Weelcum Back. Metalocalypse. Gen. PG-13.
Title: Weelcum Back
Author: Mab, aka 3lbsponge
Fandom: Metalocalypse.
Rating: PG-13 for themes.
Pairings: None.
Word Count: 1,627
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: The boys surprise Charles.
Author’s Notes: A big thank you to twilightspeaks for the beta!
Nearly three months after the disastrous release party, Charles Ofdensen returned to the recently renovated Mordhaus. He was far from one hundred percent, but he was much better. He felt better after returning home, and seeing all his boys were all still alive and looking no worse for the wear. His office hadn't faired so well.
He was sitting in his office for all of fifteen minutes, separating the mountain of paper work on his desk into order of importance -- can wait, needs to wait, has waited way too long, and needs to be taken care of before someone lost a shitload of money -- when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in." He called, and was a little disappointed in himself -- his voice wasn't as strong as he'd like it to be yet. Hell, just the act of getting up, showering, dressing, and sitting in the office was hard. His mind was fine, but his body was still healing, dealing with the trauma it had gone through. For that, Charles hated the masked man. Hated him more for that than the scars, the pain he caused.
Pickles stuck his head in the room, pulling Charles to the present. "Dood. We need you in the meeting room. We gotta talk about something." Pickles was not looking particularly distressed, which Charles took as a good sign. Nothing was flaming, bleeding, or about to destroy them all.
Pickles was back out of the room and down the hall before Charles was even halfway there. After the attack, Charles used to think the worst of it was laying there in his hospital bed, face so swollen that he couldn't even open his eyes, mouth wired so tightly shut he couldn't speak, chest and upper body so stiff with stitches and plaster that he couldn't move. His mind would spin in loopy morphine-confused circles, worrying about the boys -- their safety and the safety of their money. He thought that would be the worst of it. Then came physical rehabilitation and his body wouldn't do what it was supposed to do, what he was telling it to. He'd get tired after just a few minutes. Simple things were near impossible. When he could do simple tasks, it took all of his concentration and strength.
That, as it turned out, was the worst of it.
Things were a lot better now, as he walked through the halls, and he had worked damn hard to make it so. He could breath fully again (or close to it), could talk and eat solid foods. He was walking, moving on his own, no one needed to help him to the bathroom or to bathe. But his chest still ached sometimes where the bolt from the crossbow went in, and he was prone to sudden, sharp, stabbing headaches that started behind his left eye and spread across his face. He had scars. The ones on his chest and back were large and puckered. They had done plastic surgery on his face, the scars left by the assassin's fist and knife, but they weren't miracle workers. Charles never thought of himself as a vain man, but accepting the scars was almost as hard as accepting that his body wouldn't do what he wanted it to. At least with physical rehabilitation, he'd get his body working right. The doctors claimed his recovery was a quick one, so quick that they were surprised. Charles told them the truth behind his motivation: the quicker his recovery, the quicker he could go back to his work, get things running normally. He wanted normal back. Of course, the Dethklok version of normal was extremely skewed.
Things felt normal now, as he walked into the meeting room. Right before he went in, he wiped the uncharacteristic smile off his face. He didn't feel like explaining his sentimentalities to the boys. He didn't think they'd understand. He doubted any of them loved their jobs, ever. He doubted he'd ever make them understand that he got the same satisfaction, the same pleasure, from his work as they did from their music.
He also didn't think Dethklok was the type for throwing surprise 'Weelcum Back' (according to the childish, handmade banner Charles assumed Toki made) parties either. But that was the site that greeted him as he opened the door. They even yelled surprise.
So he did smile. A real one. He was ushered into the room and into the chair at the head of the table by Pickles. Toki was cutting giant pieces of cake and passing them out. Charles got the first piece. They all ate, Toki chattering about how he wanted to be the one to go get him, and everyone telling him that he would've ruined the surprise. Toki even agreed that he would've, not getting pissed off. It might have been Nathan slipping him a second piece of cake that distracted him from getting upset.
"We got you preschents" Murderface said, a phrase that Charles would've never thought to come out of the other man's mouth before today. But there it was.
The first was long and thin. Charles opened it to find a cane. A high quality one, but it was a cane all the same. He was trying to figure out if there was an insult in there, or actual concern, when Skwisgaar took it out of his hands. The other four members of Dethklok threw up their hands in self-defense, as Skwisgaar pointed the cane away from everyone and hit a button Charles hadn't had time to notice near the top. A five-inch blade came out the end.
"Is secret weapons." Skwisgaar explained.
"Like Jason Bounds!"
"James Bond." Pickles corrected Toki.
"Whatevas"
It was, Charles had to admit it, pretty bad ass. Generally, Charles refrained from carrying weapons. He was apprehensive about how it would be viewed. Bad publicity was bad publicity and no one wanted a CFO that carried a gun. It sounded too crazy, even considering whom he represented. But a 'secret weapons' was another matter. And, though it was embarrassing, the damn cane might come in handy in the upcoming days and weeks.
The look on his face must have said how pleased he was -- Charles was not ready to express emotions any more than the five men surrounding him -- because they moved onto the next one. Or, they declared they were moving on, and everyone stood. Charles got to his feet too.
"We can't wrap this one." Nathan explained, and the group walked out of the room.
Charles felt the shift in mood as the group moved down the hall. He was determined not to let the boys see how weak he was, but as they kept walking, it was starting to become apparent that they would see. They were never fast walkers, but they were going slower and slower. Looking back, Charles thought part of the reason was the nature of the next present. At the time, though, he knew they were being compassionate -- a word he rarely, if ever, associated with Dethklok -- but that’s what it was, the casual slowing down, Murderface needing to stop and tie his boots, all done without saying a word. And Charles had to admit to himself, the compassion rather than ridicule was nice. Better than any banner, cake or present.
At least that was what he was thinking as they went through an endless series of corridors and elevators, winding down into the bowels of Mordhaus. By the time the elevator reached the lowest point, the group was dead silent. And tense. Even Skwisgaar who always looked like he had no bones in his body, his posture was always that relaxed and self-assured, was standing rigidly. They took him to a door. Instead of opening it, Nathan just slid the metal panel in the door to the side, gesturing for Charles to look in.
One would think, after having to explain to five grown men that a giant angry troll was bad for record sales, or any of the thousand and one bizarre shit Dethklok cooked up to keep him on his toes, nothing would surprise Charles Ofdensen. Charles would have thought so himself. Though his surprise never showed on his face until today, they did surprise him every once in a while. This, as it turned out, was one of those moments.
In retrospect, Charles should have been clearer when he asked about the fate of the man that injured him so badly, who had nearly killed the boys. He had been told, simply, that he was taken care of. Charles had assumed that to mean that the man was laying in an unmarked grave, or ashes. He did not think that "taken care of" meant that he was being held in a room in Mordhaus.
"We, uh, we kept him for you." Nathan explained, and Charles was impressed. The members of Dethklok couldn't keep a goldfish alive. Yet they managed to keep this bastard alive for nearly three months. For him.
Charles realized he was smiling. Judging from the looks on the boys' faces, it was not a nice smile.
"Not yet." He said, but the smile was still in place. He was relieved he didn't see disappointment on any of their faces. In fact, he saw understanding. He needed to wait. He needed the motivation, the promise of the assassin's suffering (oh, there would be lots of that), to get through the upcoming days and weeks. And he couldn't do it now. Not when he wasn't at full capacity.
As they headed back up, Charles realized they knew this. No one had expected him to go in that room today. He wasn't ready yet.
But he would be.
Author: Mab, aka 3lbsponge
Fandom: Metalocalypse.
Rating: PG-13 for themes.
Pairings: None.
Word Count: 1,627
Warnings: None that I can think of.
Summary: The boys surprise Charles.
Author’s Notes: A big thank you to twilightspeaks for the beta!
Nearly three months after the disastrous release party, Charles Ofdensen returned to the recently renovated Mordhaus. He was far from one hundred percent, but he was much better. He felt better after returning home, and seeing all his boys were all still alive and looking no worse for the wear. His office hadn't faired so well.
He was sitting in his office for all of fifteen minutes, separating the mountain of paper work on his desk into order of importance -- can wait, needs to wait, has waited way too long, and needs to be taken care of before someone lost a shitload of money -- when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in." He called, and was a little disappointed in himself -- his voice wasn't as strong as he'd like it to be yet. Hell, just the act of getting up, showering, dressing, and sitting in the office was hard. His mind was fine, but his body was still healing, dealing with the trauma it had gone through. For that, Charles hated the masked man. Hated him more for that than the scars, the pain he caused.
Pickles stuck his head in the room, pulling Charles to the present. "Dood. We need you in the meeting room. We gotta talk about something." Pickles was not looking particularly distressed, which Charles took as a good sign. Nothing was flaming, bleeding, or about to destroy them all.
Pickles was back out of the room and down the hall before Charles was even halfway there. After the attack, Charles used to think the worst of it was laying there in his hospital bed, face so swollen that he couldn't even open his eyes, mouth wired so tightly shut he couldn't speak, chest and upper body so stiff with stitches and plaster that he couldn't move. His mind would spin in loopy morphine-confused circles, worrying about the boys -- their safety and the safety of their money. He thought that would be the worst of it. Then came physical rehabilitation and his body wouldn't do what it was supposed to do, what he was telling it to. He'd get tired after just a few minutes. Simple things were near impossible. When he could do simple tasks, it took all of his concentration and strength.
That, as it turned out, was the worst of it.
Things were a lot better now, as he walked through the halls, and he had worked damn hard to make it so. He could breath fully again (or close to it), could talk and eat solid foods. He was walking, moving on his own, no one needed to help him to the bathroom or to bathe. But his chest still ached sometimes where the bolt from the crossbow went in, and he was prone to sudden, sharp, stabbing headaches that started behind his left eye and spread across his face. He had scars. The ones on his chest and back were large and puckered. They had done plastic surgery on his face, the scars left by the assassin's fist and knife, but they weren't miracle workers. Charles never thought of himself as a vain man, but accepting the scars was almost as hard as accepting that his body wouldn't do what he wanted it to. At least with physical rehabilitation, he'd get his body working right. The doctors claimed his recovery was a quick one, so quick that they were surprised. Charles told them the truth behind his motivation: the quicker his recovery, the quicker he could go back to his work, get things running normally. He wanted normal back. Of course, the Dethklok version of normal was extremely skewed.
Things felt normal now, as he walked into the meeting room. Right before he went in, he wiped the uncharacteristic smile off his face. He didn't feel like explaining his sentimentalities to the boys. He didn't think they'd understand. He doubted any of them loved their jobs, ever. He doubted he'd ever make them understand that he got the same satisfaction, the same pleasure, from his work as they did from their music.
He also didn't think Dethklok was the type for throwing surprise 'Weelcum Back' (according to the childish, handmade banner Charles assumed Toki made) parties either. But that was the site that greeted him as he opened the door. They even yelled surprise.
So he did smile. A real one. He was ushered into the room and into the chair at the head of the table by Pickles. Toki was cutting giant pieces of cake and passing them out. Charles got the first piece. They all ate, Toki chattering about how he wanted to be the one to go get him, and everyone telling him that he would've ruined the surprise. Toki even agreed that he would've, not getting pissed off. It might have been Nathan slipping him a second piece of cake that distracted him from getting upset.
"We got you preschents" Murderface said, a phrase that Charles would've never thought to come out of the other man's mouth before today. But there it was.
The first was long and thin. Charles opened it to find a cane. A high quality one, but it was a cane all the same. He was trying to figure out if there was an insult in there, or actual concern, when Skwisgaar took it out of his hands. The other four members of Dethklok threw up their hands in self-defense, as Skwisgaar pointed the cane away from everyone and hit a button Charles hadn't had time to notice near the top. A five-inch blade came out the end.
"Is secret weapons." Skwisgaar explained.
"Like Jason Bounds!"
"James Bond." Pickles corrected Toki.
"Whatevas"
It was, Charles had to admit it, pretty bad ass. Generally, Charles refrained from carrying weapons. He was apprehensive about how it would be viewed. Bad publicity was bad publicity and no one wanted a CFO that carried a gun. It sounded too crazy, even considering whom he represented. But a 'secret weapons' was another matter. And, though it was embarrassing, the damn cane might come in handy in the upcoming days and weeks.
The look on his face must have said how pleased he was -- Charles was not ready to express emotions any more than the five men surrounding him -- because they moved onto the next one. Or, they declared they were moving on, and everyone stood. Charles got to his feet too.
"We can't wrap this one." Nathan explained, and the group walked out of the room.
Charles felt the shift in mood as the group moved down the hall. He was determined not to let the boys see how weak he was, but as they kept walking, it was starting to become apparent that they would see. They were never fast walkers, but they were going slower and slower. Looking back, Charles thought part of the reason was the nature of the next present. At the time, though, he knew they were being compassionate -- a word he rarely, if ever, associated with Dethklok -- but that’s what it was, the casual slowing down, Murderface needing to stop and tie his boots, all done without saying a word. And Charles had to admit to himself, the compassion rather than ridicule was nice. Better than any banner, cake or present.
At least that was what he was thinking as they went through an endless series of corridors and elevators, winding down into the bowels of Mordhaus. By the time the elevator reached the lowest point, the group was dead silent. And tense. Even Skwisgaar who always looked like he had no bones in his body, his posture was always that relaxed and self-assured, was standing rigidly. They took him to a door. Instead of opening it, Nathan just slid the metal panel in the door to the side, gesturing for Charles to look in.
One would think, after having to explain to five grown men that a giant angry troll was bad for record sales, or any of the thousand and one bizarre shit Dethklok cooked up to keep him on his toes, nothing would surprise Charles Ofdensen. Charles would have thought so himself. Though his surprise never showed on his face until today, they did surprise him every once in a while. This, as it turned out, was one of those moments.
In retrospect, Charles should have been clearer when he asked about the fate of the man that injured him so badly, who had nearly killed the boys. He had been told, simply, that he was taken care of. Charles had assumed that to mean that the man was laying in an unmarked grave, or ashes. He did not think that "taken care of" meant that he was being held in a room in Mordhaus.
"We, uh, we kept him for you." Nathan explained, and Charles was impressed. The members of Dethklok couldn't keep a goldfish alive. Yet they managed to keep this bastard alive for nearly three months. For him.
Charles realized he was smiling. Judging from the looks on the boys' faces, it was not a nice smile.
"Not yet." He said, but the smile was still in place. He was relieved he didn't see disappointment on any of their faces. In fact, he saw understanding. He needed to wait. He needed the motivation, the promise of the assassin's suffering (oh, there would be lots of that), to get through the upcoming days and weeks. And he couldn't do it now. Not when he wasn't at full capacity.
As they headed back up, Charles realized they knew this. No one had expected him to go in that room today. He wasn't ready yet.
But he would be.