Chapter 5

Bobby's POV

I returned to Les's side as Steph's car filled the space with rumbling engine noises, echoing off the hard cement walls in much the same way her words were bouncing about inside my skull.

"Okay?" he asked, wasting no time in wrapping me in his arms, allowing me to bury my face in his shoulder. The headache I'd successfully been keeping at bay after Lester's helpful nursing last night was back with a vengeance, throbbing behind my eyes and sending jolts of nausea through my stomach.

"Home," I murmured as both a verbal reminder to myself that Lester had always been my home and we could get through anything if we had each other, and a request to go back to the house we called home.

"Of course."

He adjusted his hold on me only enough so that we could walk without immediately tripping over each other and guided us toward where I'd parked the SUV. I kept my head on his shoulder, my thoughts swirling endlessly. I was wrecked, and I knew that if I so much as hinted at the desire, Les would carry me the last few yards, but we were in the Rangeman garage, and if the guys on monitors caught sight of that kind of vulnerability there'd be endless questions that I just couldn't fathom articulating answers to in my current state.

At the back of the car, Les released me, nudging me toward the passenger side while he made his way to the driver's seat. Neither of us said anything as we buckled up and he backed out of the space. I tipped my head back, closing my eyes against the too-bright afternoon sun and the weight of Lester's concerned glances. Pressing my thumb and forefinger into my eye sockets when pinching the bridge of my nose did nothing to help the pain, I let out a sigh. "Just ask," I said quietly. If I knew my boyfriend, he had about a thousand questions queuing up on his tongue, but he was holding them back because of my obvious show of not being okay. They would tumble out eventually, but the longer he delayed it the more questions built up behind the barricade. He didn't want to push me over the edge, but if he didn't start a slow release, the dams would eventually break.

"Does this mean we're in the clear?" he asked during a brief pause in our forward momentum - a red light, a stop sign, a pedestrian crossing, I couldn't see, so I didn't know. "We had our junk disabled over a year before we met Winnie, so that means the kid can't be either of ours, right?"

I wished it was that simple; that having gone through the vasectomy meant there was no possible way we could have accidentally engaged in procreation with a woman. It was the reason we'd both gotten it done. We knew we wanted to experiment with adding a woman to our relationship, but didn't want to rely on a flimsy slip of rubber that's historically prone to breakage between us and her. The vasectomy was an insurance policy against this kind of surprise. We got the snip, waited the recommended time and had our ejaculate tested to ensure it had worked. We should have been in the clear.

But…

"There are some rare cases when the vas deferens grow back weeks, months or years down the track. It's called recanalisation. Essentially, the body reverses the vasectomy all on it's own."

I knew there was a chance of it, which is why we'd been extra vigilant with waiting and getting tested, but I'd thought that once we'd passed the danger zone that was it. I'd done my research, but reproductive health wasn't my area of expertise. I'd deferred to the doctor's knowledge when he'd pronounced our swimmers extinct and assumed that was the end of the story.

"So one of us could have…" Lester started, trailing off before he reached the end of his sentence. "We still need the DNA tests."

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn't see it. "And other tests. We need to know which one of us grew back and probably need to get it re-done and -"

"Okay, hold off on the spiral," Les said, squeezing my thigh, "one step at a time. We organise the DNA test with Denise, worry about whether we have Time Lord junk later."

The thought of opening my eyes and letting the sun stab my retinas wasn't appealing, but I would have liked to see Lester's expression right then because it didn't sound like he was deliberately trying to lighten the mood, sometimes this stuff just slipped off his tongue naturally. "Time Lord junk?" I asked when I failed to fire the right synapses to interpret the joke.

"Because it regenerated, like in Doctor Who," he pointed out,

"Right."

*o*

By some miracle we managed to organise the DNA tests to be done first thing Monday morning. Thanks to Steph's disaster prone past, I had made a number of professional acquaintances at St. Francis, one of which happened to work in the labs. All it took was a brief explanation of my plight and the promise of one of Ella's brownies when we received the results, and we were pencilled into the schedule.

That was about as much as I could handle with a migraine coming on, so I'd scribbled down the details and collapsed face first on the bed while Lester made the arrangements with Denise.

Apparently she'd been difficult about it, since she worked nights and was usually still asleep at that time of morning, but Lester had talked her around, as is his forte.

Monday morning rolled around and Lester was doing his level best to mask his need for movement, leaning casually against the wall outside the main entrance to the hospital, phone in one hand and travel mug of coffee in the other. I mirrored his posture, my gaze roving over the people coming and going out of habit. I'd thought Lester was focused on his phone, scrolling through his newsfeed, so it came as a surprise when he straightened abruptly, tucking the device away as he announced, "They're here."

And sure enough, they were just rounding the corner from a side street. In her mid twenties, Denise was dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, which was at odds with the full face of glam make up she wore, and both components were a stark difference to the conservative appearance she'd put forth on Friday. None of this was shocking to me, though. Having spent a great deal of Sunday pouring over the files Steph had put together on Winnie, Denise and Larissa, I knew that the woman approaching us now with the four-year-old skipping along behind was a dancer of the erotic variety, working at the same club Winnie had before the attack that ultimately led to her death. Probably, Denise hadn't made it to bed yet after her shift. Either that or she'd slept with her make up on, which a) kudos to her for not waking up looking like something out of a horror movie, and b) was a terrible habit to be in.

Unbidden, my mother's voice entered my head reminding my sister, Katie, to wash her face before bed if she didn't want a break out, was that something I had to look forward to with this child when she reached her teen years, or would the DNA test prove that it should be someone else's responsibility?

"Denise, thanks for coming," Lester said brightly when they came within range. "And this must be Larissa." He squatted down in front of the little girl, a welcoming grin on his face as he altered his tone to the one he used on our young nieces and nephews. He'd always been good with kids. "Nice to meet you, this is Bobby, and I'm Lester, but you can call me Les." He held out his hand for her to shake, but she wasn't paying attention. Now that they'd reached us, Larissa had her head tipped all the way back, staring at the sky. She had a tight grip on the loose fabric of Denise's sweatpants as she swayed almost rhythmically, shifting her weight from foot to foot.

Undeterred, Les continued to pull out all the tactics that had won over hundreds of children in the time I'd known him. There was a certain childlike quality about him that kids seemed to be drawn to, trusting him even when he'd been through a traumatic experience and couldn't trust any of the regular adults in their lives.

"I like your shirt," he said pointing to the pink and purple butterfly on the front. "Do you like butterflies?"

"It's mine," Larissa responded, still without looking directly at him, peering at him instead from the corner of her eye. "You can't have it." There was no malice in her tone, just a little girl stating facts.

"I don't want to take it from you," Les assured her, holding up his hands placatingly as he glanced from me to Denise. "I just thought it was cute. Almost as cute as you."

"My mommy buyed me this," Larissa stated, gripping her fist into the front of the shirt. "It's mine. Mommy died. She's not coming back."

Denise let out a sigh, flicking her bangs out of her face and pursing her lips as she shifted her handbag higher on her shoulder. I couldn't tell without knowing her better if her reaction was born more from guilt, grief or impatience, but I could see all three in her body language.

"I'm really sorry about your Mommy," Les said quietly. "I bet you loved her a lot."

Larissa made a humming sound of agreement and resumed looking up at the sky.

"She hasn't wanted to take that shirt off since Winnie went into the hospital and I started taking care of her," Denise explained quietly when Lester rose to his full height once more. "Mrs Highfield speaks it into the washer every couple days when she's in the bath and we try to distract her long enough for the drier to finish. After the first meltdown I went and got a spare exactly the same, thinking we could swap it out and she'd be none the wiser, but she can tell somehow."

"Not a same," Larissa murmured, having clearly been listening despite her appearance of being off with the pixies. "Dimfent."

"Yea, 'Rissa, I know," Denise sighed, rubbing her temple. "It's different. I'm sorry."

The woman was exhausted. I hadn't noticed at first because of the heavy makeup, but there were bags under her eyes and a general air of weariness about her. How much sleep could she be getting if she was working nights at the club and taking care of a toddler during the day? It sounded like she was getting help from this Mrs Highfield person, but it still had to be taking its toll.

"Jerry is probably waiting," I said, tilting my head towards the entrance to the building. "The sooner we're in, the sooner we can all get back to our days."

She nodded and started forward without any further comment, neither to myself and Lester, nor Larissa, leaving the child to trail a step or two behind. I met Lester's raised eyebrow with one of my own and we both fell into step slightly behind Denise so we could keep an eye on Larissa. The foyer wasn't particularly crowded, but the halls would be an absolute maze. Even Lester, who had navigated the corridors numerous times, still got turned around if he wasn't heading directly from the emergency waiting room, or the wing where Steph usually ended up to the exit and vice versa. It would be too easy for Larissa to wander off and get lost.

"Hey, wanna hold my hand?" I asked, stooping slightly and extending my hand toward her while she looked around everywhere but where she was walking, her corkscrew curls bobbing in their pigtails as she put extra bounce into her step.

"She won't," Denise replied over her shoulder, flicking her hair again. "But she's pretty good at sticking close."

"Won't?" I asked, shooting Les another look as worry seized my chest. "Like at all?"

Denise scoffed and slowed her stride as we approached the elevators. "You can try to make her if you want to deal with a tantrum." Her tone held a challenge that was reinforced by the arch of her perfectly filled eyebrow. "She doesn't like it, so we don't make her. It makes life easier."

"What about when you're crossing the street?" Lester asked.

"Or in a big crowd."

Our questions were met with an eye roll that raised my hackles in a way that Steph's eyerolls never had. Like she couldn't believe we were asking such stupid questions. "Winnie used to have a backpack leash for her, but she fazed it out a few months ago. She doesn't go far unless she's in a feral mood, and she bolts, but that doesn't happen all that often. Like I said, she's pretty good at sticking close."

I shook my head. I couldn't believe any mother would be that blasé about their child's safety. The child was only four, and from what I'd observed so far, easily distracted by visual stimuli. I'd be surprised if she weren't prone to wandering off constantly and Denise just didn't have the full picture, since it had only been three weeks since she took temporary guardianship of the child.

"So you just let her free range?" Les asked as the doors to the elevator opened and we stepped inside. Larissa hesitated at the slight gap between the main floor and the elevator floor, shuffling her feet slightly, the heels of her sneakers lighting up, before tentatively stepping over it and scrambling to the closest wall. Her tiny hands wrapped around the bar that circled at approximately my hip height and she braced against the wall, staring at the ceiling.

"She's not a chicken," Denise spat. "But yeah, pretty much. 'Rissa, eww, don't try to lick that, it's gross."

My attention cut from Denise to Larissa who was now giggling and making like she was going to lick the rail above her head. Denise let out a little growl and pushed Larissa's head forward so she was facing the opposite wall instead, still giggling as she now attempted to lick Denise's arm. My chest seized at the slightly rough treatment of the little girl, only made worse by the fact that Larissa didn't seem at all bothered by it. Like she was used to it. Like it was normal. Like she was used to being pushed around. My hand shot out to the side, grabbing hold of Lester's who squeezed in return.

The elevator came to a stop on our floor and I was momentarily shocked that we'd made it all the way without being joined by other visitors coming and going. I let the thought evaporate, though, as the doors sprang open and I led the way out of the little box. Lester was next, followed by Denise and my heart rate skyrocketed in the moment between Denise stepping off and Lester extending his arm back across the threshold to stop the doors from closing the little girl in on her own. She executed her little shuffle again and stepped off, skipping forward to close the gap between herself and Denise and promptly licking the back of the woman's hand.

An undignified sound escaped the woman as Larissa burst into giggles again. "Ugh," she grunted, wiping her hand on her sweats. "Literally so disgusting."

"Can you help me find the lab?" I asked Larissa, trying to distract her from whatever the licking thing was about. She may or may not be mine, but I certainly didn't think it was a good idea for her to go around licking things in a hospital. Diseases were rampant, and I didn't need her getting any of them, least of all the deadly ones. "We're looking for a door on this side of the hall," I said pointing to the right, "that has a microscope on it."

"Michael soap?" Larissa asked, peering down the hall. "Who's Michael soap?"

Lester snorted, but was already passing me his travel mug as he pulled out his phone, a wide smile on his face. "Not Michael soap," he said patiently, tapping the screen a few times and turning it around to show her. "A microscope, like this. Can you help us find it?"

"I find it,'" she agreed, dashing forward to the first door and examining it before continuing on to the next with equal speed. We kept a steady pace, keeping her within a range that I felt confident we could quickly grab her if anything happened, and Denise trailed behind us tapping on her phone.

Three doors later, Larissa paused once more, tilted her head to the side, squinting, then turned to Lester, tapping the phone where it was attached to the belt once more. "Think this is it?" he asked, pulling up the image he'd shown her so she could double check she'd found the right door. "Good jo-"

"Not a same," she announced, cutting him off with a shake of her head. "Dimfent." And with that she dashed off again to the next door, sneakers flashing with every step.

"Woah, hold up," I called, jogging to catch up. "We already found the right door," I said, stepping in front of her with my arms held wide to stop her from running away again. Suddenly, I was thankful for the practice I'd gotten the day I accompanied my sister and her family to Disneyland, during Danny's running faze. If I could stop a toddler - who's speed rivalled the Flash - in the Magic Kingdom, blocking a four-year-old in a corridor should be a piece of cake. "It's that one back there."

She shook her head, curls hitting her in the face. "No. Dimfent. No Michael soap."

"It is a microscope."

"Dimfent," she insisted, stomping her foot with another flash of light from her shoe. "It not a same. Not a Michael soap. Wrong." Her voice grew higher and louder the longer she went on.

Denise looked up from her phone, glancing from the sign on the door to the image Les was still holding in his hand as he stared after us. "The images don't match," she pointed out. "She won't accept they're the same unless they match."

"Oh," Les uttered, tapping at the screen a few more times as he strode toward us. "How about this one?" he asked, showing Larissa the new image he'd brought up that matched the one on the door. "Does this one match?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "But not a Michael soap. That not a Michael soap."

Holding out my hand for Les's phone, I navigated back a step so the screen was filled with various renditions of microscope signage. I got down on her level and showed her. "These are all microscopes," I explained gently. "They all look a little different from each other, but they're the same thing."

Larissa, poked a finger at the image Lester had shown her, making it fill the screen again. "Legs said this one," she declared. "This a Michael soap. Not a other one."

The air I had been inhaling hit the back of my throat wrong as I tried not to laugh, causing a coughing fit instead as I looked up at the shock and confusion on my partner's face. "Legs?" we both choked out in unison. I guess she'd been paying more attention to Lester when he introduced himself than I'd thought.