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The Undervale is quiet, as Nathan opens his eyes. The world is bleary, and dull, for a few moments too many. Dizzy, and confusing. No clue as to what he had been doing last night before he had fallen asleep. Only the flashing colors of the tv bringing any real light in.
He’s not tired, even in the quiet of the morning. Con Air’s dvd menu stays silently frozen on the tv. No sounds, beyond the creaking of old building materials settling into each other. Maybe rain in the distance, if he was closer to a window. There are no ghosts, crowded around the sides of his arm chair to stare longingly at the tv. Maybe they had fibbed-maybe ghosts do rest, when they think no one’s watching. Nathan certainly hasn’t been.
He doesn’t want to get up. Hotel duties or no, his chair is comfortable, and the world far outside of his room is dark.
He’s not hungry, at least. There’s no reason for him to leave just yet, beyond ownerly duties. Nothing urgent dragging him out of the chair he definitely shouldn’t be sleeping in.
Nathan does, slowly but surely tire of zoning out to the flashing dvd menu. Pulling himself out of the chair with a stretch he’s sure means he’s getting older, somehow.
He should probably eat, even if he’s not hungry yet. Get up at the very least to brush his teeth, seeing as his mouth tastes about as awful as night breath can get.
All of these oh-so interesting plans, of course, come to a halt at the sight of Abaddon. Just standing there, in his doorway, with the…the weirdest look on his face.
Nathan has seen probably some of the weirdest, oddest expressions come across his face in the months he’s known him. Some expressions he still doesn’t know the name for. Abaddon was a menagerie of those kinds of things. Creepy, weird expressions, bone collections, and a surprisingly ability to get footprints on the ceiling.
This expression isn’t one he knows. Some kind of mix between nauseous, and pouting from within what had been Nathan’s rain coat, before Abaddon had taken it as his own.
“Hey, bud.” He’s a bit surprised his knees don’t pop as he kneels down. A bit moreso, that Abaddon doesn’t bother acknowledging him. “You have a rough night?”
He looks like he had. Either a bad one, or a really good one, depending how he felt about the pretty big bone he had a hold of. Still, Abaddon looks up at him eventually, sullen face still a bit too downturned for Nathan’s liking.
It was an odd sort of morning. Abaddon was an odd sort of boy-demon-person. Still. Walking around the house in a streaky, dry raincoat. Odd even for him.
Odder still, that when Nathan goes to pull what is likely a dead bug from his hair, Nathan’s fingers can’t grab it. He can’t--it’s not that it’s tangled, or that it just is in there too good, his fingers won’t grab it. Like it’s not even really there.
Nathan tries, at least, to smooth his hair down over it. To do something he’s supposed to as custodian(?) of Abaddon. To at least try. It doesn’t do much more than the bug did. His hand--his hand goes--it doesn’t stop. At Abaddon’s hair, at all. It falls right through the beginning of his scalp like nothing at all is there, in time for Nathan to yank his hand back as though burned.
Abaddon isn’t looking at him, anymore. Past him, if anything, and Nathan can’t help it really, but to look back at whatever is so interesting, rather than focus on the fact that he can’t touch Abaddon and--and….
…
“Oh.”
He hadn’t left his chair.
He had, but he hadn’t.
He’s still sitting there--if that’s even him? Sitting in his chair, stiff with his eyes closed. Head tilted back, and palms gone purple. He doesn’t look like Nathan. Like his reflection had. Sunken in, and bloated at the same time--pale and veinier than a man who gardens should be.
He never left the chair.
He hadn’t left the chair.
“Oh.” He hadn’t done anything, had he? He’d--he would remember. If he had done that, last night--or however long ago he’d been there, he’d have remembered. He wouldn’t have ruined his favorite chair.
He would remember if he’d killed himself. He wasn’t--he was watching Con Air. Who kills themselves watching Con Air?! Maybe Con Air haters--but he wasn’t one of them.
Abaddon is looking at him. Not him, conscious, dead him--but the corpse in the chair, and he probably shouldn’t let him do that.
He had thought, maybe--sometimes, that he would regret it. What it could make him miss out on. On Esther and Ben growing up more--on Kathy’s life--on some big opportunity that was coming that would make everything bad that had ever happened better. That it would hurt people who didn’t deserve to hurt the way he did.
Every time he had it planned out, the idea that he could--would very well regret it crept into his mind until it just wasn’t worth it.
He hadn’t planned this out. He wouldn’t not know if he had, and he does. He does regret it. For the look on Abaddon’s face, if nothing else.
He’s dead. He hadn’t planned on waking up dead--that he knows of, and Abaddon is looking back and forth between him and…him with some weird facial expression he can’t name.
“You don’t--don’t look at that. You don’t have to worry about that.” Somewhere deep down, Abaddon has probably seen a hundred thousand bodies before. Probably knows all about decomposition, but the look on his face makes Nathan feel bad.
He feels a little dizzy. Can ghosts get dizzy? Is that a thing?
“Everything--everything is a-okay, buddy. Everything is fine.” It is, and it isn’t. He’s dead, but he’s not gone.
Nathan had wanted to be gone. This wasn’t gone.
Abaddon looks at him--not past him, this time, for a few moments too long, before taking a step back. Back, back, into the hallway, until he drops his probably deer-bone to avoid colliding with furniture. Abruptly turning and scurrying away from view.
“You--yeah. Yeah! Just--just go play outside buddy. Do your thing. Don’t even worry about this junk.” Abaddon--more likely than not, didn’t hear him. He’s a fast scurrier. Maybe he couldn’t hear ghosts at all--being a demon, and all.
If he can, he doesn’t stop his scurry to let him know that.
…
…
Nathan doesn’t know who told them, but people come to take his body eventually. He listens from a room over as they pack him up, and take him away. It feels like it takes days, even watching a clock. The Undervale is empty apart from the people who take away human remains.
His favorite chair is gone, when he comes back.
…
It’s quiet still, in the Undervale. Jessica is clearly visible through some of the vents, but she doesn’t emerge. He passes the ghost that likes to watch him shower--liked to, anyhow--not for conversation, but an acknowledging nod.
It's not enough, but it's something.
...
He had thought, somewhat, that Abaddon would leave. Had feared it, a little--what with the way he had scurried off. When he sees him again, he’s still worried about it, really. If he’s dead, but not gone, he doesn’t want Abaddon to be the opposite.
Abaddon is still in the hotel, at least. Marginally cleaner than he had been, sitting on the check in counter. He’s pale. More so than he usually was--at that, watching his feet droop towards the floor as Nathan struggles to get himself to sit beside him. He still has Nathan’s raincoat. He looks--honestly, like he could use one of those blankets movie EMT’s give out, after a building blows, or a murderer is defeated. The way he’s wrapped himself into the raincoat maybe suggests he wouldn’t hate that, either.
“Hey, buddy.” This, usually, would be when Nathan would try to wrap an arm around him, and Abaddon would squirm away. Nathan’s arm won’t stay, if he tries. Still, Abaddon doesn’t squirm when he tries his best to scoot closer. “You uhm. You doing alright?”
“I am.” He doesn’t look it. He’s still got the same sour-sullen face he had had when he’d been staring at…the other part of Nathan.
“It--it’d be okay if you weren’t. You know. It’s--it’s been a bad day.”
“I am.” Right. Millenia old demon. He’s probably seen a thousand bodies--or--or more. Not scared of blood, or gore--just…just windchimes.
It’s still raining. Abaddon wraps Nathan’s raincoat tighter around himself. Maybe it’s cold in the hotel. Nathan wouldn’t know. Not anymore.
“You're dead.” He knows. Even if he had planned it a million times, before meeting him, and maybe after, it still feels wrong. Regretful.
“Yeah. I'm…You're right about that.” At the very least, having Abaddon actually look at him, what's left of him, anyway, makes him feel a bit better. “I’m not-I'm not going anywhere, though. You know. I'm not gone.”
“For now.” Abaddon pulled his feet onto the desk, looking over his knees like he was expecting, somewhat, for something to come out of the carpet.
“You live here. I used to live here. I think we're in for the long haul, buddy.” The quiet in the Undervale must be getting to him. Oppressive, really. Nathan can't sit still with it.
“I don't know what killed you.” He hadn’t thought he had. Though, now he had to feel the slight disappointment that came with there being no one to tell him.
“I don't really think it matters anyway, Abaddon. What's done is done.” Whether that's on purpose, or suspiciously struggle-less murder. “Either way, it's not like it's your fault.”
Abaddon turns his head just far enough to look at him. To really scrutinize something in Nathan’s face, until it’s gone on long past comfortable. Still. Abaddon finishes his scrutiny with a hum of some form of approval regardless.
“Would you like to see the bones I hid throughout the crawlspace?”
“You know, Abaddon? That might be the most fun I've had all day.”