simple twist of fate

by red-starshine

part one: ghost town

There was darkness. Nothing but darkness.

Chas groaned, his head pounding. He sat up unsteadily, breaking off into a coughing fit. It took him a moment to realize he didn't need to cough; the smoke was gone, and he wasn't gasping for air. His throat and his chest felt fine. Chas took a deep, steadying breath, closing his eyes for a moment before opening them again.

No. Still dark. His stomach clenched as a thought occurred to him - had he lost his sight in the bar fire?

"Hello?" he called, his voice wavering slightly. "Is anyone there? I can't see anything."

"There's nothing wrong with your eyes, Chas. That's normal," came a voice with a thick working-class British accent behind him. "Sometimes just takes a tic to center yourself again. Should pass."

Chas looked over his shoulder. The blond man he'd seen at the bar before the fire had started was there, standing with his hands in the pockets of his rumpled trenchcoat.

Right. He'd said his name was John and Chas had bought him a beer at the bar. They'd chatted a little before the band got onstage. John was from England, and was in the US on business, although he'd been tight-lipped about exactly what business he was in, and why that business had lead him to a crappy dive bar in Brooklyn that'd stubbornly resisted gentrification. After the band's pyrotechnics had ignited the stage, things got hazy. Chas put a hand to his head and winced.

Behind John stood a tall skeletal tree, its knobby branches bare. The rest of his surroundings slowly faded into view; the brittle brown grass underneath his feet, a stormy grey sky, smoky black streaks racing across the clouds.

Chas stared up at the sky, his mouth open. "What the hell?"

John grinned. "See, there you go."

Chas looked around, his mouth open. "Where are we?"

"The Crossroads," said John. "Not much to look at, I grant you. Think of it as a way station between life and the afterlife."

Chas stared at him for a moment. "I'm dead?" he said flatly. Part of him wouldn't be surprised if he was, not after he'd lost consciousness in the middle of a burning building in Brooklyn. But he didn't feel dead - as far as he could tell he looked the same as when he'd woken up that morning, he was wearing the clothes he'd worn to the bar and he still had a pounding headache right above his eyes. Did dead people get headaches?

John shifted uncomfortably on his feet for a moment, but then looked at him, met his eyes. There wasn't a hint of deception there. "Yeah. Sorry, mate, but you're done."

"Oh." His first thoughts were of his daughter, who'd grow up without him in her life. He'd known what it was like to lose your father at such a young age, and the thought of Geraldine having to suffer through that as well broke his heart. "Shit. Geraldine..."

Chas hasn't cried in front of someone in decades, not since his own father'd died when he'd been younger than his daughter was now, but he felt warm tears come to his eyes. He looked down at the dirt road and surreptitiously tried to wipe them from his eyes.

John glanced at him, an unreadable expression on his face. He pulled out a half-crumpled carton of cigarettes and a gold lighter from his pockets, shaking out one cigarette and placing it between his lips. "She your kid?" he said mildly.

Chas nodded. "Love her more than anything," he mumbled thickly.

John flicked the lighter, the small flame illuminating his face as he cupped his hands to light the cigarette. He took a puff, a trail of smoke wafting out of his mouth. "I dunno if it'll make you feel any better about snuffin' it," said John, holding the cigarette between two fingers, staring down at the lit end, "But that woman you helped through the window when the fire started? She was supposed to die too. She's only alive right now 'cause of what you did."

Chas was quiet for a moment, letting John's words roll around in his mind before allowing them to sink in. He'd saved at least one person from that fire. It did make him feel slightly better, surprisingly. Not entirely, but at least he hadn't died for nothing.

"Thanks," murmured Chas quietly.

"Don't mention it, mate." John blew out another stream of cigarette smoke, glancing up at the swirling sky.

"You're not some kind of angel, I'm guessing," said Chas after a moment, eying the cigarette.

John snorted, the corners of his mouth quirking up briefly. "Not hardly. 'Bout as divine as a porny Tijuana bible." He paused to take a drag from his cigarette, looking up at Chas with an almost pained smile. "Consider me your tour guide through the Crossroads."

"So this is like Limbo," said Chas.

John shrugged. "Different words, means the same bloody thing."

"Why am I here?"

"Because you died under traumatic circumstances, would be my bet," said John. "See, most people move on to the afterlife without any help when they die, but some people need a little extra push to get there." John gave a toothy grin. "I give the reluctant ones a slight kick in the arse to get them where they're supposed to go, when it's their time to check out." John looked around at his surroundings. "But some people are just stubborn, apparently. You're not supposed to be here."

"All right, so where am I supposed to be?" said Chas, utterly lost. He hadn't intended to end up at the Crossroads. It looked like the set of a low-budget horror movie, but it still gave him the creeps.

"Happily crossed over into the afterlife and, I don't know, bobbing around being one with the universe or some other new-age shite like that."

Chas stared at him for a moment. "You mean you don't know what the afterlife's like?"

John gave him a look. "I'm still alive, squire. Never been, myself," he said with a shrug. "I know enough magic tricks to point people in the right direction, is all."

Chas glanced around at the old tree and blackened sky. "Then what am I doing here?"

"No bloody idea," said John cheerfully. "I mean, I punted you towards the afterlife and you apparently slammed down on the brakes hard enough to land here. Which is damn impressive." John sat down underneath the branches of the tree and gave a light chuckle. "I mean it. You're really something else, mate. I've been doing this for over fifteen years and you're the very first one out of thousands of souls to wind up at the Crossroads instead."

"So what happens now?" said Chas, awkwardly rubbing one arm. Deep down, he already knew the answer: if this was a halfway point between life and the afterlife, he'd be sent back on his way to whatever came next.

But he really had no interest in heading for the afterlife, or becoming one with the universe, or whatever it was that waited for him there. John made it sound like most people who died found their way to the afterlife without any help, but he didn't feel any compulsion or pull guiding him there. Mostly he just felt cold and tired and homesick, and his headache had only gotten worse.

"Now?" repeated John, briefly appearing conflicted. His mouth opened again for a moment, but he didn't say anything. John looked hesitant to say anything else. He glanced around at the tree and brittle grass, anywhere but at Chas. Flicking his half-smoked cigarette into the dirt, he ground it with the heel of his shoe before closing the distance between them.

Chas had to look down to meet John's eyes. There was pain there, sharp misery and empathy and something else he couldn't quite identify. Whatever it was, it made him vaguely uneasy.

"Fuck it." John let out a breath that smelled of tobacco and then lightly thumped his fingers against Chas's chest. "What happens now," he said to Chas finally, "is that you wake up."

A spike of pain drove itself into Chas's chest and jolted through every nerve in his body, his muscles locking up until it had passed. He shuddered, stumbling forward slightly. "What did you do?" he ground out through gritted teeth.

A slow, pleased smile that made Chas shudder again spread across John's face as he grabbed one of Chas's hands and pressed two fingers against the inside of Chas's wrist. After a few moments, he let Chas's arm go. "Feel that, mate? It's your heart starting to beat again."

Chas weakly pressed his hand against his chest. Underneath his fingertips, there was a weak, quivering heartbeat he could barely feel but was undeniably there. Jerking his hand away, Chas stared at John in disbelief. "But you just told me I'm dead. How's that possible?" he said before another wave of excruciating pain struck him.

"I'm making an exception for you," said John with an unearthly gleam in his eyes. "Consider it one hell of a favor, yeah? Not every day I send someone back after they die."

Chas barely had the time to realize what John had said before John pressed his hands against both sides of his face. Closing his eyes, John roughly crushed his lips against Chas's.

It wasn't a tender, gentle kiss, like the ones he'd given Renee when he'd left for work each morning before their marriage had crashed and burned. This was full of want and need and unrestrained desire, a raw, hungry passion impossible to withstand. Chas couldn't help but melt against it, his own fingers finding their way through John's blond hair. His nerves burned and tingled where John's fingers brushed against his bare skin, as if John was bringing him back to life one touch at a time.

His head still buzzing, Chas barely heard the darkly amused chuckle from John as he hesitantly pulled away from Chas.

"Ta, mate," said John, with that smug grin again. "See you on the other side."

And then Chas woke up sealed inside a body bag in the Brooklyn Hospital's morgue.