Klaus doesn't want to talk about this. Doesn't want to talk about the fact that Ben left, that he didn't choose to leave, and that there was nothing Klaus could do to keep him rooted to the world. Maybe more than a decade was more than enough.

He looks across at Ben, one corner of his mouth ticking down into a slight frown. "You saved the day, you know. Stormed right in like an undead Superman and stopped the whole shebang. Shit went sideways anyway, but Vanya's controlling her powers now and I got shot by an angry Swede with a receding hairline. I guess we all go when we go."

Pressing his palms around the mug he draws it closer, raising one of his scalded fingers to his lips when a drop runs down the side of the ceramic mug. He rolls his shoulders, his head, as though trying work through the aftershocks of dying, of the nerves misfiring. "Last time I wound up in this place, I met Dad. And now there's you. Wanna tell me what's really going on, then, Ghostman. I'm definitely dead. Saw the blood, felt the old ticker give out. Then there's the little bitch with the bike. So." He could use a cigarette right about now.