A/N: Detective Roger tries to process events and revelations following his and Tilly's capture by Eloise Gardner and her Coven of Witches. Thanks to the amazing ultraluckycatnd for making this chapter so much better than it was.
"If I truly am your father," he'd pleaded, "I'm asking you as a father. Don't do this."
He had meant it. He had put himself in a father's place and begged her, with real anguish, not to give in to that unhinged woman's threats.
And yet…
He could not really be Tilly's father. It was impossible. It was insanity. Why was he even considering that it could possibly be true? Why, in his heart, did he want it to be true? Even felt it to be so?
He could be no more than ten or fifteen years older than Tilly. True—he had told Weaver of the feeling of responsibility he had felt for Tilly. How he had wanted to protect her so strongly! And ever since she had moved into his apartment, his life had become just a bit more interesting. He smiled as he pictured the miscellaneous odds and ends that had started accumulating in his once pristine apartment: empty jam jars and marmalade bottles scattered on the dining table, some of which were cleaned and turned into collection jars for marbles and safety pins; quirky ornaments for his saltwater aquarium; potted plants lined up on the kitchen window sill; and his books rearranged in a different scheme every other day. Tilly had made his life more colorful, and meaningful ever since she had moved into his apartment.
He never wished to go back to his empty existence ever again.
To be so close to happiness and kept so far away from it. That was cruel, indeed!
If Tilly truly was his daughter, what kind of a father did that make him? She had been living on the streets, struggling to get by, stealing scraps of food here and there, while he had been living comfortably within four walls. A sharp bolt of pain lanced through his heart. Was he, after all, no better of a man than his own feckless father?
But surely…witches? Magic?
It was more likely that he was having a mental breakdown. He would wake up and find himself strapped to a bed in the psychiatric ward of some hospital. Weaver would be sitting in a chair across the bed, and inform him that he was being relieved of his badge. That the Seattle Police Department did not believe he had the mentally stability to perform his duties any longer.
Flames had licked through the patterns carved on the mud floor. He had seen it with his own eyes. And yet, could he trust the evidence of his eyes if he was…insane?
Were these the hallucinations of a diseased mind? That woman, Eloise, had some kind of power. Not real magic, perhaps, but could she have hypnotized him into believing all that nonsense? Could she have managed to implant a powerful psychological delusion in his mind? Had he been drugged and tortured, made to forget? Impossible! He shivered involuntarily as he remembered that woman's repugnant caress even as she had called him poison. He felt both disgusted and mortified.
How had he ever thought her a victim? Her very presence disturbed and repulsed him now. He had spent so long looking for Eloise—believing her to be an innocent victim, when all this time, she had been the predator and the terror in the night.
They could all just be parlor tricks—something rigged up by the coven. That was the logical explanation. They do it with mirrors. And the magician never tells. He had had the wool pulled over his eyes—just like a little child going to its first magic show.
And, yet…and yet…
Oh, how his heart had jolted (with pain or joy, he could not tell) when Tilly had declared, "I feel that it's true. You're my father"!
He would never forget the radiant joy on her face—the tears clinging to her eyelashes.
"I can't be responsible for killing you."
She had then joined hands with the woman who claimed to be her mother, but was nothing short of a monster.
It was his fault. He should never have taken Tilly to the theatre. He had suspected that Eloise Gardner and her coven were up to nothing good; had known that the whole bizarre situation was potentially dangerous. And, despite everything, he had unheedingly dragged Tilly into the mess. He would never forgive himself for what he'd done.
He noticed Tilly's origami rabbit where it had fallen on the floor of his car. As he picked it up, two fat drops of tears rolled from his eyes and fell right on top of the rabbit. He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. This wasn't the time to sit staring sentimentally at paper bunnies and mushroom stickers, and wonder if he was slowly losing his sanity. He had to see Henry. They could not both be suffering from the same elaborate delusion. And Weaver knew something—Rogers was sure of it now. Weeks and weeks of the older detective's cryptic words and actions finally started falling into place. If Weaver had known all along that actual magic was involved, no wonder he had been circumspect with the knowledge. Whatever his faults, Rogers knew that Weaver cared for Tilly. He would step up. They had to rescue Tilly from the clutches of the Coven. Rogers vowed to himself that he would, even if it was the last thing he ever did.
He placed the white rabbit on his dash—perhaps it would bring him luck and guide him to a way to bring down the Coven. Turning on the ignition, he pulled his car out of the parking lot and hightailed it to the precinct in search of Weaver.