Dead & Damned, Part IX
Title: Dead & Damned, Part IX
Author: Weslyn; Betas:
pandonkey,
dream_mender, &
phoenixknght86
To my Betas,
Pan - thank you for once again making sure this is readable and fixing all my horrible grammar mistakes. I owe you big time!
Mender - thank you for kick-starting my imagination and for suggesting the potion idea, among others. Your feedback is ever-appreciated and I'm only to happy to return the favor.
Red - jeezus girl. I'm going to have a list by the end of this series with all the bits you're responsible for inspiring. Thank you for letting me run away with your black!bunnies. I blame you for making me break Harry.
Previous chapters: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII
TV!Harry POV
NC-17 See the warning.
TV-verse with some bookish tendencies. This is basically a Lovecraft Crossover.
Word Count: Just over 5,000
Pairing/Characters: Bob/Harry SLASHY. Murphy and Ana toward the end.
Disclaimer: Oh right, I don't own any of it. Tell that to my plot bunnies. What? You can't see them...? They're pink and ravenously chewing on my brain.
Summary: I broke Harry... and his brick wall.
This is NOT a happy chapter.
WARNING: Graphic violence, strong sexuality and squickness may leave some readers feeling disturbed. This chapter is not for the weak of heart, or stomach for that matter. I do not suggest reading this before a meal or -godforbid- while eating.
-CHAPTER SPOILER- There are indications that boarder on rape, bestiality, and necrophilia - of course this is all within Harry's nightmare sequence. Graphic descriptions of Harry vomiting. Some major hurt/comfort. -CHAPTER SPOILER-
IX
Bob and I had made a mutual, nonverbal agreement at the end of our equally nonverbal, hot and wet argument that we were going to be extremely preoccupied with something else. It had lasted into that night and all of today, which had been by far the most productive day of my existence. I read twice over the documents Murphy had given me,and once over the Call of Cthulhu RPG book, reading everything. Then I read it a second time, skipping all the RPG nonsense. I made notes, drew diagrams, and when I couldn't focus on that anymore, I took to cleaning out the refrigerator and doing some laundry. I went out, picked up some milk and a new phone - and got an odd look from the cashier, because I swear I buy a new phone every three months. At one point I went out for a walk and stopped at a pay phone (the less I use mine the better) to call Murphy's cell, but she didn't answer. I left her a message, told her to drop by sometime.
I was lonely. I couldn't remember a time when I was lonelier. I'd had Bob around ever since my dad died, and my dad dying had been a different sort of loneliness because Bob wasn't dead he was just downstairs. This? This lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, knowing Bob was around but I couldn't talk to him - stars and stones, this was worse.
I could talk to him, but I figured it would just be more of the drab, unfeeling, nice-nice talk that we'd used under the pretense that everything was normal.
Everything was not normal. Even if Bob and I weren't fighting, my world had stopped and then started spinning the other way, knocking me flat on my ass, and now I had to get up and moving before it rolled over me.
But Bob and I were fighting, and as far as fights go, this one wasn't normal either. I had no idea how to handle this one. We'd had our fair share of disagreements - at one point after I'd murdered Justin, I convinced myself that I hated Bob, but really, I just hated the fact that my father was dead, that my uncle was dead, and that Bob was dead. Bob had always been dead, but he was still around, and somehow that wasn't fair. All of my misguided anger fixed on him because I had no one else. I couldn't handle the injustice anymore. Even then, I had never stopped loving Bob. I couldn't. Justin was dead. Once upon a time I'd loved him as my family - even if I did think he was creepy. I'd grown to love the man, and that's what made the scar left by his betrayal that much deeper. So Bob, even though a ghost, was really all I had left in my life and that warranted a piece of my living, beating heart.
Five years had passed since then, and with each year that went by, the piece got a little bigger. And then he got a living, beating heart of his own... and I couldn't help but wonder just how big of a piece he had reserved for me.
When the first thoughts that went beyond a vague fascination with Bob's body surfaced, some part of my brain started construction. Brick by brick, walls to keep out thoughts of wanting to know him intimately, to know his body, were built. I told myself no, those thoughts were not allowed between Bob and me. Lustful thoughts about Bob broke some sort of sacred code, and touching myself while thinking them was taboo.
I knew it was bad, that I needed those walls to stay firmly in place, because my libido had taken a keen interest in Bob... and then that kiss. That kiss had taken out the mortar between those safety bricks, leaving the wall standing, but now the bricks were held together by their weight alone. A good, hard shove would send them toppling.
That kiss made me realize that there was something more to my desire than just a passing fancy, and that scared me. I didn't take the time in my conquests to build a friendship. It wasn't worth it; they'd never accept me. And then there was Bob, who was already my friend, someone I loved profoundly; it wasn't long after his corporeality was established that my hormones took root in that stability. I hadn't realized until he'd left me open and reeling after that kiss, that my heart had followed suit, and I knew with an ache that I didn't just love Bob. There was a distinctive in that preceded love, and I needed my goddamn walls.
But lying there on my bed, staring up at the ceiling with my cock half hard, I couldn't turn my thoughts away from him. I told myself I wouldn't, that to do so would break down the barriers I had constructed. But honestly... I didn't want to think of anyone else. In the end, I couldn't help myself as my left hand loosened its death-grip on the sheets and snuck under the waistband of my shorts. I let out a breathy, soft oh like a held-too-long sigh as I gripped myself. It felt good - and shameful - and good. Slow, even-pressured strokes as I worked my way to full arousal. I felt my face relax as muscles elsewhere tightened and my body heated. Blood pumped its way into my cock as thoughts squeezed themselves between tiny crevices in brick walls.
I thought about his skin and ran my hand down my chest, feeling the texture of heated skin and softer-than-it-should-be chest hair - what? In my showers after puberty, I had used whatever conditioner was leftover on my hands over my chest. I'd never gotten a bad remark about it, only good; I had some girls who couldn't stop twirling their fingers in my chest hair. I wondered, trailing my fingers through the soft curls, how Bob would take to it... would he mind the extra hair of a man as opposed to a woman?
I ran my hand back up along my ribs and tweaked a nipple, biting my lip in the pleasure I imagined it would bring Bob if it were his chest I was caressing. Then I brought my hand to my lips, just so I could feel something against them. I wasn't sure whether I was teasing my hand with my lips or the other way around. I thought about the way he'd kissed, his heart-shaped lips flush against mine, full of passion.
I wondered, if he kissed like that, what would he fuck like? Hard, fast, and thorough, until I was limp in his arms? All that passion built up over centuries - gods, I could only imagine what it would be like to be his lover. Maybe it was just my magical heritage, but the most erotic thing for me was my partner's emotions, their enthrallment ... even deeper, darker, was the heady power of knowing I brought them that pleasure, I induced their lust-drunk state of intoxication. I could easily be swept up in the powerful desires and passionate need of my partner - in those rare cases the sex was only better for it.
I imagined the sort of hungry edge Bob would have after being touch-starved for so long, and I stroked harder, sucking three fingertips into my mouth. After so long, he would be almost - and my stomach quivered at the thought - virginal. Would his touch be slow and coy, then? Or would he be too eager to restrain himself and take me against a wall if the opportunity presented itself?
Of course, I had a leaning toward the side of being a wanton bottom, but what if the roles were reversed? Memory shot back to 'nor have I ever had something up my ass', and heat flushed my skin anew; I groaned at the thought of untouched tight heat surrounding me. I'd make sure he was ready; I'd work him up slowly until he was panting - begging. Oh gods, Bob begging, what a delicious travesty. I silenced my drawn-out groan by biting my hand, letting the sweet relief flood me as I brought myself off to thoughts of being his first. I came, hot jets streaking my stomach and messing the sheets.
Still breathing hard, I took a few tissues off the nightstand and did a quick clean up. I tossed them to where I thought the trash might have been, but I was too drowsy to see if I'd made it. Sated, I closed my eyes, wanting to sleep before the endorphins wore off and I remembered that I wasn't supposed to be thinking about Bob's virginal-ass.
It seemed like only a few seconds later that I felt a weight settle next to me on the bed, and my eyes snapped blearily open. Bob looked startled to have wakened me, as though he'd thought I'd been in a much deeper sleep.
“I'm-” Bob cut off the apology that was apparent in his eyes and reconsidered his words. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
Did he not want me to mistake I'm Sorry as an apology for something else? My gaze locked on his face, seeing the lines of uncertainty around his drawn mouth and tired eyes. Bob looked every bit his near-two-hundred years when he was worried, and it made me feel young and naïve.
Without further hesitation on his part, he plunged into an explanation:
“I will explain to you Necromancy in theory, which is dangerous enough in and of itself. You deserve at least that,” he said stoically. “Do not ask me the means de facto; I shan't tell you.”
I stared. Was this Bob's attempt at an apology? I'm sorry for l when I kissed you, Harry, but in retribution I'll teach you what you'd wanted to know in the first place - no harm done. Did he really think it was going to be that simple? Did he have no idea how much he'd left me wanting? How it hurt that he'd toyed with me?
“I'm not interested in Necromancing people, Bob.” I said plainly. I rolled over, my back toward him. “We'll talk about it in the morning.”
His weight eased off the bed, and I hated the way I felt the loss even while I was angry with him. I would have forgiven him, I would have forgiven everything, if he'd just stayed and told me he was sorry. Sorry for making me want him, and then he could crawl into bed beside me and we'd have fabulous make-up sex until noon.
Alison. She'd followed me here. Green-black mists, and through them I feel her - I feel It - ever-present. I am terrified, but there is no running this time; I turn to face her and she's dead, puffy, rotting corpse hanging suspended, green-blue-pale-white-skin and lacerated body hanging in front of me, and she moves; she's dead, but her head rolls up-around to look at me and watching her move makes me sick 'cause she's dead, she's dead, she's dead. Her once-pretty lips hang open - lifeless, black ichor dribbles out as she speaks, but she's dead - she must not know it because she speaks to me anyway, but the voice doesn't sound like hers - Why didn't you save me? - thin reedy voice asks, but I can't answer - Why didn't you kill me before It did? - black thick blood from her lips, streaking down her breasts - she's naked and blue-green-white, naked and it hurts to look at her - so helpless and frail, dead and pale. I feel her nakedness like a thing against my skin and it is terrible, terrible things - something rises out of the mists - smooth and slithering and dark, dark, darkness snakes Its way forward, slithering up her leg and I feel sick, sick - I watch - watching as It worms Its way inside - between her death-pale legs and I throb - this is wrong, wrong, wrong! Stop! She screams but she's dead, dead and screaming, crying now, it must hurt so bad, badly! She's screaming, crying as It is inside-between-her-legs-inside-stop! I throb but I don't want to - stop! This is so wrong, wrong, stop - It eats, It feeds, It isn't raping her because that is Its mouth and It eats - Its eating her from the inside out, from the inside out - stop! Don't hurt her, I'm so sorry - so sorry, and I try to tell her so, but I can't - I can't speak because It's using my mouth to eat her and I don't want to - stop! stop! stop! My mouth, my mouth - and when I swallow I feel her dead flesh down my throat and I'm sick - so sick. I couldn't tear It out, couldn't tear It out, and it's too late now because It's an extension of myself because I couldn't tear it out and It's inside me and I don't want to be used like this - make it stop, stop it, make it stop - don't eat her, and it's too late, she'd dead and I've swallowed her inside me and I hate the way it feels in my blood, throbbing - stop, stop, stop, this isn't me, I don't want it. I don't want my mouth, stop it, I feel so sick, throbbing, but It won't let me stop.
I startled from my sleep, my body lurching up into a half-sitting position as heavy vomit sped up my throat. My body reacted on instinct, my torso twisting so that I was leaning over the edge of the bed as I wretched helplessly on the carpet. My hands gripped the sheets for balance - my whole body rocked with the force of the heaves. I felt sweat break out all over, giving me chills, and suddenly, Bob was there.
He was running a hand down my back, telling me something, I think I heard my name a few times over the roar of my stomach. He was on the bed - away from the floor and the mess I was making - and I couldn't make up my mind whether I wanted him to stay or go. He kept murmuring to me, words I'll never know because I was beyond understanding him at that point, but his voice ... I craved his voice nonetheless.
Even after the contents of my stomach were splattered all over the floor, I couldn't stop my stomach from lurching, and I spat out the bile and as much of the taste as I could. I took a few deep breaths after the violent heaves of my stomach subsided. I sat up a little more, and Bob moved back, giving me room. I turned my head away as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Yeah, I knew he could see me anyway, but it made me feel better. I was still shaking, and the spinning of my mind was making me dizzy. I stood up from the bed on trembling legs - I needed to get away from the smell, or I was just going to start all over again.
I stumbled down the stairs, my throat burning from bile and humiliation. Bob's footsteps followed me down, but I didn't turn back to look at him. I made a beeline for the bathroom - I needed a drink; hell, I needed a shower to get the feel of grime and sweat and the taint I could still feel lurking somewhere under my skin. I turned on the tap and rinsed out my mouth, and then I started to strip, peeling off my t-shirt and tossing it to the floor. I reached for the elastic waistband of my drawers and stopped mid-rush. There was a dampness that didn't feel right, a dampness that wasn't supposed to be there. I force-swallowed, slowly pulling the elastic away from my body, I looked down at the fresh semen plastering my lower abs and shorts.
Suddenly it was really hard to think. I stared down at the mess I'd made, like it wasn't really there - at any second it would go away and I could tolerate myself as a decent human being. I touched it, and I stared at the pearly whiteness that was now contaminating my fingers, and just like that, it sunk in.
I screamed, a wordless, desperate cry that was quickly choked off by another round of upcoming vomit. It came on too quickly for me to make it to the toilet and I ended up arched over the sink, coughing up bile and air. The heaves were so rapid that I could barely inhale; I felt like I was slowly suffocating.
“Harry...?” Bob called from the other side of the door, but I couldn't answer him; I couldn't do much but submit to my body's hagridden reflexes. He was inside the bathroom then, coming dreadfully closer, and I wanted to yell, to scream at him not to touch me, but my stomach was threatening to heave itself up my esophagus.
I started to cry, worthless tears streaming down my cheeks as I sobbed through my strangling heaves. My knees gave out, failing under the weight of my body as gravity slowly dragged me to the floor. I had long since run out of things to throw up, but I was still fighting to keep my stomach an internal organ.
Holding myself in with my arms across my chest, I carved my nails into my skin, trailing white-hot pain down my shoulders. I rocked into the pain and away from everything else, away from Alison's dead body, away from my shame and loathing of something I couldn't even name. Let the darkness enfold me, let it come and fade out the light so I don't have to see myself anymore.
Harry. I thought I heard my name being called. Harry, stop...!
Go away, Bob.
“Harry, stop it - you're doing yourself injury!” He was insistent and so close to me - touching me, firm hands over mine.
Don't touch me!
He was trying to stop me - trying to keep me from escaping - but I needed to run from this 'cause there was no way I could face it. I had to get away from this, please, please, please let me go, Bob. I fought him, and he held tighter. I was captured by sturdy arms that wouldn't let go no matter how much I rebelled. My voice tore free of my throat and I yelled, and grunted, and cried out pleas and begged against his embrace, because I didn't deserve comfort - I deserved hell.
Don't ... please, don't ... Bob, don't ... please let me go - don't touch me, I'm so sorry, so sorry, let me go, don't touch me, hate me! Hate me, I'm so fucked ... please don't, Bob... I sobbed half-coherently, battling for words, and breath, and freedom.
His only response came as whispers of touch and feeling. My fight was smothered by his onslaught of calm, and I was left shuddering and reeling. I cried convulsively, all restraint abandoned, and lost myself in an uncontrolled, unbidden sob.
When I was finally self-aware enough to take in my surroundings, I could feel his cheek pressed against mine, one arm cradling my head, while the other was firmly wrapped around my back. I must have stiffened because he relaxed his embrace, and slowly withdrawing, he whispered:
“Why don't you take a nice, long shower, Harry?”
I shook my head a little, conscious of how my tears had made both our cheeks slick. “No, I don't really want to look at myself right now,” I replied quietly. I felt detached in saying it.
He straightened up away from me, eyeing the livid, bleeding welts I'd left on my arms. He stood. “Why don't we get you cleaned up, then?”
I didn't answer. I didn't move. I felt empty, like I hadn't even the will left to lift my eyes from the tile floor. I heard him run the tap, and a few seconds later I felt a cool, wet cloth wiping from shoulder to elbow.
“We'll make a potion, hm?” he suggested. “You always like to make them when you're troubled,” he continued when I hadn't responded. “Something to help you sleep - dreamlessly. You're exhausted.”
I smiled mirthlessly and got to my feet somehow. I felt more dead then alive, and I didn't care for either. Nonexistent was rather more appealing. In the lab, I went through the motions of setting up a potion, which was so familiar to me now that I could have the hell beaten out of me and still be able to brew. When all else failed, potion-making was the only thing that centered me, and as I worked under Bob's unobtrusive guidance, I felt like I was being restored little by little.
Bob and I went back and forth suggesting the possible components for each of the six senses. Black glass for sight, cotton for hearing - all of which I had in the lab. Touch, taste, and smell, as well as the base liquid was being gathered by Bob. I searched through my collection of herbs, for the mind's ingredient and took out a package of Thorn Apple seeds.
“I've an old mitten, the milk and the ice cubes as requested, and...” Bob gave the Wizard-brand deodorizer a dubious look. “Well, this.”
“That'll work.”
“Have you found your sixth ingredient?” he asked, peering over my shoulder, as I counted out three seeds from the package.
“Are those...? Harry,” Bob's voice was mildly reproachful. “Datura stramonium?”
I took what he brought without looking at him and poured the milk in the pot and let it warm. I debated using the seeds as I added each of the other five ingredients to the pot.
“Harry,” he said slowly, his voice careful but warning nonetheless. “Datura seeds are known to cause amnesia.”
“That's what I'm going for, Bob.”
“It's too dangerous - there's no telling-”
“-I've got this.” I cut him off and dropped two seeds in, putting the third back in the pouch. I raised my Will, or at least as much of it as I could, but it wasn't enough. All I had left was either numbness or madness. I stared hopelessly down into the pot, whatever strength I had regained slipping away.
Perhaps Bob could see it - or hell, at that point he could probably feel it - but if he did, he didn't say as much. Gently, he guided me aside and raised his hand over the potion-to-be; green-electric light ignited the the contents. “Go lie down, Harry,” he instructed softly.
Thirty minutes later, he brought out the potion in my regular squeeze bottle, and I drank what tasted like sleep and let oblivion claim me there on the couch.
The next thing I was conscious of was the door. I was barely awake, but I had thought that knock sounded like Murphy, so I was kind of surprised when I heard a little girl's voice ask:
“So are you a wizard, too?”
I got up, feeling like I'd been hit by a semi with a hard-on. I retrieved my robe from the bathroom and then walked into the front where Bob, Murphy, and a mini-Murphy, presumably Ana, were standing by the desk where Bob's skull sat. The desk was neatly cluttered, a tale-tell sign he had been working there all morning. Bob was smiling and nodding at the dark-haired girl who barely came up to his chest; in return, she was looking up at him with all the unguarded wonder and interest that a kid her age should have.
It was Murphy who caught sight of me first. “Hey, Harry,” she gave me a once over, and then she inclined her head to her daughter, “This is Ana.”
“Hi, Ana,” I said a little gruffly, and her dark eyes turned on mine. Stars and stones, the kid looked a hell of a lot like her mom close up. Ana had those same penetrating eyes that missed nothing, and her hair was just the same as her mom's but shorter, just brushing her collar and framing her cute face. Her smile was different, though, but maybe it was just the openness with which she gave it; made me wonder if Murphy could smile like that. I made mental note to try sometime.
“Hi,” she said in a chipper voice. She wasn't shy at all, this one, which was a little unnerving for me - she had met my gaze straight on and still smiled. Maybe I'd been hanging around adults too long. Her attention didn't remain on me, though; her interest took the form of an old, rune-covered human skull that was sitting close by.
“You left me a message,” Murphy prompted, her eyes still on her daughter as Ana wandered over for a closer inspection.
“Yeah,” I said with a burst of exuberance that died as soon as I remembered that I'd called her just to distract myself. “I did,” I said flatly, and shot a meaningful glance at Ana to buy myself some time to think of an excuse.
“Sorry,” she began in a lowered voice as we moved a few steps to the right, “I just picked her up from her father's - you were on the way.”
“Oh, no - don't apologize,” I reassured her, giving a casual shrug. To our left, Bob and Ana were carrying on their own private conversation. “It's nice to finally meet the kid.”
She nodded, and then said abruptly, “You look like hell, Harry. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just, uh...” I shrugged. Why did my head feel so fuzzy? I knew I felt like hell and probably looked worse, but I couldn't really remember why. What time was it, anyway?
Murphy smiled, but her look was still expectant. Think, Harry. “I was just wondering how the case was going.”
“It's sort of out of my hands at this point.” Murphy eyed me suspiciously. “I was only involved as far as the big occult mark went. The owner decided not to press charges on the kids for the destruction of the barn. He just liked to complain, a lot.”
I nodded sympathetically. I'd had my fair share of clients who didn't really want anything other than an ear to nag.
Murphy smiled tiredly and went on. “There isn't a large cult needing to be tracked down and prevented from committing more acts of arson, so the case is closed. As far as Alison Carter goes... Well, they don't give me murders unless the circumstances are unusual enough.”
I felt the defeat in her words, but there was something else as well - and I nodded, trying to remember just what it was that glimmered on the edge of my consciousness. I remembered a little of our conversation on the ride home from the psych ward.
“How's that barn doing, by the way?”
She gave me A Look. “I haven't been back there,” she said firmly.
“But you're thinking about it.”
She smiled. “Touché.”
“Murphy-” I was interrupted by her pager.
Conversation dropped, and it was strangely tense in the room as Murphy read quickly, her eyes shooting first up to Ana and then to me.
“What is it?” I asked, a little worried about the unease in her eyes.
Ana answered first. “Work,” she said, her tone indicating a certain level of loathing. She was glaring disappointedly at her mother as if there were no one else in the room.
Murphy's mouth fell open a little, and then she closed it. “I'm sorry, Ana.” She paused, hooking her pager back onto her belt while considering her daughter's frown. “I'll give some extra money to Lizzy - maybe she can take you out for ice cream.”
“I wanted to go with you.”
Murphy gave me a small, hopeless glance and then crossed the room to her daughter. “I know, sweetie, but I can't help that now.”
I realized then that the unease I'd seen in Murphy's eyes hadn't been about what her pager said, but about her daughter, and with a pang in my gut I knew I wasn't looking at Murphy-the-cop but Murphy-the-mom, who apparently had a very delicate relationship with her daughter.
“I don't want to go to Lizzy's house,” Ana was protesting softly over my thoughts. “Can't I stay here?”
“Ana-!”
“Please!” she said quickly, right on the heels of her mother's scolding. “Mr. Bob and me were just comparing Harrys.”
That seemed to stop Murphy short; it did me as well.
“Comparing Harrys...?”
“Yeah,” she replied, as though her mother should know perfectly well what she was talking about. She pointed to me, “That Harry,” and then she pointed to her forehead, “and the one with the scar?”
“Oh,” Murphy said slowly. “Right, of course; but honey, it's not polite to invite yourself over, okay?” She looked like she was going to say more, and so did Ana, but Bob, who'd been seemingly forgotten by mother and child, spoke up.
“I don't mind. She may stay as long as Harry is all right with it.”
“Oh, no, you don't have to-”
“Yay!” Ana cheered over her mother. “Oh please, mom - just say yes?”
Murphy turned half around, looking torn. “Harry?”
“Uh, sure, whatever.” I was too stunned by Bob's offer to disagree with it. Besides, the kid was smiling ear to ear now, and how could I say no to that?
“All right,” Murphy said, regaining her mom's-the-boss footing, “but you're to be on your best behavior, miss.”
“Uh-huh!” Ana agreed, nodding enthusiastically.
“This should be quick,” Murphy said, addressing Bob and me. “Not more than an hour. I'll call if...” she trailed off when her pager beeped again. “Got to go.” She gave a parting Behave-Yourself Look to Ana before heading out the door.
I followed her, closing the door behind us as we exited. I wanted one more chance to warn her about going back to the barn, but she turned to me instead, speaking as she hurried to her car.
“You know, I'm surprised that Ana wanted to stay - she doesn't normally take to people so quickly,” she admitted, laughing apologetically. “Thank Robert again for me - I'll pay him what I usually do Lizzy.”
Robert? Oh, she meant Bob. “Yeah, no problem. Say, Murphy-”
She paused just as she was about to crawl into the driver's seat, though something told me she hadn't really been listening. She looked fondly back to the door of my apartment, her head visible over the roof of her car. “His kids must've loved him, you know?”
“Kids?”
“Yeah,” Murphy studied me. “He has kids, doesn't he? He must have gained those paternal instincts from somewhere.” She smiled a little and said, “Be a shame if he didn't have kids of his own.”
I was still standing outside after Murphy had driven off. I couldn't get over how sure she had sounded when she talked about Bob having kids - as if she'd known something I hadn't. I felt hollowed out. He'd never spoken of having children, but he was nearly two hundred when he died, and he'd been with Winefride, right? How could he not have an offspring or two? Why had I never thought of this before?
I turned back to the apartment, feeling the wedge between Bob and me sink in a little deeper under the weight of another secret.
Author: Weslyn; Betas:
pandonkey,
dream_mender, &
phoenixknght86
To my Betas,
Pan - thank you for once again making sure this is readable and fixing all my horrible grammar mistakes. I owe you big time!
Mender - thank you for kick-starting my imagination and for suggesting the potion idea, among others. Your feedback is ever-appreciated and I'm only to happy to return the favor.
Red - jeezus girl. I'm going to have a list by the end of this series with all the bits you're responsible for inspiring. Thank you for letting me run away with your black!bunnies. I blame you for making me break Harry.
Previous chapters: Part I, Part II, Part III, Part IV, Part V, Part VI, Part VII, Part VIII
TV!Harry POV
NC-17 See the warning.
TV-verse with some bookish tendencies. This is basically a Lovecraft Crossover.
Word Count: Just over 5,000
Pairing/Characters: Bob/Harry SLASHY. Murphy and Ana toward the end.
Disclaimer: Oh right, I don't own any of it. Tell that to my plot bunnies. What? You can't see them...? They're pink and ravenously chewing on my brain.
Summary: I broke Harry... and his brick wall.
This is NOT a happy chapter.
WARNING: Graphic violence, strong sexuality and squickness may leave some readers feeling disturbed. This chapter is not for the weak of heart, or stomach for that matter. I do not suggest reading this before a meal or -godforbid- while eating.
-CHAPTER SPOILER- There are indications that boarder on rape, bestiality, and necrophilia - of course this is all within Harry's nightmare sequence. Graphic descriptions of Harry vomiting. Some major hurt/comfort. -CHAPTER SPOILER-
IX
Bob and I had made a mutual, nonverbal agreement at the end of our equally nonverbal, hot and wet argument that we were going to be extremely preoccupied with something else. It had lasted into that night and all of today, which had been by far the most productive day of my existence. I read twice over the documents Murphy had given me,and once over the Call of Cthulhu RPG book, reading everything. Then I read it a second time, skipping all the RPG nonsense. I made notes, drew diagrams, and when I couldn't focus on that anymore, I took to cleaning out the refrigerator and doing some laundry. I went out, picked up some milk and a new phone - and got an odd look from the cashier, because I swear I buy a new phone every three months. At one point I went out for a walk and stopped at a pay phone (the less I use mine the better) to call Murphy's cell, but she didn't answer. I left her a message, told her to drop by sometime.
I was lonely. I couldn't remember a time when I was lonelier. I'd had Bob around ever since my dad died, and my dad dying had been a different sort of loneliness because Bob wasn't dead he was just downstairs. This? This lying in bed staring up at the ceiling, knowing Bob was around but I couldn't talk to him - stars and stones, this was worse.
I could talk to him, but I figured it would just be more of the drab, unfeeling, nice-nice talk that we'd used under the pretense that everything was normal.
Everything was not normal. Even if Bob and I weren't fighting, my world had stopped and then started spinning the other way, knocking me flat on my ass, and now I had to get up and moving before it rolled over me.
But Bob and I were fighting, and as far as fights go, this one wasn't normal either. I had no idea how to handle this one. We'd had our fair share of disagreements - at one point after I'd murdered Justin, I convinced myself that I hated Bob, but really, I just hated the fact that my father was dead, that my uncle was dead, and that Bob was dead. Bob had always been dead, but he was still around, and somehow that wasn't fair. All of my misguided anger fixed on him because I had no one else. I couldn't handle the injustice anymore. Even then, I had never stopped loving Bob. I couldn't. Justin was dead. Once upon a time I'd loved him as my family - even if I did think he was creepy. I'd grown to love the man, and that's what made the scar left by his betrayal that much deeper. So Bob, even though a ghost, was really all I had left in my life and that warranted a piece of my living, beating heart.
Five years had passed since then, and with each year that went by, the piece got a little bigger. And then he got a living, beating heart of his own... and I couldn't help but wonder just how big of a piece he had reserved for me.
When the first thoughts that went beyond a vague fascination with Bob's body surfaced, some part of my brain started construction. Brick by brick, walls to keep out thoughts of wanting to know him intimately, to know his body, were built. I told myself no, those thoughts were not allowed between Bob and me. Lustful thoughts about Bob broke some sort of sacred code, and touching myself while thinking them was taboo.
I knew it was bad, that I needed those walls to stay firmly in place, because my libido had taken a keen interest in Bob... and then that kiss. That kiss had taken out the mortar between those safety bricks, leaving the wall standing, but now the bricks were held together by their weight alone. A good, hard shove would send them toppling.
That kiss made me realize that there was something more to my desire than just a passing fancy, and that scared me. I didn't take the time in my conquests to build a friendship. It wasn't worth it; they'd never accept me. And then there was Bob, who was already my friend, someone I loved profoundly; it wasn't long after his corporeality was established that my hormones took root in that stability. I hadn't realized until he'd left me open and reeling after that kiss, that my heart had followed suit, and I knew with an ache that I didn't just love Bob. There was a distinctive in that preceded love, and I needed my goddamn walls.
But lying there on my bed, staring up at the ceiling with my cock half hard, I couldn't turn my thoughts away from him. I told myself I wouldn't, that to do so would break down the barriers I had constructed. But honestly... I didn't want to think of anyone else. In the end, I couldn't help myself as my left hand loosened its death-grip on the sheets and snuck under the waistband of my shorts. I let out a breathy, soft oh like a held-too-long sigh as I gripped myself. It felt good - and shameful - and good. Slow, even-pressured strokes as I worked my way to full arousal. I felt my face relax as muscles elsewhere tightened and my body heated. Blood pumped its way into my cock as thoughts squeezed themselves between tiny crevices in brick walls.
I thought about his skin and ran my hand down my chest, feeling the texture of heated skin and softer-than-it-should-be chest hair - what? In my showers after puberty, I had used whatever conditioner was leftover on my hands over my chest. I'd never gotten a bad remark about it, only good; I had some girls who couldn't stop twirling their fingers in my chest hair. I wondered, trailing my fingers through the soft curls, how Bob would take to it... would he mind the extra hair of a man as opposed to a woman?
I ran my hand back up along my ribs and tweaked a nipple, biting my lip in the pleasure I imagined it would bring Bob if it were his chest I was caressing. Then I brought my hand to my lips, just so I could feel something against them. I wasn't sure whether I was teasing my hand with my lips or the other way around. I thought about the way he'd kissed, his heart-shaped lips flush against mine, full of passion.
I wondered, if he kissed like that, what would he fuck like? Hard, fast, and thorough, until I was limp in his arms? All that passion built up over centuries - gods, I could only imagine what it would be like to be his lover. Maybe it was just my magical heritage, but the most erotic thing for me was my partner's emotions, their enthrallment ... even deeper, darker, was the heady power of knowing I brought them that pleasure, I induced their lust-drunk state of intoxication. I could easily be swept up in the powerful desires and passionate need of my partner - in those rare cases the sex was only better for it.
I imagined the sort of hungry edge Bob would have after being touch-starved for so long, and I stroked harder, sucking three fingertips into my mouth. After so long, he would be almost - and my stomach quivered at the thought - virginal. Would his touch be slow and coy, then? Or would he be too eager to restrain himself and take me against a wall if the opportunity presented itself?
Of course, I had a leaning toward the side of being a wanton bottom, but what if the roles were reversed? Memory shot back to 'nor have I ever had something up my ass', and heat flushed my skin anew; I groaned at the thought of untouched tight heat surrounding me. I'd make sure he was ready; I'd work him up slowly until he was panting - begging. Oh gods, Bob begging, what a delicious travesty. I silenced my drawn-out groan by biting my hand, letting the sweet relief flood me as I brought myself off to thoughts of being his first. I came, hot jets streaking my stomach and messing the sheets.
Still breathing hard, I took a few tissues off the nightstand and did a quick clean up. I tossed them to where I thought the trash might have been, but I was too drowsy to see if I'd made it. Sated, I closed my eyes, wanting to sleep before the endorphins wore off and I remembered that I wasn't supposed to be thinking about Bob's virginal-ass.
It seemed like only a few seconds later that I felt a weight settle next to me on the bed, and my eyes snapped blearily open. Bob looked startled to have wakened me, as though he'd thought I'd been in a much deeper sleep.
“I'm-” Bob cut off the apology that was apparent in his eyes and reconsidered his words. “I didn't mean to wake you.”
Did he not want me to mistake I'm Sorry as an apology for something else? My gaze locked on his face, seeing the lines of uncertainty around his drawn mouth and tired eyes. Bob looked every bit his near-two-hundred years when he was worried, and it made me feel young and naïve.
Without further hesitation on his part, he plunged into an explanation:
“I will explain to you Necromancy in theory, which is dangerous enough in and of itself. You deserve at least that,” he said stoically. “Do not ask me the means de facto; I shan't tell you.”
I stared. Was this Bob's attempt at an apology? I'm sorry for l when I kissed you, Harry, but in retribution I'll teach you what you'd wanted to know in the first place - no harm done. Did he really think it was going to be that simple? Did he have no idea how much he'd left me wanting? How it hurt that he'd toyed with me?
“I'm not interested in Necromancing people, Bob.” I said plainly. I rolled over, my back toward him. “We'll talk about it in the morning.”
His weight eased off the bed, and I hated the way I felt the loss even while I was angry with him. I would have forgiven him, I would have forgiven everything, if he'd just stayed and told me he was sorry. Sorry for making me want him, and then he could crawl into bed beside me and we'd have fabulous make-up sex until noon.
Alison. She'd followed me here. Green-black mists, and through them I feel her - I feel It - ever-present. I am terrified, but there is no running this time; I turn to face her and she's dead, puffy, rotting corpse hanging suspended, green-blue-pale-white-skin and lacerated body hanging in front of me, and she moves; she's dead, but her head rolls up-around to look at me and watching her move makes me sick 'cause she's dead, she's dead, she's dead. Her once-pretty lips hang open - lifeless, black ichor dribbles out as she speaks, but she's dead - she must not know it because she speaks to me anyway, but the voice doesn't sound like hers - Why didn't you save me? - thin reedy voice asks, but I can't answer - Why didn't you kill me before It did? - black thick blood from her lips, streaking down her breasts - she's naked and blue-green-white, naked and it hurts to look at her - so helpless and frail, dead and pale. I feel her nakedness like a thing against my skin and it is terrible, terrible things - something rises out of the mists - smooth and slithering and dark, dark, darkness snakes Its way forward, slithering up her leg and I feel sick, sick - I watch - watching as It worms Its way inside - between her death-pale legs and I throb - this is wrong, wrong, wrong! Stop! She screams but she's dead, dead and screaming, crying now, it must hurt so bad, badly! She's screaming, crying as It is inside-between-her-legs-inside-stop! I throb but I don't want to - stop! This is so wrong, wrong, stop - It eats, It feeds, It isn't raping her because that is Its mouth and It eats - Its eating her from the inside out, from the inside out - stop! Don't hurt her, I'm so sorry - so sorry, and I try to tell her so, but I can't - I can't speak because It's using my mouth to eat her and I don't want to - stop! stop! stop! My mouth, my mouth - and when I swallow I feel her dead flesh down my throat and I'm sick - so sick. I couldn't tear It out, couldn't tear It out, and it's too late now because It's an extension of myself because I couldn't tear it out and It's inside me and I don't want to be used like this - make it stop, stop it, make it stop - don't eat her, and it's too late, she'd dead and I've swallowed her inside me and I hate the way it feels in my blood, throbbing - stop, stop, stop, this isn't me, I don't want it. I don't want my mouth, stop it, I feel so sick, throbbing, but It won't let me stop.
I startled from my sleep, my body lurching up into a half-sitting position as heavy vomit sped up my throat. My body reacted on instinct, my torso twisting so that I was leaning over the edge of the bed as I wretched helplessly on the carpet. My hands gripped the sheets for balance - my whole body rocked with the force of the heaves. I felt sweat break out all over, giving me chills, and suddenly, Bob was there.
He was running a hand down my back, telling me something, I think I heard my name a few times over the roar of my stomach. He was on the bed - away from the floor and the mess I was making - and I couldn't make up my mind whether I wanted him to stay or go. He kept murmuring to me, words I'll never know because I was beyond understanding him at that point, but his voice ... I craved his voice nonetheless.
Even after the contents of my stomach were splattered all over the floor, I couldn't stop my stomach from lurching, and I spat out the bile and as much of the taste as I could. I took a few deep breaths after the violent heaves of my stomach subsided. I sat up a little more, and Bob moved back, giving me room. I turned my head away as I wiped the tears from my cheeks. Yeah, I knew he could see me anyway, but it made me feel better. I was still shaking, and the spinning of my mind was making me dizzy. I stood up from the bed on trembling legs - I needed to get away from the smell, or I was just going to start all over again.
I stumbled down the stairs, my throat burning from bile and humiliation. Bob's footsteps followed me down, but I didn't turn back to look at him. I made a beeline for the bathroom - I needed a drink; hell, I needed a shower to get the feel of grime and sweat and the taint I could still feel lurking somewhere under my skin. I turned on the tap and rinsed out my mouth, and then I started to strip, peeling off my t-shirt and tossing it to the floor. I reached for the elastic waistband of my drawers and stopped mid-rush. There was a dampness that didn't feel right, a dampness that wasn't supposed to be there. I force-swallowed, slowly pulling the elastic away from my body, I looked down at the fresh semen plastering my lower abs and shorts.
Suddenly it was really hard to think. I stared down at the mess I'd made, like it wasn't really there - at any second it would go away and I could tolerate myself as a decent human being. I touched it, and I stared at the pearly whiteness that was now contaminating my fingers, and just like that, it sunk in.
I screamed, a wordless, desperate cry that was quickly choked off by another round of upcoming vomit. It came on too quickly for me to make it to the toilet and I ended up arched over the sink, coughing up bile and air. The heaves were so rapid that I could barely inhale; I felt like I was slowly suffocating.
“Harry...?” Bob called from the other side of the door, but I couldn't answer him; I couldn't do much but submit to my body's hagridden reflexes. He was inside the bathroom then, coming dreadfully closer, and I wanted to yell, to scream at him not to touch me, but my stomach was threatening to heave itself up my esophagus.
I started to cry, worthless tears streaming down my cheeks as I sobbed through my strangling heaves. My knees gave out, failing under the weight of my body as gravity slowly dragged me to the floor. I had long since run out of things to throw up, but I was still fighting to keep my stomach an internal organ.
Holding myself in with my arms across my chest, I carved my nails into my skin, trailing white-hot pain down my shoulders. I rocked into the pain and away from everything else, away from Alison's dead body, away from my shame and loathing of something I couldn't even name. Let the darkness enfold me, let it come and fade out the light so I don't have to see myself anymore.
Harry. I thought I heard my name being called. Harry, stop...!
Go away, Bob.
“Harry, stop it - you're doing yourself injury!” He was insistent and so close to me - touching me, firm hands over mine.
Don't touch me!
He was trying to stop me - trying to keep me from escaping - but I needed to run from this 'cause there was no way I could face it. I had to get away from this, please, please, please let me go, Bob. I fought him, and he held tighter. I was captured by sturdy arms that wouldn't let go no matter how much I rebelled. My voice tore free of my throat and I yelled, and grunted, and cried out pleas and begged against his embrace, because I didn't deserve comfort - I deserved hell.
Don't ... please, don't ... Bob, don't ... please let me go - don't touch me, I'm so sorry, so sorry, let me go, don't touch me, hate me! Hate me, I'm so fucked ... please don't, Bob... I sobbed half-coherently, battling for words, and breath, and freedom.
His only response came as whispers of touch and feeling. My fight was smothered by his onslaught of calm, and I was left shuddering and reeling. I cried convulsively, all restraint abandoned, and lost myself in an uncontrolled, unbidden sob.
When I was finally self-aware enough to take in my surroundings, I could feel his cheek pressed against mine, one arm cradling my head, while the other was firmly wrapped around my back. I must have stiffened because he relaxed his embrace, and slowly withdrawing, he whispered:
“Why don't you take a nice, long shower, Harry?”
I shook my head a little, conscious of how my tears had made both our cheeks slick. “No, I don't really want to look at myself right now,” I replied quietly. I felt detached in saying it.
He straightened up away from me, eyeing the livid, bleeding welts I'd left on my arms. He stood. “Why don't we get you cleaned up, then?”
I didn't answer. I didn't move. I felt empty, like I hadn't even the will left to lift my eyes from the tile floor. I heard him run the tap, and a few seconds later I felt a cool, wet cloth wiping from shoulder to elbow.
“We'll make a potion, hm?” he suggested. “You always like to make them when you're troubled,” he continued when I hadn't responded. “Something to help you sleep - dreamlessly. You're exhausted.”
I smiled mirthlessly and got to my feet somehow. I felt more dead then alive, and I didn't care for either. Nonexistent was rather more appealing. In the lab, I went through the motions of setting up a potion, which was so familiar to me now that I could have the hell beaten out of me and still be able to brew. When all else failed, potion-making was the only thing that centered me, and as I worked under Bob's unobtrusive guidance, I felt like I was being restored little by little.
Bob and I went back and forth suggesting the possible components for each of the six senses. Black glass for sight, cotton for hearing - all of which I had in the lab. Touch, taste, and smell, as well as the base liquid was being gathered by Bob. I searched through my collection of herbs, for the mind's ingredient and took out a package of Thorn Apple seeds.
“I've an old mitten, the milk and the ice cubes as requested, and...” Bob gave the Wizard-brand deodorizer a dubious look. “Well, this.”
“That'll work.”
“Have you found your sixth ingredient?” he asked, peering over my shoulder, as I counted out three seeds from the package.
“Are those...? Harry,” Bob's voice was mildly reproachful. “Datura stramonium?”
I took what he brought without looking at him and poured the milk in the pot and let it warm. I debated using the seeds as I added each of the other five ingredients to the pot.
“Harry,” he said slowly, his voice careful but warning nonetheless. “Datura seeds are known to cause amnesia.”
“That's what I'm going for, Bob.”
“It's too dangerous - there's no telling-”
“-I've got this.” I cut him off and dropped two seeds in, putting the third back in the pouch. I raised my Will, or at least as much of it as I could, but it wasn't enough. All I had left was either numbness or madness. I stared hopelessly down into the pot, whatever strength I had regained slipping away.
Perhaps Bob could see it - or hell, at that point he could probably feel it - but if he did, he didn't say as much. Gently, he guided me aside and raised his hand over the potion-to-be; green-electric light ignited the the contents. “Go lie down, Harry,” he instructed softly.
Thirty minutes later, he brought out the potion in my regular squeeze bottle, and I drank what tasted like sleep and let oblivion claim me there on the couch.
The next thing I was conscious of was the door. I was barely awake, but I had thought that knock sounded like Murphy, so I was kind of surprised when I heard a little girl's voice ask:
“So are you a wizard, too?”
I got up, feeling like I'd been hit by a semi with a hard-on. I retrieved my robe from the bathroom and then walked into the front where Bob, Murphy, and a mini-Murphy, presumably Ana, were standing by the desk where Bob's skull sat. The desk was neatly cluttered, a tale-tell sign he had been working there all morning. Bob was smiling and nodding at the dark-haired girl who barely came up to his chest; in return, she was looking up at him with all the unguarded wonder and interest that a kid her age should have.
It was Murphy who caught sight of me first. “Hey, Harry,” she gave me a once over, and then she inclined her head to her daughter, “This is Ana.”
“Hi, Ana,” I said a little gruffly, and her dark eyes turned on mine. Stars and stones, the kid looked a hell of a lot like her mom close up. Ana had those same penetrating eyes that missed nothing, and her hair was just the same as her mom's but shorter, just brushing her collar and framing her cute face. Her smile was different, though, but maybe it was just the openness with which she gave it; made me wonder if Murphy could smile like that. I made mental note to try sometime.
“Hi,” she said in a chipper voice. She wasn't shy at all, this one, which was a little unnerving for me - she had met my gaze straight on and still smiled. Maybe I'd been hanging around adults too long. Her attention didn't remain on me, though; her interest took the form of an old, rune-covered human skull that was sitting close by.
“You left me a message,” Murphy prompted, her eyes still on her daughter as Ana wandered over for a closer inspection.
“Yeah,” I said with a burst of exuberance that died as soon as I remembered that I'd called her just to distract myself. “I did,” I said flatly, and shot a meaningful glance at Ana to buy myself some time to think of an excuse.
“Sorry,” she began in a lowered voice as we moved a few steps to the right, “I just picked her up from her father's - you were on the way.”
“Oh, no - don't apologize,” I reassured her, giving a casual shrug. To our left, Bob and Ana were carrying on their own private conversation. “It's nice to finally meet the kid.”
She nodded, and then said abruptly, “You look like hell, Harry. Are you all right?”
“Yeah, just, uh...” I shrugged. Why did my head feel so fuzzy? I knew I felt like hell and probably looked worse, but I couldn't really remember why. What time was it, anyway?
Murphy smiled, but her look was still expectant. Think, Harry. “I was just wondering how the case was going.”
“It's sort of out of my hands at this point.” Murphy eyed me suspiciously. “I was only involved as far as the big occult mark went. The owner decided not to press charges on the kids for the destruction of the barn. He just liked to complain, a lot.”
I nodded sympathetically. I'd had my fair share of clients who didn't really want anything other than an ear to nag.
Murphy smiled tiredly and went on. “There isn't a large cult needing to be tracked down and prevented from committing more acts of arson, so the case is closed. As far as Alison Carter goes... Well, they don't give me murders unless the circumstances are unusual enough.”
I felt the defeat in her words, but there was something else as well - and I nodded, trying to remember just what it was that glimmered on the edge of my consciousness. I remembered a little of our conversation on the ride home from the psych ward.
“How's that barn doing, by the way?”
She gave me A Look. “I haven't been back there,” she said firmly.
“But you're thinking about it.”
She smiled. “Touché.”
“Murphy-” I was interrupted by her pager.
Conversation dropped, and it was strangely tense in the room as Murphy read quickly, her eyes shooting first up to Ana and then to me.
“What is it?” I asked, a little worried about the unease in her eyes.
Ana answered first. “Work,” she said, her tone indicating a certain level of loathing. She was glaring disappointedly at her mother as if there were no one else in the room.
Murphy's mouth fell open a little, and then she closed it. “I'm sorry, Ana.” She paused, hooking her pager back onto her belt while considering her daughter's frown. “I'll give some extra money to Lizzy - maybe she can take you out for ice cream.”
“I wanted to go with you.”
Murphy gave me a small, hopeless glance and then crossed the room to her daughter. “I know, sweetie, but I can't help that now.”
I realized then that the unease I'd seen in Murphy's eyes hadn't been about what her pager said, but about her daughter, and with a pang in my gut I knew I wasn't looking at Murphy-the-cop but Murphy-the-mom, who apparently had a very delicate relationship with her daughter.
“I don't want to go to Lizzy's house,” Ana was protesting softly over my thoughts. “Can't I stay here?”
“Ana-!”
“Please!” she said quickly, right on the heels of her mother's scolding. “Mr. Bob and me were just comparing Harrys.”
That seemed to stop Murphy short; it did me as well.
“Comparing Harrys...?”
“Yeah,” she replied, as though her mother should know perfectly well what she was talking about. She pointed to me, “That Harry,” and then she pointed to her forehead, “and the one with the scar?”
“Oh,” Murphy said slowly. “Right, of course; but honey, it's not polite to invite yourself over, okay?” She looked like she was going to say more, and so did Ana, but Bob, who'd been seemingly forgotten by mother and child, spoke up.
“I don't mind. She may stay as long as Harry is all right with it.”
“Oh, no, you don't have to-”
“Yay!” Ana cheered over her mother. “Oh please, mom - just say yes?”
Murphy turned half around, looking torn. “Harry?”
“Uh, sure, whatever.” I was too stunned by Bob's offer to disagree with it. Besides, the kid was smiling ear to ear now, and how could I say no to that?
“All right,” Murphy said, regaining her mom's-the-boss footing, “but you're to be on your best behavior, miss.”
“Uh-huh!” Ana agreed, nodding enthusiastically.
“This should be quick,” Murphy said, addressing Bob and me. “Not more than an hour. I'll call if...” she trailed off when her pager beeped again. “Got to go.” She gave a parting Behave-Yourself Look to Ana before heading out the door.
I followed her, closing the door behind us as we exited. I wanted one more chance to warn her about going back to the barn, but she turned to me instead, speaking as she hurried to her car.
“You know, I'm surprised that Ana wanted to stay - she doesn't normally take to people so quickly,” she admitted, laughing apologetically. “Thank Robert again for me - I'll pay him what I usually do Lizzy.”
Robert? Oh, she meant Bob. “Yeah, no problem. Say, Murphy-”
She paused just as she was about to crawl into the driver's seat, though something told me she hadn't really been listening. She looked fondly back to the door of my apartment, her head visible over the roof of her car. “His kids must've loved him, you know?”
“Kids?”
“Yeah,” Murphy studied me. “He has kids, doesn't he? He must have gained those paternal instincts from somewhere.” She smiled a little and said, “Be a shame if he didn't have kids of his own.”
I was still standing outside after Murphy had driven off. I couldn't get over how sure she had sounded when she talked about Bob having kids - as if she'd known something I hadn't. I felt hollowed out. He'd never spoken of having children, but he was nearly two hundred when he died, and he'd been with Winefride, right? How could he not have an offspring or two? Why had I never thought of this before?
I turned back to the apartment, feeling the wedge between Bob and me sink in a little deeper under the weight of another secret.