Work Text:
Post 1940 Purgatory
“Ooh–look, a new boyfriend for you, Ginger,”
“I’m–not–gay,” Hazel said between pained breaths.
“Mmm, stabbed isn't really my type,” Ginger responded.
“What is your type, then?” Sangria asked, her brow slightly furrowed.
“Typically alive,”
“That's very closed minded of you,” said Sangria, crossing her arms in front of her.
“Well what do you want from me?”
“To be more accepting of dead people like yourself , it’s not like you’ll see a living person anytime soon,”
Hazel was crumpled on the ground in sickness while the two were bickering. The only thought that came to his head (that wasn’t related to his condition), was noticing that the two people standing over him were remarkably British. He winced.
Sangria and Ginger didn't seem to care.
“Who the fuck are you two?” Hazel said, looking up to two blurry colorful shapes standing above him.
“Vivian Sangria and Ainsley Ginger,” said Sangria.
“ Colonel . Colonel Ginger,” Ginger said assertively to Hazel, side-eying Sangria.
“It’s not like there’s a veteran program here, Ginger, no one cares that you were a colonel,” Sangria said, sighing. Ginger huffed in response.
“Do I know you two are or something?” Hazel's head was spinning
“ Does he know who we are? It’s like he doesn't do his history homework,” Sangria said, taken aback.
“I know, right? Kids nowadays,” Ginger said, away in disbelief.
“Well, clearly he's not a kid,”
“Yes, but he’s younger than us, it’s been like a decade since–”
“Hey bud, when were you from?” Sangria leaned down to ask Hazel. He was still in terrible condition on the floor.
“What do you mean wha-when I'm from?” Hazel’s confusion momentarily distracted him from his nausea, but not for too long.
“What year is it for you, buddy?”
“Uhh–1945?” Hazel said, horrendously disoriented.
“Oh, that’s right, that’s what you said earlier,” Ginger said excitedly to a very smug Sangria.
“How’s the war going?” asked Sangria.
Hazel groaned.
“Apparently not well,” Ginger said in response.
“It’s a world war, what did you expect?” Sangria asked, baffled at Ginger once again.
“Ok, where are you from buddy?” Ginger asked Hazel. Hazel felt the most nauseous he felt in all his life and death.
“Ginger–Colonel Ginger, I know that name, where have I…” Hazel was mumbling under his breath, desperately trying to remember between the headache pulling his eyes apart.
“I sure hope he knows that name,” Ginger said to Sangria, disheartened. She patted his shoulder.
“You’re–you’re the British colonel that fucked up a while ago,” Hazel has his hand clasped around his temple in deep, laborious thought, “The ‘Sweeps’ Project or something,”
“It’s Schweppes you motherf–” Ginger was overtaken with anger and lunged toward Hazel. Sangria held back a wildly flailing Ginger, with little effort. While Ginger was calming down, Hazel’s post-mortal sickness was slowly fading.
“Did I get drugged or something?” Hazel said, after sitting up for a moment. He doesn’t remember taking any drugs this time , but he’s also had that exact thought before, after waking up following a long night out.
“No, you’re dead. This isn’t a nightmare or a bad trip, this is purgatory. It’ll take you a while to come to terms about it–”
“Wow, I’m a ghost?” Hazel said, recovered at this point. “Chill.” Sangria was impressed yet worried at how quickly Hazel came to terms with it.
“Were you killed in your sleep or something?” Hazel asked, looking up after observing his blood soaked shirt.
“No?” Ginger said.
“Then what’s with the nightgown?”
“It looks cool,”
“Where did you even get a-” Hazel started.
“That’s not what’s important right now,” Ginger interrupted.
“Didn’t you kill a bunch of people? Like why are you in the same purgatory as me? The most I did was some mild embezzlement, and like maybe some breaks in protocol,” sat Hazel, expecting some bullshit answer.
“First off, I didn’t mean to harm anyone–”
“Manslaughter is a negligence offense. Regardless if you meant to harm, it’s the negligence that killed people,” Sangria said, shifting through a few books and cradling them in her arms. She placed them on the side table next to the chair Hazel was in. Hazel looked over and saw the names Vivian Sangria and Colonel Ainsley Ginger on the spines of two of the books. He squinted his eyes and looked up at Sangria.
“Where’s my book?”
“Read those first and then you can get yours. I wouldn’t suggest reading your book this quickly after coming here,” Sangria asserted. Hazel trusted her judgment. “You’ve got all of eternity to read it so take your time. This library has all the known information of the universe up until the current date. If you bothered to walk all the way, you could read about how the universe started, but it’s quite the walk,”
Hazel had gotten relatively back to normal (as normal as a ghost can be), and was able to take in his surroundings for the first time. He thought the room was beautiful, more than beautiful. There was something so heavenly to him about an elaborate Victorian library. He didn’t consider himself an academic, but he loved others' expansion of knowledge and achievements. He worked in a nuclear facility after all, so it’s not like he wasn’t intelligent.
“That’s a big ass fireplace,” Hazel said, offhandedly.
“No shit,” said Ginger, with a mouthful of pastries that god knows how he got a hold of.
“As far as we know, that’s the other side. There’s no books here describing it, so we don't know if it’s hell or something else. It’s either having all of the world’s knowledge here, or who knows what on that side of the fireplace,” said Sangria.
“God, I miss radio,” groaned Ginger.
“What channel would it tune to, please just answer that question for once,” Sangria stressed.
“I don’t know, all of them!” This was not the first time Ginger had made this complaint. Nor would it be the last.
“I’m tired of reading, I’m gonna get cataracts,” Ginger persisted.
Sangria pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose in grief. “You’re a ghost, Ginger,”
“Ghost cataracts!” Ginger exclaimed, through another mouthful of pastry.
“Where did he get the pastry–” Hazel asked, with heavy interest. His question was overshadowed with more bickering.
And the bickering would continue, for however long it takes for the next ghost to show up. Maybe within that time Hazel will find out where Ginger got the pastries.
Probably not.