I say you kill your heroes and

Fly, fly, baby don't cry

No need to worry 'cause

Everybody will die

Everyday we just

Go, go, baby don't go

Don't you worry we

Love you more than you know

/

"Kill Your Heroes" by AWOLNATION

When Ben wakes up he's warm, almost uncomfortably so.

It's startling and painful and affirming all at once, because he hasn't felt temperature differentials in—well, a long time. His eyes fly open and then snap shut when they are immediately assaulted by a blinding white light that leaves ragged discolored patches on the insides of his eyelids. The ground beneath him is soft and shifting and his clothes cling to him and he's quite suddenly aware that he needs to breathe.

Somehow, amongst everything, it is the sensation of his chest expanding with air that proves the most disorienting. He chokes and gags and scrabbles for something to cling to, to ground himself, but everything is painful to touch and nothing feels real.

A warm hand touches his skin and he might have screamed if he could get his lungs to work. "Shh, easy now," a voice says, and the sound is the tether he was floundering for. Another hand touches his leg—it belongs to the same person, he thinks—and hikes his knees up. The first hand drifts down between his shoulders and pushes up, sends his head spinning all over again as he's suddenly upright. He's about to throw up when the mystery person pushes his head down to rest just between his knees and something in his chest loosens. "Breathe."

Somehow, he does. It's ragged and shaky and he would certainly fall back if it wasn't for the hand that lies warm and heavy on the back of his neck, but Ben's breathing for the first time in years and it's wonderful. He coughs, rough and sandpapery, and lets out a groan. The voice chuckles. "I know, I know. It gets easier, just breathe."

It does get easier, bit by bit, the knot in his chest coming undone until the air flows in and out of him like the ocean's tides. The pressure on his neck is steady through it all, though the voice is silent now. Eventually Ben feels brave enough to open his eyes and look down at the ground from where his head still rests between his knees. It's sand, loose and white and glittering brightly, and he can't help but drop a hand down to grasp a handful of it. It slides between his fingers, hot and dry and silky, and his next breath escapes as a laughing sob.

His tearful delight doesn't last long, as he quickly becomes aware of a new presence hanging around—a woman's voice, heavily accented and too quiet for him to make out—and is struck by the realization that he has no idea where he is or what is happening. Ben lifts his head and tries to focus, but his vision swims and he can feel his head lulling—until a third hand grips his jaw and steadies him.

Finally he can see the two people by his side. The first is a handsome white man, with dusky brown hair and a strong jaw. His eyes are kind and laughing, and Ben gets the distinct impression that he could tell this man anything and receive no judgement. He's dressed in ancient military fatigues light and flimsy enough that he must feel perfectly comfortable in the sweltering heat.

Next to the man, the old white woman looks almost painfully severe. Her long salt-and-pepper hair frames a thin, drawn face, offset by a keen gleam in her deep-set green eyes. She lets go of Ben's face abruptly, leaving his head to bob helplessly for a moment. "Keep him awake. Do not let him sleep," she orders the man. Ben can place her accent now as German. "We have waited too long for answers."

The man shifts uncertainly. "We should let him rest," he argues. "Who knows how long it's been for him?"

Ben's head falls to the man's shoulder and he lets him keep it there, his body cradled safely in the circle of the other man's arms, and for a moment Ben thinks he must be having the ghost's equivalent of a dream because there is no way he's actually managed to come back to life far, far away from everything he's ever known and wind up in the arms of a beautiful man. Then he feels guilty for feeling lucky to be away from it all, because he doesn't actually want to be away from Klaus and being alive really sucked anyway—

Fuck. "Klaus," he slurs, sand-choked and too quiet. Something roils in his skin and he's so full of terror he can't try again until the Horror settles within him and even then he thinks he might vibrate off the material plane. "Klaus."

The man tenses, probably because he can feel the writhing tendrils under Ben's skin, but the woman speaks before him. "Klaus?" she says, moving into Ben's line of sight. Her face blurs and distorts in front of him but he can clearly make out the dawning realization that softens the lines of her. "You're little Number Six, aren't you?"

The thrill of being seen isn't something Ben could have expected. He shudders, and it has nothing to do with feeling the Horror within him. The man heaves a breath and holds Ben closer to him. "You're Ben," he says in awe or in disbelief. "Jesus."

Ben's eyes slip shut before he can even contemplate what's happening. He's perfectly content to drift off, buoyed by the warmth of existing in plain sight.

Ben comes to with the sound of laughter ringing in the air. He stirs and feels the earth shift under him, and his hands clench in soft fabric. The air around him is cool now but he can feel warmth dancing on his skin. He opens his eyes to find a cheery campfire several yards away and a gaudy striped blanket between him and the sand. It's nighttime now, and the fire's embers spiral up among the stars.

He turns his head to look in the other direction. Low, broad dunes of sand stretch endlessly into the night. While the sand around the campfire is bright white, Ben can make out striations of darker color waving through the desert, though it's impossible to make out more detail in the night. There is no sound, and there is no movement, and the loneliness is softer than any Ben has ever known.

Ben sits up on his own this time. His mouth feels dry and gritty. Four small tents are pitched on the other side of the campfire, and the man and the old woman are there, rooting through large burlap bags and ancient pots that seem to be overflowing with supplies. He wonders what they were laughing about, then comes to the wonderful conclusion that he can simply ask them. So he does, and they hear him.

The man looks up, and he gives a wide grin. "Hey, Ben!" he exclaims, grabbing a canteen from his sorted supplies and tossing it through the air to land squarely in the sand in front of Ben's blanket. "Welcome back to the world of the unliving!" The old woman gives an amused snort, so Ben assumes they've just been making stupid ghost puns this whole time. Which means Ben didn't magically come back to life, probably, but he's definitely not dead anymore either.

Ben grips the canteen in trembling hands and unscrews the lid slowly. He feels clumsy and stupid, knowing he's taking far too long to complete a simple task and hoping the others aren't looking at him. Finally the lid is off, and Ben raises the canteen to his lips and takes his first sip of water in fourteen years. It's the sweetest thing he's ever tasted. He has to force himself to stop before he gets sick, and when he lowers the vessel he's almost surprised to find he's crying. He gives a startled little laugh and wipes his sleeve across his face.

When his vision clears, the old woman is kneeling in front of him. She raises a weathered hand to his cheek and cradles his jaw in a much softer manner than she did before. Ben breathes out unsteadily and leans into the touch, praying he doesn't start crying again. The corners of the woman's mouth tick up in a sober smile. "It's good to see you again, Number Six."

Ben frowns, his gaze flickering between the old woman and the young man who comes to stand at her shoulder. Ben realizes he doesn't know either of these people, even though they clearly know—or are at least familiar with—him. They see him, and not knowing them feels like a betrayal. "I'm sorry, I don't think we've met," he croaks, hoping it sounds a lot less rude to them than it does in his own ears.

The woman tsks and gives his cheek a motherly pat before hoisting herself to her feet. "No, we haven't. That's not important."

Ben opens his mouth to protest, but the man cuts him off. "Ben, what happened before you ended up here?"

Dull panic begins to rekindle under Ben's skin, and he's treated to the extremely disconcerting sensation of feeling his heart beat against his ribs. Being aware of his own body is terrifying. Luckily, the Horror slumbers. "Klaus is in trouble."

"It must've been bad, to send you away," the man says to himself, crossing his arms over his chest and scrubbing one hand across his face. The woman has gone back to looking stern and uncompromising, and she is silent but thrumming with nervous energy. Ben notices that the logs on the fire don't seem to have burnt down at all, and there's no firewood anywhere that he can see. "Has there been a disturbance in the timeline recently?" the man asks.

Ben blinks, because where has this guy been, but he supposes dead is a good enough answer. "Yes, weeks ago now."

"It must have taken some time to catch up," the woman tells the man. "Or there could be new danger coming as a result of the timeline alteration. Either way, he's out of sync."

"What are you talking about?" Ben asks, fighting the urge to bury his face in his hands. He's still way too disoriented for this, and would really like to know what's going on for once in his life (and death). He'd also like to go back to sleep.

"You're here because Klaus wanted to keep you safe," the man says with a gentle, apologetic smile. "Timeline anomalies don't reach this place."

So, these people know Klaus. This entire thing has to do with Klaus. But everything they're saying about the timeline seems more like Five's domain. Ben wracks his brain for everything relevant Five has said about the nature of time and its fluctuations. According to him, the universe was in a state of flux lovingly curated by the Commission, and the slightest changes could alter all future events, including the existence of individuals.

Ben frowns. "So this is a—a backup drive? For the universe?"

The man looks confused now, but the woman answers. "For people. No matter what happens to the timeline, this version of you will exist here." The woman shuffles busily about the camp, like she can't stand to sit still. She dips out of sight behind the fire for a moment, but reappears quickly without having apparently accomplished anything. She's twitchy and awkward more than she is unsociable. "You cannot cease to exist."

The whole thing seems ridiculous, and Ben can't help his incredulous laugh. "You're telling me Klaus has the ability to accidentally create a universe to accidentally store ghosts in?"

The man grins. "Yes, exactly!"

"No." the old woman gives the man a bemused look. "This place has always existed. Klaus did not create it. It is a halfway point between life and death, similar to being a ghost—but safer. From here we can move on into the afterlife, should we choose to."

"And you haven't chosen to," Ben murmurs. His mind supplies him with a word, its meaning half-remembered, and questionably relevant: purgatory. "Why would you stay here, if you can move on?"

The woman looks to the man with a soft smile, and he shuffles his feet in the sand. "I'm not sure if Klaus has mentioned me," he clears his throat. "I'm Dave. Dave Katz."

Ben stares at the pretty man for a long moment. "Yeah, he's mentioned you."

Something in his voice, or the wonderment on his face, must give away what a shock this is, because Dave looks concerned. "How long has it been? For him, I mean?"

"Like, three weeks."

Dave smiles, and it's a tremulous little thing. "Remind me to apologize for making him wait even a second."

Ben smiles too, because Dave seems to be a good man. He knew he probably had to be, the way Klaus talked, but he couldn't be sure. Klaus hadn't had the best judgement in the past. It wasn't intentional—the siblings' role models for healthy adult relationships had been nonexistent—but Klaus had always seemed to fall into destructive relationships as a default. Dave was so obviously different.

Dave clears his throat again and gestures to the old woman standing beside him. "This here is Frau Sauer."

Ben looks at the woman curiously, unable to place the name. "I don't think Klaus ever told me about you," he says cautiously. That meant she'd appeared to him before Ben had died. It meant Klaus was helping ghosts to pass on before he was fifteen years old. How many others were there? The four tents, endless supplies, and eternal fire gave him an idea. He always had wondered why the friendly ghosts never stuck around long.

The woman gives a thin-lipped smile, equal parts sad and understanding. "No, I don't suppose he would. He may not remember me at all." Dave puts a companionable hand on her shoulder, and she seems to draw strength from it. "I taught him Deutsch when he was very little."

Ben isn't sure how that makes the dots connect in his brain, but it does. "You're his mother."

She bows her head. "Please, call me Ilse."

Ben supposes he should be happy to meet this woman, to be met with the revelation that Klaus clearly hadn't been abandoned. Instead, a deep aching bitterness clenches him. It's old and wretched and he can't stamp it down—it rears its head whenever he remembers he was unwanted. His own mother, whoever she might have been, had given him away, had sold him to a psychopath, had consigned him to a torturous existence and then death—

Ben breathes, and he lets it go. It's an anger that doesn't make sense. It's misdirected. He doesn't know the circumstances of his birth, what his mother might have gone through, what pressures she was under. The blame lies with the mysterious nature of his existence and with Hargreeves. He lets his rage flow for the correct person, and he lets himself feel happy for Klaus at the same time. "It's nice to meet you, Ilse," he says, more than a bit choked up.

She nods her response, equally emotional. Dave squeezes her shoulder and gives them both a moment to collect themselves before he speaks. "So, Ben, what will you do now?"

Ben frowns down at his hands folded in his lap. "Well, I have to go back," he says, "there's no question about that." It's horribly sad to admit to himself but he knows there's no one waiting for him in the afterlife. If he moved on, he'd be well and truly alone. And—his throat clenches at the thought—he would be leaving Klaus alone.

He remembers the circumstances of his arrival here clearly now. He remembers the beautiful woods, the clear weather, the unseasonable chill in the air as evidenced by Klaus's intermittent shivering. He remembers the lines of tension in his brother's shoulders relaxing as the din of screaming ghosts faded to background noise. Klaus had been having a good time, and had decided Vanya was safe to talk to. Ben had agreed up until the moment he didn't, but by then his shouted warning about the crumbling cliff couldn't do much good. Klaus had managed to push Vanya out of harm's way, and then Ben woke up in a desert.

With a small sigh, Dave settles himself down on Ben's blanket and holds out a hand to help Ilse do the same. "I figured you'd say that," Dave said, "and I agree. But the fact that you're here means I've been in this place for uh—about sixty years now, and this whole time I've been trying to go back."

Dave doesn't seem especially upset about that, and he waves away Ben's obvious concern. "Time passes a lot faster here. By my estimate I would've said I've been here maybe two, three years. And I've had company most of the time, so it's actually been pretty nice. Peaceful."

Far from assuaging Ben's panic, the information reawakens the subtle pain of the Horror's restless stirring. "Klaus is hurt," Ben grits, trying to be subtle about the arm he braces against his stomach. "He could still be in trouble, and he's—" how much do they know? How much did Klaus tell Dave? How much would Dave have told Ilse? Would Klaus ever forgive Ben if he accidentally said too much? "—he's going through a bit of a hard time right now."

Ben's never really thought of Klaus as being dependent on him before. He hadn't been, before this whole apocalypse business. And he isn't now, really, but he needs someone. He needs Ben, and Ben isn't there.

Ben takes a deep breath, steals his nerve back from the panic encroaching on him. He's going to get back to Klaus. "Tell me what you've tried so far."

"How do you know everything you do about the timeline?" Ben asks Ilse the next day. Morning light reveals that the ribbons of darker sand are vividly multicolored and arranged in concentric circles that converge on the bright white circle of the campsite. It's hot, but not horribly so, and Ben has taken off his jacket and tied it around his waist.

"A little girl comes by sometimes, riding on a horse," Ilse answers without a hint of humor. Ben can only assume she's telling the truth. "She tells us things, though she's not eager to be helpful."

Ben raises an eyebrow at her. They're taking a walk along a purple striation several yards out from the campsite, to get Ben used to walking again on legs that he can feel. The sand doesn't like to be displaced—if his foot sends a spray of purple sand scattering into another color nearby, it vibrates back into its correct place and settles there. "Have you asked her how to go back?"

"Of course," Ilse says. "She's confused that we haven't moved on yet. She doesn't understand why we would want to go back."

Ben stumbles a bit in his next stride. Sand isn't the most forgiving surface to be relearning how to walk on. "Is there a pattern to when she comes by? Will she be here soon?"

Ilse loops her arm through his, steadying him against her. He feels more grounded immediately, a bit less like he's moments away from being lost in the unreality of their situation. "I haven't been here long, perhaps five months or so," Ilse says. She rubs his arm soothingly, like he's a spooked animal. "She's been here four times that I've seen. There doesn't appear to be much of a pattern to her visits, and she never stays more than a few minutes."

Ben thinks the girl may be a deadend, in that case. A source of information is useless if it comes and goes as it pleases and has a horse to ride away on. He resigns himself to enjoying the rest of his walk with Klaus's mother.

The desert isn't a totally monotonous landscape of rolling rainbow sand. The day after Ben's walk with Ilse, Dave takes him on a trek further away from the campsite. He explains that the patterns in the sand act as a guide, that one can always find their way back to the center of the bullseye, back to the eternal flame.

Dave takes him to a shallow oasis about half an hour away from the campsite. They sit at the edge of the still, clear water, which itself seems to be sitting directly on top of the colorful sand. It reminds Ben of pictures he's seen of a thermal pool at Yellowstone, where the water spreads out in different colors due to specific species of extremophiles colonizing certain temperatures.

No plants grow near the spring, so there's no shade, and the sun beats down hot on both of them, but the water is cool and soothing on Ben's feet. He feels more at ease than he has any right to be. "Why didn't you decide to move on?" Ben asks Dave. "You must have family in the afterlife."

Dave hums and gives a small smile. Still, he doesn't speak for a long moment. When he does his voice is quiet. "I won't be brave enough to face them unless Klaus is with me."

Ben can sense Dave isn't done, and he doesn't push him. He stares at the soft rippling of the water around his ankles until Dave continues. "Right now, I could tell them I'm in love with another man, and know that it's true—but if they were to tell me I wasn't, I'd start to believe them. I'd go back to being someone I'm not."

Dave shakes himself and clears his throat. "I know that makes me sound weak-willed, and I am, when it comes to my family. I never feel more like me than I do when I'm with Klaus."

"That doesn't make you weak-willed," Ben says. He thinks of Pogo, who was willing to turn a blind eye to the mistreatment of children out of loyalty to Hargreeves. That kind of cowardice wasn't present in Dave. "I think it's very brave of you to want to hold onto yourself. And to him. He—" Ben pauses, blinks back his overflowing emotion, "he deserves someone like you, Dave."

Dave claps him on the shoulder and leaves his hand there, a warm, firm pressure. There are tears in his eyes, too. They sit there together for a long time.

Ben is in pain the next day. He lays on his side in his tent, curled tightly around his stomach. He trembles with fear and hurt, half-expecting the Horror to burst from his skin at any moment. It'd been quiet the past few days. Now it churns and writhes in his gut and eats away at the fragile foundation he's found here.

He must pass out at some point, because he comes to feeling feverish and hazy but with a cool cloth gently wiping at his face. He opens his eyes enough to see Ilse sitting beside him. She trails the cloth down his cheek, rests it briefly against the thrum of his pulse in his neck. His mouth feels dry—she helps him drink from a cup, and sweeps his hair back from his forehead when he curls up again. "You don't remind me much of Klaus," he slurs.

Ilse smiles sadly. "I saw myself in him clearly when he was little. Dave tells me how much he's changed."

Ben thinks about that, thinks about the sweet and vulnerable little boy who went into the mausoleum and the broken young man who came out. At least he'd had a mother before then. There was only so much Grace could do for a boy like Ben with an interdimensional squid beast determined to maim and disembowel. The thought comes out quite a bit more bitter than Ben would like, and he heaves a shaky sigh. "How did you die?" he asks Ilse.

Her hand stills for a moment as she changes out the cloth for a fresh one. "I was fifty-seven when I gave birth, and my health had already been declining. I took my last breath as he took his first."

She looked older than she was. That probably had to do with the declining health she mentioned. "Did you ever tell Klaus who you were?"

Ilse sweeps the new cloth across his brow. "I didn't think to," she says. "I figured I'd have time to tell him."

"But he sent you away before you could," Ben infers. "Probably because his powers were getting stronger. He was scared."

Ilse hums her agreement. She peers at him with shrewd green eyes, and cradles his jaw in one calloused hand while the other feels his pulse. "Is the pain getting better?"

Ben nods, exhausted by the bout and nauseous from the horrific memories of battle it evoked. "It's not your fault you weren't there."

She gives a rare little laugh. "Believe me, I know. I would never have left him on purpose." She goes quiet then, and she looks at Ben like he's a little boy again, like she can peel back the horror of who and what he is and see all his broken parts. "I would never have left you, either, Benny."

He falls asleep as she hums some German lullaby and runs her hand through his hair.

A week passes, and the three of them are sitting by the fire when they see a multicolored cloud of dust in the distance. It's a horse, galloping towards them, with a little girl riding sidesaddle on its back through the desert.