Inheritances, part 1
Author: Doec
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry Dresden is killed in the line of duty. He leaves his final wishes with a trusted friend, hoping she'll carry them out
Lieutenant Murphy slogs away from the gory scene, leaving others to take care of things from here. A strange group of people just arrived on the scene and sent her on her way, and she's in no mood to argue. Shock chills her as she starts her car, somehow she finds her way home despite the horror she'd just witnessed. Harry Dresden, her unorthodox consultant, her friend...torn apart by that savage creature. The truth still hasn't fully sunk in yet. She puts her key in the front door and steps inside. Grief will come later. Now, she has things she must do. Final requests.
She goes to a desk drawer, opens a shoebox where she keeps her important documents and information. She sorts through it until she finds a garishly pink envelope, its color thoroughly mocking its grim purpose.
Six months ago--
Harry Dresden handed her the envelope, explaining it contained instructions on what he wants done in the event of his death. “Oookay, why's it pink?” Murphy asked.
“Harder to lose, don't you think? Listen, this is very important. If anything happens to me, just do what this says. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She slits the envelope open and pulls out the paper and is somewhat confused by what she reads. It directs her to go to his office in town, emphasizing that she must do this immediately. Murphy rubs her eyes, reading the next few lines. All of his equipment and books were
bequeathed to her, not because she'd actually need or have any use for them, but because he couldn't think of anyone else who would take
them. Reading that part brought home just how alone in the world Harry Dresden really was. She was his only beneficiary.
The next part, obviously more important, is written in red in a firm, bold hand. In addition to his personal effects, with a side note to suggest he
didn't care terribly much what happened to most of them, she'd also inherited....a skull? That ghastly-looking thing he kept on his
kitchen counter? But she knows better than to dismiss it, it's clearly demanded that on no uncertain terms she must take this item
and...give it a good home? Farther down are instructions about how exactly she is to take it from the office. Skimming it curiously
with a raised eyebrow, she sighs, pulls her coat back on, and gets back in the car.
Murphy finds the wizard's home/office open, not like it had been broken into, just as though he'd forgotten to lock up as he left earlier that day. She turns on a lamp near the sofa and shuts the door behind her. There it is, sitting on the table, grinning at her and covered in strange
symbols. She shudders. Why he'd keep such a grisly thing there, and why he wanted her to have it so badly, make no sense at all.
At this point, what happens to the rest of my stuff isn't important, but you have to take the skull. Don't just snatch it and leave, either. This is
Bob, and he's all I've had in the world since I was a kid. Put your hand on it, let him know you're there, get a good feel for you. When
you summon him, be nice! I cannot stress this enough. You will be kind to him, understand? He's going to be very upset when he finds
out I'm dead, and you need to be the calm one. Here's how you do it...
“Hrothbert of...Bainbridge? I summon you.”
There's an orange sparkle of flame and a pillar of black smoke floating out of the eye socket. When it materializes into human form, Murphy screams, pulling her gun on him.
Bob screams, jumping back in alarm, passing through the counter
Murphy screams louder, stumbling backwards to get away.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you summon me like that? Where's Harry? Where's Harry Dresden?” Bob demands, one question right after the other. Far from being the calm one, Murphy is stunned speechless, still pointing wildly at him, hyperventilating. “Oh
god...” he gasps, “No, no, no! You can't have summoned me, it's impossible! Only my master could ever summon me.” But it's true,
he'd felt that irresistible pull that comes from a direct command. A command that only his master could give. No...
Murphy chooses that time to faint. Despite the numerous centuries he'd spent being utterly intangible, Bob had to stop himself from instinctively trying to catch her. She hits the floor with a loud clunk and Bob peers down at her prone form. She's actually quite lovely, he
allows, when she isn't screaming her head off. He unconsciously chalks her up against his list of female conquests in
his day, and finds her equal to most of them. She's not moving, Bob grows concerned that the shock at being confronted with a 1,000 year
old dead Englishman was more than the lady's poor nerves could take. He stoops down over her and whisks a hand through her face,
effectively splashing cold water on her to revive her. Her eyes fly open in alarm.
“You fainted, and...” he gives her head an inward glance, “it looks like you're bruised but otherwise unharmed. Don't sit up until the room stops spinning, and then slowly,” he advises her kindly.
Taking several deep, steadying breaths, she lets her brain “reload” before trying to process anything new. After about a minute, she remembers his questions. “I'm Connie Murphy, I'm a friend of Harry's,” she begins, choosing to answer his questions in turn. “I was told to
come here, Harry left me a letter. It also said that I'm to have...have, uh, that thing...” she trails off in distaste, looking
behind him at the skull on the table. “...and that I need to give it a good home.” Again the instructions loom before her eyes Be
kind, he's going to be very upset. “Are you Bob?”
“I am Hrothbert of Bainbridge, but...” he sighs, not liking this sudden shift in ownership at all. It's true, he can feel the change. “You may
call me Bob. That's what Harry called me.” Each connection is different in its own way. He thinks back to the most recent ones:
Justin Morningway's felt like cold steel, a choke chain on an abused mongrel. Harry's...was firm yet supple, like well-oiled leather. He
may have been restrained, but never felt strangled by it. Murphy...he ponders what she feels like, when her voice interrupts
his thoughts.
“You really knew Harry, then?” Murphy starts sitting up, slowly as suggested. She reaches for his hand to help her up, but he backs away. The gesture annoys him, seems to mock his inability to touch. Instead, she grasps the leg of the table and steadies herself that way.
The ghost snorts grumpily, looking at the ceiling. “Knew him? Yes, Miss Murphy, I'd say I knew him. I practically raised him. He'd known me nearly all his life.” Then he turns his glass-green eyes to her, she's suddenly struck by how sad they look. “He's...” his mouth moves
but no sound comes out as he processes what must have happened. “My Harry's dead, isn't he?”
Murphy nods sadly, covering her mouth, finally letting the fact sink in and cries, strangely relieved to share her grief with someone.
“Badly?”
Again, she nods, raspily adding “But bravely.” The situation is feeling less and less strange, as though she, too, can feel the bond with the ghost.
“Yes, of course. I can be glad of that, at least. I loved him,” he softly admits, the words coming out on their own as the tears come. He sniffs
deeply, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. The pain doesn't come instantly, it creeps in slowly, twisting its way into
his heart. He cringes, sets his teeth against it, wishing he could simply will it away.
Murphy cocks her head strangely, she hadn't thought ghosts could love...or cry. He's obviously trying not to, making every attempt to swallow it down and look unaffected, but he ultimately fails. The tears won't stop, his illusion of breath quivers with shaky hiccups. He can't even keep his voice level.
“He'll have gone on, I'm sure. Gone on and...left me. Dammit, pull yourself together!” He commands himself frustratedly, shaking with
increasing sobs. “He's...not the first...and he...won't be the last. I ask you, good woman, if this kind of thing happened to you
for a thousand years, don't you think you'd get used to it in time?”
“Maybe it's not the kind of thing people can get used to,” she suggests wisely. “I bet it would be hard to be with someone for that long
and then lose them.”
“Not all of them. One in particular was a monster, and good riddance,” he spits venomously. “Harry was...dammit! Was...my friend, and my
love.”
Murphy listens; it's always helpful, when grieving, to know that others are suffering the same loss. They simply cry together, both of them able to fully process their loss, glad that they at least have this much in common.
“We'd only just told each other how we feel,” Bob laments, sniffling. “We thought we'd have years together. Even if we couldn't be
physical with each other, just to be with him, to be near him. He's such a rare breed.”
“Tell me about it,” Murphy agrees, reaching for her new ghost's hand and stopping
herself in time.
The first wave of his crying fit is waning, he knows he only has a small pocket of calm before wave two sets in. “Best to avoid going through me, I've heard the sensation is unpleasant,” Bob advises, remembering how it always gave Harry the heebie-jeebies. To prove his point, he draws his finger through the back of her hand and she shudders. He sniffles again. “I'll never see him again. Ever. What am I going to do? I suppose in time we'll get on just fine, but you don't require anything I could do in this state, and I refuse to be reduced to functioning as a freak show.”
“What can you do?” Murphy asks. “What do you enjoy?”
Bob stares off into space. “Nothing,” he replies. He can't think of any activity that's left to him that would have any meaning or pleasure, not
without Harry to help him or at least tease him about it. He thinks idly of his connection with Murphy; it feels fluid, somehow, as
though it's forged with their shared tears. He suspects it will be more tangible once she's truly taken ownership, given him a command,
or made some sign that she accepted her place as his new master.
Then he looks suddenly aware of how dismal he sounds, bordering on rude. “Well, it's not much, not compared to what I once was capable of, but...I can still do a little bit of magic.” As a demonstration, he draws an intricate series of strange symbols in the air. Then he angrily
wipes his hand through them, realizing that they mean nothing to his new master. Pity, too. Harry would have-- he breaks off the
thought at the stab of pain.
“That was beautiful,” Murphy breathes, staring, unable to believe her eyes. “How did you do that? What did it mean?”
Unable to explain it in short order, Bob mutters irratibly, “A formula, for an incantation. A spell,” he clarifies, still noting her perplexed expression. “Magic. Despite anything I may have suggested, I always found Harry to be a very
gifted and promising wizard. As good as most others I've been entrusted to, and better than a good deal of them. Still, he has his
mother's weakness for ordinary humans, 'civilians'. His compassion for them didn't do him any favors with those higher up the ladder.
Nor did his interesting difficulty with authority.” Murphy listens, enthralled. All those secrets and lies, that whole other
world that Harry Dresden seemed to belong to. All of the things he'd hinted at and tried to tell her...could it all be true?
Talking about him like this makes Bob half-expect him to come in from the lab or through the front door. It's keeping him in the present tense. That won't do. If we're going to move on, we must begin now. Quickly, he changes the subject. “I suppose, since you obviously don't need a lab assistant or lore-master, I could be your social secretary,”
Murphy gives a short, incredulous laugh. “Social secretary?”
“Strange job for a retired sorcerer, I know, but I could help you keep track of your engagements and personal affairs.” To show this, he writes up a rough example of a daily schedule in shimmering gold, surprised to see the admiring look she's now giving him. He'd always drawn in
women with his magic when he was alive, but never had he impressed someone with such a simple trick. Odd that such a weak display of
magic would please her so. She really has no idea. If only he could show her what real power looks like. Strangely, he finds himself
smiling back at her, in spite of all things he feels the beginnings of friendship with the police officer.
“What were the others like? Were all of your...people wizards?” She purposely avoids the word 'master', she certainly doesn't want the
word to apply to her. It would make Bob's position sound too...humiliating.
“I've been bought, sold, traded, wagered, stolen, kicked into a river, dragged out and put on display, kept as a family heirloom, owned and commanded by wizards and civilians alike,” Bob answers in a surly litany.
“Civilian...haven't been called that in a while.”
It takes him a second to realize, then he backpedals with a sharp sigh. “I mean no disrespect. To be a member of the constabulary is a noble
profession, I'm sure. But to answer you honestly, I've most often found myself with a wizard of some form or other. Professionals,
dabblers, white and black. It might be a good time for a change. I don't think I can be around magic right now, it would only remind me
of him.” He sinks down into melancholy again.
Murphy had been wondering when the conversation would turn back to their deceased friend. “I'm not going to try to take his place,” she promises. “No one can do that.”
Nodding in appreciation, the dead necromancer finds himself reaching for her hand...and stopping in time.
“I do have one small request, if you would be so kind.”
Murphy nods encouragingly, nudging him to continue.
“Take me outside sometimes. I almost never get to.” He'd never blamed Harry, never thought he was deliberately limiting him, but it cannot be denied that he'd been confined to the same place without a change of scenery for a very long time. “If you do, you must be careful. You can't
let anyone else see me. And of course you have to take me with you.” He gives his skull a pointed look.
Murphy picks it up off the table and wrinkles her nose at it involuntarily. Having to lug that thing around wasn't exactly appealing. She wonders how Harry did it. The way he'd written of it, it was something supremely special. Of course, it housed his best friend in the whole world, naturally it wouldn't seem distasteful in the least for him to handle it. She sits down with it in her lap, examining the symbols on it,
hesitantly drawing her fingers over it, stroking it gently, attuning herself to it. Already, she's begun to consider the old ghost as a friend.
“Sure, I'll take you out sometimes. I don't live too far from the park, actually.”
“That would be lovely.”
=================================================================
From the threshold to the Other Side, Harry Dresden takes a fateful last look to his friends left on Earth. He'd had misgivings since he'd arrived, had an intense desire to stay. When he reached the gateway, a man addresses him.
“Harry Dresden...you died protecting your city from danger. For that, we will grant you a request for your afterlife.” Most people given
such a choice request that their loved ones they left behind may be happy again, or watched over. Others ask to be reincarnated as
someone's child, or that their killer may meet justice. Harry sighs, as though thinking hard, although his mind is quite made up.
“I want to go back. I want to be with Bob. I can't just leave him. We could be ghosts together.”
Of course, as Harry expected, his request is met with raised eyebrows. Still, he stands firm. All he wants is to move into Bob's skull and be dead with him.
=================================================================
For a moment, it looks like Murphy's offer might comfort the lonely ghost. He cannot feel her hands, of course, but from her halting touches he's able to get a taste of her soul. Beneath her troubled spirit, he senses her genuine goodness, her loyalty. It reminds him too much of his former charge, his beloved. Simply having someone else handling his prison, that she's now its rightful keeper, dredges up too much feeling. He turns his head away and sobs, remembering again he'll never feel those things from Harry again.
Then Murphy sees it...a sparkle of yellow light and cloud of white smoke pouring out of the skull's eye socket. The smoke touches the floor and takes shape. Just as it's taken a form she recognizes, it raises a finger to its lips, pointing significantly at Bob. The ghost of Harry
Dresden creeps up behind his old friend, the sound of his crying over him nearly breaks his heart. He reaches his hand out experimentally,
afraid to go farther, afraid of being disappointed. Then, he places a hand on the older man's shoulder, and draws a sweet breath of
triumph.
Without thinking, Bob places a hand over the one on his shoulder, squeezing it appreciatively. It doesn't even register that this is out of the
ordinary until he hears that voice...
“It's all right, Bob. I came back.”
Bob gasps, spins around in place and stares! “Back? You came...back? You were...?”
Harry nods with a grin, sliding his hand through the counter top to further prove his state.
Still staring with wide eyes, looking from their clasped hands and back up again. Bob grasps his lover by the cheeks, draws his face down and kisses him mightily, wrapping himself tightly around the recently deceased wizard. With a joyful whoop, Harry hugs him back, even lifts him up
and spins him in place.
“Why on Earth would you do something so stupid?” Bob demands to know after he's set down again. “You gave up...all that...for what?” His
disapproval is simply for appearances; nothing could have pleased him more than to be reunited like this. But at what cost? He didn't
think his conscience could take it, knowing he'd kept Harry back from...whatever came after. Bob's expression changes, looks closer
to pity than anything.
Seeing how upset he's made his longtime companion, Harry feels the need to reassure him. “For a corner of your skull, and your heart?” He suggests, nuzzling their foreheads together before tilting his chin up for another kiss.
Bob winces, “Not very poetic, but good enough considering the source. You really mean it, you wanted to stay?”
“I wanted to stay here,” He repeats. “And don't look so guilty, this was my choice.”
“I just don't want you to regret it.”
Tracing his beloved's bottom lip, filling them both with excruciating pleasure, Harry murmurs, “I was fortunate to have extricated myself.” He
just stares at him for the longest time, at his hands actually touching this man he'd yearned for all this time. How could he have
chosen differently? How could anyone have expected him to?
Bob smiles broadly at this, remembering his own words following a brush with the Other Side. How glad he'd been to be home then! Bob reaches his arms around Harry's neck and kisses him again, trailing across his cheek and neck as well, looking too happy to speak.
They simply stand there, holding each other, thrilling quietly in their long sought-after embrace. As though he'd planned his every move years
ago, Bob cuddles into the younger man's shoulder, breathing in his residual scent as Harry strokes his hair. How could anything compare with this They both wonder.
Bob gives an odd thought to his reputation in his living days, a veritable ladies' man, now taking the typical female submissive posture. For
centuries, he'd been considered outlandishly tall, called a long-legged snipe by his peers in his youth. Then Harry, the giraffe, finally dwarfed him. Since this thought amuses him so much, he figures it's worthy of sharing.
“Harry?” he begins, still rubbing his cheek against his jacket like a house cat loving its owner, “I'm not altogether sure how to do this properly,
I've never been with anyone taller than me before.”
Sure enough, Harry laughs, kissing the top of Bob's head and running his fingers through his soft hair. “I bet. Hope you don't mind.”
Bob sighs contentedly, “Not at all.” He looks up, looking so quietly pleased.
Murphy watches them, overjoyed to see Harry again despite his being a ghost, and to see Bob so happy. She brings a hand to her mouth and makes a small choking sound, drawing attention to herself.
“Hey, you hang onto that skull, it's very important,” Harry reminds her. “You might not think it's pretty, but...” unable to resist, he gives Bob
another lingering kiss, bringing languid smiles to both their faces as he nuzzles in for more. “It holds my most cherished treasure.” Bob tsks at the flattery, brushing it aside bashfully.
“I will. Just have to figure out where I'll keep it.”
She wonders whether those two dead sorcerers will ever be able to get their hands off of each other. So that's what love looks like, she ponders with a sigh, unable to help feeling a touch envious. The way they touch each other swings between delicate brushes and all-consuming physical loving, clearly shows how long they'd wanted this. Murphy can even see the lingering hesitation in their faces, as though they expect to pass through each other any time. Then, as though reminded that they needn't fear this any longer, they dive in full force. It strikes her as sweet, tainted by long years of wanting.
“I'd really prefer it if it were not stationary. I'm bound to stay within a certain distance from it. Perhaps you could move it to various
places in your residence,” Bob requests.
“Just not your bedroom,” adds Harry, getting a light slap from the ghost in question.
“I've wanted to do that for years,” Bob admits with a leering expression. “Although I might miss walking through you to get your attention.”
Harry backs one step away, scowling at the memory. “Come on, you haven't done that on purpose since I was a kid.”
With a skyward roll of his eyes, Bob folds his arms and mutters, “That's what you think.”
Again, it looks like they've forgotten all about Murphy, and she's perfectly fine with that. Watching their heartfelt reunion is an excellent
spectator sport. She's glad now to know that Harry hadn't been so completely alone as she first thought, even if his only other
companion was a ghost. Just from what little she's seen of these two together, they certainly strike her as an adorably mismatched couple.
So different, yet so alike. Perfect. Just standing together, holding hands, chuckling together over that simple gift that Harry's
death had granted them.
“Listen, we'd better get back to my place...if you're both coming?”
“Do you mind?” Harry asks.
Waving a hand in the air meaninglessly, she'll think about it tomorrow. “It's fine, just...I...”
“We'll be no trouble at all,” he promises.
Murphy gives them both a doubtful smirk, “If you say so.” Then without warning, she picks up the skull and heads for the door, yanking Bob along with her.
“Stop! Stop it! Miss Murphy!” Bob gasps, grasping at the invisible tether in protest.
She stops in her tracks, spinning around in alarm to see him nearly doubled over, Dresden is helping him up. “Did I hurt you?”
Bob straightens up, brushing his jacket in a decidedly miffed air. “Please don't drag me like that. Harry, I think we'd better...” he nods significantly at the skull.
“Oh, yeah. Right. How?”
The question surprises the old ghost, who'd done it a million times without thinking. “Well, I don't know! Just...go in.” He sees the
struggle written on his former master's face as he makes his first attempt to dematerialize. He's getting red in the face from the
strain. “Stop trying so hard,” Bob coaches. “You're making it difficult on yourself. Relax,” he advises in a calming tone,
rubbing his lover's shoulders. “You can do it. Just...whoosh!” He waves a hand vaguely.
Harry takes a deep breath and mists away, the last spark of him glimmers in the cracks. Bob leans down and speaks to what had once been his own mouth, in his old tone of former schoolmaster. “Well done, Harry. Very good.” And with that, he follows.
Strange, now that the ghosts have vanished, Murphy is starting to feel odd again. She awkwardly shoves the grinning cranium into her large purse, hoping no one sees her carrying such a thing. She sets it carefully on the passenger seat, reaches in and gives it a pat. “You guys all right in there?”
She hears voices, they're talking to each other. “Wow, that feels nice,” Harry whispers.
“You can feel her, too? Yes, she has a nicer feel to her than most others did. Present company excepted, of course.”
“Thanks.” Then he calls up, “Yeah, Murph, we're okay.”
Bob's spirit cuddles close with a troubled sigh. “Harry?”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“You're white. Did you know that?”
“What?”
“Your smoke, when you vanished just then, was white.”
Despite the monotonous delivery, Harry suspects something's upsetting him. “Is it? Huh.”
Bob thinks, wondering why this seems so important to him, wondering why Harry doesn't seem to care or understand what it means. He feels a growing sensation of self-disgust as he recognizes this feeling as jealousy. Harry had selflessly thrown away his afterlife, just to spend it here
with him, yet buried under his happiness at being reunited in this most perfect way, and his genuine and boundless love for the man
who'd literally gotten into his head, is envy. The white smoke that was his lover's essence made Bob feel filthy and unworthy. It also
hadn't escaped his notice that Harry, although he's chosen to 'move in' with him, isn't bound to the skull in the same way he is. He
hadn't been pulled along when Murphy dragged him just then. Those facts glare at him as such obvious differences between them. He
sighs.
“It means you're a pure spirit, you're free. You aren't damned like me. Harry...why tie yourself to my cursed old skull?”
“Because I love you. I wanted to. I want to be with you forever.”
Touched by this adamant declaration, Bob whispers,“Why?”
“Because I don't care what color your smoke is, Bob.”
“That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me,” is all he can say to that.
Murphy keeps glancing over at her purse, unable to help overhearing their conversation. She feels pity for Bob. He sounds so ashamed of himself, unequal to his “purer” companion. In the same way, she's quite proud of Harry for his assurance that it didn't make any
difference to him, and to let him know that right away before any perceived inequality got between them.
==========================================================
Soon she's home once again; she takes off her coat and hangs up her purse on the hook near the door. Then she removes her highly unusual bequest. She taps on the top of it gently. “Okay, fellas, end of the line. You can come out if you want to.”
Two pillars of smoke, white and black stream out and materialize. Murphy is suddenly aware that she hasn't had a man in her home in years, not since her ex-husband ceased to darken her door. “Uh, there's a guest room...?”
“Are you alone here?” Bob asks, examining the photographs on the wall depicting Lieutenant Murphy holding a young girl.
“I get my daughter, Anna, every other week. She's nearly ten. Is she allowed to see you?” It's one thing to house these spirits, it's quite
another to hide things from her daughter. It would take some pretty big lies and weak excuses to cover up these two.
Bob considers, as though he may be thinking along the same lines. “Provided she can be discreet, I have no objection.”
“Oh, she knows there are things you're not supposed to talk about. Her father helped there,” Murphy huffs, getting a small degree of pleasure
from mad-mouthing the man.
“I'm sure,” Bob agrees as Harry nods in understanding.
Secrets were always familiar to him. The only person he'd ever felt wrong about constantly lying to was Murphy, and now she's in on it. Oh, the things he could tell her now!
“Thanks for everything, Murph, I wasn't sure they'd let me come back. All I'd hoped for originally was that you'd give Bob a good home, and be his friend.”
“Hey, what's one more? It's not like either of you is going to cost me anything to keep.” She turns to Bob, “And strange as it might be, I like you
already.”
The pale ghost flinches; no one's ever liked him in ages, apart from Harry. He stares, dumbfounded. “You do?”
“I can't say I've ever been friends with a ghost, but...I'd like to be.”
Yet another pleasure long denied to the cursed spirit was that of companionship. His other masters would often summon him to perform or to obey similarly trivial demands, others demanded his esoteric knowledge, but he was never summoned for social reasons. Only Harry had drawn near him for the sake of friendship, a frightened orphan seeking comfort from a grouchy, cynical ghost. At the time, it had taken
some mental gymnastics to come to terms with their relationship. It had been as though fate had provided two sad, lost loners with a
friend when each had needed one the most. A friendship which in its adulthood blossomed into love. And now another person-a warm,
living, normal person-wants to be his friend?
Bob stammers, nearly stricken speechless, “I...I don't know what to say. Thank you?”
Harry recognizes the turmoil within his companion and takes his hand again, giving it a squeeze, clapping his other hand on his shoulder. “Things are looking up, huh?” He whispers.
Bob breaks into an awkward smile, as though he can't process so many miracles in one day. His beloved returned from the dead to stay with him out of love, a new guardian of a completely different cloth, who desires his friendship. Friendship! Of all things. “My dear Miss Murphy, I'm
certain we will be.” The bond between them strengthens, he can feel it with his very essence. Hers feels like a cord of silk.
Material soft, beautiful, and luxurious, yet when twisted tightly shows unexpected strength and resilience. That was what Murphy felt
like.
“Good,” Murphy smiles. “Look, it's been a long, tiring, and very weird day. I have to get up at 6am, so I'm going to bed. I'm going to put
this in the guest room if you'll follow me.” She remembers to go at a slower pace so as not to end up dragging Bob again. It
certainly looked uncomfortable. She sets the ghastly-looking thing on a bookshelf, faces them again, hoping for their approval of their
accommodations. They thank her and she heads to bed.
Once she's gone, the ghosts look around. It's sparsely furnished, which is just as well since they don't need many home comforts at this point.
“We can set up the lab in here,” Bob suggests, keen to get the place looking more like home as soon as possible.
“Something tells me Murphy isn't going to like that.”
“Yes, perhaps you're right,” he drawls. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I can't imagine what we're going to do now.” His fingers twitch
irritably, itching for his musty old tomes and smoky gas burners.
Harry grins, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Actually, it may be better if I asked her myself.” Bob supposes thoughtfully, “Such a request would require a delicate hand. You, Dresden, are about as delicate as a rhinoceros in heat.”
“Wow, glad I came back. I can't imagine missing out on this abuse,” Harry grumbles, but knowing better than to take it personally. It falls right in with their usual pattern. They'd tapered off on the put-downs since being honest about their feelings, but...old habits die hard.
“Even if we got all of that here, though, we can't handle any of it, we can't use it without hovering everything and that's a lot of work. And I don't think Murphy is sorceress material.”
Harry's reminder had the opposite effect as intended. An interested expression crosses the smartly-dressed man's face, calculating... “Bob, don't even think about it. I checked, she doesn't have it. Besides, Murphy and magic don't go together.”
With a heavy sigh of defeat, Bob paces, “All right, all right. But even just for atmosphere, it would compliment the new decor.” He gestures to his skull.
Murphy had been on her way past their room to the bathroom when she hears a snippet of their discussion, particularly about Bob considering training her in wizardry. She groans silently, rolling her eyes, wondering just what she's gotten herself into. Still, it couldn't hurt to let them have a few of their things, just to...darken up the room? It would make them feel more at home, and she'd been entrusted with their possessions anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem to get them.
“Well, I had a busy day, too, Bob. Life, death, life...I'm gonna turn in,” Harry announces before misting away. Bob follows and the room is quiet
again.
Sometime during the night, Bob feels restless. Since he hadn't been expressly banished to his skull, and had merely gone in of his own accord, he didn't need Murphy to release him. He walks through their bedroom door and looks in the living room. He begins writing in the air....
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Harry Dresden is killed in the line of duty. He leaves his final wishes with a trusted friend, hoping she'll carry them out
Lieutenant Murphy slogs away from the gory scene, leaving others to take care of things from here. A strange group of people just arrived on the scene and sent her on her way, and she's in no mood to argue. Shock chills her as she starts her car, somehow she finds her way home despite the horror she'd just witnessed. Harry Dresden, her unorthodox consultant, her friend...torn apart by that savage creature. The truth still hasn't fully sunk in yet. She puts her key in the front door and steps inside. Grief will come later. Now, she has things she must do. Final requests.
She goes to a desk drawer, opens a shoebox where she keeps her important documents and information. She sorts through it until she finds a garishly pink envelope, its color thoroughly mocking its grim purpose.
Six months ago--
Harry Dresden handed her the envelope, explaining it contained instructions on what he wants done in the event of his death. “Oookay, why's it pink?” Murphy asked.
“Harder to lose, don't you think? Listen, this is very important. If anything happens to me, just do what this says. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
She slits the envelope open and pulls out the paper and is somewhat confused by what she reads. It directs her to go to his office in town, emphasizing that she must do this immediately. Murphy rubs her eyes, reading the next few lines. All of his equipment and books were
bequeathed to her, not because she'd actually need or have any use for them, but because he couldn't think of anyone else who would take
them. Reading that part brought home just how alone in the world Harry Dresden really was. She was his only beneficiary.
The next part, obviously more important, is written in red in a firm, bold hand. In addition to his personal effects, with a side note to suggest he
didn't care terribly much what happened to most of them, she'd also inherited....a skull? That ghastly-looking thing he kept on his
kitchen counter? But she knows better than to dismiss it, it's clearly demanded that on no uncertain terms she must take this item
and...give it a good home? Farther down are instructions about how exactly she is to take it from the office. Skimming it curiously
with a raised eyebrow, she sighs, pulls her coat back on, and gets back in the car.
Murphy finds the wizard's home/office open, not like it had been broken into, just as though he'd forgotten to lock up as he left earlier that day. She turns on a lamp near the sofa and shuts the door behind her. There it is, sitting on the table, grinning at her and covered in strange
symbols. She shudders. Why he'd keep such a grisly thing there, and why he wanted her to have it so badly, make no sense at all.
At this point, what happens to the rest of my stuff isn't important, but you have to take the skull. Don't just snatch it and leave, either. This is
Bob, and he's all I've had in the world since I was a kid. Put your hand on it, let him know you're there, get a good feel for you. When
you summon him, be nice! I cannot stress this enough. You will be kind to him, understand? He's going to be very upset when he finds
out I'm dead, and you need to be the calm one. Here's how you do it...
“Hrothbert of...Bainbridge? I summon you.”
There's an orange sparkle of flame and a pillar of black smoke floating out of the eye socket. When it materializes into human form, Murphy screams, pulling her gun on him.
Bob screams, jumping back in alarm, passing through the counter
Murphy screams louder, stumbling backwards to get away.
“Who are you? What are you doing here? How did you summon me like that? Where's Harry? Where's Harry Dresden?” Bob demands, one question right after the other. Far from being the calm one, Murphy is stunned speechless, still pointing wildly at him, hyperventilating. “Oh
god...” he gasps, “No, no, no! You can't have summoned me, it's impossible! Only my master could ever summon me.” But it's true,
he'd felt that irresistible pull that comes from a direct command. A command that only his master could give. No...
Murphy chooses that time to faint. Despite the numerous centuries he'd spent being utterly intangible, Bob had to stop himself from instinctively trying to catch her. She hits the floor with a loud clunk and Bob peers down at her prone form. She's actually quite lovely, he
allows, when she isn't screaming her head off. He unconsciously chalks her up against his list of female conquests in
his day, and finds her equal to most of them. She's not moving, Bob grows concerned that the shock at being confronted with a 1,000 year
old dead Englishman was more than the lady's poor nerves could take. He stoops down over her and whisks a hand through her face,
effectively splashing cold water on her to revive her. Her eyes fly open in alarm.
“You fainted, and...” he gives her head an inward glance, “it looks like you're bruised but otherwise unharmed. Don't sit up until the room stops spinning, and then slowly,” he advises her kindly.
Taking several deep, steadying breaths, she lets her brain “reload” before trying to process anything new. After about a minute, she remembers his questions. “I'm Connie Murphy, I'm a friend of Harry's,” she begins, choosing to answer his questions in turn. “I was told to
come here, Harry left me a letter. It also said that I'm to have...have, uh, that thing...” she trails off in distaste, looking
behind him at the skull on the table. “...and that I need to give it a good home.” Again the instructions loom before her eyes Be
kind, he's going to be very upset. “Are you Bob?”
“I am Hrothbert of Bainbridge, but...” he sighs, not liking this sudden shift in ownership at all. It's true, he can feel the change. “You may
call me Bob. That's what Harry called me.” Each connection is different in its own way. He thinks back to the most recent ones:
Justin Morningway's felt like cold steel, a choke chain on an abused mongrel. Harry's...was firm yet supple, like well-oiled leather. He
may have been restrained, but never felt strangled by it. Murphy...he ponders what she feels like, when her voice interrupts
his thoughts.
“You really knew Harry, then?” Murphy starts sitting up, slowly as suggested. She reaches for his hand to help her up, but he backs away. The gesture annoys him, seems to mock his inability to touch. Instead, she grasps the leg of the table and steadies herself that way.
The ghost snorts grumpily, looking at the ceiling. “Knew him? Yes, Miss Murphy, I'd say I knew him. I practically raised him. He'd known me nearly all his life.” Then he turns his glass-green eyes to her, she's suddenly struck by how sad they look. “He's...” his mouth moves
but no sound comes out as he processes what must have happened. “My Harry's dead, isn't he?”
Murphy nods sadly, covering her mouth, finally letting the fact sink in and cries, strangely relieved to share her grief with someone.
“Badly?”
Again, she nods, raspily adding “But bravely.” The situation is feeling less and less strange, as though she, too, can feel the bond with the ghost.
“Yes, of course. I can be glad of that, at least. I loved him,” he softly admits, the words coming out on their own as the tears come. He sniffs
deeply, pulling a handkerchief from his breast pocket. The pain doesn't come instantly, it creeps in slowly, twisting its way into
his heart. He cringes, sets his teeth against it, wishing he could simply will it away.
Murphy cocks her head strangely, she hadn't thought ghosts could love...or cry. He's obviously trying not to, making every attempt to swallow it down and look unaffected, but he ultimately fails. The tears won't stop, his illusion of breath quivers with shaky hiccups. He can't even keep his voice level.
“He'll have gone on, I'm sure. Gone on and...left me. Dammit, pull yourself together!” He commands himself frustratedly, shaking with
increasing sobs. “He's...not the first...and he...won't be the last. I ask you, good woman, if this kind of thing happened to you
for a thousand years, don't you think you'd get used to it in time?”
“Maybe it's not the kind of thing people can get used to,” she suggests wisely. “I bet it would be hard to be with someone for that long
and then lose them.”
“Not all of them. One in particular was a monster, and good riddance,” he spits venomously. “Harry was...dammit! Was...my friend, and my
love.”
Murphy listens; it's always helpful, when grieving, to know that others are suffering the same loss. They simply cry together, both of them able to fully process their loss, glad that they at least have this much in common.
“We'd only just told each other how we feel,” Bob laments, sniffling. “We thought we'd have years together. Even if we couldn't be
physical with each other, just to be with him, to be near him. He's such a rare breed.”
“Tell me about it,” Murphy agrees, reaching for her new ghost's hand and stopping
herself in time.
The first wave of his crying fit is waning, he knows he only has a small pocket of calm before wave two sets in. “Best to avoid going through me, I've heard the sensation is unpleasant,” Bob advises, remembering how it always gave Harry the heebie-jeebies. To prove his point, he draws his finger through the back of her hand and she shudders. He sniffles again. “I'll never see him again. Ever. What am I going to do? I suppose in time we'll get on just fine, but you don't require anything I could do in this state, and I refuse to be reduced to functioning as a freak show.”
“What can you do?” Murphy asks. “What do you enjoy?”
Bob stares off into space. “Nothing,” he replies. He can't think of any activity that's left to him that would have any meaning or pleasure, not
without Harry to help him or at least tease him about it. He thinks idly of his connection with Murphy; it feels fluid, somehow, as
though it's forged with their shared tears. He suspects it will be more tangible once she's truly taken ownership, given him a command,
or made some sign that she accepted her place as his new master.
Then he looks suddenly aware of how dismal he sounds, bordering on rude. “Well, it's not much, not compared to what I once was capable of, but...I can still do a little bit of magic.” As a demonstration, he draws an intricate series of strange symbols in the air. Then he angrily
wipes his hand through them, realizing that they mean nothing to his new master. Pity, too. Harry would have-- he breaks off the
thought at the stab of pain.
“That was beautiful,” Murphy breathes, staring, unable to believe her eyes. “How did you do that? What did it mean?”
Unable to explain it in short order, Bob mutters irratibly, “A formula, for an incantation. A spell,” he clarifies, still noting her perplexed expression. “Magic. Despite anything I may have suggested, I always found Harry to be a very
gifted and promising wizard. As good as most others I've been entrusted to, and better than a good deal of them. Still, he has his
mother's weakness for ordinary humans, 'civilians'. His compassion for them didn't do him any favors with those higher up the ladder.
Nor did his interesting difficulty with authority.” Murphy listens, enthralled. All those secrets and lies, that whole other
world that Harry Dresden seemed to belong to. All of the things he'd hinted at and tried to tell her...could it all be true?
Talking about him like this makes Bob half-expect him to come in from the lab or through the front door. It's keeping him in the present tense. That won't do. If we're going to move on, we must begin now. Quickly, he changes the subject. “I suppose, since you obviously don't need a lab assistant or lore-master, I could be your social secretary,”
Murphy gives a short, incredulous laugh. “Social secretary?”
“Strange job for a retired sorcerer, I know, but I could help you keep track of your engagements and personal affairs.” To show this, he writes up a rough example of a daily schedule in shimmering gold, surprised to see the admiring look she's now giving him. He'd always drawn in
women with his magic when he was alive, but never had he impressed someone with such a simple trick. Odd that such a weak display of
magic would please her so. She really has no idea. If only he could show her what real power looks like. Strangely, he finds himself
smiling back at her, in spite of all things he feels the beginnings of friendship with the police officer.
“What were the others like? Were all of your...people wizards?” She purposely avoids the word 'master', she certainly doesn't want the
word to apply to her. It would make Bob's position sound too...humiliating.
“I've been bought, sold, traded, wagered, stolen, kicked into a river, dragged out and put on display, kept as a family heirloom, owned and commanded by wizards and civilians alike,” Bob answers in a surly litany.
“Civilian...haven't been called that in a while.”
It takes him a second to realize, then he backpedals with a sharp sigh. “I mean no disrespect. To be a member of the constabulary is a noble
profession, I'm sure. But to answer you honestly, I've most often found myself with a wizard of some form or other. Professionals,
dabblers, white and black. It might be a good time for a change. I don't think I can be around magic right now, it would only remind me
of him.” He sinks down into melancholy again.
Murphy had been wondering when the conversation would turn back to their deceased friend. “I'm not going to try to take his place,” she promises. “No one can do that.”
Nodding in appreciation, the dead necromancer finds himself reaching for her hand...and stopping in time.
“I do have one small request, if you would be so kind.”
Murphy nods encouragingly, nudging him to continue.
“Take me outside sometimes. I almost never get to.” He'd never blamed Harry, never thought he was deliberately limiting him, but it cannot be denied that he'd been confined to the same place without a change of scenery for a very long time. “If you do, you must be careful. You can't
let anyone else see me. And of course you have to take me with you.” He gives his skull a pointed look.
Murphy picks it up off the table and wrinkles her nose at it involuntarily. Having to lug that thing around wasn't exactly appealing. She wonders how Harry did it. The way he'd written of it, it was something supremely special. Of course, it housed his best friend in the whole world, naturally it wouldn't seem distasteful in the least for him to handle it. She sits down with it in her lap, examining the symbols on it,
hesitantly drawing her fingers over it, stroking it gently, attuning herself to it. Already, she's begun to consider the old ghost as a friend.
“Sure, I'll take you out sometimes. I don't live too far from the park, actually.”
“That would be lovely.”
=================================================================
From the threshold to the Other Side, Harry Dresden takes a fateful last look to his friends left on Earth. He'd had misgivings since he'd arrived, had an intense desire to stay. When he reached the gateway, a man addresses him.
“Harry Dresden...you died protecting your city from danger. For that, we will grant you a request for your afterlife.” Most people given
such a choice request that their loved ones they left behind may be happy again, or watched over. Others ask to be reincarnated as
someone's child, or that their killer may meet justice. Harry sighs, as though thinking hard, although his mind is quite made up.
“I want to go back. I want to be with Bob. I can't just leave him. We could be ghosts together.”
Of course, as Harry expected, his request is met with raised eyebrows. Still, he stands firm. All he wants is to move into Bob's skull and be dead with him.
=================================================================
For a moment, it looks like Murphy's offer might comfort the lonely ghost. He cannot feel her hands, of course, but from her halting touches he's able to get a taste of her soul. Beneath her troubled spirit, he senses her genuine goodness, her loyalty. It reminds him too much of his former charge, his beloved. Simply having someone else handling his prison, that she's now its rightful keeper, dredges up too much feeling. He turns his head away and sobs, remembering again he'll never feel those things from Harry again.
Then Murphy sees it...a sparkle of yellow light and cloud of white smoke pouring out of the skull's eye socket. The smoke touches the floor and takes shape. Just as it's taken a form she recognizes, it raises a finger to its lips, pointing significantly at Bob. The ghost of Harry
Dresden creeps up behind his old friend, the sound of his crying over him nearly breaks his heart. He reaches his hand out experimentally,
afraid to go farther, afraid of being disappointed. Then, he places a hand on the older man's shoulder, and draws a sweet breath of
triumph.
Without thinking, Bob places a hand over the one on his shoulder, squeezing it appreciatively. It doesn't even register that this is out of the
ordinary until he hears that voice...
“It's all right, Bob. I came back.”
Bob gasps, spins around in place and stares! “Back? You came...back? You were...?”
Harry nods with a grin, sliding his hand through the counter top to further prove his state.
Still staring with wide eyes, looking from their clasped hands and back up again. Bob grasps his lover by the cheeks, draws his face down and kisses him mightily, wrapping himself tightly around the recently deceased wizard. With a joyful whoop, Harry hugs him back, even lifts him up
and spins him in place.
“Why on Earth would you do something so stupid?” Bob demands to know after he's set down again. “You gave up...all that...for what?” His
disapproval is simply for appearances; nothing could have pleased him more than to be reunited like this. But at what cost? He didn't
think his conscience could take it, knowing he'd kept Harry back from...whatever came after. Bob's expression changes, looks closer
to pity than anything.
Seeing how upset he's made his longtime companion, Harry feels the need to reassure him. “For a corner of your skull, and your heart?” He suggests, nuzzling their foreheads together before tilting his chin up for another kiss.
Bob winces, “Not very poetic, but good enough considering the source. You really mean it, you wanted to stay?”
“I wanted to stay here,” He repeats. “And don't look so guilty, this was my choice.”
“I just don't want you to regret it.”
Tracing his beloved's bottom lip, filling them both with excruciating pleasure, Harry murmurs, “I was fortunate to have extricated myself.” He
just stares at him for the longest time, at his hands actually touching this man he'd yearned for all this time. How could he have
chosen differently? How could anyone have expected him to?
Bob smiles broadly at this, remembering his own words following a brush with the Other Side. How glad he'd been to be home then! Bob reaches his arms around Harry's neck and kisses him again, trailing across his cheek and neck as well, looking too happy to speak.
They simply stand there, holding each other, thrilling quietly in their long sought-after embrace. As though he'd planned his every move years
ago, Bob cuddles into the younger man's shoulder, breathing in his residual scent as Harry strokes his hair. How could anything compare with this They both wonder.
Bob gives an odd thought to his reputation in his living days, a veritable ladies' man, now taking the typical female submissive posture. For
centuries, he'd been considered outlandishly tall, called a long-legged snipe by his peers in his youth. Then Harry, the giraffe, finally dwarfed him. Since this thought amuses him so much, he figures it's worthy of sharing.
“Harry?” he begins, still rubbing his cheek against his jacket like a house cat loving its owner, “I'm not altogether sure how to do this properly,
I've never been with anyone taller than me before.”
Sure enough, Harry laughs, kissing the top of Bob's head and running his fingers through his soft hair. “I bet. Hope you don't mind.”
Bob sighs contentedly, “Not at all.” He looks up, looking so quietly pleased.
Murphy watches them, overjoyed to see Harry again despite his being a ghost, and to see Bob so happy. She brings a hand to her mouth and makes a small choking sound, drawing attention to herself.
“Hey, you hang onto that skull, it's very important,” Harry reminds her. “You might not think it's pretty, but...” unable to resist, he gives Bob
another lingering kiss, bringing languid smiles to both their faces as he nuzzles in for more. “It holds my most cherished treasure.” Bob tsks at the flattery, brushing it aside bashfully.
“I will. Just have to figure out where I'll keep it.”
She wonders whether those two dead sorcerers will ever be able to get their hands off of each other. So that's what love looks like, she ponders with a sigh, unable to help feeling a touch envious. The way they touch each other swings between delicate brushes and all-consuming physical loving, clearly shows how long they'd wanted this. Murphy can even see the lingering hesitation in their faces, as though they expect to pass through each other any time. Then, as though reminded that they needn't fear this any longer, they dive in full force. It strikes her as sweet, tainted by long years of wanting.
“I'd really prefer it if it were not stationary. I'm bound to stay within a certain distance from it. Perhaps you could move it to various
places in your residence,” Bob requests.
“Just not your bedroom,” adds Harry, getting a light slap from the ghost in question.
“I've wanted to do that for years,” Bob admits with a leering expression. “Although I might miss walking through you to get your attention.”
Harry backs one step away, scowling at the memory. “Come on, you haven't done that on purpose since I was a kid.”
With a skyward roll of his eyes, Bob folds his arms and mutters, “That's what you think.”
Again, it looks like they've forgotten all about Murphy, and she's perfectly fine with that. Watching their heartfelt reunion is an excellent
spectator sport. She's glad now to know that Harry hadn't been so completely alone as she first thought, even if his only other
companion was a ghost. Just from what little she's seen of these two together, they certainly strike her as an adorably mismatched couple.
So different, yet so alike. Perfect. Just standing together, holding hands, chuckling together over that simple gift that Harry's
death had granted them.
“Listen, we'd better get back to my place...if you're both coming?”
“Do you mind?” Harry asks.
Waving a hand in the air meaninglessly, she'll think about it tomorrow. “It's fine, just...I...”
“We'll be no trouble at all,” he promises.
Murphy gives them both a doubtful smirk, “If you say so.” Then without warning, she picks up the skull and heads for the door, yanking Bob along with her.
“Stop! Stop it! Miss Murphy!” Bob gasps, grasping at the invisible tether in protest.
She stops in her tracks, spinning around in alarm to see him nearly doubled over, Dresden is helping him up. “Did I hurt you?”
Bob straightens up, brushing his jacket in a decidedly miffed air. “Please don't drag me like that. Harry, I think we'd better...” he nods significantly at the skull.
“Oh, yeah. Right. How?”
The question surprises the old ghost, who'd done it a million times without thinking. “Well, I don't know! Just...go in.” He sees the
struggle written on his former master's face as he makes his first attempt to dematerialize. He's getting red in the face from the
strain. “Stop trying so hard,” Bob coaches. “You're making it difficult on yourself. Relax,” he advises in a calming tone,
rubbing his lover's shoulders. “You can do it. Just...whoosh!” He waves a hand vaguely.
Harry takes a deep breath and mists away, the last spark of him glimmers in the cracks. Bob leans down and speaks to what had once been his own mouth, in his old tone of former schoolmaster. “Well done, Harry. Very good.” And with that, he follows.
Strange, now that the ghosts have vanished, Murphy is starting to feel odd again. She awkwardly shoves the grinning cranium into her large purse, hoping no one sees her carrying such a thing. She sets it carefully on the passenger seat, reaches in and gives it a pat. “You guys all right in there?”
She hears voices, they're talking to each other. “Wow, that feels nice,” Harry whispers.
“You can feel her, too? Yes, she has a nicer feel to her than most others did. Present company excepted, of course.”
“Thanks.” Then he calls up, “Yeah, Murph, we're okay.”
Bob's spirit cuddles close with a troubled sigh. “Harry?”
“Yeah, Bob?”
“You're white. Did you know that?”
“What?”
“Your smoke, when you vanished just then, was white.”
Despite the monotonous delivery, Harry suspects something's upsetting him. “Is it? Huh.”
Bob thinks, wondering why this seems so important to him, wondering why Harry doesn't seem to care or understand what it means. He feels a growing sensation of self-disgust as he recognizes this feeling as jealousy. Harry had selflessly thrown away his afterlife, just to spend it here
with him, yet buried under his happiness at being reunited in this most perfect way, and his genuine and boundless love for the man
who'd literally gotten into his head, is envy. The white smoke that was his lover's essence made Bob feel filthy and unworthy. It also
hadn't escaped his notice that Harry, although he's chosen to 'move in' with him, isn't bound to the skull in the same way he is. He
hadn't been pulled along when Murphy dragged him just then. Those facts glare at him as such obvious differences between them. He
sighs.
“It means you're a pure spirit, you're free. You aren't damned like me. Harry...why tie yourself to my cursed old skull?”
“Because I love you. I wanted to. I want to be with you forever.”
Touched by this adamant declaration, Bob whispers,“Why?”
“Because I don't care what color your smoke is, Bob.”
“That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me,” is all he can say to that.
Murphy keeps glancing over at her purse, unable to help overhearing their conversation. She feels pity for Bob. He sounds so ashamed of himself, unequal to his “purer” companion. In the same way, she's quite proud of Harry for his assurance that it didn't make any
difference to him, and to let him know that right away before any perceived inequality got between them.
==========================================================
Soon she's home once again; she takes off her coat and hangs up her purse on the hook near the door. Then she removes her highly unusual bequest. She taps on the top of it gently. “Okay, fellas, end of the line. You can come out if you want to.”
Two pillars of smoke, white and black stream out and materialize. Murphy is suddenly aware that she hasn't had a man in her home in years, not since her ex-husband ceased to darken her door. “Uh, there's a guest room...?”
“Are you alone here?” Bob asks, examining the photographs on the wall depicting Lieutenant Murphy holding a young girl.
“I get my daughter, Anna, every other week. She's nearly ten. Is she allowed to see you?” It's one thing to house these spirits, it's quite
another to hide things from her daughter. It would take some pretty big lies and weak excuses to cover up these two.
Bob considers, as though he may be thinking along the same lines. “Provided she can be discreet, I have no objection.”
“Oh, she knows there are things you're not supposed to talk about. Her father helped there,” Murphy huffs, getting a small degree of pleasure
from mad-mouthing the man.
“I'm sure,” Bob agrees as Harry nods in understanding.
Secrets were always familiar to him. The only person he'd ever felt wrong about constantly lying to was Murphy, and now she's in on it. Oh, the things he could tell her now!
“Thanks for everything, Murph, I wasn't sure they'd let me come back. All I'd hoped for originally was that you'd give Bob a good home, and be his friend.”
“Hey, what's one more? It's not like either of you is going to cost me anything to keep.” She turns to Bob, “And strange as it might be, I like you
already.”
The pale ghost flinches; no one's ever liked him in ages, apart from Harry. He stares, dumbfounded. “You do?”
“I can't say I've ever been friends with a ghost, but...I'd like to be.”
Yet another pleasure long denied to the cursed spirit was that of companionship. His other masters would often summon him to perform or to obey similarly trivial demands, others demanded his esoteric knowledge, but he was never summoned for social reasons. Only Harry had drawn near him for the sake of friendship, a frightened orphan seeking comfort from a grouchy, cynical ghost. At the time, it had taken
some mental gymnastics to come to terms with their relationship. It had been as though fate had provided two sad, lost loners with a
friend when each had needed one the most. A friendship which in its adulthood blossomed into love. And now another person-a warm,
living, normal person-wants to be his friend?
Bob stammers, nearly stricken speechless, “I...I don't know what to say. Thank you?”
Harry recognizes the turmoil within his companion and takes his hand again, giving it a squeeze, clapping his other hand on his shoulder. “Things are looking up, huh?” He whispers.
Bob breaks into an awkward smile, as though he can't process so many miracles in one day. His beloved returned from the dead to stay with him out of love, a new guardian of a completely different cloth, who desires his friendship. Friendship! Of all things. “My dear Miss Murphy, I'm
certain we will be.” The bond between them strengthens, he can feel it with his very essence. Hers feels like a cord of silk.
Material soft, beautiful, and luxurious, yet when twisted tightly shows unexpected strength and resilience. That was what Murphy felt
like.
“Good,” Murphy smiles. “Look, it's been a long, tiring, and very weird day. I have to get up at 6am, so I'm going to bed. I'm going to put
this in the guest room if you'll follow me.” She remembers to go at a slower pace so as not to end up dragging Bob again. It
certainly looked uncomfortable. She sets the ghastly-looking thing on a bookshelf, faces them again, hoping for their approval of their
accommodations. They thank her and she heads to bed.
Once she's gone, the ghosts look around. It's sparsely furnished, which is just as well since they don't need many home comforts at this point.
“We can set up the lab in here,” Bob suggests, keen to get the place looking more like home as soon as possible.
“Something tells me Murphy isn't going to like that.”
“Yes, perhaps you're right,” he drawls. “Old habits die hard, I suppose. I can't imagine what we're going to do now.” His fingers twitch
irritably, itching for his musty old tomes and smoky gas burners.
Harry grins, “I'll see what I can do.”
“Actually, it may be better if I asked her myself.” Bob supposes thoughtfully, “Such a request would require a delicate hand. You, Dresden, are about as delicate as a rhinoceros in heat.”
“Wow, glad I came back. I can't imagine missing out on this abuse,” Harry grumbles, but knowing better than to take it personally. It falls right in with their usual pattern. They'd tapered off on the put-downs since being honest about their feelings, but...old habits die hard.
“Even if we got all of that here, though, we can't handle any of it, we can't use it without hovering everything and that's a lot of work. And I don't think Murphy is sorceress material.”
Harry's reminder had the opposite effect as intended. An interested expression crosses the smartly-dressed man's face, calculating... “Bob, don't even think about it. I checked, she doesn't have it. Besides, Murphy and magic don't go together.”
With a heavy sigh of defeat, Bob paces, “All right, all right. But even just for atmosphere, it would compliment the new decor.” He gestures to his skull.
Murphy had been on her way past their room to the bathroom when she hears a snippet of their discussion, particularly about Bob considering training her in wizardry. She groans silently, rolling her eyes, wondering just what she's gotten herself into. Still, it couldn't hurt to let them have a few of their things, just to...darken up the room? It would make them feel more at home, and she'd been entrusted with their possessions anyway, so it shouldn't be a problem to get them.
“Well, I had a busy day, too, Bob. Life, death, life...I'm gonna turn in,” Harry announces before misting away. Bob follows and the room is quiet
again.
Sometime during the night, Bob feels restless. Since he hadn't been expressly banished to his skull, and had merely gone in of his own accord, he didn't need Murphy to release him. He walks through their bedroom door and looks in the living room. He begins writing in the air....