FIC: other things the road to hell is paved with [18/?]
Being sick = lots of time to write. Ugh. :sips more tea:
Oh look, I've broken 100,000 words.
Title: other things the road to hell is paved with [18/?]
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, potentially R or NC-17 later.
Summary: Another way the Baron rose to power. Another way the wizard became a Knight.
Word Count: This chapter: 4,996. So far: 102,011.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen
jfc, I should just make a table of contents, shouldn't I?
I didn't want to wake up again.
After the quick succession of traumas I'd gone through, my subconscious took some pity on me and granted me a very normal, meaningless dream. I was laying in the Great Lawn of Millennium Park, under the metal web-like arches. I was spread out, my arms and legs sprawled bonelessly, as snow drifted down onto me. It wasn't cold. As it piled on top of me, it started to feel like a downy blanket, protecting me from the world at large. Slowly, snow covered my eyes and layered until the world faded from white to grey to black.
I stirred to the sound of voices.
"Lots of oils. Herbs, flowers, different types of stones. Everything from rose hips to obsidian can be used in rituals and potions. But some stuff he'll have to collect himself, unless you have some folded sunshine in storage?"
"Folded sunshine? Is that a euphemism?"
"No, I mean sunlight folded into a piece of linen."
"Surely you're joking."
"Oh, Mr. Sexy Mafia Overlord, ye of little faith! Under the right conditions, it's possible. I'm surprised you don't know. Last week or so, Harry could have folded a tablecloth with sunlight inside! Maybe not so much now, but... Oh man, are you embarrassed? Is it because I called you Mr. Sexy Mafia Overlord?"
"Are you going to act like this all the time?"
"Depends, are you going to be a slamming hottie all the time? You should be flattered! I thought your aura was banging, but maaaaaaan. No wonder you're all over the boss' aura. If I had permission, I'd cuddle up to you too and you don't even have boobs! See, I'm usually a bit of a ladies' spirit, myself..."
That was quite enough, I thought. I opened my eyes, met with the now-familiar image of the ceiling of my usual guest room in John's mansion. I turned my head to see John sitting on the side of my bed, talking to my lab assistant, whose skull sat on the dresser. John was, indeed, somewhat red in the ears, which was an impressive feat on Bob's part.
As I shifted to look at them, John noticed I was awake and twisted to face me. "Harry? Are you all right? How's your hand?"
My hand? I looked down at where it lay on my chest. It was wrapped in gauze and felt sore, but not overly painful. Everything felt a little fuzzy though. "What'm on?"
"Some mild painkillers, nothing too strong," John answered. His face was pulled into a vaguely worried expression, brow creasing. "Are you in pain?"
I shook my head and shifted my gaze to Bob. Hearing him chat up John was strange. I never expected the two of them to meet.
But that was before my apartment was firebombed.
It all came rushing back like a tidal wave. Susan dumping me, the gala with Murphy ripping me a new one, and Bianca's people destroying my home. She destroyed my home. I was homeless, girlfriendless, and lambasted by someone I once cared about all at once. My lab was gone. All the homey rugs and tapestries I covered my home with were gone. My fucking staff was gone. All my clothes, my duster, my toothbrush, the ridiculously comfortable sofa I'd bought for next to nothing, my black book, all the moleskines I'd started filling with notes, the bed that was almost big enough that my feet didn't hang over the side, my Royal Crown bag of gaming dice, my-- everything, it was all gone. My girlfriend, the woman who once my best friend, my home.
I didn't realize I'd gotten out of bed until my knees buckled out from under me and John lowered me carefully to the floor. "--breathe, just breathe, Harry, it'll be all right, just breathe through it," he was saying over and over like a litany. It was hard to hear over the sound of my own hyperventilating.
"Let go of me," I spat, drowning in anger. "Don't touch me, you scumbag."
For the first time in ages, it sounded like an insult and John froze, looking down at me. "Harry..."
"Don't. Call. Me. That," I growled and shoved his arms away when he didn't take the hint.
"Not this again," he said, like it was some kind of inconvenience for him, like I was some petulant child. "What have I done now?"
"What have you done? You ruined my fucking life, Marcone! Did you miss that? It might have been hard to pick up on, what with everything important to me falling apart here!" I was aiming for sarcasm, but overshot it. My voice was coarse from emotion and inhaled smoke, and I lapsed into a small fit of coughs.
I saw John start to reach out as I coughed, but restrain himself, letting his hand fall to his side. "You blame me."
"Well, yeah, seems the thing to do as it's your fault!" I could hear Murphy's voice in my head. John Marcone's bitch. No. No, I refused-- I couldn't--
I shut my eyes and saw a home burning behind my lids. It kept shifting from Justin's house to my apartment until they felt the same. I didn't want to do this again. It wasn't fair, and maybe life wasn't fair, but dammit not this again. I couldn't even think straight, I was so angry.
"Whoa, whoa, boss, hey!" Bob said from his perch. "Deep breaths, boss! Don't go volcano on us now!"
Right. Nuking Marcone's mansion would be a bad idea. Except for the fact it was a fucking brilliant idea. See if Gentleman Johnnie would keep his cool when his home burned to cinders. I could make that happen. It'd be easy with all the rage I had in me.
John inched over to where I sat on the floor, leaving only a small space between us. "Harry, I know you're upset. You've had an... extraordinarily terrible few days and I didn't do much to help. But I would never through action or inaction hurt you like this. Your blame is misplaced."
Passing the buck. Just like any corrupt businessman. "Don't you get it? Because of you, I have nothing!" My voice broke, but I kept going. "My house, my things, my clothes, years of lab stock--"
"I can take care of that," John said quickly. His hands were up in that universal placating gesture that meant calm the fuck down, you possibly rabid animal. "I'll get--"
"You're missing the point!" I pulled at my bangs in frustration, the resulting pain fuzzy thanks to whatever he doped me on. "You can't write a check and fix this. I mean, you were actually human once, right? Before you woke up and decided to be a 'professional monster' instead?"
I couldn't have gotten a more stunned reaction if I'd slapped him. His mouth dropped open, his pupils dilated, and something that seemed like honest hurt flickered over his face. That almost made me stop, to reconsider but I needed to do this. I needed Murphy to be wrong about me. If I let go of how furious I was, all that would be left was the mourning. Anger was less painful. I knew from experience.
"I don't believe you mean that." The hurt was swept off his face, and in its place was an opaque, non-descript withdrawal. It was such a well-practiced expression, it almost looked real. "You're simply taking your pain out on the easiest target."
"You're never the easy target, Marcone! Nothing is easy with you!" I jabbed a finger at him. "You murder people. You deal drugs. You force out your competition. Anyone not marching to your drum, well, you'll fix that right up, won't you?" I shook my head and started to lever myself to my feet slowly, holding onto the bed when my vision tilted crazily.
"What are we even talking about? Is this about your apartment at all?" I heard him behind me, and he grabbed me under the arms, keeping me up when I nearly fell down again. Hell's bells, I wanted to yell at him for even presuming to help me, but without his grip, I wouldn't have made it to my feet. Once I had though, I shoved him away again. He looked exasperated under his mask. "I can't help you if you won't tell me what's bothering you."
He'd yet to raise his voice. It was a very one-sided fight, and I hated him for his endless supply of calm. It made me feel like I was being irrational. I'd just lost everything I had, I was being precisely as rational as I should have been. Including when I took a swing at him.
To my complete surprise, he didn't dodge or block me. I connected with the side of his face and he let me, turning his head with the punch to minimize the damage, but taking it nonetheless.
Stars and stones.
I watched him rub the sore spot on his cheek, touching it gingerly, like he was testing it. He didn't retaliate or do anything except shut his eyes and exhale hard.
When he opened them again, he stared into mine and asked, "Did that make you feel better?" Still quiet, still more composed than a man who'd been punched in the face had any right to be.
My anger was draining, replaced by guilt and a deep, crushing despair. "Hit me back."
"No."
"John, please--"
He shuddered, but didn't give in, even with the 'please.' "No. That isn't going to help anything."
"Anyone else would be clutching a knife wound right now," I pointed out a little desperately.
"You are not anyone else."
I shook my head and sat on the bed heavily, listening to the springs squeak under my weight. "I don't... I don't know why."
"Well, for a start, I think you might be having a minor breakdown," he said dryly. "What would I gain from threatening or intimidating you, Harry? That had its place in our relationship, but we are long past that point." He pulled a chair over and sat in it, in front of me. He was close enough that he could put his hands on my knees, hands warm even through my pants. I remembered that the tuxedo shirt and pants I had on was all I had left to wear. It was stupid, but my eyes started to sting, vision swimming for reasons that had nothing to do with the drugs. I made myself focus on his words. "I want you to be with me. I worked hard to have you on my side. Responding to you with violence or antagonism would only sabotage that."
I scoffed. God, for a while I thought maybe he liked me. "So this-- this is just another thing you've run the numbers on." I laughed, a choked, rough sound. "You don't actually give a damn about me, but making me think so works best for your plans."
This was dangerously close to that thing I wasn't supposed to talk about. He didn't seem much more eager to speak about it openly. John measured his words carefully before replying. "You say these things like they're mutually exclusive. I enjoy your company. I also need you. Treating you... as I have been," he hesitated, "it just makes sense."
"Hell's fucking bells, I don't want you to do this because it makes sense!" It hurt, it really did. I didn't need more hurting at the moment. I had a surplus, seriously. "Can't you just be a person for five seconds? Can you stop tallying up the costs and benefits?"
He was a little baffled by the route of the conversation, I could tell. I was too, for that matter. But John Marcone's presence in my life had screwed me over in the last few days. To hear our... relationship was just business, I hated that. All the loss wasn't worth it. Maybe, yeah, the banter and the-- the flirting, it made me happy at the time, but if it was all hollow on his side, I couldn't deal with that. Not on top of what had already happened.
Losing the simple companionable pleasure that was the memory of his hands on my back and his warm smile, it would be too fucking much. If Murphy couldn't be wrong about me, let her be wrong about him.
"Harry," John said softly. "That's the kind of person I am. What you're asking of me would be a lie. And I don't lie to you."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to be honest! That's the point!"
He shook his head. "You are a very emotional person. Not just now, but generally speaking. Everything you do is tied up in how you feel. I am not like that, Harry. Everything I do is calculated. I operate by logic. That doesn't mean I'm being dishonest."
I just stared at him, not sure how to even wrap my head around that. I felt off. Severely unbalanced. So much had happened, and now John was saying something I knew was important, but I couldn't make it fit into my head with everything else. It was crowded, all convoluted and twisted. Maybe John was right about me in that respect. I was just carrying too much in me and I couldn't figure out how to get it out before I burst.
I didn't speak for a while, just sitting there numbly. It was like my head couldn't pick what to go with. I was mad at John, I was glad he was there with me, trying to help me understand. I wanted to go home and curl up in my own bed and not leave for a week. I wanted to march over to the Velvet Room and incinerate Bianca St. Clair until she was nothing more than a pile of blackened bones. I wanted to find Murphy and beg her to listen to me, let me explain. I wanted to bury her memory and never think of her again. I wanted Susan back, that basic comfort of having someone. I wanted to go back in time three or four days and make sure none of this happened.
Mostly, I just wanted to stop hurting. Just for a moment.
John watched my face raptly, barely even blinking. Then he sighed, "Christ, Harry," and took my face in his hands, his rough palms curled over my jaw.
I felt his forehead against mine and shut my eyes, shaking. I inhaled deeply, finding his cologne had mixed with the smell of smoke from the fire, the scent making something tighten in my chest. I could feel his breath against my cheek, the heat of his skin against mine. I wondered what he'd taste like, smoke and heat and that underlying, secretive sweetness.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it. That I hadn't wanted it for a long while. But right then, I couldn't. It was too much.
I ducked my head down. "John, I-- I can't, I can't do this right now, I'm sorry, but I can't."
He hushed me quietly. "All right. All right." I almost changed my mind when his lips brushed against my hairline, so goddamn gentle, but he pulled away and stood before I could act on the new urge. As soon as he was away from me, his tone flattened, back to business. "My people are doing their best to salvage what they can from the fire. I'll see how they're doing."
I nodded, eyes still shut. "Thanks."
"Of course," he murmured, then generously left me to my thoughts.
I took a few shaking breaths, getting a hold of myself.
Behind me, I heard a groan. "That," Bob said, "was disappointing."
I put my head in my hands. "Shut up, Bob."
Michael skipped Thanksgiving Mass with his family to help me sort through the ruins.
Maybe it was how unbalanced and delicate I felt, but I kept hiding stray tears in my coat sleeve whenever I thought about that. Usually it took a Blues Brothers mission from God himself for Michael to miss holiday Mass. After the fire, I called my friends to give them the heads up. The Alphas instantly offered to let me couch surf with them. Michael got in his truck and met me at the site of my once-was-an-apartment.
"How are you feeling, Harry?" he asked, handing me a cup of coffee so hot it steamed the air around it slightly.
"Like my home just burned down along with all my possessions," I answered dully. I was hoping if I said it enough, it'd sink in and the shocky numbness would fade.
It'd been weird, waking up in the morning, getting dressed in the clothes John provided because I had nothing else. There was a still-packaged toothbrush, soap, and shampoo in the bathroom suite off my guest room. I would've killed for some Frosted Flakes or similarly sugary breakfast cereal, but I had to settle for some fruit I found in the kitchen.
Then, of course, John showed up and informed me his men had retrieved what they could, that everything was in boxes at my former home for me to sort through. "Except the somewhat inexplicable supply of depleted uranium, which was disposed of before the arson investigators could get suspicious," he remarked wryly.
"Needed it for wizarding," I told him.
"Oh, I have no doubt." He gave me a considering look. "Do you want me to go with you?"
I shook my head. "Nah. Going to hop over there, see what's not completely destroyed. Michael's going to help. Not a big deal."
It was a massive lie, but he showed some mercy and didn't call me out on it. He did, however, pull his coat off, the well-worn suede jacket I saw him in so often, and handed it to me. When I didn't immediately take it, he said, "I have meetings today that require a somewhat more sophisticated wardrobe. I won't be using it."
It was the end of November and there was a light snow falling, so I swallowed my pride and pulled the coat on. It was body-warm, had that distinct John smell, and even had a set of gloves in the pocket made of the same brown suede as the jacket itself. It wasn't my duster, but it was nice. "Thanks," I murmured.
John put his hands on my shoulders. "This will pass, Harry. You'll come through."
"How do you know?"
"I've gazed upon your soul." He idly fixed the collar of the jacket, not looking me in the eyes for once. "It would take far more than this to break you."
I got out of there pretty fast after that. The Beetle had been moved to John's garage, parked in a far back corner out of sight, like it had insulted John by not having the decency to burn down with the rest of my stuff. Its trunk wasn't big enough for what I needed, so I intended to toss boxes of not-completely-incinerated stuff into the back of Michael's truck.
Michael found my duster. There wasn't much left of it. The spells I'd sunk into it couldn't hold up against prolonged exposure to fire and the canvas material was blackened and irreparable. My staff had gone the same way, the only reminder of it a stump of rune-carved oak. I made a note to call Eb, see if he could ship me another chunk of the oak tree it'd been carved from.
Nothing really survived. Any lab components that had been dug up were contaminated from the cave-in. No clothes came through. My books were a lost cause. In the end, I got rid of the potion ingredients I had to deal with carefully, piled everything else together, poured salt over it all, and torched it. It was necessary. Bianca was using magic now and leaving anything she could use as a thaumaturgic link to me was suicidal.
I sat in Michael's truck, watching the flames for a while. When all that was left was a smoldering black spot on my lawn, he drove us away. Neither of us said anything until I noticed we weren't heading towards Executive Priority or the Gold Coast. "Where're we going?"
"Dinner," Michael said.
"No offense, but I'm not feeling very friendly at the moment. I'm not going to be good company for Thanksgiving."
He put his hand on my shoulder. "Harry, we are not fair-weather friends. You are welcome in my home when you are going through a rough patch just as much as any other time. Family doesn't stop when things get tough."
Okay, I was touched. My throat got tight, and remained so for a long time. I was still shaky and unsettled when we got to the Carpenter house. It'd been too long since I'd been there, and little Amanda glommed onto my leg, making me walk like an idiot while I bade hello to all the other Carpenters.
Then I was sitting at the table with Baby Harry on my lap as Michael said Grace over the spread of mashed potatoes, candied yams, steamed vegetables, homemade gravy, turkey, and ham-- there was enough food for a platoon. Or, just enough for a big hungry family.
I didn't have to talk much. So many voices chattering about the minutiae of life and requests for more carrots/turkey/sweet potato/et cetera filled the air. I enjoyed the palpable energy of the house, loving and homely, without contributing. I just ate my food, then held Baby Harry as Charity stuck a spoon into his little mouth. She and I never really got on, but that night was devoid of any backhanded insults. She even gave me one of the bigger pie slices after dinner.
Who knew it'd only take losing my home to get some voluntary kindness out of Charity Carpenter?
I settled in the living room, drowsily enjoying my tryptophan coma as it snuck up on me. Molly sat next to me.
"Your apartment really burn down?"
I nodded. "Yup."
"Sucks."
"It really does."
"You look like you need a hug," she said with all the severity of a doctor prescribing medical treatment. Then she leaned over and gave me a hug.
Then Hope yelled about Molly hogging 'Uncle Harry' all to herself and my hug layered and grew as some of the rugrats crawled up around me and joined Molly.
Some manly tears were shed. I felt I was entitled to a few. I had to get them out of my system either way, and if anyone saw them, they didn't comment on them.
Good people, the Carpenters.
I got back at why-are-you-awake-stupid o'clock. I was sure Michael wanted to offer me a place to sleep that night, but I knew that couldn't possibly go well. John was on high alert about the Reds and it seemed cruel to make him worry on top of punching him in the face earlier.
When I got to the guest room that had unofficially become mine, Hurricane Marcone had hit, leaving well-organized affluence in its wake. The closet was filled with clothes, Mister was giving himself a bath on the bed's new winter linens, and the photos of my father and mother that had been in the care-worn box I'd saved were framed and sitting on the nightstand.
Bob was on the dresser still, but was now surrounded by jars and bottles. It wasn't even close to what I'd had in my personal stock before the fire, but John had done his solid best in digging up plenty of spell and potion components. The spread was like a homeopathic experiment that had become sentient and started multiplying. I picked up some of the oils and looked them over.
"I tried to tell him to pick up chocolate," Bob said, coming awake with a yawn. "He wouldn't believe I was being serious."
"Yeah, he's like that sometimes." I put the bottles back down and regarded Bob. "Has he been bugging you?"
"Stars, no, Harry. In fact, he can bug me all he likes. It's a shame he's such a gentleman," Bob gushed, giving a simpering sigh.
"Hey, don't sexually harass him."
"Well, someone should since you're clearly not. Speaking of, what are you waiting for? Saving yourself for marriage?"
"It's complicated," I said shortly, because it was. "We're probably going to be here until I find a new place, so some ground rules--"
Bob cut in. "You're going to find another place? Oh."
"Oh? What, oh? Of course I am."
"You should probably tell him that then. Unless it's normal to put in a new bed for a temporary guest?"
I frowned and looked at the bed in question. I was still tired despite catching a nap at the Carpenters', so I'd missed it before, but it was a new bed. It was longer, to be more precise. I climbed onto it and stretched out to test it and, yes, it was big enough my feet didn't hang off the edge.
Huh. Maybe John and I did need to have a chat.
In the morning, I caught him enjoying his latte and an ultra-healthy parfait thing. I made a show of grabbing the newspaper and opening it to the Classifieds, sitting next to him at the kitchen island.
He gave me a look, less sharp than it would've been if he was fully awake. It was hard to find him intimidating in pajamas, even if they were pinstriped and probably very expensive. Add a dress shirt and a tie and he could've just worn that to his business meetings. "What're you doing?"
"Looking for a place to live. See, my apartment got firebombed thanks to you starting trouble with Bianca." I may not have been in the throes of a raging break-down, but I was hardly going to just let that go.
"You have a place to live," he pointed out evenly.
"My own place to live."
He slid the newspaper away from me and folded it shut, tossing it aside. "Later."
I folded my arms and leaned on the island. "No. Not later."
"Harry, I appreciate your attachment to your bachelor lifestyle, but, as you just reminded me, your apartment was firebombed by the Red Court. The only reason you aren't dead right now is pure luck. If you think I'll let..." I saw him stop, revise his sentence, and try again. "Until this business with the Red Court is settled, you should remain here. Any house or apartment you purchase will lack a threshold you could build solid wards on and would leave you vulnerable. It'll take time for you to recoup your losses to the point you could defend yourself against the next inevitable attack from the Margravine. If you're here, you're guarded by my security force and the protections we've already worked on."
All of that made sense, and I was sure he really believed all of it. But at the same time, I knew those weren't the only reasons for this.
Staying would be easy. I could let John take care of the little things while I restocked and got ready to make that undead bitch Bianca pay for what she'd done. But if I did that, if I took the easy way, I wasn't sure I would get back out. It would be effortless to get further tangled in John's life. I knew by now that our relationship was one of compromise, but if I made too many concessions, he'd push for more. He couldn't help himself. Give John Marcone an inch and he'll plant a flag into it and conquer you. It was just how he was.
"I'll think about it," I told him, because I didn't have a counterargument that didn't involve quoting The Spider and the Fly at him.
Before I even considered house hunting, I needed a staff. Not having mine felt like missing a limb. I was glad my blasting rod had survived, but without my other wizardly equipment, I didn't feel completely safe.
I waited for John to leave to check on a prostitution ring or head a budget meeting or whatever was on his agenda, then let myself into his office. All the phones in the house were too advanced for me to use, each possibly capable of college-level trigonometry on their own. I needed to make a call though, so I dug the Stonehenge bracelets out of John's desk and reluctantly put them on.
Then I used the stone sphere to unlock the bracelets and take them off, just to be sure I could.
I put them back on and dialed a Missouri number. It was early still, and I caught Ebenezar before he went out to tend to the farm.
"You got any leftovers from that oak tree?"
"Hoss, what'd you do?"
I sighed and leaned back in the chair. Then I noticed how comfy it was. Oooh, massage buttons. "Some Reds burned down my apartment. Staff was inside."
Eb blew out a breath. "Yeah, I'll bring some up to you."
"Thank you, sir. You planning on visiting soon or something?"
He got quiet. "Hasn't Warden Morgan gotten a hold of you yet?"
"No?" Last I saw Morgan, he randomly menaced me for a few minutes then left. I barely remembered it, with what'd happened in the meantime. Hell, if Morgan needed to find me right now, it'd be quite a task, seeing how I'd been forced to relocate.
"Damn, haven't you heard, boy? There's gonna be a Council meeting about your fool antics. Bianca St. Clair wants to declare war on the Council. You're looking at censure or worse."
My mouth went dry. War? With the Council? Bianca had to be out of her mind, she didn't have a leg to stand on. I was involved, yeah, but her conflict was with John. It was a Chicago matter more than anything.
"What's worse than censure?" I heard myself ask.
"Your rank as a wizard," Eb said quietly. "They want your stole for this."
Oh.
Great.
Chapter Nineteen
100,000 WORDS AND WE HAVE LIP-TO-SKIN CONTACT
I CALL THIS A WIN, PEOPLE
:weeps: omg, boys, just fuck, please, you're killing me
Originally posted at DW. Comment here or there. DW comments:
Oh look, I've broken 100,000 words.
Title: other things the road to hell is paved with [18/?]
Rating/Warnings: PG-13, potentially R or NC-17 later.
Summary: Another way the Baron rose to power. Another way the wizard became a Knight.
Word Count: This chapter: 4,996. So far: 102,011.
Chapter One | Chapter Two | Chapter Three | Chapter Four | Chapter Five | Chapter Six | Chapter Seven | Chapter Eight | Chapter Nine | Chapter Ten | Chapter Eleven | Chapter Twelve | Chapter Thirteen | Chapter Fourteen | Chapter Fifteen | Chapter Sixteen | Chapter Seventeen
jfc, I should just make a table of contents, shouldn't I?
I didn't want to wake up again.
After the quick succession of traumas I'd gone through, my subconscious took some pity on me and granted me a very normal, meaningless dream. I was laying in the Great Lawn of Millennium Park, under the metal web-like arches. I was spread out, my arms and legs sprawled bonelessly, as snow drifted down onto me. It wasn't cold. As it piled on top of me, it started to feel like a downy blanket, protecting me from the world at large. Slowly, snow covered my eyes and layered until the world faded from white to grey to black.
I stirred to the sound of voices.
"Lots of oils. Herbs, flowers, different types of stones. Everything from rose hips to obsidian can be used in rituals and potions. But some stuff he'll have to collect himself, unless you have some folded sunshine in storage?"
"Folded sunshine? Is that a euphemism?"
"No, I mean sunlight folded into a piece of linen."
"Surely you're joking."
"Oh, Mr. Sexy Mafia Overlord, ye of little faith! Under the right conditions, it's possible. I'm surprised you don't know. Last week or so, Harry could have folded a tablecloth with sunlight inside! Maybe not so much now, but... Oh man, are you embarrassed? Is it because I called you Mr. Sexy Mafia Overlord?"
"Are you going to act like this all the time?"
"Depends, are you going to be a slamming hottie all the time? You should be flattered! I thought your aura was banging, but maaaaaaan. No wonder you're all over the boss' aura. If I had permission, I'd cuddle up to you too and you don't even have boobs! See, I'm usually a bit of a ladies' spirit, myself..."
That was quite enough, I thought. I opened my eyes, met with the now-familiar image of the ceiling of my usual guest room in John's mansion. I turned my head to see John sitting on the side of my bed, talking to my lab assistant, whose skull sat on the dresser. John was, indeed, somewhat red in the ears, which was an impressive feat on Bob's part.
As I shifted to look at them, John noticed I was awake and twisted to face me. "Harry? Are you all right? How's your hand?"
My hand? I looked down at where it lay on my chest. It was wrapped in gauze and felt sore, but not overly painful. Everything felt a little fuzzy though. "What'm on?"
"Some mild painkillers, nothing too strong," John answered. His face was pulled into a vaguely worried expression, brow creasing. "Are you in pain?"
I shook my head and shifted my gaze to Bob. Hearing him chat up John was strange. I never expected the two of them to meet.
But that was before my apartment was firebombed.
It all came rushing back like a tidal wave. Susan dumping me, the gala with Murphy ripping me a new one, and Bianca's people destroying my home. She destroyed my home. I was homeless, girlfriendless, and lambasted by someone I once cared about all at once. My lab was gone. All the homey rugs and tapestries I covered my home with were gone. My fucking staff was gone. All my clothes, my duster, my toothbrush, the ridiculously comfortable sofa I'd bought for next to nothing, my black book, all the moleskines I'd started filling with notes, the bed that was almost big enough that my feet didn't hang over the side, my Royal Crown bag of gaming dice, my-- everything, it was all gone. My girlfriend, the woman who once my best friend, my home.
I didn't realize I'd gotten out of bed until my knees buckled out from under me and John lowered me carefully to the floor. "--breathe, just breathe, Harry, it'll be all right, just breathe through it," he was saying over and over like a litany. It was hard to hear over the sound of my own hyperventilating.
"Let go of me," I spat, drowning in anger. "Don't touch me, you scumbag."
For the first time in ages, it sounded like an insult and John froze, looking down at me. "Harry..."
"Don't. Call. Me. That," I growled and shoved his arms away when he didn't take the hint.
"Not this again," he said, like it was some kind of inconvenience for him, like I was some petulant child. "What have I done now?"
"What have you done? You ruined my fucking life, Marcone! Did you miss that? It might have been hard to pick up on, what with everything important to me falling apart here!" I was aiming for sarcasm, but overshot it. My voice was coarse from emotion and inhaled smoke, and I lapsed into a small fit of coughs.
I saw John start to reach out as I coughed, but restrain himself, letting his hand fall to his side. "You blame me."
"Well, yeah, seems the thing to do as it's your fault!" I could hear Murphy's voice in my head. John Marcone's bitch. No. No, I refused-- I couldn't--
I shut my eyes and saw a home burning behind my lids. It kept shifting from Justin's house to my apartment until they felt the same. I didn't want to do this again. It wasn't fair, and maybe life wasn't fair, but dammit not this again. I couldn't even think straight, I was so angry.
"Whoa, whoa, boss, hey!" Bob said from his perch. "Deep breaths, boss! Don't go volcano on us now!"
Right. Nuking Marcone's mansion would be a bad idea. Except for the fact it was a fucking brilliant idea. See if Gentleman Johnnie would keep his cool when his home burned to cinders. I could make that happen. It'd be easy with all the rage I had in me.
John inched over to where I sat on the floor, leaving only a small space between us. "Harry, I know you're upset. You've had an... extraordinarily terrible few days and I didn't do much to help. But I would never through action or inaction hurt you like this. Your blame is misplaced."
Passing the buck. Just like any corrupt businessman. "Don't you get it? Because of you, I have nothing!" My voice broke, but I kept going. "My house, my things, my clothes, years of lab stock--"
"I can take care of that," John said quickly. His hands were up in that universal placating gesture that meant calm the fuck down, you possibly rabid animal. "I'll get--"
"You're missing the point!" I pulled at my bangs in frustration, the resulting pain fuzzy thanks to whatever he doped me on. "You can't write a check and fix this. I mean, you were actually human once, right? Before you woke up and decided to be a 'professional monster' instead?"
I couldn't have gotten a more stunned reaction if I'd slapped him. His mouth dropped open, his pupils dilated, and something that seemed like honest hurt flickered over his face. That almost made me stop, to reconsider but I needed to do this. I needed Murphy to be wrong about me. If I let go of how furious I was, all that would be left was the mourning. Anger was less painful. I knew from experience.
"I don't believe you mean that." The hurt was swept off his face, and in its place was an opaque, non-descript withdrawal. It was such a well-practiced expression, it almost looked real. "You're simply taking your pain out on the easiest target."
"You're never the easy target, Marcone! Nothing is easy with you!" I jabbed a finger at him. "You murder people. You deal drugs. You force out your competition. Anyone not marching to your drum, well, you'll fix that right up, won't you?" I shook my head and started to lever myself to my feet slowly, holding onto the bed when my vision tilted crazily.
"What are we even talking about? Is this about your apartment at all?" I heard him behind me, and he grabbed me under the arms, keeping me up when I nearly fell down again. Hell's bells, I wanted to yell at him for even presuming to help me, but without his grip, I wouldn't have made it to my feet. Once I had though, I shoved him away again. He looked exasperated under his mask. "I can't help you if you won't tell me what's bothering you."
He'd yet to raise his voice. It was a very one-sided fight, and I hated him for his endless supply of calm. It made me feel like I was being irrational. I'd just lost everything I had, I was being precisely as rational as I should have been. Including when I took a swing at him.
To my complete surprise, he didn't dodge or block me. I connected with the side of his face and he let me, turning his head with the punch to minimize the damage, but taking it nonetheless.
Stars and stones.
I watched him rub the sore spot on his cheek, touching it gingerly, like he was testing it. He didn't retaliate or do anything except shut his eyes and exhale hard.
When he opened them again, he stared into mine and asked, "Did that make you feel better?" Still quiet, still more composed than a man who'd been punched in the face had any right to be.
My anger was draining, replaced by guilt and a deep, crushing despair. "Hit me back."
"No."
"John, please--"
He shuddered, but didn't give in, even with the 'please.' "No. That isn't going to help anything."
"Anyone else would be clutching a knife wound right now," I pointed out a little desperately.
"You are not anyone else."
I shook my head and sat on the bed heavily, listening to the springs squeak under my weight. "I don't... I don't know why."
"Well, for a start, I think you might be having a minor breakdown," he said dryly. "What would I gain from threatening or intimidating you, Harry? That had its place in our relationship, but we are long past that point." He pulled a chair over and sat in it, in front of me. He was close enough that he could put his hands on my knees, hands warm even through my pants. I remembered that the tuxedo shirt and pants I had on was all I had left to wear. It was stupid, but my eyes started to sting, vision swimming for reasons that had nothing to do with the drugs. I made myself focus on his words. "I want you to be with me. I worked hard to have you on my side. Responding to you with violence or antagonism would only sabotage that."
I scoffed. God, for a while I thought maybe he liked me. "So this-- this is just another thing you've run the numbers on." I laughed, a choked, rough sound. "You don't actually give a damn about me, but making me think so works best for your plans."
This was dangerously close to that thing I wasn't supposed to talk about. He didn't seem much more eager to speak about it openly. John measured his words carefully before replying. "You say these things like they're mutually exclusive. I enjoy your company. I also need you. Treating you... as I have been," he hesitated, "it just makes sense."
"Hell's fucking bells, I don't want you to do this because it makes sense!" It hurt, it really did. I didn't need more hurting at the moment. I had a surplus, seriously. "Can't you just be a person for five seconds? Can you stop tallying up the costs and benefits?"
He was a little baffled by the route of the conversation, I could tell. I was too, for that matter. But John Marcone's presence in my life had screwed me over in the last few days. To hear our... relationship was just business, I hated that. All the loss wasn't worth it. Maybe, yeah, the banter and the-- the flirting, it made me happy at the time, but if it was all hollow on his side, I couldn't deal with that. Not on top of what had already happened.
Losing the simple companionable pleasure that was the memory of his hands on my back and his warm smile, it would be too fucking much. If Murphy couldn't be wrong about me, let her be wrong about him.
"Harry," John said softly. "That's the kind of person I am. What you're asking of me would be a lie. And I don't lie to you."
"I'm not asking you to lie. I'm asking you to be honest! That's the point!"
He shook his head. "You are a very emotional person. Not just now, but generally speaking. Everything you do is tied up in how you feel. I am not like that, Harry. Everything I do is calculated. I operate by logic. That doesn't mean I'm being dishonest."
I just stared at him, not sure how to even wrap my head around that. I felt off. Severely unbalanced. So much had happened, and now John was saying something I knew was important, but I couldn't make it fit into my head with everything else. It was crowded, all convoluted and twisted. Maybe John was right about me in that respect. I was just carrying too much in me and I couldn't figure out how to get it out before I burst.
I didn't speak for a while, just sitting there numbly. It was like my head couldn't pick what to go with. I was mad at John, I was glad he was there with me, trying to help me understand. I wanted to go home and curl up in my own bed and not leave for a week. I wanted to march over to the Velvet Room and incinerate Bianca St. Clair until she was nothing more than a pile of blackened bones. I wanted to find Murphy and beg her to listen to me, let me explain. I wanted to bury her memory and never think of her again. I wanted Susan back, that basic comfort of having someone. I wanted to go back in time three or four days and make sure none of this happened.
Mostly, I just wanted to stop hurting. Just for a moment.
John watched my face raptly, barely even blinking. Then he sighed, "Christ, Harry," and took my face in his hands, his rough palms curled over my jaw.
I felt his forehead against mine and shut my eyes, shaking. I inhaled deeply, finding his cologne had mixed with the smell of smoke from the fire, the scent making something tighten in my chest. I could feel his breath against my cheek, the heat of his skin against mine. I wondered what he'd taste like, smoke and heat and that underlying, secretive sweetness.
I'd be lying if I said I didn't want it. That I hadn't wanted it for a long while. But right then, I couldn't. It was too much.
I ducked my head down. "John, I-- I can't, I can't do this right now, I'm sorry, but I can't."
He hushed me quietly. "All right. All right." I almost changed my mind when his lips brushed against my hairline, so goddamn gentle, but he pulled away and stood before I could act on the new urge. As soon as he was away from me, his tone flattened, back to business. "My people are doing their best to salvage what they can from the fire. I'll see how they're doing."
I nodded, eyes still shut. "Thanks."
"Of course," he murmured, then generously left me to my thoughts.
I took a few shaking breaths, getting a hold of myself.
Behind me, I heard a groan. "That," Bob said, "was disappointing."
I put my head in my hands. "Shut up, Bob."
Michael skipped Thanksgiving Mass with his family to help me sort through the ruins.
Maybe it was how unbalanced and delicate I felt, but I kept hiding stray tears in my coat sleeve whenever I thought about that. Usually it took a Blues Brothers mission from God himself for Michael to miss holiday Mass. After the fire, I called my friends to give them the heads up. The Alphas instantly offered to let me couch surf with them. Michael got in his truck and met me at the site of my once-was-an-apartment.
"How are you feeling, Harry?" he asked, handing me a cup of coffee so hot it steamed the air around it slightly.
"Like my home just burned down along with all my possessions," I answered dully. I was hoping if I said it enough, it'd sink in and the shocky numbness would fade.
It'd been weird, waking up in the morning, getting dressed in the clothes John provided because I had nothing else. There was a still-packaged toothbrush, soap, and shampoo in the bathroom suite off my guest room. I would've killed for some Frosted Flakes or similarly sugary breakfast cereal, but I had to settle for some fruit I found in the kitchen.
Then, of course, John showed up and informed me his men had retrieved what they could, that everything was in boxes at my former home for me to sort through. "Except the somewhat inexplicable supply of depleted uranium, which was disposed of before the arson investigators could get suspicious," he remarked wryly.
"Needed it for wizarding," I told him.
"Oh, I have no doubt." He gave me a considering look. "Do you want me to go with you?"
I shook my head. "Nah. Going to hop over there, see what's not completely destroyed. Michael's going to help. Not a big deal."
It was a massive lie, but he showed some mercy and didn't call me out on it. He did, however, pull his coat off, the well-worn suede jacket I saw him in so often, and handed it to me. When I didn't immediately take it, he said, "I have meetings today that require a somewhat more sophisticated wardrobe. I won't be using it."
It was the end of November and there was a light snow falling, so I swallowed my pride and pulled the coat on. It was body-warm, had that distinct John smell, and even had a set of gloves in the pocket made of the same brown suede as the jacket itself. It wasn't my duster, but it was nice. "Thanks," I murmured.
John put his hands on my shoulders. "This will pass, Harry. You'll come through."
"How do you know?"
"I've gazed upon your soul." He idly fixed the collar of the jacket, not looking me in the eyes for once. "It would take far more than this to break you."
I got out of there pretty fast after that. The Beetle had been moved to John's garage, parked in a far back corner out of sight, like it had insulted John by not having the decency to burn down with the rest of my stuff. Its trunk wasn't big enough for what I needed, so I intended to toss boxes of not-completely-incinerated stuff into the back of Michael's truck.
Michael found my duster. There wasn't much left of it. The spells I'd sunk into it couldn't hold up against prolonged exposure to fire and the canvas material was blackened and irreparable. My staff had gone the same way, the only reminder of it a stump of rune-carved oak. I made a note to call Eb, see if he could ship me another chunk of the oak tree it'd been carved from.
Nothing really survived. Any lab components that had been dug up were contaminated from the cave-in. No clothes came through. My books were a lost cause. In the end, I got rid of the potion ingredients I had to deal with carefully, piled everything else together, poured salt over it all, and torched it. It was necessary. Bianca was using magic now and leaving anything she could use as a thaumaturgic link to me was suicidal.
I sat in Michael's truck, watching the flames for a while. When all that was left was a smoldering black spot on my lawn, he drove us away. Neither of us said anything until I noticed we weren't heading towards Executive Priority or the Gold Coast. "Where're we going?"
"Dinner," Michael said.
"No offense, but I'm not feeling very friendly at the moment. I'm not going to be good company for Thanksgiving."
He put his hand on my shoulder. "Harry, we are not fair-weather friends. You are welcome in my home when you are going through a rough patch just as much as any other time. Family doesn't stop when things get tough."
Okay, I was touched. My throat got tight, and remained so for a long time. I was still shaky and unsettled when we got to the Carpenter house. It'd been too long since I'd been there, and little Amanda glommed onto my leg, making me walk like an idiot while I bade hello to all the other Carpenters.
Then I was sitting at the table with Baby Harry on my lap as Michael said Grace over the spread of mashed potatoes, candied yams, steamed vegetables, homemade gravy, turkey, and ham-- there was enough food for a platoon. Or, just enough for a big hungry family.
I didn't have to talk much. So many voices chattering about the minutiae of life and requests for more carrots/turkey/sweet potato/et cetera filled the air. I enjoyed the palpable energy of the house, loving and homely, without contributing. I just ate my food, then held Baby Harry as Charity stuck a spoon into his little mouth. She and I never really got on, but that night was devoid of any backhanded insults. She even gave me one of the bigger pie slices after dinner.
Who knew it'd only take losing my home to get some voluntary kindness out of Charity Carpenter?
I settled in the living room, drowsily enjoying my tryptophan coma as it snuck up on me. Molly sat next to me.
"Your apartment really burn down?"
I nodded. "Yup."
"Sucks."
"It really does."
"You look like you need a hug," she said with all the severity of a doctor prescribing medical treatment. Then she leaned over and gave me a hug.
Then Hope yelled about Molly hogging 'Uncle Harry' all to herself and my hug layered and grew as some of the rugrats crawled up around me and joined Molly.
Some manly tears were shed. I felt I was entitled to a few. I had to get them out of my system either way, and if anyone saw them, they didn't comment on them.
Good people, the Carpenters.
I got back at why-are-you-awake-stupid o'clock. I was sure Michael wanted to offer me a place to sleep that night, but I knew that couldn't possibly go well. John was on high alert about the Reds and it seemed cruel to make him worry on top of punching him in the face earlier.
When I got to the guest room that had unofficially become mine, Hurricane Marcone had hit, leaving well-organized affluence in its wake. The closet was filled with clothes, Mister was giving himself a bath on the bed's new winter linens, and the photos of my father and mother that had been in the care-worn box I'd saved were framed and sitting on the nightstand.
Bob was on the dresser still, but was now surrounded by jars and bottles. It wasn't even close to what I'd had in my personal stock before the fire, but John had done his solid best in digging up plenty of spell and potion components. The spread was like a homeopathic experiment that had become sentient and started multiplying. I picked up some of the oils and looked them over.
"I tried to tell him to pick up chocolate," Bob said, coming awake with a yawn. "He wouldn't believe I was being serious."
"Yeah, he's like that sometimes." I put the bottles back down and regarded Bob. "Has he been bugging you?"
"Stars, no, Harry. In fact, he can bug me all he likes. It's a shame he's such a gentleman," Bob gushed, giving a simpering sigh.
"Hey, don't sexually harass him."
"Well, someone should since you're clearly not. Speaking of, what are you waiting for? Saving yourself for marriage?"
"It's complicated," I said shortly, because it was. "We're probably going to be here until I find a new place, so some ground rules--"
Bob cut in. "You're going to find another place? Oh."
"Oh? What, oh? Of course I am."
"You should probably tell him that then. Unless it's normal to put in a new bed for a temporary guest?"
I frowned and looked at the bed in question. I was still tired despite catching a nap at the Carpenters', so I'd missed it before, but it was a new bed. It was longer, to be more precise. I climbed onto it and stretched out to test it and, yes, it was big enough my feet didn't hang off the edge.
Huh. Maybe John and I did need to have a chat.
In the morning, I caught him enjoying his latte and an ultra-healthy parfait thing. I made a show of grabbing the newspaper and opening it to the Classifieds, sitting next to him at the kitchen island.
He gave me a look, less sharp than it would've been if he was fully awake. It was hard to find him intimidating in pajamas, even if they were pinstriped and probably very expensive. Add a dress shirt and a tie and he could've just worn that to his business meetings. "What're you doing?"
"Looking for a place to live. See, my apartment got firebombed thanks to you starting trouble with Bianca." I may not have been in the throes of a raging break-down, but I was hardly going to just let that go.
"You have a place to live," he pointed out evenly.
"My own place to live."
He slid the newspaper away from me and folded it shut, tossing it aside. "Later."
I folded my arms and leaned on the island. "No. Not later."
"Harry, I appreciate your attachment to your bachelor lifestyle, but, as you just reminded me, your apartment was firebombed by the Red Court. The only reason you aren't dead right now is pure luck. If you think I'll let..." I saw him stop, revise his sentence, and try again. "Until this business with the Red Court is settled, you should remain here. Any house or apartment you purchase will lack a threshold you could build solid wards on and would leave you vulnerable. It'll take time for you to recoup your losses to the point you could defend yourself against the next inevitable attack from the Margravine. If you're here, you're guarded by my security force and the protections we've already worked on."
All of that made sense, and I was sure he really believed all of it. But at the same time, I knew those weren't the only reasons for this.
Staying would be easy. I could let John take care of the little things while I restocked and got ready to make that undead bitch Bianca pay for what she'd done. But if I did that, if I took the easy way, I wasn't sure I would get back out. It would be effortless to get further tangled in John's life. I knew by now that our relationship was one of compromise, but if I made too many concessions, he'd push for more. He couldn't help himself. Give John Marcone an inch and he'll plant a flag into it and conquer you. It was just how he was.
"I'll think about it," I told him, because I didn't have a counterargument that didn't involve quoting The Spider and the Fly at him.
Before I even considered house hunting, I needed a staff. Not having mine felt like missing a limb. I was glad my blasting rod had survived, but without my other wizardly equipment, I didn't feel completely safe.
I waited for John to leave to check on a prostitution ring or head a budget meeting or whatever was on his agenda, then let myself into his office. All the phones in the house were too advanced for me to use, each possibly capable of college-level trigonometry on their own. I needed to make a call though, so I dug the Stonehenge bracelets out of John's desk and reluctantly put them on.
Then I used the stone sphere to unlock the bracelets and take them off, just to be sure I could.
I put them back on and dialed a Missouri number. It was early still, and I caught Ebenezar before he went out to tend to the farm.
"You got any leftovers from that oak tree?"
"Hoss, what'd you do?"
I sighed and leaned back in the chair. Then I noticed how comfy it was. Oooh, massage buttons. "Some Reds burned down my apartment. Staff was inside."
Eb blew out a breath. "Yeah, I'll bring some up to you."
"Thank you, sir. You planning on visiting soon or something?"
He got quiet. "Hasn't Warden Morgan gotten a hold of you yet?"
"No?" Last I saw Morgan, he randomly menaced me for a few minutes then left. I barely remembered it, with what'd happened in the meantime. Hell, if Morgan needed to find me right now, it'd be quite a task, seeing how I'd been forced to relocate.
"Damn, haven't you heard, boy? There's gonna be a Council meeting about your fool antics. Bianca St. Clair wants to declare war on the Council. You're looking at censure or worse."
My mouth went dry. War? With the Council? Bianca had to be out of her mind, she didn't have a leg to stand on. I was involved, yeah, but her conflict was with John. It was a Chicago matter more than anything.
"What's worse than censure?" I heard myself ask.
"Your rank as a wizard," Eb said quietly. "They want your stole for this."
Oh.
Great.
Chapter Nineteen
100,000 WORDS AND WE HAVE LIP-TO-SKIN CONTACT
I CALL THIS A WIN, PEOPLE
:weeps: omg, boys, just fuck, please, you're killing me
Originally posted at DW. Comment here or there. DW comments: