"Wrong side."

He's been hearing things all day.

It's fun. And annoying. I mean, I don't know how long I've been out. He looks way too young, but he feels right, so I know it's him. But he doesn't give me any gauge on how long it was since I went six feet under. Whoever let me out? I owe that b*tch a favor.

Or a kick in the vadge. I've been mugging at the stupid Mountie all f*cking day and he hasn't heard sh*t but whispers.

"Wrong side, dumbass, wrong f*cking side!"

Hey, maybe that one got through. His pencil jerks and ruins the picture. Shouldn't have drawn my missing tooth on the wrong f*cking side, Mountie. I haven't been dead that f*cking long, and you haven't been gone that f*cking long.

He starts to stand up. Looking around his own weird empty shop like I might come oozing out of the walls like that one movie. If I could figure out how, I'd do it. F*cking creepy. But all I've got's me.

"They're heeeeeeeeeere!" I start laughing. It's funny. He trips back and almost goes over, catching himself with some kickass kind of move (I will never f*cking tell him that) and bouncing right back up.

Come on.

Come on, sh*thead, I'm right here.

I can see it when he finally sees me, and I give him the nastiest smile I've got. His eyes focus in on me. Hell, maybe even my tooth. Remember now?

Renfield tries a couple of times to get my name out of his mouth. Then he f*cking tackles me.


--


"F*CKING GET OFF ME, QUEERF*CK!"

"Shut up." He's hugging me. He's f*cking hugging me! He's going to start humping me, f*ck, f*ck, f*ck, why didn't I just keep my mouth shut?! "Andrew Longfellow, I will hug you as long and as hard as I please--"

"Leggo leggo let go!"

"Never."

I knew how strong he was, I've seen him take out buddies in bar fights. Shoulda been quicker. I got slow in death.

"Fuuuuuuuuck."

"You died, where I come from."

"I died where I come from! That doesn't mean you f*cking get to molest me! BAD TOUCH! BAD TOUCH!"

"Please."

F*ck.

It's all soft and hurt and sh*t.

"Faggot," I spit as I stop struggling.

Shut up. Nobody has to know.


--


He cries. Like a woman.

I just kind of let him do it. He's all teary and sniffly and red. Nobody wants to see that. I stare at the wall until it's over. And put up with the... petting.

Eventually he does let me go, and I drag ass out of his reach.

"How...?" He sniffs. More tears. Smiley tears. Eurgh. God, someone cork the f*cking Mountie.

"I dunno. Could ask you the same thing."

"That's the longest story ever told."

"So tell it. Gotta kill time somehow. Other than crying. Please, f*ck, other than crying."


--


God, he knows how to talk. I knew there was a reason I drank a lot after playing.

"I always wondered if I'd see you. After I found out you died."

"Wish granted. Got any booze?"

"...no." It's sighed, and that's the Mountie I know.

"Get some?"

"No."

I'm smarter than I look, you know. I mean, maybe a little. Just a little. I'm not some f*cking egghead or anything.

"So what happened to you, Mountie?" I'm picking my teeth with his pencil, and I stop to spit. "You bailed. Guy got sad. Guy only gets sad over Jeanne."

Yep. That was a half-decent curveball. I at least deserve a beer for that one. Should've been a counselor or some sh*t. He jerks a look up.

"Sometimes... I forget that everyone didn't know." He shakes his head. "Sometimes I forget that anyone does know."

Yeah, yeah. Whatever. Come on, it's the town f*cking riddle, give me some information here! A gesture at him. Out with it, Mountie.

And, hey. He leans forward and tells me.


--


"F*cking put me down!"

"No."

I let off as many euphemisms for 'homo' as I've got and make up a couple more on the way out of this place, and he doesn't even put me down to walk down the street. This place is like something out of Xena. Doesn't look like she's around, though. I'd f*ck her.

Sh*t, distracted.

"LET ME GO!"

"You're not leaving my sight." He sighs. "I'll give you wine when we get there."

"Why didn't you f*cking say so?!"


--


Oh, man. These crab-things are a trip.

"Hey you f*cking cute little thing." It does a little dance and takes the chunk of tuna I'm holding. It's so cool. It's got three eyes. What the f*ck did I take?! "Hey!"

"I'm fairly certain she heard you the first time."

I snort at him. He's doing something with a thing with a screen that looks sci-fi. I'm more interested in these critters. They look like dinner. But I don't think I could kill 'em. Too cute.

Shut up.

He starts talking at the thing. I'm getting this one to skitter all around, following another tuna chunk. The thing bounces up and steals it right out of my fingers, and I'm about to laugh, when I hear Mike F*cking Chase's voice from over there and almost fall over.


Uh.

It's coming out of that screen-thing.

They talk. Renfield keeps pretty quiet, so I strain to try and hear it. I guess I don't have to.

He waves the screen-thing at me.

Uh.

Uuuuuh.

When I'm not looking, one of the little crab things grabs more than just the tuna in my fingers. The shock of pain sends me over, cussing.

"F*ck!"

'When the skies are looking bad my dear, and your heart's lost all its hope
after dawn there will be sunshine and all the dust will go.
Skies will clear my darling,
now it?s time for you to let go.' -Lucy Spraggan, 'Tea and Toast'

Andrew Longfellow returned to my life with a half-drunken, vulgar tumble in. It seems he'll leave it again fighting, as he does with everything else in life, tooth and nail against it.

We've all known it for days. Weeks, really. He's lasted longer than any of the other returned dead, I think. Over time, he's faded. Gone quieter. Never a descriptor I'd have assigned him. He watches the crabs. He drinks. He offers token rants. Sometimes he disappears, but in moments of unnatural quiet when he's still here - just here - there's a vulnerability behind his eyes.

I've never seen it before. Guy has. I wonder how he stood it. The matter of when is a question we all wear; I've lost count of how many days its been part of the wardrobe.

Somehow, when we see Andrew this afternoon, we know.

So does he.

I've given him as much love as he'll accept; poor replacement for the deficit of it in his life. He doesn't want love, now. Or he says he doesn't. Even the rage is a plea, I think.

We're with him. We would be nowhere else.

His rage flies in all directions; if we are to do as instructed against the dying of the light, it seems to me no one should come closer to defeating it than this man. Death is constant. Death is inevitable. If I didn't trust Guy with matters of life and death I would have mistaken his calm, dark and loving form for a lingering reaper. Andrew doesn't hit us. It wouldn't have surprised me, but he doesn't. He breaks things. He swears, he sends the crabs skittering in fear and no doubt frightens tenants for several rooms around; he tries to bargain with invisible entities and he even pleads with Guy as though he can somehow make it stop.

There is a certain shared desolation, added to what we already felt, when Guy and I find each other's eyes.

The tears come. I would have thought his own crying would only serve to anger Andrew further, but this time, in this place, it seems to drain the wound.

He's still sobbing when he accepts our touch.

I don't want him to go, either.

And I'm not sure I'd rather he die with a whisper instead of a war cry.

"He will find you." A whisper, Guy's. "He always does."

The look Drew gives back is that of a man scrabbling at the edge of faith, unused to hanging there. I've seen it far too often, and worn it, too.

Guy runs his hand through Drew's hair. It's the first time in my life I've wished for all the world to hear some homophobic epithet.

I hear nothing. I see many things. Love. Fear. Bravery.

I watch a thread twist and then snap.

There's no whisper at all.