I
It was like that song from Rocky Horror; "it's astounding, life is fleeting; madness takes its toll." When she laughed at the irony of it all, blood bubbled up and poured through her twisted lips. She died wearing her best dress and some tubes around her neck like some kind of morbid jewelry. She died with a slack expression on her face because her last thoughts were about a dumb movie that her brothers weren't allowed to see yet, not until they grew up. And really, that's got to be the absolute shittest last thought, especially after having been on the worst date of her life (she didn't even get laid!) and then stalked and killed in a dirty basement room by an English guy with weirdly parted hair who kept checking his Twitter.
Apparently her murder wasn't a good enough distraction from social media feeds.
She watched from the shadows in the corner as they coaxed her blood through the tubes and hung her up on the metal grating like one would a suit in a closet. It must have been a trick of the shitty lighting or something because sometimes their eyes were black, but she withdrew farther into the darkness anyway. Just in case. Because apparently her life couldn't get any fucking creepier.
And then when they were gone she went and sat down in front of her skin-suit body and crossed her legs. And realized that she was there on the floor but she was also there, hung on the metal grating for someone to find. Jesus Christ, they'd even left the tubes in! Who the hell were these people? Had she wandered into some sort of cult thing by mistake?
She was supposed to be on a vacation with her family and she'd wandered into a fucking cult.
Go figure.
II
They were okay, really.
Well.
Sometimes.
Nina's clothes didn't really fit her – apparently Nina was really tiny and cute or something – and anyway, she didn't have the heart to wear the clothes of a dead werewolf lady. She wore Tom's shorts for a week before Hal put his foot down, threw some money at her, and shoved her out the door towards the shops. Honestly, she didn't give a shit what she wore as long as it wasn't the Date Outfit.
They kind of… burned that, out in the backyard. It took a while before she realized that she could totally just strip off those infernal clothes, finally, and just bloody walk around naked if she wanted to.
(She didn't, because Hal might have a heart attack.)
They built a nice big fire and threw in the dress, the jacket, the tights, the boots – she was probably going to regret that – and, thank God, the fucking bra of doom.
Never again.
So she got new clothes that fit, and she was okay. Really, she was.
Mostly.
III
When she walked into the kitchen to see Tom sharpening a stake, like he'd forgotten or something, she kept quiet about it and didn't tell Hal.
IV
She used to dream about cool things like Jon Snow and Bruce Willis taking over the world together or her eating the last piece of pie before her dad got to it first.
She used to really like sleeping because when she dreamed she remembered her mum, before she became a stupid bitch who left.
(Maybe she still felt bitter.)
She used to really like sleeping because her mind told her stories about interesting things, not like her dad who sat around and made jokes and smoked a pack a day or her annoying brothers who ran around and fucked everything up so she'd always have to stay and make it better.
That shit was too mundane, and sometimes she'd go out really late or go to sleep really early to stop thinking about it. She knew she wasn't supposed to babysit her lousy family for her whole life, she knew she was supposed to go out and do stuff and never get married and never have kids, because then she'd turn into her mother and –
(The truth was she didn't care anymore about Ryan's misspelled tattoo or her dad's smoking or the mess. Her family might be insufferable but it was her family and if there's one thing she's learned, it's that family is the most important bond you'll ever have. Or some bullshit like that.)
After she died, during the nights, she'd sit in Annie's armchair in Annie's room and think about things.
Nothing.
Everything.
All at once.
Her head ached from it.
And fuck, she wished she could close her eyes and dream about – well, about anything. Just so she'd stop remembering.
And she would try,
and she would try,
and nothing would come of it.
Once, she threw the armchair against the wall and expected it to break.
(It didn't.)
Hal and Tom woke up and came in and saw her glaring at the armchair and wisely didn't say a word.
She stopped going in that room.
She tried lying on the couch, lying across the bar, lying in the bathtub, lying on desks, lying on the guest beds.
And everything still seemed pretty shitty so she stopped messing around.
V
She discovered that Tom was totally into Bruce Willis. They had a Die Hard marathon and whenever Hal came in the room he turned his nose up at the "unsophisticated drivel" they were watching.
She noticed him lurking behind the bar for a suspiciously long while and realized that he was totally watching it and trying to be subtle.
VI
Sometimes she'd forget and try to do ghost things. Whenever this happened, for some reason she'd start crying like a crazy loon and crumple to the ground, and her knees would get banged up and that's totally not how it happens in the movies. She'd dig the heels of her palms into her eyes and try to shut up before Hal or Tom heard, but one of them always did, and they'd find her on the floor with mascara trailing from her eyes and sobs trailing from her throat.
Usually if Tom came first he'd take one look at her and assess the situation and yell, "Hal! Alex is doing a thing and I don't know what to do about it!" and then he'd pat her head awkwardly and shuffle off.
Hal would come in, sometimes with the marigolds, sometimes without, and he'd sigh and do that thing old men do when they gather the material of their pants at the thighs and pull up the cuffs and sit down. She doesn't really know why he does that, but he does it so she doesn't care.
"Alex, what –?"
"Shut up and tell me why I can't Rent-a-ghost anymore, you idiot!"
Then, if he was wearing the marigolds, he'd carefully pull them off (one finger at a time) and neatly fold them. And he'd lick his lips and cross his legs, and say, "Alex, you're not a ghost anymore."
(He was always very tactful.
She was not.)
She'd scream and swear and gesticulate and maybe throw some things and cry a little harder, but whatever her reaction, Hal responded the same way he always did. He'd take her hand and bring her downstairs, make her tea and order her to build up and take down his dominoes.
She pretended it didn't help, but it did.
Hal knew.
VII
She tried to sleep.
She did.
She tried to dream.
She did.
But she didn't like it.
"Hal, budge over, would you? God, you take up space."
Hal sat up, covered his body with the blanket. His hair was tousled and a yawn lay on his lips.
"Alex, what time is it?"
"Half two." He must have seen the look in her eye because his face grew serious and he glanced back down to his bed.
"I'm afraid it's rather – it's a small bed, not fit for two –"
"Do I look like I care right now?" he sighed and moved over to the edge. She bit her nail and climbed in and drew up the covers. Hal was lying stiffly on his back, unmoving.
An awkward silence fell between them.
"Would you… like to talk about it?" his fingers twitched near her leg.
A tear fell and hit his shoulder. "Um. Not really."
Then they were quiet, for a time, and she barely noticed when he twined their pinkie fingers together because she was almost asleep.
(When she woke up the curtains were pushing back the sunlight and somehow she'd ended up pressed against his side. He slept on.
She bit her lip and closed her eyes again.)
The next night, when she woke up, she screamed. Tom said she could come to his room if she needed company because his bed was bigger.
Hal shuffled in after a little while and climbed in too.
And she thought she might cry because she was there in the middle, between her two best mates, and she was pretty fucking sure everything was made right.
They all slept in Tom's bed for a few weeks until Allison came round again.
VIII
They were okay, really.
Until Hal had to start obsessively cleaning the house because he felt strange and didn't like it. Tom thought he might be relapsing and she knew it would kill Hal if he were right. So Hal kept doing what Leo told him to.
So whenever Hal put on the marigolds and brought out the big (cleaning) guns, she knew to walk away. She didn't know who the hell he'd been five hundred years ago, or fifty years ago, or five years ago. She just knew that he was Hal who sang old show tunes, and Hal who really liked cleaning and ninety-degree angles and straight lines, and Hal who didn't know how to talk to girls and went on dates in museums. She also knew that he was Hal who lied and tricked and cheated, and Hal who killed people and drank their blood like it was wine, and Hal who really didn't give a shit about anyone but himself.
The trouble was never differentiating between the two. The trouble was deciding which Hal was the real Hal.
She didn't think he'd kill people anymore, because he was nice Hal and also not-nice Hal at the same time, and they'd joined hands and become the same, and in the end he was just Hal.
Just Hal.
Just Hal just Hal just Hal just Hal just Hal.
She told him this one day when he was ferociously scrubbing the cabinets in the downstairs toilet and singing Gilbert & Sullivan with great gusto.
He took the time to remove his marigolds and then they made out against the door.
IX
There was one day when they were sitting on the couch together watching Antiques Roadshow, and her feet were across Tom's lap and Hal's arm was round her shoulders, and everything was just nice, and then she realized that she'd forgotten how she'd died.
Tom and Hal were betting on this old-ass compass thing when it hit her, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tried really hard to remember,
But nothing happened.
So she got up and went to the attic.
Eve's crib was still there in the middle of the room, and the mobile of crosses still hung from the ceiling. The building blocks had been scattered around the room and the baby's nappies were strewn over the crib.
(They hadn't had the heart to move Eve's things when they came back from blowing up Stoker.)
And for some reason, seeing the sweet residue of that old life made her feel the nostalgia like a blunt knife; her heart felt very, very desolate and very, very full. It was like that one song on the radio that always makes you cry, except this time it was a baby who had died before her life had begun.
She didn't know she was crying until Hal wiped the tears off her face.
"I come bearing tea," he said quietly, and they mutually decided to sit down at the same time facing the crib.
The thing she liked most about Hal in that very second was that he never pushed.
(Usually the thing she hated most about Hal was that he never pushed.)
"How did I die?"
Hal choked on his tea.
"Is this a joke?"
She didn't reply, but kept looking at the space where Eve used to sleep. Babies, she'd discovered, did little else.
"I – are you comfortable with knowing?"
"Hal," she said, "I've fucking forgotten how I died. You don't think that's uncomfortable?"
"But – you're not actually dead anymore," he pointed out, taking a sip of his tea to hide his discomfort. "Do you really need to know?"
"Look, Hal, you're not fooling yourself and you sure as hell are not fooling me. That was a really pathetic try. Totally not up to your usual standards."
"Okay." He dragged his finger through the dust on the floorboards. "You know, I really should bring the hoover up here –"
"Hal!"
"Really Alex, I don't know what's come over you –"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Hal, why don't you want to tell me?"
"Because I killed you, Alex, that's why!"
They were both breathing hard in the wake of the revelation. Her face was curiously blank and his was anguished and fervent and wide-eyed and broken.
"What?"
She was so quiet she thought he might not have heard her speak.
"I – not directly. I wasn't involved… like that." He paused as if to continue. "We'd gone on a date, and you had left… Cutler – Nick Cutler, a vampire – must have known we were seeing each other, and he must have followed you…" he darted a quick glance at her face to gauge her reaction.
"And then what?" she was entranced. She tried to conjure a memory in her head, but it was as if it were happening to someone else; like when she read books, she was just a third party, looking in on the story but never engaging. She saw herself being followed to an alley by a thin weedy-looking guy who was pretending to surf Twitter on his phone.
"I – he never told me how it happened. All I know is that he duped me into drinking your blood (after it had been drained from your body) and then showed me your – your –"
"My corpse," she filled in, tapping her nails against the floor. "I still don't see how you killed me, though." He made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat and set down his tea so hard it sloshed over the sides of the mug.
"Because if it were not for me, you would be in Scotland right now with your family after having had a safe vacation, not here in a shithole B&B with a vampire and a werewolf."
"Well, actually, you're not a vampire anymore and Tom's not a werewolf –"
"That's not the point! The point is that I allowed myself to – to become involved with you, which led to your death. Alex, you don't understand how that affected me, especially after so many years of being clean and as untarnished as I could try to be. I killed again that night, even if it was indirectly."
"I see," she said, her mouth hardening, "it's not really about my death, is it? It's about you. Of course, it's always bloody got to be about you."
"Alex – what?"
"Come on, Hal, you're not upset about my death, you're upset about the consequences it had on you and your perfect little universe. I get it."
"Jesus, Alex, is that what you really think?" he tried to lock their gazes but she was looking away. The tea in her mug made little plunk noises as the tears fell. "Do you not think I feel the guilt every day, sharp and clear as a knife? Do you not think that I realize that if it weren't for me you'd have a normal life right now? God, I hate myself even more every day because of what happened to you. Because of my goddamn transgressions, the mistakes made before you were even born. I had no right to – to infect you with my presence."
Her tears ran faster and her face turned fond.
"Shut up, arsehole. Now you're being all defeatist and gloomy and I'm supposed to be upset about my death, but now you're just making me feel bad for you."
"Don't. I deserve your hatred and nothing else."
"Oh my god, Hal, you make me want to pinch your cheeks and hug you and stuff." He looked mildly terrified so she added, "Which is totally not my thing so I won't. But, really. I know you blame yourself, but the thing is, if I hadn't come on to you, I would have gone back to Scotland and been normal.
"But don't you get it? I don't want normal. My whole life, I was ready to go have this grand adventure and grow up by myself and shit. Yeah, so I was a ghost for a while, but I also had you and Tom, and we got to kick the Devil's ass – and really, who gets to say that? I miss my family, it hurts like hell, I won't lie, but the truth is, Hal – you're my family now. You and Tom. Normality is so overrated anyway."
Hal had that look about him, the one where his eyes were glassy and sort of red and his lips were twitching, as if they were holding back some kind of outburst, and he was just looking at her with that face and she didn't think she could last very long under that gaze.
So she got up and left.
He stayed sitting in the attic alone with two cups of cold tea and an empty crib.
X
Sometimes she would wander aimlessly around the house looking for things to do and would happen upon Hal staring intently into a mirror. She knew it wasn't vanity and it frankly made her stomach twist with melancholy and she'd watch him for a bit, and then she'd keep going.
XI
After the first few weeks it started to get easier to go to bed alone. She still left all the lights on and turned the radio to a classical channel and would lie on her back and focus on relaxing her muscles one-by-one. When she did fall to sleep, she was haunted by emaciated skeletons grinning dreadfully with a morbid sense that accompanies death and that settles on your shoulders and seeps through your eyes and ears and nose and fills you up and makes you want to claw out of yourself –
Usually that was when she'd wake up.
(Sometimes she wouldn't, and when she didn't, she would dream about the Devil's eyes and Hal dying and Tom dying and sometimes even her mother coming back, but as a jaundiced corpse.
She never told this to Hal.)
Her first instinct would be to Rent-a-ghost straight to Hal's bed, but then she'd get a second shock and remember that she couldn't anymore, and then she would be twice as upset and almost run to Hal's room. Sometimes he was really deeply asleep, so she'd just climb in and fold herself around him. When he wasn't – he might ask her about her nightmares (she wouldn't ever describe them to him in detail) or he might try to engage her in meaningless conversation to distract her (it never worked but she appreciated the effort).
Some nights it was easier to fall back asleep and some nights she would continue to wake,
and sometimes she would scream,
and sometimes she would cry,
But always he'd be there.
And she'd close up the heart-hole in her chest and carry on.
XII
They were okay, really.
Except for when they weren't.
Like when she could feel herself fading.
She wasn't becoming incorporeal or anything but she knew it was happening.
There were the times when she forgot important things, like what her brothers' names were or Hal's favourite type of hand soap.
There were the times when she forgot trivial things, like the name for the hoover or that she was supposed to meet Tom and Hal after work at the pub.
There were the times when she forgot she was human and would try to summon objects or push them away and it wouldn't work. And she would get frustrated and Tom would send Hal in and he would make everything better.
Except,
There were the times when he couldn't make everything better.
And those times sucked, and they really sucked and nothing would change for a while.
But then she'd forget all about that and go back to normal.
XIII
She never made the mistake of telling Hal that his murderous rampages weren't his fault. She never made the mistake of saying, "It's okay Hal, that wasn't really you, and anyway, it's in the past now. You're normal and it's all that counts." She knew that it was a bullshit thing to say and Hal would get angry at that and start cleaning behind the fridge or something. Hal really did hate himself with spectacular desperation; it hurt a bit to think about it, so usually she wouldn't. When he got really morbid and really deep into the self-loathing she'd bring chocolate and eat it while he did press-ups.
Apparently he was against eating chocolate before or after or during working out.
What she would say, however, was that he was fully accountable for everything he'd done because he'd done it in his right mind, and she knew it still haunted him at night (he had nightmares, and sometimes they were worse than hers), but, he was trying to become a better person and she forgave him.
It would either make him withdraw more into himself (in which case she would finish her chocolate and leave) or it would make him stare at her – like she was a bloody angel or something – and kiss her (and she was so okay with that, even though she knew the salt she tasted wasn't from his sweat).
Once, a statement like that, from her lips to his ears, might have been a lie.
Not anymore.
Not anymore.
XIV
"You know you're going to need to get a job at some point, Alex?"
They were all three of them having breakfast in front of the television set when Hal brought it up. She was wearing Tom's shorts again because it was Sunday morning and Hal only let her wear them once a week.
(Actually his exact words were: "Those things are such an eyesore that I cannot possibly have them in my line of sight (and therefore cluttering up my surroundings) for more than – more than a few hours at most."
She decided to take it quite literally.)
"Aren't you the Manager of a posh hotel, dearie?" she said, swinging her spoon in the air and almost clipping Tom on the ear.
"Yes, if you could call the Barry Grand posh," he grumbled, removing the spoon from her grasp and bending to collect the dishes.
"Well, I do," she said decisively, "Which means you have enough income to pay for this house, along with what Tom earns as 'Ass Man'."
"It was one time!" Tom exclaimed, throwing his hands up. "Hal fixed it for me later. Stop bringing it up Alex please, it hurts me feelings."
She patted his shoulder conspiringly and went to follow Hal into the kitchen.
"Look, it's only been a few months since – well, you know," she said, "I'm only just getting used to being seen by people! And anyway, I need to come to terms with the fact that I can't do graffiti anymore 'cause now I can get caught."
Hal looked mortified. "Alex!"
"Kidding, god, Hal, calm your tits." She went over and coaxed the dirty dishes from his hands and turned the water on. "I mean, a fulfilling career would be nice, but, I just… I want to – I need to – get used to this first. Get used to being normal again."
She must have sounded depressed or something because he looked at her fondly and said, "Alex, none of us will ever be normal again. Don't worry."
And before she could catch him at it, he leaned in and kissed her.
He was gone just as suddenly, the kitchen door left swinging in the wake of his departure and her lips tingling in the wake of his affection.
She left the water running and expected the lights to flicker or a mug to shatter or something, but nothing happened, except she swore her heart was beating faster than ever before.
XV
There were those days when she was feeling really shitty and dramatic and girly and she'd go up to the attic and listen to Mumford & Sons really loud, and do that thing in the movies where you lie on your back and stare up at the ceiling all pensively.
She realized that it got boring really fast.
When it was Tom's day off he went up and threw himself down beside her and told her he liked the music she was listening to.
So she made him a mixtape and he never stopped listening to it.
Tom never complained about work, so he'd go on enthusiastically about every minute of his day, and back when she was Alex and not Tom and Hal and Alex she would have got annoyed at him, but now she was pretty okay with it. And she liked Tom; he wasn't blinded by social prejudices like most people, probably 'cause he was literally raised by wolves, and he just had this naïve sweetness about him (but she'd never tell him he was sweet, he'd get all awkward and go turn on the tele or something) and really, they were best mates.
XVI
Sometimes she'd forget that she could eat. Hal usually made dinner and he'd put a serving in front of her and she'd ignore it until he would pause and say, "What's wrong? Aren't you hungry?" and she'd glance down at her full plate and her cheeks would redden and she would feel stupid.
"Sorry – er, I was in my own world for a sec."
But Hal would always look at her meaningfully like he knew what she was about. Later, she would insist on doing the washing up and Hal would press the marigolds into her hands and Tom would pat her on the back after a pointed glance from Hal. They always did stick around to make her feel better; and she felt like she was the only one being taken care of.
'Cause they were always taking care of her but she never seemed to be taking care of them.
She felt really affected by her own humanity and no shit, that kinda scared her.
Like, every day she woke up and sometimes she was alone but sometimes she was in Hal's bed, but it just so happened that every day when she woke up she felt scared that she might die again, and she would be without her boys, and the awareness of the possibility was sharp and acute and it winded her when she thought about it.
She felt kind of awkward calling them her boys, like they were some kind of lame backup singers or something.
But what else were they really, what else other than hers?
She'd think about how Tom always held doors open for her and how polite he always was, but when there was food he'd just tear into it and wouldn't surface until every crumb had been cleaned off the plate. And how he got so into Antiques Roadshow and he'd be really competitive about his betting against Hal, and actually he usually won.
She would try not to think about Hal too often, because when she did, she felt funny inside and had the stupid urge to wrap her fingers around his and never let go because she was mortal,
and he was mortal,
and nothing lasts forever,
especially not life,
and she was afraid of dying now that she knew what lay beyond life.
And that was bleakness because everything that wasn't Tom and Hal was bleak, she knew this, so she didn't want to die because it wouldn't be Tom and Hal waiting for her on the other side.
And she knew this time, she wouldn't come back.
And how this fitted in with her plan to grow up and explore the world, she didn't know, but she'd make it work because she'd give up everything for them.
Well.
She already had, hadn't she?
XVII
She used to love thrillers. Her life was so boring and shit, and thrillers were the opposite of boring. She would read them all the time, and her dad liked them too so they talked about it, and it was something good for them to talk about.
(Her dad had trouble communicating after her mum left.)
She discovered that Tom really liked thrillers and they were easy for him to read, and when she'd been a ghost, she would have gone to the library to 'pick up' a few for him but now she wasn't, and she couldn't because nothing was ever that easy anymore.
(It really wasn't.)
So she had to get a library card registered for Tom, who looked like he didn't know what to do with it (he had probably never seen one in his life) and she walked him through it and he came home with a stack of books that Hal dismissed as being "action fodder for the weak-minded."
When she asked Hal what his kind of literature was, he was totally predictable in answering with, "Only the classics, Alex. Isn't it obvious?"
Later that night she found a well-read Dostoevsky placed neatly on her bedside table.
XVIII
She liked to interrupt Hal when he listened to Radio Four. Usually she'd change the station and would start singing along to whatever song was playing. If she didn't know it, she made up her own lyrics. If she did know it, usually she'd fuck up the lyrics anyway, and God knew she didn't care much what came out of her mouth.
Once she messed up 'Time Warp' and she thought Hal would need to sit down and take deep breaths because he looked so appalled at her nerve or something.
"How does one just sing the wrong lyrics for Time Warp? How?"
"Relax, Frank N Furter, it's just a song," she said, putting her hands on her hips and bringing her knees in tight. He continued to look flabbergasted though, so she grabbed his hand and made him dance with her.
When Tom came in she taught him the dance and they had one of those silly movie moments that just looks so fake when everyone is harmonious and pure happy and giggling and doing ridiculous dance moves and stuff.
But shit, did it feel good.
XIX
She didn't really touch the piano anymore.
XX
It was one of those days when she felt nostalgic. The emptiness burrowed into her heart and seeped into her bones and made her feel tired. She never used to feel this way; probably because there was nothing to feel nostalgic about in her old life, 'cause everything was the same day in and day out and during the nights, she was alone with her brothers sleeping down the hall and her dad sleeping on the couch in front of the tele with his arm triangulated awkwardly behind his head.
But not anymore.
No, not anymore.
Now the nostalgia pierced her throat and coated her lashes and dug under her fingernails, so deep she couldn't shake it off. Maybe 'cause everything had become so unpredictable she was in want for the predictable.
Well, didn't she have that now? Now that she was stuck being human.
(human.)
Tom and Hal would go to work, and she would wake up late and stumble downstairs for a cup of tea – Hal would leave the kettle on with a note addressed to her – and she'd watch some sitcoms for a bit, and maybe take a walk or go to the beach. And she'd get home before the boys were off work so she'd start making dinner, but then Tom would come in and compel her to go watch more television while he did the cooking (he was really getting quite good at it). Hal would be reading but he'd sneak glances at whatever show was on overtop the book or the paper he was immersed in, or when he wasn't feeling what she called 'booky-intellectual' he'd kick her ass at chess.
And during the evening they'd hang out and do whatever.
That was predictable, right? And didn't she want (need) it?
So why the hell was she missing having to strap Hal into a chair (cursing and spitting and "fuck you, bitch!"), missing Tom's scars (they used to stand in sharp pink relief against his buzzed brown hair), missing the thrill of mystery and even devilry ("I'm only the fucking devil, sweetheart.")?
Because, her mind tells her (only when she's alone), then, you knew who you were and where you stood.
Where did she stand now, now when she wasn't a third of a supernatural trinity?
Because even now, Tom was Tom and Hal was Hal but she was… well, she still hadn't quite figured that out yet.
(But was that really so bad?)
XXI
Hal came in the kitchen brandishing a flyer. "There's a new exhibit at the museum – ancient Peruvian art. Like, Incas," he clarified, as Tom looked confused. "Well? Who's in? Tom, why don't you ring Allison – she'll be interested for sure."
Tom perked up immediately and Alex sighed and knew she'd be resigned to go.
"Ooh, Tom, come look at this ritual knife! See the definite semi-circular blade. The Inca used this during ritual sacrifices to the gods!" Tom and Allison enjoyed the exhibit.
Hal had caught her hand and was rubbing his thumb against hers and he hadn't let go.
She looked at the lipstick stain on her cup with disinterest. The exhibit was everything she thought it would be: boring as hell.
Except for the masturbation statues. Those had been interesting (unsettling).
They'd found the tea shop and had pushed two tables together and now they were sitting. Tom and Allison were crowded at the end, immersed in a picture book they'd bought in the boutique – it cost fifteen quid, total bollocks – and Hal was reading the paper.
Alex was trying her best not to cry.
'Cause she remembered the last time she was at this museum –
(and she hadn't made it to the tea shop)
– and wasn't she so stupid back then, not to notice that Hal was dangerous? As if she could forget that afternoon, as if every fucking moment wasn't burned into her retinas for those fleeting corner of time when she closed her eyes or remembered too far in the past.
Apparently she was staring at the pink bow-shape of her imprinted lips because she felt Hal's hand come to rest on her knee.
"Alex?" he spoke quietly thank God because if Allison and Tom knew she was silently screaming she didn't know what she would do.
"Fine, I'm – fine." Her eyelids squeezed shut and her pulse somersaulted and her nails rhythmically made noises taptaptap on the Formica tabletop –
"I'm so sorry," Hal whispered, and the sound was amplified and she watched his upper lip twitch and Jesus Christ his eyelashes were long. "I've been so insensitive."
"Shut up," she hissed, a bit too loud, 'cause Tom and Allison briefly looked up before going back to geometrically-painted water jugs. "Nothing's wrong."
And she threw the cup with her painted lips on the ground, and then she left.
XXII
She used to really want to travel. Foreign places, exotic places, like Machu Picchu, or Dubai, or Hawaii or even Nice.
When she was alive she would drift. She liked the caravan because it kept moving. The house just sat.
(Her mum would call that sedentary.)
When she was dead she would drift. Like she was a balloon and she was tethered to the ground but the rope was wearing thin and the wind was gathering strength. Annie had told her that she would be anchored to Honolulu Heights, to Hal and to Tom. Until the end of everything or until everything ended.
And as much as she'd wanted to travel, to foreign places, exotic places, like Machu Picchu, or Dubai, or Hawaii or even Nice,
she is irrevocably bound to the house and to Tom and to Hal.
XXIII
It was a random afternoon when she paused in the middle of the street (Hal would flip if she died again) because it had been months and weeks and days and hours since that day, and really, time had a bastard way of feigning slowness but when you looked back it wasn't slow at all, but fastfastfast.
(tricky.)
XXIV
The first time they fucked, Tom was downstairs cleaning the dishes and Allison was reading Chaucer at the bar and they were lying on Hal's bed and all the lights were on and the radio was playing 'Time Warp'. It was slow and fast and hot and cold and her eyes were closed but she was staring into him all the same. His tongue tasted like the herbal tea he'd tried (it was Annie's favourite) and he'd given her that look and she felt smouldered and they'd practically raced each other up to his room.
His hand was up her shirt before the door had even slammed shut.
And there, lying on the creaking bed fit for one with granny sheets and a flowery bedpost with all the lights on and 'Time Warp' on the radio and his mouth pressed to her throat –
(she knew it wasn't the bloodlust; he was counting her pulse,
because now she had a pulse.)
– it was like some line had been irrefutable crossed because now instead of Alex and Hal it was Alex-and-Hal and holy shit, she was really really okay with that.
And when he slowly folded into her she felt as complete as a twice-living dead girl ever could.
And his hips moved and his breath came faster and he locked their gazes and his fingers drifted everywhere, along her ribcage and over the column of her neck and into her hair and he tickled her behind her knees (and she laughed jarringly breathlessly hopelessly); and her hips moved and her breath came faster and she laced her fingers through the curls of his hair and licked behind his teeth and clutched at his biceps and –
Suddenly it didn't matter that they were fucking for the first time in a severely unromantic location;
suddenly it only mattered that he was her and she was him and they were them and it was perfect.
XXV
She had never seen herself as the marriage type.
Luckily Hal had never seen himself as the marriage type either.
XXVI
She'd given up the pretence of sleeping in her own bed. For God's sake, she woke up every night because Hatch and gravestones and Rook and werewolves and museums and pleather jackets and the end (beginning) of the world.
She used to think she was brave enough to last the night alone but when her eyes were shut she saw up-close her own rotting skull and knew that she couldn't sleep without Hal's pinkie twisted round her own and his soft exhales tousling her hair. And yeah, it kinda made her die a little inside that she'd grown so depended on his presence, but she was lying if she couldn't admit to herself that they'd both end up in the same bed by the end of the night.
So she'd given up the ghost, so to speak and convinced Hal to invest in a bigger bed.
(When Hal got it set up Tom made as if he was blind to its purpose.)
And during the night he was wrapped round her so tightly she thought she might crumble at the force of it.
XXVII
Sometimes she was suddenly hit with loving him,
Like when he kissed her bottom lip,
Or when he smoothed his thumb over her nipple,
Or when he was doing press-ups and the muscles of his back moved,
Or when they made love.
XXVIII
They were okay, really.
and they were.
for Nicole,
and for the fandom.
please note: the details about the Peruvian art exhibit are not false and/or the product of artistic license.