Notes: This is a short chap, but an important one also.

Dedications: Ascended-Demon, GhettoBread and ranmyaku-neko. And the rest of you!

Six- Jars of Life

The office was blessedly silent with Gilligan away for the time being, and the only noise was the occasional humming from Galen, now busy with a fresh batch of cookies in the kitchen. This way he could almost pretend that things were back to normal, the way they had been before the arrogant sidekick came along. All reports were written and organized; for the next couple of hours he could relax without feeling guilty, and Galen’s chocolate chip cookies were definitely worth looking forward to. His mouth watered with the memory of how those cookies melted on his tongue and tasted like a corner of heaven.

“Sir, where did Gilligan go?” Galen popped his head through the doorway, face puzzled and covered in dough. He wore his usual frilly, pink apron with pride, and his glasses had slid to the tip of his nose and threatened to fall off any second. The demon’s hands were covered in large, red mittens with Christmas motifs on them.

“He didn’t say.”

“Ah, well…I suppose there’s no need to worry. The boy is a natural when it comes to finding his way.” Galen smiled. “Do you want dinner? I have a turkey that needs to be eaten before it gets spoiled.”

Frankly, Maurice hardly ever ate anything but sweets of various kinds. Normal, solid food tended to have him constipated because his system didn’t require it to run smoothly. It was peculiar, this body of his, but it ran like a machine. It did not need sleep, food, liquid or any of the other things his fellow staff were dependant on. He was not human, but neither was he a demon, a gnome or a deity. He had long since given up trying to explain what he was, and in the more recent decades he had settled with the idea that his body operated this way because he was Death. It was less than satisfactory since he’d been like this since he was “born”, but until a better answer showed up he could make do with that.

“No, but thank you for asking.”

Galen frowned. “Sir, I won’t let you stuff yourself silly with sweets again. If you want sweets, I suggest you join Gilligan and me for dinner,” he said sternly, but his face lit up as soon as Maurice nodded reluctantly. “Lovely! Oh, I forgot to ask the young sir if he likes turkey…Kids these days are hard to please.”

He seconded that.

Last night had been strange, for the lack of a better word. After that first job on the sky scraper Gilligan had been silent and lost in his thoughts, and Maurice had not asked him to help again. The next two jobs went smoothly, like clockwork, and two hours later they had been back at the office. Reports had been written, and the blonde had gone to bed without making a single sarcastic comment. It had been disturbing when you were used to the chatty, conceited version of the boy.

Perhaps he ought to ask if Gilligan was alright?

He sank back in his chair and sighed. Interaction with others was not his forte, but the boy was his apprentice, so he needed to make an effort. “Galen, do you think he is fine?”

“Yes, I do.” The words were followed by a cheerful hum and a shriek as the demon nearly dropped something on his foot. “The boy just needs some time to brood, don’t you think? He is half human, Maurice.”

Yes, that was true, but how much did humans really mean to the blonde? That was the one thing he wanted to ask, but did not dare to. It might be rude, or a sore spot, and he had no wish to make things more awkward between them than they already were. And what was the reason for Gilligan’s arrogance? He refused to believe the boy had spent his childhood looking down at everyone. And what about his mother? Ah, there were so many questions…

“Why don’t you ask him yourself, sir?”

Holding a conversation with someone in the room next door made him raise his voice more than he was comfortable with, really, but Galen knew him well enough that he didn’t have to answer that. “I know you are socially crippled, sir, but to ask how someone is doing is an act of compassion and kindness, not an attack on their privacy.”

He blinked slowly. Now, that was an angle he hadn’t considered before. Asking questions always seemed rude to him, but what Galen said was also true. He chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip and tried to come to a conclusion.

“I’m sure even Gilligan has a sentimental side, Maurice.” The demon’s words were soft, and Maurice turned his head to look at him. Galen brushed dough from his apron and crossed his arms loosely over his chest. “He might be your assistant, but he is merely nineteen years old and still a child. He hasn’t had much time to find things out for himself.” At times Maurice was certain that whoever had appointed Galen to become his secretary had foreseen how well they would get along. The demon knew exactly what he was thinking more often than not, and it was a blessing that he didn’t have to express himself through words to tell what he wanted and felt. “Ask the boy, alright? I’ll make pudding as reward,” he teased.

No one could turn down Galen’s pudding, be it the caramel or the chocolate kind. It was the one dessert that possibly outranked his cookies, and Maurice hadn’t had a taste of the heavenly dish for months now. His taste buds craved pudding now that it had been mentioned, and who was he to deny himself that? It wasn’t like eating sweets made him gain weight.

The door nearly bounced off a bookshelf when it was opened viciously. Maurice felt his heart jump with concern for his precious books, but Gilligan caught the handle and stopped it two inches from the wood. The blonde looked undeniably smug, and the blue envelope he was waving back and forth caught Maurice’s eyes. He cowered in his seat when Gilligan crossed the office in three strides, put his hands down on the desk and pushed the envelope in his face. “Here is your permission. We are going to visit the Scriptor.”

Maurice sliced it open, skimmed through the short message and sighed. “Very well. I will take you there.”

It must pay off to be the son of an Earl, I guess. If he was a regular staff member it would have taken weeks, if not months, to obtain that document.

“Ah, you are back!” Galen smiled at the blonde. “Do you like turkey? We are having it for dinner.”

“I do.”

“Splendid!” The demon retreated to the kitchen with a happy whistle.

Gilligan had learnt not to question Galen’s enthusiasm for cooking anymore, but the blonde couldn’t help raising both eyebrows in a show of puzzled amusement. While Maurice grabbed his robes from the wall and put them on he waited, foot tapping an irregular beat against the floor, and the blatant show of impatience made Maurice rush so to get ready that he didn’t get to tie his shoelaces properly. “Which section is the Scriptor in?”

“East. None of the other sections had a room large enough to house the amount of souls that needed to be stored.” Although Gilligan had never been to the east section, he seemed to find his way well enough. They were walking side by side at an even, hurried pace through the corridors, and Maurice silently thanked his anatomy for the long legs that made him able to keep up. The silence between them was awkward and thick, but this had nothing to do with Gilligan’s hurry and everything to do with the discussion Maurice had shared with his secretary.

Should I ask now? If I wait I might miss my chance, and then it would be too late. Galen will scold me if I do not earn my right to have pudding.

“Um, Gilligan?” Blue-grey eyes peered at him. “Are you alright? I mean, you were so quiet last night. Perhaps I shouldn’t have asked you to assist me.” That had bothered him all night. Had he been irresponsible when he let Gilligan, who had no practical experience with taking lives, take care of the first job? The boy was tough, but humans in general were squirmish about killing their fellow men and women, and he was worried he might have damaged Gilligan somehow.

“I’m your assistant, aren’t I?” the blonde said dryly and snorted. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”

Maurice averted his eyes. “Because you are of human blood.”

They came to an abrupt stop, and Gilligan faced him with continuously narrowing eyes and a very unhappy, insulted mouth that nearly made him take a cautious step back. “And why would my human blood be more dominant than my demon DNA? You better not think being a half blood makes me weaker.”

Maurice’s face fell visibly. “That was not my intention, I assure you. But I know humanity, Gilligan. I have been their shadow long enough to know that they are strong and stubborn, but their hearts quickly get weary and burn out when tragedy befalls them.” His voice softened towards the end, and for a moment Gilligan looked hesitant in his cold anger. “Being of human blood is not a weakness, Gilligan D’Bussy.”

“Yes, it is.”

He doubted anything he said could change the blonde’s misconception, but this was not the time, nor the place to be having such a discussion. Serious issues should be discussed quietly in the company of a hot cup of tea and a basket of cookies, in his opinion. One time he would ask what Gilligan’s issue with humanity was, but not today. “Last night…You did very well.”

The sudden change of topic made Gilligan’s fine eyebrows knot together deeply, but his forehead remained free of worried wrinkles.

“You could have been a little gentler to give him the impression that he wasn’t pushed, but for a beginner it was very satisfactory.”

A moment of silence passed, and they began to walk again.

“You kissed me.”

Maurice very nearly choked on the air he breathed. “Um, yes? It’s the most common way to transfer energy.” He should have known that would cause some sort of disturbance between them. Oh goodness, he had invaded Gilligan’s privacy with that move, had he not? The need to sink into a hole in the ground grew more prominent. But what of Artemis’ words yesterday? Was Gilligan…gay? “I am sorry if I offended you. I will refrain from using that method again, if you wish.”

“It’s fine.”

For some reason, that answer did not make him feel any better about the situation. Artemis must be right then, but he couldn’t ask.

“And since you’re too scared to ask me, yes, I am gay. I like men,” Gilligan said.

Oh, question answered.

Then why did that just lead to a whole lot of new questions I can think of?

Maurice had lived far too long to be unfamiliar with homosexuality. Certain humans always varied from the norm, even dating centuries back, but the number of people who openly dared to admit their sexuality had increased drastically the past few decades. He was just as aware of them as he was of the people who preferred the opposite sex, and neither bothered him. Morpheus was clearly equally interested in both genders, as he boasted about occasionally, and he had bargained with kisses and touching in return for his precious dream powder more than once. It was something Maurice didn’t mind, but he had never considered himself to be of a particular preference at all. Kissing was pleasant, but it did not sexually arouse him the way it did to others. Frankly, very few things aroused him that way, and the few times it happened it was more or less random, more of an abstinence than anything else.

Why now, of all times, was he flustered at the thought of someone liking the same sex? No, that was not it. Specifically, he was flustered because Gilligan had admitted to liking men, and this puzzled him.

“Does it bother you?” Gilligan pursed his lips and looked strangely expectant, maybe even a little concerned.

“No, no, of course not! I have lived too long for that.” Maurice realized his hands were gesticulating wildly as he said this, so he forced them to stay still in his pockets not to further make a fool of himself. “Oh, we’re here already, it seems.”

The two came to a stop before a large, white door. It had no adornments, no carvings and no handle. It was simply a flat, smooth expanse of painted wood that stood out from the walls around it, and Gilligan eyed it with a doubtful expression. “And how do we get inside?” He gave the door an experimental push, but it didn’t budge. It might as well be made of stone, not wood.

“You knock. It should be expecting us, so don’t worry if you didn’t bring the permission. And please, let me do the talking.

“It?” the blonde questioned, but Maurice stepped forward and rapped his knuckles on the door then, and the question was pushed aside as the door open inwards and a small figure stepped into the doorway.

The Scriptor had no gender. Its form was that of a child in its early teens, petite and easy on the eyes, and its waist long hair was the purest white. At first glance the Scriptor appeared to be a prepubescent girl clad in a form of kimono, but if you took a moment to look closer you’d notice how there was nothing feminine about the nose, or how the lips were not quite as full as those of a girl. The eyes were small, almost Asian, and pale grey.

“Yes?” it said in a quiet, but lovely voice that always had vaguely reminded him of honey.

“Maurice and Gilligan D’Bussy seek entrance to your Storage, Scriptor.”

It tilted its head while the pale eyes measured them to assess whether the words were true. You couldn’t lie about your identity to the Scriptor and get away with it, simply put. The sweetest of smiles touched its lips once it was certain, and it bowed to honor them.

“Permission has been bestowed upon you, and thus you may enter, Gilligan of the house of D’Bussy and Maurice of Death.”

Gilligan looked like he was itching to ask what was going on when Maurice bowed in return to the tiny creature. Maybe it would have been wiser to explain the formal procedures involved when meeting important people like the Scriptor. “And we thank you for your hospitality, Scriptor.” He followed it inside.

The room beyond was seemingly endless (this was far from the truth, but it did in fact take two hours to walk from one end to another by foot), and it was white enough to leave you breathless. Shelf upon shelf covered the walls to make room for the jars of glass that were stored here, and the only source of colour were the tiny lights that lay dormant within the jars- the souls awaiting their reincarnation. Maurice felt like a sore thumb whenever he was in this room because its colours clashed so entirely with his own attire and hair. He was the Scriptor’s polar opposite in every aspect, but Gilligan appeared too stunned to notice how they stood out.

“Can I be of help?” The Scriptor smiled up at them. “Are you looking for a particular soul?”

Maurice glanced at his assistant. Were they? Gilligan had never told him why he wanted to come here in the first place. His attention was drawn to the bottom lip that Gilligan was chewing on. Was he nervous?

“Is Henry Mackenzie here?”

It was a curious thing to see the empty look that flickered in the Scriptor’s eyes as it went through the list of stored souls in its mind. To describe the childlike creature as a living person was wrong, since it in truth was an entity that represented the will of the fireflies that slept within these walls. The Scriptor had no sense of self, no dreams and no thoughts. It was a caretaker created with a single purpose, which it would serve for as long as Underworld existed. The amount of souls was endless, but the search was over in merely five seconds, and it nodded. “Currently there are fifteen Henry Mackenzie on the waiting list. Could you be more specific, Mr.D’Bussy?”

“He’s…He was from London, died when he was seven.”

Another moment passed, and its smile widened a fraction. “Yes, he is here. I shall bring his jar if you wish to inspect it.”

“I do.”

Maurice assumed that this Henry was a person that Gilligan once knew, but which relationship they had he could only guess. A younger brother? A childhood friend? Someone he hated? The options were many, but he remained silent. Ruining this moment of peace felt like the wrong thing to do.

The wait was short when you thought about how many jars that were actually stored here. The Scriptor returned to them two minutes later, carrying a small jar of glass in its hands. It walked with certain, impossibly long steps for such a small creature, but Gilligan paid no mind to it. His eyes were fixed on the green ball of light that floated inside the jar. The colour was earthly, quite like the colour of moss and dull compared to many of the other souls.

“Please don’t touch, Mr.D’Bussy. They are not meant to awaken from their sleep, but the touch of a loved one disturbes them,” the Scriptor warned when Gilligan bent to take a closer look. There was no label on the jar to identify it, no number or letter to make it easier to find it. Maurice supposed there was a system, but it was one he couldn’t comprehend, and his memory was nowhere near as good as its.

“I always imagined he’d be a brighter colour,” Gilligan said in a tone that could only be described as soft.

“He once was, but time makes them grow duller, I’m afraid. The waiting list is much too long.”

Ah, so that was the explanation.

Gilligan straightened himself. “You killed him.”

The words sounded accusing, but Gilligan’s face was blank, and Maurice didn’t know how to react to that. “I might not have. People die of natural causes all the time,” he said, but Gilligan shook his head.

“You did kill him. Don’t doubt me on that.”

The Scriptor was still smiling. Even if they were having a conversation about torture or abuse, it wouldn’t have batted an eye or ceased to smile pleasantly, because it was not in its nature to react to anything that was unrelated to its purpose. “Is your inspection done? There is a group of new souls arriving in half an hour, and I must prepare their jars to lessen their suffering.” It waited patiently until Gilligan gave a short nod before leaving them behind.

Maurice felt uneasy. Why was Gilligan so dead certain that he had taken the life of that boy? Had the blonde been there when it happened? Even if he were, Maurice was invisible to the human eye, and thus Gilligan could not have seen him. Despite Gilligan’s earlier protests, the human blood was clearly dominating in him, so the possibility that he had seen Maurice do the deed was minimal.

“Let’s go. We have work, don’t we?”

“Yes, we do.” Maurice had to hurry to catch up, because Gilligan was speeding up with every step until he had gone through the exit.

“That boy, who was he to you?”

Gilligan was reluctant to answer, though he did without being prodded. “A friend. We were neighbors.” The blonde was acting unusually meek, and that was more disturbing than the whole trip to the Storage.

“But why are you so sure?” This was a question he wasn’t sure he should be asking, but it slipped out before he could stop himself. He felt a twinge of guilt when Gilligan looked away.

“I was there.”

Neither man spoke another word on their way back to the office.