Fic: Getting Along
Title: Getting Along
Word Count: 1181
Rating: Mature
Summary: Harry's roommate has boundary issues. Set between Blood Rites and Dead Beat. Rated for language.
Author's Note: Another DF fic. Because I can. *evil laughter.* Yes, those are Dune and 'Dead Like Me' references.
Are we getting along?
We're family, we better be
-'Pistol Grip Pump,' Rage Against the Machine
It was fifteen minutes to four when I got home from an all-night job. I'd been tailing the husband of a woman who wanted to know why her credit card statements had so many charges to a psychic-slash-masseuse. Not my usual kind of case, but I had a feeling it wouldn't take much investigation and she'd had cash in hand when she showed up at my office, wearing a scarf and dark glasses to cover her face.
…Because god forbid anyone sees you hiring a private eye to follow your spouse. Though it did make me feel super-legit; this crazy dame sneaking around, hiring me to follow her sleazebag husband. Hell, all I need is a cigar and a fedora. And for it to be, like, 1938, or something.
She'd insisted on meeting me at Der Waffle Haus this morning, though it was still dark out, which doesn't really count as morning if you ask me or any other sane person, to see if I found out why her husband was seeing a 'psychic' (I had), then paid me with his money and asked if taking a bat to the windows of a Prius is considered a jailable offense (probably).
I deposited all implements of wizardly destruction in the umbrella stand, coat on the coat rack, kicked off my boots and did the same with my jeans.
...And promptly tripped over a pair of Adidas just inside the door to my room.
Crap. I waved a hand and the half-dozen candles on the high basement windowsill lit, illuminating a lumpy, blanket-covered form too big to be the cat, not hairy enough to be the dog, and not curvy enough to be a woman. Which could only mean one thing - my recently-aqcuired older brother.
"You," I thundered. "Get your ass out of my bed."
He didn't move. He didn't even snore (of course not). I didn't shake him awake because I didn't want to get the stock of a sawed-off Mossberg to the temple. Again. The first time had only been a glancing blow (and therefore didn't splatter my brains across the wall) because he'd still been asleep when he hit me with it.
Vampire reflexes, yo. Can't say I blame him - if I'd lived at his previous accommodations, I'd sleep with a shotgun too. But that doesn't mean he can crash in my bed and get my sheets all…Thomasy.
Gross. Hey, but at least he doesn't sparkle.
I've learned, through trial and error, that the best way to wake him up is to stand out of arm's reach and say "Thomas. Thomas. Thomas," ad infinitum. In a really annoying voice.
Like a little brother should.
"What?" he roared after about thirty seconds of the above, glaring at me.
"Constringo," I said, maybe a little too cheerfully, and waved a hand.
"Dammit, Harry, it's too early for the Dumbledore crap-" he started, but a blanket wrapped itself around him, turning him into a tightly-rolled vampire burrito. He wiggled and swore. "Fucking-cut it out."
"I control the blankets. I control the universe."
He stopped wriggling and stared blearily up at me. "Dune? Seriously?"
"You nerd," I said, "Why aren't you out stalking in the night like a real vampire?"
"The club scene is weak on Mondays," Thomas shrugged, or tried to. "Where have you been?
"Working. You know, money just doesn't magically appear. I mean, it sounds like a great idea, but I tried that before and it didn't work at all. Alchemy is dangerous business, lots of explosions-"
"How much coffee have you had?" Thomas interrupted.
"That's beside the point, King Tut," I said. He glared even more. I released the spell and he sat up.
"What is the point?"
"I spent the last four hours following this kindergarten teacher's husband around town to find out he's getting it on all Tantra-riffic with a would-be Miss Cleo. I actually saw it. It was…there are no words. I think my eyes actually bled. And now I'm coming down off a massive caffeine high, and just got home to find a dude in my bed and please don't tell me you've had another woman in here because I can't afford to go to the Laundromat again this week."
"I thought you had somebody that cleaned the apartment," he protested.
I shook my head - the first rule of faerie housekeepers is don't talk about faerie housekeepers - and took that as a 'Yes, Harry, I was doing the dirty with random women in your apartment. Again.'
"Can't you sleep on the couch?" I asked.
"The cat didn't approve."
"Well, move over."
"No way. You're a cuddler," Thomas said accusingly as he grabbed a pillow and stretched out on the floor. I threw a quilt at him.
"What? Women like that about me."
"You say that like there's more than one," he muttered darkly.
I ignored this and flopped down on the bed, trying to get comfortable. "What the hell is poking-" I felt around under the sheets for a minute and produced an empty foil condom wrapper.
It was my turn to glare.
My brother looked apologetic, but he also looked like he was about to crack up, so I threw it at him, then rolled over and was almost asleep when he asked;
"This teacher you were working for. Was she hot?"
I thought about it for a minute. "The kind of hot you'll eventually need a restraining order against."
He snorted.
"Hey, Thomas?"
"Yeah?" he said, from the floor.
"Why does my pillow smell like Fruit Loops?"
It was a few seconds before he spoke, though I was only half-awake to hear his answer, it sounded like he was grinning.
"I could tell you, but I want to live."
---
The Dresden Files/Codex Alera is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.
Word Count: 1181
Rating: Mature
Summary: Harry's roommate has boundary issues. Set between Blood Rites and Dead Beat. Rated for language.
Author's Note: Another DF fic. Because I can. *evil laughter.* Yes, those are Dune and 'Dead Like Me' references.
Are we getting along?
We're family, we better be
-'Pistol Grip Pump,' Rage Against the Machine
It was fifteen minutes to four when I got home from an all-night job. I'd been tailing the husband of a woman who wanted to know why her credit card statements had so many charges to a psychic-slash-masseuse. Not my usual kind of case, but I had a feeling it wouldn't take much investigation and she'd had cash in hand when she showed up at my office, wearing a scarf and dark glasses to cover her face.
…Because god forbid anyone sees you hiring a private eye to follow your spouse. Though it did make me feel super-legit; this crazy dame sneaking around, hiring me to follow her sleazebag husband. Hell, all I need is a cigar and a fedora. And for it to be, like, 1938, or something.
She'd insisted on meeting me at Der Waffle Haus this morning, though it was still dark out, which doesn't really count as morning if you ask me or any other sane person, to see if I found out why her husband was seeing a 'psychic' (I had), then paid me with his money and asked if taking a bat to the windows of a Prius is considered a jailable offense (probably).
I deposited all implements of wizardly destruction in the umbrella stand, coat on the coat rack, kicked off my boots and did the same with my jeans.
...And promptly tripped over a pair of Adidas just inside the door to my room.
Crap. I waved a hand and the half-dozen candles on the high basement windowsill lit, illuminating a lumpy, blanket-covered form too big to be the cat, not hairy enough to be the dog, and not curvy enough to be a woman. Which could only mean one thing - my recently-aqcuired older brother.
"You," I thundered. "Get your ass out of my bed."
He didn't move. He didn't even snore (of course not). I didn't shake him awake because I didn't want to get the stock of a sawed-off Mossberg to the temple. Again. The first time had only been a glancing blow (and therefore didn't splatter my brains across the wall) because he'd still been asleep when he hit me with it.
Vampire reflexes, yo. Can't say I blame him - if I'd lived at his previous accommodations, I'd sleep with a shotgun too. But that doesn't mean he can crash in my bed and get my sheets all…Thomasy.
Gross. Hey, but at least he doesn't sparkle.
I've learned, through trial and error, that the best way to wake him up is to stand out of arm's reach and say "Thomas. Thomas. Thomas," ad infinitum. In a really annoying voice.
Like a little brother should.
"What?" he roared after about thirty seconds of the above, glaring at me.
"Constringo," I said, maybe a little too cheerfully, and waved a hand.
"Dammit, Harry, it's too early for the Dumbledore crap-" he started, but a blanket wrapped itself around him, turning him into a tightly-rolled vampire burrito. He wiggled and swore. "Fucking-cut it out."
"I control the blankets. I control the universe."
He stopped wriggling and stared blearily up at me. "Dune? Seriously?"
"You nerd," I said, "Why aren't you out stalking in the night like a real vampire?"
"The club scene is weak on Mondays," Thomas shrugged, or tried to. "Where have you been?
"Working. You know, money just doesn't magically appear. I mean, it sounds like a great idea, but I tried that before and it didn't work at all. Alchemy is dangerous business, lots of explosions-"
"How much coffee have you had?" Thomas interrupted.
"That's beside the point, King Tut," I said. He glared even more. I released the spell and he sat up.
"What is the point?"
"I spent the last four hours following this kindergarten teacher's husband around town to find out he's getting it on all Tantra-riffic with a would-be Miss Cleo. I actually saw it. It was…there are no words. I think my eyes actually bled. And now I'm coming down off a massive caffeine high, and just got home to find a dude in my bed and please don't tell me you've had another woman in here because I can't afford to go to the Laundromat again this week."
"I thought you had somebody that cleaned the apartment," he protested.
I shook my head - the first rule of faerie housekeepers is don't talk about faerie housekeepers - and took that as a 'Yes, Harry, I was doing the dirty with random women in your apartment. Again.'
"Can't you sleep on the couch?" I asked.
"The cat didn't approve."
"Well, move over."
"No way. You're a cuddler," Thomas said accusingly as he grabbed a pillow and stretched out on the floor. I threw a quilt at him.
"What? Women like that about me."
"You say that like there's more than one," he muttered darkly.
I ignored this and flopped down on the bed, trying to get comfortable. "What the hell is poking-" I felt around under the sheets for a minute and produced an empty foil condom wrapper.
It was my turn to glare.
My brother looked apologetic, but he also looked like he was about to crack up, so I threw it at him, then rolled over and was almost asleep when he asked;
"This teacher you were working for. Was she hot?"
I thought about it for a minute. "The kind of hot you'll eventually need a restraining order against."
He snorted.
"Hey, Thomas?"
"Yeah?" he said, from the floor.
"Why does my pillow smell like Fruit Loops?"
It was a few seconds before he spoke, though I was only half-awake to hear his answer, it sounded like he was grinning.
"I could tell you, but I want to live."
---
The Dresden Files/Codex Alera is copyright Jim Butcher. This story is licensed under the Creative Commons as derivative, noncommercial fiction.