Author's Note: Character death, AU, standard fare. Okay, maybe the first part isn't, but meh. Oh, and F/H in this chapter, more to come in the later ones. Not that that should surprise any of you.

And I used no proper names in this chapter. Let's see if you can figure out what's going on.

I own neither the show or the line below. By the way, don't report me for it because that's just stupid. I'll just repost the chapter anyway. To hell with you if you do.

"People die, but real love is forever." Amy Lee, Evanescence.

Even in Death

Prologue: Ghosts of the Past

Fingers scraped desperately against the glass, but their dullness powdered, yielding no release. Frustrated, he howled, whirling around, cape dragging across the filthy floor. Oh, he abhorred when his luxurious leather cape suffered such unwarranted scuffing. Nonetheless, he pounded frantically, unrelenting in his desire for escape. Surely his protests might be heard. Surely out there, someone cared enough to give him the key and unlock his madness.

Sodden blue hair, drenched in sweat, flopped dejectedly. Panting, he slid down the wall, folded his arms across his chest, and stared moodily ahead. It'd been six months since the incident that stole his creator away, but he still remembered. Not too soon afterwards, they'd flung him inside this room. How he loathed and appalled every single one of them, particularly the proprietor and caretaker. How he'd make them pay if he only had the chance.

Fire burned furiously in maddened azure eyes, hardly touched by sanity. They scanned the perimeter, perceived no weapons, and then renewed their search. Surely someone might have carelessly left him a fork, knife, or other implement to manipulate the lock. Surely someone, in their infinite stupidity, provided him the key to their destruction. These padded white walls and mockingly high window must provide an ample weapon if only he utilized his cunning properly.

Buried in the cushions deeply enough to pierce his smooth skin, he extracted a Swiss Army knife and grinned maliciously. Well, well, it looked like the party was about to start.

She'd stopped wearing her hair in that ridiculous ponytail years ago. Besides, he'd told her he preferred her hair either pinned back in a bun while she worked or loose to stroke. Whenever he touched her, delightful shivers coursed down her back. The first time they kissed, she nearly passed out in shock. For someone who had constantly irritated her endlessly, there'd been such undeniable chemistry. Days afterward, she'd fantasized, grinning to herself while scrubbing the loo or repairing an antique vase.

Of course, no one else knew about them. This house had its fair share of secrets, not the slightest of which was the perpetually locked room in the North Tower. None other than a nameless, unidentifiable creature entered to dispense food or change toiletries. The creature was changed habitually, to ensure any distinguishing features were not recalled, and always, the helper was mute or forbidden to talk. Communication was a tool disallowed.

The loudspeaker crackled, but before she ran to its summons, a dark skinned girl sped ahead and cut her off. Ever since his death, she'd traded her customary rainbow colors for an all black ensemble that revealed nothing, considering a veil dangled in front of her eyes. The two hardest hit creatures both lived here, though the girl dwelled when her parents felt it necessary to stimulate emotional and spiritual growth. If they cared to take a deeper look at their daughter, they might have discovered her tremendous, unrelenting sorrow. She'd never gotten over his loss.

Balancing a laundry basket precariously, its girth too much already, she bypassed the red skinned, wounded, one eyed imaginary friend who hefted her load easily. She smiled gratefully, following him into the laundry room. Friends washed their loads; some stayed to watch the clothing tumble (she supposed there was nothing on TV). Gently pushing one aside, she opened the washer for him to toss it in. Such a mundane task, but she associated it with the past immediately. Sighing heavily, she willed the memories away and scurried to her next task. The past affected her, yes, but its power had only destroyed the life of one friend here. She would not let it claim any others.

Scattered leaves, remnants of fall's tumble, played lightly across his grave. Swallowing hard, a raven haired boy with steel grey eyes knelt down to place flowers atop. Behind him, his mother glanced away, unable to cope with the reality. She beckoned to her now only child and the two, after murmuring their respects, walked away.

She held the door open, but he scoffed, waving her off. Once upon a time, she might have claimed to know her children. But she'd never predicted the mood swings, sometimes violent, accompanying his grief. True, the boys had never gotten along quite like siblings, but she'd never guessed he might have truly cared. For instance, it'd been his idea to visit today, much like it'd been his to deliver the eulogy. She recalled the now humanoid imaginary friend demanding to speak instead and a crimson haired young woman struggling to pin him down. The exposure of her son's secret life, his unknown friends, and anything else came undone a few weeks before the funeral.

Blinking furiously, she pulled the car over and wept unabashed. Mothers shouldn't have to bury their children. They shouldn't have to stand there and watch powerlessly as the body was lowered into the grave. They shouldn't feel like somehow, they could have done something to prevent this. Why must she be burdened so?

Cars sped by and she longed to be as carefree as the others. But, more than anything, she yearned to undo time.

Tears blurred her vision, but she continued working tirelessly. Meanwhile, the large, timid purple imaginary friend did whatever cooking he could without being spooked by the instruments. Another time, another place, she might have teased him. Now, bent over the onions, she merely ignored him. Long, braided locks dangled down either side of her rounded face and swayed back and forth in rhythm. If she put all her energy and effort into this, she'd forget it. She'd forget the way he made her feel by simply walking into the room. She'd forget the way he smiled and how softly he spoke. She'd forget the ache in her heart, primarily from love and then, from his death.

The light in her life had dimmed and then faded away to nothingness. Today was the six month anniversary of his death, too. She wondered if they'd let him visit his grave. Unfortunately, given his current mental state, she doubted this. He wasn't capable of dining with the other friends or indeed interaction. A few weeks after the accident, he'd gone mad. It'd taken four of them to confine him to a straitjacket and a few more to drag him up the stairs. He'd fought valiantly the whole way, spitting and cursing. The only thing that had calmed him was a whisper, "He wouldn't have wanted you to be like this". That had stopped him cold, though later they thought they heard him sobbing brokenly.

Still, all things considered, it wasn't like they hadn't had their share of crying fits. It was just that his death had affected him so profoundly, unhinged him so deeply, they feared he'd never recover.

Clearing his throat, he anticipated issuing a series of commands for the house caretaker when another arrived instead. This took him aback, since he'd planned on teasing her unmercifully and perhaps even sneaking in a private moment. Still, here was someone to count on, someone who seemed to know what she was doing. He smiled gently, directed her towards the fourth floor bathrooms, and provided her with a plunger. Since their resident mischief maker had been contained, copycats arose. Not a week went by without an imaginary friend trying to top his new record. As soon as he stomped down one, another arose. It was growing to be quite a nuisance.

Nothing had gone right since that car accident. He'd gladly give his stiffly starched collar to undo the past and restore everyone to their normal selves. Heck, he'd love to see the humanoid blue skinned imaginary friend start one of his trademark conflicts if it meant his creator was still alive. He rarely got attached to very many humans, considering his line of work and his professionalism, but he, his creator, and her granddaughter he'd been rather fond of. Sighing heavily, he neatened a stack of papers on his desk and glanced out the window. Three o'clock just didn't have the same meaning any more.

Stabbing the door with the knife only embedded it, lamentably. A shadow flitted across the small room and he spun around, fists held up defensively. Azure eyes contorted in rage- who dared disturb him? When he got his weapon out, they were going to get it. He didn't give a damn who it was. Unless they planned to spring him out, they were an enemy. And all enemies had to be dealt with the same way- death.

Unless, of course, this intruder was already dead.

Slack jawed, instrument forgotten, he fell to his knees and stared blankly at the dim shadow, barely visible in the twilight. For the first time in a long time, he felt his creator's presence.

The lights flickered on and off erratically. In the kitchen, the microwave, in the middle of cooking a snack, suddenly exploded and shot a Pop-Tart into the wall. Thankfully, no one had been in the way of the offending pastry. Hot filling oozed down and, in the semi darkness, the large, purple furred, bull-like imaginary friend quivered fearfully. He immediately scanned the room to locate a friend, but the illumination failed completely and he howled pitifully.
The peculiar thing was outside, the sky was completely clear. No sign of clouds, either. No thunder or lightening affected the electricity and outwardly, there was no evidence this should have been happening at all. Huddled beneath his desk, the large, grey and white furred imaginary rabbit waited for this supernatural phenomenon to be over. He had no idea why it spooked him so badly, but this somehow smacked of spiritual beings and unnatural energy, normally a field he staunchly denied.

He glanced up at the underside of his desk and shivered. This was far too small a place to situate himself and he was rather cramped. Still, until the things that went bump in the night vanished, he'd stay right where he was, thank you very much.