Disclaimer: I own nothing
Author Note: Written in memory of William Moody, who brought the character of Paul Bearer to such brilliant manic life for so many years in the WWE. This fic contains references to many parts of the Undertaker and Kane's backstories, as shown on WWE TV during the 1990s. RIP William Moody & Paul Bearer.
RESTING IN PEACE
The Undertaker was in his workshop when it happened. He was working on a custom coffin, as he often did when he needed focus. Sometimes he sold them; sometimes he merely stacked them in the corner, waiting for the right person to come along and claim them. It had been that way since childhood, since before the fire. It reminded him of his parents, the smell of wood and embalming fluid, the hint of ash in the air to come.
It was the only time he could think of them with peace in his soul.
He was reaching for the planer when something twitched inside of him. He paused, his hand hovering, then the twitch strengthened until it became full-bodied. Someone had fallen, and not just anybody, someone close to him, someone he'd bound himself to. The Undertaker glanced outside – the day was cold with snow in the air, there'd been no lightning, no storms, no downpours. He was beyond certain that the day Kane left this life; there'd be thunderstorms that would rattle the hinges of the Earth itself. So he hadn't constructed a coffin for his brother yet, though there were many days he was tempted.
His thoughts were scattered by a heavy knock at the door. He kept the door bolted while he worked, not wanting to be disturbed. Given the troubling urge though, the Undertaker did not ignore his visitor. He unbolted the door to discover Kane on the other side, his eyes wild and his breathing heavy. They stared at each other for a long moment, silent communication heavy between them.
Kane was still alive. The Undertaker allowed that thought to take root. His brother still lived. Despite all that they'd put each other through, he was glad to see his brother breathing.
Then he noticed what Kane was holding carefully in his gloved hands – a distinctive metal urn. And the urge inside the Undertaker became a rolling wave of grief.
He stood aside and let Kane in.
The Undertaker kept a fine stock of whisky in his workshop. He reached for a bottle without hesitation and poured two glasses. Kane sat down on a thick-legged stool; the urn still clutched in his hands, his body language insular and taut. The Undertaker hadn't seen that side of him since childhood, since before Kane had first entered the WWE, his father at his side. His father.
Paul Bearer had been an anchor for Kane to cling to, helping him make sense of the world that he'd been hidden from for so long. He was the first person to give Kane purpose – revenge. But anchors could also weigh you down, and both Kane and the Undertaker had let Bearer go. He'd always returned to them however, in one way or another. The three of them had been bound together in a manner that few could understand. It wasn't just the painful blood tie between them, it was the funeral parlour that had been their home, it was the basement Kane had lived in, it was the troubled young Undertaker with a can of gasoline, a fistful of matches, and a power inside of him that he hadn't understood. Paul Bearer had.
Paul Bearer had understood so many things. He'd nursed both boys into accepting what coursed through their veins; he'd trained them and tied them to the urn that Kane now held. Bearer had guarded it possessively, using it to inspire and push them to victories. He'd moulded them until the monsters he'd created had broken free of his vision and had found new ones beyond him.
The Undertaker had chosen the desert, a long cleansing journey on his motorbike. Too much had happened to him, his mortal body had been hurt too many times, and he'd needed to rejuvenate. Kane had chosen to indulge his human side; he'd fallen in love and had suffered because of it. He'd evolved, though part of him would always be locked in that basement, just as part of the Undertaker would always be burning with his parents.
Paul Bearer hadn't changed, and had always been part of their lives. Sometimes he was waiting deep in the shadows, but he was always there. He hadn't ordered a coffin from the Undertaker, was it possible that he hadn't known his end was coming? It seemed so unlikely; Bearer had always known how to manipulate what life spun at him.
Undertaker handed Kane a whisky-filled glass and sat down opposite him. The coffin he'd been working on was dark wood with old-fashioned handles. His symbol, discarded now but active when he and Bearer had formed the Ministry, could be carved onto the lid. He couldn't imagine that Bearer would want to be cremated.
Kane drained the glass. He didn't let go of the urn. Undertaker didn't try to take it off of him. Bearer hadn't been his father, but he had been one of the few people who'd known the young Undertaker and who had shaped him into the man he was today.
Maybe it would soon be time for another ride out into the desert.
Maybe Kane would join him this time.
For a few moments, all the Undertaker could smell was embalming fluid.
They both sat there in silence for the rest of the night.
-the end