Chapter Text
Allen woke up not in his own bed. Cesare wasn't beside him.
He never would wake up next to him again.
Allen looked up at Conrad's living room ceiling, sighing deeply.
He was thirsty - he hadn't drank at all yesterday, and he hadn't eaten or drank much the few days before that. He had cried a lot at the funeral.
He was hungry, too. He didnt want to eat, food would make him feel sick. Even good food, not even imagining what the very idea of zomburger food would do to him.
Allen stood up, walking to the bathroom, splashing his face with water, it having still been caked in yesterday's tears, his skin feeling gross. He looked up at himself in the mirror for a moment before rolling his eyes and walking away to the kitchen.
He reached into the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water and walked out the house, messaging Conrad to thank him for carrying him back last night.
He had fallen asleep against the headstone after the funeral, so he assumed Conrad carried him back here after no one managed to wake him up.
The others were most likely worried about him, so he quickly sent a second message to reassure Conrad that he was doing just fine and just heading back to his own apartment.
He wasnt sure what he'd do when he got there. Was there anything of Cesare's that needing dealing with in any way? Was there something he was supposed to be doing to grieve?
Should he power through and make something for himself to eat regardless of his organ's rejection of processing anything that wasn't just water right now?
Should he start working on organising what to do about Zomburger now that he was the boss? He had watched one day as Cesare bemusedly wrote his will, leaving almost everything he had to Allen, including the truck, making him promise he'd continue as the new boss once he was gone.
Should he change his character now that Cesare's was gone? Now that The Doctor was also The Boss?
He spent the next few hours in the bathroom with some stage makeup, editing his usual look - eventually deciding that it was best to keep things simple. He'd get rid of the gore on his chin, adding pale blue lips and under-eyes. He'd buy yellow contacts, and hed get some sort of all-black outfit similar to Cesare's old jumpsuit, and wear that under the coat. He'd also smear some ketchup on the coat to look like bloodstains.
But why wait around, why not go do that right now?
He spent the next few hours travelling between different stores, looking for a suiting enough jumpsuit, or at least black turtleneck. Scrolling online for those yellow contacts.
After a few days, the contacts arrived, and he giddily put the whole outfit together again.
He messaged the group chat asking if the others would like to discuss what to do about work now, about the truck - secretly only caring about showing them his new costume. The only change was that hed take on the responsibilities of both himself and Cesare, then it was business as usual.
Conrad and Frances hesitantly agreed, still unsure if they were really ready for all that, and highly doubting Allen would be.
Eventually, they were all at the truck, Frances and Conrad noticing it was running.
Allen popped out from the back dramatically, his hands held outstretched to show off that his costume had changed.
"Ah? Eh? What do we think? Im taking over as boss, i figured I'd add some of the boss's costume to mine."
He was a lot more erratic and chipper than usual. Even from before Cesare had passed.
He'd taken parts of the responsibility, the costume, and the personality of Cesare's character - though there wasn't much character to it, thats just How He Was.
His voice hadn't changed, other that having more inflection, volume, and emotion in it. He had kept his deep voice and his accent, things still felt like they MEANT things, everything was overdramaticised, there was nothing casual and irritated about it the way Cesare used to say things. He was still Allen, just. A little sillier? That seemed the most simple way to put it...
"Yeah, it looks... I like it. Good job ..boss?"
"Thank you, Conrad, I appreciate it. Frances? Opinions?"
Frances, although a little sharper than Conrad, a bit more concerned, acted similarly, punching him in the shoulder, and laughing, complimenting the eyeshadow and the ketchup/blood stains. She knew that this was somewhat normal - of course his psyche would be a bit more fucked up. So long as he didnt put himself in danger, or show signs of delusion, then a bit of a change in the harmless things like this was alright. It was best to let him grieve however he chose.
He had just lost his husband, they could cut him some slack on his increased strangeness.
Allen had suggested a test drive, see how this new dynamic would work - not a proper work day, just driving around, doing a little food prep, making sure everything would still be manageable with just the three of them.
Frances and Conrad had nothing else going on that day.
So why the hell not.
It actually went surprisingly well. Group scream sesh as a particularly good song came on the radio and Allen turned the volume WAY UP, Frances miming a guitar and Conrad miming drums, with Allen headbanging dangerously in the driver's seat whenever they were stopped in traffic. Food prep was totally fine so long as Allen came out from the front seat to help when they were parked. Frances could always get a little more training in the kitchen type role, too.
Eventually, they got back to Frances' place where both Conrad and Framces got out, knowing Conrad's home wasn't too far from there and they both got out, Allen would drive the truck back to his apartment building.
He said goodbye and started driving again, plugging his phone into the radio to play his own music loudly.
He parked outside his building and sat there for a while longer, breathing in the smell of the food waste bin, Frances' cigarettes, and the lingering hint of Cesare's cologne he started wearing when he regained the ability to sweat and his skin was better for the perfume to cling to. He had originally been against wearing it, but he came around to the idea when he realised how much it got Allen's face near his neck.
He took a short walk to the corner shop, picking up a pack of cigarettes - he hadn't smoked since he had tried to rebel in high school, quitting soon after he started.
But it was so calming to sit in that driver's seat, an ashtray on the dashboard, chain smoking as the sky grew dark, hack his lungs up half the time, his music lulling any conscious thought.
He could imagine Cesare in the passenger seat taking a nap as he took over driving for the night, as they had done a number of times as his condition began to grow worse.
It wasn't a slow thing, his decline had been rapid. Once he started getting bad, it got much worse much faster. Until eventually the night he passed, his body giving in.
He had fought for a good long year. Spent time with his friends. His husband. His enemies.
Because they were important too - the rivalry between the trucks was a big part of the job, their lives, it was routine. It even brought them both publicity as people had began following them sometimes, hoping to video a fight on the road. Tim was right, hating them was indeed a part of their brand.
Allen chuckled at the thought.
He imagined his family refusing to believe any of what he had gone through over the past two years. They had all stopped talking a few years ago, having given up on the odd son out. He didnt even get invited to any holidays anymore, after a few years of not going.
Perhaps he'd try to find out from his sister when one would be this year, shock them all with his story of his short-lived marriage and new ownership of a small business.
He eventually groaned, stretching out his back, stabbing out what was almost the filter itself of the cigarette in his hand into the ashtray, putting the rest of his pack into his coat pocket for another day. He swung the door open and stretched his legs as he stood to get down the steps.
He double checked the back doors were locked as well as the front, and that the window held steady, before patting the side of the truck goodnight and walking up to his building's door.
He put some music on again on the speaker in his living room area, considering making dinner before giving up on the notion.
Music had been an excellent way to fill his brain with something other than depressing memories of Cesare.
He would still think of him, but it made it hurt less.
He could dance the way Cesare had lead him to as they had often done together while waiting for dinner to be done. Cesare usually enjoyed the same music as Allen himself, but he had done enough different types of dance over his 1000 years to be good enough at many, and learn to appreciate different types of music that weren't his usual. And Allen could never have any qualms with some graceful music, Cesare's hands on his hips and waist, grinning madly and adoringly as he span the other man under his arm.
He imagined Cesare was still there, he could imagine closing his eyes only to open them and Cesare be at the other end of his arm, ready to pull him back to dance chest to chest again. Continue to play a facade of culture.
Eventually he stopped the music, playing something else that felt more like background noise than anything to interact with. Just something to dull the ache.
He walked over to his shelf, flicking the miniature Cesare that hung below it, watching as he swung on the marionette strings, that goofy little grin on his face.
He picked up the spider, completely disregarding the dove.
Upon closer inspection, there was a cross on the abdomen if the spider.
This carving hadn't been painted, but he imagined that if it had been, then it would have been black, and that cross must have been red.
It was a widow.
Like him.
Like Cesare knew he would be.
Was he really the dove, like Cesare had said?
Perhaps he had been. But this is what he was now. A widow, and something a little less peaceful now. It would be a lot more stress running the truck rather than just working for it, and he'd deal with a lot more mental and emotional turmoil, having lost someone so important to him.
Or perhaps Cesare had simply carved two animals important to his past.
Allen supposed he'd never know, now.