Chapter Text
I’ve enjoyed your company.
But the end of the story is almost here.
Mama was ranting about how the hotel was in disarray. She was pacing back and forth, her arms waving animatedly as she listed off everything that had gone wrong. As she walked, her heels made a sharp click in time with every new point she made. The Doorman had not taken the day off when playing tour guide for Henry and the hotel had turned to chaos in his wake. Stacks and stacks of paperwork had to be done to deal with the stolen items and unhappy customers. Mama paused her walk every so often to turn and scold the Doorman, before returning to her loop of the lounge.
The Doorman wasn’t listening. He hadn’t been listening to much in the last few days. He had watched over the proceedings of the emergency team. He watched as they had placed his friends unmoving shape onto a cold metal gurney. A white sheet draped on top like whipped cream on cake. After seeing the medical workers coming out of the Baroness he just couldn’t take it anymore. The life and world of mortality became pointless to him and he retreated into himself. The last years of his endless life seemed to drain of meaning. What was the point? Everyone around him would die soon enough anyway.
Mama paused her pacing and scolding. She placed a hand on her hip and sighed. When she first met Cherry, many months ago, he exuded the air of regality. He felt like a god hiding in mortal skin. Now, he was more of a wet noodle hiding in the skin of a handful of gravel. It was pitiful, seeing someone who caused century-long chaos reduced to such a state. Mama resigned to scold him at some other time. She sighed once more.
“How much time off have you accrued?”
“Twenty-six weeks and three days.”
“I’m going to force you to use that.”
“What?” The Doorman looked surprised.
“You must go on vacation for,,, for a month.” Mama crossed her arms.
“Why?” He looked like a lost puppy.
“Have you seen yourself? You need it.” She gestured at him vaguely.
“No, I don’t. I’m perfectly capable of completing my work duties.” He sits up straight. A button falls off of his uniform and bounces around for a few seconds. They both watch it in silence.
“Three weeks.”
“One week.”
“Two weeks. And I better not see you anywhere near the hotel during that time.”
“Yes Mama.”
“Get out of here then.”
“I have to go now?”
Mama nodded.
The Doorman looked at her, pleading. The last time he had time off was before the City Mother called him to meet. He didn’t know what to do with himself. He never admits it to himself, nor will he ever, but I’ll tell you; he was terrified. He was terrified of that feeling creeping throughout his center, crawling up his veins. That feeling of loss that permeated every experience he had had since that rainy day. He didn’t want to know what would happen if he was left alone with that feeling. It frightened him.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of the Baroness. It was still raining. Apparently the clouds stuck around, unlike mortals. The Doorman looked down at the puddle under his feet, making eye contact with his reflection. He looked more unkempt than he ever had; his shirt was buttoned unevenly, his ginger hair looked more like something on a doll at the bottom of a bin than on a god, and his eyes were sunken with prominent eye-bags to accessorize. If one had to cite what grief looked like in an immortal, the Doorman would be an excellent reference.
The first week of his “vacation” was spent wandering. He wandered up and down the streets of the city— the big apple. What a childish term. Perfect for an entire class of being who can’t even find the determination to make it past one hundred years of life. They couldn’t take care of themselves, that's why they died so quick. Nothing related to the myriad of illnesses that consumed thousands of mortals, ones they’ve been born with or acquired later in life. Completely their fault. It was the stupidity of mortals that created the knot of anguish in this immortals stomach. It was anger with himself, too. He had failed one of his few human friends. He could have— should have done more. He must be frustrate, disappointed even, in himself. It couldn’t possibly be anything else. Could it?
On his eighth day of “vacation,” he sat on a bench. A woman sat next to him.
The woman was ancient, for a mortal. Her stark white hair was pinned back with a hodge-podge of golden pins and painted dowels. The tip of her ears were cuffed with gold with chains that brushed her shoulders. Her purple skin was a faded color, as happen with Ixians as they age, but it was still vibrant for her age. She had prominent wrinkles in all the joyous places; crows feet and laugh lines. She wobbled side to side concerningly before plopping down onto the bench with a whump. The Doorman had been sitting on this bench for about twelve hours when the woman joined him. In all that time no other soul had been brave enough to sit next to the deity, regardless of the lack of sitting space elsewhere. The populous of New York was far to frightened, or prejudice toward, this disheveled, dirty man. To be fair, last time I trusted a dirty redhead I got so blackout drunk I woke up a week later in Maine!
The two bench-dwellers sat in silence for about twelve minutes. This was another of the many mortal social conventions that the Doorman had no grasp on. Does one need to engage? Does her age change the expected action? Does he even have the will to do any action? The ultimate answer that the Doorman settled on was no.
“Pardon my intrusion…” The woman cleared her throat. She turned to him.
The Doorman didn’t respond.
“You look like you are having a rather difficult time, young man. I can’t help myself, I love helpin’ folks, and was wondering if you’d like to get somethin’ off your mind?” Her eyes closed as she gave a warm smile. Something about her caught the Doorman off guard. No mortals wanted to interact with him, let alone of their own will. There had to be another layer to this. The Doorman scoffed. This old woman pitied him, thought him her act of goodwill? A mortal help him? They couldn’t even help themselves. She was body was barely holding on to its frame and she wasn’t even five hundred years old. He scoffed.
The woman side-eyed him. “It’s impolite to scoff at strangers son.”
“I am far to old to be your son and I don’t need any motherly advice. You have no idea what I’m going through. No mortal does.”
“I’m sure you thought the same thing when you put that stained shirt on this morning. Look where that got you.”
The Doorman turned to the woman, stunned. Mortals often yelled at him, yes, but never like this. They usually had more venom than this. Normally when he was the aggressor they backed off and left him alone. This felt like some form of pity mixed with a strange, genuine concern for him. Who was this woman? Why did she feel anything for him at all?
“I didn’t put it on this morning. And it wasn’t stained when I did put it on.” His response felt pathetic, even to him.
“Sweetie, how long have you been wearing that?” Her eyes opened wide and her face grew more concerned.
“I… I do not know.” He looked away from her gaze.
“Oh pumpkin, you are doing worse than I thought. I just know you have something to get off your chest, and I will help you with that, but right now I’m getting you cleaned up.”
The woman, a great deal shorter than the Doorman, jumped up from the bench and grabbed his wrists. She yanked him out of his seat and began to pull him along behind her. Determined, she lead him through a maze of alleyways and streets of York. They brushed past bystanders, to some angry shouts and pointed glares, and all but ran through the dirty puddles that dotted the pavement. It had been raining for almost a week straight. The sky mourned with him; it paid no heed to the puddles it created. The Doorman wasn’t paying attention to the weather, he just let himself be tugged along, instead he was staring at the purple hand at his wrist. It wasn’t letting go without a fight, but it was not tight enough to hurt.
The old woman pulled him up a set of rickety stairs that threatened to end it all with each step. They reached a door, just slightly too small for him to get though with a straight spine, and she pushed him through. He was led to a sofa in the living room and seated. She ran off deeper into the apartment, leaving him alone. The Doorman did not have a house to call his own. There was no need. The time he had between his day and night shifts was far too short to do anything but wander around for a bit. In previous conversations, Mama had suggested he get himself “a nice little flat.” He had plenty of money saved up, he never spent it on anything, so theoretically he could get himself an apartment. It would be unnecessary, he had nothing to store within and no reason to exist in the space. Mama had pushed back and said he needed a home. She emphasized it just so. Mortals were far to attached to the spaces they frequent. The Doorman saw no difference between house and home. It was a location, nothing more.
This location was clearly special to the old woman. Every inch was covered in photos and crudely draw art. Multiple shelves of differing materials and sizes were dotted around the space, some with book and some with small trinkets. She had photos of what was clearly her and her family. On a nearby windowsill was a white frame with a much younger and vibrant version of the old woman standing with her arms around a taller man with deep red skin, charcoal hair, and thick, curling horns. Her spouse, perhaps? He was a large man, easily a head or two taller than his wife. In the photo he was wearing mining gear and his face had smudges of coal dust. The woman was quite mismatched; she was wearing a clean white dress with frills and light pink flowers polka-dotted around. The Doorman guess she was a house wife. The adjacent photos added to this assumption. They featured her with her magenta children. Aside from their skin, they seemed almost exact replicas of their father. The walls were lined with tens of photos of them in school, in sports, doing various activities that young mortals do. It was heartwarming.
The woman rushed back into the room with a wet towel and a small folded pile of clothes. Slowly, as not to startle him but with enough force to let him know this wasn’t an option, the woman brought it to his face and began to wipe away his sorrows. She started with his tears, they had been almost constantly flowing alongside the rain. Even when he wasn’t awash with grief, the path of the tears was clear on his cheek; the water had cut a line through the accumulated grime on his face. The Doorman had not tried to get as dirty as he was, it was a product of the world around him continuing its trajectory while he was left behind. People had tossed things at him, missing the trashcan, and cars never cared enough to keep him out of their puddle splashing.
“Alright, pumpkin. Now you go to the bathroom and wash up.” The woman handed him the pile of clothes, “These were my sons, they should fit you well enough.”
Wordlessly the Doorman took the clothes. He wandered down the hallway until he found the ocean themed bathroom at the back. Various seashells and starfish were hung on the wall. All the towels in the room had embroidered marine animals on the corner. The soap holder was shaped like a piece of bright red coral. He set the clothes, still folded, onto the white countertop and began to undress. Peeling off each layer of his dirty uniform felt like peeling a layer of skin. A layer of connection to the mortal world. He felt his sorrow and sadness fall to the floor with his crimson suit. He did not need to care about such matters. It was a mortal affair, nothing to concern himself with. Empty, he turned on the shower and got in.
(50 MINUTES LATER)
Three quiet knocks on the bathroom door startled the Doorman. He was sitting, naked, on the floor of the shower letting the water roll off him. The room was filled with opaque steam from his boiling shower. He turned to look at the door. He said nothing.
“I’m comin’ in pumpkin! Don’t worry about coverin’ up, trust me I’ve seen whatever you’ve got many times over.” She slowly pushed the dark wooden door open.
The gathered steam rushed out as she walked in. She waved her hand to move the steam so she could locate the Doorman. She saw him sitting on the floor, inside her bathtub with his knees to his chest. She sighed and grabbed one of the small towels off the counter; a red octopus. She turned down the temperature of the water and knelt by the edge of the tub. As she sat down her knees squeaking and cracking echoed in the small room, and she let out a small groan as a response. The Doorman watched her and said nothing. She reached into the tub and ran the towel under the now lukewarm water. The two made eye contact; she smiled warmly and he did nothing.
“You look like you prefer a nice neutral smell, pumpkin, so I’m gonna wash you with this here baby soap.” She wasn’t condescending in her tone, just warmly keeping him in the loop of what she’s doing. Just like before, she slowly began to wash the built up sorrow off. The towel was old, missing fibers in some places, and was like sandpaper at some points, but it was always softly done with care. When his flesh was clean, she rubbed her hands with another baby soap and began to run her fingers through his hair. It was a soft lavender and chamomile smelling shampoo that easily foamed up as the old woman worked her hands. She cradled his head in her hands and hummed as she washed. When it was time to rinse the bubbles off, the woman brought the shower head down and made sure to shield the Doorman’s eyes from the run-off.
After struggling to get up, the old woman held out her hand for him. The Doorman stood up by himself and stepped out of the tub. The woman reached up to cup his cheek with her hand and smiled warmly. She would wait for him in the living room while he changed. She lightly patted his face and then left the bathroom. He could hear her shuffle down the hallway in her slippers. The Doorman turned to look at the pile of clothes. He stood there, for a beat to long, sizing up the task ahead. It was small but felt far too large to do alone. He exhaled. He picked up the white button up shirt and took it one sleeve at a time.
The clothes were plain; a button-up, vest, and slacks. He stepped into the hallway. One foot at a time, he walked back to the living room couch. The stacks of books on the coffee table had been moved to an armchair nearby and replaced with a sage green tea set. Steam rose steadily from the mouth of the teapot. A small clear cup of sugar cubes was next to the pot, and next to that was a small silver dish with cream. The tea set had matching plates with cookies of various kind piled on. The old woman waited for him on the couch. He sat down, stiffly, on the opposite side of her.
“Look at you pumpkin. You clean up nicely.” She hummed while sipping her cup.
The Doorman said nothing. He picked up a cookie and inspected it.
“My name is Igraine,” she put down her cup and folded her hands on her lap. “Do you have a name other than pumpkin?”
The Doorman did not answer. Only mortals needed names.
“Pumpkin it is then. You know, I just adore that hotel of yours. The Baroness? Oh she’s such a hoot. I’m always taken care of by the folks there and the breakfast there is just so stinkin’ good!” She chuckled. After a beat her face dropped. “My husband and I would go there all the time. When he was alive.”
The Doorman set the cookie down. His interest was piqued.
“He was truly the love of my life. I don’t know how some folks can ever date another person once their spouse dies. There’s not another soul out there that could even come close to competing with my Horace. He was such a strong man, and I mean that in more ways than one.” Igraine laughed and elbowed the Doorman. He leaned away.
“Well, you know, when we first meet he was such a tiny little thing. I think I could’ve even picked him up and I was by no means strong. I’d been a waitress at that old bar just outside the city, Jezebel’s. Heard of it? Last I saw it was still kickin’. Although, knowing how it was run when I was there I doubt it’ll be open much longer. Before the new owner came the place used to be a meeting ground for so many unsavory types. Honestly, I don’t know why they’d let a young girl work there! Well, in hindsight I do but you understand my point. Lot’s of rough-n-tough guys in gangs or just folks lookin’ to cause trouble hung around all the time. So imagine my shock when this short, scrawny kid just about my age walks in alone. He sat at the bar right in between two guys who could crush him with a glance!
“I remember begging to swap sections with my friend who was working with me at the time. I hadn’t talked to many other Ixians since moving to New York, and now I was just jumpin’ at the chance to say hi to this kid. I’m pretty sure my friend made me give her all my tips from that day but knowing now how it turned out? I’d do it again in a heartbeat. Although, I do think that she got herself into some trouble later on in life. I think I saw her on the wanted list that the police department posted the other day. But that’s neither here nor there.
“There Horace was, sittin’ at the bar like he belonged there. He wore a worn out jacket and was absolutely covered in coal dust. There was this mining operation just outside of the city that he worked at. It was illegal of course. Honestly, I’m shocked it didn’t collapse sooner! Not a single ounce of safety measures was put into that place.
“Horace and I got to chattin’. I even spent my break talkin’. I was fascinated by this guy, but as soon as I realized he worked for the mine I lost interest. Everyone around town knew that all the guys who worked in that mine did not have a long life ahead of them. In fact, earlier that week I remember seeing one of my coworkers names in the paper obituary. It was quite depressing looking back on it but it was just how things were then. We didn’t expect anyone to live that long. So, I made him a deal. If he made it to the other side of his contracted at the mine, we would chat more. If I’m remembering correctly, he had a few months left. Even so, I didn’t think I’d get to talk to him again after.
“Of course I was wrong. I saw him the exact day his contract ended and oh boy! Had he changed!” Igraine blushed and fanned herself over the memory.
“He had practically doubled in size and his arms were like watermelons. He was incredibly fit, but still covered in coal. I told him to go home and wash up and then we could chat. Being the stubborn man that he was, he refused to go until I gave him a kiss on the cheek! Perhaps now I wouldn’t be so fast to fall but at the time I was absolutely smitten. I had fallen for him head over heals. Of course I gave him the kiss and I walked home with black lips as proof.”
The Doorman picked up a teacup and took a sip. Jasmine and earl grey greeted him.
“Unfortunately, near the end, he wasn’t able to keep up appearances. Not that it mattered to me, I loved Horace for everything that made him him. I do know that he put a lot of weight on looking good for me. It’s just that his disease made him unable to exercise the way he used to. If he tried he would pass out. He would even get out of breath going down the hallway. It was difficult to see, I can’t even imagine how it would be if I were him. He still did his absolute best to raise our three kiddos. I think he did an excellent job.” Igraine got up and took one of the many family photos off the wall and handed it to the Doorman. He took it and held it carefully.
“His last day wasn’t even difficult. I know that many people who live with illnesses like his say that it just keeps getting worse, but for Horace it was far too slow to notice. Everything was normal until one day he just couldn’t do things he could before. Besides I think he hid as much of his struggling from us as he could. He sure was a mule-headed man. I wished he had asked for more help.
“We actually visited the Baroness on his last day. It was a nice American breakfast that we shared. I remember how delicious it was. The pancakes had seemed so fluffy that day. Everything that day had seemed amazing. The sun seemed brighter and the sky was clear of clouds. The birdsong was so sweet. What’s it called? The calm before the storm?”
The Doorman hummed a yes.
“That’s it, thank you pumpkin. It was such a nice day. We decided to treat ourselves after our breakfast and we walked to the museum. You know that one at the end of Broadway? It’s very nice and organized. The tour guide there is a little stiff so Horace and I liked to do our own tours. We are much funner than her. We couldn’t spend long at the museum because Horace was getting tired so we went home about an hour later. He was huffin’ and puffin’ when we got home so I tucked him into bed. I even made him a cup of chamomile with honey. It never got drank, of course.
“The next morning he was gone. I don’t know when he passed but he was breathin’ when I got in bed that night. I actually believed I was at fault for a while. I would beat myself up about it, about how I just slept right through it. I thought that I was supposed to have saved him that night. That I was supposed to have just known and woken up in time to keep him alive. I couldn’t accept that his dead was quiet and unannounced. In all the stories I read as a little girl, the good guys always got a big fuss made about their death. The hero’s death was always impossible to miss. So how could I have missed my hero’s death?”
She stopped talking for a moment and the Doorman looked up at her. Igraine was crying. She was sniffling and trying to make herself quieter. The Doorman put his hand on her knee. They made eye contact and Igraine smiled, her tears dripping off of her chin. She coughed out a laugh.
“Thank you, pumpkin. When you lose someone like Horace it feels like you have lost everything. When I had to watch that white sheet leave my house, it felt like I was watching half of myself get ripped away. I still feel incomplete and its been, what, five years? Give or take. I just have to pick up my pieces, my memories, and hold them tight. I think of Horace whenever I can, I talk about him too, and it helps me feel-” Igraine pauses, “Remembering him, it helps me feel.”
“Doesn’t it hurt?” The Doorman looked at her, desperation in his eyes.
“Of course it does,” She sees him deflate a little, “but that’s part of healing. Poking a bruise hurts, pumpkin, but if you keep poking at it you’ll notice each day your poke hurts a little less until one day it doesn’t hurt anymore. Healing doesn’t start only once the hurting ends. They are two sides of the same coin.”
The Doorman looked away. It was not the answer he had wanted.
“I don’t give a hoot if you are an ancient god who’s traveled the earth for centuries,” The Doorman’s eye snapped to her, surprised. “Don’t look at me like that. You haven’t exactly been hiding it. Just because I’m a mortal does not mean that I cannot understand your pain. I understand it more than you know. You are not alone in your sorrow. This feeling in your chest, the ache that hasn’t left your side since that day, is part of the cost of life. Loss is the price of love and that price is absolutely worth it.
“But you cannot let yourself drown in the loss. To drown in loss is to starve yourself of love. Pumpkin, you cannot let this consume you. Life and love is fleeting, you must appreciate everything that is, was, and could be. How lucky are we to have known someone that makes saying goodbye so hard?”
The Doorman looked back at their overlapping hands. Tears fell onto their knuckles. He looked back up at Igraine and smiled. It was not forced or faked.
“Thank you, Mrs Igraine.”
“Of course, Pumpkin.”
“I apologize for my earlier behavior. It was impolite.” The Doorman wiped away his tears and straightened up.
“Oh don’t you fuss about that. I understand.” Igraine stood up and walked to the kitchen. She brought out something wrapped in brown paper and tied with twine. “Take these for the road. You take care of yourself now, okay?”
“Yes ma’am.” He sniffled and chuckled softly.
After a minute or so of Igraine doting on him, the Doorman made his leave from the apartment. It was no longer raining when he got to the street. That is not to say that it was perfectly clear, no, the sky was still covered in dark, brooding clouds but, if you looked at the right place, you might catch a glimpse of some blue shining through.
You did well, kiddo. Thanks for listening and take care of you and yours.
Now take this healing rite and get outta my face. Mo and Krill are heading this direction at about mach 8 and I need to fortify my shop before they get here.