Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Children are the most wonderful things in the world. They are small, bright, and beautiful, with eyes of blue or green or brown, filled with wonder and curiosity, overflowing with a cascade of questions, of what-if's and maybe's.

And then those children, those shining sparks of light, they grow up. Those skies lose their rich blue, the trees dull and become something unseen, and those wide, clear eyes become cloudy and shadowed with the weight of the world.

There are tales of children who never grow up, who come through windows at night with a playful shadow, who offer kisses like they were going out of style. Children who play, who gaze upon the world, unknowing of the life of adults.

And then there are children who hide quietly, nothing more than dark shadows, brimming with fear and driving everyone else away as they silently watch the other children joyfully play.

Sometimes, there are children who are never offered the chance to grow up.

Sometimes, a night filled with lively music and swiftly tapping feet against a dance floor can turn into an agonising inferno of pain, choked with flames and smoke. Those same nimble feet will fall silent, a hand held tightly in a smaller one as the blaze snuffs out a tiny spark of life.

When Jade English, investigative journalist for the Daily News, discovered the two bodies curled together in a burned out parlour of a jazz bar, she could only feel immense sadness. The two had been known for their vastly differing personalities, the older brother withdrawn, his sister positively bubbling with energy, and for their perfectly synchronised dancing.

On March 3, 1929, the Strider-Lalonde siblings were found, dead, in the back closet in the Derse Nightclub in Arlington, having burned as the building itself did that night, killing seven more people.

The funeral was small, since the siblings had no parents or family. Dietrich and Roxanne were lowered silently into the earth as a priest rattled off prayers, shielding his face from a sun too bright for a child's funeral.

Jade English elected not to publish her story. She had a grandson at home, and he was the same age that Dietrich Strider-Lalonde was. It felt too personal.

Later that same year, both Jake English and his grandmother, Jade English, were both taken by influenza. Their house remained empty for months afterwards, as the town, while small, was deeply superstitious, and feared ghosts.

Years In The Future

"They were right about the quality of this place," John mutters, pushing his glasses further up his nose as his best friend Jade grins at him, leaning on a suitcase. John sighs and drags his bags up the steps, Jade right behind him. John creaks open the door to the kitchen and walks in, calling a warning over his shoulder about the low door frames. The thud behind John, followed by Jade's low cursing, speaks numbers.

"You didn't tell me!" Jade gasps, head injury forgotten, and races to the window. "There's a swing!"

John shakes his head, amused. "Jade, we're in our twenties. Also, that thing's gotta be at least a hundred years old."

"Closer to sixty." a girl's voice, laden with an accent, corrects John cheerfully. John whirls around and is greeted with an empty kitchen.

"You okay, John?" Jade asks, pulling her mass of hair up into a ponytail. "You seem shaky."

John startles and lies quickly. "Oh, what? Nah, just a bit cold."

Jade laughs loudly, eyes crinkling behind her thick glasses, and leans over to grab one of John's bags, hefting it up over her shoulder. "No kidding!!"

John sighs, the lie accepted, and grabs more luggage and follows Jade. The place was nice, he has to admit. It was cheap, and near downtown. Having graduated only a few months prior, John was grateful for the cheap price. Money doesn't grow on trees. Well. It kind of does. But still!

"Nice view," Jade comments, setting down the bags. John follows her to the window, and glances out to see the overgrown yard and tree with swing. He shrugs.

"I guess." John concedes. Jade grins and ruffles his hair, grabbing a blanket from John's bag.

"Let's watch a movie, and then I gotta go." Jade suggests, and John agrees, happy for the distraction.

It's not until later, when he's alone in the kitchen cleaning everything, Jade having left long ago, when he hears quiet voices.

"You should go say hi!" the girl's voice from earlier says. "He seems nice!"

"Well, I know there's no way that I'm going," someone else says, and there's a quiet smack. John stays frozen, aware that his asthma is kicking in a bit, and just tries to breathe, hand white knuckled around the towel.

After what seems like an eternity, there's a faint rush of air next to John's shoulder, and a hand, elegantly pale and long fingered, lightly taps John's hand, clenched around the towel. John sucks in a sharp breath and drops the towel, jerking away and backing up.

The guy standing by the counter can only be described as "stereotypical Russian". He's tall, angular with a shock of platinum blonde hair, old fashioned clothes ruffled slightly as he makes direct eye contact with John, who grabs a knife from the block. The intruder moves slightly, and John realises that he can see the damn counter through him.

"You're a ghost!" John gasps, one hand scrabbling for his emergency inhaler before he remembers he left it in the other room. The guy hesitates, says something in a language John doesn't know, and John tightens his grip on the knife, knowing fully that if he's going crazy there's no way the knife will work.

"Well, I'll be damned," the voice from earlier says calmly, and John rips his gaze away from the...ghost, to stare in shock as two people walk around the corner, a boy with dark hair and tanned skin and a girl who looks like the sister of the first guy. John really needs to get names.

"What the hell?" John gasps. The guy with dark hair steps forward, adjusting his half moon glasses, and John's chest tightens painfully, and he rasps for breath as the three ghosts stare at him.

John scrambles past them and actually runs through the guy with glasses, who doubles over with a groan, but John doesn't care right now. He grabs his inhaler and puffs in a sharp breath, lungs immediately loosening as he gets the oxygen he so desperately needs. There's that same rush of air, smelling faintly of smoke and barbecue, and the tall ghost wisps by John quietly, drifting down onto the covered couch and pulling his long legs up to his chest. He watches John with a quiet curiosity, his eyes (are they orange?) focused on John's inhaler as he sets it down.

"I'm Dirk." he eventually says, quietly and with the monotone that comes with a second language. John startles a bit at his voice, and has to take a second to recenter.

"John," John replies and reaches out his hand for a shake. Dirk shies away, actually drifting through the back of the couch a bit, so John takes his hand back and opts to sit on the other side of the couch, across from Dirk.

"Sorry," Dirk mutters, still watching John carefully. "Didn't mean to scare you."

His eyes are orange, John notices. Like fire before you snuff it out. Dirk tilts his head slightly, pale hair shifting with an odd light, almost like it's made of smoke. With a jolt, John remembers the stories his friend Rose would tell him, back in college, about ghosts who died by unnatural causes, and how they sometimes retain aspects of that which killed them.

"How did you die?" John blurts, and immediately claps his hands over his mouth as Dirk freezes, face perfectly blank. His form seems to glitch, and for a moment, John sees skin, burnt black and crumbling, the red streaks of blood ripping through Dirk's hair, and as Dirk turns to stare at John with eyes the colour of the ocean on a clear day, there's a gruesome hole, charred through his face, and John can make out the white of bone.

And then Dirk is gone, the only sign he'd ever been there being the piercing smell of barbecue.

Chapter Text

“It's a sweet town you picked, John.” Rose says. John grins.

“There were some stories about this place being haunted.” Rose adds. “Upon actually being in this house, I don't think those beliefs were entirely unfounded.”

“Uh?” John says. Rose nods and swoops past John, cane tapping lightly on the ground as she gently traces her other hand across the table.

“Someone died here.” Rose says carefully and John smells eucalyptus as Jake (he'd introduced himself the other day, as had the little girl, Roxy, her hand gripping Dirk's tightly as he flickered vaguely, avoiding eye contact) appears at his side.

“That would have been me.” he says, his cheerful tone the complete opposite of Dirk's violent reaction to his own death mention. “Influenza is truly a wild mistress!”

John nods slightly, and the faint smell of vanilla wafts past as Roxy careens into the room at full speed, talking loudly in Russian as Dirk follows.

“So it is haunted,” Rose observes, head turned in the siblings' direction. Jake guffaws loudly as the other two shut up instantly, Roxy looking amused, Dirk looking terrified.

“She can see us?” Roxy asks curiously. Rose shakes her head and holds her cane up.

“I can't see much of anything, actually.” Rose says calmly and John watches Roxy's face journey through the five stages of “oh shit” before Dirk rolls his eyes, hand on Roxy's shoulder as he flickers slightly.

“Wait, how can you-” John starts, and Rose smiles cryptically, leaning against the doorway with a graceful ease.

“I myself have always walked the line between normalcy and the peculiar. We were roommates in college, John. You of all people should be aware of this.” Rose purrs. “Now, would you be so kind as to perhaps introduce me?”

“Jake is the one with an Australian accent, Roxy is the girl, and-” John cuts himself off as Dirk glances away, staring flatly at the opposite wall. Rose turns to John, eyes narrowed questioningly.

“And Dirk is the other guy,” John finishes lamely. Dirk flashes into flame for half a second, the heat so powerful that Rose and John actually jerk back slightly. Rose turns towards Dirk, and John knows she's mostly blind but shit, she can really make someone feel like she's staring straight at them. Rose walks forward, easy as anything, and her cane passes through Dirk's leg when she gets close. He shudders, grabbing Roxy's hand, and says something quietly to her in Russian before flashing away, appearing again on the other side of the room, his hair charred and clothes singed, blue eyes wide.

“He's shy,” Roxy says helplessly, and Rose nods, and takes John's hand gently.

“I understand. John, dear, would you lead me to the sitting room? I have a few questions.” Rose says and John obliges, leading Rose there slowly, her cane tapping the floor as she turns her head this way and that, absorbing as much information as she can along the way. The three ghosts follow, Jake attempting to talk to Dirk, who steadfastly ignores it, going along silently next to Roxy, gripping her hand.

Rose takes a seat on the couch primly, John next to her.

“How have you found the move?” Rose asks. John shrugs.

“Didn't expect the roommates, but I like it. The town is nice.” John says and Jake, just entering the room, Dirk trailing behind, still smoldering slightly.

“I bet.” Rose says idly, leaning her cane against the couch. Dirk creeps closer silently, one translucent hand cautiously reaching for the cane, and Rose moves faster than John can register, grabbing it and pulling it out of Dirk's curious fingers, eyes narrowed. Dirk flinches away quicker than John can process, blinking into existence behind Jake. Rose raises her eyebrows, but doesn't comment, instead asking Roxy. "Where did you two grow up, then?"

There's silence as Roxy exchanges a glance with Dirk. Rose tilts her head slightly, and appears to be ready to ask again, when Roxy starts talking, her tone short and fast.

Dietrich and Roxana Strider-Lalonde grew up cold on the streets of Moscow. The war had taken both their parents when Dietrich was four, leaving him to raise his sister on his own. They had no house, and Dietrich eventually had to resort to stealing to get enough money to keep the then-baby Roxana alive.

One summer day, the week before Dietrich turned six, he saw a sight that would ingrain itself in his mind for years to come. Dancers. Slender limbs, gracefully dipping and waving as the man dipped the woman in an elegant spin. Dietrich couldn't help himself, and drew closer, eyes wide and curious, pulling Roxana up into his arms so she wouldn't get trampled by the crowd and gazed up at the couple in awe.

“Would you like to dance with us?” the woman asked when all was done, bending down in a fluid motion to gently tilt Dietrich's chin up. “You are tall and lean. Come.”

“My sister -” Dietrich started, and the woman smiled gently, radiant and beautiful, and just took Roxana's tiny hand, the toddler laughing as the woman moved her small arms in a strange dance. Dietrich relaxed slightly.

So he learned to dance, to weave his body in ways unique to only a few others, Rika and Vlad (as he discovered the names of the man and woman were) holding true to their promises. By age eleven, Dietrich was a ballet dancer at the Bolshoi, performing for hundreds every night.

Roxana followed his lead, although she was soon expelled from the academy for her lack of balance. At Dietrich's insistence, however, Roxana secured a job as a stagehand, assisting the younger dancers with changing and moving on and off props, a tough job for a seven year old, but she managed, and Dietrich was proud of her.

Six years later, Dietrich was sixteen and one of the top dancers in Russia. Vlad told him many times that he could be the best in the world, and Dietrich relished in the praise, for it didn't come lightly from Vlad, who observed everything with a critical eye, and had, on multiple occasions, thrown Dietrich to the ground after an exercise he deemed to be subpar.

On the night of December third, Dietrich's seventeenth birthday, he was performing for the richest people in Moscow, and flew through his dance with the same composure as always, relishing in the joy of the routine. But all good things must eventually come to an end. During the second act, Dietrich began to feel a sharp, stabbing pain in his right leg. He pressed on, gritting his teeth inwardly against the surge of agony.

By the end of the fifth act and subsequently the play, Dietrich was in a haze of pain, worse than anything he'd ever felt before, but he continued nonetheless, not allowing himself any breaks or hesitation, smiling cheerfully the whole way through until the curtain closed.

“Hold, hold-” Rika calls and Dietrich feels himself swaying. He was meant to remain frozen for five seconds after the curtain closed, just in case, but his leg gives out after three, vision darkening as Rika lunges forward to catch him as he crumples.

Torn muscles, the studio medic said as Dietrich leaned heavily on Roxana, one arm slung over her shoulder.

“So I won't be able to dance anymore.” Dietrich concludes, his leg throbbing painfully. The doctor hesitates.

“I advise that you should take a break from ballet for a while. This is not the end of your career by any means.” he says slowly, and Dietrich thinks he's full of shit.

Dietrich and Roxana leave the academy soon afterwards, Rika having bid them a tear-filled goodbye. Dietrich, seventeen, tall and handsome, and Roxana, fourteen and elegantly beautiful in the way that a wild animal is.

“I have enough money for lodging.” Dietrich says stiffly, limping forward on the road, face tight with discomfort. Roxana reaches forwards to take his arm, and he hesitates before accepting, leaning his weight on her with a hiss of pain.

It begins to get cold, and the two quickly scramble to find a place, settling in for the night in a small building.

“Rox?” Dietrich says in the dark, Roxana having taken the floor (she insisted). She raises herself up on her elbows to look up at her brother, who watches her carefully. “How would you like to go to America?”

“God, why did I agree to this?” Dietrich groans three days later, leaning over the railing on the ship, looking very ill indeed. Roxana rubs his back and gazes out at the expanse of sea on all sides.

“Because hopefully we can make a better life there.” she says. “Start anew.”

“You are Russian?” the customs official asks in broken Russian, peering hawkishly over Dietrich's passport.

“Yes, and I'm not sick.” Dietrich says plainly, noticing the man's sharp eyes focus on his leg, bandaged haphazardly with an old scarf. The official hesitates, staring Dietrich down with sharp eyes, before sighing and nodding shortly.

“It says you have a sister.” the man continues after a judgemental moment. Dietrich nods. “She's over there.”

“Not anymore!” Roxana chirps, waving excitedly at Dietrich from across the barrier. The customs official sighs heavily and waves Dietrich through.

“The woman there called me Roxy,’’ Roxana prattles eagerly. “I like it, we should choose nicknames.”

“What's short for Dietrich, though?” he wonders. “Don't you dare say dimwit.”

“Aw,” Roxana grumbles, then perks up. “What about Dirk? It's easy enough to remember.”

“Dirk and Roxy, huh?” Dietrich says, a smile pulling at his lips. “Alright.”

"So we became showpeople," Roxy continues, her voice more cheerful now. "We did stuff here, in town, and lived in this house, actually, and it was awesome! We'd do shows, Dirk would dance, an-"

"And then we died." Dirk interrupts, voice hard. "Can't forget the most important part, can you, now?"

"Dirk," Roxy starts, and Dirk shrugs her off, drifting through the back wall, a tiny scorch mark scarring the wood for a split second. Roxy follows suit, calling after him.

"Can we go one day without fucking up somehow?" Jake groans aloud before reluctantly following the siblings without a glance back.

John sits for a moment before Rose lets out a dry chuckle and punches his shoulder hard. "Not what you expected with roommates, huh?"