Harry, meet Hrothbert
Disclaimer – Jim Butcher owns the characters and the world, I am playing with them for zero money
Angela returns, and Harry dies. What that does to those around him… it's not pretty. (TV Verse)
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Harry gets whumped again – cos how can I not?
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Waking wasn't gentle, or gradual. His entire body jerked, feeling as if he'd just fallen a great distance and landed hard on… a metal tray? His skin felt too tight and cold, and there was a nasty taste in his mouth. Something clammy dragged away from his face with the force of his jerk, and he drew a shaky, painful breath.
He was naked, and so cold it hurt, and the air around him smelt wrong. Both clinical and freezing, and also dead. There was a clinging wrap between him and the metal, but it wasn't a natural cloth, it rustled stiffly when he moved.
The space was small. He could barely lift his head, let alone move his arms freely. Cold air fell upon him from above and the wrap was restricting his arms, clinging in a clammy, sick way that made him panic. He thrashed, trying to get free, hitting his head against the metal above him, his arms rattling and battering against the sides of his enclosure, his heels drumming frantically on the tray beneath him while his knees bashed into the same metal above his head. It was a cold metal box, and even in his terror he realised exactly where he was.
The morgue. Naked and in a drawer, wrapped in the thin plastic that they wrapped corpses in. He twisted and kicked at the metal near the soles of his feet, and tried to get his arms up by his head, looking for the opening.
Light lanced into his prison and the metal tray jerked, sliding him out headfirst into the light. He had a moment to recognise that he knew the terrified face peering at him even as he jackknifed off the tray, landing shoulder first with a sickening crack. His arm went numb, hanging uselessly from his shoulder, which now bulged in a way that the human shoulder was never meant to. He squirmed, kicking with his feet to get clear of the shroud, clawing his way with his good arm into the corner of the room as Butters shouted in shock and fear.
"Harry!" a woman almost screamed, and there was a flurry of movement before big brown eyes filled his vision. Harry, he was Harry, not a dead man, and he gulped for air, trying to force the stale dead air out of his lungs and replace it with new air. She had a name and he stilled, flinching as she reached for him but not lashing out. She was his friend, she had his back, her name was...
"M-mm-m-murphy?" Harry gasped, "W-w-wh-hhat h-h-happpn'd?"
"Harry, calm down. Butters, give me your lab coat!" Murphy shrugged out of her blazer and draped it carefully over his pelvis, covering his nakedness. Butters handed over his lab coat and ran for the phone, babbling about calling 911. He looked down at his chest as the white coat was placed over him and was grateful that there was no Y shaped incision, bristling with stitches. No one had cut him up before he went into the drawer. It hurt to breathe, stabbing in his side, but he kept doing it, taking desperate gasps.
"Just breathe, Harry," Murphy coached, her eyes a little red, her face a little too pale, "Come on, take my hand. That's it. Now slow down, breathe with me."
Her hand was warm, and strong and there was a callous from the butt of her gun. Harry would know that hand anywhere, not that he'd ever say that out loud. He was too busy mimicking the slow breaths Murphy was taking, feeling his lungs slowly re-accustom themselves to the warmer air in the morgue. His blood felt sluggish still and he didn't think he could stand, let alone defend himself, but Murphy was here. She'd know what was going on, and what needed to happen next.
"That's better," Murphy soothed, "Keep it nice and slow."
"What happened?" his voice was working better now, though he was still shaking, which made his shoulder ache. If he had full control of his body it would probably be agony, but his nerves weren't working right, at least not yet.
"We were at the bar," Murphy's eyes welled up and he regretted asking her at once, "And we were laughing about some stupid joke that Anna had told me, and I'd told you. You made some crack about her not pursuing a career as a comedienne, and I told you to drop dead… and you clutched your chest and fell and I thought you were joking, I swear, I thought you were being funny at first… but you … you had no pulse and I tried Harry, I tried CPR, but the medics made me stop… because you died…"
"Not your fault," Harry croaked, "Murphy, it's not your fault."
"I know that!" she snapped and he flinched back, hitting his head and gulping for air, dropping her hand as if burnt. She held her hands up, palm out, but didn't reach for him again, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm not going to hurt you, Harry. I didn't mean it…"
"S'Ok," he muttered, folding his arm over the coat to keep it in place, "It's ok Murph."
It wasn't though, the misery in her eyes positively shouted it. Whatever had happened to him had scared her badly, and he …
"Bob!" he gasped, "Murphy, how long was I dead?"
"Eight hours," she frowned, "Approximately. Harry, what's wrong?"
What isn't? He thought but didn't say, trying to get his legs to move into a position that would let him stand. He was too uncoordinated to do it though and he cursed under his breath. Bob would know he had died, as Harry's bond to the curse would have broken the moment it happened. Eight hours alone, waiting to be claimed by another master: or worse, someone had already claimed him. The High Council knew where the skull was, and with Harry dead the wards he'd set would be dead too. Bob himself had recommended them, and Harry had trusted the Ghost implicitly to design and lay out their defences.
"I need…" Harry started, trying to work out how to explain he wanted her to go find the skull in his apartment and bring it to him when there was a fuss at the door and Butters was bustled out by a man that Harry only vaguely recognised as 'Morgan's minion'. Morgan himself appeared, with Amber and a young woman Harry didn't know.
"Detective Murphy, get away from him," Morgan ordered tensely, and that was exactly the wrong tone to take with the cop, especially one who'd seen him die only eight hours ago. She swung around on her knees, hand on her gun, ready to pull it and escalate to a whole new level. The fact that she would even defend him, even if she didn't know she was staring the High Councils Enforcer in the face, warmed him from the inside a little.
"Don't," Harry gasped, and managed to lean forward enough to brush her back with the tips of his fingers, "It's ok, Murphy."
She glanced back at him, her face set. He forced a smile, the skin all over his body tingling as his blood stirred slowly through his veins, returning his circulation painfully to normal.
"They're from my side of the street," Harry told her, "It's ok Murphy. All this… it's not for you to worry about now."
"Detective, you need to be further away from him," Morgan wasn't getting any closer, which Harry found privately amusing in a distant sort of way. Didn't want to contaminate himself with the dirty user of the Black, obviously. It didn't matter how Harry had been revived, just that he had. He doubted that the Council were even looking into the circumstances of his death, Black as it had been. After all Mai and Morgan had wanted his head for a very long time, and with him gone they could check him off their list and move on.
"I'm not leaving him until he's in hospital, being properly taken care of," Murphy snapped, "Get out – you're not authorised to be here."
"Don't hurt her," Harry begged quietly. There was nothing he could do to stop them, but he couldn't just lay here uselessly, "She's my friend… she doesn't understand…"
"I'm a doctor," the unknown woman said quietly, "I'm here to take care of him, but there is risk of contagion, Detective. I need you to step outside while I check him over. Mr Morgan here is my assistant, and a little new to the job."
Harry managed to contain his incredulity only because Murphy was facing away from him. He nodded when Murphy looked back at him, and she stood reluctantly, glaring at Morgan angrily. They'd met before, but she either didn't remember the brief meeting or didn't associate him with the field of medicine. To be fair, Morgan shouldn't be, but Harry wanted her out of the danger she was unknowingly courting, and this would do the trick.
"Are you sure?" Murphy asked him, her face twisting and Harry nodded, forcing his own face to project calm and acceptance. He hadn't wanted to actually die for a long time now, but he could accept his coming fate at the end of Morgan's sword, and if the last thing he did was protect his only friend (Bob was family, and beloved, that didn't count) then that is what he would do.
"It's ok, Murph, you can leave me with them," Harry kept his voice level, "And... I… thank you… for being my friend… it's meant a lot to me."
"I'll see you soon, ok?" Murphy promised, and Harry forced himself to nod, as if he would survive what was coming. Her eyes welled with tears but she didn't let them fall, standing and stepping into Morgan's space.
"You will take care of him," she informed the Enforcer. The 'or else' was clearly implied. Morgan merely nodded impassively, and Harry managed to hold his smile until she cleared the door, glancing back at him one last time. Then she was gone, and he was left with his executioner and witnesses.
"What did you do, Dresden?" Morgan snarled when the door was shut, his male minion on the outside of it to stop anyone else entering. The question was exactly what Harry had expected. Even Amber, who had admitted that he was no longer her 'usual suspect' wouldn't look at him. The woman who'd claimed to be a doctor frowned at Morgan, but pulled a notepad and pen from nowhere, preparing to record his statement.
That was to be expected, and marked her as either an archivist, or a lorist. He would get to make his final statement, which Morgan would ignore, and then Morgan would take his head, which was standard punishment for anyone involved in a ritual cast in the Black. If they were a victim, there was supposed to be a tribunal to evaluate if they could live on, but Morgan wouldn't bother with that, because in his mind Harry could never be a victim.
"I didn't ask to die, or to have this happen to me," Harry replied, but he looked at the woman with the notepad, not Morgan. He wasn't afraid of the man, just tired of being constantly accused of being the devil.
"Will you take my final statement?" he asked her, and she frowned, nodding slowly, "Thank you."
"We'll be able to heal you once the statement is done," she told him, and Harry shook his head.
"There's no point," he told her, "Morgan here will kill me when I'm done. That's the only reason he's here."
"We'll see," she soothed, evidently thinking his mind was muddled, "Start with your Name and then give me the details of what happened."
Harry shifted, the tingling of his skin fading away. His skin had regained most of its usual colour, and he was freezing cold still, too cold to shiver. He hoped his internal temperature didn't rise too high before Morgan killed him, he didn't want to shiver with his shoulder and chest in the state that it was, it was already painful enough, and growing worse as his nerves slowly woke themselves up.
Not seeing the point in delaying the inevitable, and certainly not wanting to prolong his last few moments in Morgan's presence, Harry started by explaining about Angela the necromancer and former morgue assistant. He confirmed he'd told the Council of her ways, the reviving of that one victim over and over again while her lover pretended to be the victim's wife so they could claim the insurance together. He explained he'd got a sense of her power when dealing with the un-dead victim, and that he could sense that same power in him now. He made it clear he hadn't spoken to her since she'd fled the state, although Murphy had said she'd keep an eye out for reports of insurance policies being fulfilled not long after they were established. He made it clear he hadn't asked to be resurrected, and that the way he'd died had felt like vodun, an attack he hadn't been able to summon his own powers in defence against it in time, although he had tried.
Then he was done, and he fell silent, letting his head fall back against the tiled wall behind him, closing his eyes for a long moment. Morgan's sword whispered as it was drawn from it's scabbard. Harry couldn't even find it in himself to tense at the sound.
"Alright, that's it," Morgan said, "As a participant in a Black rite, you know the punishment is death."
"Just… don't leave me here for Murphy to find," Harry said without opening his eyes, "I don't want her last memory of me to be a beheaded corpse. And please… be kind to Bob… just, treat him well."
"No one is beheading anyone," the lorist said sharply, "Enforcer Morgan, he is a victim, not a participant."
"He is a Morningway, and he's used the Black before. He's no innocent; regardless if he asked for this or not," Morgan snarled and Harry opened his eyes. The lorist was standing between him and Morgan, her back to him as she faced off against the Council's Enforcer. Harry was surprised Morgan hadn't shoved her aside already, and was also surprised that she even bothered to try and fight this losing battle. Unless it was her attempt to salve her own conscience against the death she was about to witness. That made sense to him, and he stayed still, not wanting to give Morgan an excuse to hurt her. Amber was standing to the side, conflict on her face, though she still wouldn't look at Harry directly.
"You can't kill him," the lorist lifted her chin defiantly, "I forbid it."
"You don't have the authority to forbid it," Amber spoke up, "I'm sorry lorist, but …"
The lorist raised her hand, which still had a pen in it, and sketched a quick rune in the air. It glowed brightly and Amber and Morgan froze.
"Is that a Moment of Time rune?" Harry asked, not able to fully see the glowing thing.
"Yes," the lorist turned to face him and squatted down, "It should give me time enough to put you in stasis and invoke a Summoning of Authority."
"That will just bring Mai, and she wants me dead as much as he does," Harry told her, "It's not that I don't appreciate what you're trying to do, but I'm not worth it. The risk to yourself, and your standing with the High Council is too great. They're going to kill me anyway. Don't throw away your career for the likes of me."
"I would love to meet the person who convinced you that you're not worth anything," she frowned, "So I can slap them silly. You let me worry about me. Now, I'm going to put you into stasis. Before I do, do I have your permission to cast Projection of Memory for the inquiry that is about to follow?"
Projection of Memory was a spell that could be enacted on an unconscious or dying user of power, to allow the truth of their memories to be projected out for others to see. Not getting permission before casting it could cause the caster to be executed for breaking one of the eight laws, specifically the one about not entering the mind of another without permission.
"You have my permission to cast Projection of Memory, on the condition that when they behead me, my body is cast to the four winds and not left for anyone to find," Harry told her.
"And if you're not beheaded?" the lorist asked lightly, raising her pen to start her writing again, "Do I still have permission? After all, its not a given that you will be executed. That's why I'm doing this, to get you a fair trial."
"There's no such thing with the High Council, but sure, you have permission," Harry gave up. He would be sorry to be the reason she lost her optimism and faith in the system, but it was rigged in the favour of power, and the High Council held all the cards. He'd tried to warn her off. He let his head fall back again, the cold of his body almost painful, cramping his muscles and organs. She gave him a firm nod, then started writing again. The click of her pen, sealing the stasis spell, was the last thing he heard.
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Harry honestly didn't expect to wake again. They could cut his head off without waking him after all, and the Projection of Memory spell worked better if the victim was in an altered state, like stasis. He hadn't expected to wake naked on his back in the middle of a ritual circle, robed people standing around it, their cowls so deep that you could only see their chins. He was warmer than he'd been in the morgue, which he took to mean that his body had reached ambient temperature, instead of the chill from the morgue's refrigerated drawers. The room he was in wasn't too cold, there was sunlight coming down from somewhere high in the ceiling and he was laying in a shaft of it.
"Rise, Wizard Dresden," a woman said gently, "You have been absolved of any crime."
'Does this mean I'm not gonna be killed,' he wondered, but did not say. There was a thrum of power in the chamber, and he could sense that making wisecracks now was going to be held against him. If he was absolved, that meant he had a chance to see Bob and explain, even if he was now compelled to serve another. Maybe they would get to say goodbye. Harry didn't think that he'd be able to stay in Chicago after all this, the High Council would want him gone. And Bob would be able to settle with a new master more easily if he knew that Harry was no longer in Chicago.
That was ok, he'd been thinking of going back to the Morningway estate and dismantling the wards. There were antiques and objects that he could sell off, and once the house was thoroughly cleansed he'd be able to sell it off too. Any magical items and books that he couldn't take with him or were too Dark to keep could be destroyed. The money was originally going to be a nest egg for himself and Bob, so that Bob could stop fretting whenever there was a lull in business. He could travel on it instead. Surely a peripatetic wizard who wanted to help others could find enough to do in the world.
Someone had reduced his dislocated shoulder. It still hurt, that was to be expected, but he had use of all four limbs. His throat and mouth were dry, but that was a side effect of Projection of Memory. The nakedness was embarrassing, but he wasn't going to give Mai and her cronies the satisfaction of seeing him cringe from it. So he was bony and scrawny, and had some scars. It wasn't anything to be ashamed of. Bob had taught him that.
Bob. His heart caught at the idea of never seeing the Ghost again. He wasn't going to let them see that either though. Never give others power over yourself, his father had taught him that at first. Bob had agreed, but Justin had been the embodiment of the idea.
"In the death of your body, you have been absolved," the woman said when he was upright. He didn't recognise her voice, and he knew all of the council members.
"In the reviving of your body, you have been absolved," a man spoke from behind Harry, and he tensed, but didn't turn.
"In the use of the Black to free Constanza Murphy of possession, you have been absolved," a different man spoke. Harry didn't know him either, and he was starting to realise this was not the High Council after all. He squinted at the robes they were wearing, worked with various sigils and runes, trying to decipher what he was looking at.
"In the use of Black to defend yourself from Justin of Morningway," this was the old form of the family Name, and he startled to hear a different woman pronounce it so calmly, "You have been absolved."
"All punishments, geas, and summary judgements handed out by the High Council have been waived," a third woman stated, "You are returned to your natural life span, and your natural state."
Harry hadn't been aware that his life span had been unnaturally shortened, though he supposed that it made sense. Mai was not one to risk not getting her way, and ruthless may as well have been her middle name. Returning him to his natural state wasn't a reference to his nakedness, though the lack of clothes was supposed to be symbolic of that, it was a reference to his status in the broader community of beings who wielded powers. There was only one council who could do that, and they outranked even Ancient Mai. He was surrounded by members of the Elder Council, and they were the stuff of legend. While the High Council had a Merlin, an honorary title that meant 'president' in function, the Merlin of the Elder Council was rumoured to be the actual Merlin. There were seven continents, and seven members of the Elder Council, and they were arrayed around him now. They could squash him like a bug if he wished.
"Thank you," Harry said in Latin instead, not bowing because that was not something that the Elder Council required. Bob had taught him the forms of behaviour for dealing with all sorts of Councils, Courts, and Covens and Harry had excelled at the learning if only because Justin had made it clear that failure to do so would result in punishment for the Ghost. Embarrassment for Justin was always met with punishment, and Harry had, as he aged, always flirted at the edge of it without ever once violating the proprieties and proper forms of the society he was in front of. He'd never risked getting Bob hurt though, even as a teenager Bob had meant far too much to Harry.
"Your case has brought to our attention the improper behaviour of several members of the High Council and their minions," a third man spoke, "This will soon be corrected. You are owed some form of redress however. You also have the right to press for punishment of those who have done you wrong. What say you?"
Harry swallowed hard. He didn't want to get anyone killed, which he could in fact request, and nor did he want to ask for money or favours. Owed or not, it would damage his reputation in the broader community, and he didn't want the only time he'd been in the presence of the Elder Council (because he was going to make damn well sure he never landed in front of them again) to mark his character negatively. They might have absolved him according to arcane laws that were beyond the High Council's reach, but he wasn't going to risk confirming that he was the Black addicted vengeful psychopath that Ancient Mai and Morgan thought he was.
Besides, there was something he wanted more than anything else in the world, and this was the only way he could think of to legally get it.
"I want Hrothbert of Bainbridge loosed from his curse, and if you can't do that, then return him to my care. He's the only family I have left… please…" Harry dropped to a knee, because that was how you asked for a boon while in the middle of a working circle in front of the Elder Council, his hand pressed to his heart and his head bowed.
"His sentence was earned," the first woman spoke up, her tone as casual as if she was speaking about the weather.
"Yes, but it's been well over nine hundred years," Harry said, "He's not that man any more. Even compelled to follow the orders of masters whose ambition and greed forced him into actions that were not… in the best interest of the wider community, he's struggled to mitigate the damage done. He's worked within his own geas to stop the worst from happening whenever he could."
"An examination of the entity reflects this," the man behind Harry spoke up. Harry wanted to clear his throat in sympathy for the man's scratchy voice, "I have carried out this examination myself."
"And were nearly muted for it," the second man sounded amused, though Harry wasn't sure what that meant. He was becoming more and more worried about Bob as the council spoke, and the next sentence made him want to cry.
"He is determined to take no further master," the first replied, "I believe he intends for the High Council to destroy him, and send him to eternal torment."
"Is he so attached to his last master?" the first woman asked, her voice surprised, "Was he that well treated?"
"He was treated with love," the man behind Harry said it baldly, and Harry did his best not to blush. He loved Bob, and he wasn't ashamed of that. He just wasn't expecting to have the matter discussed over his head while he begged for the opportunity to free Bob while stark naked in front of the seven most powerful wielders of the art in the world.
"I could not countenance the complete release of Hrothbert of Bainbridge," the seventh spoke up, and Harry felt goosebumps. This was the Merlin, he was sure of it, "I could countenance a loosening of the conditions under which Hrothbert of Bainbridge exists. If he can be persuaded to accept Dresden once more as his master, we could … accommodate some changes. We could then revisit this in a few hundred years."
"Perhaps we could discuss this in private?" the second woman suggested, "Wizard Dresden must be cold."
She sounded amused, and Harry bit his lip. As much as he wanted to stay and fight Bob's corner, he knew that the Elders would do what they wanted, no matter what he said. Sometimes, it was better not to try and meddle, Bob had taught him that, and as little as he wanted to be sent away like a small child, he knew that a show of willingness on his part would go further to stay in the good graces of the council standing around him.
"I am a little chilly," he owned quietly.
"Dress then," the words were accompanied by a wash of power and Harry found himself standing in a room with several lorists, Amber, Morgan and quite a few wardens.
"Shit," he muttered, and the lorist that had come to the morgue looked up in surprise.
"Wizard Dresden!" she squeaked. Intricate runes appeared around him for a moment and the lorists copied them down hurriedly, "Um, I have some clothes for you over here."
Morgan, Harry noticed finally, was standing with his hands bound in sigil worked cloth, another tied around the lower part of his face. He wouldn't be able to cast like this, and Harry got the feeling he wasn't armed with that sword of his any more.
"Is that necessary?" Harry waved at Morgan, "He's got a code of honourable conduct, you know. He's not gonna go on a murder spree, or run away."
"It's standard for those awaiting judgement," Amber scowled, and Harry sighed, going to the door that the lorist was now waiting beside. Inside was a small room with a narrow bed, a table and chair. There was a wash stand, an old fashioned basin and pitcher, with wash cloths and a towel, and there were clothes laid neatly on the bed and a pair of leather boots waiting beside the chair. Steam rose from the pitcher, and a bar of soap rested on one of the wash cloths.
"I don't even know your name," Harry said to her, and she grinned, blue eyes sparkling at him and not glancing down at his naked body at all.
"Morgana," she rolled said eyes, "My parents have a weird sense of humour. Get dressed, Wizard Dresden."
"Thank you Morgana," Harry went inside and let her shut the door. Washing the grime and death from his skin was a relief, but he didn't linger. There were thick ribbed woollen socks, and the dark blue trousers were some sort of wool and silk blend. There was a silk dress shirt, and a cashmere sweater in dark blue as well, and the ankle high black leather boots were also hand made. The entire outfit would have cost him a month of rent, but his mothers shields and the pentagon his father had given him were resting on the table, and he put them back on with a small sigh of relief, before taking a moment to sit on the chair and try to get his head on straight.
Bob was in trouble though, and Harry knew he couldn't take too long. If Bob had really lost his shit, and was planning to egg the High Council into destroying him, Harry needed to find him and talk him back down, and toot suite at that. So Harry did his deep breathing, ignored the pain from his shoulder, and went back out there to try and work out what was going on, where Bob was, and how he could help. After all, even if the Elder Council rejected the Merlin's proposal, that didn't mean that Harry couldn't try to reclaim Bob as he was.
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Morgan didn't look at Harry when he emerged, but Harry took a good look at the Enforcer and realised that his suit was actually quite dirty and creased. The man was a natty dresser and never appeared anything less than pressed and presentable. Now he looked as if he'd been living in the suit that Harry had last seen him in for a week or more.
"How long has Morgan been standing there?" Harry asked Morgana quietly. She'd been waiting for him outside the door, and he ignored her approving look. The clothes fit, they were warm, that was all that mattered. To Bob's despair, Harry had never been worried about how he looked.
"Only a couple of hours," she frowned, then realised what he was really asking, "You've been in stasis for the last two weeks. When I invoked the sigil for Summoning Authority, the Elder Council indicated they would hear your case. It took two weeks to get them all together in the Chamber, and to set up the proper spells and things. Enforcer Morgan and Ancient Mai attempted to … interfere with the hearing of the case, and they were confined by the Chambers own Enforcers. They're waiting with Ancient Mai."
"Can't you get him some clean clothes?" Harry frowned, "It's not fair to present him… looking less than his best."
"You were presented naked," Morgana rolled her eyes, "Are you going to complain about that?"
"Well, no, I was under suspicion of a pretty bad crime," Harry replied reasonably, not sure why he was trying to argue on behalf of the man who wanted him dead. Then his hearing caught up with him, "Wait, it's been two weeks? Is Bob ok?"
"He is… significantly distressed," Morgana said carefully, "So the sooner your business with the Elders is finished, the sooner you can go see him. I'm hoping you can reach him, because not one of us could."
"Us?" Harry wrung his hands, "What do you mean?"
"He was supposed to come to the lorist guild. As the last member of the house of Morningway, your death would have ended the custodial chain. He should have come to us, and we'd have been charged with his custody," Morgana looked up at his scowl, "We'd have been kind, Harry. None of us are in the habit of torturing people, and the lorist guild would have benefited from his knowledge immensely."
Bob's knowledge was very valuable, and none of the lorists that Harry had known had ever been awful people. A bit gullible, and one had been used by a skin-walker to almost kill him, but she had been a decent enough person, if a little impatient with him. Harry didn't have kids, and didn't plan to. He wanted the Morningway's gone from the world too: all they seemed to do was cause pain. Bob's skull would have been willed, with Bob's consent, to someone Harry could trust, but he hadn't made that decision yet. Bob and he hadn't found that person yet.
Runes spun into the air, and Morgana jumped, pushing Harry back to the circle he'd first appeared in.
"The Elder's are summoning you, quickly now!" she chided and he moved willingly, hoping that he would be hearing good news. The circle activated the moment he had both feet planted, and the Chamber appeared again. Harry stood quietly, waiting for the Elders to speak.
"Interesting that you would concern yourself with the Enforcer," the Merlin spoke up, "After all he has tried to do to you."
"My personal feelings shouldn't interfere with his chance at a fair trial," Harry said carefully.
"You have already testified as to his actions, while under spell," the Merlin sounded amused, "Do not concern yourself in his affairs further."
"As you will," Harry bowed his head in acceptance and hoped he hadn't said anything too damning while in a state he couldn't control or remember.
"Your request for Hrothbert of Bainbridge is granted," the Merlin continued, "He will return to your custody. Provided you can get him to accept your control of his curse, he will be given tangibility and a small enhancement of his current powers. But there are conditions, Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden."
Harry shivered at the invoking of his full Name. He drew a steadying breath and waited for the axe to fall.
"You must persuade him to accept you," the woman who had first spoken to him said.
"You must do this without telling him of the changes to the curse," a man to Harry's left intoned.
"You must return him to sanity before you bind him to you," the man behind Harry added.
"You may not use your powers or any other form to persuade him," the second man instructed firmly.
"You must persuade him to allow you near him, at all," the Merlin added, sounding amused, and Harry sucked in a breath, wondering what the hell kind of state Bob was in to have this imposed as a condition. When there was no further comment from the other two Elders, Harry nodded.
"I accept your conditions," he said quietly.
"If you fail, he will be remanded to the lorists," the third woman told him.
"If they fail, he will be destroyed," the last woman spoke up, her voice also oddly hoarse, and Harry nodded. All or nothing then, with Bob's existence the stakes. Well, the Ghost often said that Harry tilted at windmills. This time it would be for someone that Harry loved, and for the people he loved there was nothing he could not do.
"Joseph-Listens-to-Wind will take you to Hrothbert of Bainbridge and supervise your attempt," the Merlin said, "If you succeed in getting him to agree to your reclaiming of him, the changes to the curse will occur when the claiming is complete."
"I understand," Harry said. There was a rush of power and he returned to the circle he'd stepped into.
Joseph-Listens-to-Wind was waiting there beside Morgana, his raccoon familiar chattering on his shoulder, and Amber stepped forward as Harry stepped out of the circle. She was glaring at him, and she looked quite tired. Harry had a moment of regret that the small degree of accord they'd had getting rid of that drake was gone.
"What did you say, Dresden?" she asked, "Did you even try to help?"
"Enough," Joseph-Listens-to-Wind spoke before Harry could, "He has been far more generous than Enforcer Morgan has in his actions. He is not yours to question Warden."
Amber closed her mouth and looked away. Morgana cleared her throat and met Harry's eyes, mouthing 'awkward' at him.
"This way," Morgana announced as Joseph-Listens-to-Wind glanced down at her, amusement glinting in his eyes. Harry followed after her, when the High Council member waved him on.
"Hrothbert of Bainbridge has manifested in… a way that is very unusual to what you are used to seeing," Morgana said over her shoulder, "I'm afraid that when the Wardens went to retrieve him, they were less than kind about the situation, and his distress is… great. We tried to calm him down, and when that didn't work our head lorist tried to claim him, thinking establishing a bond would help."
"It did not," Joseph-Listens-to-Wind said drily from behind Harry, "He attempted to tear the mans throat out with his sword."
"Bob doesn't carry a sword," Harry mumbled, and the raccoon made a scolding noise from where it was riding.
"Hrothbert of Bainbridge did," Joseph-Listens-to-Wind informed him, "And when it passes through human flesh it freezes the flesh quite effectively. The master lorist was lucky that his vocal cords were not permanently frozen or damaged, though it was nearly a week before he could speak normally. Several others tried, including Ebenezar McCoy and even members of the Elder Council, and all of them suffered a similar injury."
That explained the elders with the hoarse voice. Harry didn't say that out loud though.
"Does he know I'm alive?" Harry asked and Morgana stopped in the corridor, turning to look at him with a saddened expression.
"I told him you were myself," she told Harry, "But he doesn't believe me. He thinks we're trying to trick him."
"Then," Harry took a deep breath, "If you don't mind, it might be best if you don't come in with me. If he thinks you've tried to trick him once…"
"Oh, I wasn't going in," Morgana assured him, "I'm just showing you where he is. In fact, its the door on the end there. Good luck, Harry."
"Thanks," Harry nodded. He didn't attempt to make any suggestions to Joseph-Listens-to-Wind. He didn't want to give the Elder Council, who was likely watching him closely regardless of the visible babysitter they'd sicced on him, any chance to say he'd tried to breach the deal. The door on the end was made of dark oak, and studded with a ward that Joseph-Listens-to-Wind disabled, waving it open.
Harry stepped into a medium sized room, well lit, with a pedestal set in the middle. At almost waist height, Bob's familiar skull rested on it, facing the door. It wasn't damaged, and Harry breathed a soft sigh of relief at the sight. Someone was pacing in steady loops around the skull, and Harry took a moment to look carefully at the Ghost.
It was Bob of course, Harry would recognise him anywhere, but this was Bob as he'd died over nine hundred years ago. He wore heavy riding boots, dark breeches and a wide leather belt with several pouches and a dagger attached. He wore a lawn tunic, laced tightly and covered with a leather jerkin, also laced. There was a leather loop running across his chest, from shoulder to hip, with his broadsword hanging from it. He wore a thick cloak, the cowl folded back. The familiar rings rested on his fingers. His hair was long, and pulled back to the nape of his neck. His expression was frighteningly cold, fury and grief warring in his eyes.
At the sight of Harry, dressed in unaccustomed finery, he snarled wordlessly and paced to the end of his reach, drawing the sword and holding it ready.
"So, the bitches lie continues," the cold words were in Bob's voice, and Harry's heart ached. 'Bob is in a state' was apparently the understatement of the century.
"Hi Bob," Harry said quietly, and waited. Bob had some ability to recognise Harry's powers, and Harry knew that a part of the Ghost would be searching for a reason to believe. That didn't mean he was going to just step into the reach of that sword. That would be disrespectful when Bob was so far gone in his grief. Bob was warning Harry off, and Harry would have to earn that trust again.
"Do. Not. Call. Me. That," Bob bit out. There was an undercurrent of agony in his voice. Harry hated to hear it.
"But it's been your name since almost the day I met you," Harry said sadly, "Remember? That first day, not so much, I was too scared to do anything other than say yes sir, no sir, three bags full sir… but by the third day, well. I quickly came to realise that you were the only person in that house I could trust, and in my family we all get nicknames, Bob."
Harry had said that when he'd Named Bob, and the Ghost had been unable to disguise his gratification, even if the nickname was not one that would strike terror into the heart of his foe. Harry repeated that remembrance to Bob as well, reminding his Ghost of the child he'd raised.
"You've had plenty of time to find that out," Bob grated, shifting his balance. Dressed like this, armed with a sword, Harry remembered how graceful his teacher had been when teaching Harry the basics of fighting with a sword and stave. Uncle Justin had insisted on Harry having a real living coach as well, but Harry had learned more from Bob than the human. Not that he hadn't tried hard. Uncle Justin was not one to be crossed, and he'd have taken anything less than genuine effort from Harry as disrespect.
"I suppose they have," Harry agreed, "But I'm telling you from my own memory."
There was no response, so Harry started telling Bob what had led to his death and resurrection. He left out the Elder Council altogether, saying only that it had taken time for the full matter to be investigated, and that Harry had only just been awake for a few hours.
"What did happen to Angela?" Harry turned to Joseph-Listens-to-Wind with a frown, "Is anyone even looking for her?"
"We found her," Joseph-Listens-to-Wind said blandly, "She has been executed for her crimes, in a way befitting them."
Harry frowned, not wanting to open that can of worms right now. Bob scoffed behind him, and Harry turned to look at him, sharing a 'I hope they're right about that' look that was so familiar to the two of them. Bob stepped back as if slapped.
"Even if what you say is true," Bob recovered his composure, "My Harry would not have left me for so long."
"I was in a stasis spell," Harry ran a hand through his hair, "I didn't have any way to get to you, Bob."
He was heartened by the phrase 'my Harry' though. Bob had only just started calling Harry his, after the incident with Tara the thief and then the drake almost straight after. Harry had slipped up and called Bob 'beloved' once, and been soundly mocked for it by a suspiciously pink and bright eyed Ghost, who had disappeared into his skull for three full days, striving desperately for nonchalance when he next emerged.
"Yes well, that is what you'd say," Bob snarled, raising the sword, which he'd started to lower, and visibly steeling his resolve.
"I know," Harry sighed, "I know that the only way to prove it to you, is through shared memory; which can be recalled from our possessions, or the Morningway estate, by someone of sufficient skill. Or…"
"No," Bob spat, fury taking over, and Harry gave him a crooked smile, desperate to hide his pity. Bob was terrified, and rightly so. The only way to prove that Harry was Harry was for him to touch the skull. To allow his powers to wash over it. To let Bob feel that Harry was who he said he was. If Harry touched his skull, and wasn't Harry, the anguish would be devastating. Better to disbelieve now, than trust and have that trust shattered.
"I'll bind my mouth, if you wish," Harry offered, "I won't make any claim to you, in fact I won't say a single word until you permit it. But touching you is the only way to prove I'm me. Any glamour or spell would be felt by you at once."
Joseph-Listens-to-Wind pulled a sigil worked cloth from a pocket and held it up so Bob could see it clearly. The familiar took it from him and leapt to Harry's good shoulder, and Harry took the cloth, spreading it between both hands, holding it out to Bob.
"If I'm lying to you, you will know," Harry said it firmly, "You know I'd never torture you Bob. I'd never raise your hopes like this if it wasn't me."
"My Harry was not cruel," Bob agreed, looking at the cloth carefully, inspecting it for misspellings and mistakes that would allow Harry to violate his promise and claim him. The raccoon ran down Harry's back and climbed up to sit in the crook of Joseph-Listens-to-Wind's arm.
"Very well," Bob rasped finally, and Harry tied the spell cloth over his mouth straight away, knowing that Bob would be looking for hesitation or deceit on his part. His shoulder twinged, but he didn't let it stop him. Bob paced back to the skull, and Harry waited, not moving, for permission to approach. It took a while, but finally Bob jerked his head in permission and Harry stepped into Bob's reach.
He moved slowly, knowing that rushing forward would only freak Bob out further than he already was. When he was in arms reach of the skull he raised a hand slowly. In a flash, the sword was at his throat, Bob's wild eyes screaming their fear and grief. Harry stood still, then lifted his free hand, putting it atop the blade. He could feel the subfreezing temperature, but he pushed his hand down, lowering the sword until the tip rested level with his heart. There was no way that organ would survive being flash frozen. From the look in Bob's eye he wouldn't hesitate to plunge the sword into Harry's chest if he was lying.
Joseph-Listens-to-Wind made a startled sound in the doorway, but Harry ignored him, holding Bob's gaze. He was waiting for permission, and let his free hand fall away from the sword, Bob searching his eyes desperately. Finally Bob nodded and Harry cupped the cheek of the skull, as if he was cupping Bob's own face. He focused on how much he loved Bob, on how important the other was to Harry's own life and happiness, knowing it would filter through his touch and into Bob.
Bob gasped and dropped the sword, the weapon reforming in it's scabbard. The Ghost stumbled forward a step, hands pressed to his chest as he processed the touch, confirming what he needed to be true.
"Harry," Bob keened and Harry felt tears start in his eyes, pushing contrition along with the love into the skull. He was sorry Bob had suffered alone these last two weeks, fending off unwanted masters. He couldn't have come more quickly, he'd had no control over anything since dying and then waking in the morgue, but that didn't mean he wasn't sorry.
"You may say one thing," Bob's voice wavered, the need to believe warring with the need to preserve what little control he had left, "Prove yourself to me."
Harry reached up and tugged the spell cloth out of his mouth enough that he could speak. There was only one word he could think of that would prove him to Bob, and he'd only ever said it the once.
"Beloved," Harry murmured and Bob wailed in grief, falling to his knees. Harry scooped up the skull and knelt opposite the Ghost, the spell cloth back in place. He cradled the skull against his chest, pressed where the tip of the sword had been, long fingers stroking it gently. His own tears streamed down his cheeks, a release of the stress and pain he'd felt since waking in the morgue. They rocked there together, ignoring the room around them and the watcher in the doorway. Harry would have preferred privacy for this, but beggars can't be choosers, and Bob's needs had to take precedence now.
"Remove the cloth," Bob reached out, and Harry pulled the spell cloth away from his mouth, letting it dangle around his neck, "Oh Harry… what have they done to us?"
"I'm so sorry, Bob," Harry wiped his face impatiently, "I'm sorry you had to go through this. I never wanted to leave you alone."
"It's the price of my existence, though," Bob's voice hitched, grief still tinging his tone, "You are mortal, and will leave me one day, my dear."
"Never by choice Beloved," Harry replied softly, "Never by choice."
Bob buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. Harry stayed where he was, stroking the skull where it was pressed to his heart, waiting for Bob to recover his composure. He bent his head and hummed softly, a tune that he and Bob sometimes teased each other with. 'Dream a little dream' took on haunting connotations when one of the pair singing was a Ghost, after all.
After what seemed like an age, the storm of Bob's grief passed and he wiped his face. His hands dropped to his lap and he looked over at Harry, exhaustion etched on his face. It took a lot to tire the Ghost, and usually it was caused by emotion, not exertion.
"What now?" Bob asked, his tone tired, "What is to happen now?"
"If you wish it, I can reclaim you," Harry said, "Or, if you prefer, the lorists of the High Council can claim you, as a body. You'd be able to work with them, solve all those theorems and puzzles you like to work on when I'm asleep."
He wasn't going to demand Bob take him back. If the lorists claimed him en-mass, Bob would never have to feel the wrench of Harry's eventual death, or accustom himself to the touch of another. Perhaps after all this, Bob would prefer not to be attached to a single person, but to a position, and one where his extensive knowledge and skill would be properly appreciated.
"You'd give me up?" Bob's eyes flashed.
"Only if you wanted it," Harry replied before the temper in front of him could be unleashed, "I wouldn't be happy about it, and I'd probably have to leave Chicago, but if you want it Beloved, I will do it it. I'm yours to command."
"Harry Blackstone Copperfield Dresden," Bob snarled, "If you don't reclaim me this instant I will find a way to make you regret it."
"As you wish," Harry gave his Ghost his best little boy grin, and Bob huffed, swiping his had through Harry's head, clearly recognising when he was being teased back into good humour. That didn't mean he wouldn't make the most of it, exacting a payment of his own, the only way the Ghost could.
"You owe me at least three nice outings," Bob informed him, "And a new book a week for the rest of the year. Really, Harry, what are you thinking?"
"That I don't want you to feel this way ever again," Harry said firmly, "Bob… they thought you were trying to goad them into destroying you."
"Well," Bob looked away, guilt on his face, "If I couldn't have you, I wanted no one."
He looked back at Harry, grief still visible on his face. There could be only one response to that look, and Harry made eye contact, wanting Bob to hear what he was saying clearly.
"You have me," Harry promised, "For as long as I live, I am yours Hrothbert of Bainbridge, as you are mine Beloved. I claim you as you claim me."
The skull in his arms flared with light, lightning crackling over the runes and Bob gasped, his eyes rolling back in his head, falling forward. The skull disappeared and Harry caught the sorcerer in his arms, gathering the muscled body to his own lean one, folding his arms tenderly around Bob and rocking them both gently.
It was done.
0000
Harry ended up with his back against the pedestal, which was well anchored and could take both his and Bob's weight. Bob's back was pressed to Harry's chest, Harry good arm snaking from waist to rest his hand above Bob's heart. He'd bent the leg on the other side to support Bob's weight there, his shoulder too sore to hold Bob comfortably for long. That hand was tucked into the crook of his thigh in an effort to relieve the weight of the arm on the joint. In stasis, a mechanical injury could be remedied, but it wouldn't start to really heal until his body was released from the spell. So while his arm was working once more, it was as painful now as it would have been a few hours after the injury. The weight on his chest wasn't too bad, and Harry thought that the damage to bone from the CPR that Murphy had attempted had probably been healed to a large degree.
After an hour Bob began to fret in his unconscious state, and Harry started humming again, not wanting to overstimulate the body in his arms. Bob had gone over 900 years without any external sensation. He wouldn't be able to take a lot of fussing right now without it overwhelming him, so Harry gave him the nasal sound of Harry's humming and kept his hands still. The heart under his hand was slowly beginning to speed up, the muscles in Bob's body gaining tension as he rose from complete unconsciousness to consciousness. Harry was content to let it happen naturally. Bob settled again after a few moments and Harry returned to his silent wait.
Joseph-Listens-to-Wind had nodded once Harry had first settled with Bob in his arms and left. The raccoon had stayed to watch, coming to sit in a patch of light and groom itself idly. Morgana had come in and held a glass of water for Harry to drink from, sipping from it first to prove it was unadulterated. He was grateful, as this throat and mouth were still very dry, even after snatching a few hasty mouthfuls of warm water from the pitcher. Various people had come to stand in the doorway and watch him hold Bob, some whispering to each other. Harry wasn't sure if it was his reputation or Hrothbert of Bainbridge made flesh that was attracting them, and ignored them the best he could.
Eventually Bob's muscles began to tense, and he moved his head restlessly. Harry used the bad arm to reach up and run his fingers carefully through Bob's hair, which helped to calm him again. Bob had retained the hair and clothing that he'd been wearing when Harry had first seen him, and Harry kind of dug this wilder version of his friend. He did wonder how he'd get the sword home though. Or them for that matter, his personal effects were probably still in the morgue, which meant calling a taxi was out of the question. While he waited for Bob to wake Harry started going over his finances and the things he'd need to do. Bob would need clothing, and nutritious meals. Harry had paid this months rent, and had enough for next month as well, but he'd need to find work soon if he was to keep his bank balance healthy enough to feed and clothe Bob properly.
"Harry?" Bob mumbled and Harry kissed Bob's temple tenderly.
"I'm here," he told the other man, "It's ok Bob. You're ok."
"What have you done?" Bob asked, wonder tinging his voice. He moved carefully, not trying to pull away, more like testing the sensation of having a body once more. Harry started to move the arm he was using to hold Bob so close, but the noise of distress the other man made had him putting it back at once.
"I told you there was a trial, yes? That the lorist who came to take my statement invoked a Summoning of Authority and Projection of Memory," Harry wasn't sure how much Bob had absorbed earlier, he'd been so distraught, "Well, the Council that answered the Summoning wasn't the High Council."
"The Elder Council?" Bob gasped, his arms coming up so he could grasp Harry's arm with both hands, "You were tried by the Council of Elders?"
"Yes," Harry nosed the hair at Bob's temple, trying to calm him, "I guess that is why it took so long. They had the Projection of Memory spell, and they followed it all over my head, like following breadcrumbs or something. And when they were done they… absolved me."
"Of the death ritual?" Bob turned his head and Harry shifted so the pale eyes could meet his. They were worried, and he smiled warmly at them.
"Of the death ritual and my revival, the time I used the Black to save Murphy… and my uncle," Harry confessed it quietly, still not quite believing it himself. Bob's face lit up though, joy suffusing his skin.
"Oh my own!" he gasped, "They truly absolved you!"
"They also… lifted a geas," Harry frowned, "I don't know who put it on me, but it was limiting my life span, apparently. I'll live my full number of years now."
"Provided you don't do something heroic and get yourself killed," Bob replied, a faintly cranky tone creeping in. Harry squeezed him gently and kissed the end of his nose to distract him. It worked if the faintly disgusted expression was any kind of indicator.
"I will do my best not to," he promised, and Bob sighed, returning to leaning back against Harry comfortably. Harry wasn't fooled though. Under that silver blond hair, the sorcerer's mind was going a million miles an hour.
"Then you … you were offered redress," Bob realised and Harry nodded, not needing to tease this out at all for the other man. Bob's knowledge of the modern world may have been lacking, but the man still had first class reasoning skills, "And you asked for my… reprieve?"
"A sort of parole," Harry murmured, "They'll revisit it in a couple of hundred years. It's not a full return to your former powers, Bob. The Merlin was clear on that. But… you can live a life again. I wasn't allowed to tell you until after the claiming. Joseph-Listens-to-Wind was here to ensure I didn't influence you one way or the other."
The familiar chattered at them, clearly beckoning, and Bob sighed.
"You could have asked for wealth, or any other thing, and you … I do so love you, dear boy," he murmured, shifting his legs cautiously, leaning forward away from Harry's warmth. Harry let go reluctantly. He knew better than to try and limit Bob's movement and choices now, "Let's see if I remember how to do this."
"I can't catch you if fall, Bob," Harry warned, "I've only one working arm here, so make it count buddy."
Bob snorted at him and stood, coming gracefully to his feet and stepping towards the door. He turned to look at Harry and frowned when Harry got less gracefully to his feet, tucking his arm close as he stood.
"You're hurt," Bob reached out and Harry caught the hand in his good one, not wanting to deal with prodding right now.
"I dislocated my shoulder when I fell in the morgue," Harry replied, "I went into stasis with the injury and the joint must have popped back in when they moved me, so it's pretty sore right now. You can poke and prod me when we get home, I promise."
Bob frowned, but gave a reluctant nod. Now was not the time to fuss, and Harry was relieved that their first hour together would not be spent in an argument about healing spells and proper post injury care. Harry moved so they were walking side by side behind the bounding familiar, tangling their fingers together for a few steps before letting go again.
"Thank you," he said quietly, and Bob nodded, not looking at him. The raccoon led them towards the chamber where Harry had been sent when the Council dismissed him. Morgan was gone, but Joseph-Listens-to-Wind was waiting for them. He held out a plastic bag to Harry and the wizard sighed in relief. It was from the morgue, and had his wallet, pentagram and mother's shields in it. His keys were there too. He took the bag with a murmur of thanks and Bob took it from him, opening the bag and handing the wallet, then keys to Harry. Bob fastened the cuff and pentagram himself, his fingers lingering for a moment.
"You may leave," Joseph-Listens-to-Wind stated, "Your part in the proceedings is over. Morgana will show you out."
"Thank you Joseph-Listens-to-Wind," Harry said automatically. Asking questions about Morgan, or Ancient Mai would not be well received. He had the feeling they were being watched closely, and expected that the Elder Council were well aware of what was going on outside of their meeting Chamber. Harry turned to Morgana, who waved a hand, then led the way. She led them through a warren of corridors, and then let them out of a door into what appeared to be a janitor's closet. Outside of that was the grand hall of Union Station, and Bob moved closer to Harry uncertainly. There were a lot of people there, all going about their business and none of them paying attention to the oddly dressed pair. Bob was showing all the signs of a man about to panic, overwhelmed in the presence of so many strangers in an unfamiliar space and Harry mentally cursed. This was their best shot to get home quickly, but Bob was in no state to deal with this many strangers at once.
"Cover the sword," Harry murmured, "The taxi stand is over there, it's not far, Bob."
He waited until the sword was covered by the cloak, and the dagger too, and then stepped in front of Bob, "Walk close behind me, I'll forge a path for us, ok? We won't be separated."
"Harry, I hate this," Bob whispered and Harry wanted nothing more than to take the other man into his arms. That wouldn't be a good idea in the middle of a public concourse, so he reached his good hand back and let Bob catch hold of it for a moment. Bob rested his head between Harry's shoulder blades, and Harry waited. When Bob let go he stepped forward, taking the straightest course he could through the hall and out to the taxi stand. They were lucky that there were several waiting for fares and Harry got Bob into the back of the first cab quickly, handing over fifty dollars and giving his address.
He had his keys ready when the cab pulled up and Bob followed him closely across the pavement, crowding nervously close as Harry unlocked the door. The former Ghost darted inside the moment the door was open and Harry locked it behind him, picking up the pile of mail from the mat and tossing it onto his desk, following Bob into the back of the apartment. Bob was standing in the middle of the living space, breathing deeply, eyes closed.
Harry left him to it, choosing to pull his sweater off carefully, grimacing where Bob couldn't see him. By the time he'd worked his way clear, Bob had opened his eyes and was staring at him.
"Will you permit me to examine it?" the question was oddly diffident, given that the Ghost would have jammed an incorporeal hand into the joint, lecturing and scolding while he did. Harry had already asked him not to fuss once, perhaps that was leading to his hesitancy now.
"Please," Harry sighed, "Anything you can recommend, I'd really appreciate it."
The cloak was swept off and draped on the back of a chair, the sword in it's scabbard following quickly. Bob was there in a trice, hands touching carefully, his eyes an odd mix of unfocused and intent as he paid attention to the injury.
"There are no trapped nerves or blood vessels," Bob told him, "The ligaments and muscles are sorely stretched though. We have a pain reliever in the lab, and something to help strengthen your sinews. It will help with the bruising to your chest and the cracked ribs as well."
"Sounds great," Harry groaned, "Lead on Beloved."
Bob smiled at him, then ushered Harry with a hand in the small of his back towards the lab. He made Harry sit on the stool in there, and carefully undid the silk shirt. Harry shivered in the cold air, his meagre body warmth disappearing rapidly. His shoulder and chest were incredibly bruised, and Bob tutted, bustling about. Harry drank what he was ordered to, allowed a balm to be applied and agreed wearily to a sling when Bob suggested it.
Bob took his passivity as a sign he needed greater care. Now that they were home, the events he'd been through was beginning to catch up with Harry. Death was not the same as rest, and neither was stasis.
"I can't sleep," Harry protested as Bob started to lead him up the stairs, "We have to put the wards back up."
"I can do that," Bob said, "They're not gone Harry, the net is still here. They're just… inactive."
"You've barely been back for four hours," Harry shook his head, "I'd feel better if we did it together. I … you're too important to be risked."
"And you're disposable?" Bob snapped. Harry shook his head mutely. Bob hung his head, then ran a hand over his longer hair, "I'm sorry darling, I just… I want to protect you."
"Use my staff then," Harry begged, "Don't try to raise them without a focus."
"Very well," Bob held a hand out, and the hockey stick came zooming through the apartment to smack into his hand, "This is surprisingly well balanced, for what it is. I remember thinking so when I first used it."
"Thanks," Harry leaned against the stair rail, shivering. Bob gave him a smile and then focused his attention on the wards. It didn't take much to reactivate them, and Harry was pleased to see that the effort hadn't seemed to drain Bob's energy or health.
"Now come upstairs," Bob scolded, "You'll catch your death standing down here, and I could use a proper rest myself."
"Coming dear," Harry replied drily, and jumped when his rear was swatted by a chuckling sorcerer.
0000
END