Chapter Fourteen
Nothing.
Nothing, nothing, nothing!
Jareth had always had an opportunist's memory, retaining only the facts that could be of use to him later and forgetting everything else at his own convenience. But this was different, this was worse. And it hurt, Byron thought, to know that, even if he could appear in a human form, the blond egotist would not recognize him, would he?
Byron frowned in thought. Would he? Admittedly, chances were low that he would be able to see a goblin, but a man he could definitely see. His lapse in memory was a magic induced amnesia, but magic could not erase what was truly there, only cover it up. Did it stand to reason then that, at least viscerally, Jareth would know who Byron was? He had found the girl, after all, and without even completely understanding why, was drawn to her.
Would Jareth recognize a projection of the mortal Byron had once been?
Hoggle walked, whether in a vein attempt to outdistance his problems, or merely ease his restless limbs, was entirely unclear.
He hadn't had many friends in his long life, three or four in all, but Sarah was undoubtedly one of them, and so his conscience ate away at his resolve. He had to keep her away from Jareth, the Wise Man had been painfully clear about the terms of his bargain, but he didn't want to hurt the girl. Why was there never any middle ground, he wondered despondently, why wasn't there a way to make everyone happy?
He had cursed the Goblin King on more than one occasion, but these days he felt more inclined to curse the Wise Man. Why did such a simple goal have to be so hard to achieve, come with so many strings attached?
Sarah was a stubborn girl, he knew from experience, and if she had set her mind to something she wasn't likely to give up, no matter what he said. Perhaps it would be easier to get Jareth to leave, Hoggle mused. Of course, Sarah would wonder, perhaps even grieve for a little while, but Jareth's memory and magic would remain imprisoned then and, in the end, that's all that mattered.
The car ride to her home had been uneventful and, if Sarah were honest with herself, a little disappointing. Sure, Jareth had gone about with his customary flirting, but he hadn't tried to kiss her and had made absolutely no move to follow her into the house. Once inside, she had stood with her back pressed to the front door feeling… bereft.
The man had complete control over her movements, now that she was dependant upon him for transportation, and he made no attempt whatsoever to take advantage of that fact. Sarah wasn't sure what bothered her more, the fact that he hadn't done anything or the fact that she almost wanted him to take advantage. After all, what good was an incorrigible womanizer if he wasn't putting even the smallest effort into his seduction?
Somewhere along the line, Sarah thought with just the tiniest bit of distress, she had begun to enjoy the chase. The man was infuriating, and yet she couldn't help but take pleasure in his company. She didn't want to be left alone anyway, not with so many thoughts crashing around in her head. Byron's news had imparted her with an unwelcome sense of urgency; she wanted to forget about it all for the now, to be a hedonist, if only for the night, and live for pleasure rather than problem solving.
But the contrary man had left her alone!
Grumbling to herself about the quixotic behavior of the male species, Sarah made her way through the lifeless house. Normally, she would have been changing out of her work clothes but hadn't been wearing them in the first place, and, in any case, was feeling rather comfortable in Jareth's shirt. If she couldn't have the man, at least she could have his laundry.
Jareth was dead bored. Really, he had no one to blame but himself, seeing as he had decided to leave Sarah alone for the evening. He just hadn't counted on there being nothing else to do. True enough, he could write, but… his room smelled of the woman. The bed covers that she had nestled in while fighting her brief fever still carried the subtle scent of gardenia and pine, and it drove him to absolute distraction. It was unfair that he could be so thoroughly teased when she wasn't even there!
His own fault, though.
Still, he thought with a smile, there was one absolutely wonderful thing about such a distraction. With a practiced flop, Jareth settled onto the bed. Her scent was earthy and powerful, yet not even the slightest bit abrasive like the perfumes some city women wore (or possibly bathed in, he sometimes thought). It was a smell he would greatly enjoy memorizing. Fisting his hand in a velvety soft sheet, he brought it up to his face, enjoying the texture much the same way a cat would.
"Am I interrupting something?" a lovely voice asked, startling Jareth.
Sarah stood in his doorway, one hip leaning against the frame, looking halfway between horror and amusement. Unhurriedly, he dropped the blanket. "Why would you think that?"
She held up a hand in mock defense, "I would hate to break up the love between a man and his linens, so don't stop on my account."
Jareth snorted. "Illicit relations go well on bed sheets, Sarah, not with them." He watched as she hid her chuckle, emerald eyes sparkling in humor. She was still wearing his shirt, he realized, and had to admit he was more than just a little pleased with the sight. The fact that it wasn't buttoned all the way up was rather nice as well. "How did you get in?"
"Your door wasn't locked," she replied with a snide look, "which I think is remarkably careless of you, Mr. Corbett; anyone could waltz right in if they wanted to!"
"But think of how lonely I'd be if you hadn't," he mock-pouted. In truth, he never locked his doors; it was a strange habit, and definitely something that had given his neighbors constant grief, but, for some reason, he had never felt the need. "Now, don't think I'm not pleased to see you," he began, casually leaning against the headboard, "but what are you doing here?"
Truthfully, she had been lonely and bored, unable to face the prospect of eating a small dinner in the silent house. Still, she wasn't about to tell Jareth all that, it would probably just go to his head. Instead, she opted for only part of the truth. "I was bored," came her mild reply.
He raised a hawkish eyebrow. "Bored enough to walk two miles in the cold and dark night, after just having recovered from a fever?" His tone was light, but his eyes had narrowed dangerously; though he seemed grateful for her company, he was obviously not pleased with her spontaneous decision.
But Sarah wasn't about to be cowed. "I'll make soup," she shrugged.
Jareth seemed taken aback. "Excuse me?"
"Dinner," she said clearly, as though he were simpleminded. "I'll make something hot to fight off a chill, okay?"
The woman didn't wait for his reply, just turned around and wandered down the stairs, presumably to find the kitchen. Jareth sat in the middle of his room, dumbfounded. Had he just been invited to dinner in his own home?
Byron concentrated. It was hard to take a human form; it took a lot of power to do and usually went wrong for the most inane reasons. Conditions had to be just right, or he could easily find himself the right shape but the wrong size, vice-versa, or a myriad of other mistakes.
He didn't have enough strength to do it completely right on his own, but the night was foggy with a hint of thunder in the distance and Byron called upon that natural energy. Took the latent power that was soaking the air and channeled it into himself. Became a conductor for those wild elements and fed from them.
He grew, he changed, he felt the magic take root, he…
Was suddenly in a horrible amount of pain.
Thunder sizzled in the distance, carrying for miles around in the late autumn air, the lightning flashing cold and brilliant through the thickening fog. Hoggle hated nights like these, they reminded him too much of home. He was a tired old man, but he managed to coax his legs a little faster, hoping to make it back to the hotel before the storm broke.
The night was dark, the lightening infrequent, but even so Hoggle still noticed the shadowy figure lying on the side of the road.
"Hey stranger," he asked, walking up to the prone body, "you alright?" He snorted to himself; of course the guy wasn't all right, otherwise he wouldn't have been lying in a ditch. Hoggle heaved a sigh; it was just one problem after another today. He couldn't, in good conscience, leave the comatose man to the tender mercies of a stormy night. Still, he found himself somewhat loath to get involved in somebody else's troubles; he had more than enough of his own.
A flash of lightning illuminated and reflected off of the fog, briefly making the night shine with a jewel bright intensity. Hoggle rubbed his eyes, unsure but fairly certain that he had caught sight of a shock of blond hair. As a matter of fact, the face that he may or may not have glimpsed had looked a damned sight like someone he knew all too well.
"Bunbury?" he breathed the question out on a quiet exhalation. But it couldn't be, Bunbury was…
Ambrosius was usually a quiet dog, much preferring to spend his life in as little excitement as possible, but something had the canny little beast in a tizzy. His shaggy paws beat wildly at the door to the hall and he let out one piercing bark after another. Didymus would have honestly thought the dog possessed if the door had not opened a few minutes later.
Hoggle stood in the doorway, a limp body draped over his shoulders and trailing behind him like a macabre opera cloak. "Good heavens," Didymus exclaimed, shooting out of his chair, "what happened?"
"Hell if I know," his stout companion wheezed. "Now help me get him to the spare bed." They struggled together for a minute, before finally managing to lay the unconscious man out.
Blond hair, wet and matting, clung to a pale and angular face. The brow was sculpted, the nose held an aristocratic flare, and the cheekbones were high. He was probably just under six feet in height, with a lean and dreadfully familiar build.
"Lord Bunbury!" Didymus gasped, looking to Hoggle for reassurance. "But how?"
The older man shrugged. "I found him on the side of the road."
Didymus turned back to their unexpected guest just in time to see hazel eyes snap open.
Byron sat up, instantly regretting it because of the overwhelming dizziness that greeted the gesture. His eyes felt gritty in the burning light, and the rest of his body was one giant ache. "Where…?" he began to question, looking around, but caught sight of his hands. Human hands. Forgetting his wooziness, he shot out of bed and ran to the mirror on the other side of the room.
His eyes widened and a smirk broke out over his lips. Sixteen, maybe seventeen, tall but not gangly, lithe, and with a mischievous air about him, Byron looked exactly like the human he had once been. "I did it," he laughed triumphantly.
He turned around to find Didymus standing close by, a frown marring his gentle features. "Milord-" he began to question, but Byron cut him off.
"I did it!" he crowed, taking the taller man by the hands and sweeping him about the room exuberantly.
Hoggle shook his head, unable to comprehend what was going on. "Bunbury?" he called. When that failed to get the young man's attention he let out a loudly growled, "Byron!"
The bouncing teenager halted his erratic dance. "Yes?" he drawled, clearly irritated that his celebrations had been interrupted.
"What is going on?" Didymus asked in place of his irked companion.
Byron turned a brilliant smile on both of them. "I cast a human glamour," he said proudly.
Hoggle shook his head. "I found you passed-out on the side of the road; a glamour would have broken when you lost consciousness."
Hazel eyes narrowed in confusion. "What are you saying, gardener? You don't mean to suggest-" Byron broke off, eyes widening. "It's not possible," he began to argue.
Didymus sat down on one of the beds, running a hand over his face. The situation was too strange to ponder. No one had ever been turned back from being a goblin before.
Had their dear Lord Bunbury done the improbable?
Sarah hummed, pausing once or twice to listen to the approaching storm, as she stirred the simmering broth. Jareth's kitchen hadn't had much in the way of actual food (either the man didn't eat, or he just hadn't gotten around to grocery shopping yet) so she had decided to make Stone Soup. It was easy to make, in any case, all you had to do was grab a handful of whatever was available and throw it into some chicken broth. Carrots and potatoes seemed to be the main components of tonight's meal, though, luckily, she had found a loaf of French bread hiding behind an entire row of teacups; it was a bit dried out, but it would go well with a little butter. Tonight's was a meal of simplicity.
Putting the lid back on the heating pot, Sarah leaned against the counter, just in time to see Jareth walk down the stairs. He had changed clothes, she realized; gone from a heavy sweater to one of his linen shirts, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like usual. It was strange not seeing him in knee-high boots, but the black jeans he favored did something wonderful for him; they were tight enough to be teasing, but not so tight that they left nothing to the imagination. Granted, his breeches had always been interesting and sinful creations, but rather blunt; there was something infinitely more tempting about not being given the full picture.
His strides were even and cat-like, his uneven eyes further lending to his nearly bestial air. It was times like this, Sarah decided, that he seemed less like a writer and more like a Goblin King. With her hips already pressed to the counter, she had nowhere to go when he drew impossibly close to her. His hand shot out and, with a lighting quick movement, he undid two of her shirt buttons, nearly revealing the lacy partition between the cups of her bra.
"Hey!" she sputtered, red-faced but unable to deny that she had brought this upon herself by choosing to come here.
Jareth caught her hands before she could redo the buttons. "You are wearing my shirt, are you not?"
Sarah nodded confusedly, pinching Jareth's palms until he let her go.
"I'm afraid it's not used to being buttoned up so high," he said, turning around to sit at the small table. "You wouldn't want to make the poor thing uncomfortable, would you?"
"You just want to ogle my breast while we're eating," Sarah shot over her shoulder as she checked on the soup.
"And such lovely breasts they are, too. You really ought to let your shirt gape more often; I'll bet you anything those poor dears are starved for attention," he replied smoothly.
She let out a huff. "What is it with you and personifying inanimate objects? Your shirt wants to be open, my breasts want to be groped-"
"Now you're putting words in my mouth," he observed, "I said nothing about groping. A Freudian slip, perhaps?" Here his tone turned teasing, "I'd be more than happy to lend a pair of attentive hands if you're feeling a bit neglected."
Sarah couldn't help but laugh at the ridiculousness of the conversation and, when she turned around with two bowls of soup to set on the table, she knew her eyes were shining with humor. "This is not proper dinner conversation," she told the smirking blond, "pick a different topic."
Jareth took on a musing expression as he idly twirled a spoon between his fingers. "We could always talk about how your pants are feeling, to round things out."
"Just eat your soup," she told him flatly, fighting a smile.
It was true to be careful what you wished for, Sarah thought with a little snort. Just a few hours ago she had been lamenting the fact that Jareth hadn't made a pass at her; now, she was almost afraid of what he would try when she no longer had the excuse of dinner to hide behind.
Almost, but not entirely.
A/N: For those of you who have any idea what Bunburying is, don't ready into my use of it too much, I just liked the name. The first part of this chapter was written in a café… I don't usually write in public. Nor have I ever been so caffeinated in my life as I have been this last month.
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Disclaimer: Rockport belongs to Maine, Labyrinth characters belong to Henson Productions, and the name Bunbury was totally stolen from Oscar Wilde.