Dresden Fic.

[icarus_chained]

I just finished Small Favour. OMG. Awesome. And with all that happened to John, I had to write this. WARNING! SPOILERS! MAJOR SPOILERS.

Title: Momentary Understanding
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: sort of Harry/Marcone, but only preslash at the most
Summary: even crime lords need a moment of comfort
Warning: I repeat, SPOILERS. Of the kind that ruin the reading experience if you read this before the book. I am not joking. You are not allowed to look at this unless you finished the book, for your own sake!

Momentary Understanding

I walked out of Madame Demeter's office. I was hungry, and exhausted, and just plain sick of it all. Of the intricacies. The manipulations. Of being bullied into doing things I'd never wanted to do. I didn't want to see hide nor hair of Marcone or his minions again. Not for a long, long time. It was done, and I liked it that way. But as I hit the lobby, for some reason, I couldn't leave. I stopped, unable to walk out just yet. And I wasn't quite sure why not.

It was no magical reason. No geas or trap. Just ... something didn't sit right with me. It was the thought of him, sitting up there in his fresh, empty office. It was the hollow, bruised look of his eyes, something so wrong, so out of place on Gentleman John that the sight of it sent vague murmurs of disquiet through you, made you feel that all was not right with the world. Although these days, that all was not right was pretty much a given. But still. It bugged me.

I've been where he was. I've been down in the dark places, helpless while the monsters played their games, alone and hurting and trying not to show it. Don't think I've ever been as convincing as he was, on that island. I've never been so calm as he'd been back there. But I knew what it was to hurt like that. And I knew that afterwards, more than anything, I'd wanted someone to be there. Someone to comfort me. I'd wanted, so very desperately, to be warm and safe, just for a moment.

And who could give John that? Here, in this place full of hollow beauty and empty affection? The one woman here John thought he might trust had just betrayed him. Not that he knew it. Or at least, not that he showed he knew. But it meant something nonetheless. They couldn't help him, here. They could give him pleasure. They could maybe take the pain away. But could they give safety? Even for a moment?

I shook my head. I didn't want to be there. I really didn't want to be there. I didn't want to see him. Hells bells, I just gone and saved his life! Damn it, wasn't that enough? I was sick and hurt and I had Anastasia to think of. I didn't want to be there. It wasn't my responsibility. I didn't have to do a damned thing!

With a heavy sigh, I turned around and got back in the elevator. One of these days, I'm going to wrap my conscience up in a bag of catnip, and leave it for Mister to beat into submission.

He was alone when I appeared at his door for the second time. Hendricks must've gone for a potty break, or something. It must have been serious. The great bear of a man had been so jumpy after the kidnapping, so afraid of another loss, that it was a wonder Marcone hadn't found himself glued to the bodyguard's chest for safekeeping.

Hendricks wasn't the only one jumpy. The instant my shadow crossed his threshold, Marcone knew I wasn't one of his people. A gun appeared in his hand so fast, it was like magic, and his head snapped up from where he'd been resting it in exhaustion on his arms. I really wished I hadn't seen that. I didn't want to see him any more vulnerable than I already had. But it was too late for that, I supposed.

He stared at me for a second while he thought real fast, the small but undoubtedly deadly weapon held steadily pointed at me. I had no reason to harm him. Hell, I'd just saved his life. But I also had no reason to be there, and he wasn't exactly in the mood to take any chances. Not that I blamed him there. For my part, I held me empty hands slightly raised and out from my body, and very carefully made no sudden moves. And after a very tense couple of minutes, he lowered the gun.

Not very far, mind you. It stayed cautiously in his hand as he rested it on the desk, not threatening but definitely ready. He raised one tired eyebrow at me.

"Forget something, Mr Dresden?" he asked, and I may have detected just the tiniest hint of hostility in his urbane tone. I shrugged.

"Not really. I just wondered ..." And I stopped. Because what the hell are you meant to say? I just wondered if maybe being captured and tortured for a couple of days had, you know, upset you? I just wondered if you wanted a kiss and a snuggle to make it all better? Who was I kidding! It was Gentleman John, for crying out loud! If I said anything of the sort, he'd shoot me on general principles! And I wouldn't blame him for it.

I shook my head, and took a hesitant step back, my confusion obvious. He watched me warily, uncertain where this was coming from or going to. And the stillness of him sparked a flare of recognition in me. It was the stillness of someone trying to brace themselves unobtrusively. Someone ready for a blow, ready to have to fight. I looked at him, and I realised in one horrible moment that John was afraid.

Of me.

I stopped, and stood frozen as a wave of absolute hatred roared up through me. It was familiar, the liquid rage that had lunged up through my veins on seeing Ivy in that damned construct, on seeing those kids in the cave back in New Mexico, and far too many other things I never, ever wanted to see. For a minute, I wanted to be back in that boat, with my hands on the noose around Nicodemus' bloody throat. I wanted to throttle him all over again, and this time I wanted to damn well make it stick! For all the innocent people he'd hurt. For all my friends.

Marcone wasn't innocent. And I highly doubted he considered himself my friend. But he was, I think, a good man somewhere beneath it all. He did care about the innocent. He had wanted to save Ivy first. It had hurt him, to watch her be hurt. He was criminal scumbag, but he was honourable in his way, and he had guts to spare, and to me he was worth a billion times what the scum who'd hurt him were.

The gun had come back up again, and he was on his feet now, his face taut and wary as he studied my grim expression. There was no fear apparent in that assessing gaze. There never was. No matter where he was, no matter what threatened him or what condition he was in, John was not given to showing weakness. He did not panic. The sheer courage of him was one of the few things about him that consistently impressed me.

I didn't want to think about what they'd have done to him to try and remedy that.

I raised my hands as slowly and inoffensively as possible. His aim did not waver, and his eyes did not soften. He was fully alert now, and he was still hurt and scared enough to maybe want to take a few precautionary measures which I'm sure I would not have enjoyed in the slightest. I did my level best not to flinch.

"I'm sorry, John," I said softly. His eyes flickered briefly, an aborted blink. He was wondering if I'd meant that as a warning. "I'm sorry we weren't quicker in coming for you." And I was. Hells bells, but I was.

He blinked at me. "What do you want, Dresden?" His tone was about as revealing as Victorian swinwear, but there was a tremor in his hand as he pointed the gun at me. Only barely, but it was there. I closed my eyes briefly, readying myself. Going toe to toe with a jumpy mobster was not exactly my idea of a good time. But if he could be that brave, then so could I.

I opened my eyes, met his uneasy gaze, and took a step towards him.

The gun jerked. I froze, swallowing hard, but he didn't shoot. He didn't move, after that initial flinch, and I wanted to say something, just to ease the tension. But there was nothing to say. Somehow, I didn't think 'I'm not going to hurt you' was really gonna cut it. So I just bundled up what was left of my courage, and took the next step. And the one after it, when he didn't immediately move to perforate my chest. I moved slowly and warily into his office, until I stood right in front of him, the muzzle of his weapon wavering gently a couple of inches from my nose, and there I stopped. And held out my hand.

I did it slowly. I really, really didn't want to startle him. And I made sure that it didn't look like a spellcast, keeping my fingers lax and loosely open. I held out my hand to him as if asking for a handshake.

He looked down at it. Just a quick flicker of his eyes, and then his focus was back along the barrel of the gun towards my face. I didn't blink. "I repeat, Dresden," he murmured, so softly I could feel the chills crawling up my spine, "what do you want?" And I answered him, equally softly.

"I've been alone."

Then he really did flinch. The gun jumped in his hand, and for a moment I absolutely forgot what lungs were meant to be for, but he didn't attack. He just looked at me, pale beneath the bruises, as if I'd kicked him in the gut. I couldn't help the ache of sympathy from showing on my face, and for a second enough of the old Marcone resurfaced for him to look angry and insulted, but it faded quickly. He'd been hurt. A lot. And it was still too raw and fresh for him to completely deny the fear of it happening again. Or the longing for something to make it go away. Or someone.

I raised my hand, a little bit more confident now. If he'd been going to shoot me, that was the moment. I raised my hand and gently, very gently, pushed his gun aside. His eyes never left mine as he let the hand holding the weapon drop to his side. And he still showed no fear. I shook my head slightly, the rage bubbling back up, but I shoved it away quickly. He didn't need to see that. Not again, anyway.

He stood in front of me, breathing shallowly as if trying not to hyperventilate, but his gaze never faltered. I bit my lip, suddenly a little unsure what I was meant to do next. But then, in a fit of sudden humour, he did it for me. A tiny, phantom smile playing over his abused features, he reached carefully behind him, and laid the gun on the desk. He put away his weapon. I blinked at him, and something of his usual smirk flitted back into place.

"Well, it's not as if it would do me all that much good anyway, wouldn't you say?" he muttered softly, and I twitched.

"I wouldn't ..." I began, but he held up a still-shaking hand to stop me.

"I ... am aware of that." He looked away a little. "You, at least, are honourable, Mr Dresden. I'm sure you would have warned me had you intended otherwise."

I nodded gently, surprised. "Yeah. About half a second before I shot you, but yeah. No offense, but fighting fair with you doesn't exactly seem the best bet, survival-wise." That faint smile flitted over his features again, and he nodded back.

"What do you want ... Harry?" he asked. And third time is the charm, after all. I reached out and gently took his left hand in my right, like kids holding hands in school. He looked at me, and I shrugged.

"I've been there," I started, trying to explain. "Too many times. Same guys, even, once. It's incredibly stupid of me, I know. But I remember what it was like to want ... to be warm. Safe. Even just for a second. And I thought ..." I trailed off, but he was studying me now, and whatever it was he saw had a swift burst of surprise darting across his face. Surprise, and warmth. And then, as if not quite sure what he was doing, but just following what seemed to fit, he moved into me. Hesitantly, uncertainly, but he did it. Resting his free hand lightly on my chest, he stood there, trembling a little, an inch from me.

Sighing suddenly, whether just in relief or something more, I felt tension slip from my shoulders, and I reached out to wrap my other arm around his shoulders and draw him in the rest of the way. He stiffened at the motion, but I just let him rest there against me, my arm a warm weight and not a threat. And after one taut moment, he allowed himself to sag into the hug, the hand on my chest clenching convulsively in my shirt. I squeezed gently in answer.

 

I'm not exactly sure how long we stood there. He was quiet, and very still in my arms, and I saw no need to break the silence. I was content to let him do as he wished. He needed it. And if I was honest, so did I.

But it had to end sooner or later. I felt more than heard Hendricks come in behind me, and the electric shock of tension between him and John was rather hard to miss. A meaty paw landed heavily on my shoulder, the bodyguard's low growl vibrating through it in a way that really shouldn't have been possible, but quite successfully got his point across. Before he could illustrate it more definitively, by bodily throwing me out the window, for example, John stepped back out of my embrace, and waved a calming hand in his direction. Hendricks let go.

Reluctantly.

"It's alright," Gentleman John murmured, suddenly as calm and in control as ever. I blinked at him a bit, my tired mind not quite up to this kind of about-face just yet, and he smiled slightly. "It really is alright, Hendricks. Harry was just ... helping me with something, that's all." I nodded rapidly. I could have taken offense, but with Cujo behind growling deep enough to transmit through his muscle mass, it didn't seem worth it, somehow.

John stepped back a little more, resting himself on the edge of the desk, weariness hanging over him like a dull cloud. I frowned. He needed more than just what I'd given him. I've been under Nick's thumb. It takes a while to come back, and I don't think I could have done it alone. But when John looked up and caught the concern in my gaze, he only smiled tiredly.

"You should go home, Mr Dresden," he suggested softly. "You look like you could use the rest."

Well, that was a dismissal, alright. I nodded stiffly, and turned to go, sidestepping around the bulk that was Hendricks. I didn't look back as I walked out. I was suddenly very tired myself.

But John, as always, was not content without the last word. Ignoring Hendricks, he moved quickly to my side, catching my arm gently at the doorway. I looked sideways at him, and he hesitated for a second. But you don't fluster John for long, and throwing aside caution, he pulled me into a brief and oddly powerful hug of his own. I stiffened in shock, then relaxed enough to put my own arm back around him.

"Thank you," he murmured, so quietly I almost missed it. Not trusting myself to speak, I could only pull him that little bit closer in response. "I will not forget."

And, as I reflect on finally making out the door, leaving a pale but calmer crime lord behing me, neither would I.

Ever.