A Bag of Mice

by DrWorm

The first thing Herbert West planned to do upon his escape from Arkham State Penitentiary was seek revenge on Daniel Cain. The problem is, he never stopped to consider what would come after.

3. Chapter 2

Chapter Two – "An invasion of armies can be resisted, but not an idea whose time has come." – Victor Hugo

—666 Darkmore Street, Arkham, Massachusetts. September, 1985—

Herbert West believed in coincidence and synchronicity over fate and destiny, and so he barely flinched when the door jerked open before he had a chance to knock, revealing a blonde girl and—once the sheet had been pulled from over his head—the face of the young man he had met earlier that day on his tour of Miskatonic. Even the revelation that the girl was Meg Halsey, daughter of the dean of the medical school, did not come as a surprise to him.

What surprised him—unnerved him, even—was the surge of hostile feeling and fascination Daniel Cain provoked in him. Clean-cut, mild-mannered, idealistic Dan Cain, who would clearly rather bite his own lip until it bled rather than insult or reject someone to his or her face. He and his dishwater blonde bitch of a girlfriend with her self-important father represented very nearly everything about the human race that Herbert had come to hate over time. Oh, he'd understood what her passive-aggressive little grimaces meant, just as he knew that they were raising eyebrows and exchanging looks behind his back. When Dan had taken his money, he'd been both amused and slightly disgusted; people were so easy to manipulate, their fears and desires so clearly etched across their faces. Dan's unashamed neediness beneath his self-effacing nice-guy exterior, Megan's obvious desire for control, the fact that their relationship was obviously a sexual one and had been for some time… it all irked him in a vague, persistent way that he could not put words to even within the privacy of his own head.

Perhaps it was the knowledge that he would need Dan, someday in the future—while he had rented the room initially for its convenient basement setup and proximity to campus, he had realized quickly that Dan's talent and his favorable connection to Dean Halsey were unexpected bonuses that ought not to be wasted.

Of course, on some level he supposed that he might feel a certain amount of jealousy for the things Dan had: his good looks, his pretty girlfriend, and his slow, comfortable descent into acceptable suburban mediocrity. Still, a part of him scoffed at that theory, knowing as he did that he had no use for the respectable domestic life and career Dan was surely heading toward. He disliked Daniel Cain, he finally decided, on general principle: Dan had everything he himself did not, and he stood for concepts that Herbert found morally reprehensible. Ergo, he disliked Dan. He disliked him, and so found his own strange need to capture and hold the other man's attention even more frustrating than Dan himself.

Even settling this twisted dance of id and ego and rationalizing it to such a degree that he could willingly accept it did not prevent Herbert from standing in the kitchen doorway and staring at the back of the other man's head as he sat at the kitchen table, flipping studiously through a textbook. He hovered there, unsure of himself and all the more frustrated and uncomfortable because of it; he felt inordinately fascinated with the soft, dark hairs on the back of Dan's neck, the folds in his frumpy sweater, the reflection of the overhead light on the crown of his head. But his meditation was soon interrupted as Dan shifted in his seat, the cords in his neck tightening and straining as he turned to look over his shoulder. "Oh… hey there."

"Hello." Herbert took a step forward and saw that Dan had spread his various textbooks and notebooks out in front of him and was currently poring over the material for Dr. Hill's neurobiology lecture. He wrinkled his nose contemptuously. "Hill?"

Dan let out a short, staccato laugh. "Well, yeah. I am in the class." Herbert scowled and looked away. "And so are you, whether you like it or not."

Herbert shrugged as he began to walk slowly around the table toward the sink. "I have seen more than enough to know that the esteemed Dr. Hill is grossly misinformed when it comes to his understanding of the human brain… even of the entire universe itself."

"Uh… huh." Dan's brow furrowed. "Well, you're still going to have to get him to pass you." He watched, slightly bemused, as his new roommate picked through the things on the counter and even paused to peer into the refrigerator. "Look, is there something I can help you with?"

Herbert stopped abruptly and fixed his intense stare on Dan. "Oh, I think there is." His gaze flickered upward momentarily. "Or there will be. Very soon."

"Okay." Dan rested his chin in one hand. "I sort of meant right now, though. Here in the kitchen."

"Oh." Herbert drummed his fingertips on the countertop, clearly irritated that Dan's intent was so much more prosaic than his own. "I see. In that case, no, I don't require your assistance." He paused, spotted a bunch of bananas slowly going brown on the far counter, stepped forward, and ripped one off as if that had been his intention all along.

Dan shrugged, an insouciant half-smile crossing his handsome features. "All right. Hey, you know, if you ever want to study together or anything—?" He gestured invitingly with an open palm toward the empty seat beside him.

"I don't think so," Herbert said stiffly, sneering as he made his way back across the kitchen. Dan shrugged a second time as Herbert stalked past before returning to his notes; that simple gesture of dismissal caused a swelling of impotent rage to rise in Herbert's throat. He pressed his lips together into a straight, tight line, trying hard to ignore the faint smell of Dan's cologne that lingered in his nostrils.

There could be absolutely no doubt about it: he hated Daniel Cain.

—Braintree, Massachusetts. September 2003, the night of Herbert's arrival—

"I guess I can let you have the attic," Dan said, adopting the defeated monotone of someone who has been forced into doing something he'd rather not. He slouched, shifting his weight nervously from side to side while he waited at the foot of the stairs for Herbert to pick up his bag and follow him. "The basement here isn't really… I mean it's not nearly as big as the ones we had before, back in Arkham."

"No matter." Herbert waved one hand dismissively. "I won't be staying long enough for that to be of any consequence." He turned his sharp, calculating stare toward Dan, who immediately flinched and glanced away briefly. "Isn't that right?"

"Uh, yeah. That's right." Dan shot Herbert a wary look. "That's what you said."

"Exactly." Herbert bowed his head. "So lead on, MacDuff."

"Okay." Dan started up the stairs with Herbert following closely at his heels. About halfway up the second flight Herbert tripped over a patch of insubstantial darkness; he stepped down heavily and immediately recoiled as his foot came down on something that yielded beneath his shoe and hissed at him.

"Oops, watch out," Dan said redundantly as Herbert stumbled and grasped the railing in an effort to remain upright. "Sorry," Dan grinned as soon as Herbert regained his balance, not seeming the least bit apologetic. "That was Nicky's kitten, Church. I broke down and took him to the APL a couple months ago for his birthday." There was a pause. "Nicky is my son," Dan added before turning around and starting up the stairs once again.

Herbert frowned. "Another cat," he muttered as he resumed the climb behind Dan. It was a moment before the detail of the creature's name registered in his mind. "'Church?'" He asked as they came to the attic landing. "An odd name for a pet."

"It's short for 'Winston Churchill,'" Dan explained as he tried the attic door and found it locked. "It's the name of the cat from that one Stephen King book… uh, Pet Sematary." He flipped through his keyring to find the one that fit the attic lock, mumbling to himself. "I don't even remember why I put a lock here…"

"'Stephen King?'" Herbert raised his eyebrows. "He writes, ah, 'horror' novels, doesn't he?"

"Broadly speaking," Dan replied as he finally found the key that fit and the door popped open. "Don't tell me you're so out of it that you honestly don't know who Stephen King is?" He pushed the door in and gestured elaborately to the interior. "After you."

Herbert sniffed indignantly and stepped inside, overly conscious of Dan's body behind him. "I'm not 'out of it,' as you say." He took in the cramped, cobwebbed eaves of Dan's attic with a small sigh of resignation. "But I've never had the pleasure of reading anything he has authored." Clasping his hands behind his back, he spun on his heel to face Dan again and gave him a snide quirk of his lips. "I was merely concerned about the welfare of your son."

"Huh?"

Herbert restrained the impulse to roll his eyes. "Most parents would consider an adult horror novel to be… inappropriate for their children."

Dan grinned nastily. "Oh, so you've raised an eleven year old boy, have you?"

Herbert cleared his throat. "No, of course not. But it should be self-evident that—"

"No, no, no." Dan waved one hand, cutting the air as if it had personally offended him. "Trust me, if I tell him he can't read something, he'll automatically go out and do it just to spite me." He leaned against the wall and sighed heavily. "That's kids for you."

"Is it?" Herbert said, mildly. "Well, I suppose you know best." Dan's features twisted slightly, aware of the disbelief inherent in Herbert's seemingly neutral statement, and Herbert turned away, a small smile of satisfaction tugging at the corners of his mouth. "So… this is the space I'm free to use?"

"Uh… yeah." Dan straightened up and took a step away from the wall. "This is the attic." He cleared his throat. "I mean, I know it's a kind of dusty, and we'll probably have to move some of the boxes out if you think you need more room, but…"

"Fine, fine." Herbert waved one hand impatiently. "Does the plumbing extend to the attic or—?"

Dan shook his head. "No, sorry. You'll have to use the bathroom on the second floor."

"Ah." Herbert set his bag down near the wall, out of the general area where it might be stumbled over. "And… the bed?"

"Oh, right." Dan disappeared into a corner for a moment and reappeared dragging a ragged-looking twin-size mattress. "This is all I think I have right now. Sorry." He let the mattress fall to the floor in the middle of the room, sending a cloud of dust up into the air. Herbert stepped back, coughing and blinking furiously as he tried to wave the dust away from his face. "Uh… I'll go get you some sheets, I guess." Dan said quickly. Herbert nodded as he tugged off his glasses and scrubbed his watering eyes. Dan brushed past him as he headed for the attic door, and Herbert turned his head to one side to avoid the dust in the air that followed in his wake. He listened intently as Dan descended the stairs and the creaking of the wood floor subsided.

After sneezing twice in quick succession, Herbert slipped his glasses back on and began to make a preliminary assessment of the space. The room wasn't quite as small as it had first appeared to him, but the boxes upon boxes of Dan's stored possessions had crowded the attic, creating a haphazard and claustrophobic miniature labyrinth. Just as he heard Dan's footsteps pounding up the stairs a second time, it occurred to Herbert that some of his own belongings might have been stored in those boxes from nearly fifteen years ago when he and Dan had shared a house. Providing, of course, that Dan had remained something of a packrat, and had not previously decided to rid himself of every trace of his personal involvement with Herbert West and his macabre experiments.

"Here, I got some sheets… and, uh, also a blanket in case you need it. And some towels." He dropped the small pile beside the lumpy, haphazardly placed mattress, and began to tug on one end of the fitted sheet he'd brought, tossing the other end to Herbert. They made the rest of the bed together in awkward silence. Once they had finished, Dan stood, brushed off his knees reflexively, and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Herbert stayed kneeling on the floor, and looked up at Dan with a forcibly neutral expression.

Dan shifted his weight and sighed. "You are going to leave in the next couple of days, right?"

"I plan to." Herbert shucked off his overcoat and began to slip off his shoes. "Trust me, Daniel, I have no desire to impose upon you any more than I already have."

"Yeah, sure. Somehow, I don't believe that." Dan paused just long enough for Herbert to shoot him an indignant and irritated look. "I'll be keeping an eye on you while you're here," he continued in a low, serious voice. "You know that, right?"

"I would expect absolutely nothing less from you," Herbert replied airily. "And now, goodnight, Dan. Could you please turn off the light on your way out?"

Dan blinked and raked a hand through his hair. "Uh, okay. Good… goodnight, then." With that stilted sentiment having been returned, he left the makeshift bedroom, flipping the switch as he went, and Herbert West laid down in his clothes and fell asleep without hassle for the first time in more than thirteen years.

—Zurich, Switzerland. January 1985—

It was an exercise in the kind of extravagance he normally hated. And yet, he'd reluctantly admitted to himself that he was more than willing to spend the money simply to put his mind to rest so that he could go back to his more important work without the taint of base, biological imperative encroaching upon his mind like a distant thundercloud. He wanted it over, wanted his innocence of the act to be lost so that he could file the experience away in his memories and eventually forget it, and he had no major reservations about paying for such a thing.

He'd tried to think of it as being analogous to buying a bottle of fine wine and taking an evening to enjoy it; but he quickly found the comparison was destined for failure, since he had no particular interest in the joys and pleasures of savoring either wine or women. So, instead, he had decided to make it as impersonal a transaction as he possibly could, reserving a room for the night at one of the most expensive, lavish, and respectable hotels in the city and ordering his night's companion from the most expensive escort service he had come across.

The streets of Zurich were slick with the drizzle that had continued throughout the course of the day; light from the streetlamps smeared in hazy prisms across West's line of sight and he paused beneath the awning of a corner market to shake off his umbrella, pull a tissue from his coat, and wipe the raindrops from the lenses of his glasses. The weather was unseasonably warm, and he could feel moisture—a mixture of rain and nervous sweat—trickling down the back of his neck. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it back off his forehead, slipped his glasses back on, and raised his umbrella again as he trotted back into the street. The lake was visible in the near distance directly ahead of him, shrouded in a dense mist, and on his right was the impressively grandiose Baur au Lac hotel.

West quickened his pace to a skipping half-run as he crossed the intersection and approached the hotel's entrance, darting quickly past a uniformed doorman who had hunched his shoulders against the wind and rain to smoke a cigarette. He darted through the heavy doors into the hotel's foyer, breathing a sigh of relief at the dry warmth. As he unbuttoned his topcoat, he let his gaze wander over the few people lingering with their luggage in the lobby and adjacent corridors.

A tall, blonde women stood just outside of the hotel bar. She was cool, calm, and very self-assured, wearing a basic black cocktail dress and a neatly brushed camel hair coat. West watched her surreptitiously as he tied his umbrella closed and stood off to one side in the lounge opposite the check-in desk. The woman tossed back her short, straight hair and reached into her black leather handbag for a compact, then proceeded to make cursory touch-up of her make-up. She didn't look like a whore, but then that certainly wasn't what he was paying for. He moved to the reception area to confirm the room reservation he had made several days earlier.

As the clerk behind the counter was handing him his room key, West felt a light touch on his shoulder; he jumped slightly and turned to find the blonde woman standing just behind him with a small smile on her face. "Mr. Herbert West?" she asked gently. "I am Sonja Pestalozzi. How delightful to meet you." Like many of the residents of Zurich that West had come across in the six months he had lived in the city, she spoke proper and perfect English with a heavy German accent. He was glad for that; while he had a more than adequate grasp of the standard German language used in writings and media produced and distributed in Zurich, he had had difficulty grasping the odd dialect of the language that the Swiss actually spoke.

"Likewise," West responded stiffly, taking her outstretched hand and shaking it awkwardly. There was a momentary pause as they moved away from the reception area.

"Did you want to get a drink before retiring for the night?" She made the suggestion with an overly theatrical flourish, and it was then that West realized the woman could not have been much older than himself; she had seemed far more sophisticated when she had been standing alone and thought herself unobserved.

"No, thank you."

She laughed gaily and looped her arm in his in a motion that caught West completely off-guard. "Ah, yes, so focused! Well, let us not waste any time, then…" She led the way to the elevator, and West was obliged to follow by the firm grip she kept on his elbow. "And so," she said conversationally as she pressed the call button, "for how long are you staying in the city?"

"I'm currently residing in Zurich, actually." He cleared his throat, avoiding the curious quirk of her eyebrows. "In conjunction with the university."

"Oh, the Universität!" The woman trilled as the elevator doors slid open and she pulled him inside. "How wonderful. My brother is currently attending the Universität as well, in some branch of the arts." She waved one hand dismissively as West stabbed at the button for the fifth floor, feeling more than a little trapped as the doors shut with a soft 'thunk!' and he began to feel that perhaps he had made quite a mistake. "But I don't suppose that is your area of study, is it?"

"Ah, no. No, actually, my research is in the field of chemistry." He shifted his weight awkwardly, thoroughly put off by her attempts at conversation.

She seemed to sense his discomfort, and her expression changed from one of forced cheerfulness to a slight flush of embarrassment. "I must apologize. We normally accompany our clients to social functions before… ah." She tilted her head to one side as she squeezed his arm in a manner that was probably meant to be reassuring. "I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I?"

"No!" West leaned back as she leaned forward. "I mean… no. No, of course not." She smiled at him and lowered her eyelids suggestively; at the same time he felt fingertips tickling and stroking the nape of his neck. The tickling feeling caused his hackles to rise; the sensation was not entirely pleasant, but just as West was about to put a stop to her attentions the bell for the fifth floor rang. As they left the elevator, she moved her hand back to his arm, allowing him to lead her down the hallway to the room he had reserved.

The key fit easily into the hole of the lock, foreshadowing—West thought to himself with a wry little grin—the act soon to come. The interior of the room was low-lit, decorated in deep mahogany wood furniture with green upholstery. He held the door open for the woman—Sonja, he reminded himself, wasn't her name Sonja?—and she sashayed through with a coquettish wink and flip of her hips. After swallowing the lump of distaste in his throat, West followed her inside, dropping his umbrella by the door as he eased it shut.

She was just slipping off her coat and tossing it onto a nearby chair as he entered the spacious main room of the junior suite. The straps of her dress were extremely thin, leaving her smooth shoulders and back nearly bare. She shook her head and the ends of her hair tickled her collarbone delicately. "Well?" She cocked one perfect, tweezed eyebrow at him, sultry and teasing. "Don't start being afraid of me now."

West frowned and rolled his shoulders back as he stepped closer. "Afraid? Of you?" Her laughter came back at him like a wave, harsh and full and all-encompassing.

"No, no," she giggled as she leaned back against the low chest of drawers. "Ah, I have to tell you," she paused and sighed heavily and happily, forcing her breasts up and down in a slow, tantalizing arc, "that this quite a refreshing evening for me."

"Is it?"

"Oh, you have no idea how awful it can be, having to go with these boring men to their business dinner parties." She blew a sharp, harsh breath upward to blow back a stray lock of hair. "I'm not very good at pretending to be interested in their conversations," she confided with a little smirk. West cleared his throat and glanced away. "It is far nicer to spend an evening with a cute young man like yourself." She watched with a pleased expression as West flushed slightly and murmured an incoherent reply. "Of course, I would be so much happier if you would come a bit closer and make yourself comfortable."

He nodded hastily as he shrugged off his topcoat, folded it in half, and set it atop the television while the girl watched him languidly, her head cocked, lips pursed, and eyelids drooping. It was an expression that managed to be both highly sexual and yet somehow extremely unappealing to him. West unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat tentatively on the edge of the large bed; when he looked up at the girl she gave him a coy smile, and he felt peculiarly as if he was being put on the spot. His chest and throat became very tight as she approached and slid off one strap of her dress, revealing a single pale breast to him. She leaned over him almost casually, placing one stocking-foot up on the bed beside him, as she guided his hands up onto her hips. Her bared breast swayed gently as she bent over further and tilted her head to one side, inviting a kiss.

West was confused and alarmed to realize that, even this far into the act that had so preoccupied him for more than a year, he still did not feel particularly pleased or aroused. In fact, he realized as she touched her lips to his, he had never gone so far as to imagine what was so necessary or titillating about the actual contact. He tightened his grip on her hips to try to control the sudden shaking that had overtaken his hands.

The kiss had quickly become unpleasantly wet and slimy, but though West wanted to pull away and catch his breath, the girl was becoming increasingly aggressive, trying to push him backward to lie on the bed. She had moved to straddle his hips, pushing her breasts against his chest, and all of a sudden West's felt as if he was choking on the scent of her perfume and his lungs had begun to burn from a lack of oxygen. A need more pressing than any vague sexual desire he'd ever felt overtook him and he simultaneously bit down on her lower lip and pushed her off of his lap and onto the floor.

She gave a breathless little cry as she landed solidly on her tailbone, drew a deep breath, and yelled, "Was machst Du da für Scheiße?" Blood trickled down her chin.

"I'm sorry." He stood, daintily sidestepping her splayed legs. "I'm sorry, I don't think I can—"

"Schwuchtle," she insulted him as she dabbed at her lips with her fingertips. He didn't understand the word, and the subtle shift in her pronunciation indicated that she had switched to one of the Swiss dialects. "Why did you do that?"

"I'm sorry," he repeated, fumbling with his overcoat, digging for the fold of bills he had tucked away. "Here." He threw her the money. "I can't stay." She stared at him blankly as he pulled his coat on with sharp, jerking motions. Sweat trickled down the back of his neck through the tiny forest of tiny raised hairs. He felt threatened. "Keep the room, keep the money—"

"Fegg di," she said matter-of-factly, wiping more blood from her bottom lip.

West barely managed to remember to grab his umbrella as he backed out of the room, leaving the girl splayed on the floor with an accusing glint in her eyes. "I'm sorry," he repeated without inflection as he left the room.

He hurried from the hotel as fast as he could without raising comment, and felt the tight panic lift from his chest as he stepped back out into the rainy streets. Instead of going to the apartment he was renting, he automatically headed for the laboratory buildings of the University of Zurich where he spent the majority of his time. He knew that he would have no issues getting into the building, as he'd had a set of keys made for himself as soon as he'd realized how much time he would be spending using the facilities there. He also knew that it would be virtually deserted, more private even than his apartment building, and at the moment he didn't think he could quite stomach even the possibility of other people.

That laboratory itself was cool and sterile, the antithesis of the damp organic feel of the outside air or the pneumatic warmth of a human body. He breathed in the unique smell as he unlocked the door to Dr. Gruber's lab and felt the illusion of calm and control returning within the comfortable sphere of the familiar environment.

He shut the door and leaned back against it, closing his eyes and breathing slowly and steadily as he allowed any idea of ever fulfilling the cultural obligations of sex to leave his mind. The lab was where he belonged, his work was what was really important, and any attempt to conform to the rest of the world was a greater distraction than it was worth.

West relaxed his fingers, allowing his umbrella to fall to the floor. He stepped forward, pulling off his coat, ready to resume the project he had left that afternoon and fully assured in what was really important in his life.

—Braintree, Massachusetts. September 2003, the next evening—

It was nearly eight o'clock at night when Herbert finally stomped down the stairs to the ground floor of Dan's house, feeling logy and thoroughly displaced. He had slept nearly the entire day and night, waking only occasionally to get a drink of water and use the bathroom at regular intervals. And, as groggy as he felt, he also realized that the tension he had been carrying during the days since his escape from Arkham Penitentiary had completely disappeared. He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed as he stood in Dan's living room, unsure of quite what he should do next.

After a moment, he realized that he could hear water running and movement to his left; he frowned and peered around one of Dan's bookcases into the fluorescent light of the kitchen. Dan was standing in front of the sink, leisurely washing dishes with his back to Herbert.

Herbert leaned forward and watched Dan; the scene was both familiar and curiously alien to him. Of course, he and Dan had shared space for many years prior to his incarceration, and yet the current situation was unlike any of those they had previously weathered together. A crucial split had occurred, and they were no longer allies. Had we ever really been… allies? Friends? Herbert mused to himself as he watched Dan fill the drying rack. No. Not really. "Do you need help with anything?"

Dan jumped at the sound of Herbert's voice, and then turned and smiled. "Nah, I got it," he nodded to the refrigerator, "But there's some leftover Chinese in the fridge if you're hungry. Silverware is in the third drawer on the right." Herbert opened the refrigerator door and pulled out half a carton of cold fried rice and a carton of chow mein that was almost full. He pulled out a fork, sat down at the kitchen table and began to eat greedily. Dan shot him a look of cautious amusement that Herbert ignored. "Food in prison is that bad, huh?"

"You have no idea," Herbert murmured grumpily through a mouth full of noodles.

Dan pursed his lips and nodded. "No… I guess I don't."

They both lapsed into silence. Herbert had very nearly finished the carton of chow mein and was finally beginning to slow down before Dan turned off the water, shook off his hands, and tried again. "So… where are you going to go from here?"

Herbert lifted one shoulder in a lackadaisical shrug. "Out of the country," he said vaguely.

"Do you have the money to do that?"

"Not at the moment." Herbert gave Dan an appraising look. "But I have plans."

"Yeah, I bet you do." Dan leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms; he looked faintly entertained by Herbert's evasiveness. "I think I'd prefer it if you chose not to lay out the details for me, though."

"Not a problem," Herbert replied airily. "I wasn't planning to anyway." He waited for a response, but all Dan did was continue to stand in front of him and watch him eat. Herbert shifted slightly uneasily in his chair. "So. Your family…?"

Dan quickly jumped on the change of topic. "My ex-wife and her new husband live closer to Boston."

"With your son?"

"We have joint custody," Dan corrected. "Nicky goes to school closer to his mom, though." He sighed deeply, and Herbert saw a flash of the Daniel Cain he had first met in the face of the much older stranger standing before him. "It's not… not really the greatest arrangement."

"For you or for him?" Herbert asked archly.

Dan shook his head sadly. "For all of us."

"Well then." Herbert stabbed his fork into the rest of the fried rice, beginning to feel more than a little uncomfortable with Dan's obvious woes even as his curiosity was piqued. "Why did you separate in the first place?" Dan shot him an inquiring look, which Herbert waved away with an irritable hand gesture. "Daniel, please. You know exactly what I've done for the past thirteen years. But I know absolutely nothing about your life."

"I had no idea you were interested." Herbert's expression became pained, and Dan allowed himself a brief—but clearly pleased—smile. "Okay, okay… I guess it's a fair enough question." He raised one hand to his mouth and began to gnaw on his thumbnail. "Well, first you'd have to know that that was actually my second marriage." Herbert raised an eyebrow and Dan shrugged almost sheepishly. "Francesca and I were married."

"For how long?"

"Less than a year. We kind of rushed things after… you know."

"Hmm." Herbert frowned as memories of Francesca's intrusive presence began to surface. "And it didn't work out? What a surprise."

"We were just too different," Dan said, choosing to ignore Herbert's acerbic comment. "I mean, I guess we should have seen that it wouldn't work, but after everything that happened…" He tossed his head and let out a little laugh. "I think she's in Africa with the Peace Corps now. She still emails me sometimes."

"Anyway…" Herbert prompted as he stabbed meaningfully at the last half inch of chow mein; he was eager to move away from the still-irritating subject of Francesca.

"Anyway." Dan agreed. "Uh, a few months after Frannie and I separated, I met Cindy. And we got married. And Nicky came along in May of '92." He shrugged again. "And we tried for a really long time to make it work. It's just that some things… don't. You know?"

"Actually, I don't." Herbert said bitterly. "Humor me, Daniel, since you know fully well that I never had the opportunity to engage in such a relationship myself. What, exactly, didn't work?"

Dan let out a long, resigned sigh. "God, I don't know. Just… everything didn't work, after awhile. Or maybe I was just too greedy."

"How so?"

"I really wanted to… to have someone to share my life with—you know, to love, I guess—and to have this domestic life." Dan hugged his thin chest defensively, the folds of the arms of his baggy sweater spilling down over his forearms from where he'd pushed up the cuffs. "But then I also wanted to be able to do something really meaningful and worthwhile."

"Yes," Herbert said without much enthusiasm. "That does sound very much like you."

Dan chuckled weakly. "Yeah, probably." The words hung in the air, the sentiment settling uncomfortably between them.

After several moments of thoughtful silence, Herbert cleared his throat. "We could have done something meaningful," he said quietly, his voice indistinctly affected in a way that he himself didn't entirely understand.

"Yeah, I know," Dan replied softly, shrugging his shoulders and angling his head so he could stare out the kitchen window. "Maybe we could have. Maybe I made a big mistake."

"Maybe you did," Herbert answered. Dan just shrugged again.

"Well, I'm not perfect. And I was getting scared." Dan glanced over at Herbert appraisingly. "You wouldn't understand that, would you?" It was Herbert's turn to shrug, though he did so with more discomfort than Dan.

"I suppose it was occasionally more grisly work than the average constitution would be able to bear…"

"No, no, no," Dan shook his head, a little smile playing over his hurt-puppy features. He reached out and playfully nudged Herbert's feet with the tip of one loafer, laughing as Herbert quickly pulled his feet back beneath his chair to avoid the prodding. "See? I knew you wouldn't get it."

Herbert frowned. "Wouldn't get what?" He asked, irritation creeping into his voice; he detested both being teased and being wrong, and the good-natured, slightly sad expression on Dan's face was beginning to unsettle him. It seemed almost as if Dan had forgotten what they had gone through all those years ago, as if Dan's new life had afforded him some sort of very specific emotional amnesia that Herbert had been denied. He had returned to Dan, he thought unkindly, as a fool returns to his folly and a dog to his vomit, and he had expected a certain amount of vilification and anger to match his own. But instead, he had been handed Dan the forgiving, Dan the lonely Good Samaritan who had no qualms about discussing the previous emotional upheavals of the life he had led sans Herbert. It was an extremely unsatisfying trade, somehow.

"That I was scared of… getting older, I think, and missing out on the family thing." Dan stared down at the floor, suddenly very quiet and contemplative. "Losing Meg was really hard for me. I honestly thought we would always be together, you know?"

There was a pause. "No. I don't understand."

"Well… somehow I'm guessing that's because you never even thought about having a family." Dan's voice became clipped, his expression twisted into one of abrupt petulance. "You never had someone who meant the world to you, someone you were absolutely sure would never leave you." He bit his lower lip. "You never had that person and then lost them." He rubbed one hand over his forehead, and then swiped at one eye and then the other in a quick, angry motion.

"I wonder…" Herbert murmured after a moment, his eyes glassy as he stared off into space. Dan lifted his head and looked over, slightly curious. "I wonder what Meg looks like today?" Dan's eyes widened, but he didn't respond. "So many of the subjects that we tested the reagent on showed little or no decay, even over extended periods of time. It makes me wonder…" Herbert flashed Dan an unpleasant smile. "Is she still lying there, hands on her chest, looking just as pretty as she did when she died?"

Dan covered his eyes with one hand. "Please… don't."

"Or maybe the reagent finally has finally exhausted itself. Do you think?" Herbert cocked his head to one side, fully aware of how upset his words were making Dan. "Perhaps her pretty little breasts have fallen down into her ribcage, hmm, the same way the cotton they stuffed under her eyelids has rotted back into her eyesockets? Or maybe the purge from her stomach has forced her mouth open and trickled down her chin and her neck, all the way down to her hair…"

"Oh god." Dan moved his hand to his mouth; his skin had become pale and his eyes had gone glassy. For a moment, Herbert truly hoped that he would just lean over the sink and throw up. But Dan simply stood there, looking thin and ill and very far away.

"I find it somewhat amazing," Herbert continued quietly after a moment's pause, "That you would honestly prefer to dwell on that rather than moving on with your life and your work."

"Oh, the work!" Dan burst out suddenly. "I knew it, that's all you care about, that's all you even comprehend!" Herbert sat stoically, absorbing Dan's anger and feeling a secret, guilty thrill that made his palms itch and his heart beat faster. "You don't know anything—anything!—about other people!" Out of the corner of his eye, Herbert caught a burst of movement, and he realized after a brief moment of confusion that Dan's raised voice had caused the infernal cat, Church, to make its escape from the vicinity. "I don't even get why you wanted to bring back the dead so much. You always wanted everyone to do exactly what you told them to, and who does that better than a corpse?"

"You misunderstand me."

"No. No, I understand you perfectly." Dan shook his head as he pushed himself away from the counter. "I couldn't see it when we were living together, but I sure as hell can see it now." He strode toward the door, but reconsidered halfway there and turned back to Herbert. "Once you leave here, you'll be alone for the rest of your life. You'll die alone—" Herbert raised an eyebrow. "—eventually," Dan conceded. "And no one will care. And you'll be miserable the whole time, even though you might never admit it." He held Herbert's gaze for a moment before he looked away. His shoulders slumped again and he ran one hand through his hair as he shuffled out of the kitchen, looking defeated by what he had just said. And then in one swift movement he was out of sight, apparently unable to stand being in the same room as the person he despised any longer.

Herbert sat very still at the table, listening as Dan stomped around the living room, switched on the television, and turned up the volume. Stealthily, Church slunk back into the kitchen and began to rub against Herbert's leg, fishing for reassurance. Herbert kicked him away irritably. He didn't want to admit it, but Dan's accusations had touched upon a number of his current insecurities.

Belatedly, he wished he had been able to take the revenge he had planned rather than losing his nerve on the doorstep.