Title: One Conversation Klaus Never Had (but perhaps should have)
Fandoms: Umbrella Academy, Lincoln in the Bardo
Rating: General Audiences
Characters: Klaus Hargreeves, Roger Bevins iii
Words: ~1500
Content Notes: Crack? Complete crap? And in 1st Person to boot. But taken completely seriously. References to suicide and war and injuries sustained in it.
Author Notes: With most abject, heartfelt apologies to George Saunders. I've been thinking about various ways to explore Klaus and his relationships with ghosts, and try as I might I could not make this plot bunny die. There's a little more of it I wasn't able to edit in time for the deadline, but it ends at a natural pause. An umbrella ripped open by a wind I could not feel is a quote from the book.



Oh, hello! I didn’t see you, standing so close. Did I step on your shoes? My apologies. They’re very shiny.

Yes, I am new to these beautiful, these beauteous environs; arrived quite recently, mere minutes ago it seems, though this is my second stroll through the grounds, possibly my third. Perhaps I’ve been here longer than it seems? I haven’t been strolling as much as floating. Skimming? Walk-skimming, to be precise. I haven’t moved this expeditiously in years, taking in the splendid views, as much of them as I can see in this pale, sickly moonlight. Is it always this dark here? It turns the mist that caresses my knees, tickles my elbows quite eerie, if one weren’t used to this sort of atmosphere. Which I am.

What have I observed? The stone chapel, covered in ivy. The red chapel, with the cunning circular windows. The graceful statues and the two-tiered fountains gently burbling, even at night. The walkways are smooth, well maintained; the grass feels green and lush, under my boots. There is a very sturdy iron fence surrounding this property. I take it that whatever’s stored here must be quite valuable. There is a great deal, a very great deal of marble and granite, shaped smooth: rounded edges, square edges, more than a few crumbling edges. I note short stones and medium stones; tall stones, rising to points, quite phallic. Protuberant. Words are etched on the stones; names and dates, condo…remembrances, get-well messages. Everything looks very sturdy, meant to withstand the passage of time. And the mau…the little houses. Very stately, though some of them, if you don’t mind my saying, are a little ostentatious. From my experience, they’re less comfortable than they seem. They're drafty, prone to retaining the cold and damp. I see you agree with me and, as I do, prefer the fresh, outdoor air.

I almost forgot to mention the creatures with the wings! I ran into one of them, scraped my forehead along a feathered, serrated edge, and shrieked! I thought for sure it was the Grim Reaper, come for me at last. What a relief when I saw it was an angel, standing guard.

Why are you shaking your head? I’ve said something unsuitable, haven’t I? Don’t be offended, dear sir. It is the first time this evening, but certainly not the last this evening that I will say something utterly inappropriate and gauche. I'm sure you’d prefer I not mention what I saw by the fence, the little girl, not even ten years old if I had to hazard a guess. Many things, many things she changed into: a fruitcake, sticky and glistening, the size and thickness of an encyclopedia. A dog, the kind you read about in Victorian whodunits. A vulture! I’ve never seen one that wasn’t on the television. A trampled field of corn; as someone who avoids the country at all costs I shouldn’t be able to recognize it, but I recently spent some time in just such a field and, well, let’s say it brought back memories I’d prefer to forget. Worst of all, she turned into an umbrella ripped open by a wind I could not feel. You will forgive me for saying this, sir. To be sure, the girl is young; but she is also malevolent. I have experience with these things, you must trust me on this. She wanted to send me a message, one I did not need to hear. I do not like her, not one bit.

How did I arrive here? I’m still puzzling it out. A wrong turn in Albuquerque, hieing right when I should have hared left, zigging when I should have zagged; and here I am. Once again, outside my own time.

You seem confused, friend, though it’s difficult to tell precisely what you are thinking, with your multiple noses, your flapping ears and bulging eyes, growing and shrinking, moving extraordinarily quickly, all directions at once. A dozen hands, constantly touching yourself, the slashes on your many wrists…

That must have hurt a great deal. But you are better, now?

Returning to your question, I had a suitcase. Not just any suitcase, but a machine disguised as one. A wondrous machine, capable of moving in time whomever holds it. Your many eyes, dangling from your sockets like Christmas lights, like cherry tomatoes on the vine, tell me that you don’t quite believe me. Nevertheless, it is true. I don’t dress like this because I am a foreigner, or insane, but because I am from decades into the future, a future I wouldn’t know how to describe to you.

I hoped to use the machine to find Dave again. Who is Dave, you ask? He is a beautiful man, the love of my life, the only person I have ever loved more than myself. He is everything I am not: handsome, strong, noble, brave, valiant, kind. Yet he loves me. I do not know know why. Perhaps it is for my superior cock-sucking abilities.

I’ve spoken too directly. I’ve offended you. Ah! It is not that you are offended, but that you are envious? Wistful. I understand, say no more.

To shorten a long story, albeit a tragic, mesmerizing one that has everyone reaching for their hankies - much like cutting down Romeo and Juliet to the Cliff’s Note’s version: They fuck! They die! It’s all dad’s fault - Dave is no longer with me.

- Klaus Hargreeves


He is sick? In a hospital, similar to this one? Recovering, and then you will be reunited?

- Roger Bevins iii


He is dead, he died in my arms. I pressed my hand against his flesh, into his flesh, to keep his insides from spilling onto the ground, but failed. I failed, then took the coward’s way out, retreated from the battle, abandoned my comrades, used the machine in a box and returned to my home, one hundred and fifty years from here. Just in the nick of time, because my siblings, I have six of them - yes, I am deeply fortunate, family is everything - wanted my help to save the world from complete and utter destruction. Yes, it will happen, the world will end in fire; but do not worry. It will not happen tomorrow, not for some time. Not if we can stop it, and we will. Either way, everyone will be equally damned or equally saved.

You clasp your many, many hands together. Your many, many noses twitch with fear and excitement and your many, many eyes gleam with pleasure that you have met someone of such distinction.

Let me be honest. My siblings did not want my help saving the world. My siblings specifically told me they did not want my help saving the world. They told me to mind my own business and leave the real work to the professionals. Even if all they are expert at is setting themselves ablaze and then asking, “My goodness! Is that a barbecue? What’s for dinner?”

“Fuck you,” I replied. Or, if you’d prefer: “Tarra! Cheerio! Good luck chaps!”

Once again I abandoned Maison Umbrella Academy. I left all of them - even Ben.

I decided to use the machine in the box to return to the time and place I would be most useful - one hundred years from here and now; I would save Dave, and then I would live the rest of my life engaged in what some might call selfish, solipsistic, narcissistic, ostrich like behavior, but I would call bliss. We talked about San Francisco and New York, London or Paris. A ranch in Montana. I’ve always fancied a man who can ride a horse. From your look of disinterest, a more noteworthy skill in my time then yours.

Unfortunately, I skipped back a few too many pages and ended up in the midst of a different battle. Imagine a large cornfield, with stalks nearly as tall as a grown man, blocking out the sun, only scraps of sky and clouds to orient you. First, it was in our hands, then Confederate hands; back and forth, back and forth this single damned field changed ownership. I thought Vietnam was hell but this, this was something of an entirely different order of magnitude. So many dead and dying, all around me, everywhere I turned.

In the end, it was all confusion. I recollect a wood and a white-washed church, a trench and a bridge. Guns and cannons, the unrelenting screaming of horses and men, the smells of shot and blood and shit, a blinding white light. And I was here, in a most uncomfortable bed, in a most interesting...

- Klaus Hargreaves


Hospital. The sick beds, as you say, could be improved upon.

- Roger Bevins iii