akelios

Fandom: DF
Pairing: Harry Dresden/John Marcone
Also at AO3

Michael was lucky he was my friend. If I didn't like the guy so much I would have been over with the Alphas gaming or falling asleep in front of my fireplace instead of wearing a rent-a-tux and considering conjuring up an illusion of dinosaurs rampaging through the hall to drive everyone out.

The benefit was for a children's outreach program that the church, read Father Forthill, was assisting with. He knew how to work the system and he'd gotten the mayor on board for this, making it a huge hoopla. Molly was back with the little monsters babysitting and Charity had a 'friend'. A friend who needed an escort to the party. The two of them thought they were being subtle, setting me up on a date without making it look like a date, but hells bells, really?

She was nice enough and I think her name was Tammy. Or Pam. Maybe Cam. Like I said, nice enough. Sweet and pretty, but not my type. And I don't think I was hers, either, if the speed at which she had ditched me was any indication. Last time I'd seen her she was hanging off the arm of some guy twice her age and richer than everyone I knew, combined. I was staked out by the bar, scaring off rich people with the force of my glower.

“Pardon me.” A hand tapped me on the shoulder and I turned, keeping my face in carefully arranged lines that said, 'go the hell away unless you want to be a toad'. The man touching me was older, maybe in his fifties, but physically fit with hair that had gone a distinguished silver-white rather than something normal like grey. Probably had it dyed. “I'm sorry, you- ah, I believe we know each other.”

I relaxed the glare a bit and took a better look at the man. He did look sort of familiar, now that I wasn't squinting at him angrily. Oh. Oh hell. It clicked. He was right. We did know each other. We knew each other quite well in the past. Damn.

“Mr. Colbert, right?”

He grinned and slid onto the bar stool beside me. I had clearly made his evening by remembering his name. The bartender delivered Colbert's rum and coke and then disappeared again down to the other end of the bar.

“I called out to the agency again last month. They said that you weren't working for them anymore. Is it true?”

“Yeah. I quit last year. Look, it was nice seeing you, but I'm here with someone and-”

“Ah. So you found a keeper then? Someone to take care of you?” He smiled at me, warm and friendly. He'd always been a nice guy, and one of the easiest clients I'd dealt with. Not that I'd dealt with any random guy off the street or anything. At least not after that first month when I hit the city with the clothes on my back and a few hundred dollars that Ebenezar had given me over the years I'd been with him. Sweetie was the 'talent scout' for the agency, and she'd picked me out of the general crowd pretty fast, for which I was grateful. It was through her that I'd met Nick and started working at Ragged Angel, which had eventually allowed me to get my detective's license and eventually to quit working my side line.

“No, not really. I just quit. I'm here with a date, not a 'date'.” I put just a little emphasis on the last word. He got it and blushed.

“Oh. Oh, quite. Of course. I'm so terribly sorry, I didn't mean to imply that-” I waved him off. Like I said before, nice guy.

“No problem. I mean, what else would you think? You here with the wife?”

“Sadly, no. Sandy is having a migraine this evening. Harry,” he turned on his stool and leaned over, sliding a business card across the smooth wood until its edge brushed the side of my hand. “If you, if you ever decide to un-retire? I would love to be able to see you again.” He stood, brushed the back of my hand with his fingers and left the bar area.

Before I could slide my hand over the card to tuck it into a pocket it was plucked up, almost like magic. I scowled and reached for it, freezing when I saw who had it. Marcone. Of course. Because tonight hadn't been fabulous enough already.

“Well, well. Mr. Dresden. How did you sneak in here?” Marcone examined the card and then tapped it against one cheek, smiling at me.

“Well meaning but clueless friend. You?”

“People want my money. It's a worthy cause, of course, and they're willing to sully their hands with my questionably attained funds, so it works out well for all of us.” He moved closer, invading my personal space just a bit. “Tell me, Harry, how do you know our dear Mr. Colbert? I didn't think you were on good terms with anyone in the D.A.'s office.”

“I knew him from my last job, before I opened up my own PI firm.”

“How so? He doesn't have any children and I don't recall that Ragged Angel does divorce work.” I bit the inside of my cheek. There were a lot of things that just weren't anyones business, especially Marcone's. This was one of those things, but I'm a shitty liar.

“The work for Nick was rewarding and made me feel like I was doing some good. But it didn't always pay a whole hell of a lot, so I had part time jobs to make ends meet. I ran into him on one of those. He's a nice guy, so I remember him.”

“And he remembers you. Odd, really.”

“Yeah. Freaky weird. Nice to see you, must do it again some time. You mind?” I held out my hand for the card. Things were going well now, but there was no reason to burn any bridges, or to leave evidence in Marcone's hands. He was enough of a pain in the ass as it was. Marcone quirked an eyebrow at me and handed back the card. I made it disappear into my jacket and then walked away. His eyes bored into my back the entire time.

It took a week.

I'd pretty much managed to forget about the party and running into my old 'friend' and Marcone's interest in my old jobs. I had had a case with a possessed set of My Little Pony's which I still hadn't figured out how to jot down in my case notes. Thomas was in deep denial about the whole thing and refused to go over his part of the operation with me so I could get everything straight. Wuss.

So everything was normal, for my definition of the word, and then Marcone and Hendricks showed up at my office. They came without an appointment, of course, at the end of the day. Hendricks took up the entire doorway as he stepped half way through, glared around the small space and then stepped back out, giving Marcone room to come through. Once Marcone was inside Hendricks shut the door behind him and I could see his mountain sized shadow in front of the door, blocking it entirely. Hells bells, I could swear he'd gotten bigger since the last time I'd seen him.

“Not again, John. We've been over this a million times. I don't want to work for you. You can't afford me.” Marcone took the client chair, slouching and still managing to look elegant and as though he owned the space and all the air in it. Slick bastard.

“According to my sources, I could own you. For a night at least, or a few hours, depending.” Shit. I resisted the sudden strong urge to either bash my own head into the desk, or his.

“Great. Fine, congratulations you obsessive stalker freak. I used to be an escort. Happy?” I leaned back in my chair and tried to mimic his arrogant demeanor.

“Not particularly, no.” There was something of a dark undercurrent in his tone. “If the information I have received is correct, you were still working for the...Urisen Agency in a part time capacity until three months ago.” He paused, looking at me. I nodded.

“Yeah. It's a good place. They're careful with the clients they accept and the owners take really excellent care of their employees. I needed the money.” I shrugged. I didn't tell people about my side job usually. Not because I was ashamed, because I wasn't. It might not have been what people consider an 'honorable' profession, but it was a profession. Escorts, call girls/boys, whatever you wanted to call them, worked hard at their jobs. They kept themselves healthy and fit and played to almost any fantasy that their clients could come up with. Hell, most of the time they were better than therapy for these people. And all they got for their trouble was looked down on and called blights on society. I didn't tell people because as soon as I did I knew that that would be all they'd see. A man who had had sex for money. It would have been worse if I'd been a woman, but that's small comfort, trust me.

“Was the work you did there so much more palatable than the contract that I offered you? I was offering you more than enough money to enable you to quit selling yourself!” I could hear the wood of the chair arm creak as Marcone's hand tightened on it. Huh. He was pissed. That- I hadn't expected that. Arrogance, derision, sure. Maybe even some attempt at black mail. But Marcone looked genuinely ticked off at me.

“Yup. All they wanted was my body. You want my soul, Marcone.”

“How much?”

“Uh?”

“How. Much.” I swear I could hear the enamel of his teeth crack he was clenching so hard. Oh. Well.

I got up and came around my desk, grabbing the back of his chair and turning it so he faced me. Marcone tilted his head back, anger in every line of his body as he looked up at me.

I leaned down, slow and careful and let heat spill into my eyes, into my face. His eyes were sharp as he watched me and then our lips met. I gave him just a little pressure, the soft glide of skin against skin, and then his mouth opened to me, a shuddering groan echoing as I took control, one hand braced against the chair, the other wrapped around the back of his head.

Marcone's hands came up, cupping my face, pulling me down and nearly unbalancing me. I spread my legs a little, bracing and slipped my hand off the arm, tracing a nonsense pattern across the fabric of his pants leg until my fingers found his zipper. I cupped him, hot and throbbing even through the slacks and I moved my hand, grinding down over the curve of his erection with my palm, pressing in and massaging, matching the pace of his tongue in my mouth.

He whimpered and pulled back enough to bite my bottom lip and then I shifted, ground the heel of my hand against his zipper, just enough force. I knew it hurt, but it was the right hurt. Just enough. His teeth slipped and sank through my lip, tearing it a little as his hips snapped against the chair and Gentleman Johnny Marcone came in his pants. I milked him through it, smearing the little bit of blood between our mouths, chasing him back into his own space, his own mouth, stroking along the slick muscle of his tongue, drawing another sound from him that I didn't have a name for.

When he was done, collapsed and boneless, my hand sticky even through the expensive cloth of his pants, I released him, pulling my face out of his hands. They fell limp to his lap and he watched me move away with sated predator's eyes.

“I told you Marcone. You can't afford me.”