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Title: Too Good To Be True
Fandom: The Dresden Files, TV-verse.
Pairing: Harry/Bob
Rating: NC-17
Word Count: 5,251
Warnings: Spoilers for the show through 1x10, "What About Bob?"
Summary: It's embarrassing to still have a crush on your teacher twenty-five years later.
Notes: Originally posted to the livejournal community skull_boy_love. Unbeta'd.
Disclaimer: These characters are not mine. They belong to Jim Butcher and the Sci-Fi channel.

###

I felt Bob's body vanish. I heard the faint sound of Bob materializing. But if something is too good to be true, it probably is. I was sure it was all in my head until I heard his voice.

I was so transcendently relieved, so completely fucking overjoyed, I didn't even think about all the things I only had for a few moments: the texture of Bob's clothes, his scent (apple-wood smoke and yarrow, in case you were wondering), the muscles in his back and arms, the softness of his hair, his hand resting lightly on my shoulder. I would have missed Bob's voice the most anyway.

I thought about them later, of course. I chronicled every touch. His hands fisted in my jacket, his hands slapping me awake. I dreamed of his hands, over and over, but just when the dream would get to the really good part, Bob would shudder and gasp. It almost looked like an orgasm, but when his weight settled down on my chest he would already be cold and dead.

When I woke up crying and had to explain the embarrassing, childish noises I was making to Bob, I lied. "I guess Justin got me thinking about my dad," I said. Yeah, I'm a terrible person, using my dead father to cover up my embarrassingly unrequited love. So sue me.

Luckily Bob wasn't there when I went to Uncle Justin's house to look for the arrow. For once I was almost glad he's chained to his skull, so I didn't have to come up with a lie to explain the way I was cursing and throwing the furniture. There wasn't any trace of it--it must have been consumed in the spell, like Bob thought.

I was kind of in a catch-22 at night--I wanted to have my bad dreams in private, but I also couldn't bear to have Bob's skull out of arm's reach. So Bob sat on the bed-table while I slept, and when I woke up crying, he knew.

"I'm so sorry," Bob said, standing by my bed on the fifth night I woke up sobbing. "I know it doesn't mean anything, but I really am so very sorry." The look on his face made it abundantly clear that he wasn't just expressing sympathy. He was apologizing.

That was the last conversation I wanted to have just then. I knew that Bob had helped Uncle Justin kill my father. Of course he had. But I'd never let myself think about it. And I'd never made him finish his sentence, either, about whether they killed my mother. "I don't care, Bob," I said tiredly, sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed.

"I know," Bob said almost inaudibly, and turned his face away.

It's not that I forgot Bob was incorporeal, exactly. It's that I couldn't stop myself. I reached up a hand to touch his arm, letting it rest there in midair with a golden blur around the edges of my palm where it met his manifestation. I could feel Bob's psychic energy tickling my palm, and it gave me a much bigger jolt that mere magical theory would indicate. Bob stared down at the flickering outline of my hand and didn't say anything.

"No, Bob, I mean I don't care," I repeated. "I know it makes me a bad son but I just don't care. I can't care what you've done because I can't--" I couldn't finish the sentence, couldn't say "lose you," because I would have started crying again and Bob can be a bit dense but he isn't stupid. I pulled my hand back before Bob could notice it trembling.

"No, you haven't anyone else, have you?" Bob said cynically. "Justin and I saw to that. No wonder you believed I'd betray you."

I should have known better than to believe it, and we both knew it. But I wanted Bob to care about me so bad that I couldn't let myself believe he did. And what he'd said--that it had been hell being chained to me in our crap apartment--it was exactly what I was afraid Bob thought. I guess he must have known that, which hurt a bit all by itself. And then there's the thing I don't think about--he betrayed me before. He killed my father. I knew he wanted to be mortal, and since his vision of Mortal Bob probably didn't include as much Harry and Bob Making Out as mine did, I hadn't been able to help wondering if maybe Bob wouldn't mind being mortal without me.

"Why didn't you?" I asked. It wasn't the apology Bob deserved, but just then I needed to hear the answer.

Bob hesitated. "Why, Harry," he drawled at last, sarcastically, "you know you're like a son to me." His tone of voice said he was lying, but sometimes Bob talks like that when he's telling the truth but trying to pretend that he's not being a big sap. There was something else too, though, a hint of angry self-mockery that I couldn't interpret.

"Bob, I hate it when you say that," I said.

Bob bit his lip, giving me a glimpse of his slightly crooked front teeth. "I'm sorry, Harry. I know I could never take your father's place, and I don't--"

"That's not what I meant," I said, unable to stop myself. Apparently watching the love of your life die and then not sleeping for a week makes you say stupid things.

His eyes flew to mine for a few long moments. Then he asked, just a little mocking, "All right, Harry, why don't you explain to me what you did mean?"

Being irritated with Bob is almost as familiar as wanting him, and a lot safer. I almost snapped at him and changed the subject, letting it go like I always had. But as I turned away I saw Bob's skull, and I realized suddenly how much more Bob had to lose if this went pear-shaped. I could just stick him in my closet and never let him out if I wanted to. That started my chivalry thing going, even though Bob was more of a bad-assed-necromancer-in-distress than a damsel. If anyone was going to say anything, it had to be me.

Of course, that was assuming that Bob had anything to say, and if he didn't, things were about to get pretty awkward for him. I guess if I were really chivalrous, I would have kept our relationship professional and shut the hell up, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. This had been on the tip of my tongue for years and now, abruptly, I couldn't keep it back any longer.

Pop psychologists are always telling you to visualize success, right? I've never been good at that. But I thought of how Bob had sounded, after he came back--that happy thrum in his voice, as if he didn't really mind being cursed, as if he hadn't wanted to leave me.

"I lied, Bob. I wasn't dreaming about my dad," I answered finally, thinking maybe I should start small with the embarrassing confessions and work my way up.

"You weren't?" he asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

I shook my head. "I was dreaming about you, Bob. About watching you die."

Bob swallowed hard. "Well, I suppose my interrupted rest is a fitting punishment for my pettiness," he said with forced lightness. "Ah, poetic justice: the hallmark of my existence. I should have told you I would be back, of course. But I wasn't completely sure, and besides, I wanted to know--" He broke off, hesitated a moment, then shrugged.

What had he wanted to know? If I would mourn him? It should have made me angry, but instead it reassured me. Maybe Bob had been poking and prodding, just like I'd been poking and prodding through this whole conversation. Hoping to provoke a confession, so that he didn't have to go first. Maybe.

"I loved my father," I told him. "I miss him every day."

Bob started to say something, then pressed his lips together and nodded.

"But he died twenty-five years ago," I said. "That's a long time. And ever since then, you've been the most important person in my life."

Bob blinked rapidly a few times. "Thank you, Harry," he said softly, looking everywhere but at me. "You're the most important person in my life, too." There was a pause. "Of course, you're also the only person in my life," he added in a tone that was Bob's equivalent of the manly pat on the back when you really want to give someone a hug. At least, I thought it was.

Now or never. "I hate it when you say I'm like a son to you," I said slowly, "because it makes me feel"--I shut my eyes so I didn't have to see Bob's face when I said it--"incestuous."

The silence dragged on so long that I had to open my eyes. Patience was never one of my virtues--not that I have many, as Bob continually reminds me. Bob was just staring down at me. I couldn't read his expression.

"It makes you feel incestuous," he repeated finally, as if he couldn't believe his ears.

I nodded, my face burning.

"Harry," he said after another long pause that nearly killed me, "you're not--are you intimating that you have feelings of a--of a romantic nature for me?"

I nodded again.

Another pause. "Even of a--sexual nature?"

"Yes, dammit, Bob! All right?"

"I--I don't know what to say."

Well, that was that. God damn it. I rubbed at my temples. "You don't have to say anything, Bob. I know it's stupid. Pretty ridiculous to still have a crush on your teacher twenty-five years later, isn't it?" I laughed awkwardly, and risked a glance at Bob. Fuck. He was still staring at me as if I'm a vampire whose glamour is slipping. "I'm sorry, Bob," I said. "I promise I won't mention it again. I hope you still feel comfortable working with me, but if you don't, maybe we can find you another wizard--"

"Shut up, Harry," he said, and he sounded amused, which made me feel a bit better. "I--I don't know what to say because I've been wanting to hear you say that for five years."

I had another one of those moments where I couldn't believe I was really hearing what I was hearing, because I wanted it so badly. "R-really?" I asked.

"Really," he said, with one of those affectionate half-smiles that I've treasured since I was ten.

I blinked. I didn't really know where to go from here. If he'd been a girl, I would have kissed him, but--"Would it be really stupid, or weird, or anything, if I kissed you?" I asked. "I mean, I know you're non-corporeal, so it won't really be the same, but I--"

"Stop jabbering and get on with it," Bob said, and he tilted his head and looked at me expectantly. I had a moment of wishing that I weren't in a t-shirt and boxers, and that my hair weren't sticking up every which way and that I didn't have a three-in-the-morning shadow--but this was Bob. He knew what I looked like, and he had said I could kiss him, and I wasn't sure what I was waiting for.

I stood up, moved forward awkwardly, and pressed my lips to his. My lips tingled where we occupied the same space. It was weird, but also hotter than the last dozen leggy brunettes I'd slept with put together. I tried kissing him again, and incredibly, he moved his lips to match mine just as if he had been flesh-and-blood. I would have thought that would take a lot of coordination, but I guess Bob has been non-corporeal for a long time. Then, just at the tail end, he blew a little spark of energy down my throat that warmed all my insides. I drew in a shuddering breath and pulled back.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it disturbs you, the way I feel."

"What?" I asked, disoriented. "What gave you that idea?"

He stared at me. "Er, you did. You know, whenever I touch you, you always say it gives you the heebie-jeebies."

"Oh, right. Um. I lied."

"What?"

"Well, it's not as if I could come out and say, 'Don't do that, Bob, it really turns me on,'" I said, embarrassed.

"It really turns--you're having me on," Bob said with conviction.

I shook my head.

"No, this isn't happening," he said briskly. "Why didn't I see it at once? This is a spell. Harry, you're under a spell, but don't worry, we'll figure out what it is and you can forget this ever happened."

My heart plummeted to my gut as Bob backed away from me. Then I replayed his words in my head and realized that he'd said I was under a spell. Not him. "I'm not under a spell, Bob," I said.

"Of course you are," Bob said, not really looking at me. "Come on now, we've done this before. Listen to what you're saying, Harry. Focus carefully, and you'll feel the subtle wrongness of the thought. This is me, Bob. Of course I don't turn you on--" His voice trembled. It was Bob who taught me that if something's too good to be true, it probably is. Of course he believed it, too.

"I'm not under a spell," I repeated softly. "I just love you."

Now, I've had some bad reactions to the l-word before, but this was the worst. Bob reacted as if I'd punched him in the gut. He flinched backwards, going even paler than usual. "Don't, Harry, please," he almost whispered. "It's just a spell."

"It's not," I insisted, reaching out a hand again.

Bob abruptly vanished, rematerializing on the other side of the room. "Harry, it is abundantly clear, as you would see yourself if you would exercise your tragically underused brains for one instant," he said, talking harsh and fast, "that your mind is enchanted. The most likely explanation is that someone is forcing you to act out my deepest desires." He grimaced. "Hopefully it is one of those spells that induce amnesia when broken so that we will never have to discuss this again. Now snap out of it and work with me so we can break the bloody thing! Think--" He searched for inspiration. "Think of the horrible tortures an evil thaumaturgist could be inflicting on some redhead with fantastic tits while you're being distracted making googly eyes at a ghost."

He sounded old, suddenly, and defeated behind the patter--the way I remembered him sounding, sometimes, when he worked for my uncle. Suddenly this misunderstanding wasn't at all comical anymore.

"Watch this, Bob, you taught it to me," I said, and pulled out one of my hairs. Holding it in my right hand, I traced a complex sigil in the air with my left. The hair began to glow a safe golden hue, indicating that I was not, in fact, under any spell. There was a long silence.

"Well," Bob said finally, evidently at a loss. "I--I do love you too, you know."

"I thought you might, after that last bit," I said, grinning foolishly. "Er. I'm not sure what we're supposed to do now."

"What do you usually do in this sort of situation?" Bob asked.

I snorted. "Oh, no, you don't. As you so often tell me, I am the last person to turn to for romantic advice. Besides, you've got about a thousand years of experience on me, Bob, and you read romance novels. You ought to know what to do."

"In romance novels, they usually fuck like bunnies at this point." He was eyeing me kind of challengingly.

"We could do that," I said eagerly, and then a horrible thought struck me. "I mean, we can, can't we?" I wasn't really sure, but kissing had worked okay. It had worked great, actually. "If we can't, that's cool, I just--"

Something in Bob relaxed. "You're absolutely certain you don't find physical contact with my essence distressing?"

I laughed a little breathlessly. "I'm pretty damn sure, Bob."

His face softened, and he pursed his lips in that way he does when he's trying not to smile. "You'll have to take your clothes off yourself, I'm afraid," he said regretfully.

"Do you actually need me to?" I asked.

"Not really," he said, coming closer and running a finger down my chest to just above the waist of my boxers. His touch left a trail of tingling energy on my skin and a glowing afterimage on my t-shirt. I shivered. "But I think you will find it disconcerting to watch me feeling you up through your clothes."

I pulled my t-shirt over my head with a self-conscious jerk. For a minute Bob didn't say anything, just looked at me, and it made me feel self-conscious but also a tiny bit pleased, because he didn't look disappointed. I mean, I guess he'd seen me naked a million times, so it would have been rather odd if he had been shocked and saddened. But after all his wisecracks about how I was letting myself go, I had been a little worried.

Then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss on my neck, at the pulse point just under my ear. It was like a tiny zing of Bob's psychic energy on the sensitive spot, and I felt it all through me. He trailed kisses down my neck and over my chest, sparks and fire burning a path down towards certain parts of me that at the moment were extremely hard. "Do you want to take this slow?" Bob asked me.

"When have I ever taken anything slow, Bob?" I asked him.

He smiled at me, eyes alight. "Take off your shorts," he said, and moved aside, not touching still engrained in every movement. Even when he was kissing me, he held himself so that only his lips touched me. I wondered how long it would take to train him out of that.

I took off my shorts.

Bob reached out and wrapped his hand around my dick. I guess it was more like he placed his hand so it was occupying the same space as my skin just a few cells deep. It looked weird--I'm definitely not used to golden light flowing from my dick--but it felt incredible. He moved his hand tentatively up and down, and the feeling of energy--Bob's energy--sliding along my skin was so intense I almost came right then. "Oh, God, Bob," I got out.

"Tell me if it's uncomfortable," Bob said with a tiny frown.

My laugh turned into a moan. "It's not uncomfortable, Bob, just do it again."

He did, and it's a good thing one of us (by which I mean me) had the presence of mind to grab the tissues before too much more of this had happened or I would have had to wash the floor. Of course, the floor could probably use it--at least, Bob seems to think so.

I flopped onto the bed and just lay there for a few minutes, breathing heavily and trying to wrap my mind around a world where Bob gave me handjobs instead of lectures (all right, who am I kidding, and lectures). Finally I looked up. Bob was looking at me as if--well, the way he was looking at me made me feel all melty and warm inside.

So I'm a huge girl. What's your point?

"Is there--is there something I can do for you?" I asked. "I mean, you're all made out of the same stuff, right? So you don't have erogenous zones or anything?" This was something I'd wondered about for years and never had the courage to ask, not even when I was fifteen, hormone-crazed, and stupid.

He nodded.

"Does that--does that mean no sex at all?" I asked. "No orgasms for eternity? That seems pretty rough."

Bob was blushing. "I can--that is, there are things I can do that you can't. Because I have essentially a mortal consciousness, I relate to my own manifestation differently than you do. For example, you'll notice that I can't pass my hand through myself--"

I interrupted his teacherly explication. "Are you saying you can jerk off, Bob?"

He nodded, not meeting my eyes.

"Will you?"

"Certainly not!" he snapped. "I've no wish to make a complete ass of myself."

"Come on, Bob, I just came in front of you," I pointed out, propping myself up on my elbows. "Naked, I might add."

"But when you come you don't--" He stopped, but it was too late.

"Don't what, Bob?" I asked gleefully. "Do you ejaculate ectoplasm or something?"

He shuddered, but said only, "Worse."

"Bob, what could be worse?"

He crossed his arms and pressed his lips together. "I won't tell you, it's girly."

"Bob, you have to show me now! It's not fair if you don't."

Bob narrowed his eyes at me and didn't say anything. When it became clear I wasn't going to back down, he grumbled, "You have to do something embarrassing too."

Like I said, I've known Bob for a long time. I wasn't about to make any blanket promises. "What did you have in mind?" I asked.

Bob thought for a minute, and then smiled triumphantly. "You have to talk dirty to me."

"Bob, I hate talking dirty. You know that!"

"Yes, I do know," he said smugly.

"I'm terrible at it, Bob," I told him. "You don't want me to, believe me."

"Then I guess we should just go back to sleep," he said, with a smugly insincere sigh. I could tell by the look on his face that he thought he had me.

I wasn't going to give up that easily. "Fine," I said. "Fine, I will."

Bob blinked. "You will?"

"Yes," I said firmly. "And you don't even have to be naked this time. But you do have to take off your jacket." I thought for a second. "And roll up your sleeves."

He stared at me, looking suddenly uncertain. Then he shrugged. Since I had never seen Bob adjust his clothes in any way, or even use one of his ridiculous silk handkerchiefs, I had assumed he would have to rematerialize to change clothes. Instead he took off his jacket like a normal person--you can guess how my eyes were focused with laser-like intensity on him while he did it--and held it out in one hand. It vanished in a tiny puff of smoke. Then he rolled up his sleeves. His forearms were more muscular than I had expected, and covered in fine white hair. His rings and the ancient shield bracelets on his wrists made a stunning contrast to his pale skin. But--

"That's your real hair color?" I exclaimed in surprise.

Bob's face took on a supremely offended expression. "You thought I was a bottle blond? God, how crass."

"Well, I assumed you were a Saxon, Bob, not an albino."

He sniffed.

"I like it," I offered, hiding a smile.

He sniffed again, but less emphatically. Then he sat on the edge of the bed--another thing I hadn't known he could do. I wasn't sure where I ought to be. Eventually I decided kneeling in front of Bob would work best. Bob just continued to stare at me, making no move to do anything. I guessed the ball was in my court. I drew a deep breath. I really do hate talking dirty. I always run out of things to say. "You wear too many damn clothes, Bob," I said finally. "Even in the summer, since the heat doesn't affect you. I've been thinking about what you look like under those clothes since I was fourteen. I'd sit there in that classroom and just stare at your top button, wondering what the hollow of your throat looks like."

Bob drew in a sharp breath.

"Eventually, I'm going to see you naked," I promised him. "But right now, just seeing you with your jacket off is one of the most intense sexual experiences I've ever had. Go on, Bob, touch yourself. I've been waiting my whole life to see it."

Bob's gray-green eyes had kind of glazed over. He blinked, and a little trailing flame erased his belt and unzipped the front of his pants. He wasn't wearing underwear, and he was hard.

I stared, almost unable to believe this was really happening. "Touch yourself, Bob," I urged. It came out as a croak.

"Is that a command?" Bob asked me.

For a moment I was appalled. I was about to make an emphatic denial when something in his tone caught my attention. I gambled. "Do you want it to be?" I asked.

"Yes," Bob hissed between his teeth.

"But--you hate it when I give you commands," I couldn't keep myself from pointing out.

"Context is everything, Harry," Bob said in that superior tone that usually annoys the hell of me but right then was kind of turning me on. I guess context really is everything. He continued, "The sensation of magical compulsion, or geas as it is technically known, can be quite--"

"Tell me later, Bob," I interrupted him, injecting as much authority and menace into my voice as I could. "Right now I don't want to hear a lot of technical garbage. Right now I want you to touch yourself, and you're not listening to me." I leant forward until I was speaking right in his ear. "Touch yourself, Bob. That's a command."

Bob sucked in his breath. He resisted an instant longer, and then his hand flew to take hold of himself. I stared at Bob's hand, with the ring on the little finger, around Bob's dick. "Your loyal servant," he breathed.

Wow. I'm usually a pretty vanilla guy, but even I could see this had major potential. "God, Bob, you're killing me," I groaned, and he moved his hand, a long smooth stroke. Where was I? Oh right, talking dirty. I licked my suddenly dry lips and tried to force some of the blood back into my brain. "You know how sometimes you tell me you're going to watch me having sex?"

He nodded. "I don't, Harry, I never have--" he said unevenly.

"I know," I murmured. "But every time you say it it gets me hard."

He gasped.

"Sometimes when I've got a girl over, and I'm having trouble getting in the mood, I imagine that you're watching," I told him, and he finally stroked himself again, building a steady rhythm. "I picture you, standing in the corner of the room, just watching me. And that's all it takes for me to get as hard as a rock. Sometimes, if I can't stop myself, I imagine you coming closer, till you're standing right at the edge of the bed. At any second she could look up and see you. I'm frantically trying to get you to leave before she does, frantically trying to hide how turned on I am, but you don't go anywhere. You just stand there, looking at me like you know I'd rather be pounding you into the mattress--"

Bob's outline wavered for a second. I realized I wasn't anywhere near out of things I wanted to say to Bob. Apparently the key to talking dirty is for the other person to drive you crazy with lust. You might say I should have known that, but as Bob will tell you, I can be a slow learner.

"Of course, I can't pound you into the mattress," I continued, watching his face, "at least, not unless I let you into my mind."

Bob's eyes flew open and he looked directly into my eyes. I was a little frightened by the depth of what I saw there. I mean, letting Bob into my mind--that would be...huge.

But dirty talk is just dirty talk, and the idea was clearly doing it for Bob, so I kept going. "I've thought about it." It was true, I had. A lot. "What it would be like to let you in, to feel you at the edges of my consciousness, and then, just like that, to have you sharing my skin, as close as two people can be. And I'm pretty sure if I went into a trance or fell asleep with you inside me, we could do anything we wanted to each other."

His hand was moving faster now, and little orange sparks were popping up all over his clothes, like medieval static.

I leaned forward. "Did you bind and gag me yourself?" I asked, real low.

He tensed, but he didn't stop. "Yes," he whispered.

"I wish I'd been awake for it," I said, and that's all it took.

Bob's manifestation shimmered like the Chicago pavement in August, and then he vanished into smoke and swirling blue and orange flames, shooting up to the ceiling like fireworks. I watched in awe as they fizzed and crackled and danced, finally exploding into sparkling flashes of light and little flares that trailed down and circled around into Bob. He was fully clothed again, but his tie was crooked and his hair was mussed. I hadn't known that could happen. I blinked, and the afterimage of Bob's orgasm was thrown up against the back of my eyelids.

"There," he said sullenly. "I told you." He was still breathing hard.

"That was the most beautiful thing I've ever seen," I told him. "Is it always like that?"

"Well, no," he admitted, not quite meeting my eyes. "It's not usually quite that flamboyant. It apparently decided on extra bells and whistles to humiliate me."

I could feel a stupid grin spreading over my face at the backhanded compliment. I got up and sat on the bed next to Bob. I yawned, realizing how tired I was--and for the first time in five days, I felt like maybe I could sleep. "Bob?" I said.

"Yes, Harry?" he asked, and at last I could hear the affectionate undercurrent that had been there all along.

"Do you mind if I--that is--can I sleep with your skull?"

"Harry, that's perverted!" he exclaimed with false shock. "Besides, I should think it would chafe."

I rolled my eyes. "I just meant--"

"I know what you meant," he said. "It's warded, so I fail to see how you could damage it."

I took this as permission. Picking up the skull, I crawled under the covers and curled myself around it as if it were a hard and rather morbid teddy bear. "Good night, Bob," I said.

"Good night, Harry," Bob said, and then he was a ball of orange sparks flowing into the skull. I ran my hand over the smooth cranium with its arcane symbols and felt the thrum of Bob's energy under my palm. It was finally starting to sink in that he would still be there in the morning. And every morning after that.

If something is too good to be true, it probably is. But there are exceptions to every rule.