Title: A Spoonful of Sugar
Fandom: Dresden Files
Pairing: Harry/Bob
Rating: PG
Word Count: 417
Summary: Harry cleans his workshop.
Notes: Written for the "Dust" drabble challenge at the greatestjournal skull_boy_love comm.
Disclaimer: These aren't mine. They're Jim Butcher's and the Sci-Fi Channel's.
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"Bob," I grumble down at him from the top rung of my stepladder, "whatever spot I missed is invisible to the naked eye. I've dusted this shelf five times already!" I move the dust rag in my hand and a dead mouse falls to the floor, going through Bob like a tiny and disgusting golden comet and landing on the floor with a sick little thud/poof. "Oops."
Bob steps aside fastidiously and gives me an I-told-you-so smile. "A tidy workshop is essential to a successful wizard, Harry. Besides, breathing in all that dust is bad for your health."
"Come off it, Bob," I say cheerfully. "It's not like I'm going to live long enough to die of dust poisoning anyway."
There's silence from below. I glance down at Bob. His lips are pressed tightly together. After a moment he raises his eyebrows and says, "Just don't expect me to push your wheelchair when you're hooked up to that oxygen machine." He slides his hand through a table and smirks at me, but his expression is all off. I groan inwardly. It's an unspoken rule between me and Bob that we don't use the d-word. Not about me. Because, you know, I am going to die someday. And Bob isn't.
"Fine," I say with exaggerated exasperation. "I'll even dust behind the books. But you know...after all this cleaning I'm going to need a shower." I waggle my eyebrows. "I'll expect company."
"You know I hate the sensation of all that water pouring through my essence," Bob grouses, but the look on his face shifts to speculative anyway. He's got a pretty good view of my ass from where he's standing---which I suspect is not a coincidence.
"You can stay mostly on the other side of the glass if you want," I say, and Bob beams. It doesn't really matter to me; I only need to touch his hand to feel the echo of his desire. At the thought I climb down the ladder and lean towards him, our foreheads overlapping the tiniest bit. I close my eyes for a moment and let Bob's affection wash over me.
"Le Retour de Martin Guerre is showing on television tonight," Bob murmurs slyly.
"Fine," I breathe, feeling equal even to a French chick flick. After a minute, I turn away and begin methodically removing all the books from their shelves. They are pretty dusty. Bob hums a happy little tune, and I can't help smiling.
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