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He still can't believe he's lost her. 

In the two weeks since the funeral he's been drifting through the house like a wraith. He can't eat, not even when Bonnie brings over his favourite lasagna. He can't sleep, even though his eyes are burning and he keeps getting dizzy, because as soon as he closes his eyes he's back in the waiting room at the hospital, getting told that his wife is gone. All the colour left his life the day Judy's eyes closed for the final time, and he's starting to think it will never come back.

Fangmeyer, Clawhauser, even Bogo--they all try to lure him out of the house to no avail. It's not for love of him; it's because of Judy. They loved her. That's the thing, though; everyone loved Judy. Everyone still loves her, even if she isn't here to love. She's eternal like that, but she's also gone, and it hurts so badly he can hardly breathe. He clings to her pillow and buries his nose in it, unable to stop himself from succumbing to the need to be as close to her as possible even though the more he handles it the sooner her scent will be gone. He misses her so much that his body hurts. 

Stu and Bonnie invite him over--for dinner, for games, for a cup of tea--but he always turns them down. He can't stomach the idea of sitting in that living room without Judy, listening to the sounds of her family going about their day which have become so familiar but so linked to Judy. He can't live without her. He can't--

"Deep breaths, Nicholas." Bonnie's hand is gentle on his shoulder, and she digs in slightly harder with her thumb exactly like Judy does. Did. He chokes on a sob and surrenders to Bonnie's touch, the pull of her arms, the warmth of her shoulder. "You're all right, love," Bonnie whispers. Nick cries harder. He can't do this. He can't do anything without Judy; without her constant smile, her exuberant energy, her delighted laugh. 

Bonnie tells him to keep breathing, keeps her arms around him even when he can feel her chest heaving with her own sobs. Guilt washes through him, a sharp cold wave. Bonnie lost her daughter, and she has to keep on with life, keep raising her other children. Here he is moping around, letting his own emotions get the better of him.

"I'm sorry," he gasps, pulling back and swiping the back of his hand across his eyes uselessly. 

"Sweetheart." Bonnie's eyes are wet but they're so soft and they're so like her daughter's that Nick can't look at her. He shifts his gaze to his own paws, thinks about what it felt like when Judy was grasping them, tugging him in one direction or another. His throat closes up. He can't breathe. "Nicholas, you have nothing to apologize for. I--" Her voice cracks and she uses the apron she's always wearing to wipe her eyes. "I miss her, too, believe me."

"I know," he says. His voice is rough and he clears his throat. "I know you do, Bonnie. That's why I'm--you shouldn't have to deal with me. Especially when--you must be here for the pan, right?"

He peels himself off the couch, onto which he collapsed last night and from which he was unable to move, and heads for the kitchen on rarely-used legs. The casserole dish, when he pulls it out of the fridge, is still heavy. He hesitates, unsure of what he should do since Bonnie will know he didn't eat her food whether she watches him dump it into the garbage can or whether he hands it to her. She reaches out for it, making the choice for him, and he winces at the way she clicks her tongue.

"Nick," she says reproachfully. "You have to eat. You know that she wouldn't have wanted this."

Never let 'em see that they get to you.

He wants to shout, to throw something. He wants to tell Bonnie that Judy wouldn't have wanted to die, that now that she's gone there's nothing she can want, that he's finding himself in a similar situation even though his heart is still breathing. 

Instead he keeps a straight face and tries to smile.

"I know," he says. "Guess I'm just a contrarian, even now." Bonnie doesn't laugh at the joke. She searches his face, and he turns away. "Want anything? I've got, uh..." His fridge is empty. No beer, no lemonade, no blueberry soda. He can't remember the last time he went to the grocery store. 

"I'm fine," she says. "I've got to get on my way anyway. You could come along, if you wanted. We're making shepherd's pie."

Her expression is hopeful. Nick loves shepherd's pie. Or, well, he used to, back when he loved things. He tries to imagine following Bonnie out the door and into the sunlight. He can't do it. 

"Sorry," he says, and has to work hard to keep his expression smooth. Guilt and grief and overwhelm and sheer exhaustion are all in his bloodstream, and they keep him in this house. He doesn't know how to explain that to Bonnie. "Maybe next time."

"Sure," she says, and makes a valiant attempt at a smile. "We'd love that, Nick. You know that, right?"

"I know," he says, and has to clear his throat again. "Thank you."

"You're family," she says, and Nick's mask crumples. He's only family because of Judy, and he doesn't--he can't--

"Thanks," he says again, and stays in the kitchen until Bonnie leaves him alone.  

*

It's Finnick that gets him out of the house. 

Nick is on the couch, flicking through the wedding album of which Judy insisted they make a physical copy. We need memories we can hold, Nick! She was so beautiful, and Nick was such an idiot, focused on looking cool instead of at the love of his life. He lingers on a picture of himself looking into the distance, aviators perched on his muzzle, and Judy beaming up at him, love abundant in her eyes. Why wasn't I looking at her? he wonders, and the familiar prickle of tears begins behind his eyes. I never should have looked away.

There's a knock at the door and Nick jumps. Bonnie doesn't knock anymore; she just uses her key and walks in. Nick doesn't mind. Sometimes he doesn't even know she's been and gone. 

The irritation building in his chest, scrambling for a foothold among the grief, evaporates at the sight of Finnick staring up at him. They regard each other in silence for a minute, until Finnick breaks it.

"You look like shit."

"I know," Nick says. He hasn't seen Finnick since the funeral, and kind of took it for granted that he wouldn't see the fennec again. "What are you doing here?"

"I might have a way for you to get her back," Finnick says, like it isn't crazy, like it doesn't make Nick's heart stop in his chest.

"Fuck you," he says, and slams the door in his friend's face.

He can't breathe. He slides down against the door, trying to remember how to draw air into his lungs.

Get her back.

That's not... it's all he wants in the world, and it will never ever happen. He imagines drawing Judy into his arms, pressing a kiss to the top of her head, gazing into her violet eyes. The sob that wrenches out of him is physically painful.

"Nick."

Finnick is pounding on the door, unable to shove it open due to Nick's weight against it. Nick isn't even sure where he is. He can't breathe. Get her back. How would that even--

The window in the living room slides open and Finnick tumbles in. 

"I'm not fucking with you," he says, instead of telling Nick that he looks pathetic or chastising him for the door slam. There is awful, horrible, terrible hope rising in Nick's chest. "I know someone that has a doorway."

"What--" Nick forgets that he can't talk because he's not breathing, and his body spasms. 

"Take a breath, dude," Finnick says, looking concerned. "Damn, you're not doing well, are you?"

"What was your first clue?" Nick spits. Finnick raises his hands.

"Right," he says. "I'm sorry. It--" He clears his throat, and Nick is taken aback by the genuine emotion on his friend's face. "Right."

"Doorway," Nick says. His brain feels like it's been put in a blender. It's just soup. But he knows that Finnick is implying that they can get her back, that Judy could come back. It would be hard to forget. His whole body feels electrified, but not in a good way. "What kind of doorway?"

"She can--" Finnick shifts around, looking uncertain, and Nick finds himself actually snarling.

"I swear to God, Finn," he seethes, "if you're making this up, if this is a metaphor for grief counselling--"

"No!" Finnick looks affronted. "I wouldn't do that to you, I swear. I'm--it's hard to say without--"

"Spit it out!"

"She has a doorway to the other side!" Finnick blurts, and Nick blinks at him. Finn winces, running his hands over his face. "I knew you'd--it's hard to believe, right?"

"Yeah," says Nick. 

"It's real, though," Finnick says. "I swear. I was at her place and saw this thing, and I was like 'the hell is that?' and she, like, turned it on, and I saw..." His eyes flit away from Nick's, unable to fix on anything concrete. "I saw my mom, okay? It was... it was her."

Nick wants to believe this. He wants to believe it with every cell in his body. But he was a con man. He knows tricks of the mind, using someone's vulnerabilities and greatest wishes against them. 

"I mean, that sounds great," he says, "but you know as well as I do that it was probably a screen or some shit. AI--"

"It wasn't," Finnick says, and his tone is dangerous. "I don't--I get why you think that. I'd think it too, if you were the one telling me. But... It's not. Okay?"

Finnick's eyes are so earnest. It's kind of unnerving. Nick hasn't seen him this desperate to be believed in... maybe ever. He's still not convinced, but he's convinced that Finnick is convinced. 

"Okay, buddy," he says. He suddenly feels so tired. "Whatever you say."

"You'll see," Finn says. He sounds anxious and excited. "You'll see."

*

Standing outside of this girl's apartment—Terry, apparently, is her name—Nick just feels tired. It's the first time he's left his apartment in weeks, and here he is, waiting for a stranger to answer the door. Finnick is standing beside him, fingers drumming on his thigh. It's strange to see the little guy nervous, and it just amps up Nick's own anxiety. 

Terry opens the door. She's a lean arctic fox with a no-nonsense face. The smell of weed drifts out of the apartment with her. Nick tries not to side-eye Finnick.

"I've been expecting you," she says, and waves them inside.

Nick is familiar with spirituality. His mom was religious, and his aunt--even though they didn't visit often--had an altar in her living room and garlic hanging from the ceiling. He is not familiar with walking into an apartment and experiencing the singular sensation of every hair in his body standing on end. 

"Holy shit," he says out loud, and Finnick, to his credit, doesn't say "I told you so."

"Yeah," says Terry. "The veil is thin here."

Nick can hear voices--not loud, but audible--and he has the feeling that he's being watched. Get her back, he thinks, and something like a scream rises in his throat. Judy. 

"The door," he says, not trusting his voice to articulate anything else. "Show me."

"This way," says Terry, not calling him rude, not asking why he's so anxious. He assumes that Finnick has told her the basics. And even if he hasn't, Terry seems like the kind of person to mind her own business. Nick appreciates that. 

Nick and Finnick follow her to a back room filled to the brim with skulls and herbs and tools that Nick doesn't even recognize, let alone know the purpose of. In the middle of everything, all the magicky equipment, is something long and rectangular covered with a blanket. 

"You sure he's ready?" Terry asks Finnick, not even looking at Nick. On the one hand, he's offended. On the other hand, he couldn't care less. He can't breathe. He's too full of sensation (prickle on the back of his neck, achy eyes, shaky hands) to think about how he feels, like, emotionally. 

"He's ready," says Finnick, not adding "as he'll ever be," which Nick knows he's thinking. And it's not like he can blame his friend; it's true. 

"Okay," says Terry, and she yanks the blanket off.

It looks like a mirror, a long thin black mirror. Nick peers into it, so intrigued that he forgets to be startled that he can't see his reflection, only swirling gray mist. Maybe there's--

A white hand slams into the pane with an audible thump, and Nick jumps backwards, fur bristling. 

"What the fuck?" he gasps, and rounds the mirror to look at the back of it. There's nothing. He can see through the frame, like there's nothing there. He reaches out and his hand passes through. When he returns to the front of the mirror and reaches out again, intending to touch the pane, Terry grabs his hand.

"Don't!" she says, and there's such urgency in her tone that Nick snatches his hand back. 

"Sorry," he mumbles. He's embarrassed, and even so he can't tear his gaze away from the mist. 

Finnick was right. This isn't bullshit. 

"No, I know you're going in, but you need to know some things first."

Nick forces himself to focus. That's right. That's why they're here. He's going in to that gray swirling place. For the first time he has an inkling of hesitation. He knows, deep in his bones, down in his flesh, that he's not supposed to walk through this door. It's hard not to heed the warning of his body, but stronger than any of the physical signals that this door is dangerous is the screaming of his soul. 

Judy's in there. Judy's in there, and he can go get her. 

There was never going to be any question. 

"Go in headfirst," says Terry. She's busying herself with some herbs and a soft bag. "Don't talk to anyone that isn't your wife or Hades."

"Hades?" Nick repeats incredulously. He half-wants to laugh, but Terry's expression stops him. "How am I supposed to recognize Hades?"

"You will," Terry promises, and Nick believes her. "Don't speak to anyone, and do not take anyone's hand. Stay on the paths. Got it?"

"Don't talk to anybody, go in headfirst, don't touch anybody, stay on the paths," Nick repeats dutifully. He's longing to fling himself through the door, but he knows he's not the expert here. He waits impatiently for Terry to give him the go ahead.

Judy, Judy, Judy. 

"And keep these on you at all times," Terry says, handing him the cloth satchel she's been stuffing. It smells fresh and medicinal. Nick accepts it, tucking it into his pocket. "They should keep your soul contained in your body. Hopefully, at least."

"What?" Nick wasn't aware that that was a concern, and he starts to have misgivings again. Terry gives him a sad smile. 

"Good luck," she says. "It won't be easy, but I hope... Good luck."

"Thanks," says Nick. That's as close to a go-ahead as he's ever going to get. He turns to Finnick, words of gratitude on his tongue, but as soon as he meets Finn's eyes his throat closes up. He just nods, and Finnick nods back. 

Nick straightens his shoulders, thinking of Judy nudging him into a sharper salute when they were practicing for his graduation. He rubs his left thumb over the wedding band he's never been able to remove and thinks about how brightly her eyes shone when she slipped it on his finger. He steels himself to enter the spirit realm, thinking about her fearless approach to everything in life. 

This is for her, and he would do anything for her. 

He takes a deep breath and steps, nosefirst, through the door.

*

It's cold in the afterlife. This is the first thing Nick thinks after stepping through the door, followed closely by the realization that there are no colours here. It's all gray and white and, in a few places, it's black. He looks at his feet, remembering what Terry said about paths, and finds that there's a bordered road about three feet wide. Nick can't really see through the mist. He takes a look behind himself and is treated to the sight of Finnick's anxious face peering through the mirror. 

He wants to laugh for the first time since Judy died. This is ridiculous, and it's happening. He turns back around and starts to follow the road, figuring that it'll take him somewhere. Plus, if he keeps track of where he's been he'll remember how to get back to the doorway once he's found Judy. 

Judy. 

He's shaking, he realizes, knees weak as he takes step after trembly step. She's here. He can feel it. Somewhere in this colourless landscape she's here, present if not breathing, alive in the way that matters. He quickens his steps unconsciously, eager to get wherever he's going because it's going to get him closer to her. 

"Hey," says someone. It's a squirrel, the first dash of colour he's seen, red fur stark against the monochrome of this place, this home for the dead. "Hey, man."

Nick is about to tell them to fuck off when he remembers Terry's warning. He shoves his hand in his pocket and fingers the satchel of herbs, keeping his head down. 

"I'm talking to you!" the squirrel hollers, and Nick risks a glance behind him. It's morphing, growing, colours bleeding and changing until it's a huge fiery thing with black eyes and claws. "Fox, I'm talking to you!"

Nick swallows hard and keeps walking, eyes on the road, heart pounding. Of course there are malevolent spirits here. He doesn't know why he didn't expect it, except for the fact that he was so focused on Judy. Judy, Judy, Judy. 

Another path comes from ahead to run parallel with the one he's walking, and Nick is curious about this until he realizes that it's his path, that there's a sharp turn up ahead that will send him walking back the way he's come. He considers stepping onto the parallel track because he'll still be on the road, right? He won't be leaving, he'll just be skipping some steps. 

Terry's face floats in his mind, and Finnick's and Bonnie's and most importantly Judy's, and he groans and resigns himself to walking this path like an asshole. 

Now that he knows he's walking up to a twist that will only send him back the way he's come, he quickens his pace, just wanting to get this over with. He rounds the corner and barely manages to skid to a halt in front of the twenty-foot drop. 

"Holy shit," he murmurs, peering down. There's a narrow staircase carved into the white cliff, but if he had jumped the path like he'd planned he would have hurtled right past it to the ground below. He swallows hard and rests a hand on the stone wall for balance before starting the perilous descent.  

It takes a long time to get down the stairway, and he has to stop to catch his breath several times. There's no sound here. It's weird. He was kind of expecting... some wind, or something. Maybe some wails, or even voices. But there's just--there's nothing. Not even another squirrel-turned-monster. He tries to look down into the chasm beside the stairs but he can't do it. His head starts spinning. 

When he makes it to the bottom of the cliff, there's just more road. Nick is starting to wonder why he bothered coming here. Why did he even think Judy would be here? She never believed in the afterlife, anyway. Why would she be here? And wouldn't he have heard her by now? He's heard Judy bellow over the noise of mammals ten times her size. Her voice would carry in the dead stillness of this place. 

But she might be here and even the chance is more than enough to keep him walking, one foot after another, the sound of his steps muted by the white gray world. 

He's of half a mind to risk stepping off the path, just for something to do, when there's an earsplitting crack and a huge black bull appears in front of him. 

Nick leans to peer around him, but there's no sign of where he came from, just the massive creature towering over him. 

"You shouldn't be here," the bull booms, and it's Hades. Hades is real, and Hades is standing in front of him. 

"Uh--" Nick tries, caught off guard by the fact that the lord of the underworld exists. 

"How did you get in?" Hades asks. 

"I'm here for my wife," Nick says instead of answering. Hades frowns. 

"If your wife is here, it's because this is where she belongs," he says. 

"The fuck she does," Nick says dangerously. He knows this is stupid. He's not very likely to win a pissing contest with the god of death. But to imply that this is Judy's home? This colourless, soundless, empty place? It's more than Nick can handle. "My wife is the liveliest person I know, and your kingdom down here is boring as hell. She doesn't belong here."

Hades looks at him, really looks at him, and nods. 

"Ah. Let me show you."

There's no warning. Hades doesn't wave his arm around or anything. They just--move. One second they're standing on the absurdly long path, and the next they're standing in front of what looks like a cell. There aren't any visible bars, but Nick understands intuitively that there is a twelve-by-twelve (or what feels like that, anyway, because who knows how measurements work in the underworld?) patch of white ground that makes up a... place. A room. 

And in that room...

"Judy!" Nick shrieks, and hurls himself towards her. He doesn't have the chance to decide that's what he's going to do. He just sees his wife, small and gray with impossibly purple eyes, and he propels himself toward her like a missile. He's brought up short by--something. It's invisible. The deadland equivalent of glass, maybe. Doesn't matter, because it stops him from getting to Judy, and he proceeds to lose his shit. 

"JUDY! JUDY!" He slams into the glass, over and over again, the thud of his impact flying out into the gray-white nothingness. He digs into it with his claws, bangs against it with his fists. "JUDY! CARROTS! SWEETHEART, PLEASE!"

"She can't hear you," says Hades impassively. Nick had forgotten he was there, and he whirls on the deity with such fury and desperation that Hades raises an eyebrow. 

"Take it down," Nick snarls. "Take her out. Let me have her."

Hades smiles. It's terrible to see. 

"She's happy here," he says. "Look at her. Stop fighting the barrier like an animal and look, Nicholas."

Nick hates his name out of this asshole's mouth, and he also hates that the guy is right. He hasn't been looking. He saw Judy and then became a blur. 

So he looks, and it's perhaps the most horrifying thing he's ever seen in his life. 

Judy is just... sitting. She's not bouncing around. She's not demanding to be given something to do. She's not complaining about how boring this existence is. She's just sitting there, eyes staring into the distance, blank expression on her face. 

"What's wrong with her?' Nick asks, icy fear clutching at his heart. 

"Wrong?" Hades seems truly perplexed. "Nothing's wrong. She's been dipped in the River. She's content."

"You said she was happy," Nick points out, scrambling for something to say, a point to make, words in the face of this utter wrongness. "She's not happy."

"She's not sad," Hades says, and Nick looks at her, at the empty expression that matches the blank landscape. He shivers. 

"She's not happy," he repeats. "She's happy with me."

Look at me, he wills Judy. Please, look at me. 

"She hurts with you, too," Hades says, and Nick flinches. "You get angry. You invite nasty looks and words."

"That's not--" It's true that he's not perfect, and it's true that Judy gets--got--more flack from other mammals because she was dating him. But he can't accept the idea that this blank-faced rabbit is in better shape than his vibrant, loud, optimistic, living wife. "It's worth it," he says, and then repeats it quieter because he means it. "It's worth it."

"I don't believe you," says Hades, shaking his head. "It might be colourless down here but it's painless, too."

"Painless isn't pleasure," Nick says. She's so close. She's right there. "And even if it was, don't you think Judy ought to tell you herself what she thinks of this place?"

Hades looks at him, really looks at him.

"You love her," he says, like it's a revelation. Nick lets out a short, wordless yell, full of the rage and loss and grief and misery he's experienced in the past weeks, full of his utter frustration at this situation, where Hades is right here and also a total fucking moron.

"Of course I do," he yells. "How could I not?"

"I'll talk to her," says Hades, and Nick's vision goes blurry for a second. He thinks he might pass out. 

"You will?" he asks, heart surging, throat constricting. This is the whole reason he came down here but the thought that he might really get her back, that she really might come home with him... God, it's enough to make anyone dizzy. 

"I will," Hades confirms, and he looks at Nick thoughtfully. "But you can't listen."

"What?" Nick asks, and he's about to start yelling again when Hades snaps his fingers and Nick is standing in a long dark tunnel. There's light at the end of it, and he thinks he can hear Finnick's voice. He whirls around, looking for Hades in a panic. "I'm not going home without her!" he says. The bull is nowhere to be seen, but his voice echoes from everywhere in the tunnel.

"If she wants to come back with you, she'll be walking behind you." Nick's heart jumps into his throat, and the tears start almost instantly. He drops to his knees without meaning to, eyes closing as he presses his face into his hands. 

"Thank you," he whispers. 

"Don't thank me yet," Hades says ominously, and Nick tries to steel himself, to brace his melty broken heart against whatever Hades is about to say. "If you look at her before you reach the overworld, she'll be mine forever."

What?

"That's it?" he was ready for anything. He was bracing himself for physical pain every day for the rest of his life, for potions he'd have to mix to keep Judy corporeal, for an obstacle course of tasks to win her back. All he has to do is keep his eyes forward?

"That's it," says Hades. Nick can't read his tone, but he knows how to read people even if those people are gods. There's something Hades isn't telling him, some card up his sleeve. Nick can't find it in himself to care, though. He's got her back. She's coming with him. "You won't know if she's behind you until you get home. It's up to you."

"Got it," Nick says, and steels himself. 

No more words come, and Nick is tempted to look around, to ask a question, but if Judy is behind him and she answers...

He starts walking.

The tunnel is long. Longer than the staircase, longer than the looping path. Nick catches snatches of sound--breath, footsteps, occasionally the murmur of voices. Everything in him wants to look behind, everything in him wants to know. Is she there? Is she coming? The light at the end of the tunnel is coming nearer, is moving towards him. He quickens his pace. If Judy is there she can keep up, and he needs to get home, he needs to stay focused, he needs--

"Nick!"

He never had a chance. That's the thing Hades wasn't telling him. Maybe Judy didn't know that he couldn't look back. Maybe she needed reassurance. Maybe she was just disoriented. Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter that he's been repeating don't look, don't look to himself like a mantra. It doesn't matter that he doesn't want to turn. 

That voice, calling his name, sounding distressed, is a stimulus his body can't help responding to. He's whirled around and is meeting her panicked purple eyes before he's had a conscious thought. 

"Nick," she says again, but her voice is already fading. Nick lunges forward, reaching for her, and she reaches out, too. Their fingers brush, and he almost clasps her palm. 

"Judy," he says, voice breaking. He's losing her again. Again. He had her, and she's right in front of him, and--

She's gone. One second their fingers are brushing and he's remembering just how good it feels to hold her hand. The next he's touching the mirror, standing on the living world side of it, heart cracked open and stomach cold and heavy. 

"Did you get her?" Finnick asks, and he can claim apathy all he wants but Nick can hear the hope in his voice. "Is she coming?"

Nick tries to answer. He really does. It's just that he opens his mouth and nothing comes out. 

"Nick?"

The tears didn't come easily when she died. It took him several days to start actually crying, and not dry-heaving. But this time the emotions are closer to the surface. This time she was right there. 

This time it was his fault. 

His knees hit the floor harder than is comfortable, but Nick can't find it in himself to care. His chest aches numbly. He digs his claws into Terry's hardwood floor and presses his forehead to the light red wood. 

"Oh," Finnick rasps. His paw rests lightly on Nick's back, uncertain and gentle, setting Nick's sobs off again. 

Stupid, idiot fox. If you hadn't looked, if you hadn't looked--

"I'm sorry," says Terry. Nick jumps at her voice. He forgot she was here. He sucks in deep breaths, fighting the tears, trying to keep himself from passing out or throwing up or doing both at the same time. "I really thought you had a chance."

"So did I," Nick says hollowly.