I was dreaming again. Someone out there had to be fucking with me, they had to be. There was no other explanation at this point. Not even my ID was this much of a dick. I was lying in a tiny wooden bed, my feet and my shins hanging off of it uncomfortably, and a thick, quilted blanket covered me from my neck to my hips. I sighed. What the hell story was I in now? I tossed the blanket off and revealed that I was wearing a silk nightgown. Hell's Bells, son of a bitch, fire and goddamned brimstone on it all. I hadn't thought it could get much worse than Alice in Wonderland. I climbed out of the bed, the cold wooden floor assaulting my feet angrily. The wooden door to the bedroom slid open, and a dark haired woman I recognized as my mother walked in. I didn't quite recognize the bright smile on her face, though, or the motherly apron she wore, but whatever. I shook my head. She twirled, literally twirled, over to me. Stars and Stones. I don't even know anymore. I want to wake up already, and I don't even know where I am.
"Good morning, Harriet," she told me brightly, her voice oddly chipper, and far less harsh than I recalled from the stone in my pendant, which still hung comfortingly around my neck. "Please, do dress yourself. I've received word that Grandfather has grown ill, and I've prepared treats for him, to make him well again. You simply must deliver them to him for me, my dear daughter." Little Red Riding Hood. Wonderful. I don't understand my life. Why can't I have normal dreams? Whatever. Just going with it got me home last time, so it's bound to get me there again. I can do this. I nodded and gave my very best innocent smile.
"Of course, mother." She smiled back, and twirled out of the room. She really liked twirling, and I was pretty sure someone had a very skewed view of my mom. I opened up a wardrobe in the corner, and revealed a bunch of cotton dresses, along with a soft red cloak. I don't know why I'm even surprised by the dresses anymore. I don't think I'm allowed to have a dream where I don't get put in a dress now. The Almighty hates me too much for that.
I may have pouted a little when I grabbed one of the dresses, a white one with blue ribbon detailing it (one that I probably would've liked seeing on a girlfriend or something, but not on myself), and I know I did when I saw the thrice damned patent leather fucking shoes in the bottom of the wardrobe. How did girls even wear those things? They were awful! I swear I only put on the damned knee socks because the shoes would've completely killed my feet otherwise. I plucked the red riding hood out last and tied it around my neck, where it hung like it actually belonged to me, loose and easy, shifting around my knees. I honestly shouldn't have expected anything else.
I had to crouch when I left the bedroom, since the doorways were all low and rounded, as if I were tucked into a Hobbit hole somewhere, which was obviously ridiculous. In that story, I'd certainly be Gandalf, not any of the Hobbits. My mom fluttered over to me as soon as I left the bedroom, and shoved a basket into my hand. Maybe I was actually in a Disney movie or something. That would make more sense, really.
"Here you are, darling! Hurry and get these to Grandfather, and be certain to stay on the path. The woods are very dangerous, and there is a wolf out there, just waiting for a tiny little snack like you!" Stars. Just, I don't... I want to go home. I want to dream about normal things. I want to know who could possibly be doing this. It's getting stupid. Like, really, really stupid. This couldn't get any dumber, it's so dumb. I wondered who the wolf was, because there was no way I was getting to wake up without finding the wolf. Maybe Vadderung. Odin liked wolves, didn't he? Sure, why not.
"Alright, mom," I said, and left the house. I noticed that I'd said literally nothing about being called Harriet this time. Fuck me. Fuck me sideways. I'm getting used to being called Harriet. What is this hell I have found? I snorted softly, and wandered off into the woods that were apparently in every fairytale ever made ever. The path was clearly marked, if a little overgrown, and the grass was high and green around it. The breeze was cool against my face, and it made the dress flutter pleasantly, which, actually, I didn't say any of that, sorry, that was someone else. Oopsy daisy. Ahem. At least the flowers here were quiet.
The forest got progressively less nice as I walked; the ground grew muddy and slick, the grass became gray, and the sun grew less and less able to cut through the thick cover of leaves. The little shoes I was in made the leaves and twigs on the ground crunch and crackle noisily, so that there was no way in the world I could possible go unheard. The path became harder to see, and the food in the basket was putting off a strong, sweet smell that no animal could possibly ignore. I sneered, and wondered when I'd meet my little friend. I heard crunching from my left almost as soon as the thought passed my head. I paused. The shadows on that side shifted, and a set of bright green eyes peered out at me from man-height rather than wolf-height. I recognized those eyes. Hell's Bells, why? Why him again? Come on. More crunching, and then Gentleman Johnny motherfucking Marcone stepped out onto the path. His eyes were even brighter than usual, and a set of neatly pointed ears poked out from the top of his head. A fluffy tail swished behind him, sticking out from a ragged hole cut into the back of the dirty pants he was wearing. He had fucking claws on his fingers and his toes, and I could see his canines where they couldn't be totally covered by his lips. The bastard also didn't have a shirt, since I'm pretty sure he takes great pleasure in lording the fact that he's stupidly fit over me. I have to admit that he really is, though. He's got to be on the far side of forty by now, and his abs are still nicer than mine. It's not fair. It's also not fair that he gets to be all handsome and stuff in my dreams while I have to be a lanky moron in a dress.
"Well, well," he said, and his voice was harsh and low, the voice I recognized stripped of its polite veneer. "Who is this little treat I've been sent?" No. Nope. Nuh uh. I'm out of here. I'm clicking my heels, everybody, and there is no place like home. It didn't work. Why would it? Why would anything be easy for me? It wouldn't. That's just it. That's the answer. It wouldn't. Ever. I heaved yet another world weary sigh.
"I'm going to my grandfather's house, to give him treats my mother made. He's sick. My name is Harry," I said. He smiled, and his shiny white teeth sparkled. He nodded thoughtfully and walked towards me, licking his lips lasciviously.
"Is that so? It's dangerous here, you know. Where is your grandfather's house, dear Harry? If it is too far, perhaps I should walk you the remainder of the way, so that nothing... untoward happens to you." I huffed. Like he wasn't dangerous, the bastard. I smiled that sweet smile I was talking about earlier, which, in retrospect, probably isn't that sweet.
"It's just down the path a little ways. I can make it on my own. Thanks, though, Mr. Wolf." He laughed, and moved closer to me, so that we stood chest-to-ribs with one another. His clawed fingers settled on the middle of my sternum, then walked up it softly, the gentle prick of the claws feeling deadly and strange against my skin.
"Your heart is beating so fast. Do I make you nervous? Please, do calm down, Harry, I'll not hurt you. What about this? I'll walk ahead for you, sweet one, and clear this path of all those nasty things that would harm you. Why don't you pick some wildflowers for your grandfather, for a while, before you continue on, so that I may have time to make the way safe." His breath felt hot on the hollow of my throat, and I heard him clearly even though the words were hardly whispered. I licked my own lips thoughtlessly. I felt him shudder against me as he stepped away some.
"That's very kind of you. Thank you," I mumbled. He smirked, teeth still flashing, and actually bowed, before he took my hand and pressed a kiss to the back of it. I cleared my throat and had to look away, because I, for some certainly awful reason, was bright fucking red. I guessed they called that asshole the Gentleman for a reason. I wondered if he'd get suspicious if I suddenly wanted the hood of the cloak up.
"Anything for you, little treat." I couldn't help but huff at that.
"Because I'm really little, Marcone." He cocked his head.
"Call me John, please. I suppose you've heard of me, from the village folk, Harry? Ah, and while you're quite tall, you are indeed very little. Not much meat to you, you see, nor muscle. Perhaps waiflike would be an accurate enough description." Just… fuck him. Fuck him. Fuck everything. Seriously. I sort of knew better than to argue at that point, though, at least in dreams, because my dreams are now on the far side of Fucked Up Land.
Marcone poked me on the nose with a playful grin and then loped off into the shadows so he could go eat my grandpa. Huh. That sounds a whole lot worse, when I say it out loud, than it does in the story. Stupid fairytales. Ahem. I saw a large patch of wildflowers on the side of the path, and wondered how pissed Ebenezer would be if ever I actually brought him flowers in real life. I was voting somewhere between 'very' and 'ridiculously'. I snorted and started plucking some of the flowers, mostly going after the bright blue ones with the silvery leaves and the sort of fuzzy stems, since I thought they were the prettiest. I had a handful of them, splattered with a few others that I'd thought looked okay with the blue ones, before I grabbed the basket back up and wandered off down the path again. I wondered what the point of the path even was if the Big Bad Wolf could walk on it too.
I got to a small cottage that looked suspiciously similar to Ebenezer's farmhouse in about five minutes. There was no sign of Marcone, but the door remained slightly open, because hey, why try to be sneaky when the person you're with already knows the story? The wooden door opened with a creak I remembered well, the one that would've very easily prevented me from being a normal sixteen year old and sneaking out at any point. Hell, the most 'sneaking out' I ever got to do involved getting shoved outside at one in the morning to pick some kind of special flower whatevers and toss them into a pot of water, then immediately go back to bed. I smiled a little at the memory, at the thought of Ebenezer's smirk, at how I'd spent that entire day antagonizing him, because at that point I was still pissed off and afraid. I'd actually begun to respect him a little, that day, because he hadn't hit me for disobeying, because he'd disciplined me, I'd learned a lesson, and it hadn't hurt. The wooden floor groaned when I stepped on it, but I was used to that too.
I moved to go up a flight of stairs, towards the bedroom, and the familiarity battered me. It had been years since I'd gone back to Ebenezer's house, and I missed it more than I cared to admit. I missed the simplicity, the ease of the place. I missed the lightning-struck tree. I missed every last tired, groaning board in the place, the finicky wood stove that was only usually willing to not fill the entire place up with smoke, the ceiling fan that whirred about three days out of ten, when the weather was nice and the air wasn't too thick with heat and humidity. I reached the doorway that led to Ebenezer's bedroom, and slid it open. I sighed at what I saw.
John Marcone laid curled beneath the covers, Eb's striped pajamas drooping, far too large, on his form, and the sleep hat half-covering his eyes. Hell's Bells. Just… Hell's fucking Bells. This was stupid. Literally just dumb. Nothing else. Dumb. He looked at me expectantly. Did I really have to? I answered my own question with a 'yes, yes you do, you asshole'.
"Hello, my dear grandson. My, what pretty flowers! Are those for me?" I really wanted to answer that question with a gesture involving a single finger, however that was something that wasn't an option, because it would probably cause me to be smote by whatever malevolent entity that was tossing me into this idiocy.
"Yes, grandfather. By the way, what a deep voice you have!" Marcone smirked, full of pride, which was really out of character for him, but he hid it quickly and simply nodded.
"Indeed? I suppose I've been coughing quite a lot. Besides, grandson, it's all the better to greet you with, isn't it?" You know, even if I was blind and had no idea what in the world was going on right now, I probably could've been tipped off by the fact that 'grandpa' was calling me his grandson instead of his granddaughter, because in my dreams, Marcone and Thomas are obviously the only ones allowed to recognize me as a male.
"I guess. Goodness, what big green eyes you have as well!" He licked his lips.
"The better to look at you with, my dear. You've grown up lovely, you know." So he had decided to play the creepiest grandfather ever. Good for him.
"Thank you, grandfather. My, what big hands you have!" He held them out to me, the claws looking even more threatening in the candlelit room. I heard someone kicking the closet door and sighed. This was really unprofessional. I was pretty sure Marcone could do way better. Cheap work like this was, in his own words, bad for business.
"The better to hold you with, dearie. Come here and give me a hug." I wondered what would happen if I told him what a big dick he was. I assumed he'd whip it out. Since it was my dream, maybe I could make it really, really tiny. Like, pathetic, anatomical impossibility small. Probably not. Plus, even if it worked, that'd probably get me smote too, and I was actively against that, so instead I just hugged the bastard.
"What a big mouth you have too, grandpa!" He laughed, and suddenly yanked the cap off of his head, as if expecting it to be some big, dramatic reveal or something. His brown hair, gray at the temples as always, was messy, and I resisted an incredibly irrational urge to straighten it.
"I think you know what that's better for, sweetheart," he said with a wink and a tiger grin. Funny how he was going from dog predator to cat predator with his grins. Or maybe it was just stupid like everything else. Why was the man I'd been calling a tiger since I met him the wolf anyway? Shouldn't this be Kincaid? And there I was criticizing the casting decisions of my own damned dreams again. I think everyone should understand that my life isn't always like this. Sometimes, I get normal days where all that happens is mold demons. I just realized that I get many, many infestations of mold demons. I wonder if anyone else knows all twelve different varieties of them, like I do. The slime mold demons, which I've recently learned are actually Protista demons, are the most interesting, I think. And really, really gross. So, so gross. I've gone off topic again, haven't I? Maybe I should take ADD medication or something, like Murphy says. Whatever. Marcone grabbing my ass, which was totally going down, probably should've been my primary concern just then. I will admit to squeaking quite loudly, but I will also take the opportunity to say that it was a very insignificant, hardly noticeable, manly squeak.
"Uh. Wolfy, think maybe you can do something not that?" Marcone laughed and kissed my cheek, going closer, ever closer to my lips, but he paused at the corner of my mouth, and instead just licked the seam of them. His hand pressed against my heart again.
"Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, the Big Bad Wolf, the Big Bad Wolf? Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf, tra la la la la," he sang softly, and damn it, he was mixing the stories! That song went with the Three Little Pigs, not Little Red Riding Hood! He was going to implode the dream universe or something equally ridiculous!
"Not me," I mumbled, squirming in his grasp. He laughed, just this side of mockingly, managing to lid his eyes even more without looking like he was asleep, somehow. His free hand curled around the back of my neck, and he pulled me down against his lips, as close as we could get without actually kissing. Our breath mingled, and he was so close I could nearly feel him.
"Good," he stated clearly, before he closed the rest of the distance and kissed me. His teeth were sharp, and the kiss was a little more wet than I was actually expecting from him. I did get a little lost in it; I can say that much, which would be the reason why I didn't even notice it when he fell backwards, me on top of him. The crashing at the closet door continued, and I heard something or another crashing around outside, but those two things were obviously terribly unimportant in the grand scheme of me making out with John Marcone. Weird, huh? His erection pressed obviously into my thigh, and he seemed just about ready to do something about that, grinding up against my thigh, kneading my ass gently, mouthing my jaw, when I heard the front door crash open, and Murphy in a hunter's outfit barreled inside, waving a shotgun wildly. I stumbled awkwardly off of him, because damn it, even if it was just a dream, it was still Murphy.
"I heard there was a wolf seen coming in here! Miss, are you okay?" she asked me. The skirt part of my dress was slightly stuck in my underwear, I noted, and one of my socks had slid down my leg, my shoe the only thing holding it on. I cleared my throat as Marcone growled almost angrily, his pupils blown so wide that the green was barely visible. Murphy pointed the rifle at him, and he bounded off the bed. He ran quickly to me and kissed me one last time, harsh and brutal and all dominance, all Marcone. He flashed me a smirk as he ran off.
"I'll see you again, Harry dearest!" he called as Murphy had me sit down and freed Ebenezer, who'd somehow been shoved into the pants Marcone had been in, from the closet. He immediately began to cuss and holler and rage about, as expected, although the treats from my basket calmed him quickly enough. He invited Murphy to help us finish it all off, in return for 'saving' me, and the dream became something that could actually happen, beyond the fact that I was in a dress and everyone was calling me Harriet.
I woke up that morning totally normally, but about a week later, I was awakened with a sudden shock as my Mickey Mouse alarm clock trilled out the time, and cat fluff had magically appeared everywhere on my face. Also, someone, likely a mailman, from the time, was banging at my door. I shoved Mouse, who'd nearly crowded me out onto the floor, off the bed so I could stand up, looking every bit the jobless scam artist in my Spiderman boxers, which are, in case you didn't know, an unchangeable staple of my morning wardrobe. My eyes were sleep sticky as I stumbled into the living room and forced the door open. My usual mailman gave me an unimpressed stare once the door finally opened.
"Package," he said, in the most bored tone one can possibly adopt when faced with a vision such as myself so early in the morning. "You've got to sign for it." I released a gaping yawn and nodded lazily, mostly supporting myself on the door frame. Mister appeared from the ether, as he is wont to do, and shoulder blocked me affectionately as he left the house for his ramble, nearly sending me sailing into the mailman, which would've been pretty terrible, by all accounts. The man just surreptitiously rolled his eyes at me and shoved the little clipboard into my awaiting arms. I scrawled out my signature, a messy thing made mostly of straight, sharply converging lines. He picked the package up and dropped it into my arms. Settled on the top were a bunch of the blue flowers I'd picked up in the dream, with a little card stating that they were called Silverleaf Psoralea. I'll admit it kind of freaked me out. I mean, wouldn't you be a little disturbed if a flower you'd only seen in a dream suddenly appeared in front of you for no damned reason on top of a relatively mysterious package you weren't expecting? I forced my door shut and decided I should probably just hope there were no bombs in this particular box as I settled it on my stained coffee table.
I tore the tape away as best I could, impatient and high strung, because it's not paranoia once it saves your ass at least once. I lifted the flaps slowly, carefully, and revealed something far more dangerous than anthrax or a bomb or literally anything else dangerous that can be sent through the U.S. Postal Service: a dress. A fucking powder blue Alice in Wonderland dress, in my size, with the patent leather shoes and everything. Son of a bitch, this was weird. In fact, I was almost willing to place it in my list of the Top Ten Weirdest Events That Have Happened to Me, right up there with riding a zombie dinosaur named Sue through Chicago to stop an evil Warlock from becoming a Demigod, which also sounds even dumber when I say it out loud, goddamn it. Anyway, yeah. I now had some sort of crazy maniac out there who sent me disturbing packages and could probably see my dreams somehow, or was the one giving me the dreams and was attempting to fuck with me. I couldn't tell which option I liked less. Everyone, welcome to the life of Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden. Please keep your hands and feet inside the ride at all times, and don't forget your blasting rods.
Marcone's POV
I wondered if he'd figure out who sent the package. Hopefully not; my office had only just been repaired from our last encounter, and my accountant was beginning to threaten bodily harm if I made him deal with more insurance agents. I huffed out a laugh. I'd rather playing being the Big Bad Wolf, recently. I pondered what fun the next dream I had would bring me as I thought about how insufferably, tauntingly real his body had felt against mine. My lips still tingled from the feel of his lips against them. My eyes slid shut, and I heaved a sigh. Perhaps in the next dream, we'd not get interrupted so quickly.