Title: Dearly Departed
Fandom: Count Cain
Characters: Crehador, Cain, Oscar, and Arina
Warnings: Spoilers to the end, language, uhm... physical abuse of French mediums? The possibility of Cain in lingerie?
Summary: In which Crehador has no fun at all being ordered around by certain bossy spirits....
Disclaimer: I don't own them (not for lack of trying).
A/N: The ending made me cry. So of course I go write crack for it. This makes perfect sense.
Why does it always have to be me? This was the first thing that Dominic Crehador thought upon being awakened for the third night in a row by the sensation of someone– or something– trying to kick every inch of his body it could reach. They could reach. Oh, shit.
“Get up, you stupid bastard!”
“Am not,” he muttered, trying to sit up in bed without being kicked in the face again. It didn’t quite work. Neither had any attempt to banish the spirits; besides, they had almost pushed him out of a third-story window the last time he tried, so it looked like there was nothing else for it but to listen to them. ...Which really was much more unpleasant than it ought to have been.
There were only two ghosts, but they were made much more terrifying by three simple facts: one of them was Cain Hargreaves. One of them was Oscar Gabriel’s former fiancee, Arina. And Crehador couldn’t tell them apart. He was pretty sure that there could be no bigger social faux pas than mistaking a man’s male friend for his fiancee.
On the other hand, he had been hoping to get some sleep sometime this millennium....
“Do you two actually want anything?”
A few minutes later, he almost wished he hadn’t asked. The list went on and on.
“...And tell him that I want my watch back, since I never intended to give that to him permanently anyway.”
“Also, don’t let him paint the parlor that god-awful color. It’s exactly like rotting pea soup, and it’s hideous.”
“While we’re on the subject, don’t let him do the nursery in blue and pink. Either it’s a girl or it’s a boy; it’s silly to do both.”
“Or else maybe it’s a Jezebel.”
“Nothing. Oh, oh, and tell him that if he sells the tea service with the primroses, I’ll strangle him.”
“Same thing for the mahogany vanity!”
“And no naming the baby after anyone in the family. Especially not... er... well, just stay on the safe side and tell him everyone’s off-limits. And before I forget...”
In the end, the list ran to seven pages and contained what was possibly a critical mass of underlines and exclamation points. As he promised to deliver it first thing in the morning, Crehador couldn’t help but feel that in a few hours, Oscar was going to be the most miserable man on earth.
He had, however, failed to factor in one simple fact: this was Oscar.
“This watch? Are you sure? But Arina gave it to me! I think you’re making this up.”
Crehador resisted the urge to smash his head into the wall. One of them would probably be upset with him for ruining the wallpaper anyway. “You do remember that I am, in fact, a medium, correct? And as such, I do, as a matter of course, communicate with the... the dearly
departed, yes?” Dearly departed, he thought to himself. He would have to remember that for the next time he needed a codeword for ‘insane psychotic bitches from hell.’
Oscar, however, was apparently every bit as thick as he looked, because he was having none of it. And there was nothing Crehador could actually do to persuade him, at least nothing that wasn’t too horrible to even consider. True, he did have one very obvious and undeniable power, the ability to look through a person’s memories... but he now understood why some said that there were places even the perfect feared to tread. The mind of Oscar Gabriel was probably considered a form of torture.
Leaving the mansion with no success, Crehador wasn’t particularly surprised to find a series of objects mysteriously flying toward his head. There was a bottle, a shoe, a rock, and most frightening of all, a very small, extremely noisy dog. “I tried! What more do you want me to do? That man wouldn’t listen, and Merryweather wasn’t available!” After a minute, he added hopefully, “You can’t follow me around for all of eternity throwing dogs at me, you know.”
“All right then,” said one of the shades after a few moments. “All right. But I want some money, at least, if Oscar’s going to keep everything else.”
“...Money? You’re both dead. What possible use could either of you have for money?”
“Dead people need money too, or didn’t you know that, Mr. Medium?”
“Plus, Victoria’s Secret is having a sale on now, and they’ve had the loveliest little pink frilly things in this season.”
“Victoria’s Secret?” Crehador asked, looking blank.
“Yes, yes,” said one impatiently, “Wonderful store. I hear that someday you mortals will get one too, and then you’ll understand. Anyway.”
“Okay, then. You’re robbing me, essentially. And then you’ll leave me alone?”
“...I suppose so,” one decided sullenly.
The other seemed to still be pondering the situation. “One more thing, Crehador.”
About a second later, Crehador was hit squarely in the face by, of all things, a pigeon.
“Crehador. Concentrate. I am not Arina.”
“Sorry,” the medium replied. Surely there had to be some sort of snappy comeback he could have used, although perhaps it was for the best that he couldn’t think of what it might be; he was after all hoping against hope to escape without lasting injury. “What exactly do you want now, Cain?”
“It’s quite simple, actually.”
“I just want you to dress up like me, and go throw a tea party for Merry. See? Very simple.”
“You’re quite mad, do you know that? Oh, don’t look like that; I’ll do it. ...Er, does dressing up like you actually involve any pink frilly things?”
Crehador had already started running by the time the pickled herring crashed into the wall next to which he had just been standing.