tushanshu_logs | Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

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Phantom faces at the window, phantom shadows on the floor

Characters: (CLOSED) Skulduggery Pleasant, Erskine Ravel, Anton Shudder, and the fourth-wall Dead Men.
Date: April 15-30.
Location: Throughout Keeliai, but mostly in Erskine's new Earth Sector shelter.
Situation: The Dead Men haven't created something lasting together in a very long time. It's led to some spectacularly stupid decisions. This? This is their chance to fix things.
Warnings/Rating: Intimacy / non-serious flirting between grown men, some jokes of a sexual nature, massive spoilers for the entire Skulduggery Pleasant series (but notably the last two books), mentions of murder and betrayal, gratuitous amounts of violence and punching in response to said mentions of murder and betrayal (the Dead Men actually communicate by punching each other in the face). Also, broship. Lots of broship.

With Erskine and Skulduggery's relationship somehow even more strained than it was before Skulduggery vanished for a month, and Erskine growing maybe a little too dependent on Anton while living at the Hotel, the Dreaming's been getting a lot of wishes -- subconscious or otherwise -- for the arrival of very specific people.

They arrive on the 15th, scattered around the turtle. Over the day, they find each other, two or three at a time. There are hugs. There are punches. And when they all come together, they spend most of the following two weeks helping Erskine build and prepare a shelter for the kedan -- in between needing subtle reminders that the point of the reunion is to forgive each other.

Or, if not forgive, at least accept each other, flaws and all.

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It was going to be a lot of people to fit in one office, Ghastly found himself thinking, inanely. Especially if more of them kept showing up. Five Dead Men already, three literal dead men--

He missed Skulduggery, abruptly. But-- Hopeless. If anyone could make sense from Erskine, it would be Hopeless. And at least they could be sure of Erskine not leaving any time soon, now.

It didn't erase the hurt. But nevertheless there was something lighter about it, standing there with Saracen's comforting realness and watching Hopeless wrap Erskine in his arms.

"Your office," he agreed with Anton, out loud, having lost the ability to muster much else. Sitting down would be excellent. Talking would be better than only sitting. In private would be even better. Ghastly felt dazed, unsteady. Entirely grateful for Saracen serving to keep him on his feet.

The next thing they knew Larrikin would be walking through the door, and Ghastly honestly wasn't sure he could stay standing if that happened.

"You silly goose," Hopeless murmured, his voice husky because of the tears damping his eyes. "Of course I don't hate you." That was the first, very important thing to establish. Even after having spoken to Raine, Hopeless didn't hate Erskine. He hurt for him, for all of them, but he didn't hate him.

He wasn't sure that was possible.

Anton's hand touched his elbow. They must have looked about to fall over--which wasn't an undue concern, frankly, with how Hopeless's head was pounding. He'd known something was happening inside the Hotel from the whispers of people who'd just left, but it wasn't until he stepped in that he could actually feel anything properly.

Even so, Hopeless opened his eyes and managed a wobbly smile at Anton and his subtly worried expression. "Call Skulduggery, please? I think we can make it through the office door."

Possibly. Maybe.

Anton snorted his doubt of that assertion, but he went to his desk to find his radio, and Hopeless gave Saracen and Ghastly a little wave with his fingers. "Hello, Ghastly. Saracen, you're getting lazy. You haven't done that since you were sixty years old."

By which he meant Saracen's automatic leap back--a tease accompanied by a faint smile in wet eyes.

It wasn't that Hopeless couldn't be real. He'd appeared in two different timelines now -- he was real. That was fact. That was immutable fact. He was as real and solid as both Anton and Ghastly. As real and solid as, apparently, Skulduggery. As real and solid as the Hotel, the desk, Anton's office -- the smile on Hopeless's face.

Everything was too real and solid. It was suffocating. It made it hard to think.

"I --" Saracen tried. "You're --"

Damn it. Damn it. The last time he'd seen Hopeless, two days before he died -- not on the day, of course, Saracen hadn't been there, he'd been too busy using up all his magic for something inane and stupid, because he'd been selfish and wanted to believe the war didn't exist -- but it had existed and Hopeless had needed him and he hadn't been there --

His vision became abruptly blurry, and still Saracen couldn't move. He couldn't summon the wherewithal to so much as beam a thought in Hopeless's direction -- half of him didn't even remember he could, much less that it wasn't necessary. Funny how you can think you've worked through your overwhelming guilt after decades of effort and in one fell swoop realise you were utterly wrong.

"Of course I don't hate you." They were the last words that Erskine properly registered, before a century of grief and guilt and hopelessness overwhelmed him.

He'd always made it a point, up until Keeliai (until Darquesse) not to break down in front of other people. Not to let on how bad things could be. He had to keep control of the situation, control of himself. It had been that way ever since Mevolent--coincidentally enough, which was also the reason he'd needed to break down at all. Hopeless had always been the only exception to that rule. Hopeless had been his anchor... and then Hopeless had died, and Erskine had walled himself off completely.

Things hadn't been that clear-cut since Darquesse. Panic attacks didn't wait to make sure he was by himself before taking over. It was the reason Valdis and Raine knew about what he'd done, had known almost from the start.

He wasn't going to have a panic attack now but he was breaking down regardless. Pressing his face against Hopeless's neck didn't stop the tears. Clinging to Hopeless didn't stop him from shivering. It was quiet, as far as meltdowns went, quiet and restrained, but it was going to take a minute or two to collect himself enough to be even halfway useful again.

Ghastly lifted his free hand in a return to Hopeless' greeting, too nonplussed to do anything else. "Hello," he said. That was a good first step when a brother returned from the dead. It sounded inane, it sounded too light, but he had nothing else.

Saracen didn't look like he had anything coherent either. Or Erskine. Anton-- where had Anton gone again? Right. Something about Skulduggery.

"Office. Right," Ghastly said more firmly, aloud, since he was apparently the only person who remembered that they were about two beats from airing all their worst dirty laundry in public. (He then caught himself at thinking of 'them' as a unit again, including Erskine, and he honestly didn't know what to make of it.)

At least Saracen, as much as he seemed like he wanted to stand and stare at Hopeless, responded to nudging. Ghastly started there, not casting his mind ahead to everything else yet. Step one: Anton's office. Behind him he heard Hopeless and Erskine, hopefully moving, hopefully moving in the right direction, but Hopeless had looked to have more of his wits about him than Erskine did. Coming? Ghastly thought tentatively, nonverbal at least in part just to see if he could, just to see if he remembered the combination of intent and focus that would grab Hopeless' attention like nothing else.

Ghastly had never been so glad to see someone's office, when they managed to get there, although it occurred to him that he did not, in fact, know what step two was.

It took Hopeless and Erskine a moment longer to get moving, due to the quiet meltdown. Hopeless's thumb stroked Erskine's temple soothingly, waiting until his mind showed enough awareness to respond to a nudge in the direction of Anton's office.

"Coming," he murmured absently in response to Ghastly. He nudged Erskine gently without disturbing his grip or where his face was pressed, shuffling them gently toward the door. Once inside he found one of the larger chairs, where he and Erskine could sit together, and directed a wry smile toward Ghastly and Saracen. "You both may need to come here to collect your hugs, though."

On the heels of his words, Anton came in while hanging up his call to Skulduggery, and announced: "Skulduggery's on his way."

Then, without a flicker in his customary expression, he went to Erskine and Hopeless and bent to hug them across the shoulders. It was a bit awkward, but on the whole, they managed.

Collect your hugs. Right.

Saracen didn't move. He could move before -- he'd followed Ghastly into the office, subtly moved things out of Erskine and Hopeless's -- out of his father's -- way. But he couldn't move now. Maybe it was because Erskine was already there, and despite their earlier friendship as they cleared out the horse-cow-bird-thing stable, there was still something painful between them. Maybe it was because while Hopeless would most certainly forgive Saracen and in fact probably already had, Saracen was still trying to figure out whether or not he deserved it.

Maybe it was because everything was happening at once. Saracen hung back, rubbing one hand over his face. "Skulduggery's here too?" he asked numbly. "I thought the Accelerator was supposed to -- anyone else? Dexter? Valkyrie?" Larrikin?

If Hopeless wasn't going to push him away, Erskine wasn't letting go. He thoughtlessly allowed himself to be led into Anton's office and into a chair, even that little bit of consciousness taking a back seat to the turmoil in the front. For a long while the turmoil won out--there weren't any specific lines of thought so much as vague images, death and war and overwhelming loss. He barely noticed when Anton hugged the two of them, although a moment later, as the tears slowed and he blinked against Hopeless, he became acutely aware that no one else had bothered.

Ghastly he could understand, to a degree. Hopeless was his brother, but Erskine was his murderer. Saracen... this was his father. Was staying away from Erskine more important than hugging his father? Hopeless didn't deserve that.

Eventually Erskine pulled away, just far enough to scrub his hands over his face without breaking contact with Hopeless completely, still curled against Hopeless's side. Hunched over, he sighed into his hands. When he lifted his head a moment later his eyes were red. It was still hard to breathe, hard to accept that they were all really here, that they were really doing this. Someone was going to bring it up. Almost a year in Keeliai and while he'd imagined Ghastly or the others arriving, from time to time, he'd never actually figured out what he would say.

He winced at the mention of the Accelerator, curling a little tighter against Hopeless's side. "He's been here longer than I have," he answered, his voice hoarse. "Anton and Skulduggery both. Rover's been here before, just before I arrived last year." It wasn't much help, but it was the best he could offer at the moment.

As much as it was good to see Hopeless alive-- as much as Erskine walking away wasn't going to be acceptable-- Ghastly was nowhere near in a state to hug the latter. There was some internal conflict over this, the desire to find a brother whole and real and physical versus the inability to accept his murder and his murderer, but in the end it wasn't happening. He could wait until Hopeless was on his own.

(Erskine appeared to be a grieving mess. Erskine had also murdered him. Hm.)

"Skulduggery?" And Rover had been here, apparently. Ghastly revised his earlier estimate: he wouldn't be surprised if all of them wound up in the same room within the next hour, as improbable as it seemed with four of their number actually dead. "--wait, what about the Accelerator?"

...Something that had happened after his death, almost certainly. Maybe he didn't want to know. Ghastly had to force himself not to touch the scar again.

Anton's hug didn't last very long, and after he straightened he tilted his head at Hopeless, silently asking:

Tea?

Tea for all of them, for something to do; tea to get the Elementals to draw water, remember campfire domestics, give Hopeless something to ease his headache. Hopeless gave Anton a nod and he moved off to the bureau by the wall to fish out his office stockpile of tea and 'special' tea-set (a chipped, old set of things, made of tin because tin didn't break while on the move).

The Accelerator was something Raine hadn't known about, blooming like a terrible flower--or an explosion--in Erskine's head. Hopeless echoed the flinch, and cradled Erskine closer with one hand. "Skulduggery turned it off. He's here. He's coming. He'll be soon."

Hugs ... might have to wait. There was something to be said for prompting the apparently insurmountable before it solidifed as insurmountable, but Saracen had already done that and Ghastly ... needed just a bit more time. A hug now could well settle it as something aversive, instead of something connecting.

Later, though. Later, Hopeless would make sure it happened. Not too much later, either.

Anton picked up their large and dented tin pot, and brought it toward them, and announced: "I need water. Who's going to be the tap today?"

"Anton, where's dinner going to be ready?"

"I haven't started it yet."

"What! Why not? I'm hungry!"

"Because it's going to be stew and none of my travelling watering cans were around an hour ago."

Hopeless rested his head on Erskine's, and didn't even bother to hide his smile.

... Ghastly didn't know Skulduggery was gone.

Saracen wasn't sure why that particular thought, rising above the maelstrom and numbed pain, was the one that finally spurred him into action. Maybe it was the straw that broke the camel's back, or -- remembering a lecture given by his father over a century ago -- maybe it was just the first tangible, representative reminder of how utterly broken things were back home (and they were broken, made only worse by the fact the rest of the world kept on obliviously turning). Whatever the reason, Saracen finally left Ghastly's side, walked over, and sat down awkwardly on the arm of the chair to hug his father.

The inner turmoil subsided, crystallised to a sharp point. I've missed you so much.

An earlier echo of Erskine, but fueled by something different -- an apology and a consolidation at once. Hopeless was here. However long they had, hours, days, or weeks, it was more than any of them had ever expected.

"Ghastly," Saracen said. His voice came out painfully raw. He cleared his throat and tried again, and this time managed to sound teasing. "Ghastly. He makes better water than Erskine does."

Erskine was hunched over in the chair next to Hopeless, tucked as tightly against the mind-reader as he could manage without breaking some kind of law of space and matter, with his head down and his forehead resting in his hands. He didn't look up, didn't look at any of them, and he didn't say anything when Anton asked for one of the Elementals to volunteer. Without Skulduggery and Rover that left only two of them--himself, and Ghastly. They couldn't have planned it worse.

He didn't react to Saracen's goading either. Some part of him knew exactly what they were trying to do, both of them, but it felt awkward and misplaced. Before... before her he'd been able to joke about almost anything, even in some of the worst situations imaginable. He couldn't manage it now. Even with Hopeless back--Hopeless--and right next to him, smiling, he couldn't force up the necessary energy to get indignant about something so trivial. Let Ghastly make the damned tea.

At least Saracen had finally broken down and come over to hug Hopeless, as soon as Erskine had pulled away. Erskine couldn't even muster the energy to be upset about it. Saracen had the right to want to avoid him. They all did. That Hopeless wasn't was some kind of minor miracle.

He should have planned for this better. Should have decided what to say to Ghastly in the year he'd had safe and free. Should have known that Saracen's arrival was only the start.

Skulduggery. Then all they were missing would be Dexter and Rover. Ghastly, still, wasn't sure whether this merited laughing or crying, and as such settled for neither.

Water. He could do water.

Ghastly lifted a hand and pulled water out of the air, condensing it bit by bit into the pot Anton held out. It was a soothing sort of thing to focus on, and something he was practiced enough with that even in the midst of all the confusion he could still manage it credibly. "Tell me when," he said, not quite at the right angle to see the interior of the pot.

It was better, also, than standing in the corner and shifting awkwardly. They should have felt easier than this, back together again.

It hurt. All of it hurt, and all the more now when emotions were moving, shifting. Hopefully not settling. They hurt, and even as Hopeless raised a hand to grip Saracen's shoulder in a return hug, he had to bite his lip to withhold the whimper.

Something needed to give. Something needed to change.

Which was why, quite abruptly, Hopeless jerked back and yanked Saracen down onto their laps--both their laps. "Saracen was avoiding a hug because he feels guilty he didn't save me," Hopeless said into Erskine's hair, but loudly enough for them all to hear. He looked down at Saracen. "Erskine thinks it's his fault you didn't come over right away."

He turned his head toward Ghastly and Anton, across the room. "Erskine was put into unending agony for twenty-three hours out of every day, by Darquesse. He was like that for ten days before he arrived here. That's what Anton was going to tell you." He narrowed his eyes at Anton. Anton grunted. "Anton's having trouble with the gist."

Anton grunted again. "You're still as annoying as ever."

"Mind-reader."

With a noise that sounded vaguely like a cross between that of a wounded dog and a muted version of the Wilhelm scream, Saracen dropped into both Descry's and Erskine's laps with no warning and no small amount of surprise. At Descry's explanation -- which wasn't actually an explanation at all, but then, when had it ever been? -- Saracen twisted around to look at the golden-eyed brunet somewhere above him.

"Oh," he said. He looked surprised, then thoughtful, then turned to stare at Anton with confused shock. "You're --"

Which was about when the door opened and Skulduggery came in. The skeleton stopped and, after taking a moment to look around at everyone, tilted his head. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

Erskine felt Hopeless move beside him, but that was the only warning he had before Saracen's weight--less than Erskine remembered from his own time, although he wasn't much in a mood to tease the younger mage about it anyway--plopped down unceremoniously into their laps. He sat up a little, no longer folded over against his own knees out of simple necessity, because neither he nor Saracen really needed to be that close to each other. Thank God it was Saracen at least, and not Ghastly. That... would have been more uncomfortable than any of them could have borne.

He was still trying to process the revelation about Saracen (if Saracen wasn't holding back because of him, then why...?) when Hopeless mentioned her. Erskine cringed involuntarily, couldn't help himself. He hadn't planned on bringing it up. Saracen already knew and Ghastly didn't need to know. Knowing wouldn't change anything. Knowing wouldn't bring Anton or Ghastly back, or repair the damage he'd done to the Dead Men, his brothers.

Regardless of the fact that Saracen was still sprawled across the two of them, Erskine turned his head and buried his face against Hopeless's shoulder. Deep breaths.

Everything was still happening too quickly. Ghastly hadn't gotten past unending agony for twenty-three hours a day when Skulduggery showed up and Saracen took a dive, and the end result was that his greeting to Skulduggery was a faint smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, and a lifted hand.

Skulduggery probably hadn't seen him since he died. Ghastly put a little more effort into the smile, but he couldn't quite get past what had happened to Erskine. The murder was a problem, to put things lightly, but that was-- inhumane. A completely disproportionate punishment, and Ghastly was one of the people most wronged.

"Are there any other staggering revelations anyone would like to drop on us?" he asked finally, as politely as he could. His voice rasped a little. "Just so I can brace myself, beforehand? --Tell me someone handled Darquesse, somehow."

And why was Anton having problems with the gist?

The attempt at levity hadn't worked, and maybe rightfully so. For all that Hopeless had heard from Raine, it was one thing to hear, another to experience; and Hopeless had come from a time long, long before the rest. He wasn't used to this, these connections being more fragile than they ought to be. Even the Dead Men had things that should be deadly serious.

So Hopeless said simply to Ghastly, "Ask Skulduggery and Anton," and turned to wrap one arm around Erskine, and one around Saracen, and stroked Erskine's temple.

"It changes everything," he said quietly. "Sharing burdens lightens them." If Hopeless had only made sure they'd share them in the event he was gone. He'd relied too much on his magic, on the assumption that he wouldn't die. Stupid, stupid. "You're still a brother. What you suffer still matters to us, whether or not it does to yourself."

Anton, meanwhile, grunted once more, shaking the tin pot gently and then pouring several different cups. "China's here. She and I--have not been on good terms."

~~Yes, because that's a complete explanation.~~

China. For a moment, Saracen brightened; then he remembered how different his memories were from everyone else's, and the brief smile faded. He'd known China for five years as a powerful ally and Grand Mage. Who else in the room had? China herself might not even remember.

"We handled Darquesse," Skulduggery answered Ghastly's question. "The world is still turning. Or at least it was; I've been told time stops passing until we return."

... Well, maybe Skulduggery remembered. That was something. Saracen shifted in his father's embrace and returned the one-armed hug, because he could, and because he only had a few weeks at most in which to enjoy that he could. How did things break so far, so badly? He couldn't trace when it started, and wasn't sure he wanted to.

Erskine stayed tucked against Hopeless's shoulder, stayed quiet. Let the others determine the course of the conversation. He would confess and apologize where required, whether the others chose to believe his sincerity or not.

"What you suffer still matters to us--"

Bullshit, he wanted to say, although the reaction was too harsh for Hopeless, after Erskine had finally got him back. He didn't doubt that the mind-reader might feel that way. He wasn't sure why, given that Hopeless knew what he'd done, but he cared too much about Hopeless to want to willfully lose that good opinion. Anton cared. He'd demonstrated that enough over the last year. The others, though....

Skulduggery and Saracen tolerated him. Even that was more than Skulduggery was willing to offer him at first. It had taken months for them to reach this uneasy truce. Ghastly... well. The only reason Ghastly hadn't smashed his face in was the fact that Anton had reached the two of them first.

And really, what was the pain he'd suffered against Anton and Ghastly's lives? What did it matter if he couldn't sleep? Couldn't remember what he'd eaten for breakfast, or even if he'd eaten at all? What did his discomfort matter in the face of the deaths of their brothers?

No. Hopeless was caring and kind and better than the rest of them. Hopeless was wrong.

At least Darquesse had been dealt with. There was some small comfort in that. Erskine had deserved to be punished for the murders of his brothers, deserved to be condemned to Hell, if it existed, but at least that bitch had got what was coming to her too.

Still a brother resonated in Ghastly's ears long after the reassurance that Darquesse had been dealt with. Did murder erase three hundred and some-odd years of companionship-- did those three hundred years just make the murder all that much worse-- could their history speak to forgiveness?

It felt like far, far too much all at once. Even the realization that China, too, was in this city and had been playing her typical mind games with Anton-- it paled beside the magnitude of everything else, though it needed to be dealt with just like the rest.

Ghastly felt un-grounded, adrift, like the world beneath his feet might spin on without him, and he put a hand out to steady himself on the nearest wall. He really should have actually sat down when they came into the office.

Hopeless shook his head, half to throw off the contrary opinions, the wallowing grief and guilt--and, above all, the resounding, aching question of how did we come to this? It was the one thing in which everyone was united, and the bitter wonderment of the thought was cutting.

"That's enough," he said, softly but with carrying tones, so they could all hear it. "That's--that's enough. No more hiding. No more assuming. Just--"

He stopped suddenly, and blinked, as a pair of very familiar minds oozed through the Hotel's unique interdimensional positioning, and his face turned toward the door into the lobby just before Dexter burst in. He was dragging Rover with, almost bowling Skulduggery over in the process.

Dexter stopped short just out of the doorway, his chest heaving and mind only clear due to that single-mindedness which was, frankly, exactly what Hopeless had just been talking about--an element of running. Dexter's gaze fell on Anton, and then on Ghastly ... and then on the rest of them, on Hopeless and Saracen and Skul and--

Dexter stared at Erskine for a moment, and Hopeless felt it when his mind ticked over from 'bursting emotional dam' to 'complete and total shutdown'. He shook his head and opened his mouth and nothing came out; so he sagged instead, with an exhaustion not just physical, and went to prop up Bespoke with a hug.

"--stop running," Hopeless finished. "It's time to stop running. Everyone. Just ... please."

His head hurt.

Rover wasn't far behind Dexter, and initially his reaction wasn't all that different. He'd dreamed of this happening before, the last time, all of the Dead Men together in one room. It hadn't happened. So he'd taken photographs -- or, more accurately, forced innocent bystanders to take photographs -- in the vain hope that if anyone else did arrive, they'd at least have photographic evidence Rover was there.

But now, after it was finally happening, when he could look around and see everyone all together, not a single face was happy. There wasn't a single smile. And all because Dexter told him that Erskine --

-- n o p e.

For anyone who knew Rover well, the change could be visibly tracked on his face. His expression flickered from surprise to shock to fear to cheer, all in a split second, and he turned that cheerfulness on Hopeless with all the inevitability of the sun rising in the east.

"Running?" he asked. "Running from what? From you? You're supposed to be dead, you know. We should probably all be really wary of you. But running?" He grinned. "Since when have any of us run from something that could kill us? You must be thinking of some other ragtag group of gorgeous men out to take the world by storm. Also, for the information of everyone here, with the exception of maybe Descry, you're all two prongs short of a gardening fork. Or is it a trowel? I don't remember which is which."

"Fork," Skulduggery said from near the doorway.

There were tears in Rover's eyes -- but they were happy tears, damn it, they were happy. "Fine. Fork. The point is, you're all idiots."

Even in the midst of this pile of misery that had been heaped upon them all (which wasn't fair at all; getting back together ought to be a happy occasion, not something so suffused with anger and pain) Erskine found the presence of mind to cringe internally at what poor Hopeless must be suffering through. He hadn't had to worry about the emotional state of the others in the unit for a century--no one's except his own, and what a Sensitive might glean from him. How he could shield himself, if possible, and avoid suspicion through guile otherwise. Now it was all coming back, tinged with the kind of nostalgia that made the heart ache.

As if it wasn't aching already.

If it hadn't been for Dexter, Rover's appearance might not have been so painful. Rover hadn't been there for the worst of it all. Rover was nothing but cheer and affection and Erskine would have gladly accepted a hug... if it weren't for Dexter. Ghastly. The rest of this mess. But Dexter had seemed more than willing to cut Erskine down on the spot after Anton and Ghastly's murders and according to Saracen, Vex himself was dead now too. Erskine could feel the mood in the room shift like a weight bearing down on him. He wondered, briefly, if that was how Hopeless felt.

And now they were all together, all eight of them, for the first time in a hundred years, and it only served to remind him of what they'd lost. What he'd destroyed. What the world now lacked, like the colors bled from a once vibrant painting.

And suddenly there were Dex and Rover. Ghastly felt like he might have been knocked over with a feather. He shouldn't have been surprised by their presence -- had jokingly predicted it himself -- but with this, all of them together again and his heart still heavy...

It was everything he'd ever dreamed of, but not at all how he would have wanted it. When Dex came over to hug him Ghastly leaned into him with a sort of heaviness, matching the exhaustion in the sagging of his shoulders.

He was running. Mentally, at least. Physically he would maybe get a few steps. But he didn't particularly want to stop, because stopping meant looking at Erskine and Ghastly didn't know how to be all right with him right now. If ever.

So he focused on Dexter and Rover instead, and he closed his eyes, and he held on tight.

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