Haven't seen this here yet, but I could be wrong. I'd like to see Harry as FtM. Gen or Harry/Marcone please. Whatever direction anon wants to take this would be awesome.
By the rules of Dresden Verse. ;) Maybe it's a frequency thing. Bob can't pick up angels; Harry can't pick up animals.
We've had stories about how John reacts to the final events of Changes. What if those events were on his orders?
Any ship, but John/Harry would have most fodder for fucked-up-ness.
Any ship, but John/Harry would have most fodder for fucked-up-ness.
I blinked. "Much as I'd like to toast those mortal-eating scum off of the face of the Earth, do you think I'd be that obvious?"
Mai gave me a flat stare.
"Okay, okay," I admitted. She had a point. "Do you think I'd be that obvious and then get away with it that quietly? You had to knock on my door, didn't you? Usually, I'm stumbling out of the rubble. I'd shake the hand of the guy who did it, but I'm not part of this."
"See that it remains so," she said, turned on her heel, and left. I could almost smell brimstone - never a good sign.
Back in the peace and quiet of my lab, Bob was fuming. I could tell because the light was swirling angrily in the eyes of the skull he lived in.
"Two thirds of the way through a new potion, your ears perk up, and 'Remember where we were, Bob', off you go! You don't think I'd like to know what was going on?"
I shrugged. "Mai was being cryptic and suspicious. You know, the usual. But someone burned down a Red Court brothel, so there's a plus."
"You know this is going to get messy, right, boss? Mavra wants to eat your soul, you told her to rot in Hell that one time, vampires are touchy a you're, um. Kind of a firebug."
"So," I said, reaching for my pestle, "Where were we?"
Mai gave me a flat stare.
"Okay, okay," I admitted. She had a point. "Do you think I'd be that obvious and then get away with it that quietly? You had to knock on my door, didn't you? Usually, I'm stumbling out of the rubble. I'd shake the hand of the guy who did it, but I'm not part of this."
"See that it remains so," she said, turned on her heel, and left. I could almost smell brimstone - never a good sign.
Back in the peace and quiet of my lab, Bob was fuming. I could tell because the light was swirling angrily in the eyes of the skull he lived in.
"Two thirds of the way through a new potion, your ears perk up, and 'Remember where we were, Bob', off you go! You don't think I'd like to know what was going on?"
I shrugged. "Mai was being cryptic and suspicious. You know, the usual. But someone burned down a Red Court brothel, so there's a plus."
"You know this is going to get messy, right, boss? Mavra wants to eat your soul, you told her to rot in Hell that one time, vampires are touchy a you're, um. Kind of a firebug."
"So," I said, reaching for my pestle, "Where were we?"
Re: OPEN PROMPT: Sweet Oblivion (Barrayar crossover, 2/2)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 02:29 am (UTC)(link):D I have to admit, what I originally wanted to see was Miles and Harry causing mayhem shoulder-to-shoulder (well, shoulder-to-waist anyway) with a good dose of Cordelia being Betan at Harry for seasoning, but I couldn't come up with an actual story to go with it. And then I read Backup and realized what Thomas was doing on Barrayar.
And I can't figure out (in my own fic!) whether Alys got briefed on the Venatori thing by Impsec, is Barrayar's own Venator herself, or is actually White Court. (After all, we know nothing about her antecedents...)
And I can't figure out (in my own fic!) whether Alys got briefed on the Venatori thing by Impsec, is Barrayar's own Venator herself, or is actually White Court. (After all, we know nothing about her antecedents...)
I may have been playing too much Echo Bazaar, but my first thought on reading A quiet beat that called, "North, north, north," echoing the pain of my throbbing wrist. was your awesome is increasing.
Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
tellnooneyourname
2011-03-08 03:21 am (UTC)(link)
The towel was gone; Harry was an endless stretch of bare skin beneath him, flushed and warm from the shower. John kissed his mouth, his jaw, the shell of his ear, the hollow of his throat where he was sensitive and responsive.
They tussled gently. Harry rolled up and over him, long legs sprawled to either side. He pushed up on his hands, grinning goofily. He looked like this was as absurdly funny as getting kidnapped by nymphs, like John was another ridiculous, madcap wrinkle in his ridiculous, madcap life.
John pulled him down and they kept rolling. Harry’s nipples hardened under his circling thumbs; his mouth softened, distracted, and his teeth lightly scored John’s lip.
Then he yelped, biting down more sharply. “Ow,” he said, shoving at John, “your belt—“
John went up onto his hands, disoriented and inelegant. “Sorry,” he said. The buckle must have hurt, digging into Harry’s bare skin like that. “You could fix it, you know,” he said encouragingly.
“. . . Oh,” Harry said, and reached for the buckle. He applied himself with studious concentration, his head bent, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. He paused when he got the belt open, flickered a quick glance up to John’s eyes, then looked back down and ran his knuckles over the bulge in John’s slacks. They both breathed in; John locked his elbows, forcing himself still.
Harry turned his hand, cupping him with maddening gentleness. He reached up with the other hand, cradling John’s dick between his palms. And then he waited, fingers moving softly, feeling John get hard for him. It didn’t take long.
John’s dick was bent awkwardly down, painfully confined. Harry rolled his hand once, stroking him, and John hissed between his teeth. Harry flashed him another look for that, mischievous and deeply pleased with himself. He snuck a hand down between John’s thighs, fingering his balls with a curious slant to his mouth. John widened his stance, letting him in. Harry squeezed his double handful, too gentle on his dick, too rough on his balls.
“Harry—“ John said, more threateningly than he’d quite meant to.
Harry’s face snapped into a look of intense focus; he scrabbled at John’s zipper, suddenly frantic. He nearly tore the button right off before he got it loose. He burrowed into John’s open fly two-handed, fishing his dick out with warm, rough fingers. Then he paused again, just looking. John’s arms were beginning to tremble at the edge of perception.
Harry curled curious fingers around him. It was unfairly arousing, that dry, warm, encompassing grip. Harry touched a finger to the head of John’s dick, slicking the single bead of moisture and then chafing the pad of his finger back and forth, back and forth over John’s slit until he got another.
“Huh,” he said, grinning with open delight.
“My goodness,” John said. That single nettling fingertip seemed to be twanging directly at the tight-strung string of his desire. “It works just like yours and everything.”
“You have this vein popping out in your temple,” Harry said helpfully. “Wow, I don’t think I even get that when I set something of yours on fire.” He beamed self-satisfaction.
“You are a curse upon me,” John said flatly. “There’s no other explanation.” He sat back and stripped off his shirt, then knelt up long enough to kick off his pants and shorts. Harry watched the process, beatific.
John settled over him again, both of them bare this time. They shifted and adjusted, bodies finding their natural alignment. John was intensely aware of him – the press of his ribs, the tickle of the hairs low on his belly, the heavy line of his dick tucked in the hollow of John’s hip.
Harry put his arms up and around John’s back. “You like it, I know you do,” he said. There was no flirtation there now. Just confidence.
Three months was a really fucking long time. But enough time, apparently.
John kissed him again. He let his full weight sink down over Harry for a minute. He was too heavy to stay, but he wanted to feel Harry breathe so close it was like it came from John’s lungs, too.
They eased onto their sides. Their legs braided together, their hips lined up. John found Harry’s nipple again. He pressed it lightly between two fingers, leaning back to watch Harry’s face. Tighter, tighter, Harry’s breath hitched and a flush bloomed in his cheeks, tighter, he bit his lip, tighter, he whined, body flexing forcefully against John’s.
“Good to know,” John said, slowly easing off.
“. . . Yeah,” Harry said, in the tones of someone having a revelation. “Do that again.”
John switched to his other nipple. He rolled it between his fingers, working up to the tight pinch Harry wanted in slow stages. On impulse, he ducked down and swiped his tongue over the other, already swollen from his first pinch. Harry’s hand clamped down on the back of his neck, holding him in place. John applied his teeth, working the nipple between them, biting down as he pinched tighter until Harry was moving constantly against him, hips rocking.
John let him go, and Harry pulled him up by the hair into a messy kiss. He was breathing hard, his eyes wide. He swiped his tongue over John’s lower lip, then ran his thumb along the same path, over and over until John’s mouth was sensitized and tender.
Harry pushed a hand between them, fumbled until he had their dicks cozied up together in his oversized palm. His mouth slid from John’s as he squeezed them, a thoughtful crease between his eyes.
John would have bet a large portion of his net worth that there was some crack about measuring contests incoming. Instead, Harry licked his lips and said, “What do you want?”
And there was a loaded question, at last. Harry had said, without ever saying, that he was pretty invested in whose dick went where in whom. On the one hand, that was absurd. John wanted to do everything with him in reverse alphabetical order, and then reprise mutual favorites until neither of them could get out of bed if they wanted to. His desires had boiled down over long years to elementals; he wanted the taste of Harry’s sweat, the tender weight of his balls to cradle, a spot high on his throat to bite.
On the other hand . . .
John was not ashamed to admit he’d been carrying an itch like some people would carry a torch. And that putting Harry Dresden on his hands and knees and fucking him until he came all over himself, and then more until he cried would be . . . extremely satisfying.
So many things to want. And so much time, it turned out.
“Let me put my mouth on you?” he murmured.
“Oh,” Harry said, flushed deepening. “That’s – yeah, okay.”
There was an interval of awkward untangling; John cut through it by the expedient of shoving Harry flat on his back and kissing down his belly. Harry moved helpfully at last, making room, and John settled down between his legs. He indulged himself, running his fingertips and mouth over all that undiscovered territory. He kissed the hollow of Harry’s hip, bit gently at the tendon connecting his thigh to his groin, scratched his nails up Harry’s thighs against the grain of the coarse dark hairs.
“John,” Harry said, shifting restlessly.
“Mmm?” John said. He ducked down and kissed Harry’s balls, his mouth open, tongue working.
Harry’s thighs jumped under his hands. “Will you get on with it?”
“Mmm,” John said again. He wormed in closer, pressing into the intimate space behind Harry’s dick. He smelled like John’s own soap. A modern scent mark, but still primally satisfying. And under that, he smelled like a man.
John nosed down past his balls, licking inquisitively. Harry made an uncertain noise; his thighs flexed around John’s ears, squeezing like he might be trying to force John away.
John burrowed down further, mouth straining. The tip of his tongue touched more crinkly hairs, then, fleetingly, the whorled rim of his hole.
“Um!’ Harry said.
John sat up. He’d been playing it a little by ear, offering up a blowjob because there were few men out there who would want to turn that down. But now he was fired with a different purpose.
“Turn over for me,” he said.
“Uh!” Harry said. Then his eyes narrowed in outrage. “But you said—“
John smiled, showing his teeth. “I never specified where,” he said. “Really, Mister Dresden, you should be more careful with the agreements you make.”
Harry’s look of incredulous outrage was warming. “You bastard,” he said. “I should have fucking known. What, do you have a lawyer on speed dial whenever you go to bed with someone?”
“With you, no,” john said sweetly. “Only the fire department.”
“I hate you,” Harry said, resorting to base emotions in the absence of a comeback that would hold an ounce of water. And he rolled over.
They tussled gently. Harry rolled up and over him, long legs sprawled to either side. He pushed up on his hands, grinning goofily. He looked like this was as absurdly funny as getting kidnapped by nymphs, like John was another ridiculous, madcap wrinkle in his ridiculous, madcap life.
John pulled him down and they kept rolling. Harry’s nipples hardened under his circling thumbs; his mouth softened, distracted, and his teeth lightly scored John’s lip.
Then he yelped, biting down more sharply. “Ow,” he said, shoving at John, “your belt—“
John went up onto his hands, disoriented and inelegant. “Sorry,” he said. The buckle must have hurt, digging into Harry’s bare skin like that. “You could fix it, you know,” he said encouragingly.
“. . . Oh,” Harry said, and reached for the buckle. He applied himself with studious concentration, his head bent, tongue peeking out the corner of his mouth. He paused when he got the belt open, flickered a quick glance up to John’s eyes, then looked back down and ran his knuckles over the bulge in John’s slacks. They both breathed in; John locked his elbows, forcing himself still.
Harry turned his hand, cupping him with maddening gentleness. He reached up with the other hand, cradling John’s dick between his palms. And then he waited, fingers moving softly, feeling John get hard for him. It didn’t take long.
John’s dick was bent awkwardly down, painfully confined. Harry rolled his hand once, stroking him, and John hissed between his teeth. Harry flashed him another look for that, mischievous and deeply pleased with himself. He snuck a hand down between John’s thighs, fingering his balls with a curious slant to his mouth. John widened his stance, letting him in. Harry squeezed his double handful, too gentle on his dick, too rough on his balls.
“Harry—“ John said, more threateningly than he’d quite meant to.
Harry’s face snapped into a look of intense focus; he scrabbled at John’s zipper, suddenly frantic. He nearly tore the button right off before he got it loose. He burrowed into John’s open fly two-handed, fishing his dick out with warm, rough fingers. Then he paused again, just looking. John’s arms were beginning to tremble at the edge of perception.
Harry curled curious fingers around him. It was unfairly arousing, that dry, warm, encompassing grip. Harry touched a finger to the head of John’s dick, slicking the single bead of moisture and then chafing the pad of his finger back and forth, back and forth over John’s slit until he got another.
“Huh,” he said, grinning with open delight.
“My goodness,” John said. That single nettling fingertip seemed to be twanging directly at the tight-strung string of his desire. “It works just like yours and everything.”
“You have this vein popping out in your temple,” Harry said helpfully. “Wow, I don’t think I even get that when I set something of yours on fire.” He beamed self-satisfaction.
“You are a curse upon me,” John said flatly. “There’s no other explanation.” He sat back and stripped off his shirt, then knelt up long enough to kick off his pants and shorts. Harry watched the process, beatific.
John settled over him again, both of them bare this time. They shifted and adjusted, bodies finding their natural alignment. John was intensely aware of him – the press of his ribs, the tickle of the hairs low on his belly, the heavy line of his dick tucked in the hollow of John’s hip.
Harry put his arms up and around John’s back. “You like it, I know you do,” he said. There was no flirtation there now. Just confidence.
Three months was a really fucking long time. But enough time, apparently.
John kissed him again. He let his full weight sink down over Harry for a minute. He was too heavy to stay, but he wanted to feel Harry breathe so close it was like it came from John’s lungs, too.
They eased onto their sides. Their legs braided together, their hips lined up. John found Harry’s nipple again. He pressed it lightly between two fingers, leaning back to watch Harry’s face. Tighter, tighter, Harry’s breath hitched and a flush bloomed in his cheeks, tighter, he bit his lip, tighter, he whined, body flexing forcefully against John’s.
“Good to know,” John said, slowly easing off.
“. . . Yeah,” Harry said, in the tones of someone having a revelation. “Do that again.”
John switched to his other nipple. He rolled it between his fingers, working up to the tight pinch Harry wanted in slow stages. On impulse, he ducked down and swiped his tongue over the other, already swollen from his first pinch. Harry’s hand clamped down on the back of his neck, holding him in place. John applied his teeth, working the nipple between them, biting down as he pinched tighter until Harry was moving constantly against him, hips rocking.
John let him go, and Harry pulled him up by the hair into a messy kiss. He was breathing hard, his eyes wide. He swiped his tongue over John’s lower lip, then ran his thumb along the same path, over and over until John’s mouth was sensitized and tender.
Harry pushed a hand between them, fumbled until he had their dicks cozied up together in his oversized palm. His mouth slid from John’s as he squeezed them, a thoughtful crease between his eyes.
John would have bet a large portion of his net worth that there was some crack about measuring contests incoming. Instead, Harry licked his lips and said, “What do you want?”
And there was a loaded question, at last. Harry had said, without ever saying, that he was pretty invested in whose dick went where in whom. On the one hand, that was absurd. John wanted to do everything with him in reverse alphabetical order, and then reprise mutual favorites until neither of them could get out of bed if they wanted to. His desires had boiled down over long years to elementals; he wanted the taste of Harry’s sweat, the tender weight of his balls to cradle, a spot high on his throat to bite.
On the other hand . . .
John was not ashamed to admit he’d been carrying an itch like some people would carry a torch. And that putting Harry Dresden on his hands and knees and fucking him until he came all over himself, and then more until he cried would be . . . extremely satisfying.
So many things to want. And so much time, it turned out.
“Let me put my mouth on you?” he murmured.
“Oh,” Harry said, flushed deepening. “That’s – yeah, okay.”
There was an interval of awkward untangling; John cut through it by the expedient of shoving Harry flat on his back and kissing down his belly. Harry moved helpfully at last, making room, and John settled down between his legs. He indulged himself, running his fingertips and mouth over all that undiscovered territory. He kissed the hollow of Harry’s hip, bit gently at the tendon connecting his thigh to his groin, scratched his nails up Harry’s thighs against the grain of the coarse dark hairs.
“John,” Harry said, shifting restlessly.
“Mmm?” John said. He ducked down and kissed Harry’s balls, his mouth open, tongue working.
Harry’s thighs jumped under his hands. “Will you get on with it?”
“Mmm,” John said again. He wormed in closer, pressing into the intimate space behind Harry’s dick. He smelled like John’s own soap. A modern scent mark, but still primally satisfying. And under that, he smelled like a man.
John nosed down past his balls, licking inquisitively. Harry made an uncertain noise; his thighs flexed around John’s ears, squeezing like he might be trying to force John away.
John burrowed down further, mouth straining. The tip of his tongue touched more crinkly hairs, then, fleetingly, the whorled rim of his hole.
“Um!’ Harry said.
John sat up. He’d been playing it a little by ear, offering up a blowjob because there were few men out there who would want to turn that down. But now he was fired with a different purpose.
“Turn over for me,” he said.
“Uh!” Harry said. Then his eyes narrowed in outrage. “But you said—“
John smiled, showing his teeth. “I never specified where,” he said. “Really, Mister Dresden, you should be more careful with the agreements you make.”
Harry’s look of incredulous outrage was warming. “You bastard,” he said. “I should have fucking known. What, do you have a lawyer on speed dial whenever you go to bed with someone?”
“With you, no,” john said sweetly. “Only the fire department.”
“I hate you,” Harry said, resorting to base emotions in the absence of a comeback that would hold an ounce of water. And he rolled over.
Brilliant! It's the deadpan newspaper voice that makes it perfect.
Re: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 03:32 am (UTC)(link)And that putting Harry Dresden on his hands and knees and fucking him until he came all over himself, and then more until he cried would be . . . extremely satisfying.
Jesus fucking christ, John. Me too.
Dear, dear tellnooneyourname, you are the supreme ruler of porn*. No lie.
* Very very intelligent, thoughtful and well-written porn that doubles as character/relationship study.**
** That just makes it hotter.
Jesus fucking christ, John. Me too.
Dear, dear tellnooneyourname, you are the supreme ruler of porn*. No lie.
* Very very intelligent, thoughtful and well-written porn that doubles as character/relationship study.**
** That just makes it hotter.
I woke up laying on a bed, a damp cloth being brushed lightly across my face. It reminded me of when I was little, sick, and my father had taken care of me. Before Eb, before Justin, before the orphanage and real magic and everything else. Just before.
It wasn’t an easy task to open my eyes, mostly because I wanted – just a little bit – to pretend that I was five again and everything was okay. I briefly entertained the notion that I could actually turn myself five again, and then reverse it, and then maybe everything would fix itself.
Yeah, right. And Bob’s moral compass is pointed straight towards heaven.
The cloth left for a moment, and when the air cooled my face I gave in and let my eyes drift open. Marcone was to my right, and I was tucked neatly into bed. Maggie was no where to be seen, but there was a giant scruffy dog in the bed, looking worried and whining a bit.
“You don’t look like a mouse,” I told him.
The dog’s tail wagged so hard it might have flown off, if it wasn’t attached, and his massive paw landed on my belly with much more gentle care and tenderness than I would have given him credit for. He was either much too smart or too used to seeing me like this. I was hoping he was the ‘too smart’ bit.
He also looked vaguely familiar, and it took me a moment to realize why. “You’re a Foo Dog.”
“Harry?”
I flinched a bit at Marcone’s voice, and saw him wince out of the corner of my eye. That set off a series of warning bells in my head and I managed to say “not so loud, please” soon enough that he hopefully connected it to my reaction. “Head still hurts,” I explained. “Migraine.”
“I didn’t realize they were a side effect as well,” he said, softer, his hand on my arm.
“Neither did I.” I debated telling him for a moment what had happened, that it might be a long time before I remembered things and that I might never really get my full memory back – how would I know if I had or not? – but the moment passed too quickly, and he was speaking again before I could get up the courage to tell him.
“Is there anything you can take?”
“No,” I said, holding a hand out to the dog – Mouse. “Nothing that would help, at least.” Mouse pressed his wet nose into my hand for a moment, then obligingly moved so that I could scratch behind his ears. “Is this guy really my dog?”
“Yes,” Marcone answered. “Though I’ve never heard you call him a Foo Dog before.”
I hesitated for a moment, but then gave up holding it in. Everything I was about to tell him could be found in books, anyways, so I wasn’t revealing anything, and I’d already let slip what the animal was. “Foo dogs are temple guardians. Sort of like the statues you see outside the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from my office. Except a lot more real and smarter than the average dog.”
It took a few moments for him to find the right place. “You mean those garishly painted ceramic replicas?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at Mouse, who appeared to be lost in the pleasure of having his ear scratched. But I could see one eye barely open and watching. “Forgive me for saying this,” Marcone told Mouse, “but thank God you’re not colored the same. It’d be difficult to pass a red and gold dog off as normal, to say the least.”
Mouse wagged his tail, but that could have been because I had switched to under his chin and had found a good spot.
“Where’s Maggie?” I finally asked.
“She had a play date with the Carpenters this morning. When I found you, I made certain you didn’t require immediate attention and then had Hendricks drive her there. She was disappointed we couldn’t join her, and Charity will, no doubt, be cross. But she understands that you aren’t feeling well and I’ve asked her to pass the message along.”
“She didn’t seem to understand this morning.”
“You get sick only very rarely,” he explained. “Typically, when you tell her you aren’t feeling well it’s because you’re –“ he hesitated a bit, and looked down at his hands, which were still on the arm that wasn’t occupied by massive dog “ – sore.”
I frowned for a moment. “I tell her I’m sick when I’m mad at you?” I asked, confused for a moment. I hadn’t lost control of my magic like that for years, since Eb had taken me in. And even then, I rarely had done serious harm to anyone except – well, except when I had. Unless he meant sore in a physical way – and the way we’d gotten up this morning, with him in his robe, us together in the bedroom – “Oh. You mean – oh.”
I knew I was red, but he didn’t even blush.
“I don’t actually remember that.”
He sighed. “I know.” He brought my hand up and kissed it. “You will, though.”
And I just couldn’t tell him that, well, there was a chance that I wouldn’t find whatever memory he was thinking of. Instead I reached across myself – I’d stopped scratching Mouse a while ago, and he thankfully moved out of the way – and touched Marcone’s arm. “Show me,” I told him.
“Harry?”
I pulled him down for a kiss, and he followed my lead gracefully. Despite my attempts, however, he kept it mostly chaste and pulled away after a few moments.
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he asked. “Do you even know how afraid I was when I saw you lying there? You frightened me near to death; I’m certain I felt my heart stop. And now you have me talking like some romance novel hero, and it’s all true. Damnit, Harry, you’re still in pain.”
I could hear the silent “you don’t remember” that he tactfully didn’t say. It didn’t matter, though; I heard it anyways. I could see him slowly pulling his mask back, the calm collected tiger I knew and not the man I’d spent the morning trying – and failing – to figure out.
Damn. I’d been starting to like this new guy.
“You need rest,” he said. “Try to sleep. I’ll order in some food for later, and find a few books in our library you might like to re-read when you wake up.”
I almost asked him to stay.
Almost.
sorry if the ending is a bit off... my computer suddenly just shut off (stupid overheating laptop!), and autosave in word only saved about half of what I had. So I had to rewrite it, and the second time around it wasn't nearly as good. Booo...
It wasn’t an easy task to open my eyes, mostly because I wanted – just a little bit – to pretend that I was five again and everything was okay. I briefly entertained the notion that I could actually turn myself five again, and then reverse it, and then maybe everything would fix itself.
Yeah, right. And Bob’s moral compass is pointed straight towards heaven.
The cloth left for a moment, and when the air cooled my face I gave in and let my eyes drift open. Marcone was to my right, and I was tucked neatly into bed. Maggie was no where to be seen, but there was a giant scruffy dog in the bed, looking worried and whining a bit.
“You don’t look like a mouse,” I told him.
The dog’s tail wagged so hard it might have flown off, if it wasn’t attached, and his massive paw landed on my belly with much more gentle care and tenderness than I would have given him credit for. He was either much too smart or too used to seeing me like this. I was hoping he was the ‘too smart’ bit.
He also looked vaguely familiar, and it took me a moment to realize why. “You’re a Foo Dog.”
“Harry?”
I flinched a bit at Marcone’s voice, and saw him wince out of the corner of my eye. That set off a series of warning bells in my head and I managed to say “not so loud, please” soon enough that he hopefully connected it to my reaction. “Head still hurts,” I explained. “Migraine.”
“I didn’t realize they were a side effect as well,” he said, softer, his hand on my arm.
“Neither did I.” I debated telling him for a moment what had happened, that it might be a long time before I remembered things and that I might never really get my full memory back – how would I know if I had or not? – but the moment passed too quickly, and he was speaking again before I could get up the courage to tell him.
“Is there anything you can take?”
“No,” I said, holding a hand out to the dog – Mouse. “Nothing that would help, at least.” Mouse pressed his wet nose into my hand for a moment, then obligingly moved so that I could scratch behind his ears. “Is this guy really my dog?”
“Yes,” Marcone answered. “Though I’ve never heard you call him a Foo Dog before.”
I hesitated for a moment, but then gave up holding it in. Everything I was about to tell him could be found in books, anyways, so I wasn’t revealing anything, and I’d already let slip what the animal was. “Foo dogs are temple guardians. Sort of like the statues you see outside the Chinese restaurant a few blocks away from my office. Except a lot more real and smarter than the average dog.”
It took a few moments for him to find the right place. “You mean those garishly painted ceramic replicas?”
“Yeah.”
He looked at Mouse, who appeared to be lost in the pleasure of having his ear scratched. But I could see one eye barely open and watching. “Forgive me for saying this,” Marcone told Mouse, “but thank God you’re not colored the same. It’d be difficult to pass a red and gold dog off as normal, to say the least.”
Mouse wagged his tail, but that could have been because I had switched to under his chin and had found a good spot.
“Where’s Maggie?” I finally asked.
“She had a play date with the Carpenters this morning. When I found you, I made certain you didn’t require immediate attention and then had Hendricks drive her there. She was disappointed we couldn’t join her, and Charity will, no doubt, be cross. But she understands that you aren’t feeling well and I’ve asked her to pass the message along.”
“She didn’t seem to understand this morning.”
“You get sick only very rarely,” he explained. “Typically, when you tell her you aren’t feeling well it’s because you’re –“ he hesitated a bit, and looked down at his hands, which were still on the arm that wasn’t occupied by massive dog “ – sore.”
I frowned for a moment. “I tell her I’m sick when I’m mad at you?” I asked, confused for a moment. I hadn’t lost control of my magic like that for years, since Eb had taken me in. And even then, I rarely had done serious harm to anyone except – well, except when I had. Unless he meant sore in a physical way – and the way we’d gotten up this morning, with him in his robe, us together in the bedroom – “Oh. You mean – oh.”
I knew I was red, but he didn’t even blush.
“I don’t actually remember that.”
He sighed. “I know.” He brought my hand up and kissed it. “You will, though.”
And I just couldn’t tell him that, well, there was a chance that I wouldn’t find whatever memory he was thinking of. Instead I reached across myself – I’d stopped scratching Mouse a while ago, and he thankfully moved out of the way – and touched Marcone’s arm. “Show me,” I told him.
“Harry?”
I pulled him down for a kiss, and he followed my lead gracefully. Despite my attempts, however, he kept it mostly chaste and pulled away after a few moments.
“You have no idea what you do to me, do you?” he asked. “Do you even know how afraid I was when I saw you lying there? You frightened me near to death; I’m certain I felt my heart stop. And now you have me talking like some romance novel hero, and it’s all true. Damnit, Harry, you’re still in pain.”
I could hear the silent “you don’t remember” that he tactfully didn’t say. It didn’t matter, though; I heard it anyways. I could see him slowly pulling his mask back, the calm collected tiger I knew and not the man I’d spent the morning trying – and failing – to figure out.
Damn. I’d been starting to like this new guy.
“You need rest,” he said. “Try to sleep. I’ll order in some food for later, and find a few books in our library you might like to re-read when you wake up.”
I almost asked him to stay.
Almost.
sorry if the ending is a bit off... my computer suddenly just shut off (stupid overheating laptop!), and autosave in word only saved about half of what I had. So I had to rewrite it, and the second time around it wasn't nearly as good. Booo...
Donar/Dresden Marcone/Dresden Or Kincaid/Dresden/Marcone
Inspired by the Dragon!Harry fill.
In which Harry is a very young dragon who can only be seen by children and likes to protect the children in Chicago's park. He occassionally turns into a wizard in order to interact with humans. Recently, he has been adopted by Mister and Mouse (both whom he found, but they're his owners now).
Harry gets found out in two ways unless writernon perfers another option:
1) Marcone gets curious and questions why Chicago's parks have been safer lately. Donar gets curious and investigates.
2) Ivy finds out about Harry and likes teaching him about human things. She convinces him to turn into a wizard so she can introduce him to other people.
Extra options:
-Up to Writernon if Marcone has met Harry when he was young (and when Harry was very tiny), but can't see him now b/c of what he is today.
-Harry's appearance, he could be the medieval-ish dragon or kinda like the Asian long dragon(I kinda want to see him curl up around a building)
-What kind of Dragon? There are a lot of kinds, some can be seen, some can't. And some are nearly extinct, like tree dragons.
Inspired by the Dragon!Harry fill.
In which Harry is a very young dragon who can only be seen by children and likes to protect the children in Chicago's park. He occassionally turns into a wizard in order to interact with humans. Recently, he has been adopted by Mister and Mouse (both whom he found, but they're his owners now).
Harry gets found out in two ways unless writernon perfers another option:
1) Marcone gets curious and questions why Chicago's parks have been safer lately. Donar gets curious and investigates.
2) Ivy finds out about Harry and likes teaching him about human things. She convinces him to turn into a wizard so she can introduce him to other people.
Extra options:
-Up to Writernon if Marcone has met Harry when he was young (and when Harry was very tiny), but can't see him now b/c of what he is today.
-Harry's appearance, he could be the medieval-ish dragon or kinda like the Asian long dragon(I kinda want to see him curl up around a building)
-What kind of Dragon? There are a lot of kinds, some can be seen, some can't. And some are nearly extinct, like tree dragons.
Much love Anon! This is great xD
Marcone/Dresden
Harry is forced to go on a vacation out of Chicago b/c he needs to relax, but something always happen to interupt him.
However, when Harry does go, there have been more attacks of the supernatural kind. Not that they can't handle it, but it was starting to get exhausting. ...Strangely enough, there aren't any ridiculous cases of the Dresden varity, but it's also depressing since there's no comic relief. :D
When Harry gets back, everyone's grateful to see him. Harry's happy that he's back as well. Apparently, his vacation turned to another save the world from the apocolapse again.
Bonus if Marcone perfers his buildings burning than the troubles that come when Harry's not there.
Harry is forced to go on a vacation out of Chicago b/c he needs to relax, but something always happen to interupt him.
However, when Harry does go, there have been more attacks of the supernatural kind. Not that they can't handle it, but it was starting to get exhausting. ...Strangely enough, there aren't any ridiculous cases of the Dresden varity, but it's also depressing since there's no comic relief. :D
When Harry gets back, everyone's grateful to see him. Harry's happy that he's back as well. Apparently, his vacation turned to another save the world from the apocolapse again.
Bonus if Marcone perfers his buildings burning than the troubles that come when Harry's not there.
Marcone/Dresden
Harry owns a quaint little bookstore. John just happens to wander in one day (for reasons of anon's choosing) and decides he likes that man behind the counter.
Bookstore romance, please!
(Alternately, Eb owns the store Harry works for, and John STILL finds him and wants him.)
Harry owns a quaint little bookstore. John just happens to wander in one day (for reasons of anon's choosing) and decides he likes that man behind the counter.
Bookstore romance, please!
(Alternately, Eb owns the store Harry works for, and John STILL finds him and wants him.)
Mac/Dresden Established Relationship Everybody/Dresden
Mac took in Harry after Ebe. Eventually, it develops into something more till they're a couple. Now Harry works with Mac and helps young wizars with their magic (like Paranet).
Mac is silently possessive and protective of Harry who doesn't realize everyone's flirting with him. Op would like a subtlely happy Harry whose in love with Mac.
Mac took in Harry after Ebe. Eventually, it develops into something more till they're a couple. Now Harry works with Mac and helps young wizars with their magic (like Paranet).
Mac is silently possessive and protective of Harry who doesn't realize everyone's flirting with him. Op would like a subtlely happy Harry whose in love with Mac.
Everyone/Dresden
So I've seen an overlord list prompt and a top ten reasons not to fuck Harry prompt. What about a top 10 reasons Harry is a Sexy Bitch List?:)
Bonus points for if at least one character sits down to write the list and suddenly stops and asks him/herself 'what the hell am I doing?!' *crumples up list and throws in trash* (then inconspicuously pulls it out to continue later).
So I've seen an overlord list prompt and a top ten reasons not to fuck Harry prompt. What about a top 10 reasons Harry is a Sexy Bitch List?:)
Bonus points for if at least one character sits down to write the list and suddenly stops and asks him/herself 'what the hell am I doing?!' *crumples up list and throws in trash* (then inconspicuously pulls it out to continue later).
Re: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
luciazephyr
2011-03-08 07:00 am (UTC)(link)
On the one hand, that was absurd. John wanted to do everything with him in reverse alphabetical order, and then reprise mutual favorites until neither of them could get out of bed if they wanted to.
I love these moments of odd sweetness in your John, considering how insane he is most of the time. 8D
I love these moments of odd sweetness in your John, considering how insane he is most of the time. 8D
"You can't do anything to help her," John points out.
He's being reasonable. He doesn't see why this is a bad thing, but when Harry whirls around there's fire in his eyes. "I can't just- stay here! We have to go!"
John does not say "calm down". He knows better now. He just crosses his arms, leans back, and waits for it to blow over. Harry paces from left to right, left to right-
It doesn't blow over, and ten more minutes pass without the phone ringing. John watches Harry unravel, and stands up when he can't stand it anymore. He catches Harry by the shoulder, and Harry goes still. The kind of still that speaks, I can't move right now, because if I did I don't know what I'd do, and I really don't want to do anything to you right now.
John runs through four things to say in his mind and then drops the hand. Harry's shoulders gradually come down.
"Okay?" John asks, after a full minute passes.
"Yeah," Harry says, his voice thick. "Yeah."
They fuck with nothing but mechanical enjoyment. Harry's face is distant during the whole process, except when he comes; right then there's a desperation to enjoy it there that takes everything out of it. John himself is obliging, and is mildly pleased with the results when Harry settles back after they're done, throwing the tissues into the trashcan like they're teenagers again. His expression is no better, but the tension is gone from his shoulders.
Harry is patient until the phone rings, two hours later. Susan apologizes for the delay, and they race out. Harry chucks John's Blackberry out of the window after the thirty fifth text from the missed meeting.
It was all wrong, John will think later. Harry wouldn't have wanted their last time to be like that. John himself will feel no particular sentimentality for final gestures- the only special thing about final gestures are that they're, well, final- and he will instead turn his mind to better memories. Memories that matter. So it will not matter to him. (Or at least- it will not- matter as much.) It is just that, Harry.
It was unfair.
:::::::
Everything speeds along, the barrel of Hendricks' gun pointed across the woods, the fury on Dresden's face as he tears buildings down, the calf of a stumbling vampire as she falls, sawed through by Fidelacchius. It's a few hours, and then they're flying to South America, except Dresden, whose face has gone hard and grim as he says that he'll meet them there. He's going through the Nevernever, and something in his voice alerts him to the fact that something's wrong. John almost demands to be taken along, but-
But Margaret Angelica Dresden. He hisses through his teeth and takes the fucking jet.
When they meet again, they jump instantly into action, but John sees. Harry's wearing a coat with an upturned collar, but there's a moment when the wind tugs it aside-
It's not the moment, but John goes cold inside. He shoots straight and does the right things, and they bring everyone back but the reporter woman John cared nothing for.
However.
::::::
"What does it mean?" John says, his voice so soft it's barely audible, miles and minutes later on a car. His thumb traces over the scar tissue on Harry's throat. It's in the shape of a snowflake. "For you?"
Harry knows that John has read up extensively on anything to do with the Fae. "I change," Harry answers. His eyes are trained on the back of the seat in front of them. John can tell that he's seeing a little girl on it. He grits his teeth. "I change and then I don't come back."
He doesn't sound depressed or defiant. He sounds dead.
John leans over and kisses a corpse, remembering the last Winter Knight. Their acquaintance had been short. And memorable. He remembers paying the therapy bills for the teenaged girl they pulled him off. "All those calls? Saving me for last?"
Harry laughs weakly. "You- know better than anyone. Utility. You're fair and smart and you'll do what's best for everyone. Including yourself."
(Including you, John thinks, with a ferocity and coldness, the depth of which frightens himself.)
"And you have all the facts." Harry swallowed. "Because you always do, and I don't need to tell you to back away from this whole thing, because you can do it for yourself."
Indeed John can. He says as much.
Harry's face lightens a little. It's obvious that he's been dreading this confrontation. John asks him when he has to go.
"I'll camp out on my brother's boat for- two days, I guess," Harry says. "Organize all- oh, all that stuff. At least not the rent." He aims for playful and fails. "Set aside some stuff for Maggie. And... see about those swords. Try to talk Murphy into it, now she's lost her job."
That. Marcone can do something about that, but Harry doesn't even ask. It doesn't seem to occur for him. "And then?"
"I go to Faerie." Dresden sounds drugged. "And then... I guess then I become Mab's bitch."
He tries to laugh, but his breath peters out before he can manage.
He will lose his independence, John thinks, and remembers the sneer on Dresden's face as he defied the most powerful criminal in the city. Father Forthill telling him in a low voice that no one had resisted Lasciel for so long, and could John please keep an eye on him? It was worrying him. Being told about the Faerie Queen, Dresden's voice brimming with the confidence that he'd die rather than come under the heel of something like her.
And then John thinks about Lloyd Slate again.
They're silent for the rest of the ride, until the chaffeur drops Dresden off at the bay. Dresden jingles his keys, looking preoccupied, but he looks back before shutting the car door. He looks uncertain.
John knows that he should have put up more a fight- that's what Dresden's suspicious of. No protests? he reads on the face of the man who wears his heart on his sleeve. So close to hand, John thinks, that he put it on the pocket of the first swindler to walk by who found out that all he needed to do was give a damn. A fool. What a fool.
He puts up a hand. It's not a wave. He keeps his face expressionless, but lets a small spasm of pain show. It satisfies Dresden. He turns away, shoulders tensed against his scrutiny. "Bye," he mutters, pace quickening.
John turns his eyes to his hands as his chaffeur accelerates. He won't watch Dresden leave.
::::::::::
John stays away.
He doesn't meet the sniper. He goes out of his way to tell his clerk to select someone promising from the lower levels, someone he's bound not to have met. He makes it clear to her that he's not to be told anything about this case afterwards except its success. Or failure.
He works. He buries himself in it, flitting from meeting to meeting, going through paperwork with a ferocious single-mindedness. Someone even comments that his efficiency of late is impressive. "More so than usual, of course," he hastily adds when Marcone pins him to the wall behind him with his eyes.
He stays on a prescribed diet, but his nutrician shifts arond a few menus after she notes that he's burning energy faster than usual. "Working too much?" she says, disapprovingly.
All this, of course, comes after the file. It's a plain file. It's dark blue. All of the assassination reports are in dark blue. He takes it, his hands as steady as always, flipping it open with the same sedate speed. There's a blank page, a name, and a circle in black ink.
It's a cold listener, but he lowers his face just the same. He can smell good paper as he whispers, fast and low, to the name; "The most frightening thing about this, Mr. Dresden, is that it's not actually over. I have to wake up every morning."
He stacks the blue files up- there are four of them this week, running low- and sends them to the furnace.
He's being reasonable. He doesn't see why this is a bad thing, but when Harry whirls around there's fire in his eyes. "I can't just- stay here! We have to go!"
John does not say "calm down". He knows better now. He just crosses his arms, leans back, and waits for it to blow over. Harry paces from left to right, left to right-
It doesn't blow over, and ten more minutes pass without the phone ringing. John watches Harry unravel, and stands up when he can't stand it anymore. He catches Harry by the shoulder, and Harry goes still. The kind of still that speaks, I can't move right now, because if I did I don't know what I'd do, and I really don't want to do anything to you right now.
John runs through four things to say in his mind and then drops the hand. Harry's shoulders gradually come down.
"Okay?" John asks, after a full minute passes.
"Yeah," Harry says, his voice thick. "Yeah."
They fuck with nothing but mechanical enjoyment. Harry's face is distant during the whole process, except when he comes; right then there's a desperation to enjoy it there that takes everything out of it. John himself is obliging, and is mildly pleased with the results when Harry settles back after they're done, throwing the tissues into the trashcan like they're teenagers again. His expression is no better, but the tension is gone from his shoulders.
Harry is patient until the phone rings, two hours later. Susan apologizes for the delay, and they race out. Harry chucks John's Blackberry out of the window after the thirty fifth text from the missed meeting.
It was all wrong, John will think later. Harry wouldn't have wanted their last time to be like that. John himself will feel no particular sentimentality for final gestures- the only special thing about final gestures are that they're, well, final- and he will instead turn his mind to better memories. Memories that matter. So it will not matter to him. (Or at least- it will not- matter as much.) It is just that, Harry.
It was unfair.
:::::::
Everything speeds along, the barrel of Hendricks' gun pointed across the woods, the fury on Dresden's face as he tears buildings down, the calf of a stumbling vampire as she falls, sawed through by Fidelacchius. It's a few hours, and then they're flying to South America, except Dresden, whose face has gone hard and grim as he says that he'll meet them there. He's going through the Nevernever, and something in his voice alerts him to the fact that something's wrong. John almost demands to be taken along, but-
But Margaret Angelica Dresden. He hisses through his teeth and takes the fucking jet.
When they meet again, they jump instantly into action, but John sees. Harry's wearing a coat with an upturned collar, but there's a moment when the wind tugs it aside-
It's not the moment, but John goes cold inside. He shoots straight and does the right things, and they bring everyone back but the reporter woman John cared nothing for.
However.
::::::
"What does it mean?" John says, his voice so soft it's barely audible, miles and minutes later on a car. His thumb traces over the scar tissue on Harry's throat. It's in the shape of a snowflake. "For you?"
Harry knows that John has read up extensively on anything to do with the Fae. "I change," Harry answers. His eyes are trained on the back of the seat in front of them. John can tell that he's seeing a little girl on it. He grits his teeth. "I change and then I don't come back."
He doesn't sound depressed or defiant. He sounds dead.
John leans over and kisses a corpse, remembering the last Winter Knight. Their acquaintance had been short. And memorable. He remembers paying the therapy bills for the teenaged girl they pulled him off. "All those calls? Saving me for last?"
Harry laughs weakly. "You- know better than anyone. Utility. You're fair and smart and you'll do what's best for everyone. Including yourself."
(Including you, John thinks, with a ferocity and coldness, the depth of which frightens himself.)
"And you have all the facts." Harry swallowed. "Because you always do, and I don't need to tell you to back away from this whole thing, because you can do it for yourself."
Indeed John can. He says as much.
Harry's face lightens a little. It's obvious that he's been dreading this confrontation. John asks him when he has to go.
"I'll camp out on my brother's boat for- two days, I guess," Harry says. "Organize all- oh, all that stuff. At least not the rent." He aims for playful and fails. "Set aside some stuff for Maggie. And... see about those swords. Try to talk Murphy into it, now she's lost her job."
That. Marcone can do something about that, but Harry doesn't even ask. It doesn't seem to occur for him. "And then?"
"I go to Faerie." Dresden sounds drugged. "And then... I guess then I become Mab's bitch."
He tries to laugh, but his breath peters out before he can manage.
He will lose his independence, John thinks, and remembers the sneer on Dresden's face as he defied the most powerful criminal in the city. Father Forthill telling him in a low voice that no one had resisted Lasciel for so long, and could John please keep an eye on him? It was worrying him. Being told about the Faerie Queen, Dresden's voice brimming with the confidence that he'd die rather than come under the heel of something like her.
And then John thinks about Lloyd Slate again.
They're silent for the rest of the ride, until the chaffeur drops Dresden off at the bay. Dresden jingles his keys, looking preoccupied, but he looks back before shutting the car door. He looks uncertain.
John knows that he should have put up more a fight- that's what Dresden's suspicious of. No protests? he reads on the face of the man who wears his heart on his sleeve. So close to hand, John thinks, that he put it on the pocket of the first swindler to walk by who found out that all he needed to do was give a damn. A fool. What a fool.
He puts up a hand. It's not a wave. He keeps his face expressionless, but lets a small spasm of pain show. It satisfies Dresden. He turns away, shoulders tensed against his scrutiny. "Bye," he mutters, pace quickening.
John turns his eyes to his hands as his chaffeur accelerates. He won't watch Dresden leave.
::::::::::
John stays away.
He doesn't meet the sniper. He goes out of his way to tell his clerk to select someone promising from the lower levels, someone he's bound not to have met. He makes it clear to her that he's not to be told anything about this case afterwards except its success. Or failure.
He works. He buries himself in it, flitting from meeting to meeting, going through paperwork with a ferocious single-mindedness. Someone even comments that his efficiency of late is impressive. "More so than usual, of course," he hastily adds when Marcone pins him to the wall behind him with his eyes.
He stays on a prescribed diet, but his nutrician shifts arond a few menus after she notes that he's burning energy faster than usual. "Working too much?" she says, disapprovingly.
All this, of course, comes after the file. It's a plain file. It's dark blue. All of the assassination reports are in dark blue. He takes it, his hands as steady as always, flipping it open with the same sedate speed. There's a blank page, a name, and a circle in black ink.
It's a cold listener, but he lowers his face just the same. He can smell good paper as he whispers, fast and low, to the name; "The most frightening thing about this, Mr. Dresden, is that it's not actually over. I have to wake up every morning."
He stacks the blue files up- there are four of them this week, running low- and sends them to the furnace.
By killing him will Marcone be doomed to the same fate? Or will it be transferred to Mab's appointed successor?
Re: Fill (2/3 no really I swear this time . . . probably)
samjohnsson
2011-03-08 08:33 am (UTC)(link)
“You are a curse upon me,” John said flatly. “There’s no other explanation.”
Oh, John, you really have no idea.
And he rolled over.
Hello, guh. Nice to meet you.
Still pretty damn good, to me. And damn you, Harry, for your phobic reflexes!
If you want an idea how much I liked this and believe it fits into canon, well...I really want to know if this needs a spoiler tag for Ghost Story. God. And somehow, I have to go sleep. This may be ... interesting.
[A/N: Dragon Age II is coming. Must resolve... WIPs...]
VI.
After weeks of shuttling between what Harry had begun to think of as the “Emanuel” and “Marcone” camps, Harry's exasperation finally reached boiling point.
Thankfully, it did so in the potentially less lethal environment of Emanuel's office rather than a mob boss' domain, particularly since Emanuel was also aware of the murder crime scene that Harry had been called in to look at this morning. Waking up to being dragged across town on a frosty morning to look at disembowelled bodies really soured Harry's day. Having to deal with Marcone's icy mood, and then finally, Emanuel's particularly bitchy one this afternoon had been the last straw.
“I've had it with being your delivery boy for your games of gay chicken,” Harry snapped, the overhead lights flickering, the Blackberry's appointment notification burble coming to an abrupt halt. “If you have anything else to discuss with Marcone, go and talk to him yourself!” He tossed the heart-shaped box of chocolates onto the table, which failed to land in a dramatic fashion, being a violent pink in hue.
“Whoah there.” Emanuel drawled, folding his arms and leaning his chair back precariously onto the back legs. “If you're feeling left out, I'll just tell Johnny to cut down. You can have the chocolates.”
“I don't want the chocolates!” That hadn't been precisely what Harry had wanted to say, and he took a deep breath when Emanuel smirked, counting silently to ten. The shrill buzz from the computer faded. “The two of you are acting like high school kids.”
“It's all strategy, Dresden,” Emanuel disagreed. “Marcone's gone along with everything I've asked for so far.”
“He's losing patience.”
“He seems to have a lot of patience to lose.”
“Sooner or later he's going to find out that you can't hurt him,” Harry countered. “What then?”
“Harry, I'm a Warden,” Emanuel said patiently. “We've gotten around not breaking the Laws of Magic for centuries.”
“I don't see you carrying a sword around.” Harry said, though he recognised a weak argument when he said one. Just because the genius loci didn't want to hurt Marcone didn't mean that Emanuel didn't know any other sort of spells – and if he truly had been a Warden before, he wouldn't even really need them. “And he has a valkyrie with him.”
“Sigrun? We've met. In the park,” Emanuel added, when Harry arched both his eyebrows. “I'm not that fucking old, thank you very fucking much.”
“I wasn't going to say anything,” Harry said quickly. “But seriously. You guys should work things out before something implodes. If you're lucky, it might not even be my fault. Hell's bells, why am I the one acting as the adult?”
“Because Marcone has a soft spot for you. Less likely to shoot the messenger,” Emanuel grinned his sharkish grin when Harry sputtered, leaning back further to pat the wall pointedly. “I'm in the know, remember? How many times has he shown up to save your bony ass?”
“Bite me,” Harry scowled. This wasn't one of his favorite topics, and he'd long chalked it down to Marcone being very single minded about wanting to employ him. Or something. “You don't see him sending me heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.”
“I'll drop him a note. Dresden, calm the fuck down. Deep breaths. Okay. Start thinking. So far we've had some libraries put in, and some schools that were fucking public liability disasters renovated. Right?”
“Right.” Harry said warily.
“And did Marcone complain at all about having to do it? About how it's burning a hole in the pockets of his Armani pants? About how he has better things to do than spend money on public schools which have leaks that have the potential to electrocute unsuspecting kiddies?”
“No. He usually complains about how you're not budging on wanting him to scale down on his operations.”
“And other than the very first time in the park, have I brought up his operations on any notes?”
“You've sent him those severed toy heads,” Harry noted, after a moment spent searching his memory.
“And?”
“Nothing else,” Harry said, reluctantly. “So what?”
“So, once Marcone realizes it, we're actually in a mutually beneficial system,” Emanuel clapped his hands together with a sharp snap that made Harry flinch. “He does some things with his money to help kids – subject close to his heart, I hear. I get to look as though I'm being tough on the Outfit, if anyone starts nosing around - without actually having to be. And when I replace Hilliard, it won't be with someone who has mob-busting right on top of his 'to-do' list.”
So it was Chicago politics as usual after all. Harry felt... disappointed, somehow. “So you weren't serious about stopping the drug trade and trafficking.”
“Harry, if getting rid of Marcone could stop the drug trade, I'd do it in a heartbeat.” Emanuel said, with a touch of impatience. “But whatever the government, federal or state, wants, the drug trade, trafficking, brothels, money laundering, casino skimming... organised crime is here to stay. Spend money and time beating them down however much you want, you'll just end up with more and more collateral damage. Public prosecutors, police, judges and their families. I'm thinking of a better solution.”
“A better solution?”
“Having all of the Outfit and its factions controlled by just one man – that hasn't happened for a while. Marcone has a no-children rule that he enforces with an iron fist in all of his operations. There has to be a workable way to get him to enforce some others. Take brothels, for example. You've seen street hookers before, I'm sure, and those abused trailer park girls. If Marcone could exercise more top-down control, make sure that the girls aren't strung out on drugs or runaways who'd gotten into bad company, that's going to take some of the load off the Vice department.”
“And in the meantime, you'll funnel all this dirty money into building schools.”
“I've been in investment banking and the federal government, Dresden. Money's money. There's no other shade of it than green. Government takes communist money,” Emanuel shrugged. “Wherever the money came from, if some schools get fixed by anonymous charities and if the crime rate starts becoming manageable, that frees up the state budget for other concerns.”
“I still don't see what you're going to trade with him to get him to do all this for you,” Harry said, skeptical.
“And what did you trade him such that he's willing to pull your ass out of the fire whenever you want?”
“I didn't...!”
“The man's obsessed with mages,” Emanuel pointed out. “Magic fascinates him. I bet he's real disappointed that you chose to bind yourself to Ice Bitch rather than to him.”
“She had immediate benefits at the time,” Harry grit out. “Also, she wasn't my first choice. Obsessed with mages or not, I don't think you're doing this right.”
“So what do you think that I should do?” Emanuel spread his hands wide. “Send some fucking chocolates back?”
“Just talk to him. Somewhere neutral. I don't like your methods but I can appreciate some of your motives. So I'll prefer to see this become a long term thing, rather than something that burns your house down in a month or so when he's done playing along.”
“Okay, Dresden,” Emanuel said, slapping a palm on the table. “You win. Pick a time, pick a place, I'll be there.”
“Great.” Harry said, relieved. “So you can be reasonable after all.”
“Don't fucking get used to it.”
About an hour or so later and on his way back to the precinct to talk to Murphy, Harry entertained a brief, nagging thought that Emanuel had seemed to have agreed a little too easily.
6.0
Rahm had nothing against McAnally's – it served a great microbrew and sandwiches – but perhaps because of the way the pub was built, or because of the neutral ground that it had been awarded, it always felt as though he was stepping right out of Chicago whenever he walked into the pub. He could still feel Her around the edges, humming in his peripheral senses with discontent, and he didn't doubt that if She really wanted to she could probably reach him through the layers of enchantment, but felt a little like what walking through a very strong threshold would feel like for a wizard.
For the Emanuel clan, of course, stepping out of Chicago more or less brought on the same impression, and he was used to it. Distracted on making sure that Chicago was keeping an eye on anyone who might have a camera or recording device, Rahm nearly walked right into Dresden, who flinched, startled.
“Emanuel. You're early.”
“Scoping out the grounds,” Rahm said, as Dresden sat himself down at a corner table. He could already see several over the other tables hurriedly finishing whatever they were having and filing out. Apparently Dresden was bad news here – not that it seemed to bother the barkeeper. “You do realize that this is a private place, and if I'm seen having lunch with a mobster it isn't going to be a walk in the fucking park press-wise, right?”
“I'm sure She's paying attention on your behalf,” Dresden shot back. “And relax, photographs don't turn out too well when I'm around.”
They ordered sandwiches and a couple of microbrews and settled down to wait. Dresden was chatty when he'd had a little good alcohol, and he was telling Rahm all about the unlikely murder investigation that he'd been called into, and how he was pretty sure that he was close to a solution. Given that no public property had caught fire yet, Rahm wasn't too sure, but finding out that an investment was doing well was always good for his mood.
Marcone appeared perfectly on time, and frowned slightly when he realized that he was late. His bodyguard moved back to hover behind him, trying to watch the entire room and his boss' back at the same time through some feat of vanilla human concentration, and Rahm leaned back in his chair, briefly entertaining the notion of having Chicago puncture Marcone's tyres outside.
She fed a note of discontent back up at him, and the thought subsided reluctantly. “Nicer than the park, isn't it, Johnny?” Rahm asked, smirking, when Marcone settled down at the opposite end of the table. The tiger was seething, which suited Rahm fine – people had a little less good judgment when they were pissed off.
“I was told that we were going to broker a truce,” Marcone glanced over at Dresden, who shrugged.
“How else was I going to wrangle you into coming here?”
“Dresden-”
“Whoah, whoah.” Rahm raised his hands, palms up. “Gentlemen. Dresden, you gave me the impression that Johnny here wanted to meet up. I'm hurt.”
“I didn't say that.”
Come to think of it, Dresden was right. Bad oversight. “Okay, fine. We can talk terms.”
“Firstly, I want to know why you've been avoiding me.” Marcone said flatly.
“You mean, national headlines aside? Possibly all involving fucking terrible puns about my name and the Outfit?”
“I can be discreet.” Marcone's eyes narrowed. “And I have been more than reasonable with you.”
“And you'll keep on being reasonable,” Rahm drawled. “Or the gloves will come off.”
“If you think that you can just sit where you are and threaten me, Mister Emanuel-”
“You two. Shut the hell up.” Dresden suddenly growled, and the temperature even dropped a considerable notch, etched by Winter's mantle. “Marcone, all Emanuel really wants is for you to keep helping out kids and underprivileged schools. And possibly exercising more control over the Outfit, especially over human exploitation. Emanuel, Marcone's a bit of a control freak. He loves certainty.” The wizard flushed a little when he realized that both Marcone and Rahm were staring at him as though he'd just grown another pair of ears. “What? I've been keeping my ears open while shuttling between your offices. Stars and stones. Just because things happen to catch fire around me doesn't mean I'm totally oblivious.”
In the chilly silence that ensued, Rahm shuffled his mind through myriad sets of different scenarios, many of which involved making a quick getaway out from the pub and back onto his home ground.
And then Marcone exhaled loudly. “As much as I... Mister Emanuel, is what Dresden is saying correct?”
Ah, hell. “In a badly abused nutshell, sure. I meant it when I said that I don't have the budget to deal with you right now. If you're good, I might never really get around to doing anything about it.” It went against his grain as a politician, but Chicago was beginning to lean heavily on him, even through the interference, all dissonant notes that faded into neutral once he finished speaking. Pushy, pushy. She didn't like her favorites fighting.
“Perhaps then we have come to an understanding.” Marcone said, his tone a fraction warmer than before. After that concession, the rest of lunch was less like take two of the Cold War, and more akin to something even... friendly. Rahm wasn't entirely sure he liked it, however much Chicago was purring in the back of his mind, but if anything, just like his city, he was adaptable.
postscript.
Hendricks stepped neatly into his way when Harry marched up towards the door of Marcone's office, and he scowled. “Cujo, I'm not in the mood. One of your boss' warehouses just sprouted evil man-eating tomato monsters.” The police, Murphy included, had spent most of the time between dodging angry possessed vegetables in rehashing ancient movie one-liners, and Harry's brain was considerably shot for the day.
“The boss is busy,” Hendricks said firmly, and stepped again when Harry tried to walk around him.
“Don't make me hurt you, man,” Harry warned, straightening up, then he blinked when he heard a sudden, sharp moan, muffled from the heavy door of Marcone's office, followed by a laugh and a deep rasping purr of pleasure. Suddenly thankful that the walls were old-fashioned and opaque, Harry blanched. “Uh. Maybe I'll come back later.”
“You do that, Dresden,” Hendricks said evenly, apparently unfazed as to how his boss seemed to be spending his afternoon.
Just as Harry had edged towards the lifts, there was another laugh, then a familiar growl. “Rahm, if you don't start moving... fuck-!”
Red-faced, Harry stepped smartly into the lift and jammed the 'G' button. He was going to have to spend his afternoon nursing a pint.
-fin... quick fin. ^^;; There are a few other prompts on this meme that look great, but I won't get any writing done for a while once Dragon Age finally comes out in Australia (Thursday!) Hope OP enjoyed this anyway-
After weeks of shuttling between what Harry had begun to think of as the “Emanuel” and “Marcone” camps, Harry's exasperation finally reached boiling point.
Thankfully, it did so in the potentially less lethal environment of Emanuel's office rather than a mob boss' domain, particularly since Emanuel was also aware of the murder crime scene that Harry had been called in to look at this morning. Waking up to being dragged across town on a frosty morning to look at disembowelled bodies really soured Harry's day. Having to deal with Marcone's icy mood, and then finally, Emanuel's particularly bitchy one this afternoon had been the last straw.
“I've had it with being your delivery boy for your games of gay chicken,” Harry snapped, the overhead lights flickering, the Blackberry's appointment notification burble coming to an abrupt halt. “If you have anything else to discuss with Marcone, go and talk to him yourself!” He tossed the heart-shaped box of chocolates onto the table, which failed to land in a dramatic fashion, being a violent pink in hue.
“Whoah there.” Emanuel drawled, folding his arms and leaning his chair back precariously onto the back legs. “If you're feeling left out, I'll just tell Johnny to cut down. You can have the chocolates.”
“I don't want the chocolates!” That hadn't been precisely what Harry had wanted to say, and he took a deep breath when Emanuel smirked, counting silently to ten. The shrill buzz from the computer faded. “The two of you are acting like high school kids.”
“It's all strategy, Dresden,” Emanuel disagreed. “Marcone's gone along with everything I've asked for so far.”
“He's losing patience.”
“He seems to have a lot of patience to lose.”
“Sooner or later he's going to find out that you can't hurt him,” Harry countered. “What then?”
“Harry, I'm a Warden,” Emanuel said patiently. “We've gotten around not breaking the Laws of Magic for centuries.”
“I don't see you carrying a sword around.” Harry said, though he recognised a weak argument when he said one. Just because the genius loci didn't want to hurt Marcone didn't mean that Emanuel didn't know any other sort of spells – and if he truly had been a Warden before, he wouldn't even really need them. “And he has a valkyrie with him.”
“Sigrun? We've met. In the park,” Emanuel added, when Harry arched both his eyebrows. “I'm not that fucking old, thank you very fucking much.”
“I wasn't going to say anything,” Harry said quickly. “But seriously. You guys should work things out before something implodes. If you're lucky, it might not even be my fault. Hell's bells, why am I the one acting as the adult?”
“Because Marcone has a soft spot for you. Less likely to shoot the messenger,” Emanuel grinned his sharkish grin when Harry sputtered, leaning back further to pat the wall pointedly. “I'm in the know, remember? How many times has he shown up to save your bony ass?”
“Bite me,” Harry scowled. This wasn't one of his favorite topics, and he'd long chalked it down to Marcone being very single minded about wanting to employ him. Or something. “You don't see him sending me heart-shaped boxes of chocolate.”
“I'll drop him a note. Dresden, calm the fuck down. Deep breaths. Okay. Start thinking. So far we've had some libraries put in, and some schools that were fucking public liability disasters renovated. Right?”
“Right.” Harry said warily.
“And did Marcone complain at all about having to do it? About how it's burning a hole in the pockets of his Armani pants? About how he has better things to do than spend money on public schools which have leaks that have the potential to electrocute unsuspecting kiddies?”
“No. He usually complains about how you're not budging on wanting him to scale down on his operations.”
“And other than the very first time in the park, have I brought up his operations on any notes?”
“You've sent him those severed toy heads,” Harry noted, after a moment spent searching his memory.
“And?”
“Nothing else,” Harry said, reluctantly. “So what?”
“So, once Marcone realizes it, we're actually in a mutually beneficial system,” Emanuel clapped his hands together with a sharp snap that made Harry flinch. “He does some things with his money to help kids – subject close to his heart, I hear. I get to look as though I'm being tough on the Outfit, if anyone starts nosing around - without actually having to be. And when I replace Hilliard, it won't be with someone who has mob-busting right on top of his 'to-do' list.”
So it was Chicago politics as usual after all. Harry felt... disappointed, somehow. “So you weren't serious about stopping the drug trade and trafficking.”
“Harry, if getting rid of Marcone could stop the drug trade, I'd do it in a heartbeat.” Emanuel said, with a touch of impatience. “But whatever the government, federal or state, wants, the drug trade, trafficking, brothels, money laundering, casino skimming... organised crime is here to stay. Spend money and time beating them down however much you want, you'll just end up with more and more collateral damage. Public prosecutors, police, judges and their families. I'm thinking of a better solution.”
“A better solution?”
“Having all of the Outfit and its factions controlled by just one man – that hasn't happened for a while. Marcone has a no-children rule that he enforces with an iron fist in all of his operations. There has to be a workable way to get him to enforce some others. Take brothels, for example. You've seen street hookers before, I'm sure, and those abused trailer park girls. If Marcone could exercise more top-down control, make sure that the girls aren't strung out on drugs or runaways who'd gotten into bad company, that's going to take some of the load off the Vice department.”
“And in the meantime, you'll funnel all this dirty money into building schools.”
“I've been in investment banking and the federal government, Dresden. Money's money. There's no other shade of it than green. Government takes communist money,” Emanuel shrugged. “Wherever the money came from, if some schools get fixed by anonymous charities and if the crime rate starts becoming manageable, that frees up the state budget for other concerns.”
“I still don't see what you're going to trade with him to get him to do all this for you,” Harry said, skeptical.
“And what did you trade him such that he's willing to pull your ass out of the fire whenever you want?”
“I didn't...!”
“The man's obsessed with mages,” Emanuel pointed out. “Magic fascinates him. I bet he's real disappointed that you chose to bind yourself to Ice Bitch rather than to him.”
“She had immediate benefits at the time,” Harry grit out. “Also, she wasn't my first choice. Obsessed with mages or not, I don't think you're doing this right.”
“So what do you think that I should do?” Emanuel spread his hands wide. “Send some fucking chocolates back?”
“Just talk to him. Somewhere neutral. I don't like your methods but I can appreciate some of your motives. So I'll prefer to see this become a long term thing, rather than something that burns your house down in a month or so when he's done playing along.”
“Okay, Dresden,” Emanuel said, slapping a palm on the table. “You win. Pick a time, pick a place, I'll be there.”
“Great.” Harry said, relieved. “So you can be reasonable after all.”
“Don't fucking get used to it.”
About an hour or so later and on his way back to the precinct to talk to Murphy, Harry entertained a brief, nagging thought that Emanuel had seemed to have agreed a little too easily.
Rahm had nothing against McAnally's – it served a great microbrew and sandwiches – but perhaps because of the way the pub was built, or because of the neutral ground that it had been awarded, it always felt as though he was stepping right out of Chicago whenever he walked into the pub. He could still feel Her around the edges, humming in his peripheral senses with discontent, and he didn't doubt that if She really wanted to she could probably reach him through the layers of enchantment, but felt a little like what walking through a very strong threshold would feel like for a wizard.
For the Emanuel clan, of course, stepping out of Chicago more or less brought on the same impression, and he was used to it. Distracted on making sure that Chicago was keeping an eye on anyone who might have a camera or recording device, Rahm nearly walked right into Dresden, who flinched, startled.
“Emanuel. You're early.”
“Scoping out the grounds,” Rahm said, as Dresden sat himself down at a corner table. He could already see several over the other tables hurriedly finishing whatever they were having and filing out. Apparently Dresden was bad news here – not that it seemed to bother the barkeeper. “You do realize that this is a private place, and if I'm seen having lunch with a mobster it isn't going to be a walk in the fucking park press-wise, right?”
“I'm sure She's paying attention on your behalf,” Dresden shot back. “And relax, photographs don't turn out too well when I'm around.”
They ordered sandwiches and a couple of microbrews and settled down to wait. Dresden was chatty when he'd had a little good alcohol, and he was telling Rahm all about the unlikely murder investigation that he'd been called into, and how he was pretty sure that he was close to a solution. Given that no public property had caught fire yet, Rahm wasn't too sure, but finding out that an investment was doing well was always good for his mood.
Marcone appeared perfectly on time, and frowned slightly when he realized that he was late. His bodyguard moved back to hover behind him, trying to watch the entire room and his boss' back at the same time through some feat of vanilla human concentration, and Rahm leaned back in his chair, briefly entertaining the notion of having Chicago puncture Marcone's tyres outside.
She fed a note of discontent back up at him, and the thought subsided reluctantly. “Nicer than the park, isn't it, Johnny?” Rahm asked, smirking, when Marcone settled down at the opposite end of the table. The tiger was seething, which suited Rahm fine – people had a little less good judgment when they were pissed off.
“I was told that we were going to broker a truce,” Marcone glanced over at Dresden, who shrugged.
“How else was I going to wrangle you into coming here?”
“Dresden-”
“Whoah, whoah.” Rahm raised his hands, palms up. “Gentlemen. Dresden, you gave me the impression that Johnny here wanted to meet up. I'm hurt.”
“I didn't say that.”
Come to think of it, Dresden was right. Bad oversight. “Okay, fine. We can talk terms.”
“Firstly, I want to know why you've been avoiding me.” Marcone said flatly.
“You mean, national headlines aside? Possibly all involving fucking terrible puns about my name and the Outfit?”
“I can be discreet.” Marcone's eyes narrowed. “And I have been more than reasonable with you.”
“And you'll keep on being reasonable,” Rahm drawled. “Or the gloves will come off.”
“If you think that you can just sit where you are and threaten me, Mister Emanuel-”
“You two. Shut the hell up.” Dresden suddenly growled, and the temperature even dropped a considerable notch, etched by Winter's mantle. “Marcone, all Emanuel really wants is for you to keep helping out kids and underprivileged schools. And possibly exercising more control over the Outfit, especially over human exploitation. Emanuel, Marcone's a bit of a control freak. He loves certainty.” The wizard flushed a little when he realized that both Marcone and Rahm were staring at him as though he'd just grown another pair of ears. “What? I've been keeping my ears open while shuttling between your offices. Stars and stones. Just because things happen to catch fire around me doesn't mean I'm totally oblivious.”
In the chilly silence that ensued, Rahm shuffled his mind through myriad sets of different scenarios, many of which involved making a quick getaway out from the pub and back onto his home ground.
And then Marcone exhaled loudly. “As much as I... Mister Emanuel, is what Dresden is saying correct?”
Ah, hell. “In a badly abused nutshell, sure. I meant it when I said that I don't have the budget to deal with you right now. If you're good, I might never really get around to doing anything about it.” It went against his grain as a politician, but Chicago was beginning to lean heavily on him, even through the interference, all dissonant notes that faded into neutral once he finished speaking. Pushy, pushy. She didn't like her favorites fighting.
“Perhaps then we have come to an understanding.” Marcone said, his tone a fraction warmer than before. After that concession, the rest of lunch was less like take two of the Cold War, and more akin to something even... friendly. Rahm wasn't entirely sure he liked it, however much Chicago was purring in the back of his mind, but if anything, just like his city, he was adaptable.
Hendricks stepped neatly into his way when Harry marched up towards the door of Marcone's office, and he scowled. “Cujo, I'm not in the mood. One of your boss' warehouses just sprouted evil man-eating tomato monsters.” The police, Murphy included, had spent most of the time between dodging angry possessed vegetables in rehashing ancient movie one-liners, and Harry's brain was considerably shot for the day.
“The boss is busy,” Hendricks said firmly, and stepped again when Harry tried to walk around him.
“Don't make me hurt you, man,” Harry warned, straightening up, then he blinked when he heard a sudden, sharp moan, muffled from the heavy door of Marcone's office, followed by a laugh and a deep rasping purr of pleasure. Suddenly thankful that the walls were old-fashioned and opaque, Harry blanched. “Uh. Maybe I'll come back later.”
“You do that, Dresden,” Hendricks said evenly, apparently unfazed as to how his boss seemed to be spending his afternoon.
Just as Harry had edged towards the lifts, there was another laugh, then a familiar growl. “Rahm, if you don't start moving... fuck-!”
Red-faced, Harry stepped smartly into the lift and jammed the 'G' button. He was going to have to spend his afternoon nursing a pint.
-fin... quick fin. ^^;; There are a few other prompts on this meme that look great, but I won't get any writing done for a while once Dragon Age finally comes out in Australia (Thursday!) Hope OP enjoyed this anyway-
Page 104 of 177
- «
- 1
- 2
- 3
- 4
- 5
- 6
- 7
- 8
- 9
- 10
- 11
- 12
- 13
- 14
- 15
- 16
- 17
- 18
- 19
- 20
- 21
- 22
- 23
- 24
- 25
- 26
- 27
- 28
- 29
- 30
- 31
- 32
- 33
- 34
- 35
- 36
- 37
- 38
- 39
- 40
- 41
- 42
- 43
- 44
- 45
- 46
- 47
- 48
- 49
- 50
- 51
- 52
- 53
- 54
- 55
- 56
- 57
- 58
- 59
- 60
- 61
- 62
- 63
- 64
- 65
- 66
- 67
- 68
- 69
- 70
- 71
- 72
- 73
- 74
- 75
- 76
- 77
- 78
- 79
- 80
- 81
- 82
- 83
- 84
- 85
- 86
- 87
- 88
- 89
- 90
- 91
- 92
- 93
- 94
- 95
- 96
- 97
- 98
- 99
- 100
- 101
- 102
- 103
- 104
- 105
- 106
- 107
- 108
- 109
- 110
- 111
- 112
- 113
- 114
- 115
- 116
- 117
- 118
- 119
- 120
- 121
- 122
- 123
- 124
- 125
- 126
- 127
- 128
- 129
- 130
- 131
- 132
- 133
- 134
- 135
- 136
- 137
- 138
- 139
- 140
- 141
- 142
- 143
- 144
- 145
- 146
- 147
- 148
- 149
- 150
- 151
- 152
- 153
- 154
- 155
- 156
- 157
- 158
- 159
- 160
- 161
- 162
- 163
- 164
- 165
- 166
- 167
- 168
- 169
- 170
- 171
- 172
- 173
- 174
- 175
- 176
- 177
- »
Page 104 of 177