Chapter Text
When he had died, he had not had time to realize what was happening before it was ultimately over and done. Too preoccupied with his own melancholy and perceived life failures, he had experienced a few seconds of excruciating pain, and then nothing. The same could not be said for the time between switching the tanning bed on with his beloved wife inside, and bringing her back to life again. Each of those moments spent without her even as he realized what he would need to do were filled with fear, as what would happen should he fail? He knew his own second chance at life would be without worth, without meaning, if she was not there to share it with. Filled with anguish, as even though there had been no other way out of that situation, he still found himself regretting having had to be the one to kill her (though that guilt was assuaged by the notion that she had trusted him to do it, and the truth that he would not have trusted anyone else to take on the task either). Filled with loneliness and emptiness like he had not known since before she began to visit his grave those months ago, as he had to avoid being seen by anyone lest any witnesses suddenly recall that there had been another seen lurking around the scenes of some of their crimes, and the only person who knew anything at all about him was temporarily inaccessible.
He had stayed hidden as best he could for a good few days, keeping close to the Swallows residence (but not so close that he might be recognized by Taffy) to find out what their plans might be for funerary arrangements. He was grateful, almost, that the events that had unfolded had been so extraordinary and perturbing to the public that Lisa’s father had decided it would be best to forgo any sort of large memorial for his daughter, instead allowing her to be buried as quickly as possible to avoid drawing attention to the family. This meant less time for him to have to wait to recover his Lisa, and fewer complications in the form of whatever preparations might need to be undertaken for an open-casket funeral. He had heard enough of what was being done to preserve that awful woman who called herself a stepmother to know that certain processes had changed since he had been buried, and that those processes would likely make it more difficult for him to bring his wife back to a living state. He supposed he ought to be pleased as well that this same possibility would not be open to Lisa’s stepmother, but then he did not think that anyone could ever truly love her enough to go to all the trouble. And thus he thought no more about her. His feelings towards Lisa’s father were more complicated, but similarly easily put aside in the name of focusing on what he could do now to help his wife find her second chance.
He spent a few weeks masquerading as a groundskeeper, tidying up the cemetery during the day and sleeping at his wife’s grave at night. He did find it necessary to frighten off some daring young boys who had come to the cemetery one night about four days after her headstone was settled. Whether they had convinced themselves that what they had seen was a nightmare, or whether the authority figures in their lives had chosen to dismiss their claims, he could not be certain, but no one ever came to investigate, and so he was left in peace to remain as close to his Lisa as possible. He spent a great deal of time close to her during the day as well, and no one seemed to question that either, perhaps assuming he was there for extra security on behalf of the cemetery given the sensationalized accounts of what had occurred in that small, incredibly average town.
When no one else was around to hear him, he sat there at her grave much as she had at his, working at recalling the shapes he needed to make with his mouth, throat, and nearly healed tongue to form speech. He was not sure if she would be able to hear him, or sense his presence, but should she be, he did not want her to be afraid, or feel as lonely and forgotten as he had in those bursts of consciousness for all those years he had spent beneath the earth. Laying there atop her grave at night, under the cool glow of the moon, he hoped that any of the insects that found her were comforting her in the same way they did him, and that she knew he was there to keep her safe. One such night, with the full moon hanging in the sky overhead to guide his work, he undertook the necessary change to mark her headstone with the knowledge her family had not known it needed. He did think it might raise questions; their marriage had happened with no witnesses, after all, and no time to get it properly recorded in any sort of local recordkeeping source. But he could not bear for her (or anyone who might take the time to examine her grave closely) to have any doubts as to the depth of their devotion to one another. To have doubts that someone had loved her, and loved her still. Would love her so long as they lived. That she had known the sort of care in life, even as brief as hers was, and how brief their acquaintance, to mark how she might be known for the rest of eternity. Just as she had left indelible marks on him through her love, so too would he endeavor to show anyone who looked just how much he loved her.
It was fortunate that the season for storms had not yet ended, and after Lisa’s speedy burial, he did not have to wait too long for another powerful thunderstorm to roll through. When the storm had finally unleashed itself at night, after a full day of grim clouds and occasional mist, there was no one else around to see him hovering excitedly over her grave. He had done all he could to try to prepare for her arrival and make the way easier, and now he must wait. The thought that he might risk death again if he stood too close lurked at the back of his mind, but was quickly overpowered by the need to be there to help her fight her way to the surface. The booming thunder and flashes of lightning grew closer and closer, louder even over the roar of wind whipping through the trees in the distance, and he looked up at the sky with hope he had not felt in weeks, caring not a whit for how soaked through he had already become. The hairs along his arms stood on end, and a tingling like hundreds of insects beneath his skin were the last thing he felt before it struck, twin bolts arcing between him and her headstone, and all was dark once more.