Fire and Ice: Chapter 11
Spoilers: Through Turncoat
Rating: NC-17 (varying on chapter)
Pairings: Harry/Marcone
Warnings: Language, Violence, Sex and Sexual reference including but not limited to gay sex (varying on chapter)
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Dresden Files characters, plots, lines, etc.
Author's Notes: Been MIA for awhile, I know. Holidays, finals, etc. Always fun, fun, fun. On the bright side, I've written quite a bit in my novel. Now on page thirty. Chapter 5. Goin' slow, but steady. In any case, I'm posting, what I hope, will be an amusing chapter for you. Almost 5000 words of Harry/Marcone bantering joy. I really can't keep them in character, well. I don't pretend I don't know that. But sidelining Harry with things he knows Marcone would usually never do is just too amusing to miss out on. So, I will leave you to readin':D I hope you enjoy.
I could hear voices just on the fringes of my hearing as I began to wake. Using my ability to Listen, I caught the sound of a rich voice discussing weather possibilities for the next week. ‘A television?’ I wondered to myself. After several more seconds confirmed my suspicions, I tuned it out. I didn’t need to know the weather. I lived on a whole different plane from the rest of humanity.
In Harry Dresden’s world, it was always calling for rain.
Lots and lots of rain.
With a groan, I opened reluctant eyes on a darkened room. I hurt everywhere. Bruises, cuts, scrapes, bumps. They were all waging war on my body in a way that left me groggy and drained. But in spite the pain, I discovered with disbelief that I was warm, clean, bandaged, and dry. And, above all things, I was unrestrained, body floating on the cotton waves of an expensive bedspread. I thought that boded well for me, considering other ways in which I had roused myself from a comatose state in the past. Flattening my hands on the bed, I pushed up and--
Stars and Stones, that was a big mistake.
Letting out a hiss of anguish, I relaxed and eased myself back onto the bed. Damn, Marcone. I’m no wimp. No lightweight. But shit, the guy had one helluva punch for a normy human. Smug bastard.
Said smug bastard chose that moment to drift in from the other room, allowing the flickering lights of the television to seep in behind him. I glared at him, but I imagine John didn’t find it threatening, coming from one battered wizard too discomforted by his injuries to even sit up and face him properly. In fact, he ignored me completely, moving to my bedside. “You’ve been unconscious for almost a day,” he informed me, his face highlighted by the silver glow of the TV screen out in the other room. “It is just reaching dawn.”
“Dammit,” I mumbled hoarsely. “I got nothing done, again. If I don’t find that stupid bird, it’s going to make Alfred Hitchcock look like he was as good a psychic as he was a director.” I tried to sit up, again, but Marcone pinned me with an arm across my chest.
“Don’t,” he ordered.
I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, by now, but I really don’t do well taking orders. Reaching up a hand, I made a feeble attempt to push his arm off of me, but his pressure held, and I couldn’t budge him. “Get off,” I growled at him.
The sound of a drawer gliding open intruded on the silence of the room. “Just hold still,” he told me firmly. “I’m trying to help.”
“Ha! Yeah. Help,” I said, voice dry and crisp as old autumn leaves. “Do tell me. Is that deep purple patch on my stomach--the one the exact size and shape of your fist--supposed to be the product of your help? Because I think I can do without it,” I snarked at him, shoving him away.
But he didn’t let up. To make matters worse, I noted then that my blasting rod was missing along with the comfortable weight of my duster--my duster that would now have to be resent to the dry cleaners, thanks to Marcone. I had no shirt on, and my shoes and socks had been stripped away. I lifted a foot experimentally, and in the flashing lights of the television, I found myself wearing sweatpants about a foot too short to cover the vast length of my legs.
Wow. It was just like being mugged. One minute you’re asleep, and the next, you wake up and your clothes are gone.
Marcone shook his head and quipped, “No. The fist-shaped dent in your abdominal region is the product of you inexplicably wearing my patience for idiocy down to its final, agonizing death throes.” He was fiddling with something in his free hand while he talked. Hell’s bells, could you believe the muscles on this guy? A vanilla human restraining me with one arm and finding enough focus to turn his attention to something else. Fucking A.
“Oh. So, it’s all my fault then,” I demanded sullenly.
“Indeed,” he stated simply, sounding bored.
And that just pissed me off.
I could have thrown him straight through the ceiling with some quasi-Latin. And I probably would have, too, but in the last processes of the thought, Marcone chose that moment to speak. “I do, however, apologize. I did not mean for the strike to be quite so...zealous.”
Bemused at the unexpected apology, I didn’t get the chance to ask how I had warranted such special treatment. Because just then, Marcone finished what he was doing, and his hand--smothered in something so icy that it almost literally burned--came down overtop my bruise. My entire body balked at the sensation, and I struggled to get away from the searing cold. Marcone continued to hold me down, and I arched my back to force him away, gasping out, “By the blood of Hell, what are you doing!”
Marcone could not be moved, and he flattened me to the bed, exerting more weight on my chest. “Easy, Harry,” he murmured, emerald eyes calmly meeting my own brown ones. “Just hold still. It’ll help you feel better.”
“Like Hell it will!” I shouted at him. Damn, whatever it was it hurt. “While you’re at it, why don’t you go find some shards of broken glass! It’s just not a party without lacerations and salt, you demented nurse of the Anti-Christ! And don’t call me--
But my protests died away unexpectedly as a sweet coolness spread through my veins at a remarkable speed. One minute, I was aching everywhere. The next, I was numb but for the pleasurable tingle across my scalp, toes, and fingertips. I couldn’t help it. I moaned, body involuntarily unwinding under Marcone’s grip.
Marcone was simpering, eyes containing laughter in their far depths. “Better?” he practically purred.
I made a noise that couldn’t be construed for anything but wholehearted agreement. What in name of God and all things holy was that stuff?
“Guess I’m not so bad for a demented nurse of the Anti-Christ,” he threw back at me easily. He straightened with a grunt, then peered down at me with a sigh. “Just think. If you weren’t so needlessly obdurate, you could have been experiencing this almost fifteen minutes ago.”
He was right. Dammit. Why had I been fighting him, again? Waves of delight were washing away my reason. I tried to say something to him, but I couldn’t process enough to make a coherent thought. Everything was sliding over my brain as if it had been coated in a sheet of slick ice.
He shook his head at me, cocky smile still rooted in place. “I’ll be waiting in the living room for when you come back to yourself,” he let me know, making his way toward the door. “Then we need to discuss how to deal with Chicago’s little problem.” The door closed behind him, casting the room into pitch black.
When I woke, again, I’d find that Chicago’s little problem had grown a lot bigger.
_________________________________________________________________________________
I wasn’t out long--the nagging chill pulling at the muscles of my abdomen sent my brain the memo regarding that information. I sat up with a grunt, and was surprised to find myself able to do so. The bone-deep pangs of injury had dulled to a low, humming background noise, and my head felt clearer. Clearer than it had since Gard had punted me.
The room was still dark, and I fumbled in the din to find the doorknob. I finally found it after several minutes, and twisted. The door swung open on the scene of Marcone doing push-ups on a yoga mat--in front of the biggest television I had ever seen outside of a theatre--naked but for a pair of white martial artists pants.
So much for a clearer head.
After staring for what felt like an hour, Marcone shot me an irritated glance. “Take a picture, why don’t you? It’ll last longer.”
I flushed, face hot, and I was suddenly thankful that the room was dark except for the glow of the ginormous TV. “Sorry,” I murmured, fighting the urge to drag a sheepish foot across the floor. “I’ve never seen you quite so-- My hindbrain inputted a number of words to fill that space: smokin’ hot, bare, delicious, sweaty, drop dead gorgeous, unbelievably sexy. Fortunately for me, I kneed my subconscious in the groin and substituted all available options with, “Casual.”
Marcone pushed himself up, again, beginning to shake with fatigue. “My apologies...Mr. Dresden,” he gritted with strain and a healthy dollop of sarcasm, lowering himself. Rising, he continued, “I forget...you are not a regular...of my personal home life...and its events.”
‘I would be if you dressed like that every day,’ a voice leered in my head. And for the first time, I was unsure if I had said it, or if it was my darker nature. The light left intriguing shadows winding on his back, and I had the abrupt urge to sink my teeth into the tender flesh and taste him. I pushed the desire away, but the simple picture of it sent a hot streak down my spine.
Instead of allowing Marcone to see my shiver, I disguised it by sauntering over to the couch and flopping down on it. I observed with some amusement that the furniture had been moved some way away from the television and other electronics, and I suspected it had something to do with a wizard coming into the household. Watching Marcone (I really couldn’t help but watch Marcone as he flexed and relaxed in a steady rhythm) I asked him the first question that came to mind. “What in the name of God was that stuff you put on me?” I was examining the bruise, which didn’t appear to be quite as dark as I’d thought it would be.
Marcone let out a harsh breath as he reached the apex of his next push, then forced through ground teeth, “If you are inquiring...as to the ingredients of the Calla Lily Balm...I applied to your afflicted region--” He came down, again, so painstakingly patient and slow that I grimaced. “--you will have to ask...Ms. Gard.”
I barely heard what he said. All I could think of was how much I wanted to walk over and press my bare chest to heat of his shoulders and back. It was hard to tell which of us was exerting more discipline at the moment. With an act of will, I pried myself from salacious daydreams and forced myself to question, “Where is Ms. Gard, anyway?”
“Out with your dog,” Marcone answered with bared teeth, elbows straightening.
I blinked. “How’d that happen?”
He snorted. “I gave her an advance on her next check,” he explained, “to take him with her.” He threw a annoyed look my way as he bent back down. “He was drooling all over the rug.”
I smirked and told myself I’d have to get Mouse his own Whopper from Burger King for that one. “Sorry,” I said to Marcone. Though, my voice might not have been very sincere. “And where has your valkyrie carried my dog off to?”
God. How many more push-ups was he going to do? “To...visit Mr. Hendricks at the hospital,” he explained. “And also to collect information in...in regards to the city.”
“Oh,” I said. And because I could think of nothing else to say, I added, “Good idea, I guess.”
Marcone grunted in response and then fell silent, apparently having no further comment on the subject. As the silence stretched, becoming something palpable and pervasive, I shifted in discomfort as I sensed the underlying awkwardness filling the room. In response, I grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the news, trying to chase away the feeling of suffocating in a void.
It felt odd, sitting in front of the TV with John Marcone on the floor at my feet doing daily, routine exercises. One part of the weird was the fact that I had a television to watch. Being a wizard seemed to upset the Gods of Technology on a massive level, so I’d never had the luxury of seeing much local programming. Most of my news came the old fashioned way. From newspapers.
The other abnormality of the situation was that...having the TV there felt more strange to me than having John there. It should have been the other way around. For all I’d ever been with the man a few dozen times, and they’d been in moments where the world was facing catastrophe, something just felt...normal...about Marcone being in a regular house with me.
I wondered if I should have written, ‘Find Psychologist’ on my list, instead of, ‘Get Laid’. I guess that just told me what head I was thinking with.
I was just getting up enough courage to ask Marcone if he thought it strange we were here alone together--that Gard had trusted me to stay with him and not do him harm--when the lady on the news spoke up, “An attack on the home of millionaire and entrepreneur John Marcone has left two cops wounded and another seven dead.”
Marcone froze mid-push, head snapping towards the screen. “Authorities allegedly say that local gangs charged the estate in a shower of gunfire before they arrived to put a stop to the assault.”
“Like Hell they did!” I snarled. Fucking media bitch.
“Police are unaware, at this point, of what triggered the hostilities on the home front,” she continued, “but Mafia connections and drug relations are suspected at this current time. Investigations are pending.”
I stiffened. Holy shit. I slid my gaze to Marcone.
He had stopped his exercises, and had dragged a knee under him as he stared blankly at the television. I imagined he was horrified, and while I couldn’t tell in this lighting, I doubted he had much in the way of color left in his face. I thought it couldn’t get worse. I was wrong.
“In other news,” a male reporter started in this time. “Riots erupted in the streets this morning after a series of vandalisms, murders, and robberies were committed overnight.” I slowly got to my feet as the camera panned out over the streets of Chicago. Streets filled with fire, blood, and angry masses. Streets...just blocks from my apartment. “This is Linda with the story. Linda?”
“Thank you, Bobby,” Linda answered, her face much too cheerful to be going along with the destruction behind her. “The havoc started early this morning when four bodies were discovered outside a ravaged gas station just down this street. One of the bodies was identified as the Gas Station’s clerk, James Lynne. All the money was left in the till, but authorities say that Country Market’s entire supply of food was devastated in a single night. Cars parked up and down the street, and even in local parking garages, were found with multiple punctures in the tires. Police aren’t yet certain, but it is assumed that the same sharp implement used to flatten the tires was also used in the brutal, stabbing deaths of all four victims.”
“Mr. Dresden,” Marcone murmured, eyes glued to the screen, absorbing a disorder that must have been alien to him--turmoil unknown to a man that was so in control of everything around him. He clicked a button on the remote that froze the program--he must have had Tivo--and pointed at the screen. There he was in the corner--my little, retarded looking road runner. “I think we have just found your bird.”
______________________________________________________________________________
“I understand your concern, Ms. Gard,” Marcone was explaining calmly into a brand new cell phone--his other one had been ruined by water damage...oops. “But there was a time I was capable of defending myself without your aid.” We were on our way out of the safe house and to a spare car in the garage. I don’t know where we were, other than near Lake Michigan. I could see her waters winking merrily in the distance. “Yes,” Marcone said. “I realize that.”
Marcone suddenly did the most childish thing I’d ever seen him do in my life. He rolled his eyes, turned to me, and started flapping his hand in a sock puppet, ‘blah, blah, blah’ kind of gesture. It was only after the fourth or fifth flap that he caught my eyes and realized who he was doing it in front of. His guarded exterior came back into place with speeds that had to give his brain whiplash. Maybe it did. I could’ve sworn his cheeks turned vaguely pink.
I couldn’t help but wonder who it was he usually did that with. Hendricks? I could kind of see that. Long business call in his private office. Gets kinda bored and starts puppetting people, trying to see if he can get Cujo to crack a smile. Maybe doodles a funny sketch of some suit with a mouth almost as big as his head.
No. Wait. The last one was me. And I did that doodle of Marcone. Whoops.
Gard’s voice, coming through the phone so loudly that it crackled, brought me back from DoodleLand. “Are you even listening to me!”
Marcone pulled the phone away with a wince, then glared down at it. “I will not warn you, again. Do not yell at me, Ms. Gard. Dresden and I must move swiftly or the creature may escape us.”
There appeared to be a long pause, and then her voice came through. It was indistinguishable, but there was a definite note of inquiry there. Marcone raised an eyebrow, then his gaze slid to me. “Yes. He’s right here. Why?”
There was another bout of shouting on the other end. She was so angry and the phone so static that I couldn’t tell what she was having a hissy fit over. Did I...do something? That wasn't entirely fair. Sure. I got into trouble. But that didn't mean I was going to get Marcone killed...right? Right? Don't give me that look. I'm right, right?
Marcone’s eyes narrowed, then he peered at me and his lips twisted into a feline smirk. “What was that, Ms. Gard? I’m afraid I’m losing you.”
And then he promptly tossed the phone at me. On reflex, I caught it in a fumbling grip. I blinked. It was all it took. There was an ominous, electric bubbling sound beneath the plastic, and then a puff of smoke announced the cell’s untimely demise.
Marcone got in the car--a plain, white Ford Tempo. Dull. Boring. Inconspicuous. I stared down at the now useless device in my hand, and then at John’s silhouette in the front seat. Feeling confused and more than a little anxious, I popped open the passenger door and climbed in. The damn car was tiny, and as I drew my knobby knees to my chest, I commented, “I’m sensing I’ve just been made your accessory in this white lie of yours.”
“Insightful,” Marcone said briskly.
“I’m so glad my ability to break things fixes your problems,” I muttered caustically. In a meeker tone I added, “I feel used.”
“You should be appreciative, Mr. Dresden,” Marcone informed me. “I took something of inconvenience to you and gave it a purpose. Made it efficient. It would have broken in your presence regardless.”
I heaved out a sigh, thumbing the phone’s now darkened buttons, and said deadpan, “Wow. Now, I feel used and inconvenient. You’re so efficient, John.”
Without a trace of modesty, John answered, “I know.”
___________________________________________________________________________________
The Tempo pitter-pattered its way into the Windy City, announcing its presence with an occasional backfire. I slanted a brow in Marcone’s direction, “You actually bought this piece of shit? And you judge my car?”
“I would never pay for this car what you pay for in repairs for that...contraption of collected refuse you call a motor vehicle,” he sniped, testing the limits of traffic violations as he tore through another “orange” light.
“Would you fucking slow down, you asshole!” I hollered, gripping the edges of the seat so hard that my knuckles paled.
“You told me to get there ASAP,” Marcone argued, whipping around a corner so fast that the tires skid into the curb.
“Yeah!” I shouted. “But I don’t want to die in your POS!”
“It’s something I consider you think about next time...before you get in!” he yelled, whisking around and cutting off the black sedan that pulled out in front of us.
I goggled at him in horror. “Next time? Fuck you! I’m driving from now on!”
Marcone’s eyes caught mine. I could read the message easily: “When Hell freezes over, Harry Dresden. When Hell freezes over.”
“Would you...would you--Would you stop looking at me and watch the road, you sociopath!” I cried, grabbing his chin in hand and turning his head toward the windshield. Marcone swerved around the minivan that was turning far too slowly in front of us.
“Did you ever notice,” Marcone asked, not even phased by the notion that he’d nearly plowed, full speed, into the back of another vehicle, “that everyone that drives a big vehicle is a prick and that people in minivans seem to suffer a significant drop in IQ points?”
I groaned, putting my head between my knees. “Just tell me when we get there.”
About twenty minutes later, we pulled up next to the Gas Station that had been hit the night before. The scene was decorated with long stretches of yellow ribbon that blared the word, “Caution” over and over again. Police and forensics teams had already been through. The clean up crew was idly power washing blood off of the sidewalk. The riots had also cleared out, leaving the street eerily hushed in the Chicago morning. Smoke was rising from where fires had been burning, and windows all up and down the street were smashed in.
Marcone drove and parked down the street from the crime scene. Small puffs of steam were billowing out from under the hood, and somewhere in my episodes of panic, the cars electric seat belt system had shorted out. Marcone ducked under the now immobile shoulder strap and shot me an annoyed look. With a sheepish shrug, I muttered, “If I broke it, you bought it?” He pinched the bridge of his nose before piling out of the car.
Marcone was dressed down for the day, a low standard I’d never seen on him before. His low standard still left the higher ones for my clothing choking in the dust. The black turtleneck sweater was immaculately free of debris, and his light wash jeans fit him better than his suit--and that was really saying something. The sneakers were that unnaturally new shade of piecing white. Hell, they probably were new. When did John ever wear tennis shoes? A dove gray backpack slung over his shoulder almost gave him the appearance of a college student. What finished that look, however, was the Cubs hat he’d pulled down low over his face.
“Always pictured you as a Sox fan,” I murmured to him as we approached the caution tape with...well...caution.
Marcone snorted and glanced at me. “Now where’s the challenge in that?”
It took me a moment to realize that statement had me grinning like an idiot. When I did finally notice, I quickly wiped it away and peeked at Marcone to see if he’d seen it. Something in his eyes told me he had. I looked away and did my best not to flush red. Clearing my throat, I asked, “You think it’s still here?”
No sooner had the words left my mouth, Marcone’s arm caught my chest, halting my progress. I peered at him with a blink, then followed his intense gaze to the concrete at my feet.
One of the birds was staring right up at us with its too big, black watery eyes. It looked just like it had with my sight. A baseball-shaped pile of fluff on two stilt-like legs, and a straight, pointed beak almost too long for its body. Marcone and I shared a significant glance, then he handed me the burlap sack and piece of rope from his backpack. Opening the mouth of the sack wide, I leaned forward--slowly so as not to startle the stupid thing into running off--and held my breath.
Two feet away, the bird cocked its head to the right with a cooing noise, looking straight up at me. A foot away, it repeated the gesture, only going to the left this time. Six inches away, I paused as the bird lifted its claws off the pavement to scratch an itch where its ear would be. Three inches away--
An ass in a red convertible screeched its tires as it came to stop next to us, and blared his horn. The bird poofed out--almost as if in disapproval--then darted away at uncanny speeds. I made a lunge for it. I missed. “Hey! You!” the driver shouted, hitting his horn a few more times. “The Cubs SUCK!!!”
“God damn your hat, John!” I snarled, sprinting after the bird while John was busy flipping it at the driver. It was a gesture I’d never seen him do, but I’d have to wrap my mind around it later.
I’d also worry about why I was aroused by the Chicagoan accent that came steadily to his lips when he answered with a resounding, “Oh, fuck you! Go back to your penthouse, ya fag!”
Hell’s bells. My life couldn’t get any weirder today.
Marcone caught up to me easily, padding along with dignity while I huffed and puffed my brains out trying to catch our peg-legged golfball. “Are you having fun mingling with the public?” I wheezed, throwing him a glare.
“I needed a moment to memorize his license plates,” he told me. “We’ll see how efficiently his car drives when the brakes are cut.”
I groaned, but didn’t respond. I didn’t have the breath to anyway. The bird vanished around the corner to an alley. John and I followed suit, then came to a dead halt. My stomach plummeted all the way to my feet.
The alley was filled to the brim with birds. Birds upon birds upon birds. They were shredding garbage bags open, gobbling up the contents savagely. It was like a horde of gigantic fire ants. A swarm ravaging all in their path. Even as I stared, about twenty of them reduced a dumpster into swiss cheese. Another two pieced the glass outside of a beer bottle, lapping up the contents with insatiable thirst. The skeleton of a dog lay just within my sight, bones stripped bare and a puddle of blood beneath it.
“Marcone...” I ventured, feeling sick. “I think we’re going to need a bigger bag...”
End Chapter 11