Disclaimer: I just own this fic, nothing more or less.
Unhappy Ending
The rules of the fairytale don't apply to him. His magic garb does not consist of fabric, but of flesh and bone, of breath and heart, and he doesn't have until midnight, only has until the clock strikes ten.
Downstairs, she looks like a princess in his mother's dress. He's not quite sure how he looks, he's lost the habit of looking into mirrors long ago, but he feels like a prince as he reaches out to her, silently asking her to dance. She accepts, watching him curiously, and he knows she's trying to put a name to his face, because she's never seen him (like this – alive) before. He fails to hide his amusement, sporting a coy grin as she wraps her arms around his neck, allowing him to lead them in a slow dance.
She doesn't notice as they rise, dance on air. Not at first, anyway. But when she does, she gasps and clings to him, and God, it feels so good to finally feel her. She's warm and trembling and he can feel her heart thudding anxiously against his as she crushes their chests together.
He chuckles quietly, smiles and presses his forehead to hers. "I told you I was a good dancer," he says quietly. "Can I keep you?" is a whisper, meant only for her.
"Casper?" she asks, scared and surprised and overjoyed all at once. And, please, don't let her be dreaming. He says nothing more to confirm or contradict her guess, but he doesn't have to; she knows those blue eyes, and she was a fool not to have noticed sooner.
She smiles, for the first time that night, and wraps her arms around him tighter. They sink to the floor once again, and the crowd stands aside to watch them dance.
Tighter, he wants to tell her, never let go – but she must, sooner or later. And because this won't last – it can't – he commits this moment to memory; the feel of her body against his, the scent of her (perfume and soap and shampoo and something distinctly Kathleen Harvey).
The precious minutes fly by and the old grandfather clock begins to chime. He stops dancing to watch the dust rise from the face of the clock, and she suddenly becomes rigid against him, looking up at him, asking hesitantly (because she doesn't really want to know what's wrong), "Casper?"
He says nothing as the clock counts down, only smiles and leans forward, taking her lips in a gentle kiss. She kisses back, opening her eyes again just as warm flesh fades to that familiar pocket of cold, dead air.
And it (life and death and whatever lies between) isn't fair.
---
She doesn't see him for days afterward, but when she does he's a mangled shape of ectoplasm. Bulb-head and long arms, five fingers on one hand, four on the other, and legs that don't quite seem right. She frowns as she approaches, and he, in his frustrated state, struggles to pull himself together, into the form they're both more familiar with.
"What are you doing?" she asks, kneeling as he sinks to the floor, hovering just above it in the ghost-equivalent of what she assumes is a kneel much like her own.
He says nothing, only scowls at the floor, and the room chills.
"Casper," she says, "talk to me. Please."
"I thought maybe I could... change the way I look, for you," he mumbles, glancing up at her momentarily, fists clenched.
She wants to touch, to reach out and hold those freezing hands and tell him it's alright, but she can't and it's not, so she doesn't.
"Cinderella got a happy ending," he mutters bitterly. "They all did." A lump is rising in her throat. He finally locks his eyes with hers, his gaze harsh and bitter and full of something else she knows she will never completely understand. "Why can't we?"
She is struck silent, unable to look away from that haunting gaze, struggling for an answer. "Because, this isn't another Cinderella story," she murmurs.
Because you're dead, she wants to say, and maybe the dead don't get to live happily ever after.
"Then what is it?"
Not meant to be is on the tip of her tongue, because she knows the living and the dead aren't meant to mix. She bites down hard, and swallows it.
"Whatever it is," she says slowly, carefully, "it's not a fairy tale."
The temperature drops a few more degrees. She shivers.
"Figures," he mutters.
"Hey," she says, and the urge can no longer be suppressed as she reaches out to brush a hand against his cheek, knuckles dipping into frigid ectoplasm. "Fairy tales are overrated anyway."
-End