Disclaimer: I do not own Meet the Robinsons. Sigh...

Hey, mah peeps. I'm in an odd mood, I know. Went to see Les Mis... Got depressed when everyone died... Finished a gigantic project... Realized I actually had the tiniest bit of freetime... Wrote a song... It was a very weird day. Eh, anyway...

This was written as a request to a certain jamrulz, whom I have already written one request for. Ah, I have two more to do.. Dammit, I didn't mean to finish this one first! Sigh. Oh well, that's just how the cookie crumbles. As far as writing goes, I can't really bring myself to create somethign happy-ful, and, well, the title kinda says it all. No one thinks, "Death of a Robinsons, hmm, that should cheer me up!" unless they hate Meet the Robinsons, which wouldn't make sense since, well, this is kinda under the Meet the Robinsons category...? Yeah...

Because only I know the age of everyone in my oneshots most of the time (sorry...) I decided to put them up here for reference. I should really make a timeline or something... Why are they all interconnected!?!?

Cornelius - 68

Franny - 66

Wilbur - 42

Louise - (Would be) 39

Lewis - 16

And now, the story. Tada!

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Wilbur looked to the ceiling of his room. With a small smile, he remembered all the times he had in the very room. This was his room from so long ago, when he had lived in the Robinson main house with his massive family.

He and Lewis, his blonde-haired, blue-eyed son, had decided to move back into the house after Louise had died. Louise… the only normal one in the family, Wilbur mused. The one he had never loved… She was meant to ease the pain, to keep Wilbur's mind off his old best friend, his father. She hadn't done that; she had never even come close.

Wilbur had been friends, at least, with her, though, and he, too, had mourned as she withered away from an unknown, unnamed virus, but not nearly as much as he should have. Lewis, however, was crushed. It had been his mother that died, and all he was left with was a very messed up, slightly insane father.

Cornelius had seen this, and it had killed him a little inside. As soon as Louise had picked up the virus, the aged inventor had waged a personal war with the disease. He hadn't beaten it in time, and Louise had died. But that was years ago… Six, to be precise. And he was still fighting, still trying to make up for the one thing he couldn't do. It was his revenge, not because he had liked Louise all that much - nay, Cornelius had always held a grudge against her for marrying Wilbur - but because he knew just how much everybody else was suffering.

Cornelius knew every child needed both their parents, not just in their childhood, but forever. He knew Lewis' mother's death would be a detrimental thing, and it had been. He knew how it had hurt everybody who had known Louise, including the entirety of the Robinson family. Cornelius did not like that. Not one bit.

Rooms were opening up in the Robinson house like mad. Bud and Lucille were long gone, which, in itself had been a tough blow for Cornelius to recover from, and Uncle Joe had died of a heart attack right after Wilbur had left for college, leaving Aunt Billie a widow and mother of their only child, Lola Robinson, until she, too met her death years later. Petunia had died in the Great Robinson Fire, or at least that was what it was called by the family, which had been caused by a rather nasty incident in Cornelius' lab that had sent him to the hospital for a very long time. That, too, had eaten at his conscience for a very long time, even though the Petunia everyone had known had been a puppet to replace the original Petunia, who had died giving birth to Tallulah, in Fitz's grief-riddled mind. Laszlo had been too young to remember his original mother - Wilbur hadn't been born yet, either - and everyone else had just gone along with it… to give Fitz - who himself had died some odd years later - some peace of mind.

Both Art and Gaston had died as well, though in very different ways. Gaston, while on a more dangerous pizza delivery, had been shot down by the dreaded Klingons and held hostage. When their demands went unmet, they had killed Gaston in a very slow, painful fashion. Art, however, had went more peacefully - sort of… - when a meatball Kung Fu fight with Franny had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Hell, the house was so empty even Demetri and Spike had mysteriously disappeared. Wilbur believed it was because no one was around to ring their doorbells anymore.

Franny had started complaining about how lonely she and Cornelius were after the terrible incidents that had caused the fall of most of the Robinson family, and especially after Laszlo and Tallulah had moved out to start their own families. So, Wilbur, now realizing his own house seemed a little too empty, had relocated himself and his son into the house had grown up in, promising to keep his parents company in their old age.

It was only Franny, Cornelius, Wilbur, Lewis, Carl, and Lefty the Butler living in the enormous estate. Somehow, it felt all to empty, yet much too crowded for Wilbur's tastes. And each day, the void in his heart seemed to tear just a little bit more, rip a tiny bit of himself apart and swallow it like a black hole. He would never regain what he lost.

The light streaming in from the large window in Wilbur's room was limited, although it had been a gorgeous day, as always. The sunset was coming, and soon it would be time for dinner. Another day of sitting across the table from the very collection of people that made his heart ache… wonderful.

There was a knock in the brunet's door, and, with a sigh, he picked himself up off his bed and slid it open the tiniest bit, as was his tradition of recently. There, outside the simple piece of wood that separated Wilbur from the world he had come to loath, was Carl, still as shiny as the day Cornelius had invented him.

"Hey, little buddy," he said, because that had always been his greeting to Wilbur. Even though the Robinson was going on forty-three, Carl considered him little… and that was strikingly odd for the man in question. "It's time for dinner, you know."

"Yeah, four forty-five on the dot," Wilbur sighed. "I know, Carl. Thanks. I'll be there in a minute." The robot nodded and the door slid closed. Wilbur sighed, collapsing onto his bed once more. "Damn old people and their weird eating schedules," he murmured with a roll of his eyes. "I'd ask Lewis to shoot me before I got like that…"

With a groan, Wilbur sat up again, running a hand over the cowlick he kept absolutely perfect at all times. His hair… That was the one thing Wilbur had kept perfectly in tact. Not his sanity, though he questioned if he ever truly had such a thing, not his heart, not his life… His hair. Hell, it wasn't even receding or anything! Wilbur smirked a bit; thank God neither Cornelius nor Franny had a male pattern baldness gene to pass on…

And then, slipping on his shoes - even though there were only four people, one robot, and a giant, one-eyed octopus living in the house, you could never be too sure in the Robinson home about anything at all - Wilbur trudged out of his room, vaguely wondering if they were having sloppy joes for dinner.

When he got to the dining room, Franny and Lewis had already taken their seats at opposite ends of the enormous dining room table, something none of the Robinsons had had the heart to replace, both with a plate of meatloaf in front of them. Carl stood by anxiously, hoping that everyone would still enjoy his special recipe after he had made if for so long, while the third generation of Franny's musical frogs was singing on the chandelier.

Wilbur offered his family members a small smile as he took his seat and Carl placed a dish in front of him, but a depressed stare was given to the seat directly across from him, where Cornelius would usually sit. The chair was empty.

"Oh," Franny grumbled, running a hand through her frost white hair, "what's taking him so long?" All three of the others in the room simultaneously shrugged, and she sighed forlornly, picking up her fork to stab into her portion of meatloaf half-heartedly. "Ever since he took on that virus we've been seeing less and less of him, and when we do see him, he looks terrible. It can't be healthy, staying in that lab all day with a bunch of those contaminated samples of his. I'm surprised Cornelius hasn't caught the disease himself by now."

"Don't say that," Lewis murmured softly, poking his own dinner with even less enthusiasm. "Grandpa won't die," he continued. "He can't. Mom was strong, but she couldn't do everything. Grandpa can. He can do anything he sets his mind to, because he's the most amazing person ever."

"Yup," Wilbur agreed, a small, proud smile inching its way onto his face. "Your grandfather is the greatest man to walk this Earth, Lewis, don't you forget that. He could jump off the Chrysler Building and take flight right now, if he wanted to, even at his age. Can you believe he's sixty-eight?"

"There you go again," Franny sighed, stuffing a bit of the meat into her mouth, "immortalizing your father. It's not good for you, Wilbur, or your son. He's human. Remember that, will you?" Wilbur nodded, rolling his eyes, and the Robinson mother continued to ramble on. "By God, he worships the ground he walks on… Why, in my day I'd…"

When Franny's words became too quiet for anyone else to hear, Lewis rolled his eyes, still not giving in to eating the food before him. "There she goes again," he sighed. "Old people are all the same… Except for Grandpa. He doesn't go off on long-winded tangents about centuries past when he was actually young, complain about his back, or eat prunes."

"There's something he can't do," Wilbur replied with a sigh. "Dad can't make other old people normal. Well, there goes any hope for a perfect world…" Carl, Wilbur, and Lewis shared a smirk, while Franny rolled her eyes and stuffed another bite into her mouth.

"No respect," she murmured to herself. "Wilbur, go and get your father. Tell him if he's not down here in five minutes, I'm coming up there to get him. I don't care if he's in the middle of a break through, it's time for family dinner. He should be here."

"Tell him to hurry up," Lewis added as Wilbur rose from his chair, "or else the wicked witch is flying up to get him. Very slowly, of course, her broom's on its last leg, but all the same, there'll be Hell to pay if he doesn't get his ass down here!"

Wilbur chuckled, giving his son a simple, "Will do," as Franny scowled at them both grumpily. And then, he began his long journey to the observatory. The travel tubes had long been retired in the Robinson house, for they weren't the kindest on the backs of a third of the people who inhabited the estate. Instead, there was good, old-fashioned… walking. Yay.

The cowlicked Robinson let out a sigh as he wandered down the empty halls of the house, remembering its better times. Laughter used to be abundant here… Smiles were everlasting… Happiness was the very essence that the air was made of…

And now, Wilbur thought, the house was a depressing place that held all his sorrows. There was no happiness, no laughter, no happiness. Cornelius said that too often when they were alone.

He, too thought the house wasn't the same. There was no glory in its walls anymore. Cornelius Robinson, the had-been inventor, his old, cranky wife, his washed up son, and the young, unpromising grandson of his were all that lived there. It scarcely seemed that Cornelius Robinson was remembered anymore, even though his influence was everywhere in the world, the Robinson symbol pasted on the back of anything and everything just like, "Made in China," used to be. No one questioned it. No one thought about it. Cornelius Robinson was a history lesson, not a person.

The better days were back when everyone was younger, when the Robinson family stuck together, held in place by the glue that Cornelius had set down. The glue had worn thin, and people died, others left, leaving only a few behind to bear the loneliness.

Wilbur paused at the door heading to the old observatory room, his eyes looming on the "Do Not Disturb," sign hanging on the knob. Cornelius hadn't used it often before he began fighting the unnamed virus, but once he did, that thing was up every time he even walked into the room. No one else had thought it, or maybe would admit that they did, but Wilbur was certain there was something wrong about that.

Still, the brunet didn't bother to knock. Whatever Cornelius was doing in there, he'd be fine with Wilbur seeing it. After all, even though they had repressed the signs, their relationship was closer than was supposed to be allowed.

The lab seemed quiet as Wilbur walked in, and he wondered if Cornelius was there at all, or if he was sleeping the comfort of his vast array of inventions. Feeling a shock of foreboding, Wilbur's footsteps ceased, giving way to the dull beeping of many machines. And then, soft, uneven breathing made itself known.

"Dad?" Wilbur called, inching towards the sound. His heart leapt into his throat; those weren't the sounds a healthy human would make. Was Cornelius… having a heart attack? A stroke?

His feet picked up speed, and he sped around a rather large machine to find his father curled up in fetal position, his back against the glass wall. All that was visible of him was his white shock of hair - still defying gravity, as it always had and probably always would - and the bleached lab coat he normally wore while working.

Wilbur ran to Cornelius, kneeling down beside him to offer any assistance he could. "Dad!?" he cried, though there was no reply. "Dad, speak! Say something, please!" His voice cracked, and tears began to well in his eyes. "Dad, Lewis, please…"

Cornelius lifted his head up slightly, not revealing his face to his son. "I… I found out what the virus is," he murmured softly, removing his hand from where it had been nestled between his head and his drawn up knees. Wilbur gasped; it was covered in blood.

"No," he murmured softly, his mouth falling open as Cornelius lifted his head to stare into Wilbur's brown eyes with his own. They were red and glassy, barely recognized as blue anymore, and out of Cornelius' mouth and nose dripped a thick, dark crimson liquid.

"I infected myself with the disease," he mused, his eyes wide as Wilbur's concern turned to rage. "I didn't mean to, but I contracted it, and the final symptoms are beginning to show."

"Final?" Wilbur repeated, remembering that Louise, too, had bled profusely as well. That was right before she died. "No," he snapped, "you're not dying. I won't let you."

A small, quiet laughed escaped Cornelius' blood-covered lips, and he smiled sadly. "Sorry, Wilbur," he replied. "Unless you've been developing a cure for this new strand of Ebola behind my back, you have no say in the matter."

"But what will we do without you?" Wilbur moaned, reaching out to touch his father. The blonde inched away from his touch, refusing to let his only son contract the deadly virus. "What will I do without you, Lewis?"

"I'm not Lewis," Cornelius murmured quietly. "I haven't been for a long time, son. Not again… I never will be."

"No," Wilbur snapped, "you're always Lewis! You'll always be Lewis, even if you don't show it. Lewis is always inside you. And I can't survive without him or my dad." The brunet fought back a sob and snatched his father's hand, despite the fact that it was covered in his blood. "I haven't grown up."

"You never will," Cornelius mused, a peaceful smile dawning on his face. He paused to lean over and rest his head on Wilbur's shoulders, his still bright blue eyes slipping shut. "Both of us love you, Wilbur. Son."

"I know," Wilbur replied quietly. "That's why you can't die. Live because you love me. Live for me."

Cornelius sniffled silently, wiping more blood away from his face with his free hand. "I have been for so long, Wilbur," he muttered. "But no love, not fatherly, not twisted incestuous, can fight off death forever."

"I know," the brunet repeated, his voice cracking from the tears that were welling up in his chocolate brown eyes. "I know, Lewis. I know."

"You'll remember me as Lewis?" Cornelius asked, and Wilbur nodded. The inventor smiled sadly and chuckled to himself. "I'm going to Hell," he murmured. "Cornelius Robinson, Father of the Future, is going to Hell. This is ironic."

"I'll meet you there," Wilbur added, playing along with his father's slightly delusional musings. "Save a spot in the deepest pit for me, okay? And put in a good word for me with Beelzebub. I think I'll need it to survive down here."

"You'll enjoy the warm weather," Cornelius replied. "You never did like winter that much, anyway."

Wilbur glanced out the window; it was snowing outside. Not a surprise for December… Christmas was in a week. With a scowl, the brunet noted that he would hate the colder months even more. Not when… not when Lewis was dying…

"I love you," Cornelius whispered, his breath feverishly warm as it tickled Wilbur's ear. "Love me when I'm gone. I need you to remember me. Please," he paused to cough up a bit more blood, staining his son's dark blue shirt with a dark, reddish brown, "I'm selfish. Love me forever."

"I will," Wilbur sobbed, finally letting the tears flow. "I'll love you forever and back, Lewis. I love you…"

Cornelius chuckled to himself once more, a smile easing over his face. "Thanks," he slurred, relaxing against Wilbur. "Thanks for everything, Wilbur. Goodbye…"

And then, the gray-haired Robinson closed his eyes for the final time, and Wilbur knew he was gone. A loud sob escaped his lips, and he found himself unable to move, to breathe, to think.

Cornelius was dead. Lewis was gone. Forever.

As promised, Franny made her way up the stairs five minutes later, young Lewis in tow, to find Cornelius' body draped over Wilbur's lap as he cried, blood slowly seeping in a puddle around the two.

Franny herself broke down with a scream, collapsing to her knees as she found the two men. Lewis ran from the room, refusing to let anyone see his tears. Carl came in sometime later, reporting that he had called the ambulance.

Cornelius was taken to the hospital, but it was far too late. The next morning, it was announced to the world that Cornelius Robinson, the Father of the Future, the Inventor Extraordinaire, was dead of the Robinson Ebolavirus.

The international funeral for Cornelius was held, and all the world attended. All except for his only son, for though the Robinson Ebola had taken two Robinsons from the living world - Cornelius and Louise - it had killed three.

Everywhere Wilbur went, there was a reminder of Lewis, a memory of Cornelius, a heartache of the past. There was only one place to turn, only one refuge to flee to. So, boarding the outdated time machine, Wilbur disappeared into the past with no plans to return.

Ever.

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First off, my duckies… (Channeling Mad Mod there, my loverly Teen Titans fans…) Isn't it just lovely how I managed to kill off eight of the thirteen original Robinson family members - and I managed to involve the Klingons in the process… - and get rid of another two? There are just too many of them… I couldn't be bothered with all of them running around the house while Cornelius was dying. Too distracting, really.

... Yes, I stole a few lyrics from different songs here and there, one of them being When I'm Gone, but really, when aren't you stealing words? 99.9999999 Percent of all sentences have been said, I guarantee this. I, however, have managed to contribute to a few of those with my pure randomness. ;D Yay!

And yes, I pulled the Ebola card. One of the most vicious viruses on the planet… and I slapped a Robinson in front of it to make it unique. Gosh, now I'm channeling Batman, which is super-awsum (and now Superman…) but kinda sad… (Need I explain that one…? Bat-Ladder? Bat-Spray? Batmobile?) Hey, Cornelius couldn't bring everything good to the Earth, now could he?

Fwee, depressing. Thanks, jamrulz for requesting this. You inspire me. ;D I'll get to work on your other request starting... sometime... and try to finish tinkerbelle22's soon. (If you happen to be reading this, HI! Sorry...) So, thank you for reading, fellow MTR Timecest fans, and goodnight.

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