Title: Not Such a Big Deal
Category: probably as close to smarm as I ever get
Season/Episode: sometime after "Second City"
Feedback: is always appreciated
Disclaimer: The Dresden Files is not owned by me, nor do I make any material profit from this story.
Summary: Someone, Connie Murphy thought, other than herself ought to worry about Harry Dresden.
A/N: This story almost wanted to be something bigger…and then it didn't. But I think this is how they should meet.
Connie Murphy knocked on the door that proclaimed Harry Dresden – Wizard, scowling at the yellow letters painted on the glass. It wasn't the name that irritated her; it was the bold insistence, in capital letters, of WIZARD. She wouldn't have minded if she'd thought it meant a stage magician, of the type she knew Harry's father had been: sleight of hand, top hats and white rabbits and card tricks.
But that wasn't what it meant, and she knew it.
She pounded harder, impatiently, peering through the glass panes into the dimly lit front room; there was no answer, and no sign of Dresden.
She was about to give up and turn away when she thought she heard a little sound from the other side of the door – a nearly silent click. On impulse, she tried the doorknob. It turned easily in her hand, and she pushed the door open.
It took a long, shameful moment before she could make herself cross the threshold, and when she did, it felt like stepping into another world. Unlit candles sat on shelves and in niches atop the old wax residue of previous candles. Books bound in battered leather were piled haphazardly on the table, gilt and ink titles long ago rubbed off tattered spines. There were a few electric lights, but as usual, they weren't turned on, and the absence of the type of background noise that was normal in most homes created a profound silence here: no television, no telephone, no radio, no subtle buzz of lights, refrigerator, heat or air conditioning – those little, constant sounds that we become so used to that we don't even notice them anymore.
"Harry?" she called, her voice dropping abruptly into the hush of the apartment. Too late, it occurred to her that maybe making noise wasn't such a good idea: she'd just announced her presence to anyone who might be in the apartment.
Damn it, Connie, you're a cop! Start acting like one, she thought furiously.
But there was still no answer to her call, no sound at all except the thump of her pulse in her ears. Torn between feeling like she was being silly or being prudent, she drew her gun, keeping it low and pointed at the floor as she moved towards the back of the apartment.
Something moved in the shadows of the hallway, and Connie's hands tightened on the gun.
"Lieutenant Murphy?" The shape in the hall emerged into the light of the late afternoon sun, revealing itself not as a monster out of nightmare, but a tall man with a head of pure white hair, wearing a dark suit. The word 'urbane' crept into her mind as she automatically noted details: rings on the long, slender fingers; waistcoat patterned with subtle burgundy embroidery; a pair of brilliant blue eyes in a pale face that was remarkably unlined.
He glanced at the gun she was pointing at him, dismissed it without a second thought, and told her, "Harry needs your help – he's been hurt."
"Who are you?" she demanded, trying to keep the gun steady, although her hands were shaking.
"That isn't important – didn't you hear me? Harry is hurt!"
"First you tell me who you and what you're doing here."
He sighed and closed his eyes in momentary irritation, still ignoring the gun. "You may call me Bob. You've heard Harry mention me a time or two, I'm sure?"
He had an accent: British, she thought, though one corrupted by too much time in America. She lowered the gun reluctantly. "Bob the tea expert?"
"Among other things, yes. Now, if you please – Harry –"
He made an elegant gesture towards the hallway behind him.
She drew in a deep breath before holstering the gun and motioning for him to lead the way. "You said Harry's hurt? What happened?"
"I told him it was too dangerous," Bob grumbled. "He doesn't lack for power, but his fine control is distinctly lackluster, and I never could get him to study…"
"Bob," Connie said forcefully, and he sighed.
"He had a run-in with a…well, let's just say it had very big teeth and claws and it was a good deal faster than Harry. He came stumbling back this morning and collapsed, and I haven't been able to rouse him."
The dark hall opened up into the back room where she'd only been a few times, and she immediately spotted Dresden's lanky figure sprawled on the long sofa in the middle of the open area. He hadn't even taken off the black leather jacket, but it gaped open to show that the gray thermal shirt and jeans underneath were torn – nearly shredded, in fact – and were stained in places with what was clearly blood, and in other places with something that just as clearly wasn't blood.
At least, not human blood, and she immediately stamped down on that terrifying little thought.
Connie slipped past Bob and knelt beside the sofa, reaching for Harry's wrist. His skin was cool, and his hand in hers lay limp and unmoving. His face had the grayish cast she associated with blood loss.
She glared up at Bob. "Why the hell haven't you called 911? This is – he might be bleeding internally."
"I can't," he groaned, wringing his hands and just standing there uselessly.
"What do you mean, you can't?," Connie exploded, fishing in her pocket for her cell phone while trying to check Harry's pulse. "I know Harry's phone only works half the time, but you could have asked a neighbor, or gone down the street – anything but let him lie here bleeding all over the place!"
The look Bob gave her was full of doubt and ...pity? Almost as if she was a child with an imperfect knowledge of how the world worked.
"I cannot use the telephone, madam," he said gently, with great dignity and sorrow. He placed his pale, long-fingered hand on her arm…and his hand continued through her arm with a strange sensation of simultaneous hot and cold that sent sparks along the nerves right up to her shoulder.
Startled, she wobbled and fell out of her crouch, landing hard on her ass. She didn't even notice the slight pain, too busy staring in astonishment and fear at the…the thing…leaning over her. Then he…it… he knelt beside her, concern shining clearly on his face.
"I am sorry, Lieutenant Murphy," he told her. "This is not an ideal introduction, but I had no choice. I cannot affect the physical world, and Harry needs help desperately."
"Are you a ghost?" she asked faintly, momentarily unable to deal with anything but the apparition before her.
He sighed. "In a manner of speaking, yes. Now please - Harry-"
She scrambled to her feet, flipping open the cell phone and dialing. Experience kept the call short and succinct: she knew exactly what to say and how to say it.
"I – I'd better go to the front door and meet the paramedics," she told the ghost – Bob, she reminded herself.
"Thank you," he told her. "Your kindness is exceeded only by your beauty."
For a moment she thought he was making fun of her, but his eyes – and oh, what beautiful eyes he had – told her it was heartfelt. Flustered, she muttered, "It's my job."
"Will you – " he began hesitantly, and his uncertainty went a long way towards putting her at ease. "Will you go with him? To the hospital?"
"Yeah," she replied, surprised. "Yes. Of course."
"Then please - take the skull with you, my lady."
She could only stare at him in confusion. "The what?"
He pointed to the skull that sat in place of pride on the table, an ancient and sinister-looking thing covered with strange occult symbols. "The skull," he told her. "Take it with you. I can't accompany you unless you take my skull."
She gaped at the object with sudden revulsion, realizing it was a real skull, and apparently belonged to the ghost – to Bob. She hadn't liked it when she'd thought it was a fake, just a nasty prop. She liked it even less now, and not only for the reminder that Bob, who looked and sounded so solid and real that she had a hard time remembering that he was no such thing, was exactly what she wanted to badly not to believe in.
She shook her head to clear it, to try to move past the unthinking litany that ran through her brain: there's no such thing as magic, there's no such thing as magic, there's no such thing as magic.
"What do you – why do you want to come with me?" she asked finally.
"So that when he wakes, I can tell him just how stupid he's been," Bob told her. "He's headstrong and foolish – never prepared, always rushing in where angels would – and do – fear to tread." His voice rose in anger, lips pulling back to bare wide white teeth at her. "He is an uncultured oaf – he's lazy, easily lulled by a pretty face, uses brute force when he should use his brain, he has appalling taste in clothing, and he is far too ready to throw his life away to help idiots whose own greed and ignorance put them in danger..."
"And he is the only mortal I have called friend in centuries," he finished quietly. "I worry about him."
He looked away from her, and his cheeks pinked charmingly. He was blushing - the damn ghost was blushing, and that just wasn't fair!
"Okay," she said slowly. "If it means that much to you, I guess – " A loud knocking sound startled her. "What the –"
"The paramedics," Bob reminded her.
Now she was blushing. "Right, right – I'll just be – will you – "
"Just take my skull with you, and give it to Harry when he wakes," he said gently.
She nodded, turned and took a few steps towards the front door. Suddenly struck by a thought, she turned back. "How will you – "
The room was empty apart from Harry and herself. The skull sat on the table, empty eye sockets aimed at the unconscious wizard.
A shiver ran up her spine, but she shook it off and went to let the paramedics in. Moments later, she was watching them carefully load Dresden onto a stretcher, looking at the skull out of the corner of her eye.
Okay, she told herself as the paramedics maneuvered through the narrow hallway. You can do this. It's just a skull. It's Harry's skull – well, Bob's skull, and you're going to pick it up and take it with you, because - because Bob worries about Harry. It was actually a somewhat comforting thought – somebody should worry about Harry – somebody other than herself, or rather, somebody as well as herself. He seemed to be so alone in the world. He'd lain hurt and bloody on that couch for hours, with no one to care except for a ghost who couldn't even dial 9-1-1.
It wasn't that big a deal – to help someone get to the bedside of an injured friend when they weren't able to do it on their own.
She reached out and picked up the skull.
fin