A Robins Song, Pt. I, II, and III

A Robin's Song – Pt. 1, 2, & 3.

Author: The Magic Rat
Rating: G
Pairings: Nathan/Charles, Toki/Skwisgaar.
Warnings: Angst.
Word Count:5868
Website – Ex Libris:  www.winter-wood.net/ex-libris/…
Live Journal: delaese.livejournal.com/profil…

Disclaimer: Metalocalypse, the members of Dethklok, and lyrics to Dethklok songs belong to Brendon Small, Cartoon Network and Turner Music. Copyright for all stories and original characters such as Badger the Roadie is with the author, and may not be published, copied, distributed or archived without the author's prior written consent.

Summary: Dethklok are gone, but they left Charles a little present…

Author's notes: Rewrite and repost of an older story. So if you're thinking you read this before, you may have, but I cleaned it up a bit.



Charles stood on the roof of Mordhaus, flanked by a pair of Gears, watching the gigantic form of the Hatredcopter as it slowly sank to the rooftop landing pad. The blades slowed, the engine whined to a stop, and after a few moments the back hatch opened and out stepped a skinny, timid, little boy. Charles gave no outward indication of his feelings, but inside he melted. He would have known the kid was Skwisgaar's even without the conclusive DNA evidence.

"Looks just like him," said the roadie to his left.

Almost. Not quite. It was true the boy was the mirror-image of his Swedish father, but his mother had been Sumatran, and his skin and hair were the colour of dark gold. However as Charles approached the boy, he saw that his eyes were that same shade of polar-ice blue that Skwisgaar's had been. The boy had a long leather canister slung over his back, and was wearing a traditional Scottish outfit, though he was wearing hightop basketball sneakers with his Argyles rather than the usual shoes, and when he spoke it was with a definite Scottish lilt.

"Hello. I'm Robin."

"Hello Robin, I'm Charles Offdensen." Charles eyed the outfit. "That's a lovely tartan."

"My step-dad was Scottish. He and mum and I lived in Scotland for a few years."

Interesting blend; half-Swedish, half-Sumatran, and raised Scottish. The kid was a regular UN meeting.

"This must all be a little overwhelming for you," said Charles.

"Yeah. Sorry to be so much trouble."

"You have not been any trouble at all, Robin. Come along. I'll show you to your room."

Charles led the boy into the silent depths of Mordhaus, where once his own boys had lived and played. Sometimes at night he swore he could still hear them. He would be awakened by a touch on his arm, or a blast of music, or some other dream-inspired hallucination, and he would get out of bed and look for them… until he remembered. Then he would dress and leave the house, walking to the grim and cold stone structure crafted to look like Odin's Hall, where Dethklok now lay in death as they had lived in life; together. Sometimes he would go in to stand with them for a while. The embalmers had done exquisite work. To this day they simply looked asleep, laid on their slab, each with something that had been dear to him in life. The hardest sight to for Charles to face was Toki, curled up on his side, his head on Skwisgaar's chest, Deddy Bear clutched in his arms, Skwisgaar's own arm around him. It wasn't a traditional death pose, but that was how they had been found, so that was how they would lay for all eternity.

Damned Tribunal. But he'd made them pay for that, hadn't he? Yes he had. No one fucked with his boys and got away with it. Charles hoped Selatcia was enjoying his metal coffin eight feet under the ground. Meteoric iron did such unpleasant things to other-worldly creatures.

His boys had been dead for three years before he learned of Robin's existence. Charles had been approached by a singularly unpleasant old man who was demanding huge sums of support money for Skwisgaar's child. Charles would have sworn Skwisgaar didn't have any kids, but the DNA evidence was inarguable. The boy was indeed Skwisgaar's offspring, living with a step-grandfather; his mother and step-father dead, and his real father as well. A little digging unearthed enough information for Charles to have the child removed to his custody, and now Charles Offdensen was the proud guardian of a skinny gawky half-Swedish, half-Sumatran eleven-year-old boy.

Damn the kid looked like Skwisgaar.

"Your mother never told Skwisgaar about you," remarked Offdensen.

"Naw," said the child, shaking his long untidy mop of gold hair. "She was worried if she did then people would think she was just after his money. She used to say I was her favourite tour souvenir."

Charles smiled. "I'm sure you were."

"She took me to a concert once. I was only seven. She held me on her shoulders so I could see him. He looked so big."

"It must have been hard for you, growing up without him."

"Not really. Mum met dad when I was three, so by the time they explained to me who my dad really was I didn't feel I had missed anything, because I had a dad. And then as I got older and realized how people reacted when I said my dad was a rock star, I understood why mom never approached him."

"Yes, some people can be rather unpleasant."

They stopped beside a life-sized wall mural of the band. Robin paused before the image of his father, looking up at him.

"Skwisgaar Skwigelf, taller than a tree," he quoted quietly. "Bloody hell, he was big, wasn't he?"

"I thought you might like to have his room."

Robin's eyes lit up. "For real? His room? Oh that would fantastic! I can't wait to see!"

The accent was getting worse as the boy grew more comfortable and was no longer paying close heed to making a good impression. Charles had at first thought the boy would be better off with his grandfather, until he learned the old man had no real interest in the boy other than what he could get for him, and the money he was given was not being spent on Robin. The old man was living in style, and Robin was pretty much living on the street. Charles had no idea what Skwisgaar would have thought about being a father, but he found it highly unlikely he would have let his child spend his days diving into dumpsters for food, so that was the excuse Charles used to mobilize the formidable wealth of Dethklok against the grandfather to sue for custody of the boy.

They reached Skwisgaar's room, the child running in and looking around. Skwisgaar's taste in decorating had been rather minimalist, but Robin didn't seem to care. He was thrilled with what he had.

"This is bloody fantastic! This is all mine?"

"Yes it is."

Robin blinked at him. "Didn't they leave you anything?"

Dethklok had, in fact, left Charles everything. He alone held the reins on the band's collective wealth and all their holdings. How much Robin would eventually get depended on what sort of a man he grew into. Charles had no intention of awarding the child endless wealth and watching him grow up into a spoiled and useless brat. If Robin wanted to inherit his father's portion of the estate, he would have to prove himself worthy, and not simply squander it all on drugs and bimbos.

Charles pretended not to notice the irony of ensuring the son would not blow the wealth on drugs and bimbos when that was assuredly what the father would have blown it on.

"They made sure I was cared for," said Charles, smiling.

Robin looked around. "Bloody hell, I never pictured anything like this!" He looked at Charles with bright eyes. "Can my friend Tore come live with me?"

"Tore?"

"He was a street kid like me. He was my best friend. I'm not even sure he knows where I've gone. He's got no one at all, just a foster family, and they don't care about him. Can he please come live here with me?"

"Tore," said Charles slowly. "What nationality is that?"

"Norwegian. After his parents died he was sent to live with his aunt in Scotland but then she died too."

How could he refuse that request?

"Very well, we'll bring him here."

Robin leapt with joy. "You're the best!"

"Yes. Yes I am." Charles watched as Robin walked over to Skwisgaar's guitar, reaching out to shyly touch the strings. "Do you play?"

"Well not the guitar, but I do play an instrument." Robin's blue eyes were wide with delight. "Would you like to hear?"

"Yes, I would."

Gleefully the boy unslung the canister, opening it to draw out a brightly painted and ornately carved tube of wood. Charles experienced a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"Is… that..?"

"It's a Didgeridoo!" announced Robin happily, and proceeded to play, cheeks puffing out, eyes nearly crossing with the force and effort of playing.

Charles just stared. Half-Swedish, half-Sumatran, raised Scottish, and played an Australian instrument. For a brief moment he felt Nathan's large presence beside him, just staring in disbelief.

"Whoa. Brutal."

Charles smiled at the ghost. "At least it's not the bagpipes," he said quietly.


<A Robin's Song – Part II</b>


Portions of an LJ conversation between myself and Feral Toki:


FeralToki: You know, those kids would have some pretty big boots to fill... But I'm sure, that with Charles at the helm, he would mold them into something that their fathers would have been proud of... ^^

Magic Rat: Hee! Yeah the first all-metal didgeridoo and bagpipe band!!

:ethklok all suddenly sit up on their tomb and look at each other. Nathan screams NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!::

FeralToki: Skwisgaar's Shade *crosses arms*: Pfft; is my kids, is metals enuff. *winces involuntarily as a sour note is struck on the bagpipes*

Toki's Shade: ... *hunkers down, eyes wide, cringing and wrapping himself around his Deddy Bear*

Pickles' Shade: Well, 'at may be n' all, but... DOOD! GAHD! *clamps hands over ears*

William's Shade: Schit, if I weren't already DEAD, I'd be SCHTABBING MYSCHELF RIGHT NOW! XO

And so it goes…

~*~*~*~

If there was one thing Charles had learned in the last few weeks, it was that he was never, ever, for any reason, even to save his own life, having children. Raising Robin was hair-pulling enough, and he was already eleven. The child was nothing but energy. It reminded him of the time Dr. Rockzo slipped cocaine into Toki's popsicle, only worse. He couldn't lock Robin into his room until he calmed down.

Despite the lack of a pair of adults to call parents, Robin was thriving. He had all the attention a little boy could want, stability, a consistent schedule, and even a handful of Skwisgaar's favourite groupies to read him stories. It was a demented childhood, but not a lonely one.

The only real fly in the ointment seemed to be getting custody of Tore; adoptions were complicated at the best of times, but trying to have the kid adopted by an estate rather than a family was just a whole new experience in bureaucracy. Many people had to be placated, and often, before Tore was awarded to the pseudo-country of Mordland, and Charles was made his legal guardian.

Five minutes after Tore arrived, Charles once more had that sinking feeling, especially after he noticed the kid had a set of bagpipes. He looked a great deal like a skinny baby Toki, save for his beautiful and strangely exotic eyes, which he owed to his Japanese grandmother. So, three-quarters Norwegian, one-quarter Japanese, and played the bagpipes. Lovely.  Who the hell was making these kids? Some strange shadow branch of the United Nations?

Robin and Tore were terribly glad to see each other once again; hugging one another and crying on each other, and Charles knew he had done the right thing reuniting the boys, even if he was reasonably sure he would be grey inside a week. Tore had been given his own room across from Robin's, and he dutifully put away his meagre belongings before he and Robin ran off to explore the great stone corridors of Mordhaus.

An hour and a half later, Charles found them in the rehearsal space, playing with Robin's didgeridoo. He noticed that they hadn't touched any of Dethklok's instruments, which struck him as slightly odd; he expected a pair of little boys to want to play with and look at the array of guitars, drums, keyboards, basses, and such, but not one of them had been moved. Instead Robin was attempting to play 'Bloodrocuted' on his Aussie wind instrument.

"Headbang!" enthused Tore.

Robin attempted to oblige, and violently rammed the end of the long wooden instrument into the floor, splitting his lip and knocking himself onto his ass. Tore howled with hilarity. Charles thought if that wasn't solid proof the kid was Skwisgaar's, nothing was.

"Dinner time, boys," said Ofdensen.

Robin picked himself off the floor, and meekly put away his didgeridoo, looking subdued, a red ring around his face. He used the hem of his t-shirt to dab at his lip, and then asked a question that stopped Charles in his tracks.

"D'you believe in ghosts?"

"No."

"Not at all?"

"No."

"Not even a little teeny bit?"

Charles raised an eyebrow. "No, I don't. Why do you ask?"

"Well I think that hall at the far end of the grounds is haunted."

"I can assure you that it is not haunted," said Charles.

"But… isn't that where my dad…?"

Charles nodded. "Yes. It's where he and the other members of Dethklok are interred. But I don't believe they're haunting the place. Believe me, if they were going to haunt something it would either be a liquor store or a cheese factory."

"Oh." Robin looked disappointed. "Well… maybe we should throw them a party."

It was not one of the more bizarre suggestions Charles had heard during his time with Dethklok, and subsequently Skwisgaar's child. As they entered the dining area, Charles asked; "Why on earth would we throw them a party?"

"Well that's what they did in Valhalla!" said Tore. "The warriors fought all day, and feasted all night! We should throw them a feast in the hall."

"Boys," said Charles, "they are dead. They can't enjoy a feast. It would just be an enormous waste of food and drink."

Tore and Robin exchanged saddened glances. Clearly this was an idea they had cooked up together, and had been excited about. Then Charles heard someone standing just to his left clear his throat. He glanced up to see Jean-Pierre there in all his Frankenstein-like glory.

"I don't mind," he said softly.

"Don't… mind?" asked Charles softly.

"I don't mind making the feast," said Jean-Pierre in his soft French accent.

"Doesn't it strike you as rather a waste of effort?" said Charles.

"If it makes the boys happy, what is the harm?"

"Well it all strikes me as rather pointless, but if you don't mind doing the work then I fail to see the harm. It would have been Skwisgaar's birthday in three days anyway, why not set it up for then?"

Charles had the funny feeling watching the way Jean-Pierre, Tore and Robin reacted that this had all been arranged days ago; they just had to find a way to get his approval. Well he still thought it was a load of nonsense and a waste of good food, but… why not?

***---***

The evening of the feast was like ripping a Band-Aid off an infected wound for Charles. He stood in the hall, watching as the roadies set up the great standing torches and candelabras, laying out plates and glasses and bottles and food. The great hearth was lit, and all that was left was for Odin and Thor to personally come striding in. Incense was cast into the fire, and the horn was sounded to invite all spirits to the party. The boys would have loved it, but… they were dead, laid on their long slab, covered by a single lengthy piece of cloth-of-gold. Toki was cuddled close to Skwisgaar as he had been when the rescue party found them frozen into the Scandinavian ice. Next was Nathan, flat on his back, hands folded over his chest. Beside him was the oddest pair; Pickles desperately clutching onto Murderface. They had been found quite a distance from the crash site, frozen into the ice, holding each other. The autopsy revealed why; both had an extensive amount of internal damage. They had likely died in a great deal of pain. As with Toki and Skwisgaar, they had been left together. Nathan had died last, having simply lain down and given up after four days of solitude and starvation in freezing temperatures.

Charles often wished he could block that day from his mind, but had yet to succeed, and something about this party just… upset him on a level he couldn't express. No one wanted the boys back more than he, but… that was not how life worked. Still, what did it hurt to honour Skwisgaar's birth?

At last all was in order, and the living departed, heading back to the house, crossing the field in the failing light of day, leaving the hall to the dead.

***---***

At 7:30 on the morning, Charles was nudged into wakefulness, and opened one eye to stare blearily up at Badger. He was the oldest of all the Dethklok roadies, and had in fact lugged equipment for Snakes and Barrels. He was big and grizzled and no way in feckin' hell he was going around with a bloody hood on. Charles had seen Badger put all the boys in their place at one time or another; he had a deteriorating disc in his spine that left him in tremendous pain, and he was rarely in the mood for bullshit. He wasn't called 'Badger' just because he vaguely looked like one.

"What is it?" asked Charles.

"Someone trashed the mead hall last night," said Badger.

Charles sat up abruptly, groping for his glasses. "Oh god. What happened?"

"I don't know. But we all thought you should see it."

Charles put on his glasses and got up, reaching for his bathrobe and slippers. "They didn't…" He made himself ask the question. "They didn't touch the boys did they?"

"Just… come with me."

They went out to the mead hall, crossing the snowy field to find the huge oaken doors ajar. Charles went inside, and stopped dead. The place looked like the Orgy of the Damned had occurred there. Solid iron torch stands were on their side, the food eaten, the gold plates dirty, some overturned, some on the floor. There was a smashed set of drums off to one side, and the remains of a bass guitar in amongst the wreckage, and next to them were a little Fender champ amplifier, and an old Stratocaster with a whammy bar. The tables were sticky with booze, and one of the gold plates was covered in a fine dusting of white powder. There was a dead mud shark on the hearth, beans up the wall, and champagne and broken glass across the floor.

"Someone had a hell of a blow-out," said Badger.

"Someone certainly did," said Charles. Then he looked towards the table, and was torn between relief and astonishment. Dethklok were still there, but…

"They've been moved," he said quietly.

Badger nodded. "They have."

Charles walked over to the carefully preserved bodies, expecting to see massive damage. They had been preserved using the same methods used on Lenin and Eva Peron, and their bodies were hardly pliable; in fact they were more like wooden statues than anything. Repositioning them would be virtually impossible, but… they had been moved, and yet remained undamaged. Toki and Skwisgaar were in a definite cuddle pose, Skwisgaar protectively spooning him, his face buried in Toki's hair. Pickles and Murderface, once fearfully clutching each other as they felt their life drain away, were now back to back, Pickles splayed comfortably on his side, Murderface asleep in his usual foetal position. Nathan was face down, one arm hanging off the table. The cloth covering them was rumpled, and all five smelled of booze. In fact Skwisgaar was covered in lime, salt and tequila. There was more on one of the feasting tables. Someone seemed to have been doing body-shots off Skwisgaar's dead carcass.

"Call the embalmers," said Charles, outrage and grief taking hold. "Make sure they're not damaged. Get this place cleaned up. I want to see security tapes of who the hell was in and out of here."

"All right but I can tell you right now that there was no one in or out. I was at the monitoring station personally. No one came here. I can show you the tape but just look around outside in the snow. Wasn't anybody near this place, least not anyone alive."

Charles spied something on the floor and picked it up, holding it out distastefully. It turned out to be a thin necklace made of glass beads. There was something oddly familiar about it, though he couldn't place it. He'd never seen any of the boys wear jewellery, and he was sure it didn't belong to Robin or Tore. He and Badger exchanged glances, both thinking that it must belong to one of the party-crashers. Charles wrapped it in a handkerchief and thrust it into his pocket.

"Not withstanding, I wish to see the tapes."

Badger shrugged. "Whatever makes you happy."

***---***

Badger had been right. There was nothing on the security tapes. It had been a full moon shining on a field of snow, and extremely bright. They did see the yard-wolves prowl by, but they didn't stay to smash a guitar and snort coke. All that the tapes revealed was a silent hall, the soft light of the fire flickering in the windows.

"I don't understand," said Charles. "Who wrecked the hall?"

"Maybe they did," said Robin. "My dad and his friends."

"Yeah," said Tore.

Charles ground his teeth. He knew the North American expression was 'fools seldom differ', but in the case of Robin and Tore he much preferred the German version of that saying; 'two idiots, one thought'.

"Boys," said Charles, reminding himself to stay calm, "they could not have done it. They are dead. Dead people do not throw parties."

"But… Viking legend…" began Robin in a small voice.

"Enough," said Charles. "The dead don't go to parties."

"Are you sure about that?" said Badger.

Charles sighed. "What are you talking about?"

"What if I told you I know who owns that beaded necklace?"

Charles raised an eyebrow. "All right. Who owns it?"

Badger reached out to take a book off a shelf; a large hardcover tome filled with gorgeous photos, some black and white, some colour, all of various rock stars. Charles tried to tell himself Badger was just grasping at straws, but he couldn't quite shake the nervous feeling in his stomach. Finally Badger found the photo he has been seeking; a black and white one of a young Jim Morrison, his arms out like Christ on the cross, bare-chested, intense eyes burning out of the picture. And about his throat was a thin necklace of glass beads.

"It belonged to the photographer," said Badger. "But Morrison liked it, so she let him keep it."

Charles stared at the photo, feeling his gut clench, and his body grow cold as he reached into his pocket and pulled out the handkerchief that held the necklace. He drew out the beaded strand and laid it on the page, noticing the string had broken, which was likely how it came to be lost. He, Badger, Tore and Robin made comparisons. There was only one conclusion; it was either an exact replica, or else it was the Lizard King's.

"Boys, pack your bags," said Charles. "We're going to Hawaii. Uncle Charlie needs a vacation."


<center>A Robin's Song – Part III

Author's notes: This is the last instalment in this little series, which I blame on Feral Toki and River Otter.  </b>


Toki sat up and rubbed one eye with the back of his hand, then gently shook the shoulder of the man lying beside him.

"Skwisgaar, I can'ts sleep."

Pickles rolled onto his back. "Dood, yer dead."

"I knows I deads, you's deads too. Dat's my points. Why is we all rollings arounds on slab tryings to finds rest if we is deads? Shouldn'ts we be in like… Valhalla or somet'ings?"

There was a silence that meant the other four band members were acknowledging that, for once, Toki had a point. Nathan slowly sat up and looked around.

"Toki's right. We should be at rest. And we're not."

"Sho why aren't we?" asked Murderface. "I gotta shay if thish goes on much longer, I think I'm gonna have to find a graveyard or something, I mean thish shlab ish killing me."

Toki stood up and stepped silently across the floor, looking down at himself. "Hey! I cans see t'rough my hands! I can see t'rough me! Wowee! Hey guys! We's ghosts!"

Pickles sat up. "And we all know what that means," he said, stretching.

There were various noises of agreement, then silence.

"I has no ideas whats dat is meaning," said Skwisgaar.

Pickles gave Skwisgaar a sidelong look of annoyance. "It means we have unfinished business, something we have to do before we can move on."

"You mean likes dat plane on my desk?" said Toki. "I gives ups on dat one, not'ing fits. I goings to spends internity fixing badsly-made model? Dat's brutal."

"Not the model. I mean something in our lives that's unfinished."

"You mean, like, oh, shay, our livesh?" said Murderface. "I don't know about the resht of you, but I did not plan to die thish young."

"I don't think that's it," said Nathan.

"Den what's is?" asked Toki.

"Dunno. Maybe we should go ask Offdensen, I mean that's where we usually went when we couldn't figure shit out."

"We can't go see Ahf-densen," said Pickles. "We've been dead almost four years, we show up in his office he's gonna shit red ties."

Skwisgaar stood up, arching one eyebrow, one full lip curling slightly, and watched as Toki ran madly around the huge mausoleum.

"Toki, whats are you doing?"

"I can run t'rough t'ings! Looks!"

"Don't hurts yourself."

Toki slid to a halt, standing in the middle of a table. "How can I gets hurt? I's ghost. HEY! I's goings to go play ins da main room! Dats be COOL!"

Skwisgaar, Pickles, Nathan and Murderface watched Toki's ghost tear through a wall and into the night. There was a long silence.

"So… anybody up for a little TV and hot tub?" said Nathan.

***---***

"So… I'm not?"

Charles Offdensen looked at the skinny little Norwegian boy with the long brown hair and the huge blue eyes, so very reminiscent of someone gone.

"No, Tore. I'm sorry. We've checked the DNA three times. You're not Toki's."

"Then why am I here if I'm not important?" Unlike Toki, Tore spoke with only a trace of an accent, and not the laboured I-don't-quite-know-what-I'm-saying near-dialect.

"Well Robin is very fond of you. Doesn't that make you important?"

"I suppose." He eyed Charles sidelong. "Are you fond of me?"

Charles stared at the boy. Good grief what heinous evil deity thought up children? Not that children were not fascinating little experiments in ways to turn one's hair grey. God only knew the boys had certainly put a few strands of silver in amidst the chestnut when they were alive, but Toki at his worst had not managed to come up with half the things Tore and Robin did on a slow day. Charles' grandmother had always said children had much to teach, and that was certainly true. In the eight months he had been looking after the boys, Charles had learned the following facts;

A king size waterbed holds enough water to fill a 200 m2 room to a depth of 10 cm.

Brake fluid mixed with bleach makes smoke - lots of it.

If you hook a dog leash over a ceiling fan, the motor is not strong enough to rotate a boy wearing Batman underwear and a Superman cape. It is, however, strong enough, if tied to a paint can, to spread paint on all four walls of a 6m x 6m room.

No matter how much jello you put in a Jacuzzi, you still can't walk on water.

Jacuzzi filters do not like jello.

And last but most certainly not least; marbles in the gas tank of a 1949 Bentley Mark VI Drophead Coupe make lots of noise when driving.

It was a certain degree of difficulty that Charles forced out the next sentence.

"Of course I'm fond of you."

"No you're not."

"No. Really. I am."

Tore narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "Really? It's not nice to lie."

"I am not lying. I'm just not… prone to displays of affection."

"Is that why you live alone in this big house?"

"I like living alone."

Tore didn't look convinced, but changed the subject anyway.

"Do you have a body under that suit, or does it not come off?"

Charles stared at the child. "Isn't it time for your music lesson?"

Tore rolled his eyes, but he left, heading down the hall to the rehearsal space. Charles waited until he was gone, then began banging his head against his desk. He looked up just in time to see what he would forever swear was Toki Wartooth run straight through one wall, across his office, and out through the other wall. He was stark naked.

"Well then," said Charles quietly. "Clearly it's time that I took up drinking. Then I would have something on which to blame things like that."

He cleared off his desk and put his things away for the night, turning off his desk lamp and rising to his feet. He was about to leave the small room, when he stopped, feeling the air grow cold, the hairs on the back of his neck standing vertical. There was a scent he knew far too well; sweat, beer, and something else, indescribable but masculine. Charles felt his heart pound, and he knew with every fibre of his being that someone was standing directly behind him. He dared not move, closing his eyes, sensing rather than seeing the huge body come close, almost but not quite touching him, and the head with its long silky black hair dipping to sniff the nape of his neck.

"Nathan," he said quietly.

There was a sound; a brief, quiet chuckle in a low, smoky voice. Charles felt a shudder run through his entire frame, and he had to catch himself, putting one hand on the polished mahogany desk top. Then the sensation was gone, and the spectre left the room.

They were here. They really were still here.

Charles slid to the floor, seating himself gracelessly, and did something he had not allowed himself to do in years. He cried.

***---***

Robin was not in the rehearsal space. He was in his bedroom, or, as he called it, the Bedroom Formerly Known as Skwisgaar's. He was seated on the edge of the enormous bed, nervously holding his father's guitar, clumsily trying to play it. He was frustrated with the slowness of the process, the awkwardness of his fingers. He had seen Skwisgaar play, had seen his fingers dance over the strings without thought, seen him and Toki weave complex sounds few bands on earth could recreate. Carefully he placed his fingers on the strings and plunked, hearing a dull, dead sound.

"Well now I know why rock stars smash their guitars. AUGH! What am I doing wrong?"

Robin did not see a hand over his own, but he felt it, warm and strong, the fingers long and well-defined; the hand of a guitar player. He could also feel the touch of long golden hair across his neck, and a body much larger than his own seated behind him. He should have been terrified out of his mind, but he wasn't. He watched as the hand gently repositioned his fingers, then he plucked the string again. This time, instead of a dull flat noise, the guitar obediently offered up a low, powerful tone. Robin grinned.

"Cool." He looked over his shoulder, seeing nothing, but knowing nonetheless someone was there.

"You know no one's going to believe I got lessons from a ghost."

Robin wasn't sure, but he thought maybe, just maybe, he heard a snort of derision.

***---***

"Charles," said the voice softly into his ear.

Seventy-nine year old Charles Foster Offdensen sat up and looked around, blinking sleepily, confused by the sound of his own name in an empty room. Mordhaus was silent; Tore and Robin were on tour with their band, and they were not due home for at least a week. A nurse came in at two every morning to check on him, but a glance at the clock told him that she would not be there for another twenty minutes. So who was speaking to him?

"Charles," said that low voice again, speaking in a soft growl. A hand gently touched his back, and a kiss he had not tasted in decades was pressed to his lips.

"Time to go, dood," said a familiar Wisconsin accent.

Charles returned the kiss, parting his lips, reaching up to touch Nathan's face. He lingered in it, relishing it, reluctant to break contact, but finally pulling back to look into a pair of intense, predatory green eyes.

"Go where?" he asked.

"Dere," said Toki, pointing over his shoulder to a distant white light. "We goes dere."

"Yeah we finally figured out why we never left," said Pickles. "At first we thought, y'know, Skwisgaar's got his kid here, we wanna make sure he turns out okay, but… that was only part of it."

"Ja," said Skwisgaar. "Turns outs you wants to gets in to rock ands roll heaven, you gots to brings you manager."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "You're making that up."

"Ja, we is," said Toki.

"We jusht didn't want to leave without the whole crew," said Murderface.

"And you've kept us waiting long enough," said Nathan. He touched Charles' face, and kissed him again. "C'mon. Tour bus is waiting."

Charles stood up, the aches and pains of his aged and crippled body gone, his hair once more dark chestnut, his limbs again strong and whole. He picked up his glasses from the bedside table, ignoring the corpse in the bed, and put them on.

"Right then. Gentlemen, let's be off."

"Yeah, one thing though," said Murderface. "Are you gonna wear that suit through all eternity?"

"William, if you can wear that moustache, I can wear this suit."

There were chuckles, and Nathan put an arm around Charles as Toki took Skwisgaar's arm. Together the six of them turned and walked into the light.