Heavy Rope (open to ghosts only)

Deep in thought, he rolled his thumb across the skin of his lips. As if he could leave his fingerprints were in there and smooth out the wrinkles inherent in lips. Touching his face was always a habit of his, across the years, tens of years. In life and in death. Whenever he was thinking-and though he didn't like to admit it, whenever he was troubled-at least one hand would move to his face. Pressing his bone and neat short fingernails into his temple, tapping along his cheekbone, squishing the tip of his nose ever so slightly, or rubbing his eyes. He was never sure why he did it, and further more, it didn't matter to him in the least. So long as he kept on thinking. That was what mattered. His brain forever turning over, going over whatever problem was at hand. Eventually he'd solve it so the method never mattered in the end.

Invisible to the adults around him, as they worked and to his mind: churned. They were cogs in his machine. Working towards his goal: a well run house. As much as the home had changed and evolved over the years: his vision had never entirely changed. He'd envisioned a place of tough love and discipline: aiming to release young men and women back into society changed for the better. Strengthened and taught to better themselves and their surroundings.

However, despite them working towards the same goal: Thomas couldn't look towards them without a feeling of rage bubbling up. They were faulty, the lot of them. Too modern and too soft. Nary a living soul before him had the discipline, the strength of self to really do the job, not the way he wanted to see it done. Certainly they tried, some showed a glimmer of hope, and even the odd couple seemed competent, even effective, but the few who please him would never be enough.

Thomas hoped that one day, the human race would circle back into the type that had sense, that one day they'd all realize how far they fallen and pick themselves up by their bootstraps. They'd relearn morals and good sense he'd stop seeing headlines that made him cringe. The news of the riots had been especially unpleasant. Had Thomas the power he'd have left and set London on fire himself. They'd clearly be better burning the lot of it and starting from scratch. He'd be doing them a favour.

Instead the change he brought had to be small. The pocket of students here wasn't much but he'd start with them. Shape them up and ship them out. That was his 'life' now. Afterlife he supposed. But that had to be enough, it was all they had after the end. These were the thoughts going through his head as the ghost of a man sat in the office's reception on the end of the waiting bench. Unseen in his tailored grey suit, the only colour that of his tanned skin and the purple accents within the plaid tie he wore.

Branbury had seen Mr. Ingram on his way past reception some minutes ago, sparing him a curious glance before he had had to rush off to file some paperwork, as seemed the usual for the good doctor. He was almost always on the go, off to somewhere to do some thing or other. It kept him grounded, and he suspected, sane. Without these tasks he set himself, he dreaded to think where his mind might wander to and leave him stranded. There were dark, despairing chasms aplenty to find after death, he fancied, and he didn't wish to spend the rest of eternity wallowing, lost within them as some of their contemporaries were.

Dr. Branbury had actually worked during Mr. Ingram's time as the Head of Household at Highgrove. he had helped in the medical clinic just as he was doing now, but they had rarely spoken more than a few words to each other. just as these days, Branbury had kept busy and kept to himself. He tired to make as few ripples in the world of the living as he could, from fear of being discovered for what he was somehow. Of course, Mr. Ingram -just as the other living members of Highgrove- must not have suspected a thing until after his own unfortunate death, and Branbury partly regretted now that their acquaintance had changed little since then. He still kept to himself and kept busy, and it had only been in the recent couple of weeks that he'd considered doing any differently. It was Simeon's fault really. Perhaps he had done something to him. Perhaps his zeal for life was contagious. Whatever the case or the excuse was, it found Branbury wandering back down the hallway once the paperwork was done with, and thought he had phased out of visibility to the living, he knew Ingram would see him just as clear as he saw Ingram.

Highgrove's old Head of Household had always struck Branbury as something of an imposing figure, and not wholly in an unpleasant way. He reminded Branbury of his father sometimes, though naturally Branbury was a good deal older than Mr. Ingram. There was a rigid sense of discipline there that reminded him of home in some ways, a dedication to the way things ought to be. Branbury had to respect the man for that. While he tried to move with the times, he too longed for the simpler days, when the world made more sense to him, when it was less crass, less vulgar in some ways. The modern era was loud and chaotic, and it lauded those who displayed the sorts of behaviours that would get anyone else committed to Bedlam, or worse, in his day. So he approached Mr. Ingram with a polite smile and stance, and spoke in a quiet tone more fitted to conversation than the shouting and swearing of the new millennium.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Ingram. Might I fetch you anything? A cup of tea perhaps?" He was no house servant, or lackey- no, certainly not with his upbringing- but rank meant little after one was dead, he found. If he could but brighten at least a moment of Mr. Ingram's day as he had done for Simeon, then it was a moment well spent.

Thomas had a moment of pause. He blinked and glanced around before his eyes settled on the good doctor turned nurse. As if he were coming out of a light nap or a heavy fog. He gave a small fleeting smile to the offer. He rarely indulged in things like that anymore. Things with physicality. He didn't need them after all and he was always slightly concerned with whether or not the living could see him moving things about. He didn't think so, but there was always a nagging worry in the back of his mind. What if this time, things were different. He had no desire to see the calm of his house disrupted by ghost hunters and craigslist psychics and the like. Never mind obnoxious television crews.

"Thank you for the offer Doctor, but no thank you." That was Thomas's response. Where he to engage in something like that nowadays, it would undoubtably be for social purposes. Thomas could hold a conversation with someone her considered a co-worker just fine without the application of earthly pleasures. A little chat anyways, water cooler talk as they might call it now. Thomas rarely listened enough to find out. As always, their work was at the forefront of his mind. Surely they'd both be off and busy shortly. But for now, a little reprise from their duties was entirely acceptable.

Even if the man effectively demoted himself, Thomas really felt little need to acknowledge that. He'd still done the schooling required. Still did it in fact. In death he was more the medical professional then he'd been in life really, what with advancing techniques and knowledge. Though they didn't speak much, Ingram held Branbury in high regard. Higher at least then most that haunted the house. The doctor hadn't let something like death loosen his control and confidence. Not like so many of the other's who seemed to use their demise as excuse to let their id run wild like a sugar-high child.

Had Thomas noticed Branbury the first time, rushing along and properly busy, he would have wondered, questioned why he returned. Of course, he'd been so deep in thought he hadn't an inkling. So with nothing strange to his mind Ingram was relaxed. Or relaxed as he was ever capable of being.

"What brings you by the office today? Looking for a file?"