Title: In All the Centuries - posted June 28, 2007
Author: Lacey McBain
Pairing: None; Bob and Harry friendship, hurt/comfort
Rating: PG
Word Count: ~3900
Summary:
"Things need to be done, and I'm the only one who can do them." Bob
doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to hurt Harry, but he will—only
because there's something greater at stake.
Author Notes: Television 'verse. Spoilers for "What About Bob?"
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files belongs to Jim Butcher.
Lines of dialogue from the episode are obviously not mine.
***
In All the Centuries
Bob
waits in the dark study of the Morningway estate. There is moonlight
catching on the white sheets that shroud the furniture, nothing touched
since Harry shut the place up five years ago. Bob fingers the cotton
cloth, amazed at the way it slides between his fingers, fingers that
haven't touched anything in more years than Bob can remember. He can
smell the layer of dust, and he stands with his hand against the wall
just so he can relearn the feel of polished wood beneath his fingertips.
He
hears the front doors open, then feet on the stairs. He closes his eyes
at the memory of Harry as a boy, flinging wide those doors, pounding up
those stairs and into the study to share something—some discovery, some
small moment—with him. It was him that Harry searched out, not his
Uncle Justin, and the first time Harry sought comfort, stormed up the
stairs and flung his arms around Bob, falling to the hardwood floor as
his reaching arms passed through air, was the first time Bob regretted,
really regretted, his lack of corporealness.
In all the
centuries of his life—and in this he includes the cursed confinement in
his own skull—Bob has never cared for anyone as much as he cares for
Harry. Yes, there was Winifred, and God, Bob adored her, but that was
passion and lust and he was a younger man then. He didn't know anything
about caring, only wanting, and when she was dead he couldn't see
anything except the relentless need to bring her back, the soul-deep
ache to feel her flesh in his arms once again. Yes, it was love, but
the kind that burns bright and fast, and Bob knows that had they had
the time together, it may not have been the beautiful thing he has
built it up to be in his mind. It was a selfish love.
But this is not.
Bob
has known Harry since Harry was a child. A quiet questioning child, too
soon orphaned, and it had been only later that Bob realized Harry's
Uncle Justin was the one responsible for those deaths. For Harry's
situation.
And the sad truth is that there is almost nothing a
spirit imprisoned in a skull can do in such times, and even less when
he is in the service of a wizard who cares little for the laws of magic
and not at all for mortal lives. Bob said nothing, could say nothing at
all that would give comfort or peace to the boy. Bob could hear him at
night, sometimes angry, sometimes weeping, but always in the dark
lonely corners of the house, the ones where Justin Morningway would
never go.
Not that he would even think to look for his nephew
there. As far as Justin was concerned he had saved the child from a
horrible, mundane life, and Bob was simply a means to provide
instruction in the magical arts—both dark and practical.
In the
darkness, Bob can see Harry enter the study, that ridiculous hockey
stick he uses as a staff in his hand. The trappings of wealth, the
expectations for decorum, were always a little lost on Harry, Bob
recalls with some amusement. Justin had wanted so much for Harry to be
like him, and yet he was, and is, every inch his father's son.
"Harry," Bob says, aware of Justin's doppelganger waiting in the
shadows, prepared to forced his hand if it comes to that.
"Bob!"
Harry's voice is full of relief and gratitude, and it's enough to make
Bob hate himself a little for what he's about to do.
Harry
breathes through his smile: "Okay." It's half-question, half statement
because Harry knows Bob can't be hurt. He's a spirit after all, and Bob
forces himself not to smile, not to let the affection he feels show
through because Justin is watching, or at least the double is, and it's
practically the same thing.
Harry gestures towards the door. "Come on, get in your skull. Let's get
out of here."
"I can't do that."
Harry's
already backing towards the door, motioning for Bob to come with him,
the same way he did as a child. "Bob, what are you talking about? We'll
talk about it later. Let's just get out of here. Come on, let's go."
Harry's trying to rescue him, and it's sweet, if somewhat naïve.
Bob
hopes that Harry will be able to forgive him for what he's about to do.
"This
is going to hurt." Bob reaches across the space between them and grasps
Harry's leather jacket in his hands. "I'm sorry. It'll all be over
soon."
"Bob?" It's the frightened boy that looks back at him
from the man he's holding, trust still plain in his eyes, and Bob lifts
up a hand, channeling the power he's wielded for centuries. This is the
least painful way to subdue a man.
Bob raises his palm, pushes energy into Harry with a wave of blue and
white light.
"Go to sleep."
Harry
slumps in his arms against the wall, and Bob holds him for just a
moment, all long limbs and confusion, until Justin's double steps from
the shadows.
"We need to get him to the morgue."
"Yes," Bob says, although he doesn't move to comply. Justin frowns at
him, eyes shrewd and calculating.
"I assume you can—"
"Of
course I can." Bob lets Harry slide to the floor. "However, the
question is whether that's the intelligent thing to do." He turns to
face the double. "Of course I can spirit us all over there in an
instant, but that takes a considerable amount of power, and I've just
barely gotten a feel for this old body again. Plus it's going to take a
great deal of my strength to do what needs to be done."
"So, what would you suggest?"
Bob
narrows his eyes, lets the double see his impatience. "A car. Harry's
not going anywhere, and Justin isn't either. A ten minute automobile
ride certainly won't delay things that much."
"Fine." The double reaches for Harry, and Bob steps in-between. He
doesn't want this creature touching Harry.
"I'll
take him." Bob waves a hand, levitates Harry's body gently from the
floor and pushes him into the air ahead of them. "Consider it a last
service to the man that's given me orders for the last five years."
The
doppelganger makes an "after you" gesture, and Bob, guiding Harry's
body with one hand, leads them down the stairs and out to the garage.
***
There
is no reason for them to be riding in a Mercedes-Benz car except for
the fact that Bob loves the way the engine purrs, the smooth leather of
the seats. He can see Justin's double glance at him sideways.
"I
haven't been in such a car in a very long time," Bob says, feeling
himself free to stroke the leather openly, "and never when I could
actually feel it." The seats are softer than the leather of Harry's
jacket, a butter colour instead of black, and they're beautiful. Bob's
missed the way things feel.
"You'll get to feel a lot of things
again soon, old friend," the double says, and Bob nods, closing his
eyes. It would be so simple to give in, follow the old ways of taking
what he wanted. He was one of the most powerful sorcerers that ever
wielded a wand, and now he's reduced to being a sort of magical
encyclopedia shelved inside a skull. It's tempting, so very tempting.
In the backseat of the car, Harry moans softly. Bob doesn't reach out
for him.
"He'll be waking up soon," Bob says, and the doppelganger nods, pushes
the car to go faster.
***
"Harry?"
Bob taps not-too-gently against the side of Harry's face. "Harry." He
lets his fingers linger briefly against Harry's cheek, a gesture the
doppelganger likely won't see from across the room. He can't risk
anything more, knows it's essential that Harry believe Bob's betrayed
him, although he wishes it were an impossible thing, that Harry could
never possibly believe it.
Except Bob is about to hurt him,
drain his power and with it much of his strength, and Harry's never had
a hard time believing the worst about people, especially in the face of
painful truth. He was a boy used to dashed hopes and failed
expectations, family that wasn't there for him. Harry had always known
love was mostly an illusion made of air.
"Bob?" It's muffled
through the gag in Harry's mouth, and Bob can see that for a moment
Harry thinks everything's all right. If Bob's there, it must be. That
much is plain on his face until the moment he remembers.
"Welcome
back." The confusion returns, and Bob hopes Harry will understand when
he says, "Things need to be done, and I'm the only one who can do
them." Bob doesn't want to be here, doesn't want to hurt him, but he
will—only because there's something greater at stake.
"I want
you to know how hard I tried to avoid this situation." The double steps
forward, and Harry looks at Bob for an explanation.
"Oh, that's
not Justin. It's a copy, a powerless doppelganger charged with one
task: bringing back your uncle." Bob tries to convey what that means,
how terrible that would be for everyone concerned, not just the two of
them.
"And to do that, I need Bob's talent for raising the dead."
Bob
thinks of Winifred, of everything he gave up for her. He remembers the
day Harry asked him if Bob could bring his parents back, and how Bob
had to lie to him, tell him it just wasn't possible, that no one could
do such a thing, even as he sat beside the boy and watched him cry into
his hands. Bob wasn't even capable of putting an arm around him,
although he did warm the air with a silent spell, making it into a
circle around the two of them, and he thought maybe Harry felt it and
knew it was the best he could do.
"And your power."
Harry's
always been a quick study, and it's clear in his eyes that he can see
the bigger picture, what's about to happen. He's shaking his head in
disbelief, still looking for the trapdoor, the sleight of hand in the
illusion, and Bob wishes he could tell him that everything will be all
right.
"It's time to turn off your lights," the double says with
the same kind of authority that Justin Morningway always carried in his
voice.
Bob leans a little closer, choosing his words wisely.
"And it's time for me to move on. I'd like to say it's been fun, but
honestly it's been hell." If this fails, if somehow he should find
himself dead for all time, he wants Harry to remember his words. Maybe
someday he'll realize that Bob means this past day, the time he's been
corporeal again, and not the years spent with Harry. Never those.
"Bob."
The
doppelganger tosses Bob the hockey stick, which he catches with a young
man's ease. He's going to miss this strength, the weight of a staff in
his hand.
"Draw his power. Let's get this done." The double
seats himself to watch the show, and Bob feels the power gathering
around him.
"I'm sorry it took this turn." Bob braces himself,
considers the words to compel Harry's power from his body into the
conduit of the staff and then into Justin's dead body. The air crackles
with energy, lightning flicking at his skin, and he can feel the hair
standing on his arms, the head-long rush of power moving through him,
past him, and into Justin's corpse. He ignores the sound of Harry
screaming; it won't help him now.
In a moment it's done, the air
sharp with ozone, and Justin cracks his neck and stretches. He looks
remarkably good for a dead man.
"How long have I been gone?"
"Five
years." Bob tries to look happy at seeing this man. He must be careful
now lest he give it all away. He takes the hand Justin reaches out to
him—still cold as the grave—and helps him from the coffin. "Welcome
back."
"There was no other way?" Justin glances at his double
for confirmation. He already knows Bob would never have done this if
there'd been any other way.
"No. He killed you once, he would do it again."
Bob
watches Justin strip the doppelganger of his glasses, the cane that
doubles as a staff. "Harry's not going to last much longer. It was his
life-force that brought you back."
"You brought me back, old friend."
Bob
smiles at the compliment, feels the weight of that responsibility on
his shoulders. Yes, he's the one that made this possible, and if he
can't make it right, that too will be his responsibility. "Well, you
can pick up right where you left off."
"With you to help me."
Justin lays a hand heavily on Bob's shoulder, and he closes his eyes,
smiles. He tries to remember how he would've felt about such a touch
years ago, before he'd known exactly the kind of man Justin was, the
plans he had for Harry.
Justin goes to stand beside Harry, assessing him as one might a horse
he intended to purchase. "How's he been?"
"Tortured.
Your murder weighs heavily on him." It's nothing but the truth, and Bob
knows that's the difference between Justin and Harry. Murder is nothing
but a means to an end, no matter how he might justify it.
"Yes,
well, his death will be a burden that I'll have to bear. There are
things that must be done. He will never join me in that. It is
a new day."
He
gives a casual tilt of his head, and the double takes his place inside
the coffin, as if death is an everyday matter. Within seconds, the
doppelganger has expelled his last breath, skin purpling with the tones
of the dead, the decay that not even the best embalmer can prevent. The
morgue smells of antiseptic and old death.
Justin leans over Harry. "I always considered you to be more than just
my nephew, but in the end—and this is the end—you are a disgrace
to your bloodline. Your mother—impetuous, starry-eyed, married beneath
her. And your father, well, he was never one to see the bigger picture."
Justin
struts across the room towards Bob, self-righteous confidence in every
step. Bob knows he's not talking to him at all. He's nothing more than
a tool to achieve an end, just as Harry would be, and Bobs knows Justin
can't seen people as anything other than the sum of what they can do
for him. He's almost a little sad for the man, even as he's ranting on.
"My
only mistake is that I didn't kill him sooner, while you were still
young enough to be salvaged." Justin lays a hand against Harry's face,
and Bob tenses, stops himself from going to Harry even as he turns away
from the touch of that cold hand. Bob tightens his grip on the hockey
stick, centres himself for what he must do.
"I failed you,"
Justin continues, "and for that I'm truly sorry. Our world, Harry. It
needs to change, it needs to grow. I wish you could see what it was
going to become, what I'm going to make of it."
Bob twirls the
hockey stick with certainty. It's been a long time since he's done
battle with magic, and perhaps it's ungentlemanly to attack a man from
behind when he's just risen from the grave, but really, Bob can't bring
himself to care. "Change of plans."
Bob pushes all the power
inside of him through the staff and into Justin's body. He knows the
energy that was Harry's will escape first, rush back into its home
without a thought, and after that, it's all Bob. Life-force that can be
used to destroy as well as revive, and he feels his blood vessels start
to burst with the strain that it takes to send a man back to the dead.
"Bob,
let go! Bob, let go." Harry's yelling at him across the room, fumbling
with loose ties that were never really meant to do anything other than
keep him from casting.
Bob holds on a moment longer, just until
he's sure Justin is well and truly dead this time, until his body
disappears in a burst of energy and light. Bob drops the staff, legs
dropping out from under him, useless as Justin's cane. Harry's arms
catch him as they both tumble to the floor.
"Bob! Bob!"
Bob
can feel Harry there with him, solid and warm. Alive. Harry gathers him
into his arms, holds him off the chill floor of the morgue.
Bob opens his eyes. "Is that—is that bastard gone?"
Harry's nodding at him, anger and regret filling his eyes. "Yeah, he's
gone. I thought you'd just … turned on me."
It
was what Bob had wanted him to think, needed him to think, but it's
important for Harry to know the truth. "I would never betray you,
Harry."
He laughs; they both do, and Bob reaches a hand up to
Harry's shoulder and grasps him there. It's something he'd wanted to do
so many times when Harry was a child, the sign of a job well done. He's
loved this boy a long time—his student, and later, his friend. He
doesn't even mind the thought of giving up this life for him, this body
that is as foreign to him now as the touch of a hand in his hair. "I
had to come this far in order to keep him dead, him and his double.
Otherwise, he'd just keep coming back."
"It's okay, Bob, it's
okay, you're going to be okay," Harry murmurs, trying to sound
convincing, and his hand is stroking through Bob's white hair. He keeps
repeating it, as if it might make a difference, and Bob looks kindly at
Harry who wears his heart on his face. He's a dear sweet boy. Bob tries
to memorize every detail of this, the weight of Harry's hand, the solid
feel of his arms. "Please."
"If by okay you mean dead, then
yes," Bob says, not with any regret, and he can feel the magic working
in him again, the vestiges of the old curse. He closes his eyes and
prepares for the transformation from flesh to spirit.
"Bob.
Please don't die on me, Bob. Don't, Bob," Harry whispers, tearful, and
Bob squeezes Harry one last time, tries to make it mean everything he's
wanted to say to the boy who grew up to be a wizard.
Then
there's darkness, a moment when he is neither of earth nor air, and in
that fragment of time he can hear Harry breaking. He's lost so many
people in his life, seen so much death, and for once, Bob's grateful
for the curse that's going to keep him with Harry always.
Harry's
kneeling over empty space on the floor of the morgue, one hand going to
his damp eyes, and Bob knows it's futile to walk across and put his
arms around him. He's nothing more than air now, and he doesn't want to
be reminded of what he's given up. Not yet.
Harry looks up at him, not comprehending.
"That
is really touching," Bob says, and he means it. He'd never imagined
Harry would grieve for him, even if it was only a moment, and the boy
should've known that a curse isn't broken that easily.
"Bob, that's not fair. You know—"
Bob
cuts him off. He knows Harry doesn't respond logically to death. Most
people don't, and he shouldn't find it comforting that Harry feels this
way about him, but he does, and if nothing else he can ensure that
there's one person Harry never has to see die.
"Once cursed, always cursed." Bob passes his hand through the skull.
"My soul forever ensnared, forbidden to move on."
"Well,
I guess I can live with that." Harry's still blinking awkwardly, trying
to cover his tears with laughter, and Bob smiles at him affectionately.
"Yes, I thought you might."
Harry
nods and makes a grab for his hockey stick, tucks Bob's skull under his
other arm. Head down, he steps towards the door. Bob pauses for a
moment, then pulls a small measure of power from inside and warms the
air around them, wafting the breeze towards Harry. He knows when Harry
feels it, sees it in the over-the-shoulder grin Harry flashes him.
"I'm
glad you're here," Harry says, as they move through the silent
corridors and out towards the car. "Thanks for not, you know—" Leaving
me alone, Harry doesn't say, but it's obvious in his tone.
"You're welcome."
Harry stops in front of the midnight-blue Mercedes and raises an
eyebrow.
"What?
You would've preferred we'd stuffed you in the back of your Jeep, legs
hanging out the side?" Bob asks. "You know, there's nothing wrong with
appreciating the finer things in life, Harry."
"It's going
back." Harry settles Bob's skull on the front seat and tosses the
hockey stick in the back. Bob floats into the front and takes a sitting
position, although really it would make more sense for Bob to climb
back into his skull for the ride, but he doesn't feel like being
confined just yet. "The car's not ours."
"Well, technically,"
Bob begins, but he knows that argument won't work with Harry. It
doesn't matter that Harry inherited it all—he'll never feel that
Justin's things are his, especially now. The only reason he hasn't
gotten rid of the house is because it was also his mother's, and Bob
knows what it's like to want to hang on to a part of someone, no matter
how far removed from them it really is.
"Bob." Harry turns the
key and the engine purrs to life. Bob remembers what the vibrations
felt like, the way the seats were smooth under his fingers; it will
have to be enough. "Bob, the car goes back."
"Yes, yes, alright, the car goes back," Bob concedes with a sigh. It's
not like he could drive it anyway.
Harry
manoeuvres the car out of the lot behind the morgue and onto the silent
street. After a moment he looks over, and asks: "So, what was it like
being alive again?"
Bob doesn't know if Harry is aware of how
easily he could've betrayed him, how wonderful it felt to be able to
touch and breath and experience life fully again if only for a matter
of hours. He could've tasted chocolate and honey, could've dressed in
silk and leather, run his fingers through a woman's hair. He could've
lived … but only if Harry had died, and so the answer was easy, much
easier than betrayal would've been.
"It was hell, Harry," Bob says, grinning. "Let's not do that ever
again."
"Deal," Harry says, and reaches a hand across to pat Bob's skull.
"You've got a deal, my friend."
THE END
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