Warden Donald Morgan was over a hundred years old, for all he looked half that. He'd been a Warden for most of his life now, and was therefore a skilled and canny fighter.
The earth elemental he was currently battling was even older than he, and was a bit annoyed at having been pulled out of its home in the NeverNever by some experimenting wizard. It was currently expressing its irritation by attempting to destroy a portion of Chicago. Since Dresden was occupied elsewhere, Morgan had been called to deal with the creature.
Man and beast had already dealt each other solid blows, but Morgan's fragile human body had gotten the worst of it when the elemental's tail had caught him just underneath the ribs and catapulted him into a building via brick wall. Mentally swearing, Morgan fought to extract himself from the rubble while the elemental tore at the wall he'd just passed through, trying to get at him.
A chorus of screams registered on the edge of his consciousness, of which the elemental quite rightly was at the fore. Morgan didn't even bother to turn – the creature could break through at any moment, and to have his back to it at that time would be suicidal. He would have to play this carefully – while he would do his best to keep the mortals from being injured, the elemental would have no such restraint. Bringing his sword up to the guard position, he waited.
Someone behind him overrode the screams, bellowing, "BACK IN LINE!" At least one person asked something in a quavering tone, only to be shouted down. "I don't care what it is! Opening night is tomorrow and your sadistic bitch of a director wants this dance re-choreographed, so by God it will be re-choreographed! Again!"
Morgan noted the words, but they didn't sink in – the elemental was his sole focus, and he had already learned the hard way that attempting to manipulate it with magic only served to piss it off even more. He braced himself, ducked the tail as the beast attempted to bash in his skull with it, and rocketed into the opening that had been left for him, planting one foot on the creature's back to propel himself up and driving his sword in as far as he could.
Unfortunately, this didn't kill it; instead, it reared onto its hind legs and threw the Warden off. Morgan flew back several feet and crashed hard into a row of seats. The woman who'd shouted earlier didn't appear to notice or care. "Do you mind?" she yelled. "I am trying to conduct a rehearsal in here and you aren't helping!"
As he so often did with Dresden, Morgan replied without thinking. "Why don't you ask it to aim for the wall next time?" he growled, getting to his feet and lunging for the elemental.
"Good idea!" whoever-it-was retorted. "Aim for the wall next time, and stay the hell away from my stage!"
What a strange woman, he thought detachedly as he dove to avoid a blow from the earth beast – he'd forgotten his sword was still stuck in it. Yelling a word in Old English, he slammed his hand against the ground and let his power flow through it and to the fallen bricks, which rose into the air and obediently flew at him.
The elemental was in the way.
The bricks shattered into powder as they crashed into it, and the creature roared its fury, turning towards the new assault as Morgan had intended. He was on his feet again, pounding towards it and then he was on it with a leap, his hands closing around the hilt of his sword. With a shout of triumph, he hauled back, dislodging the weapon from the stone and then leaping clear as the elemental tried to throw him again.
There were a few wobbly screams from behind him, but no sounds of running or chaos, only the same woman counting loudly to eight, over and over again, and a scattered round of applause when he retrieved his sword. Whatever was going on back there, it was at least keeping itself out of his way.
Good.
Morgan saw and opening and took it, taking a grazing blow to the shoulder as he did so, this time driving his sword into its neck.
That did the trick; the earth beast's roar of fury was cut off, and then it sagged, collapsed, and disintegrated into a pile of sand.
From the mortals, there was nothing but terrified silence, until the Woman (she was beginning to deserve the capital letter) cleared her throat and asked, in a meaningful tone, "Why aren't you all dancing?" Immediately the sounds of mass movement resumed.
With the threat gone at last, Morgan turned slowly to see just what it was he had inadvertently interrupted.
It looked like a rehearsal for something; either that, or he'd run across a very strange cult. About fifteen people in frilly costumes were doing some kind of close-order skip in front of an elaborately-painted set, and being watched by a red-haired woman in a leotard and jeans. Without turning around, she said, "That thing had better be dead, and you'd better not be bleeding on the carpet."
"There's nothing left of it but sand," Morgan replied, ignoring her second comment in favour of checking on his injuries. Bruised ribs, possibly broken; pounding headache; aches all over, slash across the chest – he was bleeding on the carpet.
"Keep dancing," she snapped, though he hoped not to him, and hopped off the stage, heading in his direction. When she got close enough for a good look, she sighed and said, "You are bleeding on the carpet. Hell. Bloodstains are a bitch to get out, you know that? Come on, I've got a first-aid kit backstage."
"My injuries are a bit too serious for that," he told her calmly as he shrugged out of his cloak. Turning it so that the blood was facing the ceiling, he let it drop to the floor and took a step forward to use it as a makeshift tarp. Unfortunately, all the strength left his body in a rush, and he crashed heavily to one knee.
She hissed through her teeth. "Looks like. First question. Would you prefer an ambulance or a ride to the hospital?"
"I have bad luck with ambulances," he replied, which wasn't entirely a lie – even if he'd never been in one, he knew that his magic would short out whatever equipment they had.
"Okay," she said. "My Volvo seems wizard-proof, so that's fair enough. Second question: do you lot have a hospital you all use, or will Cook County have to take its chances with its equipment?"
He didn't have the energy to be surprised that she knew what he was. Not all mortals suffered from wilful blindness. "I'll attempt to refrain from shorting out the hospital equipment."
"Right. One second." She ran back up to the stage, called a frilly-skirted girl over, and said something very fast and very quietly, disappeared backstage for a moment, then came back with the first-aid kit. "Can you walk, or do you need a shoulder?"
Morgan eyed the woman for a moment, wondering if she was up to handling his weight – he was not a small man. Perhaps she would call one of the men over to help. Then again, he thought dryly, she probably wouldn't if it would interrupt the rehearsal. "I'll need a moment, but I should be able to walk."
She gave him a faintly crooked smile. "I promise I'm stronger than I look if you can't," she told him, dryly, and knelt, a lot more gracefully than he had. "Might as well deal with that cut if you're going to need a moment anyway."
"As you wish," Morgan told her, distantly admiring her poise and wondering idly if she'd been a dancer before becoming a choreographer.
Either way, she clearly had some experience with first aid. "I'm Jennifer Tarleton, by the way," she said, briskly slathering a gauze pad with disinfectant. "You are?"
"Morgan," he replied, bracing himself for a sharper pain against the dull throb his wound had receded to.
"Just Morgan?" she asked, and stuck the gauze on over the slash across his chest.
He hissed softly in pain before answering. "My surname will do for now." He only gave his first name to those he trusted.
She shrugged, and began taping the gauze on. "If you say so. I swear, you wizards are all crazy."
He raised an eyebrow at that. "And you're quite experienced with wizards, Miss Tarleton?"
A quick confused look crossed her face and was gone before he could tell what she was reacting to. "Dated one once," she said. "That was more than enough experience for me."
He nodded and dropped the subject, glancing back at the pile of sand and the wreckage of the back of the theatre. She followed his glance, and sighed. "Oh, director's gonna have my ass for that. Ah well. Not like it's actually my fault this time."
Morgan was silent for a long moment, considering the damage. "I would ordinarily suggest that you tell the truth. Unfortunately, nobody would believe you if you said a wizard did it."
"No one would believe me anyway," she said, dryly. "I'll just say whatever the actors decide to say. Far be it from me to undermine their credibility any more than they've already done."
He almost smiled at that. Instead, he asked, "What exactly are they rehearsing for?" This was a bit more diplomatic than what he wanted to ask, which was Why didn't you get them the hell out of the danger zone?!
She snorted. "Anything Goes. You'd think the director would have a bit more of a sense of humour, doing a show like that. Do you think you can walk now?"
In reply, Morgan slowly rose to his feet, and maintained his balance. Good. He took a careful step, and remained upright. Even better.
"It's all downhill from here," she said. She probably meant it to be reassuring, though it was a bit hard to tell. "You still want your cloak? And your... the hell is that, a broadsword?"
"Yes," he replied softly. He would only ever leave the badges of his office behind if his life was endangered.
She shrugged, draped the cloak over her arm, and picked up the sword without any apparent difficulty. The first-aid kit she left where it was. "Down the aisle and out the stage door to your left," she said, and pointed with her chin. "My car's the closest to the exit. Choreographer's privilege."
He nodded and slowly made his way to the exit, taking care not to overextend himself. At least Dresden was out of town.
Miss Tarleton sailed out the door a moment or two after he'd left, and tossed the cloak and sword into the backseat of an old battleship of a car. "In you get," she said, trotting around to the driver's side. "Kill my car and I'll hurt you."
Morgan did not reply, and also did not kill the car. Actively suppressing his magic helped with that. She seemed to forget he was there after a moment or two, and after about five minutes she began to sing along with the radio. Off-key.
Usually, singing off-key drove Morgan into a homicidal rage of Dresdenesque proportions. Somehow, however... this seemed cute. He decided that it was the blood loss talking.
Two songs later and several steps sharper, she pulled into the drive-through by the emergency room and stopped. "Want me to come in with you?" It almost seemed an afterthought, the way she said it. Almost.
Yes. "I'll be fine," his traitor mouth said. "Thank you for the ride, Miss Tarleton."
"You're welcome." Her mouth quirked up at the corner and she added, "Do try not to crash any more rehearsals. You're welcome to the show, though."
"Being thrown through a brick wall was not on my agenda for the day." Then again, neither had been fighting an earth elemental.
"Better you than me," was the unsympathetic reply. "Get in there and make sure you didn't crack your skull open, will you? And don't forget your sword."
He was already reaching for sword and cloak. Fortunately, Luccio had made an arrangement with this hospital. He'd have to mention it to Dresden at some point. But later. When the younger Warden earned it.
She watched him pick them up, and cleared her throat. "Well, goodbye then, Mr. Morgan."
He nodded. "Goodbye, Miss Tarleton."
Five AM.
Far too early in the morning to be awake, especially after his hellish day beforehand, but Morgan had been oddly bothered by the damage he had left in his wake after the battle yesterday. So when he found himself awake without reason before dawn, he decided to do something about it, checking himself out of the hospital AMA and finding his way back to the theatre. Ignoring the yellow police tape surrounding the large hole in the wall, Morgan stepped inside the building and considered his options. After a quarter-hour, he nodded to himself and got to work, gathering the material he would need for this spell. By seven, both the wall and the theatre seats had been repaired, and the blood was out of the carpeting.
Exhausted, Morgan sank into a chair and winced as he pulled at his ribs which, according to the doctor, had been broken and not bruised as he had initially thought. Hell, he thought. I overdid it. Alone with only his thoughts, the Warden allowed himself to be grateful that Dresden had gotten Chicago declared neutral in the war against the Red Court. If one of the nobles caught him in this state, he'd be dead.
Morgan closed his eyes, intending to rest them for just one minute. He didn't even notice when he fell asleep.
Someone was tapping him gently on the shoulder. "Hey, wizard-man, wake up."
His eyes snapped open and he reflexively went for his sword, but he stayed his hand when he recognised the voice and the face. "Miss Tarleton," he greeted the redhead.
"Mr Morgan," she said, with another of those crooked smiles. "I thought I told you not to crash any more rehearsals."
"It was unintentional," he replied with an ease he hadn't felt in years. "I'd only intended to rest for a moment."
"I meant the wall, not the falling asleep. You've got half my actors convinced they're hallucinating." She sat back on her heels and studied his face. "No skull fractures?"
"Apparently my head is too thick for that."
The smile got wider. "Fair enough. Naptime's over, though, and I have to chase you out because the house opens in fifteen minutes."
He paused. "What time is it?"
"Twelve forty-five. We've got an early matinee."
Morgan muttered a curse. Five hours he'd lost to dreamless sleep – which, granted, had been a nice change.
She cocked her head. "I'd have woken you up sooner if I thought it was important," she said, a faint question in her tone.
"I lost more time than I intended to," was all he would say to that as he got to his feet. He looked down at her.
"I'd ask what for, but I doubt I'd get an answer." She stood as well, and gestured towards the back of the theatre. "Lobby's that way." There was a brief pause, and then she added, "I meant what I said yesterday, you know. You're more than welcome to come to the actual show."
He smiled and didn't answer. He was physically able go back on duty, and would have if he wasn't certain that Luccio would have his head on a platter for it. Why not see the show? He liked theatre anyway. At last he said, "We'll see," and carefully headed for the lobby.
Morgan considered his options a second time, then went ahead and purchased a ticket. It had been a very long time since he'd seen a show of any sort. It was a somewhat bizarre directorial interpretation of Anything Goes, but it wasn't a bad show, and the re-choreographed dance went well enough from what he could tell. Miss Tarleton was nowhere to be seen.
For all that, he had enjoyed himself despite the lingering aches in his body, remnants from yesterday's battle. The doctor had told him that the pain would last for a time and had offered him strong painkillers. Morgan, distrustful of strong medicine, had elected to take ibuprofen instead. He eased himself from his seat with a soft groan.
"Did you check yourself out of the hospital, or did they let you go?" Miss Tarleton asked from behind him, sounding mildly interested.
Morgan had been a wizard entirely too long to be startled by someone being behind him unexpectedly – or to like it. "Do you not make noise when you walk?"
"Not in jazz shoes, I don't." She came around in front of him and propped her hands on her hips. "You didn't answer my question."
"You're right. I didn't." He wasn't sure if he didn't want to answer, or if he just didn't want her to call him an idiot. And she would.
She raised an eyebrow. "Fine. Be that way. Tell me what you thought of the show, and praise the dancing as lavishly as you please. I won't blush."
"The show was... interesting," he admitted. In the same way that watching Dresden attempt diplomacy was interesting. "I did enjoy the dancing, however. It made the most sense."
"If by interesting you mean the director's smoking something..." she muttered, and added, louder, "It's a musical. It's a Cole Porter musical. It isn't supposed to make sense."
Morgan smiled. "It made more sense than Moulin Rouge."
He managed to surprise a laugh out of her. "Oh, come on, Moulin Rouge was at least funny. And had Ewan McGregor making out with a redheaded chick."
"And randomly breaking out into the Sound of Music." He shook his head. "I'm grateful the projector malfunctioned halfway through."
"Tsk. Don't even try to tell me it wasn't your fault." She shook her head. "Some people just don't appreciate eye candy."
"Ewan McGregor may like men, but I do not," Morgan told her. Then his mouth added, "You might have a point about redheads, however."
That smile was definitely an invitation. "Some of us aren't wearing wigs, either."
A lesser man might have made a not-very-witty remark about carpets, drapes, and the matching thereof. Morgan was a product of a less-vulgar time, however, and such a remark was simply not in his character. "I would never have considered that your hair was anything but natural."
A flicker of disappointment crossed her eyes, but the smile remained. "You'd be surprised how many people do. I keep asking them if they honestly think I'd dye my hair this colour, but they don't seem to get the point."
He shook his head. "Some people have no manners." He considered for a moment. "You're very intriguing, Miss Tarleton." A pause. "Perhaps we could have a discussion over lunch some time?"
She gave him a brilliant grin. "I'd love to, but my schedule is utterly insane and sometimes doesn't allow for lunch. Care to make it dinner?"
"That would be fine," he said, giving her one of his rare genuine smiles.
She pulled a card out of her pocket and handed it to him. "My phone number. Let me know when you're available." She paused, and added, "Somehow I think you're the one with the most unpredictable schedule."
"You're very observant, Miss Tarleton," he said, tucking the card into his jacket after glancing at it. He would need to find a telephone, apparently. "Thank you."
"Quite welcome. Do I get to know your first name now?" It sounded like she was teasing. Mostly.
"Donald," he said without hesitating. If he was going to have dinner with a woman, it could only be presumed he trusted her enough to tell her his given name.
Up went the eyebrow again. "Really? Ouch. Can I just keep using your last name?"
He had unfortunately had to get used to that reaction. "Most people call me Morgan anyway."
"Morgan it is. Most people call me Jen." She paused again and touched her chin thoughtfully. "Most people with a death wish call me Jenny."
Morgan wasn't fond of nicknames, and never had been. "May I call you Jennifer?"
A doubtful expression crossed her face. "If you like. No one's ever really used my full name before, but hey, I'm open for something new."
"I don't see why. Jennifer is a lovely name."
She shrugged. "It may be a lovely name, but apparently it's too long when people need to yell it."
"I thought that was middle names were for," he murmured.
"Nobody I work for knows my middle name," she said, and added, archly, "And you're going to have to get to know me a whole lot better before I'll tell you."
He smiled. "Of course, Jennifer."
Her ears tinged the faintest shade of pink, and she shook her head briskly. "You should go lie down," she said, after a moment. "I'm fairly sure they didn't let you out of the hospital willingly."
Morgan inclined his head to her slightly. "I should, and will. I'll see you later, then, Jennifer."
"Feel better. And don't forget to call."
"I won't," he promised, then walked away from her.
This story is a co-op between myself and TigerKat; the character of Jennifer Tarleton belongs to her. This is what happens when we decide that Morgan needs to get laid.