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He'd thought it was a good idea at the time, but now with a Tribble making noises from the bottommost drawer of his desk, he was beginning to think it was the stupidest idea he'd ever had. There was another hopeful, curious squeak from his desk, and a passing desk sergeant spared him a sidelong glance.
"Pipe down in there," he hissed from the corner of his mouth when the sergeant was out of sight. The Tribble let out a happy squeak, and he heard tiny feet scrabbling at the smooth sides of the drawer.
It wasn't a Tribble exactly. The man at the menagerie had called it a Pygmy Puff, but all his mind could think when he'd seen it through the display glass was that it was a real, live Tribble, somehow beamed down from Captain Kirk's Enterprise and left to flourish behind the forgotten walls of Gotham. Neither Auror Ramirez nor the shopkeeper had understood the reference when he'd tried to explain, but the thought wouldn't go away, and so he'd held onto it when the shopkeeper dropped the furry ball of happy squeak into his cupped palms.
I'm buyin' my wife a Tribble, he'd thought, stunned and numb as the little feet tickled his gloved palms.
He still couldn't believe he'd done it, gone beyond the wall in Grand Central without his Rebecca. His previous forays, all three of them until tonight, had been with her. He'd always stayed close to her, unmanned by the unfamiliar surroundings and the strange language he did not speak and the smells he could not identify. The people beyond the wall had been polite but aloof, constrained by the laminate pinned to his shirt that identified him as a Non-Magical Visitor, and only the comforting touch of Rebecca's hand in his own had kept him from bolting to the reassuring confines of the New York he'd understood, the city that was as much a part of him as his own skin.
But he'd been determined to go beyond the wall without her this time, to brave the suspicious stares and the clandestine whispers that followed his every step. She was his wife, his girl, and she'd taken leaps of faith with him, no questions asked. So now it had been his turn. So he'd sucked it up and called Auror Ramirez on his landline, and at eight-thirty this morning, he'd taken a deep breath, longed for the reassuring tangle of Rebecca's fingers in his own, and slipped between the grimy bricks.
You went because you were desperate to get her a present that showed her how much she fuckin' means to you, muttered Gavin. One that would mean more than some gloves or a negligee or a new book she'd finish in three days, two if Junior was quiet. One that she could look to and know that you thought of her every minute that you were away.
You had originally intended to buy her an anklet, a diamond and onyx affair of fragile beauty that would stand out against her soft, pale skin and sparkle in the dim light of your bedroom when you drew your lips over her curlin' toes and along her sensitive instep. You had your heart set on it, and you rehearsed the presentation over and over in your head. You'd have the jeweler put it inside a white, velvet box or maybe a red one. Then you'd wait 'til Junior was asleep and give it to her under the Christmas tree. Maybe you'd even do what you shoulda done the night you asked for her hand and get on bended knee. Who cared if you looked like a dumbass as long as her eyes widened in surprise? You pictured the way she'd look at you while you were fastening the clasp around her ankle, the adoration and tenderness and pride. Pride most of all that you could give her something so pretty and prove that you weren't just some blue-collar bum, robbin' her of her dreams to keep yours alive. You could almost taste her sugary kisses.
And then Junior got an ear infection, and you ruined a suit, and the money you'd squirreled away since August was gone in a week. You almost cried as you were dolin' out the money for Junior's antibiotics. Rebecca thought it was because you were worried about Junior, and you were, but all you could think about was that beautiful anklet, and how perfect it would have looked on her.
Your parents had always taught you never to whine over things you couldn't change, so you tried to put it outta your mind and find other gifts. You went window-shoppin' when you had free moments on shift. You went into bookstores and browsed through the stacks, but you couldn't remember what she'd read or what she hadn't, and you didn't want to take the chance of givin' her somethin' that already lived in the stacks and piles of her office or the livin' room. You tried the bath shops next, but everything smelled the same and not like her, and no matter the price on the bottle, it was still too cheap for the woman who had given you a son. A whole fuckin' family.
That's why you wanted that anklet so bad. Because she'd spent all last Christmas horkin' her cookies on account of the baby growin' inside her and the first half'a this year waddlin' around with a bowlin' ball on her bladder. She spent the rest of it learnin' the many ways to clean shit and puke outta fabric and how to survive on less than four hours' sleep. Her whole world has been radically rearranged in the past year.
The anklet was your way of sayin' thank you. It wouldn'ta even begun to measure up to the gift she gave you; nothin' could measure up to the memory of Junior takin' his first breath and screamin' it out again into Dr. Fiorello's face, but it woulda been at least an acknowledgement of the year she's had, of all the changes the two of you have weathered. It woulda shown her that she didn't marry an oblivious asshole who only cared about throwin' a fuck into her, and who only gave her enough time and affection to keep her from realizin' how good she could have it with somebody who deserved her. Now that was gone, and you had nothin' to show for it.
What made it worse was that Junior has a mountain of gifts under the tree, never mind that he's five months old and still getting used to his eyeballs. He can't even gnaw on a candy cane, but his stockin' is stuffed to overflowin' with squashy, drool-resistant toys and big, plastic rattles. Your parents brought over an armload of presents for him a few days back, all wrapped in gold-foil paper and red-velvet bows. God knows what they are. There were a few gifts for you in the pile and a gift from your old man to Rebecca that piqued your curiosity, but most of them were for the baby. There was nothin' to her from you under the tree, and her stockin' was empty. Not even a lousy gift certificate for a manicure and a haircut.
When there was still nothin' under the tree for her with your name on it by the twenty-second, you panicked and dug Auror Ramirez' business card from the kitchen junk drawer, that place where unwanted things go to disappear. You dialed the number twice before you got it right, and then you froze when he picked up. It took remindin' yourself that he was just a cop in funny robes to get your mouth movin', and then it was all right, but for a minute there, you felt like an idiot.
You finally managed to blurt out the problem, and he agreed to escort you beyond the wall this mornin'. You got up at seven, and Rebecca was already up, breastfeedin' Junior and sippin' a mug of hot tea. She kissed you good mornin' and lurched off to make your coffee, and when it was time for you to leave, she handed you your keys and a bag of gingerbread men she'd baked the night before. You kissed your nursin' Junior goodbye and bundled against the snow and lashin' wind, and then you trudged outta the buildin' in the direction of Grand Central.
Auror Ramirez was waitin', stompin' his booted feet to keep the blood flowin' in his feet and sippin' coffee from a styrofoam cup. He nodded when he saw you. Mornin', he grunted, and held out his hand.
You took it and breathed his name on a puff of visible air. Mornin'. Thanks for meetin' me here. The air was cold and metallic on your teeth and tongue.
Ramirez gave a noncommittal grunt and flapped his hand in dismissal. You'd be surprised how many people have that problem. You got some I.D.? When you flipped open your badge, he spared it a cursory glance and fished in the pockets of the NYPD jacket he was wearin'. Put this on, he ordered, and held out the laminate.
You clipped it on without lookin' at it. It had your picture and badge number on it, and the sight of your face movin' in that tiny square made your flesh crawl. It wasn't grainy or jerky like an old kinescope; it was fluid and clear, as if a part of you had been trapped behind the plastic. You hated wearin' it, but bein' caught without it was grounds for arrest and permanent expulsion, and though thought of the latter bothered you not in the slightest, you didn't relish explainin' to Rebecca why you couldn't go with her anymore. So you just kept your mouth shut and tried to ignore it.
You ready? Ramirez asked. You nodded. All right, Wallace, he said to the uniform idlin' by the men's john with his cap pulled low over his eyes and his gloved hand curled loosely around his baton, I'm headin' in. Who's relievin' you?
Wallace straightened and adjusted the brim of his cap. Cunningham, sir.
Mmm. Kid's got his thumb up his ass and his brain in his pants most'a the time, so he'll probably be late. If he ain't here by ten after, you give HQ a buzz. Ramirez took a last sip of coffee and tossed the half-full cup into a nearby garbage can. Nasty shit, he muttered.
Yes, sir, Wallace replied.
Ramirez nodded and fussed aimlessly with his gloves. Say hello to Melissa for me, huh, kid?
You know it. Take care, Tony. You, too, uh, Detective. His words were polite, but his eyes were smilin', and that made you feel a little better.
At least until Ramirez grabbed you by the arm and jerked you through the wall without preamble. Then your eyes bulged dangerously inside their sockets and your lungs seized inside your chest, and when you opened your mouth for air, all you could draw in was the darkness, thick as syrup on your tongue. You could only claw your fingers into the slippery fabric of his jacket, and even that was slidin' through your fingers like oil. In another second or two, you were gonna lose your grip and drift out of reach. Maybe you'd eventually land somewhere, or maybe you'd just keep floatin' in the bottomless eternity until the oxygen ran out.
Just when you thought you were gonna find out, the ground was hard and cold underneath your stumblin' feet and the light was bright and cruel in your buggin' eyes. You lurched and staggered on the frozen pavement like a blind drunk, bent double with your hands planted on your tremblin' knees, and tears streamin' down your numb face.
Damned if Ramirez wasn't unruffled as you please, standin' beside you with an expression of sardonic amusement on his face. He pulled out his wand and tapped his clothes with the tip, and the bulky NYPD jacket vanished. In its place were sleek, wool robes of a deep blue. Another tap on his fingertips, and the black leather gloves thickened and hardened and turned a mottled green. You stared at 'em in mute incredulity.
Dragonhide, he explained when he caught you lookin', and flexed his fingers inside the stiff material. They're heat-resistant as hell, and snug. Could get you a pair, but you'd have a hard time explainin' 'em to the other guys in the squadroom, I guess.
Yeah, I guess, you answered weakly, and straightened.
You'll get used to it, he assured you. Pregnant witches manage it all the time. He clapped you on the back. C'mon. Let's get you somethin' to eat. I'm starvin'.
Eatin' was the last thing you wanted to do, but you followed him as he clumped down the sidewalk, ice and salt crunchin' underfoot. On the street, people drifted by in mufflers, heavy robes, and stovepipe hats, and horses' hooves clattered over the cobblestone streets as they drew hansom cabs in their wakes. A cab opposite you was parked beneath a gaslight, its driver warding himself against the cold by virtue of a cigarette. He saw you watchin' and raised his hand in lazy greetin'. His horse raised his tail and shit with the wet hiss of suddenly-warmed snow.
Hey, buddy, yous need a ride? he called, teeth clamped possessively around the cigarette. The Brooklyn in his voice surprised you. There was only a brick wall separatin' you from the New York into which you'd been born, but it might as well have been a goddamned galaxy.
Ramirez raised his hand in dismissal, and the driver dropped his cigarette into the snow and crushed it beneath his heel. He clambered into the seat of his cab with astonishin' dexterity and whickered to his horse, and they were gone, canterin' down the street like somethin' outta a Dickens novel. They left behind the butt and the steamin' pile of shit, but a moment later, those were gone, too. They faded away and left not so much as a mark on the snow. You opened your mouth to ask, but Ramirez was ahead of you.
Automatic cleanin' Charms. We used to hire kids as streetsweepers, but for every good kid we got, we ended up with three dumbasses and one asswipe, and half the time the job never got done. People started steppin' in horseshit, and that didn't sit well with the hoity-toity rich cunts, so the city council got the braintrust together to figure out a solution. They thought about solicitin' migrant labor from the poor bastards who'd fled England durin' Voldemort, but the flow's mostly dried up by now, so they came up with the automatic cleanin' Charms. That meant a new goddamned utility tax, of course, so folks naturally bitched about that, and of course that meant the Aurors had to fuckin' eat it by extendin' the freeze of pay raises for another two years. Pricks. And the first couple of attempts to implement the Charms resulted in blowin' out people's septic systems, and of course they bitched about that.
But your mind was still fixated on his passing mention of Voldemort, the boogeyman from Rebecca's past of whom you'd first heard on the night she sent a Wizard named Draco Malfoy to a date with a dirtnap.
I thought the war with Voldemort was over, you interrupted. Rebecca said she saw him die.
Ramirez shrugged. She probably did. On July 30th, 1997, The Daily Prophet across the pond ran an issue proclaimin' that The Boy Who Lived had finally put him down for the count. There were numerous eyewitness accounts, many from credible sources, that swore Voldemort was done for good this time. But that's been said before, so who fuckin' knows? Even if he is gone, word on the street is that some of his most devoted followers are refusin' to give up the game even though everyone else has cleared the field and called it a war.
Like that nutjob that attacked my wife in the precinct? you asked.
Mmm. Draco Malfoy. Nasty little bastard, from what the Ministry report says. Ramirez stuffed his gloved hands into the pockets of his robes. Frankly, I'm surprised your wife didn't shoot first and ask questions later. No jury in the world woulda convicted her. He pointed to a heavy, wrought-iron door set between two glass display windows rimed with frost. We're goin' in there, he said.
There turned out to be Jude's, and it didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out it was the Mr. Wizard equivalent of a cop bar. Men and women in blue robes lined the bar and dotted the smooth, polished wooden tables that gleamed in the milky light from the wall sconces. Ramirez took off his hat and muffler and gestured to a table.
G'head and grab a seat. I'll be right back. He stumped off toward the bar, his heavy footfalls muffled by the thick, green carpeting.
He came back a few minutes later with two pewter steins and two plates of sausage. He slid one of each in your direction and plopped happily into his own chair. Try that on for size, Detective. It'll put some fuckin' hair on your chest.
You tipped the pewter mug and peered over the rim. A rich, amber liquid sloshed inside, spicy and sharp. I can't drink. I'm supposed to be on shift at noon.
Aw, it ain't alcoholic, he assured you, and picked up his knife and fork to saw at his sausage, which was still sizzling, grease beading on its shiny, plump casing like sweat.
You took him at his word and took a cautious sip, and the next instant, steam was pourin' out your mouth, nose, and ears. It burned all the way to the toes and the hair on your balls, and you coughed and spluttered and sloshed half the contents of your stein onto your sleeve.
What the fuck was that? you demanded between wet coughs and ragged wheezes. You were dimly aware of laughter ripplin' through the sparse crowd, a faint tickle against your flushed ears, and anger mingled with the embarrassment. They mighta been magical cops, but they were still cops.
Just some pumpkin juice mixed with Pepper-Up Potion, Ramirez answered benignly, and speared another bite of sausage with the tines of his fork. Sausage is fantastic, he muttered thickly. Candace makes it fresh every mornin' and evenin'. He jerked his head in the direction of the bar, where a barmaid was bucking clean steins onto the bar.
Despite his glowin' recommendation, you left your plate untouched and settled for watchin' him eat. He drank the pumpkin concoction as though there was nothin' unusual about spoutin' steam outta every hole after each sip. You tried to imagine Rebecca drinkin' it and couldn't. She was tea and coffee and milk, right and regular as the rain.
So, what'd you mean back there when you said I wasn't the first one? you ventured after a few minutes of uncomfortable silence.
Ramirez swabbed at his face with a napkin. You ain't the first Muggle to ever marry a witch. It's not as common here as in other places, I guess, but it happens. You gonna eat that? He pointed at your sausage with undisguised hope.
You wordlessly nudged the plate in his direction. There a taboo against it?
Not really. I mean, I guess some of the more established families might object, but there isn't really a need to mingle.
How many of you are there?
Here? Accordin' to the last census, there were ten million magical people in the U.S., and that was three years ago. Lots of folks don't fill out the damn forms, so who knows how high the number is.
Ten million, you repeated blankly, and closed your eyes against a wave of dizziness.
What, you thought we were just a small enclave of genetic freaks, hidin' in shame from the rest of the world? He snorted in derision. Typical Muggle arrogance. He loosed his bridlin' irritation on an unsuspecting piece of sausage, stabbin' it until grease wept from the wounds like blood.
You shrugged. I don't know, you admitted. Rebecca never talks about it, so I just figured-
Gee, wonder why, Ramirez muttered peevishly.
-that there weren't that many of you, you finished.
A dubious grunt.
I love my wife, you snapped, furious that he even had the balls to insinuate anythin' else.
I never said you didn't. Conciliatory now. But tell me this, huh? Why is it that when one of us marries one of you, we always have to give up our world for yours?
I never said Rebecca had to give up this world, your mouth protested, but your mind was guiltily shyin' away from memories of her promisin' that she'd give up practicin' magic so that you wouldn't be cut outta Junior's life by the lure of life beyond the wall. She'd been tired and heavy with baby then, and instead of you soothin' her achin' back and belly, she was patchin' your bruised ego and assurin' you that Junior'd never know that there were such things as fairies and elves if he didn't have to. You were talkin' outta both sides of your ass that night, tellin' her how much she meant to you, while at the same time askin' her to deny who she was and to help deny your son half his heritage and his history. You used her love to shame her into silence.
Then how come there ain't been one iota of magic comin' outta your apartment since she was recorded in our rolls? Not so much as a Scourin' Charm? And how come you still don't know squat about the Wizardin' world?
I'm not sure that's any of your damn business, you countered defensively. 'Sides, Rebecca doesn't need magic. She does just fine without it.
If she doesn't need it, then what are you doin' here? Ramirez challenged shrewdly.
Fuck you. Sullen and childish.
But that was the million-dollar question, wasn't it? And the million-dollar truth. You were sittin' in a pub beyond the wall at nine o'clock in the mornin' on Christmas Eve because your girl needed magic, craved it with a simple longin' that breaks your heart and settles a heavy stone inside your chest. You saw it every time she brought you here, the achin' recollection of home and the knowledge that it's forever out of reach.
You couldn't live here, not even for the love of her. You knew that the day she took you to the dress shop and modeled robes for you on the showroom floor. There was nothin' wrong with them; they were just robes, but they made you sick and sad to see them draped over her tiny frame. Not even the plungin' necklines on the evenin' robes helped. They were foreign and frumpy and wrong against her pale skin, and you had to stuff your hands into the pockets of your pants to keep from tearin' them off her. She wasn't Rebecca. She was somebody else standin' there, somebody a lifetime removed from you.
She was so happy primpin' in those robes, so happy that she didn't notice your growin' discomfort. Happiness is the only explanation for where she took you next. Otherwise, she never woulda brought you to that…porn shop. She's usually too smart to miss such obvious signals, but love and childish pleasure at sharin' her lost world with you had made her blind.
So she wandered around the shop with you in tow, gigglin' over the vibrators and rubber dicks that expanded and lengthened and spurted fake jizz, that warmed to the touch and moved with it. There was even one that molded itself to the shape of a missed lover. It was perverse and unsettlin', but Rebecca handled them all with fond amusement.
It scared you to think that she mighta experimented with them when she was a kid, mighta put such unnatural, alien monstrosities on her delicate skin or inside herself. You had always prided yourself on bein' her first, had cherished the memory of piercin' her maidenhead even as you were ashamed by the wanton greed of it. You had given her what no one else had, and that knowledge was the one scrap of pride you could cling to when everything turned to shit. But was that really true if she'd known the feel of magical rubber inside her cunt?
The question robbed you of strength, and you were sick and dizzy as you stood in the shop and let your horrified gaze drift over ball gags and corsets and martinets that moved independently of hands. When she picked up a bottle of lube, waggled it in front of your face, and said, Look, honey. It says this stuff will reverse the vaginal stretching caused by childbirth, it was more than you could stand.
Put that down, you hissed, and snatched it from her hand. You slammed it onto the table with a tinkling clink. What the hell's the matter with you, draggin' me in here? We don't need any of this shit.
Her gleeful smile winked out, and she retreated a pace. N-no, no, of course we don't. I just thought- She shook her head. Never mind. Let's get out of here. You hungry? There's a great-
But you weren't hungry. Your stomach was a hot, tight ball of nettled anger and sour shame. You knew she was only playin'. Only tryin' to love you with laughter, but it was too hot, too sensitive against your soul to consider that your life between the bedsheets wasn't enough for her as is, that she might want anythin' those inhuman devices could offer. You tried so hard to make it good for her, to make her sing every time you took her to bed, and the thought that she might find 'em preferable to you. Well-
But those fears were too crushing for you to articulate with a mouth unaccustomed to emotion, and the closest you could come was a terse, I can't, all right? long after you'd returned to the Land Where Things Made Sense.
I know, she murmured softly as she soothed you with her cool hands. I know.
Before, did you ever- Clumsy and ashamed and embarrassed by your unreasoning anger. You know, with those…
No, darling, never. She laughed and pulled you close. I was too naïve to know shops like that existed back then and too chickenshit to try them even if I had. You were my first. Always my first.
That was all right, then. You could go to her open arms with the assurance that it really was curiosity that had driven her there and not the flickerin' desire for another part of her life that you'd stolen with your fancy band of gold. You made it as good for her as you could that night, and you didn't stop until you'd coaxed every last shudder from her tremblin', twitchin' body. There was no period of sullen, uneasy silence after that, no minefield to negotiate before love returned to the apartment. The next mornin', she was as sweet and gentle as ever, free with kisses and coffee, but she hasn't invited you into this world since.
The constant thrum of untapped power in your bones and teeth would drive you insane, and so would watchin' your son slip further and further into games you couldn't play. Why would he want to play kick the can or stickball with you when he could touch a dragon or taste the clouds on his tongue from the back of a broom?
But you couldn't say any of that to the Auror across the table, so you settled for, Us and Them? Is that what this is?
Ramirez' shoulders slumped. Look, I ain't here to start trouble. But when you spend your life escortin' people who think you're a freak through your world, it gets pretty fuckin' old.
Like the skels who shriek Pig and bacon at you like a thousand other assholes have never said it before, or the goggle-eyed schoolkids who ask if you've ever killed someone like it's a fuckin' video game. You wanna grab 'em by their collars and shake 'em until their candy-rotted teeth rattle. Yeah, you could understand that.
You closed your eyes and pinched the bridge of your nose between thumb and forefinger. There's nothin' wrong with your world. It's just not mine.
Ramirez chewed thoughtfully. So, why did you two end up together in the first place?
Because I love her. And because I didn't know. One day she's my wife, and the next, she's a Jedi whackin' a nutjob in front of my desk.
Ramirez blinked. Her killin' Malfoy was the first inklin' you ever had? He sat back in his chair and whistled through his teeth.
You shrugged. Yeah, well. Lookin' back, there were signs all over the place, but I never put it all together. By the time I did-
You were too far gone to care, he finished for you.
Yeah.
Hey, I remember you sayin' she was pregnant. Everything turn out okay?
Yeah. Junior's doin' great. He's five months now.
Ramirez raised his stein in salute. You figure out if he's magical yet?
Naw. Rebecca says he probably won't show one way or another for a while.
He probably won't, but sometimes, if you stick a wand in their hands, it'll tap into dormant magic. Sparks'll shoot outta the tip.
Yeah? I think I'm just gonna enjoy him for a while before I worry about that.
Would it matter?
He's my boy, you said simply, and that was that. A few minutes later, Ramirez drained his stein and gave his mouth a final wipe, and you both left the pub.
Your first stop was the bank to exchange your two hundred bucks into Galleons US. It was cavernous and quiet and manned by misshapen willow people in immaculate suits. They had pointed ears and permanent scowls, and they handled your tattered, creased bills with suspicious distrust. Fuck 'em if they couldn't respect a workin' man's money. You took the heavy bag of coins they gave you in return and left with your head held high.
Turned out the exchange rate worked in your favor, and the two hundred had netted you eight hundred in return. The shops were open to you, even the pricey jewelry stores with wares far brighter than the anklet you'd originally envisioned, but every time you started to go inside, you saw the simple onyx and diamond band coiled seductively around one ankle. That was the finery you wanted for her, that was the one you wanted to feel against your lips as you mapped her with your mouth, and that was the one she was gonna have. Maybe not for Christmas, but for your anniversary in February or her birthday in June.
So you bypassed the jewelers in favor of the dress shops and the perfumeries. You didn't have her measurements for a robe, and you figured that the pointed hats arrayed on rubber heads with blank, lidless eyes'd be too conspicuous even for New York, but the ribbons and slippers and pantyhose were dainty and feminine, and Rebecca had felt neither since Junior was born and her body was subtly reconfigured to a mother's. So you bought her yards of ribbon that changed color in the light and slippers that warmed and stockin's that warmed her legs in winter and cooled 'em in summer. The saleslady wrapped 'em in pretty paper with ostentatious bows, and you were so relieved that you'd gotten your girl gifts for Christmas that you didn't give a shit that her smile faltered when she saw the laminate pinned to your shirt.
You went a little crazy in the perfumery. There were so many light, wonderful scents for her that you couldn't decide so you bought some of everything. Perfumes, bath salts, bath beads, lotions, and soap. Ramirez was bitin' the inside of his cheek to keep from laughin' by the time you ambled up to the counter with your arms carryin' half the store. The shopkeeper was so pleased to get a big sale that he forgot all about your laminate, or at least was willin' to ignore it in favor of the cold, hard cash you pressed into his palm.
The menagerie was the last place you stopped. You weren't gonna, but then you saw the puppy through the grimy window and went inside. You had no intention of getting her a puppy-Junior kept her hands full to overflowin' as it was-but you saw no harm in lookin'. You'd always wanted to get her a pet, a furry pal to keep her company while you were savin' the world by pullin' doubles and triples, and maybe they had a small, low-maintenance animal that wouldn't need to piss in the snow at three in the mornin'.
It was cool and shadowy inside, and the buildin' creaked around you as you shuffled through the narrow, haphazard aisles and peered into the assorted cages, tanks, and crates. The proprietor was a burly, beef-necked man with sausages on the ends of his broad hands, and he had a deep belly-laugh that reminded you of Santa Claus. He followed your circuit at a discreet distance, eager to make a sale, but smart enough not to push. His footsteps reverberated underneath your feet and made the warped floorboards bulge like stretchin' skin.
The Tribbles were in a tank beside what looked like a Japanese fightin' fish, and you knew as soon as you saw 'em that you were leavin' with one. Provided they didn't suck blood in the middle of the night or transform into a monster the size of a goddamned Buick when the moon was full. They squeaked and bounced when you got near, and scattered the sawdust in the bottom of the tank with their skittering little feet. They were breathin' balls of fur as far as you could tell, but they jostled for position and pressed against the smudged glass. Pick me. Yo, over here.
There were brown ones and black ones and ones that looked like a Dalmatian, but in the end, you picked a giddy, caramel one who scrabbled at the glass in frantic excitement, steppin' on the heads of his slower counterparts. He puffed up and purred when the owner dropped him into your cupped hands, and he vibrated when the owner stroked his fur, a low, electric-current hum that tickled your palms. Even though his eyes were hidden beneath a mat of fur, you knew they were sparklin' with mischief and glee, and you knew instinctively that Rebecca would love him.
So, you packed him up, along with the pamphlets and brochures, and trundled back to the wall through which you'd come. Ramirez removed your laminate and pulled you through the barrier in three efficient steps. A curt goodbye, and he was gone, in and out before curious eyes noticed his robes. You threaded your way through the seethin' crowd, arms strainin' beneath the weight of your packages, and prayed you could find a cab. You made it to the precinct and stuffed the perfumes and clothes into your locker, but the Tribble you kept with you because you didn't want to risk Scagnetti or one of the other detectives hearin' him and goin' to investigate.
Which he'd thought was a great idea. The problem was, now the whole bullpen could hear it instead, and the Tribble, mystified by the darkness of his desk drawer and the sea of unfamiliar noises and smells, was squeaking and chattering incessantly.
From his desk two spots over, Scagnetti stopped nibbling on the tip of his ballpoint pen to ask, "Hey, Flack, you eat somethin' that didn't agree with you?"
"Naw, why?"
"'Cause there's been an awful lotta suspicious noises comin' from over there," he grunted, and narrowed his eyes as he filled out the DD-5 on his latest case, a murder-suicide in Spanish Harlem.
"Fuck you, Scagnetti," he retorted amiably.
Scagnetti leered at him. "Don't think your wife would approve."
He snorted. "My ass is fine, Scagnetti. I just got Rebecca a gerbil for Christmas."
He looked up in surprise. "You got your wife a designer rat for Christmas?" he asked disdainfully. He dropped his pen, threaded his fingers together behind his head, and leaned back in his chair. "She'll be followin' rat turds around the apartment for years. Merry fuckin' Christmas."
"She's always wanted a pet," he muttered defensively. "'Sides, 's not like it's the only thing I got her, you know." Suddenly, he wished Scagnetti's chair would overbalance and send him sprawling to the floor.
"The Yule log in your pants don't count, kid," the older detective said sagely, and laughed with a sound like dislodged phlegm.
"Fuck you," he said, more bitterly than before, and busied himself with his own paperwork.
He requisitioned a car from the lot to get all his packages home, and for the entire drive, he was consumed by the sinking certainty that Scagnetti was right. He hadn't given serious thought to buying the Tribble; he'd just reacted, drawn by the promise of Rebecca's delight. But what if she wasn't delighted? What if she took one look inside the box and was pissed that another living creature had been thrust into her charge without warning? Worse yet, what if she was allergic? Worst of all, what if Junior was, and he had to take the Tribble from her? It had been stupid, stupid, stupid, and the fact that he'd had the best of intentions made no difference.
He was a bundle of nerves by the time he slipped through the door of their apartment, and so it was a pleasant surprise when arms slithered around him the moment he crossed the threshold.
"Hey, baby," Rebecca said, and the simple, fond greeting resonated at the base of his spine and loosened the knot of apprehension in his chest. "'M glad you're home."
His hands were too full to reach down and stroke the soft, spun gold of her hair, but he shifted the jut of his hipbone towards her in acknowledgement, and she briefly drew her lips along the crease in his pants before straightening in her chair. She was in booties and flannel pajamas, and she looked rumpled and sleepy and comfortable. She patted him on the rump and moved to grant him access to the living room and the small, two-foot pine tree nestled in the corner between the TV and a bookshelf.
He squatted beside the tree, which was festooned with ribbons and tiny bulbs and topped by an angel in a NY Rangers jersey, and added his packages to the festive pile. The box with the Tribble in it rattled in his hands, and the Tribble squeaked pitifully.
"How was shift?" Rebecca asked, and he could tell she had moved into the kitchen. Her question was followed by the muffled clink of glassware.
"Three doot-de-doots, two wackadoos, and a skel high on PCP," he sang to the tune of "The Twelve Days of Christmas," and his heart swelled at her appreciative snicker. "How was your day?"
The muffled thump of a closing cabinet. "I picked up your trenchcoat from the cleaners, and some of your suits, too. I've got to go back after Christmas for the other two. Oh, and Krantz sent over my tentative teaching schedule for the spring semester.
"Yeah?"
"Mmm hmm. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday are light; two classes back to back in the morning, two hours of office consultation, and I'm done by noon. No classes Tuesday; that's for thesis advising, so that's by appointment. Thursday, I teach a four-hour class on Mathematics in Medicine from two to six. I might appeal that one, or at least petition to have the time moved up so I'm home before you. I don't want Junior in daycare or with a sitter any longer than he needs to be."
"We'll work it out, doll. Maybe Thursday can be my ma's day with Junior. My parents are dyin' to spoil him rotten."
"That's what I'm afraid of," she said, but she was laughing.
"You excited about goin' back?" He unwrapped his scarf and tossed it over the back of the sofa.
"Yes," she admitted, and the obvious anticipation in her voice prompted a wistful smile.
"How's Junior?"
"He conked out around eight. He tired himself out wowing me with his butt shimmy." Closer now, and when he turned around, she was in front of him with a glass of amber liquid.
"Brandy," she explained. "Thought it'd warm you up."
He peeled off his gloves, tossed them on the coffee table, and accepted the glass. He took a grateful gulp and closed his eyes as heat bloomed in his chest. He set the glass beside his gloves and shrugged out of his coat.
"What are those?" Rebecca nodded at the new presents underneath the tree. "I thought we'd agreed that Junior had enough."
"We did." He picked up his glass and flopped gracelessly onto the sofa. "They're not for him. They're for you."
"For m-?" She rolled to the sofa and enfolded him, spindly arms narrowly missing his mostly-empty glass.
He chuckled and used her momentum to shift her onto the couch and his leg.
"You know I don't need anything," she protested. "As long as you come home to me, that's all that matters."
Yeah, well, I need it. To see you smile and look at me like I hung the moon. For you to remember why you fell for me against all reason. He shrugged. "Yeah, but everybody deserves at least one box under the tree."
"That's more than one by a mile," she pointed out.
"I had some trouble pickin', is all," he muttered sheepishly.
"You're a sweet man," she murmured, and leaned in for a kiss.
The tender brush of lips was interrupted by an insistent rustle from the Tribble box.
"What's that?" she demanded dubiously.
Now or never. "There's one you're gonna have to open now," he said. He drained his glass, set it on the coffee table, and rose from the couch to retrieve the Tribble. "I don't know what I was thinkin'," he said when he came back. "I just saw it and thought, I don't know, that you'd like havin' him for when I'm not around, which is a lot. Too much. Anyway, if you don't, 's okay. We'll just take him back." He was babbling, the box held out in front of him.
"Don," Rebecca said gently, and plucked the box from his hands. She worried with the ribbon, lips parted in unwitting concentration, and then it was gone. She lifted the lid and stared into the box. "Oh, my God." A whisper.
"I-,"
Her hands disappeared into the box, and when they emerged again, she was holding the Tribble, who was puffing and jiggling ecstatically in her palms. "Where did you get this?" she asked incredulously. "Do you know what this is?"
"A Tribble," he answered without thinking. "Uh, well-,"
She blinked and uttered a short bark of laughter. "I guess they do look like one of those," she conceded. "But it's a Pygmy Puff. All the girls at Hogwarts had one. Fred and George Weasley made them by mucking with Puffskeins. Or maybe they just dyed them." She stroked the Tribble, and it let out a coo of contentment. "They're very affectionate. But…to get one, you've got to go…" She trailed off and gaped at him in dawning comprehension. "You went beyond the wall?"
He nodded.
"But why?" Bewilderment was writ large upon her face. "You hate that part of me."
He sat beside her and cupped her face in his hands. "There is no part of you that I hate," he told her firmly, "and if I ever gave you a reason to think that, I'm sorry, doll. I love you. Every ounce. I'm just not ready for flyin' cars and dragons and alla that, and when you took me to that…shop and started showin' me alla those gadgets and potions, I thought that was your way of tellin' me that you wanted somethin' I couldn't give you, that what we made together wasn't-,"
She was staring at him in open mortification. "Oh, honey, no." She stopped his mouth with a kiss. "Nononono," she murmured against his mouth, hot and desperate and soothing to his wounded soul. "Never. I just thought it would be fun, and that they might have something to help me."
"Help you what?"
"Well, you're always cuffing me and tying me up, and it's incredible, but I want to return the favor. I just don't have the greatest balance, and if I fell while you were at my mercy…" She left the thought unfinished and petted the Tribble, who bounced in her palm. She set him on the sofa. "I was hoping they'd have a sexual Felix Felis or a potion to temporarily improve balance and coordination."
"You want to tie me up?" His mouth was suddenly dry as shale, and his stomach fluttered at the image of himself bound and helpless while she took him into her skilled, wet mouth.
"You have no idea." Her voice was husky, and her cheeks were flushed with mingled embarrassment and lust.
"Then let me find a way," he offered, and kissed her. "We don't need magic for that. Just some ingenuity."
"You think?" She rested her head on his shoulder.
"I know." He flicked his tongue against her ear, and she shivered. "What do you think of your new friend?" The Tribble was busily exploring the couch cushions.
"I think he's perfect. I also think he looks like Danny Messer's escaped testicle."
He blinked at her in surprise and began to laugh. It felt exquisite after the tension of the morning and the gnawing doubts that had assailed him, and he howled until he was a boneless, quivering lump on the sofa.
"What would you know about Messer's balls?" he asked her, and swiped at his streaming eyes.
She only offered him a salacious grin.
"That the way it's gonna be, huh? Maybe I better give you some better balls to consider."
"Maybe you better," she agreed, and opened her arms.
He moved to oblige her, and he kissed her soft and slow and deep, until her head lolled bonelessly against the back of the couch to expose her small, pale throat. She was beautiful and dazed with contented want.
"Merry Christmas, baby," she murmured as he drew his lips over the hollow of her throat.
It was, he thought, going to be a very good Christmas, indeed, maybe the best he'd ever had, and he kissed her again, warmth spreading through his chest like sweet, red wine.