Work Text:
With a muttered oath, Bob swept his hand through the glowing red letters of the formula he'd been transcribing, wiping it out. For the nth time (he'd lost count about the third day) he looked toward the large worktable, at the tarnished bronze coin propped up against his skull. It still glowed faintly. Which told him nothing, however, of Harry's condition or location, merely that he was still among the living.
Harry had been… gone for almost a week. But Bob wouldn't count him as missing yet, though it was well beyond the vague 'few days' he'd said he'd be away 'helping out an old friend'. That had raised a small prickle of jealousy; he'd thought he was Harry's oldest friend. And it wasn't the charming Lt. Murphy; she'd been by a number of times since Harry had left, obviously as worried as Bob.
The coin's glow abruptly flared into near-incandescence. If Bob had had breath it would have caught in his throat. As he started toward the lab door, it opened, and one very battered Harry Dresden stumbled in. His skin was gray with exhaustion where it wasn't bruised, cut or scraped, blood showing through the tears in his dirty clothing. And when he closed the door, Bob saw what looked like… claw marks scoring the back of his leather jacket.
"God, Harry," he whispered. "You look like you've been through hell."
Harry sighed wearily. "Nice to see you again, too, Bob." He turned and leaned so heavily against the door that, for a moment, Bob thought he would slide right down until he hit the floor, but he managed to stay on his feet. A murmured word and the runes on the walls momentarily blazed into visibility, indicating the lab's wards were active.
"As for hell," Harry went on, limping over to the worktable and picking up Bob's skull and a piece of chalk, "been there, done that. Do not recommend it. But I did get you a souvenir." He dug his hand into a pocket then held it out, palm up. On it lay an ivory-colored, triangular shard of bone that looked like it would fit…
Bob looked from Harry to the hole in his skull. "Harry, I--"
"Don't thank me yet," Harry warned. "Not unless it works." He chalked a large circle on the floor, beckoned Bob to join him, then sent a surge of power to close it. Carefully fitting the bone shard into the hole in the skull, he began a low-voiced chant, his left hand beginning to glow as he passed it over the damaged area.
Bob's eyes widened. "I can feel that," he breathed, reaching up to where a light caress drifted across his hair.
Harry smiled briefly then closed his eyes, voice rising as he continued the chant. The incantation was familiar to Bob; he recalled coming across it while researching resurrection rituals. It was similar to the one he'd used with Winifred except that--
It used the caster's life force.
Bob lunged forward, a horrified "No!" rising to his lips, and found himself frozen in place as Harry flung up his left hand, now almost obscured by the glow it emanated. A flick sent it twisting through the air to settle atop his head. Harry slowly lowered his hand, and it flowed down his body, tingling with Harry's power, until it enveloped him like a caul.
He gained weight and substance. His legs wobbled and gravity yanked him to his knees. Air redolent of candle wax and the less savory smells of the lab's sorcerous pharmacopoeia filled his lungs as he gasped in pain.
Harry's chanting rose to a crescendo, ending with a shouted "Hrothbert of Bainbridge!" and an exhortation in a language unknown to Bob. He felt something deep inside snap and he fell forward onto his hands, squeezing his eyes shut, jaw clenched as the tingling increased to the very edge of pain, then slowly subsided.
"Bob." Harry's voice came out a pain-filled croak. Bob opened his eyes and raised his head. Harry's nose had bled, rendering his face a ghastly mask as he grinned. "Welcome back." The grin fell away, his eyes rolling back to show the whites. Bob scrambled to his feet and darted forward, catching Harry as he collapsed and lowering him gently to the floor.
"Damn you, Harry," he muttered fiercely. "You will not die on me!" He pulled Harry's jacket open and put a hand on his chest, readying a healing spell. Before he could cast it Harry's breathing stuttered, hitched, stopped, his heartbeat faltering in its turn.
A quick scuff of Bob's shoe broke the chalked circle, allowing the still-glowing coin to fly into his outstretched hand. He placed it on Harry's chest and its glow faded entirely as the small amount of life force Harry had imbued it with transferred back to him.
Harry's chest heaved, and Bob pulled him up into his arms to ease his struggle for breath, taking a few deep ones of his own to calm himself; that had been too near a thing. He began to lay Harry back down so he could work the healing spell when the younger wizard suddenly thrashed awake, then fell back, a low moan escaping him.
"I have you, Harry," Bob soothed, tightening his hold as much as he dared. "It's all right. Just lie still now; let me heal you."
Bloodshot eyes cracked open and peered up at him. "Bob?" Harry's left hand wavered up to touch his cheek, and Bob covered it with his own, holding it there. "It… worked." Lips stretched in a pale shadow of his cheeky grin. "You… can… thank me now."
"Thank you."
Even semi-conscious, Harry knew that dry tone. "You… mad at me… huh?"
Bob snorted. "No, Harry, I am not 'mad at you'. I am absolutely furious with you. But I'll refrain from scolding you as you so richly deserve until you are well again, and can appreciate it."
Harry's eyes closed. "Goody. Can't… wait…" The thin, halting whisper faded, and Harry slumped into Bob's arms.
Bob laid Harry's hand atop his chest, then slid him flat. As he did something thumped to the floor near his knee. It was his skull. He picked it up and discovered that it was merely that--an old skull, yellowed but whole, and devoid of markings, arcane or otherwise. It held no more connection to him. He put it aside and went to work.
When he finally let the spell dissipate, Harry's skin was a healthier tone, the bruises markedly faded, his wounds pale lines beneath the blood. He'd passed from unconsciousness into normal sleep, which Bob deepened, setting a trigger to keep him there until his body had rested fully.
He sat back on his heels, tired but satisfied. It felt good to use magic again, though frightening that his first major working in centuries had had to be on Harry. He stood stiffly, hissing at the ache in his knees, stretching several kinks out of his back. All told, he felt quite fit for a man his age, an effect of the spell, he knew.
After opening the lab door, he returned and slipped his arms under Harry's knees and shoulders. A whispered word, and energy flooded into him. He'd pay for it later in total exhaustion, but right now it enabled him to lift Harry's lanky form easily.
He got Harry up the loft stairs and settled on the bed, then undressed him. He hung the jacket over the back of a chair; he thought perhaps it could be repaired, but the rest of the clothes were ruined, and he dumped them in a corner for later disposal.
Soft shadows were creeping into the apartment. A modicum of power set the candles placed all around alight, holding the gloom at bay. Bob pulled the covers up over Harry, then went and got a basin of water, soap, and a washcloth. He placed them on the chair seat, pulling it close to the bed. He took off his ascot, jacket and vest and draped them over the chair back. Rolling up his sleeves, he sat on the edge of the bed and set about getting Harry cleaned up.
That proved to be a sensuous feast for Bob, touch-starved for so long. It took all his concentration not to become lost in the different sensations: the slight ticklishness of the water trickling through his fingers; the nubbly texture of the washcloth, and the slipperiness of the soap as he ran it over Harry's skin, itself warm and smooth, but for the occasional irregularity of a scar his fingertips would come across.
By the time he'd gotten Harry clean enough to dress in some boxers and a t-shirt, his hands had acquired a fine tremor, and he felt a little light-headed, as his body called in his fatigue debt. Pushing the chair aside, he removed his shoes and socks and stretched out next to Harry, spreading the covers over them both. He curled his arm around Harry's torso, relaxing in the reassuringly smooth rise and fall of his chest and the steady thump of his heart.
Harry stirred, a hand lifting and coming to rest on Bob's arm as he snuggled closer, a contented sigh slipping from his lips.
Drowsy though he was, a worry niggled at the back of Bob's mind: The High Council. What might they do once they got wind of this? And his mouth quirked in a wry smile as he mentally heard a typically Harry retort:
"Fuck 'em."
END