{ Birthday Magic }
.:Title:. Birthday Magic
.:Author:. Lovely_fee
.:Pairing/Characters:. Bob/Harry mainly (no smut, sadly)
.:Disclaimer:. Not mine. I'm not making any money with this. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.
.:Rating:. PG-ish, because Harry is a foul mouthed little critter sometimes. And also for the implied ... Well, you'll see.
.:Summary:. Harry is locked out of his apartment, chased away from McAnally's, and ends up at his office, where a surprise awaits him.
.:Warning:. Spoiler of book six, Blood Rites.
.:Word Count:. 1539
.:Cross Posted:. To my journal
.:Author's Note:. My first go at a Bob/Harry fic, and that shows with the lack of smut. Also, this is for the October Challenge (look at me, writing it just a few days before the end of October). It takes place in this sort of ... Mixed world, somewhere between the book!verse and the TV!verse. So, keep that in mind. But it doesn't matter if you only know one or the other because it's mostly Harry and Bob. Enjoy. :D
EDIT: The main element from the telly series is that Bob is a ghost instead of a spirit of intellect. Other than that, it is more or less purely book!verse. (I got a comment about it being a tick confusing. Hopefully this helps.)
*************
I don’t usually hold office hours on my birthday, and for good reasons. Over the years I’ve learned that it doesn’t bode well to be a listed, practicing wizard in Chicago on Halloween. It’s sort of like painting a big orange target right on your forehead and dressing as a fly. Because the city’s streets become lined with invisible strands of paranormal danger. Or maybe that’s the paranoia talking.
But it’s a fact that rotten, or weird, things tend to happen on my birthday. So, for the past few years, I’ve taken to hiding out either in my apartment or at McAnally’s while all hell tries to break loose. Out of sight, out of mind right? (It didn’t work with the stupid scorpion, so I don’t know why I keep bothering with the adage. Bullheadedness I suppose.)
This year, though, I came home and found my apartment locked up with a piece of black paper taped to the door. Someone, and my bet is on Thomas, had written on it, in fluorescent green ink: Harry, go party. It’s your birthday and I need the apartment.
Not to sound like an ass, but it’s my apartment. So I tried to strong arm my way in and got smacked in the face with a ward I hadn’t put there. It was odd, but not terribly disconcerting. Because, like I said, I assumed it was my vampiric half-brother just being a jerk. So I turned around, grumbling and broody in a way only a wizard can manage, and trekked back up the stairs and to the Blue Beetle.
The car stuttered to life and, blessedly, didn’t break down on the way to McAnally’s. Technology tends to act up around we wizardly folks, but my mechanic kept the Beetle running better than anyone else I could afford. And he wasn’t nosy. The only thing that would make his service better would have been if he could have found replacement doors and hood for the Beetle that were the same powder blue as its original.
But hey, I’m not going to complain.
McAnally’s is a pub. It’s all done up in earthy tones and decorated to strategically muck with an angry wizard’s inadvertent trickling of energy. That made it safe (as did the neutral ground Accords that Mac had signed). Speaking of Mac, the bartender and owner. He’s a helluva guy. Old, I think, definitely the quiet type. But his ale is excellent, as are his steaks.
The place is sort of like my home away from home. When I need to think without Bob or Thomas or Mister or Mouse bugging me, I go to Mac’s. It’s even better if I have a spare buck or two, because then I get food. And Neanderthal Harry likes food.
So that’s where I went. I was kicked out of my own damn apartment on my birthday, but an ale or three from Mac made that seem almost alright. Would have been even better if I’d actually gotten to enjoy aforementioned warm, frothy ale.
When I walked into the pub I ducked my head. Stupid low ceiling. Stupid scary ceiling fans. I nodded to Mac, who stood behind the bar, rubbing the inside of a glass with a dry cloth (why is he always doing that?). He didn’t return the motion, but his posture became instantly rigid.
“Dresden. Message.” It was all he said, and he jerked his head toward a piece of black paper sitting on the bar in front of him.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, as I crossed the space and picked up the paper. It was the same black construction paper, and the words were in the same fluorescent green. It said: Figures you’d go to Mac’s. I guess I did say party, though. But, hey. A little birdie told me there’s something at your office you might want. So, uh … Guess you should go there, right?
I scowled at Mac. “Stupid vampire pretty boy leave this for you?”
“Nnng.” I took the grunt as an affirmative and muttered a curse in response.
“He’ll have me running all over the freaking city, Mac,” I said, and never thought that bitching to Mac was useless. The guy is easy to talk to, maybe because he rarely says anything back. “It’s my birthday.”
Something glinted in his eyes, and he sat the glass down on the counter behind him. “Should go then,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if he was telling me to go have fun or go to my office.
“Stars and Stones, Mac. Whose side are you on, anyway?” It was a stupid question, and he leveled me a look that told me as much; Mac wasn’t on anyone’s side. Like I’ve said, he’s wise like that.
I rolled my eyes and muttered a goodbye to Mac. Then I headed back to the Beetle and forced it to wheeze to life yet again. The car sounded as annoyed as I felt as I swung it out onto a busy Chicago street and headed towards my office. But that was fine with me. Hell, I hoped it kicked up some environmentally unfriendly pollution right into some happy Halloweener’s face.
And that’s how I traveled to my office. My little car puttered along without much will to it, but plenty of character. I don’t think it emitted any more smog than usual, and that was a shame, because I saw plenty of smug looking guys give me a strange look as I drove by.
It would serve them right to get caught up in something messy. By which I mean a bad batch of apple cider or something. Sheesh, people. I can’t really wish bad things on people. That’s bad for business.
Few lights were on in the building that housed my little corner office. And that wasn’t a surprise. Most people didn’t hold office hours on Halloween, similar to myself. But their reasons were probably a lot more mundane. Because I really doubted any of them had to deal with demons or ghosts. Or annoying, wise-ass vampire half-brothers either.
That thought propelled me up the stairs, two at a time (no thank you to the elevator, I’ve had bad experiences with the things) and to the proper floor. It was dark up there, too, the hallway lit only by every other over head light. That was fine with me, suited my mood.
I paused at my door to read yet another note left by Thomas. This one said: Look, I know you’re going to be pissed at me for getting involved. But, just remember that none of this was my idea, okay?
I scowled at that. Thomas didn’t usually forewarn me when he did something annoying. Most of time he just fixed me with his irritatingly apathetic grey eyes and told me to deal with it. It made me nervous. Just what the hell was going on?
Alarm bells rang in my mind, along with a pleasant little sensation that I couldn’t quite place. Something was waiting for me in my office, but when I looked in I couldn’t see anything. Just the same old table with pamphlets about magic (most written by me). Beyond that was my desk, and the huge windows that I’d occasionally wondered about plunging out …
I shook the feeling off and, against my better judgment, went into the room. When I flicked on the light, everything about the room changed. The light overhead didn’t come on, for one, instead, dozens of lit candles appeared. The desk disappeared, as did every other professional accoutrement. To replace all my sparse furniture was a huge, elegant, four poster bed. Complete with a draping red satin coverlet and canopy.
Okay. That was weird. Really, really weird.
I turned around, hoping to escape, but the door behind me had vanished and been replaced with a solid wall. There was no window looking out into the hall, just an off white wall covered with soft looking tapestries. That made me think, and I looked around again.
Rugs covered the floor, layered, texture over texture. And all sorts of bits of fabric covered the walls, too. It looked like the love nest, pimp version of my basement apartment. Except that, when I imagined my basement as a love nest, I didn’t go so far as to include twittering bird song with no source. And that was the strangest thing about it, the little sounds coming from everywhere and nowhere. They would drive me insane.
My eyes fell on the figure standing off to one side. He was regal, clad all in red velvet that matched the stupid bed coverings. His snowy hair stood out against his clothing and the scenery around him, and he was grinning.
“Bob,” I said, my voice tight. “How’d you pull this off?”
He shrugged. “Magic, Harry.”
“You’ve overdone yourself,” I took a step toward him, and he moved to the side, toward the bed.
“I’ve been saving up my energy. And I had help from a few spirits I know.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow, wondering if this could go where I thought it might.
“Oh,” he nodded, and his expression became playful. “Come here, Harry Dresden. It’s your birthday.”
.:Author:. Lovely_fee
.:Pairing/Characters:. Bob/Harry mainly (no smut, sadly)
.:Disclaimer:. Not mine. I'm not making any money with this. Yadda. Yadda. Yadda.
.:Rating:. PG-ish, because Harry is a foul mouthed little critter sometimes. And also for the implied ... Well, you'll see.
.:Summary:. Harry is locked out of his apartment, chased away from McAnally's, and ends up at his office, where a surprise awaits him.
.:Warning:. Spoiler of book six, Blood Rites.
.:Word Count:. 1539
.:Cross Posted:. To my journal
.:Author's Note:. My first go at a Bob/Harry fic, and that shows with the lack of smut. Also, this is for the October Challenge (look at me, writing it just a few days before the end of October). It takes place in this sort of ... Mixed world, somewhere between the book!verse and the TV!verse. So, keep that in mind. But it doesn't matter if you only know one or the other because it's mostly Harry and Bob. Enjoy. :D
EDIT: The main element from the telly series is that Bob is a ghost instead of a spirit of intellect. Other than that, it is more or less purely book!verse. (I got a comment about it being a tick confusing. Hopefully this helps.)
*************
I don’t usually hold office hours on my birthday, and for good reasons. Over the years I’ve learned that it doesn’t bode well to be a listed, practicing wizard in Chicago on Halloween. It’s sort of like painting a big orange target right on your forehead and dressing as a fly. Because the city’s streets become lined with invisible strands of paranormal danger. Or maybe that’s the paranoia talking.
But it’s a fact that rotten, or weird, things tend to happen on my birthday. So, for the past few years, I’ve taken to hiding out either in my apartment or at McAnally’s while all hell tries to break loose. Out of sight, out of mind right? (It didn’t work with the stupid scorpion, so I don’t know why I keep bothering with the adage. Bullheadedness I suppose.)
This year, though, I came home and found my apartment locked up with a piece of black paper taped to the door. Someone, and my bet is on Thomas, had written on it, in fluorescent green ink: Harry, go party. It’s your birthday and I need the apartment.
Not to sound like an ass, but it’s my apartment. So I tried to strong arm my way in and got smacked in the face with a ward I hadn’t put there. It was odd, but not terribly disconcerting. Because, like I said, I assumed it was my vampiric half-brother just being a jerk. So I turned around, grumbling and broody in a way only a wizard can manage, and trekked back up the stairs and to the Blue Beetle.
The car stuttered to life and, blessedly, didn’t break down on the way to McAnally’s. Technology tends to act up around we wizardly folks, but my mechanic kept the Beetle running better than anyone else I could afford. And he wasn’t nosy. The only thing that would make his service better would have been if he could have found replacement doors and hood for the Beetle that were the same powder blue as its original.
But hey, I’m not going to complain.
McAnally’s is a pub. It’s all done up in earthy tones and decorated to strategically muck with an angry wizard’s inadvertent trickling of energy. That made it safe (as did the neutral ground Accords that Mac had signed). Speaking of Mac, the bartender and owner. He’s a helluva guy. Old, I think, definitely the quiet type. But his ale is excellent, as are his steaks.
The place is sort of like my home away from home. When I need to think without Bob or Thomas or Mister or Mouse bugging me, I go to Mac’s. It’s even better if I have a spare buck or two, because then I get food. And Neanderthal Harry likes food.
So that’s where I went. I was kicked out of my own damn apartment on my birthday, but an ale or three from Mac made that seem almost alright. Would have been even better if I’d actually gotten to enjoy aforementioned warm, frothy ale.
When I walked into the pub I ducked my head. Stupid low ceiling. Stupid scary ceiling fans. I nodded to Mac, who stood behind the bar, rubbing the inside of a glass with a dry cloth (why is he always doing that?). He didn’t return the motion, but his posture became instantly rigid.
“Dresden. Message.” It was all he said, and he jerked his head toward a piece of black paper sitting on the bar in front of him.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered, as I crossed the space and picked up the paper. It was the same black construction paper, and the words were in the same fluorescent green. It said: Figures you’d go to Mac’s. I guess I did say party, though. But, hey. A little birdie told me there’s something at your office you might want. So, uh … Guess you should go there, right?
I scowled at Mac. “Stupid vampire pretty boy leave this for you?”
“Nnng.” I took the grunt as an affirmative and muttered a curse in response.
“He’ll have me running all over the freaking city, Mac,” I said, and never thought that bitching to Mac was useless. The guy is easy to talk to, maybe because he rarely says anything back. “It’s my birthday.”
Something glinted in his eyes, and he sat the glass down on the counter behind him. “Should go then,” he said, and I wasn’t sure if he was telling me to go have fun or go to my office.
“Stars and Stones, Mac. Whose side are you on, anyway?” It was a stupid question, and he leveled me a look that told me as much; Mac wasn’t on anyone’s side. Like I’ve said, he’s wise like that.
I rolled my eyes and muttered a goodbye to Mac. Then I headed back to the Beetle and forced it to wheeze to life yet again. The car sounded as annoyed as I felt as I swung it out onto a busy Chicago street and headed towards my office. But that was fine with me. Hell, I hoped it kicked up some environmentally unfriendly pollution right into some happy Halloweener’s face.
And that’s how I traveled to my office. My little car puttered along without much will to it, but plenty of character. I don’t think it emitted any more smog than usual, and that was a shame, because I saw plenty of smug looking guys give me a strange look as I drove by.
It would serve them right to get caught up in something messy. By which I mean a bad batch of apple cider or something. Sheesh, people. I can’t really wish bad things on people. That’s bad for business.
Few lights were on in the building that housed my little corner office. And that wasn’t a surprise. Most people didn’t hold office hours on Halloween, similar to myself. But their reasons were probably a lot more mundane. Because I really doubted any of them had to deal with demons or ghosts. Or annoying, wise-ass vampire half-brothers either.
That thought propelled me up the stairs, two at a time (no thank you to the elevator, I’ve had bad experiences with the things) and to the proper floor. It was dark up there, too, the hallway lit only by every other over head light. That was fine with me, suited my mood.
I paused at my door to read yet another note left by Thomas. This one said: Look, I know you’re going to be pissed at me for getting involved. But, just remember that none of this was my idea, okay?
I scowled at that. Thomas didn’t usually forewarn me when he did something annoying. Most of time he just fixed me with his irritatingly apathetic grey eyes and told me to deal with it. It made me nervous. Just what the hell was going on?
Alarm bells rang in my mind, along with a pleasant little sensation that I couldn’t quite place. Something was waiting for me in my office, but when I looked in I couldn’t see anything. Just the same old table with pamphlets about magic (most written by me). Beyond that was my desk, and the huge windows that I’d occasionally wondered about plunging out …
I shook the feeling off and, against my better judgment, went into the room. When I flicked on the light, everything about the room changed. The light overhead didn’t come on, for one, instead, dozens of lit candles appeared. The desk disappeared, as did every other professional accoutrement. To replace all my sparse furniture was a huge, elegant, four poster bed. Complete with a draping red satin coverlet and canopy.
Okay. That was weird. Really, really weird.
I turned around, hoping to escape, but the door behind me had vanished and been replaced with a solid wall. There was no window looking out into the hall, just an off white wall covered with soft looking tapestries. That made me think, and I looked around again.
Rugs covered the floor, layered, texture over texture. And all sorts of bits of fabric covered the walls, too. It looked like the love nest, pimp version of my basement apartment. Except that, when I imagined my basement as a love nest, I didn’t go so far as to include twittering bird song with no source. And that was the strangest thing about it, the little sounds coming from everywhere and nowhere. They would drive me insane.
My eyes fell on the figure standing off to one side. He was regal, clad all in red velvet that matched the stupid bed coverings. His snowy hair stood out against his clothing and the scenery around him, and he was grinning.
“Bob,” I said, my voice tight. “How’d you pull this off?”
He shrugged. “Magic, Harry.”
“You’ve overdone yourself,” I took a step toward him, and he moved to the side, toward the bed.
“I’ve been saving up my energy. And I had help from a few spirits I know.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow, wondering if this could go where I thought it might.
“Oh,” he nodded, and his expression became playful. “Come here, Harry Dresden. It’s your birthday.”