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Harry is really, really glad he didn't go into some depressive fit thing after Susan... you know.
He considered it. It was very tempting. But in the end... what good would it have done? Susan wouldn't want him to do it. Hell, if she'd popped out of the woodwork and he hadn't left the house in four months she'd probably have slapped him. So he forced himself to get his boots on every day and do his damn job. He found lost things. He worked on improving a few of his foci and enchanted objects and stuff. Cries most nights, but doesn't admit it, and that's been getting better. Recently he took a job protecting some kind of monastery from monkey demons.
A factor relevant to that particular job is currently napping in his coat pocket. He found the puppy there afterwards and tried to call that monk dude, but the monastery seemed to have vanished. Which was weird. But he got the puppy vetted by Bob and Father Forthill, and they said the little guy wasn't some kind of hellspawn, so... he kept him. Called him Mouse. Let him nap in his coat pocket. Mister got along with him, because Mouse wasn't big enough to be a threat to the big cat's authority.
Anyway, Mouse is napping in his coat pocket, and Harry just got out of the morgue looking at a corpse. He's pretty sure this is the work of some White Court bastard. The victim doesn't have a mark on him, but he's got the dopiest grin in human history. And Harry, being Harry, knows from dopey grins. So Harry sets out looking for a White Court vampire. Thomas doesn't know of any of his cousins who'd have gone after this guy (their official victims are dumped in a nearby quarry, apparently), so he's out investigating the red light district. And trying to look like someone who would be interested in a prostitute, instead of someone who would rather cut off his testicles with a spoon than lay a finger on a member of the oldest profession.
doing-the-right-thing
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(The skull's eye sockets glimmer again as they leave.)
Harry clambers up through the trapdoor and out to the door door. He opens it, revealing a man almost as tall as he is, bearing three extremely fuzzy sweaters.
"Hello, Harry. I'm told you need sweaters for, ahem, 'unclear magic reasons that he refused to clarify because he's a selfish bastard who doesn't care about the people who get caught in his wake of destruction'? Correcting for Charity's editorializing, I assume you need them for magic reasons."
Harry clambers up through the trapdoor and out to the door door. He opens it, revealing a man almost as tall as he is, bearing three extremely fuzzy sweaters.
"Hello, Harry. I'm told you need sweaters for, ahem, 'unclear magic reasons that he refused to clarify because he's a selfish bastard who doesn't care about the people who get caught in his wake of destruction'? Correcting for Charity's editorializing, I assume you need them for magic reasons."
doing-the-right-thing
They're so fuzzy!
"And who's this?" asks Michael. "Do you have an apprentice now?"
"Not an apprentice, just- he's White Court, so I can't touch him without burning him, and he likes hugging."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of hugs. Take the sweaters with my blessing, they were going to Goodwill anyway."
"And who's this?" asks Michael. "Do you have an apprentice now?"
"Not an apprentice, just- he's White Court, so I can't touch him without burning him, and he likes hugging."
Michael raises an eyebrow. "Well, far be it from me to stand in the way of hugs. Take the sweaters with my blessing, they were going to Goodwill anyway."
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Michael hands over the sweaters. (The sweaters themselves are slightly burny, as Michael knitted them for Charity himself. But they don't seem to do anything past mild burny discomfort.)
In the process, his hand brushes Buttercup's, leaving behind a wide patch of blackened skin and the smell of burning meat. "Oh! Oh, no, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- oh dear. Would you like a bandage?"
In the process, his hand brushes Buttercup's, leaving behind a wide patch of blackened skin and the smell of burning meat. "Oh! Oh, no, I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to- oh dear. Would you like a bandage?"
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Harry sighs. "Don't worry, Michael. Buttercup, I may have mentioned that Michael is the Fist of God? He has a holy aura that thinks the demonic presence inside you needs to be cooked like a Christmas ham. Also, he's been madly in love with his wife for thirty years, and love builds on itself. Probably should've warned you, come to think of it, but you don't really seem to mind, so."
Michael looks dubiously at the burn, but nods.
Michael looks dubiously at the burn, but nods.
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Michael's eyebrows remain high. "Well, it would be an odd world if we were all alike."
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"Anyway, I'd better head home. Daniel needs help with his calculus homework, and I have an ineffable feeling that I may be necessary in another capacity on the way home. Funniest thing."
Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes, God guide you on your way to stabbing some unfortunate monsters. "
"I don't always stab them. My job description includes redemption."
"Yes, but your title isn't 'the compassionate hug of God'."
Harry rolls his eyes. "Yes, yes, God guide you on your way to stabbing some unfortunate monsters. "
"I don't always stab them. My job description includes redemption."
"Yes, but your title isn't 'the compassionate hug of God'."
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"I'll bring it up next time I have a performance review with my namesake archangel."
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"Well, I'd best be off. You all have fun now."
Michael firmly hugs Harry, firmly does not hug Buttercup, and returns to his station wagon.
Michael firmly hugs Harry, firmly does not hug Buttercup, and returns to his station wagon.
doing-the-right-thing
"...Okay, just make sure you don't, like, nuzzle my neck and get seared or something." Harry holds out his arms. (His body below the neck is safely ensconced in clothing and, in most cases, leather duster.)
doing-the-right-thing
Harry hugs back appropriately. (Buttercup's hair! So fluffy! The sweater! So fuzzy!)
