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The wounds on John's neck had long ago healed into puckered scars, and mercenary work was but a distant memory. As his body had aged, it’d become too weak to support that growth of new life. Perhaps the ways in which he’d abused his ability when he was younger were responsible for just how much his health had declined, but John had no regrets. He'd supported the people dear to him, and even now, his family made use of the money he'd earned from Fitzgerald.
And he'd met Lovecraft. John had been horrified and fascinated in equal parts - left totally caught up in whatever the being was. He'd craved, not to understand him, but something else. To be near him in a way that went beyond what could be conveyed with his simple, everyday words.
And they grew closer. They came to rely on each other, more and more during each mission, and more and more outside of them. And for some reason, after all of Fitzgerald's work had been done, Lovecraft chose to get into the passenger seat of John's truck and go to meet John's family.
~~~
Years passed. They'd lived in the family house for some time, and while it had always been home for John, there was an air of awkwardness regarding Lovecraft. The awkwardness of words said behind closed doors, and questions from children, and adults who tiptoed around the word 'friend'. Awkwardness that was far more deep and far more human than the distance between those who knew the secrets of the old ones, and those who did not.
Lovecraft had never complained, or perhaps never even truly noticed. But eventually, some time after John's mother had passed away, the two of them moved on.
They'd taken a bit more of Fitzgerald's money and bought a smaller house, some distance away. It was quiet. Situated off a rarely-used road, it had no bustling family attached to it. John bought furnishings from the store and Lovecraft helped to arrange them. The two of them had no need for wide open fields of crops, but John taught Lovecraft how to plant a garden. The two of them grew grapes in soil instead of flesh, and as the days passed the smaller house grew into home as well.
John's family still stopped by. The smaller house frequently bustled with visiting relatives, but just as often was quiet.
~~~
Years passed. The time weighed upon John, forming wrinkles in his brow and face and hands, while Lovecraft remained the same.
"We're managing just fine," John would say, whenever it came up on the phone. "Howard especially. He doesn't look half his age." And John would laugh at his own joke, and the other person would laugh too, unaware of how deep the truth went. But they would still chide and tsk, and later that day, someone would always be by to check on them.
Lovecraft's form would ripple and squirm, becoming something more appropriate. More human than what he used when it was only him and John, and older than what he'd used when he'd first been brought home to meet the Steinbecks.
"You had a few more wrinkles last time," John would direct sunnily, and Lovecraft would oblige as John went to get the door.
Winfield would happen to pass by and stay for coffee, or Rosasharn would come with one or two of her daughters and enough baked goods to last a season. She'd pick and meddle about housework and cooking, or talk about introducing John to the women from her group in town. John would joke and laugh it all off, but Lovecraft would always find something else to do in the kitchen at these times. John’s other siblings had mostly accepted Lovecraft as he was, but Rosasharn had a tendency to meddle.
Little Ruthie was no longer little. She’d grown up strong and healthy since John had first started sending checks home from the Guild. Unlike Rosasharn and John, she had very few memories of times that had been anything but plentiful, and she was all the more boisterous and exuberant for it.
She’d brought her grandchildren over to help with chores, and then sit on the porch with him to chat as the children ran about the garden. Ruthie would stay for a while after the children went home, and Lovecraft would come up to sit with them. The conversation would die down, and the three of them would watch the sun set in silence.
~~~
Years passed. John’s bones ached. Sometimes he used a cane, but mostly he sat in his chair or on the porch as Lovecraft tended to the things that needed to be done. Family members came by more frequently. John began to think about the future.
"What will you do after I die?" He’d asked at one point, already having some idea of the answer.
Even after all these years, he had a hard time wrapping his head around Lovecraft's circumstances. The idea that Howard had lived so many lives with so many people - and lost them all, again and again. John didn't know if he could survive something like that. But after all, John was only human.
"I'll sleep." Lovecraft’s words were quiet.
John smiled faintly. The two of them spoke very little about the nature of Lovecraft’s existence, but some things did not need to be spoken. John knew that even on nights when they went to bed together, Lovecraft would remain awake. He would sometimes read, or stare into the darkness of their room. When the deepest hours of the night rolled around, he might rise and wander the house or the fields outside.
The implication was clear. No creature as ancient and timeless as Lovecraft could sleep like a human. That had been Lovecraft’s sacrifice for John. It was a small sacrifice. What did a handful of years mean to anything so ancient?
"Will you see to my family first?" John asks after his thoughts return to the present.
"I will."
~~~
Years passed, and one night, so did John. Quietly, peacefully. It had been a long time coming, and was not painful. Lovecraft stayed up with him that night, and watched the life leave his body. In the morning it was gone.
He called John’s family and told them the news. Impassive. He did the other things John had told him to do as well. The complex things with wills and legal documents. He attended the funeral and accepted condolences from all of John’s relatives whom he hardly knew. He returned to the smaller house and continued to look after the garden.
For some time, Lovecraft stayed there in the smaller house, watching over John's family from a distance. He saw as it spread out like a web, children aging and growing and having more children of their own. Humans really were quite prolific.
Eventually though, even John's youngest siblings were buried, and as the last coffin was lowered into the ground, Lovecraft turned and walked away.
He followed the paths lead by streets and highways until he reached the edge of land, and there was no more of either to follow.
Then he followed the sand step by step into the sea, and with every wave that washed over him, he became less human. No longer Lovecraft, only an inky mass of tentacles. It slipped into the darkness and followed the underwater currents into the depths.
And in the depths, the great beast fell into sleep, and followed the sleep into dreams.
The beast dreamed of many things and many humans. Humans it had seen at the beginning of time, and humans who had only been dead for a scant hundred years or so. The passage of time eroded it's memories, dimming names and places and various unimportant things into blurs. But even when all else faded, it still remembered the smile of a human.