Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/6145130.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      One_Direction_(Band)
  Relationship:
      Nick_Grimshaw/Harry_Styles
  Character:
      Gemma_Styles, Anne_Cox
  Additional Tags:
      Implied/Referenced_Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced_Child_Abuse,
      Violence, Ghosts, Alternate_Universe, Mental_Health_Issues, Possession,
      Parent/Child_Incest, Murder
  Series:
      Part 3 of ghosties
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-03-02 Words: 10251
****** vengeful spirit ******
by ymorton
Summary
     nick and harry continue to drive around and hunt scary stuff but this
     time with BACKSTORY
Notes
     part 3 of 3. (for now).
     PLEASE, please heed the warnings. this fic is graphic and mentions an
     original character (so NOT harry nick or anyone else we know) being
     raped and killed by his parent when he was a child. please take note
     before reading.
     1/3 supernatural au, 1/3 the conjuring au, 1/3 weird made up shit
     harry's a clairvoyant loner nick picked up a few years ago. for nick,
     it's the family business, and it always will be.
     also it's the 1970s? i guess????? and there's a mix
     come talk on tumblr it's ihavea1dbloghelp
Harry goes stiff and silent as soon as they pass the village border.
“Breathe,” Nick murmurs, looking over at him.
"I'm fine," Harry says blankly, staring out the window.
"It's just a job."
"It's my home-"
"It's just a job." Nick reaches over to squeeze Harry's thigh, denim frayed
under his fingertips. "We work it, we get the hell out of here. Bet you won't
even see anyone you know."
Harry shakes his head, looking back out the window.
"I've just got a bad feeling," he whispers.
"And I respect that, love, but if I turned around cos of every bad feeling you
had we'd never take a job. Remember what we talked about?"
"We have to confront the things that give me a bad feeling," Harry recites
dully.
"That's our job." 
Harry just heaves a moody sigh and tips his forehead against the glass. He
really is remarkably like a teenager sometimes. Nick supposes that's what he
gets for driving around the country with a 20-year-old.
---
The house they pull up in front of is modestly-sized, shiny new, in that
cookie-cutter suburban style Nick hates. The front door's swinging on its
hinges in the breeze, wide open, and when Nick steps inside he can see a coffee
table on its side, smashed glass sparkling in the late afternoon sun.
There's a woman in the kitchen, bent over the counter with her face in her
hands. 
"Hello? Ma'am?" Nick says, carefully, stepping over a smashed vase, and the
woman turns around.
She has dark hair, red-rimmed green eyes, a tilt to her mouth that's oddly
familiar - and then she's looking past Nick and saying, shakily, "Harry?"
Nick looks back at Harry, standing hunch-backed and wide-eyed.
"Hi, mum," Harry whispers, and - oh, bloody fucking hell. What are the odds?
Nick expects tearstained reunion hugs, or whatever families do when they see
each other after years of being apart, but instead Harry's mum just - shifts on
her foot, crosses an arm over her chest.
"You alright, then?" she says, not looking into his eyes. "What're you doing
here?"
"I'm working," Harry says, sounding miserable. "I'm- I'm fine. How's Gemma?"
"Fine." His mum sighs, a strange impatient sound. "She's at uni."
"Where?"
"Don’t think I should tell you that," his mum says, eyes narrowing. "We don't
need any of your trouble, Harry."
An ugly expression passes over Harry's face, his lip curling, and Nick steps
in. It's never good, that expression.  
"Seems like you've got trouble, though," Nick says, waving a hand at the
overturned table, the broken glass everywhere. "How'd this happen?"
The woman is still staring at Harry.
"Knew this would have something to do with you," she says, voice small.
"Christ, Harry, why can't you just leave us alone? Haven’t you done enough?"
"It wasn't me!" Harry snaps. "How could it bloody have been me if I wasn't even
in town!"
"You'd manage it somehow-"
"Alright!" Nick says, sharply, putting his hands out. "We're not going to get
anything done by- by bickering. Let's just - calm down. Listen, my name's Nick,
and I think we might be looking at a vengeful spirit here. I assume you've
dealt with this kind of thing before, from - uh, with Harry?"
The woman's eyes are widening fearfully.
"Vengeful spirit?" she whispers.
"It means someone who died violently, so their spirit sticks around to cause
trouble," Nick says. Harry's silent next to him. "There’s also a possibility
that you’re being visited by a more benign spirit, a poltergeist, or even a
corporeal creature living in the house, which are pretty easy to take care of.
No matter what, usually the problem can be solved.”
"Wasn't solved with him, before," Harry's mum says, pointing at Harry. "I don't
think he should be here. He's dangerous. Not right in the head."
"Harry's a very important part of fixing the problem, actually," Nick says.
"Which can often be misinterpreted as him being dangerous-"
"I didn't misinterpret anything!" she snaps. "He nearly murdered my husband!"
"I didn't!" Harry spits out, voice hot. "That's a bloody lie-"
"Please," Nick says, voice rising. God, if this is what a proper family is
like, he doesn't mind not having parents. "Please, this isn't helping. I need
to know about the beginning of these incidents, uh - what's your name, sorry?"
"Anne," Harry's mum says, looking away from them.
"- Anne. Could we - sit down, maybe? Have a chat about all this mess?"
"I don't want him in the house," Anne says, flicking her fingers towards Harry.
"We had to move houses because of him, we had to - he's - he's dangerous."
"I promise you he's not," Nick says, clenching his jaw to keep from snapping at
her, and behind him, Harry turns on his heel and slams out through the front
door. The lights flicker, and Anne looks up, scared.
"Did you see that? He does that! He's - there's something wrong with him!"
"There's nothing wrong with him," Nick says, tightly. "May I sit?"
Anne leads him to the kitchen, sits, curling her hands around a no-doubt cold
cup of tea.
"Harry's your son?" Nick asks, helplessly curious, because yes, Harry said mum,
but she's not acting like any mum Nick's ever seen on telly, or read in books.
She glares at him. "Oh, don't look at me like I'm - he's all sodded up, he's
mental, that wasn't my fault. Where are your bloody parents, then? Can't
imagine they're happy with whatever you're doing-"  
"Both of my parents are dead," Nick says, as he pulls out a notepad.
Her eyes go wide.
"Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?"
She nods, after a moment, looking wary.
“When did this start?”
“I, um. A few weeks ago.”
“What happened?”
She shifts in her seat, looks toward the window. “We - we built the house
ourselves, just a few years ago. There’d never been a problem, with the lights
or anything, and then. Things just started- I dunno. A few months ago.”
Nick writes down, new house. A few years ago means after Harry left town,
probably.
“Like, the lights flicker, or the sink turns on after we turn it off…” She
crosses her arm over her chest nervously. “Things fall off the shelves at
night. Photos, books. We come downstairs in the morning to a mess sometimes,
but- but nothing taken.”
“Mm,” Nick hums.
“And- and-” she stops. “Sorry, I just. I don’t understand how you can help.
We’ve already talked to the police.”
“With all due respect to the police, they’re not quite as - as well-versed in
this business.”
She peers at him.
“And how are you - versed? In this business?”
“Runs in the family.”
"But you said your family's-" she stops, and swallows hard. Lifts the mug of
tea to her mouth.
Nick scribbles a few more notes. Nothing taken. no focus. no bodily injury.
nocturnal.
"If there's nothing else you can tell me right now," he says, not looking at
her. "Then I'll go over this with Har- with, with my partner, and we'll sort
out a plan of action. Do you fear for your life?"
"What?" she says, shakily.
"From the - presence. The creature, whatever it is. Has it ever come after
you?"
"N-no. No. None of us have ever seen it."
"Then I'll be back tomorrow." Nick glances towards the door. He really hopes
Harry's just sitting in the car and he hasn't run off. "Nice to meet you, Ms.
Styles."
"Cox," Anne says.
Nick arches an eyebrow. "Sorry?"
"Anne Cox," she says. "Not Styles."
"Oh, I'm- sorry about that. Ms. Cox." He scrapes his chair back. "I'll see you
tomorrow."
"I- alright," she says, sounding confused. Normally Nick wouldn't leave so
quick, but all he can think about is Harry. A village of over five thousand and
their next job is Harry's mother. Fuck, maybe Nick should've trusted Harry's
bad feeling.
He walks down the front steps. 
"Haz?" he calls, just as he sees Harry, sitting on the curb, his hands fisted
in the thick grass next to the road, his back hunched.
"Hey," Nick says softly, touching Harry's shoulder.
Harry doesn't look up.
"Harry," Nick murmurs. "You alright?"
"I didn't hurt my- my stepdad," Harry chokes out, voice thick. "I didn't."
"Alright." Nick sits next to him, peering at him. Harry's hair is hanging thick
over his face and his hands are dirty, like he's been scratching at the ground.
"Alright, love. I believe you."
"It wasn't me," Harry mutters. "It wasn't me. She thinks it was because he was
inside me but it wasn't."
Nick lets out a shuddery breath. "Who was inside you, love?"
Harry shakes his head, over and over, and Nick touches his shoulder again.
"It's alright, Harry," he says quickly. "You don't have to - to tell me.
Alright?"
Harry chokes out a breath, raises his head slowly. His eyes are red-rimmed and
swollen.
"Hey," Nick breathes, beckoning him in, putting an arm around Harry's
shoulders. He's hyperaware that they're still on Harry's mum's property, but
Harry burrows into his neck before Nick can warn him to be careful.
"I hate being here," Harry mumbles against Nick's skin. "I hate it."
Nick nods, carefully untangling his arm from Harry's back, patting his
shoulder. When he looks back, he can see Anne's face, pale and silhouetted in
the upstairs window, and he shudders, scoots away from Harry.
"If you want," he says. "If you want, we can leave. Tonight. If it's what you
want-"
Harry shakes his head, looking sideways at Nick.
"She could get hurt," he says, eyes burning. "We have to- to. Help. She's my
mum. She's still my mum."
Nick nods, feeling a strange little pang in his chest at Harry's words. What's
it like, to have a mum? Even if she can't stand you. Must be nice to have one,
to know you've got one waiting somewhere.
Nick had one once, of course. There are photos tucked in a box under the
passenger seat - Nick as a chubby baby in his mother's arms, her face lined and
worn already, looking cautiously up at the camera like she was scared of
something. Jane and Andrew and tiny Nick all posed on a bench somewhere, Nick
perched on Jane's lap with a sunhat and a onesie on.
There's even a photo of Nick's dad in the box, though he hated pictures. He's
in the kitchen of the house Nick grew up in, and he's not smiling.
Nick was five when his mum was killed. He doesn't remember her.
He stumbles to his feet, and Harry follows, wiping a wrist over his red eyes,
brushing dirt off his hands.
They'll have an early night, get the job done, and get out of town before Harry
turns back into the starved jumpy mutt he was when Nick first met him. Christ,
Nick hopes everything goes to plan.
It rarely does, but he still hopes, every time.
---
He heads over to the house early the next morning, leaves Harry dozing in bed,
curled naked around a pillow. He figures it’s best to check it out alone,
without whatever current runs between Harry and his mum, but it still makes him
uneasy, starting a job without Harry by his side.
Anne flings the door open in a second flat, and says, wide-eyed, “Something’s
in here.”
“What?” Nick asks, reaching for his gun. That was fast. “Something’s where?”
Anne beckons to him and shuts the door silently.
“In the cellar,” she whispers. “There’re sounds.”
“An animal?”
“I don’t know.” She shivers when Nick unholsters his gun. “And - and the house
was a mess this morning. Table turned over and everything.”
Nick peers around. The place is spotless.
“Well I cleaned it up,” Anne says tartly, following his gaze. “Wasn’t gonna
leave it a tip.”
“Don’t, next time, alright? It’s easier for me to know what we’re dealing with
when I can see what they’ve done. What they focused on.”
“What they focused on?”
Nick steps his way quietly through the kitchen, stops at the closed cellar
door.
“For example,” he says softly. “If they only knocked down family photos, we
could be dealing with a vengeful spirit. But if it’s food they went for, we
might be after a wendigo- they’re hungry buggers. Or even just a raccoon or
summat.”
Anne’s nose wrinkles. “What’s a wen-”
“Shh.” Nick hears a patter of feet from beyond the cellar door. He presses his
ear to the wood, gun clutched tightly in his other head. “What did this thing
focus on? Any particular targets?”
“Just - chaos, I dunno,” Anne says. “Mess.”
“Chaos,” Nick breathes, slowly turning the door handle. “If it was just chaos,
we might be working with a-”
There’s a scrabble at the door, and a tiny wrinkled creature worms its way
through the growing crack. He’s around knee-height, with tufts of white hair
and a vaguely human form, and he barely has time to screech something in high-
pitched Gaelic before Nick shoots him, right through the forehead.
Anne screams bloody murder and stumbles back against the wall. The creature is
unmistakably dead, lying sprawled on the tiled kitchen floor with dark blood
pooling round its potato-shaped head.
“- with a Common Irish House Gnome,” Nick finishes, nudging the body with his
toe. “Huh. They’ve really migrated south this year.”
“Jesus Christ, what the- what in God’s name is that?” Anne asks, voice
trembling.
“Small bipedal humanoid, used to live in the woods of northern England and
Ireland until people started moving in, usually infests attics or cellars in
country homes,” Nick recites, staring down at the fallen creature. “You’re in
luck, they’re very solitary animals. If you’d had a Scottish House Gnome, now,
it’d be a different story. Those buggers come in packs.”
Anne’s staring at the body with a sick expression on her face.
“That should take care of your problem.” Nick holsters his gun. “Do you have,
um, a bin bag? I can pick up the body if you’d like me to-”
She nods, blinking a few times, and goes to fetch him one.
“Now, if you have any more trouble,” Nick says, busily shoving the body into a
bag. Fuck, the thing is heavy. “They can’t resist potatoes. Which is really
quite cliche. Set out a few at night, fashion some sort of gnome-sized mouse
trap, you should catch them quite handily. They’re pretty stupid, really. I
don't speak Gaelic myself, but a friend once told me they've got the language
level of a toddler.”
“And- and if I catch one?”
“Well, I’d advise a quick shot to the head, but I’m not much of a pacifist when
it comes to pests,” Nick says, wrapping the bag up tightly. “You can also
release them in the woods. Don’t blame me if it returns, though. They’ve got a
wicked sense of smell and they’ll find their way back.”
He’s dropping the bag into the bin out back when Anne says, quietly, “Where’s
Harry?”
Nick looks back at her, brushing his hands off. “Back at the motel. Thought I
could handle this one on my own.”
Anne nods a couple times, crossing an arm over her chest.
“Where’re you staying?” she asks.
“Sunset Inn,” Nick says. “D’you mind if I wash my hands?”
He’s scrubbing soap over his palms when he sees Anne dig a mop out of the
cupboard.
“Good idea.” He twists the faucet knob. “Gnome blood can be a pain to clean
once it’s dried all the way.”
Anne looks up at him with the mildly horrified face she’s had since Nick
arrived in town. “Really?”
“Well, all blood, really. Human too, it’s a bitch to clean, dunno if you ever
have. It’s just that gnome blood has a lower water content, so it gets sticky
faster-” he stops, because her face has gone very white. “You alright?”
“Fine,” she says, throat bobbing in a swallow.
He watches her carefully. “You sure?”
“I’m fine,” she snaps, squeezing water over the pool of black blood, plopping
the mop down right in the middle. “Just. I have.”
“Have…”
“Cleaned it. Blood, I mean.” Her face is drawn and tight.
Nick looks down.
“They don’t tell you about that bit,” she says, not looking at him, scrubbing
furiously at the floor. “That after everything- after - after the hospital, and
the police station, that you still have to come home and clean the blood
yourself.”
Nick’s done that himself, more than a few times. It’s not technically part of
his job description, but he’s not made of stone, and he’s caved at the sight of
women on their knees scrubbing their husband’s blood out of the floor, or the
dad who lost his baby twins to a demon and had to clean up blood and sulfur and
ash even though he couldn’t stop sobbing long enough to breathe. Nick sat him
gently down on the sofa and took the mop from his shaking hands. 
He doesn’t know what to say.
“Harry’s a dangerous person,” Anne says, very softly. “I’m telling you that cos
you - you seem kind, and sometimes kind people get fooled by him.”
Nick doesn’t look up from the towel he’s drying his hands on. He doesn’t speak.
“I know he seems sweet,” Anne says, voice breaking. “He’s my son, for God’s
sake, if anyone should love him it’s me.”
“And yet,” Nick mutters, sour.
“You don’t understand what he did.” Anne shudders hard. “If you knew what he
did-”
“So, that should take care of it,” Nick says loudly, over her. “Don’t forget.
Potatoes.”
She watches him with dark haunted eyes. So odd, to see Harry’s eyes in that
face.
“Be careful,” she whispers.
Nick’s stomach clenches with rage. Be fucking careful. About her own son. About
Harry, who talks to cows and coos at babies and wept for hours the first time
he saw Nick shoot something. She’s batty. That’s the only explanation.
“Thank you,” he says tightly, before he leaves the way he came.
---
The clock in his car reads ten minutes past nine as Nick pulls into the motel
and parks. God, not even ten AM, and the job’s done. Thank god. They can get
the hell out of here before anything goes awry.
He enters quietly, the room still dim, curtains drawn.
“Haz?”
He’s expecting Harry to be asleep, but - no. Harry’s sat upright and perfectly
still in bed, head cocked and alert, like he’s listening for something. Nick’s
breath catches at the sight.
“Harry?” he says, unsure. A dangerous person, Anne said.
Harry doesn’t turn his head.
“Harry.” Nick drops his keys on the nightstand, purposely loud, and Harry jerks
to look at him, letting out a rushed breath.
“Shit,” he says. “You scared me.”
“I said your name.”
“I- I’m sorry.” Harry shakes himself, rubs a palm over his forehead as Nick
slowly kicks off his shoes. “M’just tired, I barely slept. Are you- where were
you?”
“Over at the house. The job’s finished.” Nick picks up a mug of lukewarm coffee
Harry’s left on the table and takes a gulp. “It was a house gnome.”
Harry winces. “Scottish?”
“Common Irish, thank God. I killed it, so there shouldn’t be an issue.”
Harry tugs the duvet up around himself and sighs. “That’s good.”
“We can leave town if you like.” Nick ducks into the toilet to wash his hands
again, splash water over his weary face. He’ll need better coffee if they’re
going to drive all day.
Harry says something, barely audible over running water. Nick peeks his head
out. “Sorry?”
“I said- I- I’m not sure if we should leave just yet.”
Nick stares at him. Harry’s face is serious. Nervous.
“What’s going on?” Nick asks, shaking his damp hands, sitting himself at the
foot of the bed.
“I just.” Harry swallows. “I- there’s something else here.”
“You felt something?”
“Not- it’s-” Harry exhales hard. “Shit. I just- you told me a vengeful spirit
will never go away unless the bones are burned, right?”
Nick shifts closer, something cold in his throat. “Yeah.”
Harry drops his head, picking at a thread on the blanket over his lap.
“I think, like,” he says slowly. “I think there’s a- a spirit. Here. Where my
old house was.”
Nick can feel his pulse, just a touch faster than normal.
“Does this have to do with your stepdad?” he asks carefully, and Harry’s gaze
rises to his, caught-out like a deer in headlights.
“Did my mum-”
“No. She didn’t tell me anything.” Nick moves closer, til he can take Harry’s
hand and stop it quivering. “Can you tell me?”
Harry’s breathing has gone wobbly.
“If you want us to stay,” Nick says softly. “If you want us to do this, then
I’ve got to know what I’m walking into.”
Harry slowly sinks down in bed until he’s lying on his side, still facing Nick.
He reaches for a pillow to clutch to his chest.
Nick follows him down, props himself up on an elbow. "Harry. Please, love.”
"Fine," Harry breathes out, eyes flickering. "I just. Alright. Fine. So, so I
met him when I was - nine. He - he was in my room, one day. Just appeared
there. He told me his name was-"
His voice shudders, drops.
"His name was Charles," he says. "And- and he was just always there from then
on, and no one else could see him."
"He was dead," Nick says, quietly.
Harry nods, swallowing audibly.
"We were best mates," he mumbles. "And I didn't - I didn't have a lot of mates,
because- because, like, everyone thought I was weird. Since I was little. My
mum used to say I had these eyes that freaked people out. Big green alien
eyes."
He huffs out a sour laugh. "Charles was fifteen and so I thought he was cool,
like proper grown-up, and he told me about stuff - showed me these trees behind
our house that had carvings in 'em. Showed me the little creek that ran on our
property. My mum didn't - didn't always like when I went out alone, but she
wasn't bothered, especially when I got older."  
Nick watches him pause, mouth half-open as he looks for the words.
"When I got a little older Charles told me about his family," he says, voice
unsteady. "And- and his mum was nice, he said, and his dad wasn't nice, and
when I asked him why his dad wasn't nice he said he'd tell me when I was older.
He always- did that. Protected me from stuff, like he was my brother. It drove
me mad at the time, I used to get so angry at him, used to, like, lie in my bed
and pretend I couldn't hear him or see him, and he'd- he'd yell in my ear until
I had to scream to drown it out."
He stops, breathless. Composes himself.
"That's when everyone started thinking I was mental," he says, low. "My mum
took me to some doctors and nothing helped because once I was off the property
he couldn't yell at me anymore so I didn't have to scream either. I saw this
one doctor til - til it happened, and I told him everything. He never believed
me, ever, he just wrote it all down and told my mum I had a strong
imagination."
Nick breathes out a laugh at that.
"And, then, like. I guess Charles decided I was old enough to hear- about. His
dad. So. I remember, we were fifteen- I was fifteen, I mean, same age as him,
so I guess he thought it was alright. And- and he said that his dad, you know-"
He stops, voice breaking, rubs at his eyes with a balled-up fist like a child.
"Touched him," he says. "Had sex with him all the time. Said he was pretty like
a girl and - and had sex with him, all the time, for years, without his mum
knowing, and then one day he took Charles out behind the house and bashed his
head in with a brick and buried him by the oak tree in the woods.”
Nick breathes out slowly, sorrowfully. Oh, Christ. Harry's crying a little bit,
tears rolling sideways down his face into the mattress. He wipes his nose with
his hand.
"And when he told me I forgave him for the yelling and we were best mates
again, for a while, inseparable, and - and then, like. My mum got remarried-"
He stops again, looking terrified.
"It's alright," Nick says, very softly. "It's alright. You can tell me."
"My mum got married, and - I didn't even not like Robin!" Harry says, voice
quavering. "I liked him fine! He was- he was nice to me, but then, like, one
day we were sitting in the living room listening to records - me and Charles, I
mean, we were sitting in there, and Robin came to tell me to turn it down
because mum was sleeping and I didn't- I didn't turn it down-"
"It's alright," Nick says again, when Harry falters, his eyes wide and
frightened like he's reliving it.
"He started to yell at me, about how I never listened, and I felt Charles,
like, he just- he was inside me, I don't know how to describe it, like - like a
demon, I guess, but he just - I went into the kitchen, and Robin followed me,
and - and Charles took this knife, and stabbed him in the stomach."
Harry's panting. His hand is clenching in the sheets.
"And - and he stabbed him again, and once more, and pushed him down. I could- I
could hear Robin screaming, begging me to stop, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t make
him stop. And- and, Charles, like, Charles- took the knife and cut off, like-"
He sucks in a trembling breath. "Cut off his. His."
Nick has to try very hard to keep his face steady and not as sick as he feels.
"Fuck," Harry mumbles. "Like. His nuts. Testicles, whatever."
It's almost comical, the way Harry whispers it. But then again it's not,
really, at all.
"And Charles was laughing so I was laughing, he was- he was inside me, I
couldn't - and my mum and my sister came downstairs and I was covered in blood,
in Robin's blood, and I'd- done- done that to him, and they were screaming and
I was laughing-"
He breaks off, puts his face into the mattress, chokes out a rough sob.
Numbly, Nick puts a hand onto his warm back, strokes his spine up and down.
"They took me away," Harry says, turning his head, his eyes clenched shut. "And
said I was mental. Disturbed. I stayed in the- in the institution for a year,
and when I came back they'd left the house and - my mum wouldn't talk to me or
see me. I got hired on at the bakery cos I helped out there when I was younger
and the owner didn't believe all the rumors that everyone - went on about.
Charles never- I never, I never went back to the house. My mum had it torn
down, it's farmland, now, I think."
He heaves a trembling breath.
"I knew I was sick," he says, wiping his eyes again. "People crossed themselves
when I walked by, and didn't look at me, and I used to go to church all the
time, every night after work, just sit there until someone made me leave.
Pray."
Nick keeps a hand on his back, warm and heavy. Harry's still shaky, his muscles
jumping fitfully under Nick's palm.
"Nothing ever helped," he whispers. "I never got fixed."
"Because there was nothing wrong with you," Nick says, low in his throat, and
Harry looks at him with his eyes burning.
"I did awful things," he says, voice rough.
"That wasn't you, Harry."
"It was," Harry whispers. "I let him in."
Nick exhales slowly.
"Harry," he says. "You were a kid, and you trusted him. It's not your fault."
"Used to pray so much," Harry says, shakily. "Every day. Pray for forgiveness,
to- to be cleansed, and to stop hearing the voices-"
"Harry," Nick mumbles, scooting closer to him, guiding Harry's head against
Nick's neck with one hand. "Shh. Sh. It's alright."
Harry chokes a breath against Nick's skin.
"This too," he says, muffled. "I prayed not to- to feel like this. About boys.
Why'm I so- so fucked up, Nick, I didn't ask for this-"
"I know," Nick says. God, does he bloody know about getting things you didn't
ask for. "I know, love. That's just life. That's just the luck of the draw."
“It’s not fair,” Harry says, thick and desperate.
“I know.” Nick runs his fingers through Harry’s hair, slow. “I know.”
“I don’t want this,” Harry whispers. “I don’t want to be like this.”
“I know, love.” Nick blinks back the heat in his eyes. Of course Harry doesn’t
want this. This life on the road, no friends, no settling down. Harry wants a
family and a home.
Nick’s selfish, cos part of him’s glad Harry doesn’t have that. It’s awful, the
things Nick would do to keep Harry with him.
“S’not fair,” Harry repeats, voice starting to slow. He’s tucked himself in
against Nick’s chest, now, face in his shirt. Nick keeps stroking his hair.
“It’s not-”
“I know,” Nick murmurs for the umpteenth time. “Shh, sh. I know.”
Harry mumbles something else, his grip on Nick’s arm loosening, and then he’s
worn out, asleep. Nick stays close to him for a few minutes, listening to the
slow rhythm of his breath, Harry’s back moving gently under his hand.
Nick knows, right then, that he can’t let Harry do this with him. A connection
that deep would be near impossible to break if they’re close to each other
again, and Harry’s prone to dreaming anyway, to getting lost. Wouldn’t be hard
for - Charles, whoever - to tug him away from reality.
And Nick can’t have that. Nick needs Harry here.
He untangles himself carefully from Harry’s grip, and Harry rolls over onto his
belly with a thump, cheek turned to the side so Nick can see half his pale
face, his slack pink mouth. Nick leans in and brushes the lightest kiss against
Harry’s soft cheek, and then he sits up.
He’ll salt and burn the motherfucker himself, and they’ll get the hell out of
town.
---
The oak tree on the old Styles property is massive. It towers over the others,
leafy and shady, the ground littered with acorns.
Nick's scraping away fallen leaves and muck with the shovel when he sees
something glimmer out of the corner of his eyes.
He swallows hard, tries to keep calm. He expected this, anyway. It couldn't be
this easy.
"Hiya, Charles," he says lightly, not stopping his work.
"Where's Harry," a voice says, and Nick spares a moment to look over, suss out
just what he’s dealing with. A boy, dark-haired and slender, pale pale skin and
red full lips. He's corporeal and solid but just a bit wobbly around the edges,
and he's staring at Nick with open hatred on his face.
"Harry can't come here right now," Nick says smoothly. "I think you know that,
love, that you're not going to see him."
"Harry needs to be here," the boy says, watching Nick get back to his scraping.
"I won't let you touch me if you don't bring Harry here."
Nick's quiet for a minute, kicking some debris away, and - oh. There it is. A
large, smooth gray stone nestled in the dirt, with something carved into it.
CHARLES, it says, in scratchy difficult writing. Harry said he'd used a chisel
from his dad's workbench, and it'd taken hours.
"Don't touch that!"  the boy snaps, when Nick reaches out to pick it up, and
Nick feels a sudden heavy sensation of cold around his throat, choking and
thick. He withdraws his hand, drags in a breath.
"I'm not here to hurt you," he manages to say, voice choked.
"Harry told you where I was?" the boy says, sounding scared now. "He told you?"
"Yes, he told me."
"Why would he do that? What'd you do to him?" The boy twists his hand in empty
air, and the grip on Nick's throat tightens. Nick drops to his knees, black
spots appearing in his vision.
"Let go," he says in a garbled voice, hands shaking. "Let go and I'll- tell
you."
He's released, abruptly, and he exhales hard, rubs his trembling hands over his
throat.
"So?" the boy demands. "Tell me."
Nick doesn't stand up, just looks at the boy.
"Harry wants you to rest."
"He wouldn't say that," the boy says, lip curling. "What've you done to him?"
"Charles, yeah?" Nick says softly. "Your name is Charles?"
"What have you done to him?"
"Listen to me, alright?" Nick draws in a shaky breath. "Listen. What happened
to you, what happened to you was terrible. It was awful, and it wasn't fair,
and if I could go back and kill the person who did that to you, I would, I'd do
it in a heartbeat. He never should’ve touched you."
Charles is staring at him, a muscle working in his jaw. He really is young.
Nick can imagine him alive, his narrow pale face, his pink mouth smiling. Fuck,
Nick's heart hurts.
"But we can't go back," Nick says regretfully. "And you can't keep holding on,
alright? It'll feel so much better to move on, Charles. It'll feel so good to
let go, I promise you."
"I want to see Harry," Charles says, voice breaking.
"I know you do." Nick takes a stern tone, but soft, like a loving teacher. A
loving parent. Charles didn't have one of those, and neither did Nick, really,
but they can both pretend. "I know you do, but you can't. You've seen him
enough. You hurt him, Charles-"
"No," Charles whispers, fiercely. "Wouldn't ever hurt him."
"You did." Nick tilts his head. "You used him-"
"I made him stronger!" Charles spits, eyes flashing. "I made him braver!"
"You made him so sad," Nick murmurs. "You drove him away. Drove his family
away."
"No," Charles chokes out, voice thick. "No, I wouldn't do that."
"You're lonely, aren't you?" Nick says softly.
Charles just shivers, not looking at him.
"I promise you won't be lonely anymore, love." Nick's throat hurts. "If you let
go."
"I don't want to see - him," Charles says, his eyes on Nick's, dark and
defiant. "I don't want to ever see him again. Do you promise I won't see him,
if I- if I leave?"
Nick swallows again.
"If I know a single bloody thing in this world," he says. "That person, the one
who hurt you, is roasting in hell."
Charles stares at him.
"What if I go there too?" he says, very softly.
Nick thinks of Harry's story, the dripping knife, the gruesome thing he did. He
doesn't know how it all pans out, how the process works, of good and bad. What
the balance is.
"No," Nick says, because that's what he has to say, but as it comes out he
realizes he believes it. He doesn’t know quite how he feels about God but he
knows the old bastard isn’t that cruel. "No, you won't."
Charles nods, and then sinks suddenly to the ground, sitting cross-legged in
the leaves.
Nonplussed, Nick follows him to the ground, and then he's just - sat across
from a ghost, in the middle of the woods. Instead of afraid, Nick just feels
terribly sorry.
Charles is staring into space, his almond-shaped eyes wide as he thinks it all
over. This isn't a free choice, really. Nick's burning those bones one way or
another. But Charles deserves this. A moment to think. Someone who asks him
what he wants, and listens.
Finally Charles lifts his head, and mumbles out, "I'm frightened."
Nick nods, feeling his eyes prickle hotly. God, if Andy could see him, crying
over a bloody spirit. "I know it's scary."
Charles sticks his thumb in his mouth and gnaws at the fingernail.
"Will it hurt?" he says, tucking one knee up to his chest. The leaves don't
rustle or move under his leg, but it looks real enough.
"I'm not sure," Nick says honestly. "I don't think so."
"But it might."
"If it does, it's only for a minute."
Charles fidgets with the knee of his dark trousers.
"You deserve to rest," Nick says, voice low. "You deserve that. You've been
here for so long, and it's lonely."
"Not when Harry's here. Not lonely then."
"Harry's good for that, isn't he," Nick says softly.
Charles nods, slowly.
"Harry has to move on," Nick murmurs. "He's alive and you're not. And I know
that hurts."
"We never cared about that," Charles says, voice fierce. "It didn't matter to
him."
"I know. But he's got to keep moving. Getting older. He can’t stay here."
Charles swallows, puts his chin on his knee, a quiet childlike gesture.
"You'll see him someday," Nick whispers. "When it's his time. I promise."
He uncrosses his legs, reaches carefully for the shovel, and Charles watches
him.
"I'm more to the left," he says, when Nick scoops up the first shovelful of
dirt.
"To the left of the stone?"
"Yeah. By the roots of the tree."
Nick nods, and starts to dig.
Charles stands up to watch. He's a cold presence behind Nick's shoulder. Nick
swears he can feel breath, which is stupid, because spirits don't breathe.
"He did this too," Charles says softly. "The one who- you know. He dug up all
this same dirt. I remember. I didn't know what was happening but I remember
looking down at it. My head was all bloody and my brain coming out like jelly."
Nick shudders hard, shakes it off and keeps digging. He can't help but picture
it, though - that man, Charles' father, pulling up the rich dark earth with a
shovel, Charles sprawled beside him, mutilated and dead. Peering back at the
house to check no one was coming. The wind through the trees and Charles'
wobbly freshborn spirit his only witnesses.
"I remember being happy," Charles murmurs, so close to Nick's ear Nick nearly
jumps. "Cos he wasn't going to- to hurt me anymore."
"I'm sorry," Nick chokes out, hunching his shoulders, struggling as his shovel
catches against a tree root.
"It was ages and ages I waited for Harry."
Nick hits something that isn't a root. He freezes for a second, lets out a long
breath.
"It's like I could feel Harry, you know," Charles says, soft, breathless. "I
could feel him cos he was like me."
Nick uses the tip of the shovel to scoop away the dirt, peering down into the
hole.
"I wasn't alone then." Charles is a cold weight against Nick's back now,
seeking heat, pressed so tight Nick thinks he could slip right into him. Nick's
chest clenches. "Because Harry was there."
The round edge of a human skull. Shining white through the soil, the bone hard
against Nick's shovel.
"You found me," Charles whispers into Nick's ear.
Nick nods. He's half-crying and he's not sure why. He uncovers more of the
bones. A small skull, a clavicle. Lower down, a set of ribs, brittle with age.
One snaps against Nick's shovel with a loud crack.
"You're going to rest," Nick says thickly, voice choked with something awful
and hot. "I promise you."
He feels a gust of icy air past his shoulder, and he whirls around. Charles is
gone.
Nick stares around wide-eyed, and turns back to the dirt, uncovers the rest of
the bones frantically, quickly, his hands shaking. He shakes salt into the
hole, pours in petrol, fumbles for a match.
For a second he holds it in the air, the match flickering in the wind, and he
expects - something. Charles, with some grand final statement, or a last plea
to see Harry. Something.
But nothing happens. The woods are silent, and the match is burning out,
licking at Nick's fingertips. He drops it, takes a step back as the flames
rise, hot and fast.
He watches it burn all the way down. Thinks about his mum, for some reason. The
soft vague memories of her. Of Nick cuddled up against her breast, listening to
the radio, crackly and low.
The flames die fast. A small body and wet earth, nothing to keep them going.
Nick watches them smolder, his eyes watering from smoke.
He picks up his shovel and goes home to Harry.
---
Nick fiddles his key into the door, and goes still when he realizes it's
unlocked. They never leave the doors unlocked. Not since the time in Birmingham
when a shifter followed them home, nearly tore them both open til Nick managed
to stake it.
"Harry?" Nick calls, as he pushes the door open. With his other hand he reaches
for his gun.
No answer.
"Hello?"
He raises his gun, and peers around the corner.
The room's empty, quiet. No sulfur stink, no sign of a struggle. The bed's
messily made, and Harry's- Harry's key is lying on the desk, next to his
leather bag.
Nick lets out a shaking breath. Shit. Where in hell has he gone?
He searches through Harry’s bag - nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing's
missing except Harry. He’s moved onto the toilet to search when the hotel phone
rings.
"Hello?" he says, breathless.
"Nick?"
Nick lets out a giant breath. "Oh thank Christ."
"Nick," Harry repeats. He sounds like he's been crying, and all the relief
filters out of Nick again, leaving him cold. "I can't talk, I- Nick, I'm- I'm
in that place again."
"Where- what do you-"
"It's the place they put me when I was a kid," Harry whispers. "For mental
people."
"Oh, Jesus.”
"They took me away," Harry says, shaky. "They knew where I was, Nick, I- they
came to the room-"
"Who's they? Who was it, Harry?"
"Dunno. These men. They took me." Harry whimpers. "I'm not s'posed to use the
phone, I- Nick, Nick, please. Please, I need you."
Nick's head is spinning.
"Nick," Harry says, low. "I think it was my mum."
"What?"
"She wanted - she used to always want me in here. She said I was dangerous. And
she's the only one who knows I'm in town, Nick-"
He stops, suddenly.
"I have to go," he whispers. "Shit. I have to-"
Nick hears someone shout in the background, and his hand clenches around the
phone.
"Harry?"
"I have to go," Harry hisses, and the line goes dead.
Nick puts the phone down, and grabs his keys.
---
He screeches to a stop at the curb in front of the Styles house, yanks the key
out of the ignition with a trembling hand. Anne opens the door after two
knocks, like she’d been waiting. Her jaw is set, and Nick knows right then - it
was her who did this.
“What’ve you done,” he starts with, voice shaking. “You can’t- you can’t-”
"He's a danger to himself, and to everyone," Anne says, holding the door tight
in one hand, barely half-open. Nick’s breathing hard. "He's sick-"
"Your son's not sick, alright," Nick says hotly. "You don't understand."
"There's something dark in him." Anne scrubs a hand over her eyes, suddenly
damp. "You're the one who doesn't understand. The things he's capable of-"
"That wasn't him, before." Nick stares her down, and Anne stares back, eyes wet
but steely. "What he did, to your husband, back then-"
"You don't know a thing about it."
"I do, actually. Know quite a bit about it. He was always strange, wasn't he?
Talking about someone called Charles-"
"Don't say that name," Anne whispers.
"Distracted. Jumpy, wasn't he? And all the screaming."
"Stop it-"
"He didn't seem like himself, sometimes, right?" Nick's voice breaks. "He
talked to people who weren't there-"
"He's sick," Anne chokes, thick and hoarse. "He needs help."
"It's not a sickness. It's not."
"He's wrong in his head-"
"No, he's not!" Nick's voice rises, and Anne shivers, stays steady at the
doorway.
"It's time for you to go," she says, swallowing hard.
"You can't just lock him up. You've got no cause to do that-"
"Get the hell off my doorstep!"
"You can't do this!"
"Get out!" Anne roars, and the door slams hard in Nick's face.
Nick stumbles back, pulse pounding furiously, and then turns. Fine. Sod her,
the bloody witch. He'll break Harry out himself.
He's tugging at the handle of his car when he hears- "Wait!"
He turns, hand sliding down to the gun at his hip.
But it's not Anne. It's a girl, tall, with long bleach blonde hair and wide
green eyes ringed in black kohl. Harry's eyes. She's hurrying across the lawn,
clutching a scarf to her chest.
"Wait," she says again, breathless, just as the front door opens.
"Gemma!" Anne screams. "Get back here!"
The girl - Gemma - clatters up to Nick.
"Open the fucking door, idiot," she says, pulling at the handle. “Before my mum
murders me.”
Nick gapes at her, and fumbles to unlock it.
"Gemma!" Anne yells.
"Go go gooo," Gemma groans, as she slips into the passenger seat, and Nick
sprints around the car, throws himself inside and sticks the key in the
ignition.
"Drive!" Gemma says, smacking her hand on the dashboard.
Nick drives.
He's a few streets away by the time his heart slows down.
“Turn left up here,” Gemma says, jaw tight and eyes on the road.
“You’re Harry’s sister,” Nick says unsteadily, making a sloppy turn.
“Good detective work, Sherlock.” Gemma motions for him to turn right.
“He’s not sick.” Nick’s voice sounds weird, shaky. He can’t stop picturing what
they could be doing to Harry right now, in that place. “He’s- he’s special.
He’s-”
"I know what he is," Gemma says, and when Nick looks over at her she's staring
out the window, brow furrowed.
"But how d'you-"
She gives him a look, dark and knowing, and Nick's breath catches as he
realizes.
"You're like him," he says, voice small. "You're clairvoyant."
"Ugh." Gemma runs a hand through her hair. "I prefer psychic. Clairvoyant
sounds so old-fashioned."
Nick lets out an incredulous laugh. “Psychic then.”
She looks out the window. “Yeah. Guess so.”
“I- I mean. Does your mum know?”
Gemma huffs a breath. “God no. And she’s never going to.”
Nick gapes at her, until he nearly swerves out of the lane and has to look back
at the road.
"Nothing happened until after Harry had - gone away,” Gemma said. “I was in my
first year at uni, and this girl came up the stairs to tell me I’d got a phone
call.”
She looks over at Nick. “I went to pick it up, and it was my nan.”
Nick waits, and then glances over at her. “So?”
Gemma snorts. "She's been dead for twelve years."
Nick raises an eyebrow. “And you’re sure it was her?”
“Course I wasn’t sure. Not at first. I thought it was someone playing a prank,
except who plays that sort of prank? For a while I thought it was Harry.”
She breathes a bitter laugh. “Seems like the sort of creepy shit he’d do to get
my attention.”
“So how’d you figure it out?”
“There was this girl,” Gemma says, quietly. “Who I’d always see after my
history course, sitting on the quad. One day I swear she shouted my name, so I
went over and sat down and we talked. She kept, like.”
Gemma draws in a breath. “She kept like. Asking me weird questions. She asked
if I was like her, and I thought she meant, like, a student. So I said yes, and
she asked me how long I’d been there.”
Nick glances over at her. Her jaw is set.
“I said a semester,” she says, small. “Just a semester. And she said she’d been
there for ages and ages.”
Nick shivers, remembering Charles’ voice in his head. It was ages I waited for
Harry.
“I asked her if she wanted to come get dinner with me, and she said she
couldn’t- she couldn’t go too far from the tree. She told me her name was
Adeline Roberts, and she studied English literature, and she had a boyfriend
named Joseph, except he was mad at her. Very mad at her. She kept saying that.”
She sniffs again. “I left her there when it started to get dark, and I went
back to my room. I asked this older girl about it, later. This girl from one of
my English classes. And she told me she knew the name, but only because-”
She stops. “Well. You know.”
“Cos she’d died there,” Nick says, low.
Gemma nods, a muscle working in her jaw, like she’s holding herself very
tightly.
“It was her boyfriend,” she says. “Of course. They were both students. He
strangled her up against that tree and left her body there, six years before I
started uni.”  
Gemma shrugs. “I knew I’d seen her, like. I knew I wasn’t going mad. So I did
some research, and. You know. There’s not much out there about- about what I
am. Most of it’s just rumors. Hearsay.”
“Not many people like you out there.” Nick’s met a few other clairvoyants.
Usually they’re in a mental hospital, or they might as well be. They’re never
very good at hiding it. Gemma’s a rare one, if she can keep it secret.
“It made sense, though.” Gemma swallows hard. “How Harry was, growing up. How
strange he was. His tics and his screaming, and, like. All the things he used
to say about- about his friend. About the voice in his head, all that. Charles.
It made sense.”
"Charles is gone," Nick says, chewing his bottom lip.
“Gone?”
"Salted and burned his bones an hour ago. His spirit’s gone. Harry and I were
supposed to leave town straightafter."
Gemma looks at him, slowly.  
"You and him, like-" she starts.
"We're partners, we work together," Nick says evenly. He doesn't take his eyes
off the road.
"He left me this letter, when he skipped town," she says softly. "It was all
rambling, cos he always wrote like that. He used to write me these letters from
the asylum. Say what he had for dinner, and who he had talked to that day, and-
and he’d ask me to forgive him.”
She sniffs in hard, not looking at Nick.
"Anyway," she says brusquely. "The letter. He said he was going away and he was
gonna fix himself so he didn’t hurt anyone anymore. He said - he said he was
going away with a boy with pretty eyes and a nice laugh."
She chokes a laugh. "Thought he was gonna kill himself. I was surprised when I
actually heard he left town."
Nick gnaws at the inside of his cheek, keeping his mouth shut.
"Pretty eyes and a nice laugh," she says, turning her head to gaze at Nick,
eyes narrowed. "Is that meant to be you, then? You're not that pretty."
"No idea," Nick says.
"You're the one who took him away, though. Isn't that right?"
"When you throw someone away," Nick says, so tightly it shakes. "You can't get
mad cos someone else picks them up. That's not your right."
She laughs, sudden and soft.
"Jesus, you love him," she murmurs.
Nick just stares ahead, swallows. “We work together.”
"You should've seen what he did to my stepdad," Gemma whispers. "You wouldn't
love him then, not if you saw it."
"I've seen worse," Nick says, steadily. If he knows anything, he knows he's
seen worse than whatever happened back there.
"He was laughing," Gemma says. Her face is dark, faraway. "That was the worst
bit. That he was just laughing. Robin kept- kept like moving, from the pain?
Like twitching? And there was, like, all this blood, all over the floor.
Everywhere."
She gives a long shudder, and turns to stare out the window. "And Harry just
kept laughing.”
"That wasn't Harry," Nick says. "You know that, right?"
“Had his face and his laugh, seemed like Harry to me,” Gemma says, jaw set.
“He was fifteen and lonely and he let Charles take him over,” Nick says hotly.
“He was a child. He didn’t mean it.”
“Does it matter what he meant? If he hurts people?”
Nick swallows hard.
“It matters,” he says. “It has to matter.”
Gemma looks over at him, and Nick stares ahead at the road.
“He’s the kindest person I know,” he says, trying to keep his voice level.
“He’s, like. Hefeels so much. Y’know how hard that is to do, when you work in a
business like ours? It’s- it’s easy to just go numb to it. But he’s like-”
He stops, abruptly embarrassed. Gemma’s watching him, quiet.
“He believes people are good at their core,” Nick says. His voice sounds
hoarse. “He made me believe it. Helps me not go mad. If- if anything, Harry’s
better than most people. Cos he’s got the darkness in him and he doesn’t let it
control him.”
Gemma tilts her head.
“You trust him,” she says, sounding curious.
“With my life.”
“Wow.” She snorts, and Nick feels a flush crawl down his throat. She draws in a
derisive breath and then says, leaning forward- “Turn here, turn- there it is.”
Nick pulls up in front of a large grey building, windowless and drab.
"You stay here," Gemma says, checking her makeup in the car mirror.
"What?" Nick's voice rises.
"I'm his fucking sister, idiot, it makes sense that I'd go. What, are you gonna
shoot your way to him?"
"If I have to."
"Oh cool! No one's gonna notice a murder spree! Greatplan."
"Well, what's yours?"
"Don't worry about it." She shakes her hair out and shoves the door open. "Stay
here. Keep the car running."
"Wait- you can't just-"
"Stay here," she mouths, before she bounces out of the car and disappears
inside the building.
Nick hates waiting. He really, really hates waiting. Ten minutes go by, and
then twenty. Forty-five minutes later and he's seriously considering Plan B,
which may or may not involve a good deal of shooting. Nick's not a killer - of
humans, if he can avoid it - but there's a lot he'd do for Harry.
Plan B isn't necessary, though, because five minutes later he's staring bleakly
at the door when there's a sudden pounding on the back window. Nick curses and
clutches his heart.
"Let us in!" Gemma hisses, and - oh, god, that's Harry behind her, clutching to
her arm. He sees Nick and chokes on air, grateful, and Nick feels an answering
swoop in his belly.
Nick unlocks the doors, watches as they tumble inside, Gemma in the front and
Harry crouched in the back, eyes wide when Nick catches a glimpse in the
rearview mirror.
"Drive," Gemma says, steely. "I'll direct you."
"Is he alright?"
"Fucking drive."
Nick grits his teeth and steps down on the accelerator.
They drive for ten minutes, Gemma giving taut quiet directions, until they pull
up to a bus stop on a dirt road.
"I can get the bus from here," Gemma says, not looking back at Harry. She opens
the door, and Nick opens his. Fuck if she'll just run off without a word.
He opens Harry's door and Harry staggers out and into Nick's arms, weak-kneed
as a fawn. He's warm, and Nick breathes in a lungful of his shampoo before he
looks up at Gemma over Harry's curly head.
"They let you take him?" he asks, as Harry nestles against his chest. Gemma's
watching them piercingly, but Nick can't be fucking arsed. Harry's here.
"No." She scoffs. "Said I wanted to take a walk outside, they let us into the
garden for a stroll, and then we ran like hell."
Harry pulls away, eyes wet, and takes a step back. He turns to Gemma, who
crosses an arm over her chest.
“Go on, then.” Her voice is small but solid. “Get out of here before they suss
it out.”
Harry rocks on his feet, staring at her bright-eyed.
Gemma waves a hand at him. “Go, Harry. Go.”
Harry gulps in a breath, and throws his arms around her. He squeezes her
tightly, puts his head against her neck, and Gemma’s eyes fall shut, her mouth
in a grim line. Nick can see her arms come up, slow, to wrap around his back.
Nick looks away, feeling a strange twinge of something in his chest.
“I love you,” Harry chokes out, face buried in Gemma’s shoulder. “Gemma, I’m
sorry, I- I’m so sorry-”
Gemma strokes a hand down the back of his head, over his matted curls. It’s
gentle, surprisingly so. Tender.
She pulls away, cups Harry’s face in her hands, black-painted fingernails
pressing into his cheeks. Harry blinks at her, eyes glassy.
“I forgive you,” she says, low.
Harry swallows. “You do?”
“Yeah.” She passes her thumb lightly over Harry’s cheek, barely touching the
skin. “Now get out of here.”
“Gemma-”
“Go.”
Harry sniffs hard, and Gemma drops her hands from his face. She takes a step
back.
“Haz,” Nick says softly, opening the car door.
“I know.” Harry’s brow is furrowed, staring at Gemma’s face like he wants to
commit it to memory. “Tell mum - tell mum that I love her. Even if she can’t
forgive me. Just tell her I love her, okay?"
Gemma’s jaw is clenched tight.
“I will,” she says after a moment.
Harry nods, swiping at his eyes with one hand. He turns away, and Nick catches
eyes with Gemma behind his back. Gemma nods, once. Her eyes are dry.
“Take care of him,” she says, quietly.
Nick nods back, and gets into the car. No promises, he thinks, once he’s
twisting the key in the ignition, feeling the engine rattle beneath him. But
he’ll try his bloody hardest.
Harry slides in a moment later, letting out a shaky breath.
“Ready?” Nick asks.
It takes a long moment, but finally Harry mumbles, “Ready.”
---
They stop for dinner, three towns south of Holmes Chapel. A diner tucked away
in some sleepy village, where no one knows them and there’s nothing fishy going
on. Nick tries to enjoy the peace and quiet, but instead he feels restless.
Harry seems the same, staring out the window, picking idly at his fish and
chips. It’s just gone dark outside, a bit of sun still lingering, catching
golden in Harry’s curls.
“What’s the end like?” Harry asks, suddenly, and Nick looks up from his burger.
“Mm?”
“The end. Of this - whole thing. Hunting.” Harry swallows. “Do we settle down?
Go back home? When it’s over?”
Nick blinks. Over. Christ, Harry’s so young. He still thinks there’s an end for
them.
“At some point you’ve got to retire, right?” Harry asks, dragging his fork
through his chips, chewing his lip. “Then what do we do? Just- live normal
lives?”
Nick has to swallow down the acid in his throat. He thinks about it too, when
he’s a bit drunk and dreamy, but now that it’s out on the table in front of
them he doesn’t know what to say. The truth is, he thinks he’ll die doing this.
His dad did, and his mum did, and Andy did. His sister’s the only one who's
managed to hold onto her life, and Nick hasn’t contacted her in two years,
because he can’t drag her and Olivia back into it.
But he can’t say that. He can’t look Harry in the eye and tell him that Harry’s
probably going to die fighting. He can’t tell him that no matter how good you
get and how much you know and how careful you are, you can always be taken by
surprise.
Harry’s watching him with a sort of desperate expression.
“I don’t know,” Nick says, picking up a chip.
“You don’t know?”
Nick wants to cry. He chews the chip instead, forces it past the lump in his
throat.
“We can live normal lives,” he says, stiff and too-late. “If that’s what you
want.”
Harry looks back down at his plate, mouth twisting unhappily.
“We can,” Nick says, sucking in a steadying breath. “Get a - a house together.
Somewhere quiet.”
Harry looks up at him, slowly. His eyes are so hollow. Nick hates that.
“Get a dog,” Nick says softly. “Couple chickens. No one around to bother us. No
monsters.”
“A cow,” Harry says, mouth starting to curve up. It’s like watching the sun
rise. “I want a cow.”
“Fine, weirdo, we can get a cow.”
Harry breathes a laugh.
“Fresh milk in the mornings,” he says. “And eggs.”
“Can hunt off the land,” Nick sighs, trying not to grin imagining it. “Lord
knows I’ve been practicing my shot for long enough. A deer can’t be faster than
a demon.”
“No,” Harry says, quiet but solid. “No more hunting. No more killing things.”
Nick looks at him, and Harry looks back. In his face are all the things Nick
doesn’t let himself dream about. Under the table his foot knocks against Nick’s
calf, a warm nudge.
“No more hunting, then,” Nick says, voice cracking. He can't imagine a world
where he doesn't hunt. He never imagined Harry, though, either, and there he
is. “It’s a deal.”
Harry smiles soft, and Nick lets himself hope, just for a minute. Just a minute
can’t hurt.
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