Chapter Text
November 6-21, 1897
Quincey Morris was dead, to begin with. That’s not where it all began, of course. But that’s what had just happened, by the hole in Arthur's heart.
Dracula was dead as well.
But was that worth the price? The logical part of Arthur’s brain knew it was.
The other part pulled him back to where he was, on the ground with a dead man in his arms and Harker and Seward gathered around. Not just any man. One of the men he’d held dearest, more than a friend or even a brother.
“Don’t,” he muttered to himself, and Seward moved closer and carefully pressed his hand. Jack Seward was the other man as dear as Lucy even, if he dared say that. They’d formed an inseparable trio after she’d died, by his hand, he reminded himself. They did everything together; walked, talked, ate, even slept together some nights. And now– “Don’t,” he muttered again. “Don’t go there.”
Harker broke away to embrace Mina, and Van Helsing stood there watching both groups.
Eventually, they had to leave. Arthur and Jack carried Quincey’s body between them and sat next to it all the way back to town, in silence.
They remained in silence next to each other, almost touching, letting the others do the talking, but separated from the group to obtain a coffin, good quality but ready made so as to conserve time, but the rough proportions were good. Jack made sure of that, and he also made sure to do his best to help preserve the body for the journey back.
Said journey back was also near-silent, and again Arthur and Jack stood guard, barely sleeping, barely eating. They journeyed as fast as they could, going on ahead of the Harkers and Van Helsing, and arrived at Arthur’s estate just as the first snow was falling. Arthur thought numbly that the weather was symbolic, and attempted to remark as much to Jack, who just looked at him blankly.
They waited for the others to arrive before arranging for the funeral.
It was a quiet affair, only the few of them and the local vicar, black mourning clothes standing out against the gray and white of the landscape, trees bare and stark, crows perched in their branches and cawing mournfully.
The Book of Common Prayer was read, ashes to ashes and dust to dust and all that, and Arthur couldn’t help but think of Dracula’s ashes blowing away, scattered, destroyed.
Arthur and Jack buried Quincey themselves, once the vicar had left, in a quiet corner of the village churchyard where Arthur knew nobody would disturb him. He would have buried him with his own family, if he could, but there would be talk and rumors, and he couldn’t manage a scandal with his heart in shreds. So he gave him the best place he knew. Wildflowers grew there in spring and summer, but now all was gray and bare and hard and cold. They held each other and wept afterwards, shovels lying discarded, Arthur in his shirtsleeves having taken off both coats, and Jack with just his overcoat off. The others did them the courtesy of going a short distance away, Harker arm in arm with his wife, heads together talking.
“We’ll have to get a headstone at some point,” said Jack at long last, turning around so Arthur’s arms were across his chest, and held his hands in his own. “Or you will, I’ve no money to speak of, Art.”
“We’ll arrange it together. That’s a discussion for later, though, I think.” Arthur dropped a quick kiss to Jack’s hair. “We’d best be heading back, it’s cold out here.”
“Says the man who took off both coats,” Jack replied fondly.
“If we go back, then I’ll give you something better than that once we’re alone.”
“Very well.” Jack squeezed Arthur’s hands one last time and kissed them softly before they let go of each other.
They put their coats back on and joined the rest of the group, huddled under the trees.
“Should we then be going? The shadows they grow ever longer, and it is not so good to be out late in this cold weather.” Van Helsing adjusted the lapels of his coat.
“You’re right, Professor,” said Harker. “Godalming–”
“Arthur, please, Jonathan. I’d hate to think that after all– this,” Arthur gestured vaguely, “we weren’t close enough friends for that.”
“As you wish, Arthur. Lead on.”
They all headed back together, the Harkers arm in arm as they had been for a while now, Jack and Arthur hand in hand (Arthur’s other hand missing the one that used to fit in it), talking of this and that odd thing, but not much. Mostly silent. They went into Arthur’s study quietly and he rang for tea. Again they didn’t talk much, feeling the loss of now not only one but two members of their small group. Nobody ate much, but they sat together quietly, grieving in their own ways, sitting in their pairings, not wanting to leave each other alone.
They parted late that night, the Harkers and the professor following Arthur to their rooms. Jack sat in the study and waited, wondering how that night would feel. It would be better than a night alone, at least.
Arthur returned after a short while, and the two sat together in the same chair, arms around each other, heads resting together, and talked at last of everything that had happened. They ended up weeping again, by the end, and eventually they left the room and went to Arthur’s bedroom, holding hands again, leaning into each other. When they reached the door, Arthur swept Jack inside and shut it before leaning in to kiss his forehead gently, holding Jack’s hands tightly in his own. Jack leaned forward and let his forehead rest against Arthur’s. They stayed like that for a while in the dark, before Jack bent down and kissed Arthur’s hands before beginning to undress.
Once they were ready for bed, they lay down together, feeling the Quincey-shaped hole between them, and attempted to sleep. They got little, Jack falling asleep before Arthur did and waking several times to find him already staring at nothing and muttering words under his breath. Once dawn came, they decided to stop trying, and sat in bed together in silence, missing those who’d gone before them more than they themselves could say.