Disclaimer: Joss Whedon owns most of 'em. I'll give 'em back later. Promise.
Author's notes: Dredged it up, dusted it off, finally decided to publish it. Written back in the day when we still had hope for Doyle. Ah well, the story pretty much speaks for itself. As always, constructive criticism is encouraged and appreciated. Enjoy!
Rated R for drug and alcohol use, language, and adult situations.
YESTERDAY
The party was winding down. Most of his friends had left, staggering out to their cars, only to be stopped by Harry as she called taxis for them. The room was a mess – beer bottles, chips, wrappings and streamers were strewn about with abandon and there was the lingering smell of pot in the air. He just knew his wife was going to force him to clean all of this up tomorrow…er, later today. But none of that mattered as he relaxed back into his chair, working slowly on his umpteenth beer.
Because Francis was twenty-one. Officially and finally.
Gary slumped beside him on the couch, nursing a brandy. Francis idly wondered where he'd gotten it since the last time he had checked their liquor cabinet, they didn't *have* any brandy. The older man grinned at him. "So, the big 2-1. Congratulations."
Francis just shook his head. "I still don't understand this drinking limit in the States. Home, this woulda been no big deal."
Gary cocked an eyebrow at him. "Are you really complaining?"
Francis grinned. "Nope."
"Good. I was afraid we'd be having tea and crackers next year, instead."
The young teacher chuckled. "God forbid."
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, each man concentrating on savoring the drinks in front of them, listening to the muted strains of the Doors still playing in the background. Gary finally roused himself enough to glance around the room. "Where's that lovely wife of yours, anyway?"
"Hm?" Francis looked over at him. "Oh, think she went to put Tommy to bed. His girlfriend threatened to lock him out if he came home piss drunk again. Harry took pity on him."
"Quite a girl you've got there."
Francis smiled shyly, the thought of his bride sending a pleasant flush to his cheeks. "Yeah. Still don't know what she thought she was doing when we got hitched."
"Better hope she never figures it out then."
"Yeah," Francis agreed softly. He remained silent for another moment before announcing, "We're thinking of having kids."
For the first time, Gary appeared genuinely surprised. "Already?"
"Well, it's been two years, you know," Francis defended. "It's not exactly like we aren't used to the idea."
Gary held up his hands in surrender. "Hey, man. No offense meant. But that's big time responsibility. Take it from someone who's got some. Things change after that. Are you sure you're ready?"
Francis frowned, thinking over those words. When he spoke, it came slowly. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I am. It's…it's not like I don't deal with kids everyday. I'm already in practice."
"Point," Gary conceded.
"Besides," Francis continued. "It's still just talk at this point. Harry wants to finish her degree first and I can't really blame her. Like you said, everything changes. But I can't say I wouldn't want some wee ones around soon."
Gary blinked, then laughed. "'Wee ones?' Jesus, will you listen to yourself?"
Francis stared back at the other man, before joining in the chuckle. "Okay, so Mum's worn off on me a bit. I'll try to be less Irish in the future."
"You are one strange man, Mr. Doyle. What they were thinking when they decided to expose young minds to you, I'll never know."
"Well, thank you, Mr. Fredrick. I love you, too."
"But only in a platonic way," Gary added.
"Of course."
They grinned at each other. Gary raised his drink in a toast. "Happy birthday, man."
"Thanks." Bottle clinked on glass and Francis took a long, satisfying swallow, the bitter liquid tracing a warm trail down his throat into the pit of his stomach. If it was at all possible, he managed to melt back into his chair even further.
Harry came wandering out of the back, pushing an errant strand of brown-blonde hair out her eyes. Francis smiled at her, enjoying every move she made. "Hey, gorgeous. Where ya been?"
Harry returned his grin tiredly, sitting on the edge of his chair, allowing him to wrap an arm around her waist. "Remind me why we decided to do this again?"
Francis squeezed her slightly. "Because we did the same for you three months ago?"
"I don't recall allowing Matt to bring his stash to *my* party."
"Come on, Harry," Gary teased. "What's a decent bash without a couple of stoners around?"
"Gary, you ought to be ashamed of yourself," she chided, but there was still humor in her eyes. "You're supposed to the mature elder here."
"Ah, my dear, you flatter me. However, I made a point to never grow up and so far, I find that my life has been a great deal more interesting because of that."
"Why do you think he teaches freshman English?" Francis added. "Nobody else would be that crazy."
"In the words of the great Tennessee Williams, Francis, fuck you."
"Love to, but I think Harry might object."
"Boys, really," Harry shook her head. "Sometimes I wonder about you."
Francis reassured her by pulling her towards him, knocking her off the arm and into his lap. He cut her surprised yelp short by covering her mouth with his own. After her initial shock, she smiled against him and parted her lips to allow him to explore with his tongue more fully. For a moment, they remained absorbed in their own universe, made up of nothing but each other.
Then Gary cleared his throat.
Blushing, they broke away reluctantly. Gary took it in stride. "I believe that would be my cue to leave."
"Really, you don't have to," Francis protested, but his heart wasn't in it.
Gary waved his hand and rose slowly to his feet. "Thanks but no thanks. Don't worry, I can see myself out."
"Do you want me to call a cab for you?" Harry asked, making no move to do so.
"Nah, I'll walk. It's a nice night." He grinned and clapped Francis on the shoulder on the way to his coat. "Have fun, birthday-boy."
The couple waited until the front door slammed before grinning at each other. Francis hugged her close, looking up at her. "So, being it's my birthday and all, you have anything else to give me?"
She smirked at him. "Hasn't been your birthday for two hours now. You're been an old man of twenty-one since midnight."
He stuck his lip out in an imitation pout. "You're going to hold that against me? I thought you liked mature gentlemen."
She unwrapped his limbs from her, rising and straightening her clothes. "Well, I may have one more gift for you."
"Oh really? Where?"
She began walking towards the bedroom, swinging her bottom back and forth. She glanced back and winked seductively at him. "Come by the bedroom in a minute and you'll see."
She continued on back while Francis's inebriated brain worked through that information. Finishing off the rest of his beer in one swig, he grinned and hurried after her. After all, it wouldn't do to keep her waiting, not when she had obviously gone through so much trouble.
*********
Francis's face itched. It was an odd sensation to wake up to, but it felt like a rash had developed all over his skin there. He lifted his head and looked blearily at the alarm clock on his nightstand. The glowing, neon-red numbers told him it was 5:45 am.
He groaned and tried to bury his head in his pillow. Despite the…exercise he and his wife had indulged in just a few hours ago, it obviously hadn't been enough to keep him asleep. Plus his head killed. Getting drunk with friends was a pleasant enough way to kill time, but he always forgot about that annoying little hangover the next morning.
And his face still itched. He couldn't even begin to guess what that was from. Maybe the pot, but he had only had one hit, early in the evening. Couldn't be that, could it?
Damnit. He scratched irritably at his cheek but it didn't help, the burning intensifying if anything. He rose slowly, careful not to disturb his sleeping wife, and padded quietly to the bathroom. He turned on the light, blinking in the sudden, blinding illumination. It didn't help his headache very much, but the pain there at least took his mind off the bloody itching for a moment. He turned on the sink, letting the cool water wash over his hands before cupping them and splashing his face. He glanced at himself in the mirror, checking to see if he had developed a rash. Nothing that he could spot, though, as blue eyes stared muddily back at him from pale skin.
Bloody hell, what was causing that itching? He took a towel and dried off, letting the soft cloth travel feather light over his face. But the discomfort continued, spreading to his neck now. He threw the towel to the floor, scratching furiously at his neck, even as the sensation continued to travel down his arms and torso, tracing a non-stop line of agony up and down him.
The feeling was driving him nuts as the pain rose. It felt like his skin was on fire, like it was slowly being stripped away. He wanted to tear out of it, get rid of it, toss it away like an old carcass, anything to stop the agonizing torture that crawled all over him. He dug his fingernails into his arm even further, actually drawing blood but barely even noticing, only concentrating on stopping the itch.
Suddenly, all his suffering paled to the sudden blot of pain that lanced through his stomach. Gasping he doubled over and toppled onto the floor, arms wrapped protectively around himself. The white-hot heat in his stomach enveloped him, wrapped itself around him, and pierced every cell of his being in horrid, wrenching torment.
He felt something rip.
And then abruptly, it all stopped.
Shuddering and gasping for breath, he gripped the side of the sink and rose unsteadily to his feet. He closed his eyes as the world swum in front of him for a moment, leaning onto the white porcelain for support. When his stomach finally decided that it wasn't going leap up into his throat, he slowly opened his eyes.
Raising his head, he looked into the mirror.
And began to scream.
*********
Harry awoke to the sound of frightened yelling. Grogginess wore off almost immediately as she realized whose voice it was. She nearly jumped out of bed and ran into the bathroom, not even thinking twice, only praying to God that whatever had happened Francis would be alright.
She stopped over the threshold, fear gripping her heart. Francis was curled against the wall, tremors wracking his body, a soft moan emanating from him. Cautiously, unsure what to do, she approached him. "Francis, honey? What's wrong?"
"Don't look at me, Harry, just get away," he whimpered. If nothing had scared her before, her husband's tone of utter despair would have done it right then and there. She placed a hand on his shoulder, surprised that he flinched from her touch. Frowning and holding back the urge to whimper herself, she knelt next to him and took a firmer hold on his shoulder.
"Baby, look at me, tell me what's the matter."
He shook his head, huddling closer to the wall. She shifted her grip and forcibly lifted his head away from his arms, making him look at her. His blue eyes widened in fright, then softened with confusion as if not quite realizing where he was. A shaky hand explored his face, pushing at the flesh, like reaffirming it was still there.
Harry wiped his sweat-slicked hair from his forehead, worry and fright still battling it out in her. "What happened? You're soaked."
"I-I don't know," he admitted, his voice barely above a husky whisper. "I thought I saw…I don't know. Must have been a dream."
"Some dream," she remarked, tenderly cupping his cheek. "You were screaming bloody murder in here."
"Yeah," he nodded, still shaking slightly, but seeming to get a hold of himself again. "Guess I should lay off the mind-altering substances, huh?"
She smiled tightly, relieved at the return of his humor. "Probably. Come on, sweetie, let's get you to bed. And no more wandering out in the middle of the night, okay? You nearly gave me a heart attack."
"You're not the only one," he mumbled, allowing her to guide him, leaning heavily against her for support. Harry was too busy taking care of him to really comment, but she made a note to talk to him about the sink tomorrow.
Looked like something had caused a whole chunk of the lip to crack.
************
All remained quiet for a week after that and things pretty much got back to normal. Francis would leave for work at seven-thirty, Harry departing for school a half-hour later. In the evenings they ate dinner, discussed their days and then usually went to the bedroom to make love. The only bone of contention at the moment was who was at fault for the sink and how much they would have to tighten their belts in order to fix it. Other than that, nothing out of the ordinary happened. Harry never mentioned the incident and Francis worked hard to convince himself that the change had only been some half-waking dream resulting from too much partying. He nearly succeeded too.
But part of him was always there remind him of it, of that split second in the mirror when the face that had stared back at him wasn't his own. When the eyes that burned with such intensity had no longer been a pale blue, but a deep, menacing red.
Francis had spent most of his life fairly certain of himself, positive of the type of person he was. The night in bathroom, though, he hadn't recognized the person in the mirror, had no clue that such a thing existed within him.
And that scared him to the core of his being.
However, if nothing else, Francis was a champion of denial and so he was able to push all thoughts of red eyes to the back of his mind and get on with everyday life.
Until it happened again.
Once more, he woke in the middle of the night to the sensation of his skin crawling all over his face. The feeling spread more quickly this time and he barely made it to the bathroom before the burning started in his stomach. Closing the door behind him, praying Harry didn't wake, he collapsed in a tight ball, just begging any higher power that might be listening that this would end, that the pain would stop. Again, he felt like his skin was ripped apart before sudden release came and the agony receded. Trembling all over, fearing what he would find in the mirror, but knowing he had to face it anyway, he pulled himself to his feet and looked.
He had trouble recognizing himself. The red eyes looked back at him, shining malevolently behind a mask of green, mottled skin and small, blue spikes. The spikes entirely covered his face, traveling down his neck and eventually trailing off at his sternum. The rest of his body remained a stubborn shade of green.
He lasted maybe ten seconds at this, gripping the sink tighter and tighter until, much to his dismay, a piece of the porcelain broke of in his hand. Looking down in fascination, all he could think of was how upset Harry was going to be at this new piece of havoc he had wreaked on their bathroom.
Harry.
Oh god. Harry.
He dropped the piece of ceramic as if scalded by it, sinking down onto the floor, shaking and feeling nauseous. Oh god, he wanted throw up.
In fact, that's just what he was going to do.
After emptying that night's dinner into the toilet bowl, he sat back against the wall, exhausted and spent. Sometime during his stomach's revolt he had felt his face shift back. He couldn't really explain how, but had known that once again he would find blue eyes looking back at him from the mirror.
Oh Christ in heaven, what was he? What the fuck was he?
Sitting on the floor of his bathroom, the smell of vomit still lingering, the sound of his heart beating wildly in his chest, Francis began to cry.
**********
Harry felt like she wanted to cry.
Something was seriously wrong with Francis and for the first time since she had known him, he refused to tell her what it was. He remained withdrawn and sullen, barely speaking to her, all his humor and energy gone. At night when she approached him or touched him, he would shy away, almost frightened to let her near him. And forget sex. Just talking about it seemed to cause him to become even more distant. She hadn't dared mentioned the word "children" in front of him for days.
She was positive it had something to do with that odd occurrence the night of the party. He hadn't mentioned anything about it, going along as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, convinced it was just a bad nightmare. She hadn't said anything in the meantime, despite how much it bothered her, not wanting to upset her husband with something that may have been completely unwarranted.
But then the new behavioral pattern had started. And she was at her wits' end as to what to do about it.
She knew this couldn't go on for much longer, that something would eventually snap and the dam would finally break.
She didn't expect it to happen over chicken parmesan.
The silence at dinner was near oppressing. Francis pushed his food around lethargically, obviously not interested in eating and gloomily silent. Harry frankly didn't have much interest in her food either, but she couldn't take the tension anymore.
"Damnit, why won't you talk to me?"
Francis's head jerked up, startled out of his brooding. For a moment, she got glimpse at the man she married again. "What?"
"Don't you think the silent stone routine has gone on long enough?" she asked.
She could almost hear the walls slamming back down, as he answered listlessly, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Oh come off it," she snapped. "You've been moping for *days,* you won't eat, it's a struggle to get you out of bed in the morning, and our sex life appears to be DOA. And you're telling me there's nothing wrong?"
"I'm just stressed lately, okay?" he answered, some anger coloring his tone. "Work's been hectic, and they're pushing some new regulations on us. Give me a break, alright?"
She nearly wanted to cheer – it didn't matter that it was a lie, it was the first strong reaction she had gotten from him since all this began. Still, she wasn't going to let him get away that easily. "Francis, do I look stupid to you?"
"What?" he frowned. "No, of course not."
"Good. So quit treating me like I don't know what's going on. Something is the matter, something that you are *not* doing a very good job of hiding, and I think I deserve to know what it is."
She thought that he might actually open up to her, let her in and tell her what exactly had been eating him alive for the past few days. The struggle within was evident on his face as he wrestled with his emotions, trying to make his confession. She reached across the table and placed a hand over his, smiling gently at him.
"Hey," she said. "You can trust me, alright? Whatever it is we'll figure it out together."
"Harry, I…" He looked down, swallowing convulsively, looking horribly vulnerable. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.
"Yes?"
Suddenly he jerked his hand back, a look of pain crossing his face. His eyes widened, frightened, as he whispered quietly, "No. Not again."
The whisper turned to a moan as he clasped his stomach, tumbling off his chair. Harry was immediately beside him, calling his name, trying to hold back the sick twist of fear in her gut. He groaned again, curled up in a fetal position, eyes squeezed shut as his face pinched up with pain. She tried to comfort him, to reach him in some way, but whatever private torment his body was putting him through was shutting her out. All she could do was watch with dismay as the man she loved yelled out. She wondered if there could possibly be anything worse than this feeling of helplessness.
And then Francis changed.
She couldn't explain it, couldn't understand how it happened, couldn't even begin to describe it. But one moment her husband looked completely human and the next he…didn't.
She scrambled backwards, the rational part of her mind reduced to a gibbering wreck as the thing that had once been Francis slowly got up. Watching it with horror, she thought maybe she might be able to deal with this situation, that maybe there could be some sort of trick to all of this, that she simply had to be strong enough to get through it.
And then she saw the eyes.
Dear god, the eyes…
Once she started screaming, she wasn't sure she would ever stop.
*********
No, no, no, no. Oh god, Harry had seen him, seen what he really was, seen the monster hidden underneath the surface.
Francis ran out of the room, the echo of Harry's terrified shrieks lingering in his ears. He ran to the closest place that offered shelter, slamming the door behind him, trying to muffle the horrible screaming coming from his terrified wife. When he turned, he couldn't help a shaky, hysterical laugh.
Back in the bathroom. Again.
How appropriate.
Back to the mirror then. Back to the eyes that weren't his, back to the face that could curdle blood, back to whatever he had turned into.
With a growl that was part fear, part despair, his fist shot out, all of his strength going into the blow. The mirror shattered around his hand, the hated, terrifying image disappearing. He pulled his arm back looking at his hand with enthralled loathing, almost not comprehending what he had just done, still not quite believing his own strength. Little pieces of glass stuck between his knuckles, winking in the florescent light. He wiped them away, barely feeling the cuts. Even as he watched, the bleeding slowly stopped, the abrasions seeming to shrink under their own persuasion.
He looked down at the remains of the mirror lying at his feet, his horrid face reflected a thousand times over in the shards. Not even human anymore.
He felt very distant from himself, as if that confirmation in his mind seemed to have the calming effect he needed. He picked a piece up, a long one with a perfectly lined, sharp edge. He stared at himself for a period of infinity, at what he had become. A small part of his mind, with the voice of a thousand and one Catholic school teachers, told him that taking one's own life was sin, that the punishment would be an eternity in hell.
What a laugh.
Couldn't they see he was already there?
Not even human anymore.
"But I can still bleed," he whispered and began to cut.
********
Harry finally lost the ability to scream, her throat raw and sore, made worse by the wracking sobs that overcame her after. She heard the muted yell from the bathroom, but didn't dare go in there. She was still lost and confused, the ordered universe she had spent so long in coming apart at the seams, revealing something terrifying and unreal underneath.
Through the haze of terror, she finally began to realize that something was nagging at the edge of her senses. Eventually, she realized someone was ringing the doorbell and had been for sometime. She stayed huddled on the floor, unable to cope with this new event, hoping whoever it was would just go away.
A lyrical Irish brogue came through the door. "Francis? Harriet? Anyone home?"
Molly Doyle. Francis's mother.
With a choked cry, she lurched to her feet and ran to the door, a port in the storm suddenly presenting itself. With shaking hands, she unlatched the door and swung it open, throwing herself into Molly's startled embrace.
"Harry? Lass, what is it?" the middle-aged woman asked, worried. "What's happened?"
"Oh god, Molly," Harry sobbed. "I don't know what to say. F-Francis, he – oh god."
"Francis?" Molly pushed her away to look at her face. "What about him? What's wrong?"
"I-I don't know!" the young woman wailed. "He'd been acting so-so strange and then, t-this evening he – oh god, it was horrible."
Molly stiffened, her eyes going cold. She held tightly onto Harry, voice remaining carefully calm. "Honey, tell me, where is he? Where's my son?"
Harry sniffled. "T-The bathroom, I think. But-but he doesn't look…look-"
"Hush, lass, I'll take care of it."
Molly walked purposefully to the door, Harry didn't want to follow, but felt obligated to, lest whatever had replaced her husband get a hold of his mother, too. Molly knocked cautiously. "Francis, it's your mum."
Nothing greeted her statement. Harry tugged at her. "This isn't a good idea. He-he's not human."
"Lass, I don't have the time, so shut it, if you please," Molly told her harshly, shocking her daughter-in-law into silence. She turned back to the door. "Francis, darling, please answer. You're scaring us."
Again, only quiet. Molly turned the doorknob experimentally, finding it unlocked. Slowly, she opened the door, Harry clinging to her back, dreading what she may see.
"Oh my dear, sweet Jesus," Molly whispered.
Harry peeked out behind her and felt her heart leap into her throat. Francis, looking very much human, lay on the floor, face deathly pale and eyes closed. One hand clutched a stained mirror shard.
There was a lot of blood.
Molly turned to Harry. "Get an ambulance, quickly."
Harry couldn't tear her eyes off her husband's body, the hysteria whelming up again. She called to him, hoping that he could still hear. "Francis? Francis, answer me!"
Molly's hand was lightening quick, connecting with her check solidly, the pain snapping her back to herself. While Harry stared at her, Molly remained cool. "Focus. I'll not let my son die because of your incompetence. Now stop acting like a twit and call the hospital."
Harry nodded mutely and did what she was told. Her hand nearly shook too much to dial, but every time she paused the image of her husband's bloody, limp body appeared in her mind, the thought of him dying cold and alone, desperate and afraid giving her the strength and urgency she needed. She managed to get through and the operator assured her that an ambulance would be sent over immediately.
Harry didn't want to think about if it was too little, too late.
*********
Francis drifted to consciousness, the release of oblivion relaxing its grip on him slowly. He first became aware of a low-level buzzing that eventually registered on his brain as human voices. He could also detect the faint whiff of antiseptic and ammonia. When his eyes finally decided to catch up with the rest of his senses, the first thing he could see was a blurry green.
"He's awake," someone said.
A slightly fuzzy face came into view. "Hey baby."
Harry.
Who, last time he had seen her, started screaming in complete terror.
So he wasn't dead.
"Why?" he croaked, his voice sounding weird to his ears and his throat burning slightly.
Harry frowned slightly, or at least he thought she did, it was still tough to tell. "Why what, Francis?"
He tried speaking louder, but all that came out was a whisper, "Why did you save me?"
"Oh my poor baby," she murmured, her eyes tearing. She tenderly brushed his cheek, smoothing back his hair. "How can you ask that? How could you think I wouldn't?"
He swallowed the lump in his throat, the tears coming anyway. Even now, he was still causing her pain. "Should've let me die, Harry. Saved us all the trouble."
"No," she cupped his chin in her head, hard determination tightening her jaw line. "No, don't you ever think that. You hear me? Don't *ever* think that's your answer."
No, she didn't understand. She didn't realize that her husband and the thing that appeared were one and the same. She couldn't.
He felt himself floating away again, the dark clawing at his senses, pulling him back towards sleep. He tried to fight it off, to explain to her what was wrong, but all he managed to mumble was, "Not human anymore."
And then the dark overtook him and he knew no more for quite some time.
*********
The second time Francis woke up, he felt only marginally better. He wasn't quite as woozy as before, though his throat still hurt. And his wrists ached terribly.
Slowly, he sat up in bed, wincing at the stiffness in his joints. He blinked a few times and looked around, realizing he was still in the hospital room. The crook of his elbow itched a little and he found the IV stuck in his arm there. His wrists had been carefully bandaged and stitched up, while someone had placed him in a hospital smock. He shivered slightly, the thin material doing little to protect him from the sudden cold he felt.
"Francis?"
He glanced in the direction of the voice, only to suddenly be crushed by a hug before he could get a word out. He flailed for a moment as his memory kicked in and provided him a name to go with the woman slowly squeezing him to death. "Mum? W-what are you doing here?"
"Oh my wee one, I just knew something was wrong," Molly cradled him, refusing to let go. "You gave me such a fright with that stunt!"
That was his mother, all right. Queen of the understatement. He pushed her gently away, not having the strength to look at her, but knowing what he needed to say. "Mum, don't. Y-you don't know what I am, what I've become. You don't want me."
Molly sniffed and took his face her hands, making him look at her, her green eyes flashing. "Now, you listen to me, Alan Francis Doyle. You are my son. And no mother could ever be prouder of her child, no matter what he looks like."
She had that stubborn look on her face, the one that Francis had inherited, the one that drove Harry nuts, the Irish pride. Love and open honesty, displayed for him, asking him to trust her. His resolve to keep away, to stop hurting all of them, crumbled and died under that gaze. He tried to keep the tears from coming, but couldn't stop, couldn't hold back from the force of his mother's genuine warmth and tenderness. He squeezed his eyes shut, as he began to cry, his mother taking him into her arms, supporting him as he wept, comforting him like she had when he was young, protecting him from the taunts of the outside world.
"Oh god, Mum," he whispered. "I don't know what I am anymore."
"Sh, darling, don't be worrying about that, now," she answered softly. "I'm here and you're safe. That's all that matters."
He shook his head, not wanting to believe her, unable to comprehend why she could still love him. He just sobbed quietly, over and over again, "You don't know me. You don't know me."
"Hush," Molly chided, smoothing back his hair. "This is my fault. There's some things you should know, that I should've told you long ago. And God forgive me, I thought I could spare you this."
Francis looked up at her, not sure what she could mean, how this could possibly be her fault. She smiled sadly at him, suddenly aging ten years in the span of that moment.
"I think it's time I told you about your father."
*********
Molly had sent Harry out for some coffee earlier, assuring the young woman she would look after Francis for her. When Harry returned, she breathed a sigh of relief at seeing Francis awake and fairly cognizant. But there was an air of tension in the room, something nearly palpable. Francis still wouldn't look at her and Molly appeared deeply unhappy.
Harry ignored Molly in favor of her husband, summoning a smile for his benefit. "Hey. How you feeling?"
He tried to return her grin, but it didn't manage to reach his eyes, his voice still shaky. "A bit better, thanks."
"You still look like hell," she teased gently, but the wince he tried to hide wasn't lost on her. "Oh Francis, I didn't mean-"
"It's okay," he sighed, resigned. "Mum's got something she needs to share."
Harry frowned quizzically at Molly, the older woman merely returning her gaze neutrally. "Perhaps you ought to sit down, Harry. This…won't be easy."
Harry nodded, taking a seat on the bed next to Francis. He looked nervous, but she took his hand, hoping he would understand. He stiffened for a moment, but then shyly smiled back, squeezing her hand in return. Molly closed the door, making sure it clicked all the way, before she took a seat in one of the visitor's chairs. She looked down, took a deep breath to steady herself, then began.
"I was only eighteen when I met Patrick. I knew he was older than me and that seemed exciting, more wild. He had seen the world, had the experience that I craved. At the time, my worst fear was finding myself still living in the same backwater Irish village twenty years down the road, married to some fool whose idea of a wild time was staying out late Sunday evening and who only found me good for making his dinner. But then this wonderful, beautiful stranger offered me the escape I needed so badly and I grabbed at the chance to take it."
She paused, then sighed. "I'm not sure what exactly made me fall in love with him. But I think it was his eyes. Yes, I do think that was it. He had lovely, pale, blue eyes that seemed to pierce right through me. Every time I look at you Francis, I see your father."
Harry glanced at Francis quickly to gage his reaction. His lips were set in a straight line and he kept his attention on his mother, but the pressure on her hand increased slightly. She placed her other hand over his, sandwiching it, and looked back at Molly. "What happened next?"
"Well, we had a wonderful time," Molly smiled a little at the memory, her face lightening. "We first went to Dublin, then to London for about three months. Paris was next, followed by Berlin, then Madrid. There were places in between that I can barely remember the names of now, we practically flew through them, but it was wondrous. I finally got to see all of the places I had dreamed of, experience life beyond the simple farm I had grown up on. And life was roses for a year.
"We were staying in New York when I discovered I was pregnant. To say I hardly knew what to do was an understatement. I was unmarried, living in sin with a man I believed fifteen years my senior, far from home, without a cent to my name save for what your father provided me with. And I was terrified of telling Patrick the truth. But I loved him and I was convinced that our love would be enough to see us through this. So I told him.
"The first thing he asked was if I wanted to get rid of it. I told him in no uncertain terms was I aborting the child. He seemed genuinely upset about this, telling me that I didn't know what I was bringing into the world. We began to argue, screaming at each other, making an awful ruckus, and finally I demanded that he tell me the truth. If he didn't love me, that was fine, but he sure as hellfire better give me an answer.
"And so he did. He showed me he wasn't quite…human."
Harry thought her bones might be crushed by Francis's grip while her mouth went dry. Her husband swallowed and asked hoarsely, "What do you mean he wasn't human?"
Molly sighed again. "He said he was Brachen, a sub-species of demon. Of course I didn't believe him, thinking that he was playing some sort of bad joke on me. But then he changed and I discovered it wasn't a joke after all."
"Oh my god," Francis said softly, his face going ashen.
Molly smiled sadly at her son. "Aye, that's what I said. Patrick pointed out that God had very little to do with it. And then suddenly, he changed back and I was looking back into those wonderful blue eyes again. He said, 'Don't you see? See why it can't be?' I told him that I saw no such thing and I needed some time to think. I left him with that and wandered out into the city. I-I don't remember much of that day, but I do know I was a little numb, a little distracted. It was some form of shock, I suppose, but when I came back I had made my decision.
"I was a little surprised that Patrick was still waiting for me that evening, but I guess he wanted to see this through as much as I did. He asked me what I wanted to do. And I said I was keeping the baby. To his credit, he tried to do right by me, asking if I would be willing to be his wife. I asked if he loved me and when he couldn't answer, I told him no, that I would rather my child be without a father than with a man who didn't love him or me. The next day I packed a suitcase while Patrick bought me a plane ticket. He gave me money to pay for it and though I protested, he said I should keep anything I didn't spend. When the cab arrived, he kissed me fondly on the forehead and told me to be happy. The next day, I arrived back home and I believe you know the rest."
Silence hung heavy in the room when Molly finished. Harry tried to digest all this information that had suddenly been thrown at her while Francis seemed too stunned to speak. Molly looked miserable yet relieved, like the information had been weighing her down for so long she had forgotten what it was like not to have it there anymore. Harry finally ventured tentatively, "So, Francis's father was a demon? I mean an honest-to-god fire and brimstone demon?"
Molly nodded. "Aye. Although I believe Patrick might have been insulted to think you thought of him as smelling of brimstone."
"My god, Mum," Francis murmured. "How could you not tell me this? How could you lie to me for so long?"
"Oh love, I wanted to," Molly answered, her voice cracking slightly. "But you were so normal, nothing ever appearing wrong. I thought Patrick might have overestimated his own genes or whatever it was that demons passed on to their young. And when you grew up, still nothing had happened. So I thought there would be no need to tell you, that things would be fine."
"But they aren't, are they, Mum," Francis said bitterly. "I'm not just any monster, I'm a demon. And you're the slut who slept with one to produce me."
"Francis!" Harry's jaw dropped. "How can you say that?"
"It's alright, lass," Molly sighed. "I suppose I deserved that. Believe me when I say I never wanted to hurt you, Francis. I…I only wanted to protect you, give you a normal life."
"And what a wonderful job you've done," he snapped back. Molly's face nearly crumpled.
"Stop it!" Harry demanded. "It's done now, okay? Big mistake, but now we have to deal with it."
Francis glared at her. "Easy for you to say. You don't have a bloody devil spawn in you, do you?"
Harry's jaw dropped, anger coloring her cheeks, but before she could say anything, Francis turned away from her. "Harry, just go. I want to be by myself for a while."
"Wait just a damned minute," she found her voice. "If you think that's the end of it-"
"Lass, leave it be," Molly tugged on her arm, pulling her away from the bed. "Let him be."
"But-"
"Harry, please," Francis whispered. "Leave."
The pain in his voice nearly made her shake off Molly's hand and run back to him. She wanted to throw her arms around him and make his hurting stop. But she knew it would be futile, her words falling on deaf ears. So she allowed herself to be lead from the room, leaving her husband alone with nothing but his thoughts for company.
******
Francis drew his legs up, wrapping his arms around them as best he could with the IV. It made him feel smaller, better protected somehow, like if he tried hard enough he could just disappear.
He had wondered for years about his father, about the reasons why his mother so rarely talked about him. When he was younger and the neighborhood kids would taunt him for being a fatherless bastard, he would often run home crying, asking his mother why he didn't have the one thing everyone else seemed to posses. His mother would sooth him, rocking him in her arms and tell him, "It just wasn't meant to be." Later on, he had learned to fight back, getting in more than one schoolyard brawl much to his mother's chagrin. But he no longer asked about his father and for that he always felt Molly had been relieved.
Now he understood why. Who wants to explain to their son that he's a freak?
He looked out the window, some part of his mind noting that it was beginning to rain. Just the perfect compliment for his mood, really. He tried to muster a chuckle, but what came out sounded more like a sob instead. It wasn't fair. His life was going well, he had a beautiful wife he adored, a job he loved, and friends he could count on. What the hell had he done to deserve this?
Now he did laugh, suddenly hearing his mother's words in his head. "Self-pity never really did suit you, Francis."
Yeah, thanks a lot, Mum. You're great with the words of encouragement. But it's not you having to live the consequences.
He noticed how tightly he was squeezing the blankets and released his grip. He stared down at his hand, pondering why exactly it looked so normal. He closed his eyes, searching deep inside of himself for the heat again, finding it easier than he expected. Now that he thought about it, it had always been there, hovering on the edge of his senses, waiting for a time when his true face could shine through. Taking a deep breath, he reached down, took a firm grip, and pulled.
Rip.
It wasn't nearly as painful as he thought it might be. Apparently his demon came to the surface much more easily when it was voluntary. He opened his eyes gradually, his hand coming into focus. As expected, it was now a mottled green. Just as he knew those strange, little spikes had replaced the pale skin of his face. Shuddering, he closed his eyes again and pushed back on the heat, burying it back underneath the façade of being human. When he looked, his hand was back to normal.
So he could control the change. Oh joy. Now he could turn into a giant, blue pincushion whenever he pleased. Just what he had always wanted.
He sighed and rested his head on his knees. Suicide was still an option but now that he was thinking a little more clearly, he wasn't sure if that was what he wanted. After all, that would be it. The big D to end all D's. No coming back from it and no changing his mind. And then there was Harry. God, he loved her. Was really fair to tie her down to a monstrosity? Then again, was it fair to take the choice entirely out of her hands by ending his life? Maybe they could still work it out.
Yeah, and maybe pigs would fly.
His mother's face appeared in his mind's eye and that was when he knew he wasn't going to try to kill himself again. Even if Harry would no longer want anything to do with him, he couldn't bear to cause that much pain to Molly, no matter how angry he was with her.
"So, boyo," he asked himself. "What are you gonna do?"
No answer was forthcoming.
********
Harry finally took a deep breath and knocked on the door to Francis's room. An unenthusiastic "come in" emanated from the other side. She slowly opened the door and peeked her head around the corner.
"Francis?"
"S'okay, Harry, I won't bite." He sounded resigned.
She walked in, closing the door behind her, giving them some privacy. Francis glanced at her, giving her a half smile. He was still pale, his eyes darkened by deep bags underneath them, his dark hair limp. At least he was trying to emote something again. Harry was willing to take what she could get at this point.
"You okay?" she asked, then winced inwardly. It sounded lame even to her.
Francis shook his head. "No, not really. I-I'm not sure if it'll ever be okay. Not anymore."
_He looks so old_ she thought.
"Francis," she sat beside him, choosing a chair rather than the bed this time, grasping his hand. "I'm here for you. Always and forever. Don't you forget that."
His face scrunched up, taking on the oddest expression, before he let loose with a tremendous sneeze. Harry would have found the situation funny if he hadn't suddenly popped out into dozens of tiny, blue spikes. As it was, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Francis risked on quick look at her face before turning, hunching up his shoulder up, trying to hide as best he could.
"Don't look," he muttered. "You don't need to."
"No, but that doesn't mean I don't want to," she answered slowly. "You just surprised me is all."
"Harry, please," he pleaded. "Don't do this."
"Am I going to have to force you to look at me?" she insisted, stiffly. "Or are you going sit there and cower from your wife for the rest of the evening?"
He shook his head and tentatively looked around at her, his eyes still lost and confused, even under their red guise. Now that she got a good look at him, it really wasn't so terrible. The spikes didn't look pleasant, but then again, she supposed it could be worse. "Can you change back on your own?"
He nodded, closing his eyes. A shudder ran through his body and he shifted, face turning back to normal. He was sweating slightly from the effort, but his eyes were blue when he opened them. "Better?"
She smiled. "If you say so. Does it hurt at all?"
"Not so much anymore," he admitted. "It's closer to the surface now, though. I-I'm not sure if I can keep it down all the time."
"Well, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it," she patted his hand.
He looked down at his lap, almost fidgeting. "Look, Harry, you don't have to be nice to me. If…if you don't want to be with me anymore, I-I'd understand."
"Francis, where the hell would you ever get an idea like that?"
His head snapped up, his face a mask of confusion. "But, I don't understand. Before-"
"Before was before. This is now. And I meant what I said. We *will* get through this. Together."
He tried to smile, but his eyes brightened with held-back tears, relief and fear mixed in them. "Really?"
"Yeah," she smiled. "Really."
"I-I can't," he began. "I don't know what to say…"
"Don't say anything." She brushed back his hair and gave him a tender kiss on the forehead. "You're too exhausted to think clearly. Get some sleep."
He nodded, relaxing back into his pillow, her order enough to suck all the energy right out of him. He asked tiredly as he drifted off, sounding for all the world like a lost, little boy, "Promise to be here when I wake up?"
She stroked his check feather light. "Of course. I'll always be here. Now rest."
She held his hand as he drifted off to sleep, the release on consciousness smoothing the lines on his face, giving him such a peaceful look she almost envied him. She found herself nodding off too, so she settled back in her chair, resting her head on the bed beside him. She kept a hold of his hand even when sleep claimed her, her last thought a profoundly hopeful one, knowing that despite all that had happened in the last few days, despite all the trauma, somehow, someway, it would turn out okay.
As long as they had each other.
~~~~~~~
yesterday
all my troubles seemed so far away
now it looks as though they're here to stay
oh i believe in yesterday
-The Beatles
END