Archive of Our Own

You try to keep it private. It shouldn't be difficult; you've kept more than your share of secrets -- many that, like this, could ruin you in a heartbeat if you failed, got sloppy, and let them out. The biggest secrets are the ones you've kept the longest - it seems like they always are - and you've been holding tightly to this one for as long as you've known it, known this man, this infuriating, stubborn, loyal, powerful, dangerous man who's crouching in front of you, leather-clothed back to you in such a vulnerable position that you marvel, again, at the idiocy, the trust, that he shows you.

Or, perhaps, that you show him.

Something brittle scratches against the shield surrounding you both, dry and thin and it sounds so much like a tree branch brushing against a window at night that you almost slip, let your comfortable, familiar, bland expression crack, and let out a bark of hysteria.

You swallow the laughter, the panic rising like a bubble of air in your chest, and force yourself to look over. The thing is an arm, or some sort of appendage ending in curved, arthritic looking claws, as thin and dry as any old stick, with hanks of dead brown skin hanging from it.

You look away; you have nothing to prove by driving yourself mad staring at things long kept from human eyes for more than one reason, and try to ignore the feeling on the back of your neck that tells you to expect that thin, bony arm to be reaching for you in your nightmares for years to come.

"Hey, Marcone," Dresden says, his back still facing you, his head bowed. His voice is distracted, and he raises one arm, wagging his hand out behind him and toward you. "Pass me that glass ball in my bag, huh? The heavy white one."

You admire his ability to hold his position, feet flat on the ground and long, tall body squatted like some giant, hulking black vulture, duster falling down like plumage, and carefully bend to retrieve the bag. There is still a good two foot radius around you on all sides, but you're not going to take any unnecessary chances in disturbing the only thing keeping you from the hordes of dark creatures and the depths of the Nevernever.

"And a candle. Any will do. And that phial of copper filings. Um. It has a green stopper."

His bag, a battered canvas sack, is surprisingly heavy, and the first thing you see when you hold it open is an old, bleached skull. It leers up at you, and for an instant, you think you see a flash of something orange and lit deep in the eye sockets. "You have a skull."

"Ignore him. He's supposed to be sleeping, anyway. Ball; c'mon, John. Get with the program." He snaps his fingers, a sudden sharp sound, and you raise an eyebrow. Any other person, any other place ... but no. This has been your relationship for as long as you've know each other, as long as he's known your secrets (but not all of them; you're still breathing, aren't you?), and you roll your eyes, indulging in his lowest common denominator.

You find the ball easily enough; it's heavy, and probably accounts for most of the weight in the bag. No bigger than a baseball, it feels like a chunk of a glacier in your hand; not cold, no, but as permanent and terrible and unstoppable.

"... What is this?" you ask as you hand it over, placing it in the still outstretched hand and holding it there until long fingers close around it, and around your own, before you pull back. Perhaps the ball was cold after all, because Dresden's fingers certainly burn.

"Winter's Heart."

You swear; words jumping out from some place deep and old and comfortable, and you haven't sounded like that in over twenty years.

"Not literally. Stars, you think I'm a fucking masochist or something? It's like, an artifact. Some big hoopla. That sort of thing. It's on loan. Yeesh. Where's my copper and candle?"

"Yes, sir," you say, and smirk to yourself, because he only asked one question that can be answered with a yes or a no. It's immature humor; but, sometimes, even you are allowed these moments. That they seem to happen most often around him, almost exclusively around him, is a different matter entirely.

There are at least a dozen candles to choose from, and you pull out a simple white one, soft wax and already a little burnt down. The copper takes a moment, there are only a few phials, but they've sunk to the bottom and you need to push past rubber bands and yarn and books and stones attached to strings and a box of chalk before you find the one with the green stopper.

"Hey." You tap them against his back, and he turns enough to look up, dark eyes and a long, sharp face, and in the shadows and the glow from his pentacle pendant, you think absurdly that you could strike stone against those cheekbones and make fire.

"Thanks."

You tell yourself that you're being ridiculous; that you're acting like a smitten fool, acting dangerously, even, and that he probably didn't even realize what he'd said, his smaller actions lost to habit when his face settled into that frown of concentration, eyebrows lowering and a line appearing between them, and those eyes like flame shining through brown glass. But you can't stop the flicker of warmth in your chest, and shift a little closer, trying to block him from the things outside your shared bubble of a shield, just a little more, as if your meaty, mortal body could do a thing but be torn to strips.

While he does magic.

You try to keep it private. What it does to you, these things he can do. But it's so -- so ridiculous and incredible and inspiring, and your gut clenches and you fight to keep breathing, to draw in a breath and push it out again without it catching, fight to keep the flush of heat that's rushed to your skin from showing, and he holds his hands apart, cupped like he has the world between them, and a light as bright and white and widespread as the milky way comes pouring out.

 
 

His voice is ringing in your ears and there are after-images dancing across your vision when the world comes back into focus. You blink, chasing away as many of the shapeless, floating lights as you can, and you realize that you are no longer in the Nevernever; that you are standing underneath a familiar mortal sky, speckled with stars that are nowhere near as familiar, but only for their brightness, the lack of cityscape and light pollution, and that the air smells full of the bitterness of summer wildflowers and the humidity of a summer's night.

You relax, muscles you hadn't known were tensed to ridged cords slowly releasing, and then you realize that you are hunched forward, arms clenched around a narrow chest, and your cheek is pressed flat against a back that smells like leather and body heat and is rising and falling beneath your skin.

Needless to say, you have tensed again.

"John." Dresden's voice is surprisingly sharp, a different kind of urgency than you were expecting, one you've heard him use with Miss Carpenter, and not the startled, angered tones of a hero found with a villain clinging to his back like he's misplaced his role and recast himself entirely. "John, don't move. Don't let go; stay right there."

You're not an idiot, and you certainly haven't survived as long as you have in the situations you have by ignoring the experts; you do what the wizard says.

He is still and silent for a moment, and you follow suit, blinking at the soft blue light when it appears, emanating from his pendant, and you hadn't even realized it had been missing. "Yeah," he says. "I was worried about that."

"Mister Dresden?" You've used that voice more times than you can dream of counting, well-practiced and urbane, calm and politely disengaged, and you're almost surprised that you pulled it off, and almost certain he can feel how fast your heart is beating.

"Look down," he says, voice tight but tone deliberately casual. "Just don't let go of me."

You do, carefully, rolling your head until your cheek, already pressed against Dresden's back, is angled enough to let you look down instead of up, and your arms tighten, just a little, around Harry's lean chest.

The circle of grass surrounding you - maybe half a foot out from where your bodies end, maybe a little less - is slowly bleaching out, lush summer green turning brown and pale and sickly, and as you watch the blades curl in on themselves, darkening as they shrivel, until the ring is bare earth.

"... Dresden?" You can't quite keep the alarm out of your voice, rising even as the circle widens a fraction more. You can't quite tell if the circle is growing in or out, but you really don't want to find out the hard way.

"Don't worry -- it's not going to last. It's just a side effect. Just don't let go of me and it'll leave you alone, okay?"

You nod carefully, suddenly aware of your awkward position, hunched forward, and of the strain it must place on Dresden's back. Once again, for the umpteenth time during your association with Harry Dresden, you're remarkably glad you took up yoga all those years ago. "May I ask what is causing it, or should I just spare my mundane understanding and your ever-strained sense of humour?"

He snorts - the sensation is strange, back hitching and expanding and settling under your cheek - and you can hear the deprecating smirk. "Just take it as a warning against accepting Faerie gifts. You ever do that thing as a kid where you stick one hand in ice water and one in hot water, and then swap? It's like that. Just. With Faerie Courts. It'll run out soon; there's not enough to keep it going. And we'll be at the centre of a nice little crop circle."

"Except that I'm not certain anyone would be growing a field of grass."

"Picky picky. They sell decorative grass, right?"

"Do they cut it?"

"What, I look like a grass expert to you?"

"Merely an observation. And here I thought you were the PI."

"Besides, Eb doesn't cut it. He has sheep."

"... Beg pardon?"

"Sheep. You know. Four-footed woolly things? Known for their individualistic nature and endangered status in Scotland and New Zealand -- oh wait. That's not right."

It never even occurred to you that Harry would have taken then two of you out of the Nevernever, even trapped in the dark depths of it, without knowing where he was going, but somehow, hearing it out loud, his casual certainty in your surroundings, makes your stomach drop.

You trust this man entirely too much, and if you're not careful, it's going to get you killed.

"Eb. Ebenezer McCoy? Senior Council Member McCoy?" Blackstaff McCoy; although you don't say that out loud.

"The one and only. What -- you think I burnt us out of there without any idea where we were headed? ... That's very likely, actually. But not this time. Hey, my bag at your feet?"

You don't risk pulling your head back to check, but roll your cheek again until your forehead presses against his back as well. There's no real space between your bodies to peer through, but you squint, and carefully wiggle a leg, foot still firmly planted on the ground, and feel it bump against something. "Yes. We're in Missouri?"

Dresden huffs a sigh of relief. "Yeah, yeah. Good. Hey! Hey, Bob! Wake up, huh? Come on out, sleepyhead. But be careful about it; touch me when you do it, okay?"

You don't know what's happening until something brushes your leg, starting at your ankle and running up, warm and somehow thrumming and it leaves your skin sensitized and your heart starts pounding again. Dresden draws a sharp breath, grunts a little, and his body sags for a moment under your head and in your arms. You tighten your grip.

"Cut it out, Bob," he says, voice strained, and the feeling passes, running up high enough to make you shudder -- thankfully your face, at least, is buried in Harry's back and he can't see you, but the smell of the old, worn leather is suddenly driving you mad. You try to pull your hips back, as closely pressed as they are, and try to keep them from moving at the same time. Dresden mutters something, strangled and choked off, and you risk rolling your head again for the cool breeze against your face.

An orange light pools up over Dresden's front, hovering on his shoulder, and you blink.

"Come on, Boss," the light says, a little wheedling, a little amused. "First you wake me up, then you don't let me in on the action? Dry-humping with some guy out under the stars? You tease. It's the least you could do."

"Bob." There's a warning tone to Dresden's voice, one sort of like you've heard him use, briefly, with Miss Carpenter, with a fond, exasperated tinge; there's real care behind it, and it does something to your insides, something fluttery and fond. You flatten your expression, and hope it doesn't show.

"Looks like your boyfriend here thinks so too."

"Bob. Seriously. I'd like your help, here. I'll talk Murph or someone into letting you use a DVD player and I'll rent you that ... other. Pirate movie you keep bugging me about."

"And the sequel!"

"No. Original only, but I'll throw in the latest Jude Deveraux."

You focus on the absurdity of the situation, on Dresden arguing with a sparkling orange light with you pressed to his back like some sort of growth, and the fact that you actually know who Jude Deveraux is. That Dresden actually knows who Jude Deveraux is. That the light is named 'Bob' and apparently likes Jude Deveraux and, unless you've missed your mark, skin flicks.

"And you introduce me to your boyfriend. Poor guy looks like he's suffering, there. Looks like your type, though; green eyes, grey hair, huh-huh?"

The light is remarkably expressive, for a light. You focus on their banter, trying to keep your focus from falling back on your sensitized skin, how close the light had brushed to your balls, and the tightness in your groin.

"He's not my -- honestly, Bob. Bob --" Dresden tips his head back, sliding you both closer and shifting upward a little. Your forehead rests against the nape of his neck, and now you can smell his sweat and skin and the leather, and you bite your own tongue to buy a moment of concentration. "Baron John Marcone. John -- Bob the skull. Air spirit. Currently sans skull."

"Charmed," you manage.

"Well, not yet." You're not sure how, but you would swear the light is leering at you. "But if you'd like me to arrange that --"

"Knock it off, Bob. Come on. Be careful; what's the ETA on this circle burning itself out?"

The part of Bob facing you, the part your eyes are making contact with, flickers for a second, off, on, and your jaw drops - it just winked at you - before it dismisses you as effectively as turning its back.

It whistles, an impressive feat for a light, air spirit or no. "What were you trying to do, Boss? Blow open a ghoul gate?"

"No." There's an irritated snap to Dresden's voice, but Bob doesn't seem to take notice. "I just needed a strong enough Nevernever force to burn out all that muck."

"Well, you got one all right. And now you've got a patch of ground slowly eating away the last of it. What did you even do?"

"I lit Winter's Heart on fire."

The light goes silent, and your own body stills. You can feel your face muscles tightening, drawing back.

It's remarkable how quickly you can forget how absolutely insane the wizard is.

"What?" Harry sounds defensive, and your arms around his chest feel his own arms moving, crossing, closing over your hands. Your fingers twitch. "I knew it would get a reaction."

"So would have setting off a nuke, if you wanted that sort of reaction, Boss."

The light turns back to you, ignoring Harry's sputtering with what seems like long practice, to explain: "He's got Summer herpes."

"BOB."

"Hey, Harry; you go canoodling with a guy, he's got to know these things. I mean, Lily's a nice girl and all. But really, you had no idea where she'd been--"

"How. Long. Is it going to last."

"Well, forever. There's no real cure for --"

"The circle, Bob. How long until it's gone and we can move over it. Stars and stones."

"That? Oh, another hour, tops. Speaking of, who gets to, huh?"

"... I swear to God, Bob, I am not having this conversation with you. Can you cross over the circle? Are you safe if you don't touch it?"

"Aw, Boss; you're worried. I'd be fine. I mean, it would help if I were a little more rested, but air spirits can't be choosers. Isn't that what they say?"

"Can you get to Eb's house? It should be, um." Dresden tips his head back again, and you arch your neck, pushing in with your forehead and trying to stretch out the tenseness and fake some relaxation. Your mind is promising to go everywhere but where it should be. "North and a little west of here. Not too far. It would take me ... maybe an hour, walking. Probably more like half. You'll come to a wooden fence, and the house is painted yellow. Be careful, Bob. His wards are really strong. Don't try to cross them or anything risky, okay? Just see if you can tell if he's home."

Dresden sounds genuinely concerned; your lips push together and you shift your grip around his chest a little, your hands sliding over the thin fabric of his tshirt, and his arms lower slowly. It's ... sweet, in its way, the concern. Touching.

"You got it, Boss. Don't do anything I wouldn't do, and try to get it all recorded."

The light zips away with remarkable speed, and Dresden is silent, shifting his stance and settling with deep breaths; you do your best to follow his example, drawing in your scattered thoughts from the physical distraction of his body warmth, the contact, how good everything smells, and hold your grip loosely around his chest, closing your eyes and matching your breathing to his.

"I've asked him to do a lot today," Dresden finally says, voice quiet, and you reply only with an 'Mmm,' focusing on the cool breeze blowing across the back of your neck, and the heat of his back against your face. It's not your place to point out that the air spirit isn't the only one who's pulled out his share of tricks tonight. You wonder if this is the same one that, years ago, ran into Ms. Gard's wards. "He's kind of a perv."

The laugh surprises you, but it feels good spilling out, your face splitting in a wide grin that stretches like it's breaking away stone, cracking through the dust and the stains of the things you've seen tonight, the places you've been. Dresden laughs as well, his narrow chest fluttering under your hands.

"I'd noticed," you say. "With a fondness for romance novels in general, or possibly just Jude Deveraux in particular. And an even more poorly developed sense of social appropriateness than your own."

"Shocking, I'm sure," Harry agrees, tone dry, and you can almost see the smirk. You hide your own against his neck, tucking your chin against the collar of his duster, and roll your head up without thinking about it as his stance sags a little. You shift your centre of gravity to take on more of your combined load.

Your cock is a hot, heavy weight trapped between your bodies, and you grit your teeth, hoping against hope that Harry will, for once, respect the situation, and refrain from commenting. Or at least that he might mistake it for your firearm.

"John?" Dresden says. "I'm going to turn the light off, okay? Don't be surprised. Just tell me if you need it on again, all right?"

"Of course," you say, and close your eyes when it goes dark.

 
 

You fall into an easy pattern: breathing in; breathing out; rocking slightly to offset the length of time you've both kept position. Your knees are starting to complain, and you shift them, bending slightly and hitching forward a tiny bit. Harry grunts, soft and short, and mumbles something sleepily. You transfer a little more of his weight into your arms, his body getting looser and warmer as the time stretches on, and he mutters again, one hand coming up to close over yours.

You don't realize your thumb was moving in slow circles over a patch of his chest until he winds his fingers loosely with your own and stills it. His hand is warm, and the back of yours is cooled from the night air, and you press your eyes more tightly shut, and keep breathing deeply in and out, face buried against Harry's neck.

 
 

"John? Hey, John. Come on, wake up."

Harry's voice is soft and clear and you open your eyes to stare at the back of his neck. "I'm standing, Mister Dresden; I'm not asleep."

He huffs a laugh, chest expanding under your hands (your fingers are still tangled together, warm and damp from the prolonged contact; your groin is in a similar state, heavy, heated, pressed against a fold in Dresden's duster, and full of an absent ache) and the puff of his breath is warm against your skin. He is looking down.

You can feel where his voice comes from, deep and scratchy from his own drifting, and it rumbles up his skin and your own. "Well, you were doing a five-star impression, then. You completely missed Bob coming back. Eb's out. I thought he probably was. Probably in Edinburgh; he's there most of the time now." Harry chuckles, light and rolling. "His accent keeps coming back stronger and stronger."

You digest that, weigh your options, and choose to ignore it, instead pulling your forehead away from Dresden's neck enough to roll your cheek against the back of his head. His hair scratches against your stubble - you realize you must look a wreck - and you shift so you stand a little straighter, and your combined weight is more evenly distributed between the two of you.

"... But that might be my fault, a little. Um. I was pretty used up, and we're kinda ... close. Here. And I mean, it happens all the time when you hug someone. Spend time together. That sort of thing. Our auras are flush against each other." You press your lips together, and wish Harry would be more careful about his word choices.

"So you've been snacking."

Dresden squawks, startling loud in the quiet, heavy night; you bite your tongue to keep from laughing.

"I'm not a fucking vampire. Hell's Bells. It's normal, all right? You had a lot of strength, and I didn't, and I might have ... borrowed. A little. You'll grow it back."

"You snacked." Solidity is returning to your muscles slowly, your spine, and you grunt as your body decides to inform you of how long its held position. "How long until it's safe to move?"

"Er. How long until you're good to go? No numb limbs or anything?"

"... No."

"We can go now."

You have no reason not to trust him; you have every reason not to trust him. But you do. And you would rather be consumed by an antagonistic mix of Sidhe energy because you let go of him than because he let go of you. So you wait until he straightens, and pull your arms away.

It is comfortingly anti-climatic; you are standing half on green grass, half on bare, dusty earth. The sky is big and wide above you, speckled with stars although the moon is missing (a new moon, you recall, fuzzily, from one of your many calendars. If it's still the same day. How long have the two of you been gone?), and the breeze is cool and humid and smells of summer, just as it had before. Your shoulders begin to burn, and your hands are cold where Harry's grip had warmed them.

You stretch your back, rolling your shoulders and neck, and raise an eyebrow when you realise Harry is staring at you. You can feel your erection pressing against your slacks, a familiar half-hard ache, the night air cool after the overheated press against Harry's back. You hope the darkness and your suit jacket will help preserve what little dignity you may have remaining. "Yes, Mister Dresden?"

Harry opens his mouth, closes it again, and frowns. His pentacle pendant lights up, a familiar blue glow, and he holds out a hand, angling two fingers, and a ball of light rolls up and off them, hovering in the air above your forehead.

You glance up at it; it's clear and bright and real. Somewhat like the ball of sun you saw him once threaten Miss Carpenter with, but the only heat it gives is a faint, comfortable promise. You blink away the after-impressions and keep your eyes shut a moment longer than necessary, forcing down - as best you can, as raw and exposed as you are tonight - what this casual, considerate, slightly cocky display of magic does to you.

Dresden is still looking at you when you open your eyes; he holds your gaze for a moment - you think of his two shadows, what you saw in him during that first meeting - and he nods and turns on his heel. "This way," he says, bending to scoop up his bag. Your werelight follows him, and you follow it. "Shouldn't be too long."

 
 

The trip is short and silent. The dead, dried-out earth abruptly becomes lush summer grass not really that far from where you were trapped, and you wonder how long Dresden let you stand there. He's quiet the whole way, none of the idle or sarcastic remarks you've become so used to, and simply holds up a hand to stop you when you reach the fence and the wards.

He disables them with a moment of concentration and short explanation, and beckons you forward to the Blackstaff's home. The yard seems kept and simple; the porch is low to the ground and feels solid under your feet. You can't tell what colour the house itself is, save that it's light, and the door is darker.

Harry gives a slight start when he opens the door. "Huh," he says. "Invitation still stands, I guess."

You raise an eyebrow, but he doesn't elaborate, and flicks on an oil lamp. You are standing in an entrance room, a doorway beside you opening into a wide, cozy looking kitchen, and from the kitchen you can see the way into a basement, into a great room, and up some stairs.

"Guest room's upstairs, on the right, at the end of the hall," he tells you, moving forward comfortably in the strange house and dim light. "Linens are always clean; and there are more in the chest at the end of the bed if you need something."

He stops just at the doorway to the great room and pulls an ancient phone off the hook, holding it to his ear. "Yeah. no dial tone. It's usually out this time of night, anyway. Works best in the morning, and mid-afternoon. You can give Hendricks a call after dawn, then I'll call and let Eb know we're here, and to give the Way here a skip for a bit. Those things aren't going to get over being pissed for a while."

You nod, one hand absently reaching for the Blackberry you know is long since dead, and don't question Dresden's casual certainty that you will need to contact Mister Hendricks. You have never accused Harry of being stupid, after all.

Harry turns a sharp corner the minute you enter the great room, a foreboding wingbacked chair, a couch, and a fireplace quickly visible before you follow him up the stairs. "Bathroom's across the hall from you," he says, picking up where he'd been. "Hot water is ... occasional, but if you give it a moment, it'll probably turn on. Pull the chain above the sink to flush. Don't try to open the door at the end of the hall, or go into the basement. I'll be," he points, "in this room if you need me. Second on the right. There should be a robe hanging on the back of your bedroom door. Your light will go out when you tell it to. I'll see you in the morning."

It's an effective dismissal, and you risk a glance up at his face as you pass. It's the blankest you've ever seen on a man who normally wears his emotions like his team colours, and you nod curtly. "Until the morning, Mister Dresden," you say, and close your door firmly behind you when you get there. You don't turn around.

 
 

You sleep as soon as you are in bed, a giant feathered thing that must be a hundred years old, but your rest doesn't last long. Dawn is only a remembered promise when you wake, nothing but a thin grey line on the horizon, and you pull your pants back on, leave your suit jacket behind and your shirt unbuttoned and untucked, and find your way back outside.

You find Dresden standing by a millpond a few minutes walk behind the farmhouse. He looks faintly ridiculous, standing in the slowly lightening dark, tall and skinny and unkempt in his jeans and tshirt, and his too-long hair ruffles occasionally in the breeze. You draw up beside him, making enough noise to let him know you're coming - the last thing you want to do is startle a trigger happy wizard out of quiet contemplation - and watch through carefully blank eyes as he tries to juggle more werelights like the one he'd made for you.

He's not very good, but you're not about to start throwing stones about a man who's tossing around balls of magic.

You settle in the calm, watching his hands cross over each other, stumbling and succeeding in intervals at catching and tossing his lights, and the balls leave behind streaks that glow in the air and fade as quickly as they are rebuilt. He frowns, concentration focused around his eyes and visible in a tenseness in his mouth, and it's almost a surprise when he turns to you and meets your gaze. "You following me, John?"

"Merely restless," you say, spreading your hands in an easy gesture. "It was quite the night."

Harry snorts, shaking his head, and misses his catch on one of his werelights. It lands with a plop, and disappears into the pond. "Yeah," he says, ignoring it. "Yeah, you could say that. Hells bells, John. Doesn't anything ever throw you, huh?"

"Why Mister Dresden," you say, pretending that the hair on the back of your neck hasn't lifted, that your shoulders haven't locked. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

His eyes narrow, and he finally rolls them, turning back to stare out across the pond, juggling his remaining lights. "I just bet you don't," he says.

You hesitate, rock back on your feet, and open your mouth before closing it again. Harry turns with a sudden sharpness and grabs you by the front of your shirt. The werelights vanish one by one into the water. "You --" he says. "You were against my back all night, John. It's not like I didn't know."

You tip your head back, staring up, and let your lips twist mockingly, daringly. Your heart goes still when he pauses; you wonder how far you have misjudged this, if you are relying too heavily on muscle memory and old habits. You wonder how long Harry has been thinking about this, on his preoccupied silence this night, and what you've given away about yourself. You wonder on that stupid air spirit and how hard it might be to put your foot through that skull and if you'll ever live this down and what Harry might do with what he now knows and if he's really as good of a man as you are desperately hoping.

Harry growls, breathy and irritated; you push up on your toes, get one hand between the two of you to press against his chest, and he leans down and kisses you.

You are barefoot, and strangely aware of this while Harry's hands slide along your ribs, and you fist one of yours in his hair and let the other run just under the back of his waistband. The grass gets damp and cool with the morning under your feet, and eventually you press your forehead to his, breathe deeply, and widen your stance when he reaches a hand inside your pants.

You mouth at the dip in his throat, on the soft, stubbly skin under his chin, and come all over his hand. He bites down your shoulder, his back curved and body bent, and fucks himself against your stomach and between your thighs. You hold him there after, and rest your flushed face against his hair, letting the air off the water dry your sweat to your skin.

 
 

When Hendricks arrives, you are showered, your suit is dry and fresh from the line, and you have pressed your fears deep into your belly. Harry tangles his fingers with yours in the backseat of the Cadillac, and three days later, a paper crane flies through your office door, folded wings flapping lazily, and unfolds itself into a note bearing only a place and time.

You're pretty sure the cocky bastard does it on purpose, but can't find it in yourself to mind. Heaven knows, you can't seem to keep much private from him anyway.