charles cast a glance at Nathan. “Why are you out of bed?”

“I could be asking you the same thing. How come we spent two years in a bunker and you’re the one with the limp?”

“It’s…. it’s just body aches. I’m probably getting a cold.”

“It’s because of those people, isn’t it? They hurt you.”

“It’s just words, Nathan.”

Nathan gently stopped Charles, placing a hand on his shoulder and turning him so they were facing one another.

“Hey don’t hand me that ‘it’s just words’ crap. I know what words can do. Words hurt. Sometimes they hurt worse than the worst ass-kicking you ever got, but bones heal. Feelings don’t. I saw what those people said about you. For the past two years people have been burning you in effigy one way or another. And you’re trying to tell me that limp is from you getting a cold? What about the grey in your hair you’re trying to dye over, and that pain in your guts I know you’re having? Is that all a cold too?”

Charles blinked back at him, lost for words. Nathan grinned at him.

“You really hate it when I’m right, don’t you?”

“Yes,” said Charles. “Yes I must admit there are times when it really pisses me off.”

Nathan drew him close, the gesture a little clumsy. Their relationship was still very much in its infancy, and they were still quite uncertain around each other. But Charles responded to the embrace willingly, pressing close to the broad chest. He couldn’t wait until Nathan was back up to his full weight; he didn’t look right so skinny.

“Wanna go into your office?” said Nathan. “We can play ‘Secretary’ and you can chase me around your desk until I let you catch me.”

“Sure, that’ll be fun,” said Charles, his tone mildly sarcastic. “You can have the wheelchair and I’ll use the walker.”

Nathan touched his face. “You were in hell too, weren’t you?”

“I… don’t know what you mean.”

“Come on, Charles. Badger told me all about it. Refusing to turn off the runway lights, refusing to lock the hangar doors, keeping track of our investments like we were still alive…”

“We it’s a good thing I did because as it turns out… you are.”

“He said you haven’t slept in a bed since we went missing. He said you slept in a chair in front of the TV, watching the news.”

“Badger is a fink.”

Nathan gently nuzzled at him. “You love me too, don’t you?”

“Not in the least.”

“Thought so.” Nathan kissed him softly. “So… wanna… go to my room and… figure out how senior citizens do it? I mean it’ll be good practice for like… when we’re really both old.”

Charles nuzzled back, smiling as Nathan gave him a gentle and affectionate head butt. “Sure, I’ll race you.”

“No because I need you to hold me up.”

Charles felt his knees began to buckle as Nathan’s strength began to fail. “Nathan… how about… we just take you back to bed?”

“Yeah that… might be a good idea.”

They limped back to the main room, Charles helping Nathan over to the bed. Nathan managed to get on by himself, then tugged Charles onto the bed with him. He pulled the covers over both of them, and kissed Charles firmly, running his hands over him.

“Hey,” said Murderface. “No crossh-pollinating in the ward!”

“Why don’t you take that IV and find a new place to shove that needle?” said Nathan.

“Hey Dethklok Minute is on!” said Toki, flipping it to the right channel.

Charles pressed close to Nathan, burying his face against him, smiling as he felt the large hand stroke over his hair.

“It’s okay, Charles,” said Nathan quietly. “It’s finally over for all of us.”

“Tonight on Dethklok Minute! Well the boys we never thought we’d see again are finally home and recovering, but the question remains. Namely does that let manager Charles Offdensen off the hook?”

“Hey Toki,” said Nathan. “Toss me your cell phone, would ya? I got a few assholes to rip and I’m starting with that douche.”

Charles’ smile broadened into a grin, and for the first time in a long time his stomach stopped hurting.