Distance, Part Two
Title: Distance, Part Two
Author: pinkdoom
Summary: Sometimes it takes a little distance to understand how precious what you have truly is
Rating PG-13 for Part Two
Word Count: 2,501
Disclaimer: Not mine!! All is property of Jim Butcher, this is for entertainment purposes only.
Warnings: Oh, there's quite a few, but they all come later; right now, just a little language and some POV switching between Harry and Bob so you get the entire story instead of just one side; a build-up of angst that's gonna lead somewhere not pretty; just a reminder, corporeal Bob, no explanation.
Beta'd by: edana_ni_emer and moonchildetoo
Author's Note: Okay, I lied and had said I'd put this up this weekend, but since I'm working on the end of this story now...why not? It's got 13 parts to it, soon to be 14. I think I have time to finish it :) This is arguably one of the most important parts of the story because it is the lead-up to what drives the rest of it. Be warned...may be angst-overload ahead! ;)
Previous Parts: Distance, Part One
I waited until I saw Bob behind the wheel of the Jeep before rocketing down the drive. The first feel of the Harley beneath me as I followed the path out to the road was fantastic, and it made me want to really see what the machine could do. The second the bike's tires touched the road, I took off, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake. I heard the Jeep behind me, but the sound grew distant as I sped up, heading straight for the highway.
Once we were on the highway and headed home, an idea hit and I grinned. As much as I wanted to just go back to the apartment and forget about this eerie-assed day, I really wanted a chance to ride the bike. Alone, with no one behind me. I peeked over my shoulder and saw Bob about three car lengths behind, doing his best to keep up with me but also stay under any police radar that might be around.
I gave him one last look before swerving quickly to the right, cutting across traffic, and taking the next exit. This way, I'd loop around the city and wind my way back to the apartment in about a half an hour, given traffic. But most importantly, he couldn't follow. I know that sounds awful, but after spending the entire day swamped by bad memories, even with Bob there, I needed some time alone. Some headspace, some fresh air--well, as fresh as it gets on the outskirts of Chicago--and a chance to get my nerves back to normal.
And, I wanted a chance to see what this bike could do. There were some great back roads just outside the city, where the pavement, glass, and tall buildings give way to trees, wildlife, and some of the best scenery this side of the Mississippi.
I knew he'd scold me once I got home, but for now, this was what I wanted. I followed the exit, curved onto a highway that would lead me out of town, and just rode along as the Harley carried me with it. The feel of this machine...steel and chrome and engine bits moving together to create such a fierce beauty...almost made me believe I was riding a living, breathing thing instead of something man-made. If I could buy the man who invented these things a beer, I would. Hell, I'd buy him beer for the rest of his life if possible.
A car, even the Jeep, has things to hold you in--roof, doors, back window. It's got four tires, a steering wheel, usually anti-lock brakes. Some people cherish their cars like children--taking care of them, pouring money into them, showing them off. Some people simply see cars as a form of transportation, and that goes for not just cars, but trucks, SUVs...automobiles, vehicles. It's a way to get where you need or want to go, and get there fast, so long as you're not stuck in rush hour traffic. But cars have become more than just a way to get from point A to point B and back again. They've got stereos, GPS units, DVD players...all the wonders of modern technology.
But a motorcycle has none of these things...nothing to protect you from the wind, nothing to keep your mind elsewhere when it should be on the road, nothing to hold you back from the joy of simply going somewhere, and not caring where you wind up. Part of me wanted to just keep going and never look back--I figured it was the Harley talking and nothing more, since everything I cared about rested in the heart of the Windy City. But the freedom you get on a bike, and not just a Harley, but any bike, was easily capable of blowing away your family's minivan or your friend's convertible, or even your favorite celebrity's flashy luxury car.
Money, gadgets, speed, power--couldn't hold a candle to how it felt to be on the open road, on a Harley.
The scent of not-far-off pine trees hit my nose, and I followed as the Harley took me farther and farther beyond Chicago. Giddy, I risked swallowing a few bugs and let out a whoop of childlike laughter, enjoying the absolute thrill of being taken on a ride by such a beast.
* * *
I slammed the front door shut behind me and tried to ignore the water I was dripping all over the floor. Harry had taken off on that blasted machine and left me unable to follow. No doubt I would sound like a mother hen if I came to him with this, and he would just get annoyed with me and walk away, because that's how Harry dealt with me anymore when we got into a snit. We yelled and slammed things, yes, but lately...he wouldn't even stay in the same room as me when he was angry. He'd simply walk away and ignore the problem entirely, which made me all the more frustrated.
These last few weeks had been utter hell, and between money problems, slowing business, and us being angry at each other on and off, I couldn't help but be tense around Harry. Returning to the bastard's house was supposed to be a solution for the money problems and hopefully tide us over until business picked up again, but doing that unleashed hordes of memories that I had done my best to push back. Years spent in captivity with Justin Morningway as the holder of my skull, ordered to piece together intricate and challenging spells that I know were used for purposes far darker than I would have ever wanted. And Morningway told me nothing of what he did with those spells after the fact, and quite frankly, I had no desire to know what dastardly deeds he had committed. Morningway's hands and heart were as black as sin, as deep and dark as evil can get, but no one saw it because he rarely did the work himself. Money and power always afford privilege and other people to do your bidding. Just stepping into that house today made my entire body tense, and since Harry and I spent a good part of the day there, I had come away exhausted and wanting to go home. The point of that was to go home with Harry and try to find a way to talk to him without one of us blowing up at the other. It was my secret hope that by being in that place together and sharing similar, painful memories, even if in silence, would help us try to regain the bond between us that had been breaking.
I hadn't been that fortunate.
Harry and I have always been drastically different people, with personalities that do not always mesh well, but since I'd been returned to a corporeal state, those differences had been thrown into a more illuminating, if not more depressing, light. Harry's a kind soul, every inch a brave, if not stubbornly stalwart, man who would risk his life to defend those he loves and complete strangers. Most people, even the most upright of us, don't have that kind of bravery. I certainly don't. He doesn't always think things through, he's a bit rash when it comes to jumping into situations, and his weakness for damsels in distress has done him in on more than one occasion.
But for all that, I couldn't help but love him. He was a part of me, body and soul. But it had become increasingly obvious to me that this was not true for Harry. Our fights the past few weeks all stemmed from me getting angry at him after I discovered him unconscious in a warehouse. Details aside, he'd taken off on his own, again, as was his habit, and left me to worry and fret over his well-being. I could have tracked him down with a spell, but since I was a fool and took him at his word that he wouldn't get personally involved in this particular case, I figured I could trust him to not get into too much trouble. I was wrong, and after several hours of frustration and anxiety, I eventually found him in a cold, damp warehouse, his head bleeding profusely. I remembered well how my heart had stopped beating for a few moments as my mind tried to convince myself that he wasn't dead, and that I wasn't alone again in this world.
I'd carried him back to the Jeep and tended to his wound as best I could before driving home, the speed limits and traffic rules be damned. I couldn't take him to a hospital because he'd short out every machine within twenty yards, so I took him back to our apartment and got him into bed. I cleaned his wound, then sat by him and watched him sleep, worrying over and over again that I would never find another person I cared so deeply about, and hating myself for not being able to tell him my true feelings. He looked utterly helpless, lying there on the bed, bruised and bandaged, and it took all my strength of will not to gather him in my arms and hold him until he awoke. It was about a day before he recovered his senses, and that was when I laid into him. I yelled and cursed at him, angry at being left alone, left to worry, and my anger overtook my sense of reason and my rationality, and I said many things I later regretted. I'd called him a moron and irresponsible, said he cared nothing for how I felt when what he did affected me--personally and emotionally--amongst other insults I hurled at him. But even while I was screaming at him, I knew I was damaging our relationship, perhaps even irreparably.
My fear of being alone...without him, without ever having the chance, and more importantly, the courage to tell him I loved him, won out, far above any sane reasoning. I was angry and hurt...and I wanted him to know it. He took every horrible word I threw at him with wide eyes and furrowed brow. And worst of all, when my anger was spent and my voice hoarse from shouting, Harry gave me the saddest look I've ever seen, his face a mask of pain and confusion and misunderstood anger. I hated myself in that moment, for making him feel those awful emotions, for being the cause of that look on his face. And he said nothing to me other than, "I'm sorry, Bob", and walked away.
That was a little over two weeks ago, and tensions between us have not simmered at all, but instead have come to a boiling point. I couldn't tell him I loved him because it would ruin our friendship and more than likely force one of us to leave the apartment. I had already decided, rather morbidly, that if it came to that, if he somehow found out about how much I cared for him, it would be I that would leave and find a place of my own. It was Harry's apartment to begin with, and it wouldn't be right of me to insist on staying in such a situation. I knew I was worrying about the "what if" problems, the kind that can never be solved when you're worrying about them because they haven't happened, and may never.
I shook the water from my hair and stomped across the apartment to the kitchen. A pot of tea might chase away the chill of this rainy evening, but nothing would get rid of the ache in my soul. I set about making the tea, trying to focus on the task at hand, but my mind kept wandering. Looking down as the kettle started to warm, I suddenly found myself overwhelmed by everything I was feeling. Dammit...I slammed the palm of my hand on the worn countertop, relishing that little bit of pain.
I'd loved Harry for a little over a year, though I cared deeply for him for a much longer period of time. The first time he'd called me forth and I found myself staring at a slightly older, slightly taller, slightly more rough version of the man who had left the Morningway estate two years before, I'd been ecstatic. I was no longer in the hands of that bastard, and with his death and my new owner, I'd been given a kind of vindication. It wasn't freedom, but there was most definitely the potential promise of happier times and less guilt for me. I may have been an insubstantial being, but my feelings were far from incorporeal. All the grime from Morningway's deeds, the things he'd had me do for him, weighed heavily upon my mind, but with Harry as my keeper...the possibilities were far better, to say the least. After all, I'd had a hand in raising Harry, teaching him to be responsible and mindful of his power, to never use it for evil. And even after what had happened with Morningway and his death, I still deeply believed that Harry was a good man, and that his basic inner structure would never change.
I grew to love this man, to care and worry for him, to want nothing more than to be able to admit my feelings to him and be welcomed into his arms, and maybe, eventually, his bed.
After these last few weeks, any remaining hope of my love being reciprocated had been all but obliterated. And now he'd taken off on that motorcycle and left me alone, to return home and worry about him until he decided to come back. The Harley made him happy, that was obvious, but I couldn't help but let my own anger and hurt at being left behind....alone, win out over any secondary pleasure his joy might have provided me.
I felt like a servant for him, a persona non grata who no more needed to know his master's whereabouts than the local shopkeeper. He didn't treat me as a servant per se, not directly, but from what I was beginning to understand, Harry cared more for his cat's feelings than he did mine. And that, despite my best efforts, rankled something awful. I had to fight from slamming the tea kettle down after I poured a cup for myself, and I just settled at the table and stared morosely into the steaming hot brown liquid.
Fear and concern have no rationality, no rhyme or reason, and that is why they are such powerful, potent emotions. I may be a civilized man, hundreds of years old with more knowledge than a room full of experts and textbooks, but I am human as well. I scoffed at my self-loathing, but couldn't help but think even the mighty Hrothbert of Bainbridge can become a slave to his emotions, to his fears and worries and worst of all, his anger.
Author: pinkdoom
Summary: Sometimes it takes a little distance to understand how precious what you have truly is
Rating PG-13 for Part Two
Word Count: 2,501
Disclaimer: Not mine!! All is property of Jim Butcher, this is for entertainment purposes only.
Warnings: Oh, there's quite a few, but they all come later; right now, just a little language and some POV switching between Harry and Bob so you get the entire story instead of just one side; a build-up of angst that's gonna lead somewhere not pretty; just a reminder, corporeal Bob, no explanation.
Beta'd by: edana_ni_emer and moonchildetoo
Author's Note: Okay, I lied and had said I'd put this up this weekend, but since I'm working on the end of this story now...why not? It's got 13 parts to it, soon to be 14. I think I have time to finish it :) This is arguably one of the most important parts of the story because it is the lead-up to what drives the rest of it. Be warned...may be angst-overload ahead! ;)
Previous Parts: Distance, Part One
I waited until I saw Bob behind the wheel of the Jeep before rocketing down the drive. The first feel of the Harley beneath me as I followed the path out to the road was fantastic, and it made me want to really see what the machine could do. The second the bike's tires touched the road, I took off, leaving a cloud of dust in my wake. I heard the Jeep behind me, but the sound grew distant as I sped up, heading straight for the highway.
Once we were on the highway and headed home, an idea hit and I grinned. As much as I wanted to just go back to the apartment and forget about this eerie-assed day, I really wanted a chance to ride the bike. Alone, with no one behind me. I peeked over my shoulder and saw Bob about three car lengths behind, doing his best to keep up with me but also stay under any police radar that might be around.
I gave him one last look before swerving quickly to the right, cutting across traffic, and taking the next exit. This way, I'd loop around the city and wind my way back to the apartment in about a half an hour, given traffic. But most importantly, he couldn't follow. I know that sounds awful, but after spending the entire day swamped by bad memories, even with Bob there, I needed some time alone. Some headspace, some fresh air--well, as fresh as it gets on the outskirts of Chicago--and a chance to get my nerves back to normal.
And, I wanted a chance to see what this bike could do. There were some great back roads just outside the city, where the pavement, glass, and tall buildings give way to trees, wildlife, and some of the best scenery this side of the Mississippi.
I knew he'd scold me once I got home, but for now, this was what I wanted. I followed the exit, curved onto a highway that would lead me out of town, and just rode along as the Harley carried me with it. The feel of this machine...steel and chrome and engine bits moving together to create such a fierce beauty...almost made me believe I was riding a living, breathing thing instead of something man-made. If I could buy the man who invented these things a beer, I would. Hell, I'd buy him beer for the rest of his life if possible.
A car, even the Jeep, has things to hold you in--roof, doors, back window. It's got four tires, a steering wheel, usually anti-lock brakes. Some people cherish their cars like children--taking care of them, pouring money into them, showing them off. Some people simply see cars as a form of transportation, and that goes for not just cars, but trucks, SUVs...automobiles, vehicles. It's a way to get where you need or want to go, and get there fast, so long as you're not stuck in rush hour traffic. But cars have become more than just a way to get from point A to point B and back again. They've got stereos, GPS units, DVD players...all the wonders of modern technology.
But a motorcycle has none of these things...nothing to protect you from the wind, nothing to keep your mind elsewhere when it should be on the road, nothing to hold you back from the joy of simply going somewhere, and not caring where you wind up. Part of me wanted to just keep going and never look back--I figured it was the Harley talking and nothing more, since everything I cared about rested in the heart of the Windy City. But the freedom you get on a bike, and not just a Harley, but any bike, was easily capable of blowing away your family's minivan or your friend's convertible, or even your favorite celebrity's flashy luxury car.
Money, gadgets, speed, power--couldn't hold a candle to how it felt to be on the open road, on a Harley.
The scent of not-far-off pine trees hit my nose, and I followed as the Harley took me farther and farther beyond Chicago. Giddy, I risked swallowing a few bugs and let out a whoop of childlike laughter, enjoying the absolute thrill of being taken on a ride by such a beast.
* * *
I slammed the front door shut behind me and tried to ignore the water I was dripping all over the floor. Harry had taken off on that blasted machine and left me unable to follow. No doubt I would sound like a mother hen if I came to him with this, and he would just get annoyed with me and walk away, because that's how Harry dealt with me anymore when we got into a snit. We yelled and slammed things, yes, but lately...he wouldn't even stay in the same room as me when he was angry. He'd simply walk away and ignore the problem entirely, which made me all the more frustrated.
These last few weeks had been utter hell, and between money problems, slowing business, and us being angry at each other on and off, I couldn't help but be tense around Harry. Returning to the bastard's house was supposed to be a solution for the money problems and hopefully tide us over until business picked up again, but doing that unleashed hordes of memories that I had done my best to push back. Years spent in captivity with Justin Morningway as the holder of my skull, ordered to piece together intricate and challenging spells that I know were used for purposes far darker than I would have ever wanted. And Morningway told me nothing of what he did with those spells after the fact, and quite frankly, I had no desire to know what dastardly deeds he had committed. Morningway's hands and heart were as black as sin, as deep and dark as evil can get, but no one saw it because he rarely did the work himself. Money and power always afford privilege and other people to do your bidding. Just stepping into that house today made my entire body tense, and since Harry and I spent a good part of the day there, I had come away exhausted and wanting to go home. The point of that was to go home with Harry and try to find a way to talk to him without one of us blowing up at the other. It was my secret hope that by being in that place together and sharing similar, painful memories, even if in silence, would help us try to regain the bond between us that had been breaking.
I hadn't been that fortunate.
Harry and I have always been drastically different people, with personalities that do not always mesh well, but since I'd been returned to a corporeal state, those differences had been thrown into a more illuminating, if not more depressing, light. Harry's a kind soul, every inch a brave, if not stubbornly stalwart, man who would risk his life to defend those he loves and complete strangers. Most people, even the most upright of us, don't have that kind of bravery. I certainly don't. He doesn't always think things through, he's a bit rash when it comes to jumping into situations, and his weakness for damsels in distress has done him in on more than one occasion.
But for all that, I couldn't help but love him. He was a part of me, body and soul. But it had become increasingly obvious to me that this was not true for Harry. Our fights the past few weeks all stemmed from me getting angry at him after I discovered him unconscious in a warehouse. Details aside, he'd taken off on his own, again, as was his habit, and left me to worry and fret over his well-being. I could have tracked him down with a spell, but since I was a fool and took him at his word that he wouldn't get personally involved in this particular case, I figured I could trust him to not get into too much trouble. I was wrong, and after several hours of frustration and anxiety, I eventually found him in a cold, damp warehouse, his head bleeding profusely. I remembered well how my heart had stopped beating for a few moments as my mind tried to convince myself that he wasn't dead, and that I wasn't alone again in this world.
I'd carried him back to the Jeep and tended to his wound as best I could before driving home, the speed limits and traffic rules be damned. I couldn't take him to a hospital because he'd short out every machine within twenty yards, so I took him back to our apartment and got him into bed. I cleaned his wound, then sat by him and watched him sleep, worrying over and over again that I would never find another person I cared so deeply about, and hating myself for not being able to tell him my true feelings. He looked utterly helpless, lying there on the bed, bruised and bandaged, and it took all my strength of will not to gather him in my arms and hold him until he awoke. It was about a day before he recovered his senses, and that was when I laid into him. I yelled and cursed at him, angry at being left alone, left to worry, and my anger overtook my sense of reason and my rationality, and I said many things I later regretted. I'd called him a moron and irresponsible, said he cared nothing for how I felt when what he did affected me--personally and emotionally--amongst other insults I hurled at him. But even while I was screaming at him, I knew I was damaging our relationship, perhaps even irreparably.
My fear of being alone...without him, without ever having the chance, and more importantly, the courage to tell him I loved him, won out, far above any sane reasoning. I was angry and hurt...and I wanted him to know it. He took every horrible word I threw at him with wide eyes and furrowed brow. And worst of all, when my anger was spent and my voice hoarse from shouting, Harry gave me the saddest look I've ever seen, his face a mask of pain and confusion and misunderstood anger. I hated myself in that moment, for making him feel those awful emotions, for being the cause of that look on his face. And he said nothing to me other than, "I'm sorry, Bob", and walked away.
That was a little over two weeks ago, and tensions between us have not simmered at all, but instead have come to a boiling point. I couldn't tell him I loved him because it would ruin our friendship and more than likely force one of us to leave the apartment. I had already decided, rather morbidly, that if it came to that, if he somehow found out about how much I cared for him, it would be I that would leave and find a place of my own. It was Harry's apartment to begin with, and it wouldn't be right of me to insist on staying in such a situation. I knew I was worrying about the "what if" problems, the kind that can never be solved when you're worrying about them because they haven't happened, and may never.
I shook the water from my hair and stomped across the apartment to the kitchen. A pot of tea might chase away the chill of this rainy evening, but nothing would get rid of the ache in my soul. I set about making the tea, trying to focus on the task at hand, but my mind kept wandering. Looking down as the kettle started to warm, I suddenly found myself overwhelmed by everything I was feeling. Dammit...I slammed the palm of my hand on the worn countertop, relishing that little bit of pain.
I'd loved Harry for a little over a year, though I cared deeply for him for a much longer period of time. The first time he'd called me forth and I found myself staring at a slightly older, slightly taller, slightly more rough version of the man who had left the Morningway estate two years before, I'd been ecstatic. I was no longer in the hands of that bastard, and with his death and my new owner, I'd been given a kind of vindication. It wasn't freedom, but there was most definitely the potential promise of happier times and less guilt for me. I may have been an insubstantial being, but my feelings were far from incorporeal. All the grime from Morningway's deeds, the things he'd had me do for him, weighed heavily upon my mind, but with Harry as my keeper...the possibilities were far better, to say the least. After all, I'd had a hand in raising Harry, teaching him to be responsible and mindful of his power, to never use it for evil. And even after what had happened with Morningway and his death, I still deeply believed that Harry was a good man, and that his basic inner structure would never change.
I grew to love this man, to care and worry for him, to want nothing more than to be able to admit my feelings to him and be welcomed into his arms, and maybe, eventually, his bed.
After these last few weeks, any remaining hope of my love being reciprocated had been all but obliterated. And now he'd taken off on that motorcycle and left me alone, to return home and worry about him until he decided to come back. The Harley made him happy, that was obvious, but I couldn't help but let my own anger and hurt at being left behind....alone, win out over any secondary pleasure his joy might have provided me.
I felt like a servant for him, a persona non grata who no more needed to know his master's whereabouts than the local shopkeeper. He didn't treat me as a servant per se, not directly, but from what I was beginning to understand, Harry cared more for his cat's feelings than he did mine. And that, despite my best efforts, rankled something awful. I had to fight from slamming the tea kettle down after I poured a cup for myself, and I just settled at the table and stared morosely into the steaming hot brown liquid.
Fear and concern have no rationality, no rhyme or reason, and that is why they are such powerful, potent emotions. I may be a civilized man, hundreds of years old with more knowledge than a room full of experts and textbooks, but I am human as well. I scoffed at my self-loathing, but couldn't help but think even the mighty Hrothbert of Bainbridge can become a slave to his emotions, to his fears and worries and worst of all, his anger.