Distance, Part Six
And, once again, as promised, a quick update. My journey with this story, writing-wise, is coming to an end, as it's a little sad, but I'll be glad to be done with it. I've never been so consumed by a story before. :)
My thanks to everyone who's been reading, is planning to read, is going to wind up reading but not planning on it, lol ;) And to all the mods, and all the wonderful people in this community. I've been active in many different fandoms, but this is the first one where I've been in comunication with other members outside the community, and it's very enjoyable for me to get to know different people, even if it's never in person.
Okay, I'm done rambling... :)
Title: Distance, Part Six
Author: pinkdoom
Summary: Sometimes it takes a little distance to understand how precious what you have truly is; in this part, what happened to Harry
Rating PG-13 for Part Six
Word Count: 2,203
Disclaimer: Not mine!! All is property of Jim Butcher, this is for entertainment purposes only.
Warnings: serious h/c (and will be for a while!); a bashed-and-banged-up Harry (poor guy!); language; corporeal Bob, no explanation.
Beta'd by: edana_ni_emer and moonchildetoo
Previous parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Three and a Half by weslyn, Part Four, Part Five
The first thing I knew was the pain.
It was a full-body kind of pain, and trying to open my eyes made shockwaves of mind-numbing aches ripple through my entire system. I heard myself groan, and then a hand passed over my forehead. Someone said something, but I couldn't understand it, and I tried again to open my eyes.
"Harry, don't."
Bob. Bob's voice, drenched in worry and sorrow. "Harry, don't try to move. You've broken a few ribs, your arm is fractured, and your head took a nasty hit. And you've been burned." He was trying to sound like regular old Bob, but even in my current state, I could tell things weren't right. I heard all of what he said, but hardly any of it actually registered in my brain. I knew pain, and I knew Bob was there, and he was nervous and frightened.
The bike...the storm...slipped on a puddle, bike went out from underneath me, lightning hit....something bad had happened.
I got one eye open, and realized that the one eye was all I was going to be able to open. The other one had swelled shut, probably from me taking a nose-dive into the pavement. It was coming back in flashes, what had happened, and none of it was pretty. Bob was looking down at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and nearly passed out again from the pain of just that.
"Harry, please." His voice broke, and when I opened my eye again, I saw tears on his face. "My gods, please Harry. I can heal you, but it will take time."
A few seconds later, a comfortable warmth spread over my chest, and the pain lessened. Not by much, but enough for me to breathe normally again. "Your ribs aren't completely healed," Bob said in a shaky voice, "but it's the best I can do under this much stress."
I wanted to say something to him, anything--just be able to express how fucking stupid I was to put him through this, to make him worry and wait and worry some more. He had to hate me by now, and I would have bet my soul on the fact that once he was convinced I was okay, he'd leave just like he'd planned to, and never look back.
More pain, more warmth, and then his hands applying bandages were what I felt before passing out again, my mind not being able to handle what had happened and the thought of what was going to happen.
I'd made one of Bob's deepest, darkest nightmares a reality.
* * *
A brush of coarse fur against my face startled me awake. I cracked my good eye open and saw two green cat eyes staring back at me. Mister meowed and brushed against me again, his way of a greeting, then he suddenly scampered off.
"Blasted feline."
I rolled my eye around to the foot of the bed and saw Bob standing there, backlit by several candles. He looked like Bob, sounded like Bob, but I would later realize that I whom I was looking at in this particular moment was simply a shell of the man I knew. He was broken and battered, torn between the grief of what had happened and what yet could happen.
My terrible mistake made corporeal in a man who didn't deserve the pain I'd put him through. That stupid Harley had been the tipping point of a slowly capsizing iceberg in our relationship.
I shifted on the bed, and that little move made a flare of pain flash through me. I gasped and fought back the tears that stung my eyes. Bob was immediately at my side, green eyes so full of concern I had to look away.
I swallowed a few times, trying to wet my throat, and Bob held my head up as he pressed a straw to my lips. "Drink it slow, Harry. Too much, and you'll get sick."
The cold water was a shock to the system, but a good one. It helped to right my mind a bit, and he pulled the straw away. "What time is it?" I asked him.
"It's almost 10 in the evening." He watched my face carefully, then said, "You've been out for two days, Harry. I had Lieutenant Murphy bring over a paramedic, since I didn't think that trying to transport you to a hospital would be a good idea in your state." A pause, and then he said, "Needless to say, Murphy is not pleased with the scrape you've gotten yourself into this time. She asked me to tell you that the next time you try to pull an idiotic stunt like that, I'm to call her so that she can come over here and shoot you and save all of us some grief and time."
That sounded just like good ol' Murphy.
A thousand questions flooded my mind--like how I'd gone from taking a nap on the pavement to being in my own bed-- but I could only find enough energy to say, "I'm sorry, Bob."
The look he gave me broke my heart into a million pieces. "I know, Harry. I certainly don't think you did this on purpose."
Confused, I squinted at him, then realized...him leaving. That's what he was referring to. "I wouldn't be that desperate," I joked weakly. "I'm not a complete idiot."
He gave a small smile at that. "How's the pain?"
I tried to shrug, an automatic response to his question, and was rewarded with a hot lance of agony. "That didn't feel too good," I said through gritted teeth.
"I did my best to keep you from being in too much pain when you awoke, but I don't know how long the spell will last." His eyes searched my face and then traveled lower. "I had the paramedic help me change your clothes, Harry. I hope you don't mind."
As incredulous as his statement was, his worry about what I would think about his level of care for me was what nearly blew the top off my head. "Bob, don't." I coughed and tried to clear my throat, and a few seconds later, Bob was holding the straw back to my lips. I took a drink, ran my tongue over my lips, and then said, "You don't have to play nursemaid for me. I'm the one who got myself into this because I'm a fucking moron. You were ready to leave, and I'm preventing that."
Bob's eyes shot up to mine, and the anger I saw there made me want to bury my head in the blankets. "You are a fucking idiot," he replied in a dark voice, "and I was ready to leave before this. You did, indeed, get yourself into this mess, but I am NOT going to leave you alone, to fend for yourself." And just like that, the anger faded into a weariness that seemed to overtake his frame. "This whole ordeal has made me rethink some things, Harry." His hand ghosted over my face, a gentle warmth that comforted me. "You and I need to, once you are healed, try to work out our problems." Bob chuckled slightly, but the sound had little humor in it. "This is not all your fault, Harry, not by a long shot..."
Bob's voice trailed off, leaving an unanswered question in the air. What happened between us? I started to speak up, but the faraway look on Bob's face made me stop. "I allowed myself to--to become too attached. I burdened you with expectations you knew nothing about." A scoff, and then he said in a whisper, "I should never have done that."
This was too much. He was blaming himself for things that had clearly happened because of me, and as much as I didn't want to play "Who's At Fault?" with him, I had to speak up. "I don't know what you're talking about, Bob, but if you keep saying that anything you did or said had anything to do with me laying here on this bed like an invalid, I will find a way to smack you." I moved my foot to the right, bumping it against him. It hurt like hell to do that, because I felt as though my entire body was one giant open wound, but I did it anyways. "See? Foot's already working. Keep talking like that, and the arm'll come next."
"You fractured your arm, Harry," he responded dryly, with a pointed look downward.
I caught sight of a cast on my left arm and sighed, but I did noticed that my shield bracelet was still on my right wrist. "Fine." And I stretched out my right hand and poked him in the leg. "I'll work my way up to smacking, if that's all right."
Bob stared at me for a moment, then pursed his lips. I waited, and a few moments later, got what I'd been hoping for. A smile. A genuine smile, no matter how small it was. "How do you do that?"
"What?"
He placed his hand over mine and shook his head. "Manage to find humor in even the most dismal of situations."
"I happen to be quite funny on some occasions," I said quietly. "But then again, I'm also thinking that some of your sparkling wit and biting sense of humor have rubbed off on me at some point during these last, oh, 20 years or so."
Our eyes met, and he held my gaze for a moment before sucking in a sharp breath. "I should let you sleep." Bob patted my hand, got up, and then was gone. "I'll be around if you need anything."
He walked quickly to the stairs, and he seemed anxious to be away from me, so I let him go. I was awake now, and thankfully not in too much pain as long as Bob's spell held out. But there would be pain, later...probably skin-scorching, mind-numbing pain, but I'd worry about that when it came.
Right now, I was just as confused as ever. Bob was running hot and cold again, but in a different way than he had before I took my little concrete nosedive. Before, when the tension was building between us, it was as if he was having serious mood swings. One moment, he'd be chipper, and even, I daresay, cheerful at times, but the next moment, he'd run headlong into brood-mood and wouldn't say much. It had been as if something had been bothering him, but he didn't want to talk about it. And no amount of subtle hinting or persuading on my part would get him to keep from clamming up around me. Him not wanting to talk had been what had led me to feel awkward around him...and the rest of the story you know.
Yelling, fights, terse words and then me battered and bruised from that stupid bike.
Now, Bob had me in a prime position to talk, unable to leave my bed. But he still wouldn't do it, and this was bothering me to no end. It was as if he didn't trust me enough to just lay things out, say what was on his mind and be done with it. I clenched my good fist in frustration and instantly regretted doing so as pain flared through me. I grimaced and thought about calling out to Bob, but decided against it. He obviously needed a break from taking care of me.
I still felt like shit, making him worry and fret and have to look after me like a child. I'm not an any-means-to-an-end kind of guy, but I needed to make the best of this situation.
Bob needed to talk to me, that was obvious. But he felt that he couldn't, for whatever crazy reason he was giving himself. As selfish as it sounds, I was glad he was staying. I wasn't glad that he was still a bit jumpy around me, and I wasn't too pleased about feeling like a walking bruise, but hey...nothing to be done about that now. And I had noticed one thing...he wasn't planning on leaving even after I was healed. He'd said we needed to talk, work out our problems once the time came that I could get out of bed on my own. I took that as a sign of progress, but I really needed him to talk to me now, instead of later.
Hidden feelings and problems are like festering wounds; they ooze and seep at first, but you can slap a bandage on it and pray for the best. Later, they get bigger, deeper, and eventually, infected. You have to go to the doctor, who prods and pokes you until he figures out what is wrong, then you get some medicine and everything gets better. I'm no MD, hell, I never finished high school, but I know a thing or two about letting things fester.
Whatever Bob was hiding was eating him from the inside out, and pretty soon, he'd need to unload everything he'd been carrying. And I was the only one he could unload on.
My thanks to everyone who's been reading, is planning to read, is going to wind up reading but not planning on it, lol ;) And to all the mods, and all the wonderful people in this community. I've been active in many different fandoms, but this is the first one where I've been in comunication with other members outside the community, and it's very enjoyable for me to get to know different people, even if it's never in person.
Okay, I'm done rambling... :)
Title: Distance, Part Six
Author: pinkdoom
Summary: Sometimes it takes a little distance to understand how precious what you have truly is; in this part, what happened to Harry
Rating PG-13 for Part Six
Word Count: 2,203
Disclaimer: Not mine!! All is property of Jim Butcher, this is for entertainment purposes only.
Warnings: serious h/c (and will be for a while!); a bashed-and-banged-up Harry (poor guy!); language; corporeal Bob, no explanation.
Beta'd by: edana_ni_emer and moonchildetoo
Previous parts: Part One, Part Two, Part Three, Part Three and a Half by weslyn, Part Four, Part Five
The first thing I knew was the pain.
It was a full-body kind of pain, and trying to open my eyes made shockwaves of mind-numbing aches ripple through my entire system. I heard myself groan, and then a hand passed over my forehead. Someone said something, but I couldn't understand it, and I tried again to open my eyes.
"Harry, don't."
Bob. Bob's voice, drenched in worry and sorrow. "Harry, don't try to move. You've broken a few ribs, your arm is fractured, and your head took a nasty hit. And you've been burned." He was trying to sound like regular old Bob, but even in my current state, I could tell things weren't right. I heard all of what he said, but hardly any of it actually registered in my brain. I knew pain, and I knew Bob was there, and he was nervous and frightened.
The bike...the storm...slipped on a puddle, bike went out from underneath me, lightning hit....something bad had happened.
I got one eye open, and realized that the one eye was all I was going to be able to open. The other one had swelled shut, probably from me taking a nose-dive into the pavement. It was coming back in flashes, what had happened, and none of it was pretty. Bob was looking down at me, his lips pressed into a thin line. I took a deep, shuddering breath, and nearly passed out again from the pain of just that.
"Harry, please." His voice broke, and when I opened my eye again, I saw tears on his face. "My gods, please Harry. I can heal you, but it will take time."
A few seconds later, a comfortable warmth spread over my chest, and the pain lessened. Not by much, but enough for me to breathe normally again. "Your ribs aren't completely healed," Bob said in a shaky voice, "but it's the best I can do under this much stress."
I wanted to say something to him, anything--just be able to express how fucking stupid I was to put him through this, to make him worry and wait and worry some more. He had to hate me by now, and I would have bet my soul on the fact that once he was convinced I was okay, he'd leave just like he'd planned to, and never look back.
More pain, more warmth, and then his hands applying bandages were what I felt before passing out again, my mind not being able to handle what had happened and the thought of what was going to happen.
I'd made one of Bob's deepest, darkest nightmares a reality.
* * *
A brush of coarse fur against my face startled me awake. I cracked my good eye open and saw two green cat eyes staring back at me. Mister meowed and brushed against me again, his way of a greeting, then he suddenly scampered off.
"Blasted feline."
I rolled my eye around to the foot of the bed and saw Bob standing there, backlit by several candles. He looked like Bob, sounded like Bob, but I would later realize that I whom I was looking at in this particular moment was simply a shell of the man I knew. He was broken and battered, torn between the grief of what had happened and what yet could happen.
My terrible mistake made corporeal in a man who didn't deserve the pain I'd put him through. That stupid Harley had been the tipping point of a slowly capsizing iceberg in our relationship.
I shifted on the bed, and that little move made a flare of pain flash through me. I gasped and fought back the tears that stung my eyes. Bob was immediately at my side, green eyes so full of concern I had to look away.
I swallowed a few times, trying to wet my throat, and Bob held my head up as he pressed a straw to my lips. "Drink it slow, Harry. Too much, and you'll get sick."
The cold water was a shock to the system, but a good one. It helped to right my mind a bit, and he pulled the straw away. "What time is it?" I asked him.
"It's almost 10 in the evening." He watched my face carefully, then said, "You've been out for two days, Harry. I had Lieutenant Murphy bring over a paramedic, since I didn't think that trying to transport you to a hospital would be a good idea in your state." A pause, and then he said, "Needless to say, Murphy is not pleased with the scrape you've gotten yourself into this time. She asked me to tell you that the next time you try to pull an idiotic stunt like that, I'm to call her so that she can come over here and shoot you and save all of us some grief and time."
That sounded just like good ol' Murphy.
A thousand questions flooded my mind--like how I'd gone from taking a nap on the pavement to being in my own bed-- but I could only find enough energy to say, "I'm sorry, Bob."
The look he gave me broke my heart into a million pieces. "I know, Harry. I certainly don't think you did this on purpose."
Confused, I squinted at him, then realized...him leaving. That's what he was referring to. "I wouldn't be that desperate," I joked weakly. "I'm not a complete idiot."
He gave a small smile at that. "How's the pain?"
I tried to shrug, an automatic response to his question, and was rewarded with a hot lance of agony. "That didn't feel too good," I said through gritted teeth.
"I did my best to keep you from being in too much pain when you awoke, but I don't know how long the spell will last." His eyes searched my face and then traveled lower. "I had the paramedic help me change your clothes, Harry. I hope you don't mind."
As incredulous as his statement was, his worry about what I would think about his level of care for me was what nearly blew the top off my head. "Bob, don't." I coughed and tried to clear my throat, and a few seconds later, Bob was holding the straw back to my lips. I took a drink, ran my tongue over my lips, and then said, "You don't have to play nursemaid for me. I'm the one who got myself into this because I'm a fucking moron. You were ready to leave, and I'm preventing that."
Bob's eyes shot up to mine, and the anger I saw there made me want to bury my head in the blankets. "You are a fucking idiot," he replied in a dark voice, "and I was ready to leave before this. You did, indeed, get yourself into this mess, but I am NOT going to leave you alone, to fend for yourself." And just like that, the anger faded into a weariness that seemed to overtake his frame. "This whole ordeal has made me rethink some things, Harry." His hand ghosted over my face, a gentle warmth that comforted me. "You and I need to, once you are healed, try to work out our problems." Bob chuckled slightly, but the sound had little humor in it. "This is not all your fault, Harry, not by a long shot..."
Bob's voice trailed off, leaving an unanswered question in the air. What happened between us? I started to speak up, but the faraway look on Bob's face made me stop. "I allowed myself to--to become too attached. I burdened you with expectations you knew nothing about." A scoff, and then he said in a whisper, "I should never have done that."
This was too much. He was blaming himself for things that had clearly happened because of me, and as much as I didn't want to play "Who's At Fault?" with him, I had to speak up. "I don't know what you're talking about, Bob, but if you keep saying that anything you did or said had anything to do with me laying here on this bed like an invalid, I will find a way to smack you." I moved my foot to the right, bumping it against him. It hurt like hell to do that, because I felt as though my entire body was one giant open wound, but I did it anyways. "See? Foot's already working. Keep talking like that, and the arm'll come next."
"You fractured your arm, Harry," he responded dryly, with a pointed look downward.
I caught sight of a cast on my left arm and sighed, but I did noticed that my shield bracelet was still on my right wrist. "Fine." And I stretched out my right hand and poked him in the leg. "I'll work my way up to smacking, if that's all right."
Bob stared at me for a moment, then pursed his lips. I waited, and a few moments later, got what I'd been hoping for. A smile. A genuine smile, no matter how small it was. "How do you do that?"
"What?"
He placed his hand over mine and shook his head. "Manage to find humor in even the most dismal of situations."
"I happen to be quite funny on some occasions," I said quietly. "But then again, I'm also thinking that some of your sparkling wit and biting sense of humor have rubbed off on me at some point during these last, oh, 20 years or so."
Our eyes met, and he held my gaze for a moment before sucking in a sharp breath. "I should let you sleep." Bob patted my hand, got up, and then was gone. "I'll be around if you need anything."
He walked quickly to the stairs, and he seemed anxious to be away from me, so I let him go. I was awake now, and thankfully not in too much pain as long as Bob's spell held out. But there would be pain, later...probably skin-scorching, mind-numbing pain, but I'd worry about that when it came.
Right now, I was just as confused as ever. Bob was running hot and cold again, but in a different way than he had before I took my little concrete nosedive. Before, when the tension was building between us, it was as if he was having serious mood swings. One moment, he'd be chipper, and even, I daresay, cheerful at times, but the next moment, he'd run headlong into brood-mood and wouldn't say much. It had been as if something had been bothering him, but he didn't want to talk about it. And no amount of subtle hinting or persuading on my part would get him to keep from clamming up around me. Him not wanting to talk had been what had led me to feel awkward around him...and the rest of the story you know.
Yelling, fights, terse words and then me battered and bruised from that stupid bike.
Now, Bob had me in a prime position to talk, unable to leave my bed. But he still wouldn't do it, and this was bothering me to no end. It was as if he didn't trust me enough to just lay things out, say what was on his mind and be done with it. I clenched my good fist in frustration and instantly regretted doing so as pain flared through me. I grimaced and thought about calling out to Bob, but decided against it. He obviously needed a break from taking care of me.
I still felt like shit, making him worry and fret and have to look after me like a child. I'm not an any-means-to-an-end kind of guy, but I needed to make the best of this situation.
Bob needed to talk to me, that was obvious. But he felt that he couldn't, for whatever crazy reason he was giving himself. As selfish as it sounds, I was glad he was staying. I wasn't glad that he was still a bit jumpy around me, and I wasn't too pleased about feeling like a walking bruise, but hey...nothing to be done about that now. And I had noticed one thing...he wasn't planning on leaving even after I was healed. He'd said we needed to talk, work out our problems once the time came that I could get out of bed on my own. I took that as a sign of progress, but I really needed him to talk to me now, instead of later.
Hidden feelings and problems are like festering wounds; they ooze and seep at first, but you can slap a bandage on it and pray for the best. Later, they get bigger, deeper, and eventually, infected. You have to go to the doctor, who prods and pokes you until he figures out what is wrong, then you get some medicine and everything gets better. I'm no MD, hell, I never finished high school, but I know a thing or two about letting things fester.
Whatever Bob was hiding was eating him from the inside out, and pretty soon, he'd need to unload everything he'd been carrying. And I was the only one he could unload on.