Living with the Dead

ROBYN

Robyn was burning her scrapbook. It was a grand symbolic gesture that should, she admitted, have an equally grand setting – curled up by a massive fireplace, feeding pages into the blaze. In an apartment, it wasn't nearly so grand… or so simple. She had a metal garbage can by the open patio doors, a fan blowing the smoke out and wet towels draped over the smoke detectors. And she had to remove the newspaper clippings from the plastic pages before lighting them. But she did have a glass of wine beside her, which helped the atmosphere.

It took nearly an hour to go through the scrapbook, back to front. Then, finally, she held the first clipping. Damon's death notice. She looked at it, at his unsmiling face, at the cold harsh facts of his death… and she held the lighter to the corner.

As she watched the article crumble into black ash, she smiled. She'd kept that article as her last memory of him… and now it wasn't. She had a new one – of Damon right here, in this room, holding her, talking to her, singing to her.

It had been strange at first, seeing him in Finn's body. But all she'd had to do was close her eyes and it was Damon. His voice, his touch, his kiss and, most of all, his words.

She'd envied people who had last moments with their loved ones, a chance to say final words before they passed. But even then there would be things they hadn't realized they wanted to say until it was too late. She'd gotten that chance and she would never forget what a blessing it was, no more than she'd forget who'd given it to her.

Even just telling her Damon was still "alive" in some way, that he still lived, still existed, had been an amazing gift. Relaying his words to her would have been wonderful. But Finn had done more. And he'd paid the price, exhausted and weak, still dragging himself into work the next morning, determined not to hand her case off to another detective.

When the doorbell rang, Robyn dropped the last corner of the article into the garbage can and hurried to the door. No one had buzzed from downstairs, so it must be Hope, having forgotten to stick the apartment key on her ring again.

Hope had moved in yesterday. Robyn had invited her to stay with her for the rest of her work exchange. There was nothing keeping Robyn in L.A. – once the issues with the case were resolved, she could return to Philadelphia and get a new job there. But Hope had come here for her, and now she'd stay for Hope. Hope insisted Karl was just on a business trip, but Robyn got the feeling there was more to it and that her friend could really use the company.

When she checked out the peephole, though, it wasn't Hope.

"The landlord let me in," Finn said when she opened the door. "I brought those papers you need to sign."

"I'd have come to the station," she said, taking them.

He shrugged. "I was in the area."

"Do you have time for a coffee?"

Finn hesitated. "He's not with me."

"I know that."

She stepped back and waved him in. He paused another moment, then followed.

They had their coffee on the patio. Robyn hadn't used it since she'd arrived – couldn't even remember opening the door until today – so they'd had to drag out chairs from the kitchen. Now she sat there, enjoying the sun and realizing, to her shock, that she had an amazing view. Patio chairs were going on the shopping list. Maybe even a table.

As they drank, Robyn said she'd decided to go with Hope to the council meeting that weekend. She'd told Hope she wanted to meet the delegates to assure them they weren't in any danger with her knowing their secrets. And maybe they could use a little PR assistance, someone to advise them and craft cover-up stories. Being non-supernatural herself, she was the perfect person to help them navigate exposure threats from the human world.

She hadn't told Hope that part of the plan. It seemed a bit foolish. Presumptuous, maybe. Now she bounced it off Finn, and he said it sounded like a good idea. So maybe it wasn't so crazy after all.

"About this meeting," he said, setting his mug on the railing. "Is it open to any… supernaturals? I was just thinking, maybe I should go to one. Introduce myself. Offer my help. See about getting some help myself from other… necromancers." He stumbled over the word, clearly not comfortable with it yet. "That Jaime Vegas woman I talked to is supposed to be a delegate of this council."

"Then she'll be there. And I'm sure you're welcome. It's in Portland. You can come up with us, if you like."

He nodded and sat there, still nodding, gazing out over the city for at least a minute before saying, "It would just be me, Robyn."

"What? No Damon? Forget it then. You're uninvited." She gave him a look. "I know Damon will still be spending some time with you, helping on cases. I know that's what he's supposed to be doing when he's here, helping you, not visiting his wife. I know he's supposed to have only minimal contact with me, so we can both move on with our lives, and if he starts using his time here to hang out with me, he loses his day passes. You explained all this to me, Finn."

"I know but – "

"But now every time I ask you in for coffee, you're going to wonder if I'm really asking you, or I'm asking the guy who keeps me connected to my dead husband." She sighed and cupped her mug between her hands. "I guess, then, maybe this isn't such a good idea, us trying to…" She shrugged. "Stay in contact, whatever. Of course I wouldn't mind keeping that connection with Damon. But to invite you along on our trip, just to – "

"You wouldn't do that. I know. Sure, ask Hope about the meeting. If it's okay with everyone, I'll come along."

He took his mug, lifted it to his lips, then frowned, as if just realizing it was empty.

"Got time for another?" she asked. When he hesitated, she took his mug. "I'll refill it anyway."