A sequel to The Best of Me & The World's a Stage. You'll need to read those in order for this one to make any sense.
There's actually only two more installments after this one before this AU finally finishes. And while this one might feel a little like a random interlude, it'll prove to have been necessary later on.
It was slowly getting to be that his was a familiar face.
While these days he waited until the very last second before Death was reaching out its hands toward Harry, the trickster always showed up without fail to deflect that killing blow or transport the wizard out of danger. He cut it close, but he never failed to rescue him. To keep him safe. And Harry hated every second of it.
When he wasn't going down his list of possible entities that might know of a solution to fix the thing the trickster himself did, Harry was working out spells and shielding potions to dodge the errant demigod. He felt some small success after his most recent altercation. He'd only gone to the dealer to purchase a set of tomes to aid his research. Harry hadn't expected the wizened old man behind the counter to jack up the agreed price for the books and then go Van Damme on him when he didn't have enough to pay the new fee.
It had been a close call and while Harry staggered home with a bloodied shoulder courtesy of the spry book dealer's vicious looking spear, he considered the fact that he had the books, now free of charge, a triumph. And the fact that the trickster had presumably not been able to find him, despite Harry nearly getting decapitated by the old man, was an added bonus.
Harry treated his injury with the same standard of consideration he'd given his body in the past few weeks. As in, very low. A quick scrub and dressing later, the wizard was pouring over the first book of obscure omnipotent beings, which was so conveniently in alphabetical order. He got as far as the middle of the T's before things went a little fuzzy.
Generally, Harry rarely got sick, which was an astounding achievement when one considered his lifestyle. But the wizard's body had been gearing up for some revenge after the last month and was picking now to finally crash. As he was not a regular to poor health, illness tended to almost always catch Harry unawares with the forgiving nature of an army tank.
When the wizard did resurface from the pit of fevers and chills, he found himself lying face down in his own bed with his pillow sitting somewhere on his head. Against his still warm cheek, he could feel the dampness of his sheets, suggesting a recently broken fever. Silently, Harry opened an eye to the outside world and tried to focus in on the dark shape that was hovering close by his bedside.
"You really must take better care of yourself, Harry. This is not acceptable."
Harry opened the other eye and pushed back from the bed in hazy disbelief.
"Bob?" The name came out nearly garbled. It felt like Harry had swallowed an entire box of cotton balls, followed by a glass of sand as a chaser.
The necromancer wore a look of disapproval at the wizard's current state, but the harshness of the glare was compromised by the concern that shined in the pale eyes. "What were you thinking?" he questioned with a raised eyebrow. "I've seen masochists who had more respect for their bodies than you've shown yours in the past few weeks."
"I…." Harry faltered, feeling an unusual amount of happiness at hearing the reprimand, delivered to him by the cultured voice he'd missed hearing. But at the same time, his mind was demanding him to explain in clear logical terms just how it was the ghost was kneeling by his bed. How long had he been sick? Had everything just been some horrifying dream brought on by his fever? "Bob," said Harry, as if repetition of the name might help him clarify what was happening.
"You should drink some water," he advised as an answer.
"Are you…is it you?" rasped Harry, forcing his voice to work despite the dryness. "I'm not still asleep?"
"You're very much awake," stated Bob.
"I was looking for you," Harry swallowed. "I…was trying to figure out how to get you back."
"Get me back? I'm standing right here. Where else would I be?" inquired the ghost, giving him a smile.
And that's when Harry realized.
Roughly pushing back the despair that rose up inside his chest, the wizard exercised some self control, aided by the fact he felt barely strong enough to remain awake. Instead of running a fist into the grinning face, he quietly spat out a venomous, "Get out of my house."
The grin on Bob's face widened. "You must be getting better, Dresden. Your senses are sharpening. Three days ago I could have shown up as Ancient Mai in a tutu and it would've gone past your notice."
At the silent, murderous glare Harry gave back to him, the trickster stood up. "What? I can't physically punish you for being stupid so I gotta get my jollies in elsewhere. I think it's a great likeness," he stated, gesturing to his face. "Was it the teeth? I always forget the teeth for some reason."
"Change back. Now," Harry demanded. While the order was delivered with the wizard still reclining on the bed, the air seemed to shift and darken dangerously.
Whatever smart reply the trickster had on the ready never came. Instead, he smirked and raked a hand through the white hair in a completely un-Bob-like gesture, pushing the locks off the pale forehead. The silver strands began to darken, starting at the roots, slowly bleeding outward. As the auburn color spread, the hair itself began to grow a little, curling outward.
It was a painstakingly slow transformation and Harry suspected the trickster was purposefully taking his time in changing back, forcing the wizard to watch Bob disappear in degrees. The demigod idly walked toward the edge of the loft, looking down at the storefront as he grew a little taller and the clothes he wore elongated and tightened to wrap around the more spindly limbs.
"I haven't been in here in awhile," the trickster mentioned, his back to Harry. "Ah, there's where I killed those two wardens the last time I visited," He pointed a long, pale finger that soon lost the large ring that it had been wearing. "Back when I could kick the crap out of you if I wanted. Good times," he sighed wistfully, grinning over his shoulder. The eyes were now darker as well to match the hair. But the features were still Bob's, twisted in an expression that was so very much the trickster's. Harry refused to let himself look away, no matter how much it disturbed him.
But by the time the trickster was back by the bed, having flopped carelessly onto the available armchair, he was himself again. Only wearing Bob's clothes, complete with even a dark purple ascot. Lifting an arm, he inspected the sleeve of the velvet striped jacket. "For a dead guy, Bainbridge had style. There's a Saville Row thing happening here, " he commented, running a hand over the plush material. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he advised Harry, who had pushed back the sheets to get up. "Your weakling human body's only just gotten over a fever."
"Go away," Harry muttered, tentatively pressing his feet onto the floor.
The trickster rolled his eyes. "Still singing that old tune? When're you going to stop?"
"When you decide to go away," Harry replied, not vocalizing the heavily suggested "duh!"
As the wizard righted himself, the world tilted a little and he gripped onto the edge of the bed, hoping it didn't look as desperate as it felt. Judging by the trickster's expression, he wasn't fooling anyone.
"Drink that," the demigod ordered, nodding toward a glass of water that sat on Harry's nightstand. A post-it with the words 'Drink Me' was slapped onto it. "And then eat that," he continued, indicating a bowl of what looked like soup that had another post-it on it with the same, curt instructions. "What?" the trickster asked when Harry stared at the food and water. "Not appreciating my homage to Alice in Wonderland, you illiterate philistine?"
"What's with the mothering?" Harry asked instead, not taking his eyes off the glass and bowl.
With a self-disgusted sigh, the trickster got back to his feet, pacing over to the railing area of the loft and leaning against the wooden beams. "Just do as your told so I don't have to make another house call," he ordered.
"All this for a cold?" Harry snorted, picking up the glass of water.
"Yeah, if by cold you mean poisoned by Tanon blood," the trickster said. "That little shoulder wound there would have done you in if I hadn't shown up. Oh, yes, your welcome," said the demigod, sarcastically when Harry wordlessly drained the glass. "You should know better than to try and hide from me, Dresden," he added, almost seriously. "If that bookseller had been a little faster, you'd have been less a head and I would have…" he trailed off.
"Would have what?" Harry asked, looking up from the empty glass. Despite the lingering fever, the dark eyes were focused as they studied the trickster.
The demigod started a little from whatever reverie he'd fallen into and gave the wizard a wry smile. "I would have inadvertently welshed on a deal." Harry held his gaze on the trickster, who surprisingly broke off the stare first. "Eat the soup," he ordered. "It's tomato, your favorite."
Harry slapped down the spoon he'd gingerly picked up. "How do you know that?" he demanded.
"Oh for crying out loud, don't make me feed you," threatened the trickster. "It's not going to kill you, you know that."
Harry lifted up the utensil again to use as a gesturing tool. "I'm alive. Congrats on the save. Now get the hell out," he ordered, pointing the spoon toward the door.
Instead of leaving, the demigod crossed his arms across his chest and gave Harry an assessing look. "You really don't care very much about survival, do you?" he said, in such a flippant, bemused tone he might as well have just been noticing that Harry was unusually tall. "You really don't want my help, despite the fact I've done more to save your neck than Bainbridge ever could."
Harry silently shoved the spoon back onto the end table.
"You have a demigod looking after you, Dresden," pressed the trickster. "I'm forced to look after you. Bound to do it. Do you have any idea what people have done in the past to get something like that? And you're fighting against it. You realize how stupid you're being, don't you?"
Using the bed railing as leverage, the wizard pulled himself up to his feet. He mentally took an inventory of what was in his kitchen and settled on heating up a tin of Spaghetti-Os to have while continuing his research.
"Dresden? Hello? Anyone home?"
Not answering the pestering voice, Harry slowly made it downstairs, gripping onto the hand rail.
"You're ignoring me now?" the trickster caught on. "What are you? Six?"
Harry thanked himself that he'd taken the time to wash a few bowls last week and selected a clean one from his cupboard.
"You really think anything you make's going to taste better than my soup?" the trickster demanded from upstairs. The wizard heard footsteps thunder down as he settled to open up a can of the bright red pasta. "Your diet is deplorable, Harry," said the trickster, slipping into a perfect Bob voice.
Harry winced at the sound, but kept his back to the figure he knew standing behind him, resolutely ignoring it. Instead, he concentrated on finding a pan.
"The mind boggles at how anyone can survive on the appalling sustenance you take in," continued the dulcet voice. "Have you never heard the expression 'you are what you eat'?"
Keeping his movements measured, Harry refused to look over, refused to acknowledge the trickster's desecration of his memories. He fitted a can opener to the red and white container and tried to focus in on the rhythm of turning the handle.
At the continued avoidance, there was a disapproving sigh that was so flawlessly the ghost's that Harry couldn't help but slam the can down on the table to try and drown out the sound. Any appetite he had was now gone. Shoving the half opened tin away, Harry turned to walk out to the storefront. He kept his eyes averted to the ground to avoid looking at the figure that stood almost in his way. But even so, Harry could see the flash of white hair that had returned.
Gritting his teeth, the wizard sat down at his desk chair and reached for the hard earned books that were still sitting on the table. He opened one up and tried to close his mind off to the voice and the body that moved closer to where he sat. The fact that the figure walked silently and without any audible footsteps somehow made it even harder to ignore. The air even seemed to grow a little colder as the pale form stood just next to him.
"You are so very hopeless, Harry." Instead of being acerbic, the tone was almost sad. And even a little affectionate.
Harry silently repeated that it wasn't real and to just disregard it. But despite the command, the wizard found himself wishing it was real. That it would be that easy to look up and for a second, just a brief second, pretend that things were normal and right again.
But he kept his eyes glued to the yellowed pages before him. And soon without further word, the trickster departed. Dissolving into black smoke and golden lights.
Harry continued to stare at the ancient pages, his hands clenched around the soft leather binding. He remained in the position for nearly an hour, not reading a word or turning a page.
THE END