"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.
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.
Here is what is going through my mind as I finish this: "Read it again right away, or comment saying how much I love it? Read it again! No, wait, must comment. But! Want to read it again!"
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 01:17 am (UTC)(link)Any ship, but John/Harry would have most fodder for fucked-up-ness.
Fill
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 08:14 am (UTC)(link)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.
Re: Fill
Re: Fill
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 11:51 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 01:26 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill
(Anonymous) 2011-03-08 02:14 pm (UTC)(link)Here is what is going through my mind as I finish this: "Read it again right away, or comment saying how much I love it? Read it again! No, wait, must comment. But! Want to read it again!"
This hurts so coldly.
Re: Fill
(Anonymous) 2011-03-09 08:01 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill