Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He was the best of the best. That was why she was here.

Klaus felt it before the man even crossed the threshold—the anguish, thick and suffocating, pressing in like humidity before a storm. Grief had shape, texture, and this was the kind that clung to skin. It seeped into the cracks of a person and stayed.

Her husband stood in the doorway, shoulders squared but trembling. His coat was perfect, each button fastened, his tie straight, but his hands ultimately betrayed him: white-knuckled fists clenching and unclenching like he might wring the pain out of them.

Despite his years of experience, Klaus hadn’t known what to say. He was used to the weeping ones with the red, puffy eyes. Wallet, keys, tissues—he didn’t leave the house without something to dry the tears. The angry, distrusting ones? He knew what to do for those too. Promises, palms up, big, honest eyes steeped in genuine reassurances. The stoic ones simply delivered the instructions and left, pain packed away airtight until it could be opened alone in the dark. Grief treats people differently, he had come to learn.

This was his first silent one. 

The man had handed him a slip of paper with the instructions written upon it and Klaus had ignored the dried splotches that muddied the ink. The condolences had flowed from his lips—reflexive, not mindless—but still the man did not speak. 

He was young. That cruelty struck Klaus first. Young, not much older than himself. Silver threaded his dark hair that had not yet begun to thin. There was a heaviness to him, weighing down his skin and demeanor in a way that typically came with age. He’d seen it at the nursing homes. It swallowed this man like an ill-fitting coat.

His face was drawn and pale, as though all color had been siphoned out of him in the night. His eyes could have been any color. Klaus wouldn’t know. His eyes never left the floor. 

“I promise she’s in good hands,” Klaus tried gently. He smoothed the paper in his hands and the man’s eyes fixated on that. There was something sharp and unbearable in the quiet.

Klaus hesitated. Some people needed words. Some people needed silence. He wasn’t sure which type this man was, and the wrong one would feel like pressing too hard on a fresh wound.

“I—” He abruptly cut off as the man outstretched a hand. When Klaus moved to return the paper, he only pointed to the bottom.

Klaus squinted at the contact information. “Yours? Will?”

A silent nod.

“I’ll call you.”

The words tasted hollow. Klaus could feel the pain radiating from Will in deep, lacerating waves. He ached to do something more, but what value did his words have here? What could he possibly hope to fix?

Will nodded for the final time and left.

Chapter Text

The familiar antiseptic stung Klaus’ nose as he wiped down the metal table.

“I guess it’s just you and me, Eleanor.”

The woman sat silently in the corner, head bowed, a curtain of blond hair obscuring her face. Pain, again. God, he could feel it. Not just his own—a bone-deep ache, something old and familiar—but hers, this fresh, gaping wound that had no body to contain it.

He exhaled, shifting his grip on the cloth in his hands. “Sorry, that was rude of me. I’m Klaus, and I’ll be helping you out today.”

Silent, just like her husband.

“I’m going to get started, if that’s okay with you?”

No response.

The absence of sound was almost companionable by now. Not everybody talked. The adjustment was difficult, Klaus knew, and the younger ones took longer to grasp it. Ben had told him as much. The important thing was to telegraph every move, to let them feel like they had some measure of control.

“Right, I’m just going to go ahead and move you. Quick and snappy.”

Klaus lifted the cloth covering her face and set it aside, casting a glance at Eleanor. Still statuesque. 

“You can tell me to shut up if I’m talking too much. It’s a talent and a curse, really.”

The weight shifted from muscle to bone as he hoisted her onto the table. Her body was still and pale, a hollowed-out thing laid bare beneath the lights.

“I mean, it gets quiet in here and all. Not that you have to say anything, of course! You’re in good hands. My family says I talk enough for two.”

He pressed the button on the controls to raise the table. The whirring of the motor filled the silence.

Eleanor’s head shot up.

Green eyes, wide in panic.

She was standing before he could think to react, the chair skidding slightly with the force of it.

“Whoa! No need to worry, just lifting you up a bit.” 

But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at her—the body on the table.

“I get cramps if I bend over too long,” Klaus continued, keeping his voice light. He rolled his shoulders for emphasis. “My posture’s already shot. Graceful curves of kyphosis and all that.”

Her muscles remained rigid, but she didn’t move closer. Klaus turned to the cart beside him and retrieved a metal block, its chill sharp against his fingers. 

“For you! Different beauty standards and whatnot. What the hell, you’ll have better posture than me.”

“That’s…” Her voice was sheer, barely more than a breath. 

Klaus waited, but she didn’t finish the sentence. Her eyes were fixed on the body.

“You,” Klaus supplied. 

Eleanor shook her head slowly. “I went to bed. I was sleeping.”

“You were.” She wasn’t the first person to die in her sleep. Heart attacks weren’t uncommon.

Her eyes screwed shut. She gave her head a vigorous shake. “I’m dreaming.”

“’Fraid not. But—”

“Get me out.”

“Eleanor—”

“Out! Out, out, get me out!” Her hands fisted in her hair. “Now!”

Klaus hurriedly set the block down and replaced the cloth over her face. “Hey, hey!”

Eleanor reached to snatch up the cloth, but her hand went straight through it. Her eyes widened with horror.

And then she screamed.

“Eleanor! Eleanor, I know you’re scared! Hell, I would be too, but everything’s okay, I swear!”

Her breaths were ragged, wild. She stumbled back.

Klaus took a slow step forward, hands up, voice calm. “Hey, listen to me! I know this is a lot, but I need you to take a deep breath.”

“This isn’t happening,” she gasped. “This isn’t real.”

Klaus took a step closer. “Trust me, I get it. Existential crises? Been there, done that, got the T-shirt. Well, stole the T-shirt, but the point is—”

“Shut up!” She whirled on him, eyes burning, wild. “I don’t want this! I can’t be— be—” 

“Dead?” Klaus finished softly.

She inhaled sharply, like the word itself had cut her.

“Yeah,” Klaus murmured, nodding. “It’s a real kick in the teeth, huh?”

Eleanor was trembling but trying to hide it. “I can’t— I have to wake up. My family—oh, God—”

Her knees buckled. She didn’t hit the floor—she couldn’t—but she clutched at herself like she could feel the fall anyway.

Klaus knelt beside her, resting his elbows on his knees. “Look, I know this is the part where you want to break some shit, scream a little—maybe punch me, which, let’s be honest, would be super unsatisfying given the whole ‘ghost hands’ situation.”

She let out a strangled, bitter sound—half a sob, half a laugh.

“But I promise you, Eleanor, you are not alone.” His voice had softened, losing its usual lazy bravado. “You got me, for starters. Lucky you.”

She sucked in a shaky breath. “I don’t want to be here.”

“I know.”

“I want to go home.”

Klaus hesitated. “Eleanor… I don’t think that’s how this works.”

Her lip trembled. “Then what am I supposed to do?”

Klaus tilted his head, considering her. “Well… you could freak out some more. Totally valid option. But if you let me, I can help. I mean, believe it or not, I’ve got loads of experience with this crowd.” He shot her a small, wry smile. “You wouldn’t be my first lost soul. Hell, you wouldn’t even be my tenth.”

She blinked at him, eyes glassy with unshed tears. “And what, you just… help them?”

Klaus shrugged. “I try.”

A long silence.

Then, tentatively, “…How?”

He grinned, clapping his hands together. “That, my dear Eleanor, is an excellent question.”

Her gaze flickered to the side, where the embalming instruments were already laid out, neat and sterile, ready for the procedure. The tubes, the trocar, the chemicals waiting to replace everything she used to be.

“I make you real pretty for the big day.”

And, finally, barely, inexplicably, she let out a laugh.

“I—what?”

Klaus wiggled his fingers theatrically. “You know, little touch-ups here, little fixes there. You’ve got that whole ‘freshly deceased’ thing going on right now, but don’t worry, babe, I got you. I’m going to make you look like a Renaissance painting.”

A smile! The victory sat high in his chest. Klaus gestured to the table.

“Here you are, in the seat of honor! Just going to tilt you a wee bit.” He hit the button and the well-oiled joints barely made a sound as they moved. 

The best of the best. Not to brag, but if he decided to, it would be justified. Klaus turned to her again. 

“And that thing I showed you before? That just goes under your shoulders. I’ve got one more for your head. Makes you look a little more comfortable.” Klaus picked up the blocks. “These guys.” 

Eleanor nodded hesitantly. He gently lifted her with a hand beneath her upper back, sliding the first block under her shoulder blades. He positioned the larger one beneath her head.

“I don’t…” At the sound of Eleanor’s voice, Klaus looked up. “I don’t look comfortable.”

He studied the block placement. “Guess not. Good eye. Say…”

Klaus walked to the counter in the corner and used his elbow to pull open a drawer. “Aha! Come here.”

Eleanor tentatively joined him, cocking a head at the drawer’s contents. 

“Blocks galore! Wherever you want ‘em. We can get crazy with it.”

Amusement flitted across Eleanor’s face. “Wherever I want them?”

“Wherever indeed! See? I told you you’re in good hands.” He tapped one thoughtfully against his palm. “So how many are we starting with? Thirty? Forty?”

Eleanor laughed. “You’re going to have one hell of a time cleaning all these.”

“Oh, please, I could do this for a living.” He collected four and headed back to the table with Eleanor trailing behind. “You’re less tense already.”

“You haven’t even placed them yet.”

“My eyes must be playing tricks on me.

They’re not. This was Klaus’ favorite part of the job. This moment, this ridiculous, gentle normalcy in the midst of something unfathomable. He flashed her a grin.

“Direct me, O captain.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes. “Maybe under the knees? I put a pillow there when I sleep on my back.”

“An excellent choice.” He positioned the block accordingly. “Anywhere else?”

“Actually,” she tilted her head, assessing, “could you do it a little lower?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He slid it beneath her calves. “This to your liking?”

“I think that’s better. What do you think?”

“I think it’s a lucky thing you’re here or it’d look like I put one of these up your—” 

“Klaus!”

“Sorry! Sorry. Next block where?”

“Arms!” Eleanor managed between laughs. “They’re just kind of… sagging.”

“Right-o. Like this?”

“Perfect.”

“See? I’m not hopeless. Hey, how about another one under your head? One of these skinny ones.”

Eleanor studied her body. “Let’s try it. The angle’s still a little off.”

Klaus made the final adjustment and stepped back to stand beside Eleanor. Together, they surveyed their handiwork.

“Not bad, huh?”

“I almost look asleep,” Eleanor marveled.

“You sleep like a corpse. Do you always have your arms crossed like that?”

She aimed a swat at his shoulder, but her hand went straight through it. The humor in her face flickered. Klaus quickly pretended he didn’t notice, hurrying over to the cart to retrieve a small blade.

“Well, no time to waste! This is the fun part.” He brandished the razor. “I do mustaches, beards, and eyebrows. Sideburns too, if you ask nice.”

Eleanor cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Some people don’t have anything done. Up to you.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why don’t— I mean, is that something you need to do?”

“Need? No. It just makes the makeup look better.” 

“Then sure.”

“Oh, you won’t regret it!” Klaus reassured brightly, grabbing a metal container. “I figured out all the tricks. Look at this.”

He outstretched the container and tilted it toward her. Eleanor leaned forward to observe the milky liquid. 

“Conditioner and hot water,” Klaus explained. “Gets you silky-smooth.”

He dipped a paper towel in, dampened a patch of skin, and got to work. 

Pull, drag. Pull, drag.

The rhythm was familiar. He worked around her jawline, his knuckles brushing against her cold skin. He’d done this a hundred times, maybe more, but it never felt routine. 

Klaus used the water to keep track of the areas he’d already attended to. Eleanor watched on in fascination, awkwardness from their earlier exchange cast aside. 

Klaus hummed under his breath as he worked. It was a mindless tune he couldn’t place, just something to fill the quiet. Not because he couldn’t stand silence, not anymore, but because it made this feel a little less clinical. The blade skimmed over Eleanor’s skin with practiced care, each pull smooth, each drag exact. He could almost forget this was a body.

He used to be terrified of this part: hands shaking, heart racing, terrified he’d mess up and leave a mark, disrespecting someone’s final presentation. Now? Now it was ritual. It was sacred. He didn’t just prepare bodies—he gave them dignity, with steady hands borne of experience.

Pull, drag. Pull, drag.

The blade caught slightly at her temple, snagging on a hair. Klaus exhaled slowly through his nose. 

Careful. Steady. 

The skin was delicate, even now. Especially now.

When he finished, he wiped her face gently with a clean cloth, dabbing the last drops of water away.

“And done! How’s that?”

He set down his tools and gave her face a final wipe for good measure.

“Not much of a difference.”

“You’ll see.” 

Klaus hesitated. Eleanor immediately picked up on his discomfort. 

“What?” She said sharply. 

“This next part’s not so fun. Not nearly, but hey! We got through the first one fine. How bad can this be?” 

She narrowed her eyes in lieu of response. Klaus gestured at the cart. 

“A little arts-and-crafts, basically. Most people, uh… don’t want to watch this part. Makes them uncomfortable.” 

“I’m fine, Klaus.” Her tone was terse and suspicious again. 

Oh, well.  

“If you’re sure.” Klaus picked up the tub of Vaseline and the plastic ovals. “These go in, well, your eyes. But again, most people—”

“Do it, Klaus.”

Klaus didn’t have a funny comment. Everything was a little easier once the eyes were closed, but the process of getting there… it was just as difficult every time. Something to do with the absence of life, the uncanniness of it, knowing something should be there but wasn’t anymore. It was close but not close enough.

Very few people elected to watch.

“Just going to dip this here and put it in.”

The eyes were always open longer than necessary. Klaus liked to get the positioning just right—it was the least he could do. He carefully lifted her right eyelid and inserted the cap. Then the left. It felt like a crime to cover her pupils, however empty they were now. In his peripheral vision, he could see Eleanor lean closer. 

Klaus refused to disappoint. He spent time adjusting the lower and upper lids until it looked natural. Then a pause, waiting for objection from Eleanor.

At the silence, Klaus decided to proceed to the mouth. God, he hated this part more. It made them feel more like an object than a person. His hands knew the motions; his brain didn’t want to. He pinched a wad of cotton between forceps.

You’re just feeding her. Pretend you’re feeding her. She’s right there next to you. She’s still here.

Klaus took a deep breath to steady himself. 

It’ll be over in a snap.

He carefully massaged her jaw until the stiffness faded a bit. Eleanor watched him with intensity.

“This goes in your mouth.” It was important to seem sure, to seem confident—Eleanor would panic otherwise—but he could never summon the same bravado as he had during the earlier steps. They always picked up on the change, subtle as it was. This time was no different.

“Stop,” Eleanor said suddenly.

Obediently, Klaus stopped. He released her jaw and stepped back. Eleanor immediately filled the space. It was meant to be aggressive, intimidating, Klaus knew, but it was also protective.

He knew that fear. He had lived it, breathed it, drowned in it, the awful, gut-wrenching realization that everything had changed and there was no going back. He had spent years running from it.

Eleanor had just been dropped into it headfirst.

Just a moment to gather herself. All things considered, she had taken her death in stride. Sure, with a heaping helping of denial, but it was hardly surprising that she was cracking now. Her body and her self had been severed—here was the ultimate proof of that. 

He took another step back. Then another.

“Stay there,” Eleanor said warily. She hesitated. “Please.”

Klaus nodded. He set the forceps back on the cart.

Eleanor turned to face her body and Klaus turned away from her, pretending to organize the supplies on the cart. He made sure to keep the forceps on the edge of the tray—visible, if she needed the reassurance.

It was always like this—the strange, surreal moment when the dead had to confront themselves. Klaus had seen it a hundred times, and yet it still sent a shiver down his spine. The dead standing over themselves, seeing not a reflection but a remnant. Just a thing they used to be. How did you process something like that? Seeing yourself as an object, a shell, an abandoned home?

“I... I didn’t think I’d still feel this much after.”

He turned. She was looking at him.

“I thought it would be peace or light or... something less terrifying. But this…” She exhaled sharply. “This is hell. They’re still here. They’re here and I have to—what, watch? I can’t help them, I can’t hold them, I can’t do a damn thing.”

A mother. 

“They’re so small.” Eleanor’s voice cracked. “They still need me. My youngest—she can’t sleep without me humming. What happens when she wakes up and I’m not there? I don’t know how to do this. I don’t— I don’t know how to be… nothing.”

Like Ben. 

“You’re not nothing. You’re just... differently present.” 

“But I can’t do anything.”

Klaus shook his head. “You are doing something. You’re still loving them. That stuff travels, you know. It stays with them on their best and worst days. The part of them that reaches for light in dark rooms? That’s you. The courage to face a big day? That’s you. The warmth when they feel safe for no reason? You again.” 

She closed her eyes. 

“Trust me, Eleanor. The dead have a way of sticking around.”

And fuck, wasn’t that the truth?

Eleanor’s fingers twitched, rhythmic and staccato, like she was searching for something solid. 

Klaus let the seconds pass in silence.

“How can you see me?” Eleanor asked suddenly.

“What?”

“How can you see me? Why can’t anybody else?”

“I just can,” he said.  

Eleanor waited, but nothing else came. “That’s not an answer.”

“Well, I don’t have one. I don’t know.”

Eleanor didn’t move or push, but she was still there, waiting, and that was worse. He could ignore a question. He couldn’t ignore a person.  

“I don’t! I don’t know what it is about me that makes this happen. I don’t know why I see people like you and other people don’t. I don’t know why it started and I sure as hell don’t know how to make it stop.”  

Eleanor raised her eyebrows.  

“You think it’s a punishment?” she asked.  

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes.”   

“Maybe it’s not.”

He scoffed. “Oh, yeah? Then what is it? A gift?”

Klaus Hargreeves, lighthouse for the damned.

Thirteen years old, locked in a mausoleum, curled into the corner while the dead screamed for help, for mercy, for anything but the endless, silent oblivion that stretched between their last breath and whatever came next.

It was such a damn blessing to wake up in the middle of the night, cold and shaking, because someone who had been buried a hundred miles away suddenly realized they weren’t alone in the dark anymore. A gift to feel hands on his shoulders, his wrists, his face—hands that weren’t real, hands that left no marks, hands that no one else could see. How fortunate, that he could live every single day with one foot in the grave and no way to pull it back out.

Ben used to say the same thing. Just like all the ghosts who looked at him like he was some kind of miracle. Eleanor was looking at him with that same expression now. It made Klaus want to scream.

It wasn’t her fault. She didn’t know. She couldn’t know.

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? The people who told him it was a gift never had to live with it. The living didn’t understand because they couldn’t see. And the dead? They weren’t the ones left behind, were they?

“I think it’s only a gift if it doesn’t hurt you.” Eleanor’s eyes looked liquid. “And this hurts you, doesn’t it?”

Not ‘it must have been hard,’ not ‘that sounds scary,’ not ‘I’m sorry you went through that.’

This hurts you.  

Present tense. Like she knew.

“But you do it anyway,” she said. 

Eleanor looked at him like he was a miracle, but it wasn’t relief—it was gratitude and awe and incredulity, so perfect and so textbook that Klaus thought he was imagining it. 

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “You make it sound noble.”

“It is.”

For a moment, neither of them spoke. 

“Klaus?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you finish this without…”

“Chair’s all yours, El. My back’s a lost cause.”

Eleanor didn’t spare a single look toward her body as she took her seat. Klaus picked up the forceps again.

Deep breath.

He gently fed the cotton into her mouth and closed it. 

Now, like closing a wound. 

Klaus threaded the needle with muscle memory. He gently stretched the skin of Eleanor’s mouth and guided the thread through.

“Was Will okay?” she asked suddenly.

The needle nearly went through his glove. 

“He’s not, is he?”

His own heart clenched in response—because Christ, didn’t he know that feeling? The way grief hollowed out the people left behind? How it made them fold in on themselves, retreat into spaces no one else could reach?

Klaus swallowed. He wasn’t good at this: at grief, at truth, at holding the weight of someone else’s pain. But he also knew what it was like to be left wondering, stuck between needing an answer and dreading it.

“He will be.” 

Eleanor scoffed, but not unkindly. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m not. But it takes time.”

Klaus continued his delicate work. When she spoke again, her voice was thinner. “I just don’t want him to hurt.”

There it was. The real fear.

Eleanor wanted to be missed, but she didn't want them to feel pain. Just simple, undeniable proof that someone still remembered her on the other side of the grave. It was a well-intentioned fantasy.

“Eleanor.” His voice was quieter now. “There’s no shortcut through this kind of pain.”

Her form flickered slightly, like she wanted to recoil from the words. 

“But I left him alone,” she murmured. “He has to go through it alone.”

“No, he has to go through it without you. That’s not the same thing.” 

Eleanor shook her head, eyes screwing shut tighter. “Will was never good at being alone.”

“No one is,” Klaus admitted. “But he won’t be, not really. People will step in. A sister, a friend, maybe even the guy who makes his coffee in the morning.” He smiled faintly, his siblings’ faces blooming in his mind. “Grief’s funny like that. It pulls people together, even when you think it’s just tearing everything apart.”

Eleanor was quiet for a long time. Then, softly, “I just hate knowing he’s in pain.”

Klaus exhaled.

“Yeah,” he said. “It’s the worst.”

“Does it ever stop?”

Klaus hesitated. “No. But it changes. It gets… lighter, I guess. Not all at once, and not in a straight line. But one day, he’ll laugh at something stupid, and it won’t feel like a betrayal. And then he’ll do it again, and again. And that’s how it happens.”

He tied off the thread and cut it. “You can open your eyes if you want. Next part’s like surgery.”

Eleanor’s eyes tentatively opened. She rose to her feet and surveyed the body as Klaus clipped more thread. “I look tired.”

“Patience! I’m working my magic.” Klaus turned with a blade in hand. “Well, you’ll look a little worse after this but then it’s all up from there. Hope you’re not squeamish.”

The abject horror on Eleanor’s face was answer enough. 

“How do you do this?” she asked. “Be around the dead all day?”

“Guess I figured I’d finally start hanging out with people who appreciate my company.”

“That’s awfully optimistic.”

“Well, I’m incredibly easy to love.” He made a small incision on her collarbone. “Look away for a sec.”

Eleanor closed her eyes. Klaus grabbed a hook off the cart and carefully inserted it beneath the skin. “Do you want me to narrate this part or—”

“No!”

“Alright! Fair enough.” 

He made quick work of locating the two vessels and tying them off with suture. This was second nature by now. 

Cut, cannula, clamp.

Cut, forceps, hold.

“Eyes shut, right?”

Eleanor groaned. 

Klaus flipped the switch on the embalming machine and a low mechanical hum filled the room, followed by the wet, sucking sound of fluids moving through places they weren’t meant to move. He winced.

“Over in a flash! Promise.”

It was not over in a flash. Eleanor covered her ears with a louder, much more disgusted groan.

“Sorry!” Klaus shouted. Eleanor just shook her head.

Despite the gory display, Klaus felt more at ease. Bleeding was something living people did. This was the closest thing to natural his job ever felt. Klaus carefully sprayed off the table with a water hose, washing the mess down the drain, and the water swirled pink for a moment.

The minutes trickled by. Eleanor had taken to humming some music, apparently horrified by the liquid sounds. Klaus couldn’t blame her. Quite frankly, she had a lovely sense of melody and he was content to listen.

At last, the liquid seemed to run clear. He dissembled the equipment and he cleaned up the area, suturing the incision shut. 

“Beautiful biological plumbing, isn’t it?” Klaus yelled. Eleanor hummed louder.

It was better she tune him out anyway. At least for this next part.

Almost done, Eleanor.

He picked up the dreaded aspirator, absently thinking how much Five would love to do this. The job was truly wasted on Klaus. He closed an eye and positioned the spike above her navel. With a quick jab, it was in.

Jesus, it amazed him every time that anyone could do this to a living person. At least his patients were already dead. He cast a quick look up at Eleanor to make sure her eyes remained shut as he maneuvered the tool.

Eleanor had changed her melody to something that sounded vaguely familiar. Had Viktor played it before? Klaus hurried to inject the cavity fluid so he could ask before she finished. 

“You are done, miss!” he exclaimed. “Hey! Done!”

Eleanor finally removed her hands from her ears, blinking. “God, that was awful.”

“You’re telling me.” Klaus worked on stitching the incision on her stomach shut.

“Klaus?”

“Hey, what was that song you were humming just now?”

“Why do you do this? Like, really?”

“I swear I’ve heard my brother play that before. It’s a violin song, right?” Klaus hummed a few notes of the melody. “Real somberlike, but kind of fun.”

Eleanor sighed, then walked over to watch his suturing. “Saint-Saëns’ best, in my opinion. Not surprised you like it.”

“Oh?”

“It’s based on a French legend. Every year, on Halloween night, Death rises from the grave and plays his fiddle.” Eleanor hovered a palm over her body’s heart. “As he plays, skeletons rise from their graves and dance until sunrise, when the cock crows. Then they’re gone again. Back to the dirt and worms.” She withdrew her hand. “Until next year, at least.”

“Somber. And fun.” Klaus tied off the thread and cut it. “Quick rinse now.” 

He stood, stretching his arms over his head before heading to the sink in the corner. The silence stretched on uncomfortably.

Soap, sponge…  

Eleanor’s gaze burned into the back of his head. 

Shampoo, sponge, shampoo…  

“Klaus.” 

Klaus blinked hard. It was as inevitable as death.

Ghosts never just let go. No, they clung and they waited because what else was there to do?

“You ghosts never start with small talk, huh? ‘Hey Klaus, how’s your day? Any good haunting stories?’ No, it’s always, boom, straight to business.”

“Did you lose someone?”

Soap, shampoo—damn. Soap, soap… He forgot a water bucket.

“Yes.” He didn’t turn.

“Someone close?”

Klaus’ tongue couldn’t form the ‘yes.’ He nodded once. “My brother. A long time ago.”

“I’m sorry.”

Soap, sponge, shampoo, conditioner. The hose was already attached to the table. He gathered the supplies and laid them on the cart with careful hands.

“So am I. He was… a lot. But he was my lot, y’know?”

Klaus gently dampened her hair and started working shampoo into the strands. Eleanor took up a spot on the other side of the table. A silence fell between them as he continued, the sterile scent of chemicals mixing with the fading memory of Eleanor’s perfume.

“Is that why you do this then? For him?”

He exhaled, considering. “I think so.”

Eleanor didn’t speak. Klaus lathered soap.

“At first, I just wanted to understand. The way things end. The way people say goodbye. But then… it became about making it easier for the ones left behind.”

Something shifted in her expression. “Did it help you?”

“Some days, yeah.” 

Because loss never really ends, does it? Just changes shape. It gets a little quieter, a little softer, but it never goes away.

Despite the gloves, the soap suds felt slick against Klaus’ hands. Dirty, somehow. He grabbed the sponge and scrubbed at his left hand, harder than necessary.

Eleanor instinctively reached for him before catching herself, letting her hand fall to her side. She swallowed hard. 

“What was he like?”

The question took Klaus by surprise. “Oh, Benny-boy? Absolute saint. A real angel. Probably had a direct line to the big guy upstairs.”

Klaus paused for an admonishment that never came. If anything, Eleanor seemed… thoroughly immersed. Hanging onto every word that came out of his mouth like it was something precious. It was an unfamiliar sight.

He tentatively cleared his throat. “Ben was better than the rest of us. And I don’t mean that in some tragic, poetic, ‘gone too soon’ way. I mean, objectively. Like, if you lined up all seven of us and asked a random stranger, ‘Which one here has a soul?’ they’d point at Ben.”

Eleanor laughed. “Please, nobody’s that perfect.” 

Klaus grinned. “Oh, God, no. He could be a pain. He worried too much. But he was still so… good. Just genuinely, ridiculously good in a way that shouldn’t have been possible in our family. And not in a boring way, either. He wasn’t some goody-two-shoes, ‘Yes, Father’ type—no, no, he was sarcastic as hell. He had this dry, unimpressed look he’d give you when you were being stupid, which, for me, was often.” 

He felt the tension unspool in his chest. 

“But he never gave up on me, even when he should’ve. Even when I was a walking disaster. He stayed.”

Eleanor’s eyes shone in the light. “You must miss him a lot.”

“Miss him? Oh, babe, I spent years with a VIP pass to Ghost Ben’s One-Man Guilt Trip. He haunted me so much he might as well have been paying rent.” His voice dropped slightly. “But yeah.”

He rinsed off the last of the suds.

“It’s weird, though. Sometimes, I think—if he had to go, I wish it’d been sooner. Not because I wanted him gone, but because then maybe he wouldn’t have wasted so much time looking after me. Maybe he wouldn’t have been stuck.”

Eleanor shifted. “I don’t think he saw it that way.”

Klaus glanced up, his smile small and sad. “No. He probably didn’t. That was the problem, wasn’t it?” 

He cleared his throat, dabbing off the last of the moisture with a towel. “Dare I say? This is the cleanest corpse I ever did see!”

Eleanor bit her lip. Klaus was already moving, tidying up for the final time.

“I’ll find him for you, Klaus. After all this.”

The knot in his stomach twisted. “Thanks, Ellie”—too fragile—“but we can’t send you over looking like that! He wouldn’t let me hear the end of it.”

She gazed at him with a softness he didn’t deserve. It made his skin crawl, like someone had just slipped a hand beneath his ribs and was poking at the sore spots. He didn’t want her looking at him like that. He needed a harder type of love.

He bent to retrieve a box from the lower shelf of the cart.

“Trust me, after makeup and dressing, you’ll look fresh as a daisy. Cross my heart and hope— let me change these gloves real quick.”

They were off in a snap; Klaus tossed them in the bin and tugged on a fresh pair. The latex stretched taut over his fingers, the barrier between him and the world reestablished. 

He turned to face Eleanor and found her gaze already focused on him. There wasn’t pity there, to his relief, but instead something warmer. It was the same way Five had looked at him in front of the ball of twine.

And just like that, he wasn’t so alone.

Klaus dusted his hands off, surveying his work. “Alright, next up on the ‘Making Eleanor Look Fabulous’ agenda—we’ve got makeup.”

Eleanor arched a brow. “Do I get a say in this or are you just going to doll me up however you want?”

Klaus grinned. “Please, babe, I have taste.”

In truth, this part had always felt… intimate. More than it should have. Makeup was about presentation, about letting the living see the dead as they wanted to remember them. It wasn’t for the dead, not usually. Only the ones who couldn’t accept it. 

Like Eleanor.

She was watching him closely, studying every little thing he did as if it mattered, like she was still someone worth fixing up, still someone who was.

That made it different. That made it personal.

She huffed, but there was a trace of a smile. “I was never much of a makeup person, to be honest.”

Klaus began unscrewing a jar of foundation. “That’s okay. I’ve got the light touch, don’t worry.”

She leaned in slightly, watching as he dabbed a sponge into the cream.

“You know,” Eleanor murmured, “Will always used to tease me about my mascara. I never got the waterproof kind, so I’d always end up with raccoon eyes by the end of the day.”

Klaus grinned, but something in his chest pulled tight. He knew that tone. The way people reached for memories, held them, turned them over in their hands like well-worn stones. See? This happened. This was real.

And soon, the fear would come. The gnawing worry that the memory might slip away, that time might erode it until all that was left was the hollow shape of something once loved.

He couldn’t stop that from happening, but he could give her this moment.

He tapped the sponge lightly against her cheek, blending carefully. “Tragic. Did you at least have a signature look?”

“Oh, definitely not. It was chaos. Some days I’d forget I even put any on and just rub my eyes and smear it everywhere. Will would call it my ‘facial expressionism.’”

Klaus snorted. “Art informel.”

Eleanor smiled, but her fingers twisted in the fabric of her nightgown, an old habit she hadn’t realized carried into death. Klaus picked up a brush, dusting powder lightly over her skin. The routine was second nature—concealer, blush, blending, the small tricks that softened the sharp edges of death.

“What else?”

She blinked. “What do you mean?”

“What else did you suck at?” He grinned, but his voice was coaxing.

Eleanor laughed, breathy and surprised. “God, where do I even start?”

“I’m all ears.”

“I can’t play any instruments, but I can sing. I’ve got terrible handwriting. Oh! I don’t know how to whistle.” She tilted her head, considering. “And I was an awful cook. Not just bad—catastrophic.”

“Oh, do tell.”

She sighed. “I once set spaghetti on fire.”

Klaus paused mid-swipe. “Spaghetti.”

“Yes.”

“The wet kind?”

“Yes.”

He leaned back, staring at her. “You boiled spaghetti and still managed to set it on fire?”

She lifted her chin. “It’s a talent, Klaus.”

“That is not a talent, babe, that’s a sign from God to hang up the apron.”

Eleanor laughed again and Klaus felt something shift in the room.

Grief had a weight to it. It pressed down on everything and made the air heavier, thick like molasses. But laughter—laughter cut through it. It let in little cracks of light. 

He used to think laughter was disrespectful, that it didn’t belong in places like this, but now, he knew better. Sometimes it was the only thing that could survive in the ruin of grief. It was the only thing that made the wreckage livable.

He picked up a tube of lipstick, uncapping it. “Alright, El. Final touch.”

She tilted her chin slightly. “Not red.”

“No?”

She paused. “Will always said pink suited me better.”

Klaus smirked and pulled out a softer shade. “Good man.”

The lipstick glided over her lips smoothly. “Clothes. The grand finale. Let’s hope Will picked something nice.”

Klaus opened the bag that came with her. Eleanor leaned over to investigate the contents.

“Look familiar?”

“No.” Eleanor’s brow furrowed. “I… don’t know what that is.”  

“Well, my dear Eleanor, it’s going to look fabulous on you regardless. You can pull off just about anything.”

Klaus pulled the blue dress from the bag and the fabric unfurled. “Eleanor! This is gorgeous!”

She squinted at it. “I don’t understand.”

“Sézane. The painter guy?” A small card poked his hand. “Oh, the tag’s still on it.”

“Why wouldn’t he bury me in something of mine?”

“That’s not weird. A lot of people don’t want to let go of that stuff this soon. It’s easier to buy something new.” 

That wasn’t the whole truth, but it was enough. People clung to the things of the dead—clothes, books, half-empty perfume bottles—like talismans, afraid that giving them up meant giving up the person too. Will hadn’t been ready to part with her yet. She knew that, but there was no need for a reminder.

Klaus carefully snipped the string and moved to throw away the card, but the number on it caught his eye. He let out a low whistle. 

“Damn, Will’s pulling out all the stops!”

“What?” Eleanor edged closer and Klaus tipped the tag toward her.

“€205.” 

“Euros?”

How incredibly rare it was, to have someone who understood you like that? To know you so completely that they could make a decision, even after you were gone, that spoke to the very core of who you were?

There was something raw about it, and it made Klaus want to look away. He wasn’t supposed to witness this. He wasn’t supposed to be a part of it, not in the way he was now.

“What’s that in American? Still a lot, right?”

Eleanor didn’t entertain his mock-ignorance. Her gaze had settled on the dress again, but now, something in her posture had changed. “It really is gorgeous.”

“It suits you,” Klaus agreed. “Wish I’d done makeup last. High stakes, is all.”

“Be careful. Please.”

And he would be. With a cautious, clinical touch, Klaus dressed her in the clothes her husband brought. Eleanor watched as he smoothed and arranged the fabric, meticulously positioning each fold.  

When he was done, he stepped back and snapped off the gloves. The latex peeled away like shed skin. 

“Well?”

She rounded the table and leaned in close. For a long moment, she just stared.

Then, quietly, “I look like myself.”

“Yeah. You do.”

Klaus’ chest ached in a way he couldn’t quite name.

This—this moment of seeing herself again, of recognizing the person she had been—this was the thing she’d have to let go of.

Eleanor let out a breath. “I don’t want them to stop remembering me like that.”

There it was. The inevitable drop back into the quiet, empty spaces grief carved out.

Klaus was horribly familiar with the other side of it.

How many times had he stared at a photo of Ben and panicked, terrified he would forget the feeling of his hugs? How many nights had he pressed his face into an old shirt, desperate to find some trace of his scent before time stole that too?

God, he hated death. He hated what it did.

“They won’t forget,” he said, voice quiet but certain.

Eleanor swallowed. “What if the memories fade? What if one day, they don’t remember the way I smelled, or the sound of my voice, or—”

“Love like that doesn’t go away. It’s in the way they laugh, the way they hum a song without thinking, the way they’ll wake up craving slightly burnt pancakes and never really know why. You’re there. Not the way you want, not the way you should be, and I hate that for you, but you are wrapped around them so tight they’ll never know a day without you. You’ve got the kind of love that could outlast the sun.”

Her lips parted slightly like she wanted to say something. Klaus longed to show her proof, but there was nothing to offer.

Time was a thief. A cruel, patient thing that stole in increments, quiet enough that you didn’t notice until the memories started to blur at the edges.

Mortality, after all, was always meant to slip away, like the quiet passing of seasons. What remained was something far more enduring: the essence of who they were, untouched by the decay of the physical. In the end, that was the truest part of them, the one that lived on long after the body had returned to dust.

The heart had a way of holding on to what truly mattered, even when the mind couldn’t recall every detail.

Please believe me.

“El?”

A tremor racked her frame, leaving an odd sort of laxness in the muscles. Eleanor took a couple steps back and perched on the chair, knees tucked up, chin resting atop them. 

Klaus didn’t press.

When she finally spoke again, it was much softer.

“Can I stay with you until morning?”

“Hey, I got nowhere else to be.”

He lowered himself onto the floor next to her and leaned his head against the chair. The linoleum was cold beneath him, stiff with years of wear, and the chair was just as unyielding, but discomfort was an afterthought. Klaus let his body settle, his arms draped loosely over his stomach, his legs sprawled.

They both closed their eyes and listened to the buzz of the fluorescent lights.

The moment hung in the air, broken only by the distant hum of life continuing outside that door: cars passing, footsteps echoing, birds singing as if nothing had changed. Out there, people still checked their watches and hurried across streets. They still made grocery lists and forgot to buy milk and left their windows open just a crack too wide. The earth still spun. The clocks ticked forward.

But here, in this small, flickering corner of the world, nothing moved at all.

The world grew darker and darker behind the curtains, the last traces of day dissolving into ink. The shadows crawled up the walls.

Still, they sat.

“They’ll carry you, Eleanor,” Klaus said quietly. “Every day, in ways you won’t even see. They’re going to make you so proud.”

“Thank you.”

“And hey—if they ever whisper your name? I’ll make sure you’re there to hear it.”

Silence.

“I’m glad it was you, Klaus.”

Warmth washed over him like sunlight. 

And Eleanor disappeared at dawn.