Dead & Damned Part II
Okay, here for the second part of my fic. Whee! Part I
Chapter 2
TV!Bob POV
Pg-13ish for some sexuality and language.
Disclaimer: Oh right, I don't own them. Tell that to my plot bunnies. What? You can't see them...? Their pink and ravenously chewing on my brain.
Summary: Uh... French guy. And some ... Frenchness.
Brief recap of WAB in the beginning - I know, I know! It's been done 100 times by now, but I started writing this right after the episode aired and it was too crappy then to post and now that it's better I don't want to take that part out!
Oh yeah, preslashy-ness galore.
II
Harry and his women. I’ve glimpsed the number of women who have passed through his door and from his bed. Usually pretty, occasionally young - most often never to be seen again - or seldom thereafter. Can hardly blame him really. What with his life being what it is? Nor can I find fault with his lovers - they must sense that there is something else - something that keeps him out of commitment’s arms and essentially, theirs as well.
Harry grew from the budding of adolescence under my silent gaze and strict tutelage. I looked on as he struggled into the maturity of an adult, carrying a load of secrets and repressed sexuality. The latter at least until he dived out into the other world. He travelled across seas under the pretence of studies, but I am quite sure he found an outlet in what must’ve been a wholly lustful string of one-night affairs - a habit tempered by age and wisdom, but kept nonetheless until this day.
I think no ill of him for his insatiable pursuit of women. I too had once desired a woman - to the point of grave and dire acts for the sake of her affections. Alas, Winefride and I are another story.
To continue, Harry became more wary of his bed-mates after a fool working for the Doppelganger of his late, late Uncle Justin snatched my skull. That … fiasco … left me mortal for mere precious hours. The first I had felt with flesh and blood in ages. I’d forgotten the silkiness of fine drapery, and the comfort of a firm, wing-backed armchair, and the weight of an unconscious body as I manoeuvred it to lie at last on a physician’s table.
I bound his ankles and wrists by hand, memorising the feel of blue jean and his steady pulse beneath my fingers. Too soon it would be time to wake him - to almost kill him.
It would work, I told myself at the time - it was a futile go at self-reassurance.
As an afterthought I gagged him - lest he open his foolish mouth and speak. He would no doubt utter some heartfelt sentiment that would muddle my carefully laid plans. Gagging him required that I touch his stubbled cheeks and chin - his lips to pry open his mouth just enough to secure the fabric so that he could not easily remove it.
I pondered him for a moment as I had little before. My gaze lingered over his face for some time and then I allowed myself the trespass of weaving my fingers through his thick, unruly hair. I’d often thought of doing so during his times of trial - a comforting hand to smooth away the pain. I realise now that the gesture had been more for my own comfort.
I had known then, while running my fingers through his hair that I could return to Death’s intangible existence. It might even be bearable with the memory of coarse hair against my fingers.
Needless to say, my cunning served me well. Harry is once again safe, and I … once again deceased. Regardless, I shan’t forget his compassion as I died in his arms - wasted as it was. Pity I hadn’t the strength to smooth his hair as I left him.
Ghostly once again, I retreated behind my usual sarcastic wit. He smiled somewhat bashfully at his display of emotion and laughed at last, perhaps feeling that the world we shared had righted itself.
I spent the next several days after my second death keeping mostly to myself, privately mourning my lost chance at life. The arrow that had pierced my love and made me mortal was destroyed in the process of rebirth. There would be no other.
My wallowing at the end of its length, I was roused from my rune covered skull by chatter from the upstairs. Keeping myself hidden from view, I approached the voices; both of them male - one of them Harry, the other distinctly foreign to the States. Curious, I peered ‘round the wall until I could see properly into the kitchen. They sat together, familiarly close, as if there were some prior friendship between them. Their conversation was a reflection of the past.
Travel. Life. Wine.
A bronzed hand feathered over Harry’s, lingering … and then reaching to the steaming cup that sat in front of him.
They had met during a time of Harry’s life that was unknown to me.
Overseas. France. A small café near the Seine river - not far from Notre Dame. Harry had met him there - and if their current reunion was anything to speak of - they had taken to each other quickly. The stranger’s deep tan was fashionable these days, his general physique was lean, his voice casual, and his hair a dark, curly mess about his face. He was undoubtedly charming and attractive, the git.
My attention shifted from the intake of the stranger’s good looks to Harry’s laughter; it was a soft, low chuckle and he leaned in toward his friend as it rolled from him.
There was a moment - and my breath held fast in my chest before it passed - where their gazes met in such a way that … But before the thought could finish, Harry had resumed conversation. He was still leaning comfortably into the other’s space, ruefully apologizing that his French had not improved.
“Ce n'est pas un problème.” The other replied in excellent diction. His hand raised, smoothed back Harry’s hair, trailed down his face - his knuckles brushing against Harry’s stubble. My hands experienced a cruel déjà vu.
The caress, the unmistakable invitation that it was, was leaned into. Something cold and heavy plummeted to my stomach. Harry’s lips curved into a wicked smile.
Invitation accepted.
The cold knot in my stomach writhed into a sickening heat.
What happened next gives me pause and I hesitate to express what I witnessed.
Their lips met slowly. Beautifully, painfully … slowly. The kiss was full and deep within seconds. Active hands roamed discretely up Harry’s neck, through his hair and down his back. Admittedly, I watched their unabated snog for moments as my mind shut down and restarted like one of Harry’s ill-kept machines. Prior to this illicit view, I had only known Harry to take an interest in women.
There was a moan, (Harry’s I believe, but I’ll not linger on the thought), which broke me from my captivated state. I recoiled quickly, seeking the furthest place - solitude, a refuge - the lab. Once through the heavy iron door, I became fully self-aware: I was breathing heavily, my thoughts dizzy and wild. I felt betrayed, incensed … lustful.
And how I was! Of all the things to feel at that moment - these were the least I would’ve expected. He never mentioned, of course, his time spent away … or of France, or its Frenchmen. I would have banged my fists against the heavy lab door for all the good it would have done to ease my frustration.
Could I have admitted to jealousy then?
In that time I could only send away my thoughts and close myself off to my unreasonable emotions. Did it matter what he did in his private life? It had certainly never mattered before. Surely I’d not said more than a few words about Winefride in all the time I’d known him. He would have felt no obligation to ever admit that his preferences extended to men as well.
I retreated again into my skull, avoiding outside contact altogether. I knew not how many days passed, there was little reason for me to keep track. At some point Harry must have felt my absence because he called for me. I appeared before him without hesitation, but with a stiff upper lip and a coldness that was perhaps a bit too perceptible for he studied me with an arched eyebrow and a look that plainly read as a befuddled inquiry.
“What crawled in your skull and died?”
What a dreadful question.
“I did apparently - though in reverse order.” I admonished.
His expression softened, “Now come on, I didn’t mean it like that. I meant it like … it was a play off ‘what crawled up your ass and died?’ you know.” He stressed, but I was rather unmoved, choosing to keep my scowl firmly in place. “It means you seem more cranky than usual,” he went on in a sorry effort to explicate the phrase - which he needn’t have done, I understood the reference perfectly well. However, his presence just then was altogether grating.
“Firstly, I do not, nor have I ever had something up my ass, rather unlike you I’m afraid” - I said pointedly - “and secondly” -
“Whoa, hang on. What now?” He said, holding up his hands while his neck and ears reddened.
My lips pressed into a thin line and I rested my hands on my hips. I inclined my head after a further silence and gave him The Look.
Harry dropped his short-lived innocent façade and wetted his lips nervously. “You, uh…” he furrowed his brow, “What exactly…?”
I rolled my eyes. The blush had crept up to his cheeks. Adorable. “The front. It’s a wonder you had the sense to pull the blinds down.” I paused and then the dreaded question that had been gnawing at me since the incident reared its beastly head, “Who was he?”
“A friend.”
Another Look.
“We met in Paris - Christ, what? Six, seven years ago? We just…” He made a waving gesture with his hand, “hit it off.” He concluded lamely as if that were his only explanation.
“Your first?” For the love of Life I will never understand what had made me ask that question.
He blinked in surprise, “My first what - guy?” He asked, but he didn’t need me to answer. His surprise turned to scrutiny. “No,” and after a thought, “Why, Bob? Is this why you’ve been hiding out in your skull? You avoiding me?”
“Don’t be so pretentious as to believe that this is all about you.”
“So what is it? Hell, I didn’t think it would bother you - I always figured you were sort of bent anyway.” He knew immediately that had been the wrong thing to say.
“And I always figured you were strictly a womanizer, but apparently -“
“Bob.”
“-you’d hardly care -“
“-Bob, I didn’t mean -“
“-what you’ve fucked!”
The blush had faded from his face, but my last words seemed to have turned him ashen. Hardly surprising, I rarely use such vulgarities.
His gaze dropped down to his bare feet. “O.K., Bob.” He fixed his eyes back on mine. Hard. “You were the last person I expected this from.” He gave a short, bitter half-laugh and walked away.
Oh, that went well.