Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Myranah was beautiful, there was no denying that. Her mother was a Greek slave with piercing blue eyes which won her the heart of a wealthy Egyptian master. Their daughter inherited those same eyes, and they stood in stark contrast to her midnight dark skin. As a child, she had charmed everyone – apart from her father’s wife. Spoiled sweet, outspoken little Myranah was the bane of that great lady’s existence, and finally her father hit upon a solution to the problem. Up until her fifteenth year, Myranah had been raised barely a step below her more legitimate siblings; educated, refined, and well-dressed. Now she was becoming a woman fully grown, the lady of the house feared she’d outshine the others when it came to marriage prospects and would not have her own children passed over for the daughter of a slave. Her father, being in good-standing with Pharaoh, decided to use his connections to Myranah’s advantage and set his daughter up as handmaid to the queen. His final gift to her was a jeweled pendant in the shape of a spider; a reminder of all the times her younger self had frightened everyone around her by trying to make pets of the larger ones she found.

Life in the palace was not difficult at first. She charmed the queen as easily she did everyone else and soon became her sworn confidant. Myranah dressed the queen, and in turn had a servant to dress her. The two companions made an eye-catching pair in their matching gowns, gold-beaded wigs adorning their lovely heads. In the evenings, her queen called upon Myranah to sing or recite poetry before retiring to bed; for the gods had blessed her with a fine voice to match her other graces.

But there was one torment that occasionally spoiled this otherwise peaceful life. Pharaoh, himself, was taken with Myranah and often sent her small tokens of his favor. Which she promptly gave to her mistress, pretending she had no idea who the perfumes and jewels were really meant for. It wasn’t that he was an entirely unappealing prospect. No. The life of a favored concubine could have been as comfortable as that of queen’s confidant; if not moreso. To say nothing of his physical attractiveness, which almost outweighed the cruelty of his heart. But the queen had been a kind friend to her, and Myranah couldn’t bear to see that relationship sour into the open contempt her father’s wife had held towards her own mother. Didn’t want to think of her own children sent away as Myranah had been.

After months of courting, he grew impatient with her subtle rejections and pressed his suit more openly. One night, he bade her to his chambers after dinner and Myranah went because she hadn’t the option to refuse. Behind closed doors, he placed his hands on her and tried to force her down onto the bed. There was nothing subtle about her rejection this time; she screamed and kicked and clawed his face bloody with her sharp nails. One of them came dangerously near his eye, but it was the lucky strike between his legs that won her freedom.

When her temper was roused, Myranah had never been particularly wise and now was no exception. There was no doubt she’d be punished for this, but he would be equally certain of where he ranked in her esteem.

“You disgusting worm,” she cried angrily, spitting on his pain-wracked form before fleeing the room in vain hope of salvation.

The soldiers discovered her sobbing in an alcove not twenty minutes later; panic having driven her to search out a dark corner like the spiders she so loved. Twisting and fighting were all to no avail as they wrapped her in burial linens, one of them claiming her pendant as a prize when they reached her neck. Myranah grew calm then, accepting her fate but refusing to be parted from her father’s last gift.

“That is mine. Give it back, or may your balls rot and fall from your body like overripe fruit.”

Something of her demeanor must have frightened him, for the necklace was returned almost deferentially before they finished winding the linen; placing her in the waiting tomb of the very man she had spurned.

Waiting to die was a horrible thing. But it wasn’t only the gnawing hunger and thirst that made it so. When she wasn’t sleeping for lack of anything else to do, Myranah was out of her mind with boredom. Dying was dull. And it was a relief when the end finally came.

She was to lie undisturbed for four-thousand years.

When next she opened her eyes it was to a grisly scene. A man on the ground impaled by some double-bladed weapon, blood between his legs. A frightening creature with two faces was suddenly in her sight, attempting to fasten her necklace with trembling hands. She gasped and drew back, which startled the creature who yelped and fell back still holding the necklace.

“What are you,” she demanded, reaching for her property. The creature placed it in her hand and Myranah pulled back quickly. It had kind eyes, but at her movement they registered hurt. “Where am I?”

“Myrna,” the creature garbled her name and its voice sounded male.

Fastening the chain back around her throat, she repeated herself but he seemed not to understand and only spoke her name. This, at least, she could work with.

“Myranah,” she said, pointing to herself. “Who are you?” It was unkind to keep calling him a thing, when she had finally realized his overall shape was human; albeit badly deformed.

“Myrna,” he repeated.

“Myranah,” she tried again, and pointed to him in turn.

Finally he seemed to understand.

“E...noch.”

The N was a subtle sound, his jaw having trouble shaping it, but she thought she’d caught the name right.

“Enoch?”

His face lit up and he nodded eagerly. It was the smile that won her. A strangely sweet expression on his terrible features. Her own lips tilted up in response as she held out her hand to him. He grasped it quickly and she could feel a fine tremor shaking his entire frame.

Enoch led her safely from whatever new horror she had awoken into; the two of them sneaking around colorful tents and off into the mountains. The cave they came to inhabit was not the luxury she was accustomed to, but he did his best to make a proper home for them. He was shy and kind, and before long she allowed him to unwrap her linen bindings.

They never did truly learn to speak with each other, but she got the point across through miming.

How her dead body came to bear a child, Myranah couldn’t say. Still, she supposed it shouldn’t have come as too much of a surprise that a living corpse might be able to do some things a more traditional dead body couldn’t. The birth was unexpectedly easy. One moment she felt pains, and short hours later she was holding a hideously beautiful corpse-child. Her own blue eyes looking up from his face.

“Ankhtifi,” she whispered reverently. “You must have a long life, my wonderful child.”

She had not. And it became more obvious every day that Enoch was dying. Myranah didn’t like to think of what would happen to herself and her child once her husband was no longer able to make his infrequent trips for supplies. She did not know this land as he did.

Resting while their son slept nearby wearing little garments she’d made for him from her own bindings, Myranah took up needle and thread. Her embroidery had always been beautiful, and she used her most painstaking stitches to sew her baby's name onto the little doll Enoch had brought with them.

When she finished, Enoch touched the pictures she had made and looked curiously at her.

“Ankhtifi,” she said, and pointed to the baby so he would understand.

The name proved too difficult for him to pronounce. She wondered how their son would ever learn to talk when his own parents spoke two different languages with barely a word in common.

Yet he learned to call for her. Mama.

The night Enoch died, she lay down beside him to sleep as they had always done. The baby was nearby in his little straw nest. Tomorrow, she would have to begin thinking of a new plan for their survival.

She drifted off to the soft wheeze of Ankhtifi breathing.

Chapter Text

“Found in a cave, did you say,” Feeley asked the woman, who nodded.

“Does ‘at matter?”

Her dark hair was greasy and her dress had seen better days. Ethel, her name was, a struggling widow who had been out hunting for her twin sons’ next meal. She’d heard the screaming child and followed the noise. When she found the ugly, soiled, clearly starving and abandoned child, part of her had determined that the kindest thing would be to shoot it. Then she thought of that traveling freak show her boys had wanted to see and it seemed like God was smiling on her. Ugly little thing was a lucky find, indeed, if there was money in it.

“Not really,” Feeley said, studying the baby he’d paid five dollars for. Still breathing, but had fallen into an exhausted slumber. Probably needed to be fed, if he wanted to keep a living corpse on hand.

Its face was vaguely familiar though. But such things surely weren’t possible...

Chapter Text

Feeley’s Fantastic Fairway of Freaks was not the ideal place to raise any child. For this particular child, it was a special kind of Hell. Found abandoned in a cave, this newest skull-faced boy had been briefly and reluctantly cared for by a wetnurse named Grace; who was fired as soon as he could eat solid foods. After that, it was a small helping of porridge twice a day –barring the occasional treat passed to him by an old woman that was afforded more freedom- and endless months in a cage.

His one comfort in all of this was the doll. No one knew how he came by it, only that he’d refused to let go of it when they found him. When he threw fits –which he did often, being a toddler left unstimulated in a confined space- his new “caretaker” tried to take the doll as punishment.

She was the first one to try it. Her successor was the last. Both met with grisly accidents not five minutes after walking away with the toy in their possession. He was allowed to scream in peace after that.

The old woman called him Charlie, but no one else did. What did a freak in a cage need a proper name for? Before he could even walk properly, the child had learned to answer quickly to Skullface.

The biggest draw, for the first years of his life, was the tragic sight of an ugly child babbling to its one toy. Sometimes, the mothers would take pity and coo at him. He stopped perking up at the sound and calling for mama before he’d even been there a month, for none but the old lady ever reached through the bars to pet him.

By the time he was four, he understood that his mother and father had left because he was ugly. He didn’t understand where the doll came from, then, unless all children were simply born with them. It was an answer that satisfied his small mind for a few years.

However, as he grew older, it stopped making sense. His hair was long and unkempt. His clothes ragged and ill-fitting. Occasionally, someone poured a bucket of water over him “for the smell." He was given just enough food to survive though they kept him thin. They never let him out to stretch his legs.

But he saw other children come through the fair. Some were clean and well-fed; carried around by doting parents when their legs grew tired. Others were filthy and darted nervously through the crowd; dipping their hands into unsuspecting pockets. The first group occasionally had toys with them. The second never did. Dolls, then, must be something given to children who were loved. Most people said no one could ever love a face like his, but someone had given him a doll.

He asked the old lady – who told him to call her Aunt Ruthie- if it was a present from her. But though she doted on him, she had no idea where the doll came from.

Perhaps he’d been stolen, and there was a mama out there somewhere who was looking for her skull-faced baby. Lying in the straw at night, he hoped she’d find him soon.

Chapter Text

Madam Zarina was known backstage as Ruthie Mae Kingman. As a young woman, she’d been Daddy’s Disappointment who’d fallen hard for a lion-tamer and subsequently joined up with Feeley’s as a fortune-teller. Despite the fact that on a good day Ruthie couldn’t stand Feeley, she’d stayed after her husband Charlie’s death (he was getting too old to really keep a handle on the lions, they said, and it had been a horrifying scene) because she no longer remembered any other life. The loathing was mutual and Ruthie would have undoubtedly been out of a job once everything about her buxom figure started to sag, if Madam Zarina weren’t a consummate show-woman with a knack for eerily accurate predictions. She had a talent for reading her customers and a way of making them feel both welcome and ill-at-ease all at the same time; leaving them off-balance and trusting her to put it right.

And today, it was apparently her job to gently disappoint a little boy before someone else did so less kindly.

“...And he didn’t have a nose, Aunt Ruthie!” Out of the cage again, thanks to the lock pick she’d slipped him as soon as he was old enough to understand being sneaky. “So, that means I could-”

“Charlie,” she said quietly, reaching across the small table in her trailer to touch his wrist. It brought an instant halt to his excited babble about Chaney’s latest movie. “Wait here a minute.”

She went to the trunk that housed her collection of film magazines –for she adored gossip and celebrities were an excellent source- , flipping through them to find the picture she wanted.

“Here. This is what Lon Chaney really looks like.”

The big blue eyes grew defiant, a faint blush creeping over his dark skin. “Nuh-uh. Jimmy told Bobby the Phantom doesn’t have a nose!”

“That’s the problem with eavesdropping, my dear, you don’t always get the whole picture.” She couldn’t scold him too much for the habit, when he was a bright and curious child not allowed to venture into the world. “I’m sure they were only praising Mr Chaney’s skill with make-up.”

“Make-up’s for girls,” he said sullenly, folding in on himself and kicking the table leg. “Or clowns.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “And actors. Everyone knows he’s very good at changing his face into...whatever he wants,” she concluded lamely, drawing back from saying ‘changing his face into monsters.’

“So, he’s just pretending not to have a nose?”

Ruthie nodded, reaching out to put a hand on his shoulder. Charlie shrugged her off, clutching his doll close, instead.

“That’s not fair.” There was a warning catch in his throat and she knew he was on the verge of sobbing. “He gets to have a nose and everyone is mean to me!”

Summed up as ineloquently as only a child could, but she understood. It was terribly cruel that Charlie had to spend his life in a cage being mocked for his face, while a film star could put on that same face to earn praise then take it right back off again.

She pulled him into a hug again, and this time he didn’t resist.

“I’ll bet everyone would love me if I had a nose,” he said sullenly when the storm had passed, sniffing and mopping snot away with a ragged sleeve.

Ruthie winced at the mess, handing him a cloth napkin instead. They were a wedding gift she’d kept mostly pristine through the years, but this was a worthwhile use. She tsked, tilting his chin up.

“You’re a beautiful child either way and don’t you forget it.” She ignored his doubtful look. “But beauty always fades. Being interesting is what sticks.”

Charlie scoffed, swatting her hand away. “Isabella’s not that interesting and the audience loves her.”

“That’s not nice,” Ruthie chided him, unable to keep her smirk in check.

Isabella was a rude little bitch but she was damn good at her job and had the sort of athleticism that didn’t rely on beauty. Ruthie was probably biased, though, not being a man dying of lust as Isabella wrapped her muscular curves in silk ribbons and soared around the center ring. Maybe she only thought the other woman had a harsh face with no true beauty. However, this was a teaching moment and her personal opinions didn’t matter right now.

“She’s very interesting. Can you do even half the things she does?”

The boy shook his head.

“You see? She’s not a nice person, but she’s put the work in and deserves her audience, same as me.”

“I sit in a cage,” he reminded her petulantly. “The only work is to get out.”

Ruthie looked down at the table, scratching at the wood with a red fingernail. He had a point. But…

“I don’t know how much you remember, but some of them were nicer when you were little. Just wanted to watch you play with that doll.”

It would certainly make things easier for him if he had some sort of act. Maybe fewer people trying to provoke him into doing something. Those bastards who came to gawk did so love to make him curse and lash out.

She smiled, a calculating expression that belonged wholly to Madam Zarina and was usually coated in too much lipstick.

“My dear boy,” Ruthie said in Zarina’s indefinable accent, clapping her hands in a gesture that normally sent layers of bracelets jangling, “I have just had the most marvelous idea.”

Mutual loathing aside, Feeley trusted her to put on a good show, so it wouldn’t take much to persuade him around to her way of thinking. A cackling skeleton in the corner was exactly what her tent needed.

Chapter Text

                                                                                                           Ten years later

“Doc says I’m done for,” Ruthie told him cheerfully when the man had departed, allowing her adopted son back in. “Hand me a ciggie.”

Madam Zarina had become a thing of the past over the last two months as Ruthie slowly dwindled away to match Charlie’s own healthier-but-still-thin physique. She no longer even bothered to cover the gray in her artificially dark hair. Three days ago she almost stopped getting out of bed entirely.

“You know, some people say these things’ll kill ya,” Charlie laughed, shaking one out of the pack. Putting it to his lips to light, he took a deep drag instead of passing it over.

Ruthie glared, holding out an imperious hand.

“You get your own.”

“I thought you said what’s yours is mine?"

So it had been for the last decade. Her money became their money. Her trailer, theirs. She’d purchased a cot for him and hung a curtain around it because a growing boy needed privacy. He had decent clothes. Even kept his hair neat and tidy, though he’d come to like wearing it a little too long.

The only thing he had to do for this luxury was wear a black satin cloak and frighten whoever entered Ruthie's tent. Madam has been expecting you, do come in. With a cackle alongside the unsettling addition of a name if he’d managed to sniff one out on his break, and could recall well enough to put it with a face.

Ruthie made a beckoning motion and he tutted at her stinginess, but gave over; snagging another one for himself.

She inhaled, immediately falling into a hacking cough on the exhale. He caught the cigarette before it could touch the bedspread, placing it safely in the ashtray while she covered her mouth to stop the spray of blood. Afterward, she fished an already stained handkerchief out from where it rested under the hang of her aged bosom and wiped her hands with a frown.

Charlie gave the cigarette back without being asked.

Her second draw went much better and they smoked in companionable silence.

“You know they’ll put me back in the cage when you’re gone,” Charlie said after awhile, stubbing the butt out with more force than necessary.

It was only Feeley’s grudging respect for Ruthie that was keeping him out it now, when she was no longer able to bring in the money. Not to mention the mutiny that would undoubtedly arise should he attempt depriving the old widow of her son on her deathbed.

Ruthie hummed acknowledgment, taking a final puff before putting her own cigarette out.

“They wouldn’t have wanted that any more than I do.”

Ruthie had asked around both within the circus and the town where they found him, after Charlie had expressed what he assumed was a hopeless wish to know where he came from. It was she who gave him the unlikely story of his parentage. Charlie still had trouble believing that his mother had been dead long before he was ever conceived, but the fact remained that everyone said he was found in the same cave where Enoch’s corpse was clutching Myrna the mummy. Add in his own death-like appearance and he could almost manage to keep his skepticism in check.

“You could go ahead and run. Wouldn’t blame you one bit.”

He did have a tidy sum put back. They both knew her age would catch up to her eventually, and Ruthie had insisted that he have the means to get out when needed. To that end, she’d controlled his share of the money very strictly; only granting permission for him to purchase frivolities twice a month. He’d raged at her more than once for it, but lately had begun to see the wisdom in it. There was enough there to keep Charlie off the streets for at least a month if the room was cheap. Longer, if he found a job quickly.

He lit another cigarette, passing it automatically over to Ruthie before taking an extra for himself.

“I’ll leave tonight,” he promised, understanding the suggestion to be a command. She’d be happier breathing her last if he were far away and free when it happened.

“Better be two towns over before sun-up,” Ruthie ordered, reaching out to take his hand.

Her fingers squeezed weakly and he returned the gesture; feeling the fragile bones shifting beneath her skin. If he sniffled or his eyes got a bit glassy, she was kind enough not to mention it.

Chapter Text

He left carrying a small sack that contained two changes of clothes, his performance cloak, a bag of money, the doll which never left him, and Ruthie’s beloved collection of gossip magazines. The last item because she had insisted he take something to remember her by, and there was nothing that conjured up the image of Ruthie quite like a bitchy tabloid harping gleefully on everyone’s dirty laundry. His hair was tied up and tucked under a hat; a pair of fake glasses holding his equally fake nose in place. It wasn’t Groucho level, only a subtle thing of Ruthie’s own procuring so that he could buy bubblegum or booze without being stared at when she took him shopping with her.

He left with a destination in mind, yet only a vague idea of what he wanted to do once he got there.

His promise to be two towns over was unavoidably broken, but he had the good sense not to stop in the same one where the circus was performing. There was the unfortunate necessity of spending a couple nights sleeping in ditches, a few delightfully questionable favors done in exchange for a lift, and now, weeks later, he was finally here.

‘Here,’ being ‘drunk in a Los Angeles alley.’ With no plans of leaving it until some shifty-looking fellow wandered by looking for a date. It turned out shifty-looking fellows were particularly fond of skinny boys with big blue eyes. Especially if that boy had repurposed a satin cloak into a slinky black dress. And especially in this side of town, where they were paying for that extra something under the skirt.

The dim glow of a street lamp picked up a furtively moving shadow across the way. Deciding to take a gamble, Charlie took a quick drag of his cigarette, tottering drunkenly forward in the ill-fitting heels he’d spent five dollars on. The woman he’d bought them from had been looking to score drugs and was out of her head just enough for him to fast talk her into the deal. Ruthie would probably have been disappointed that he’d wasted money that way, but he considered it an investment. His legs looked amazing, which hadn’t gone unappreciated by the clients who kept a leaky roof over his head while he tried for better things.

“Hey, sailor,” he called, the smoke helping to lower his reedy young voice into a raspy purr.

Cliché, but it worked. The man was lured in as if by a siren’s call and Charlie took another boozy step forward (hoping the movement looked more like the seductive sway he was aiming at), not stopping until he stood directly within arm’s reach of the older man. The knife in his garter would be enough to get him out of trouble if his calculated risk backfired.

This close, it was very easy for the man to see the promise of danger in the red-painted smirk and appreciate the way dark lashes swept coyly over stunning blue eyes.

“Aren’t you a yummy little thing,” he exclaimed in delight, sounding more than a bit tipsy himself.

One of those who wouldn’t care about the lack of a nose, then.

“If you say so,” Charlie answered with a falsely modest little shrug, taking another deep pull of the cigarette to draw the man’s full attention to his mouth.

The man stared, licking his own lips. Charlie opened his mouth and puffed a near perfect smoke ring in the other man’s direction, wishing it wasn’t lost to the darkness and night breeze. It was a good trick. Not that he needed much to hook this one. Another pull while he waited for the latest client to remember how words worked.

“How much?”

He looked the man over as much as the dim lighting allowed, assessing his overall financial state. Didn’t look too bad off. And at least as drunk as Charlie, himself. Which meant he could probably overcharge and get away with it.

“Twenty-five. Unless you want something weird.” He leaned in closer, modulating the rasp into something even more sinfully low-pitched. “I happen to like weird.”

There was no need to specify what that entailed. The guy’s own imagination could fill it in for him. The average joe was usually hilariously warped and Charlie was morbidly curious what this one could dream up.  

Chapter Text

The annoying fact was, every trick Ruthie taught him had been more effective at getting his ass in the air than his foot in the door. He’d given up on the glasses because everyone said they detracted from his looks. Then they changed their tune when his nose came off with them.

The pictures were obviously out as a career, but no one wanted to put him on a stage, either. When one guy said he’d have better luck in a freak show, Charlie remembered Chaney with particular bitterness.

There was no way for him to captivate an audience if no one would give him one in the first place.

On the other hand, perched on a bar stool or posed against an alley wall, it was very easy to charm desperate drunks into overlooking that one glaring flaw in what he now understood was an otherwise gorgeous face. And for the ones who couldn’t, he’d wink and point out they didn’t have to look at it for the two of them to have a little fun.

Finally, though, it looked like it was all about to pay off. Three months ago he’d picked up a mob boss by the name of Richie whose door swung both ways, and it wasn’t long before Charlie had moved up in the world in terms of housing. Now he was in a penthouse, wore furs with smartly tailored suits, and clacked around in designer shoes to match.

And wouldn’t you know it? One night, after Charlie had gleefully entertained Richie’s guests with an innuendo-laden song of his own creation, Richie had slung an arm around his shoulder and,

“Yummy,” he said, Charlie’s working name now an affectionate nickname, “you oughta be onstage.”

No one present argued, because Charlie belonged to Richie and you didn’t cross Richie.

“That’s always been the dream,” Charlie answered with a shrug, picking up the Singapore Sling he’d left on the piano and taking a dainty sip.

“I know a guy. Friend of mine, does what I tell him cuz he knows what’s good for ’im. Not the classiest joint, but you ain’t exactly the classiest broad.”

Charlie gasped in mock-offense, batting Richie’s arm away. “Next you’ll say I don’t have any style.”

Richie laughed and stole Charlie’s drink, taking a healthy swig before handing it back. “That’s the one thing you do have.”

The most hilarious thing was when he recognized the theater Richie took him to. Managed by Ralph Wiley, the man who'd been particularly unflattering in his assessment of Charlie. The look on his face was absolutely priceless when the ugly little freak swanned in wearing a white traveling suit with a matching fur stole, ears and neck dripping with diamonds. He was further gobsmacked when Charlie helped himself to a glass of the expensive whiskey on the desk, then sat down like he owned the place. 

“Ralph, this is Charlie." Richie introduced with a flourish, showing him off like a new car. 

“Oh, we’ve met,” Charlie purred, giving Ralph a cold little smile while fishing a cigarette out of his purse. Settling back with it between his lips, he gave Richie an expectant look. Richie smoothly offered up a lighter and Charlie inhaled as the tip caught fire. Deliberately exhaling in Ralph’s direction.

The other man coughed and tried to discreetly fan the smoke away.

“He didn’t like me much,” Charlie concluded, puffing a couple more rings at Ralph.

“I-I wouldn’t say that,” Ralph stammered, eyes watering at the constant stream of smoke coming his way.

“Oh no,” Richie asked, grinning as he caught on. He did so enjoy watching Charlie wind people up.

“No,” Ralph insisted. “I mean, there were hundreds of people auditioning that day. He just didn’t stand out.”

The two of them gave Ralph matching skeptical looks. Charlie hadn’t stood out in a crowd?

“I thought you said I’d be more at home in a freak show?”

“No. You must’ve misheard me.”

“I’m sure he did,” Richie interrupted smoothly. “Because Charlie, here, is your new headline act.”

Ralph’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment.

“That’s Trixie’s spot,” he finally argued weakly. “She’s gonna be mad.”

Richie leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk.

“Which one are you more afraid of,” he asked lowly. “Me, or your little pencil holder.”

Behind him, Charlie snickered.

“You,” Ralph said quickly.

“Good answer.”

Chapter Text

“Gettin too famous, baby, I'm gonna have to let you go.”

Charlie had seen this coming for awhile now. It didn’t matter that onstage he wore trousers and a nose, or never left with Richie unless he was fully done-up as Yummy. His features and his voice were too distinctive; out in the wider world it wasn’t a good idea for people to know that Richie’s favorite gal was a boy.

Ah, well, he was headlining on his own merit, now, had an agent to handle bookings and everything. Ralph’s sad little nowhere club was a thing of the past.

“Can I at least keep the clothes,” he asked nonchalantly. As if he wasn’t going to miss the big lug with his cruel sense of humor.

Richie waved the question aside, so Charlie went to the closet and started packing. Not like there were many people that dresses tailored to someone as small as Charlie would fit. The jewelry, on the other hand…

“Uh-uh,” Richie said, snatching the necklace Charlie had tried to slip in under a blouse. “Those stay.”

Charlie rolled his eyes but finished gathering what was still his in sulky silence. He’d just buy himself jewelry if he wanted it.

“See ya backstage sometime,” Charlie asked hopefully, hefting the two suitcases he now owned.

“Nah. We had our laughs, best move on.” There was a warning in Richie's tone.

Charlie got the hint and left without pushing the issue. 

Chapter Text

“Then the dad-” Charlie paused, sipping at the Devil’s Tail sitting on the stool next to him. He cast an assessing eye over the crowd. The hulking brute who’d demanded this one, the thing Charlie was famous for...yeah, that guy was already looking a bit green around the gills.

“Hmm. Maybe I should stop there,” he decided, nudging his glasses up. “I’m not sure you can handle it.”

“I’m fine,” the green man swore. “Keep going you little fruitcake.”

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“Alright,” Charlie said easily. “Where was I? Oh, yes, dad had just eaten that live rat.”

The words were gleefully savored, watching his enemy valiantly struggle not to dry heave.

“Then the dad, barely giving the rat enough time to digest, stuck his finger down his throat and vomited up the remains. Scooping up the mess of blood and bile with two fingers, he shoved those fingers up his son’s ass...”

Green brute immediately copied daddy dearest and puked all over the table. A glaring waitress hurried over with a cloth, her disgusted gaze flitting between the two antagonists. Charlie winked and blew her a kiss, which she scoffed at.

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“I think I’d better stop there.”

How this was seductive, not one of them could have explained, but something in his tone had half the crowd leaning forward; eyes no doubt gleaming hungrily. Sickos. He chuckled lowly, enjoying the way the sound caused one or two bosoms in the front row to heave unconsciously.

“Go on,” someone shouted from the darkened corners.

“Weeeell, if you insist.”

And he did. Spewing an unending litany of absolute filth for what felt like eternity, but in reality wasn’t more than ten minutes.

“Sated and sticky, the whole family joined hands and took a bow. ‘What do you call yourselves,’ the agent asked. Dad grinned, proud as a peacock. ‘The Aristocrats!’”

The final phrase released the spell that had been holding the entire room motionless. Thunderous applause and whistles now filling the silence. It was inevitable that someone wanted his now legendary version of the infamous joke, especially since Charlie never told it the same way twice. It was a deliberately muddled game of telephone. One person swore he said this, another one that. Then a curious third person stopped by and got something else entirely.

Downing the rest of his drink in one go, he left the glass sitting onstage as he waved and bowed his way off.

Backstage, a redhead in a silver leotard made a beeline for him.

“Charlie,” she whined, plastering herself around his neck and leaning down to kiss his cheek. “You promised you’d talk to Johnny about getting us a better slot.”

‘Us,’ being Cheryl and her magician boyfriend who thought they were destined for greatness by getting themselves involved with the star attraction. In truth, Dan was mediocre at best. Cheryl’s breasts were the real draw of that act, but she didn’t have any other talent besides posing. She’d have been better off in a pin-up calender, and would undoubtedly scratch Charlie's eyes out if he told her that. 

“Alright, alright, jeez. I’ll see what I can do,” he said, disentangling himself. “It probably won't be much. Johnny says Dan’s holding you back.”

A lie, of course. He’d never spoken to Johnny about either of them. The sex was great, but he wasn’t about letting someone else steal his spotlight. Still, the resulting fireworks if Cheryl decided to drop Dan would be very entertaining; even moreso if either of the two got violent as they were prone to do. Their little circle would be buzzing about it for days.

Cheryl stepped back, frowning thoughtfully.

“Mama always said I should have stuck with dancing.”

“Sure, sure,” he called over his shoulder, already heading for the bar.

They’d all seen her dancing. She hadn’t had any training since she was eight, and liked to pull that fact out as if it would astonish anyone. In her mind, she was amazing. In reality, no one was surprised at hearing how little she actually knew. Wouldn’t stop her from ending up as another kind of dancer, of course, but that was something else Charlie was wise enough not to mention. 

Chapter Text

Dan rushed him out of nowhere, not saying anything until he’d already plunged the knife deep into Charlie’s chest; ripping it upwards. As the smaller man lay blinking up at him, both hands pressing against the flow of blood in a futile effort to stop it, Dan raged and screamed about how it was all Charlie’s fault. Cheryl was the love of Dan’s life (in spite of everything, Charlie almost laughed at that, because Dan was notorious for cheating) and now she’d left him forever.

When his eyes blinked open again, the blood had stopped and he was cold. Dragging himself to his feet, Charlie stumbled back home in a dazed quest for clean clothes. Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, something felt off though he couldn't put his finger on what. 

Someone tapped on his shoulder and he spun, reaching for the knife in his pocket. It hadn’t done much against Dan, but the bigger man had taken him completely unawares. Probably shouldn’t have chased all the booze down with a joint, that always made him too slow. 

“What the hell,” he exclaimed, brandishing the weapon at the black-cloaked skeleton standing in front of him holding a scythe

In response, the skeleton simply latched onto his wrist. Charlie pulled back and the skeleton reached for him again.

“Would you stop,” the other finally said. “I’ve been following you for two blocks trying to reap you.”

“Trying to...what?”

The skeleton brought his hand to his forehead, massaging it with bony fingers.

“Take you to the afterlife.” At Charlie’s goggle-eyed look, he tried again. “You’re dead.”

“Don’t think I am. Really drunk, maybe. Possibly high.”

It probably wasn't wise to turn his back on this weirdo. Charlie did it, anyway, heading for the liquor cabinet in his living room. 

Instead of answering with words again, Skeleton Guy raised the scythe and swung it. Neatly severing Charlie’s head from his body.

The head screamed in outrage as it rolled across the floor. The body remained standing, stumbling blindly forward.

“What the fuck?!”

“That’s strange,” the skeleton said.

“No kidding.”

“You’re dead.”

“Beginning to see that.”

“And I just proved it. You should have faded. My boss isn’t going to like this.” The skeleton crumbled, metaphorically speaking. “Oh, Gods, I knew I’d fuck up on my first day.”

Charlie rolled his eyes.

“Just put me back together, would ya?”

Skellie-boy was at least polite enough to do that. Head and body instantly reconnected as if nothing had ever happened.

“Okay,” Charlie said, already grabbing his bags out of the hall closet. “I’m dead. Guess I’d better get on with my afterlife.”

It felt wrong to hang around here, as if he were suddenly severed from something bigger than himself.

“I can still escort you to the head office, if you like. I think there are protocols in place for things like this.”

“Hmm,” Charlie hummed noncommittally, disappearing into the bedroom to pack. “Trust me to get the amateur.”

The newly-made Reaper followed him, mouth opening to defend himself, when he suddenly froze, staring at the bed.

“Ankhtifi,” he exclaimed in a sort of 'ah-hah' way. 

Charlie shivered all over for reasons he couldn’t explain.

“Pardon?”

Reaper picked up the doll that always sat on the pillow when Charlie slept alone. Charlie bristled defensively, but the other only pointed to the picture embroidered into the skirt.

“This. Ankhtifi.”

“Bless you?”

“No. It’s an Egyptian name. It means ‘long life.’

Charlie threw back his head, cackling wildly in a way that verged on hysteria.

“Well, guess that explains that.” On instinct, he grabbed the doll, shoving it into the suitcase first.

“If you don’t mind my asking, where did you get that?”

There was a hint of concern in the question, a bony hand reaching out uncertainly towards him. Well, poor guy was new. Probably not witnessed many breakdowns, yet. 

Charlie laughed again, the sound unhinged.

“From my mummy!”