HEADGAMES

HEADGAMES

Dammit to hell, Morgan groaned to himself. Not yet. Please, not yet! He’d felt it coming for the past day, managing to stave it off through sheer force of will. He thought he could control it and be out of Dresden’s shop before he had to deal with it. He always thought he could control it, he realized. But this time, his assumption was wrong. Pain. Darts, lances, jabs, and then simply a cloak of pain, covering him in agony, shooting through his head from front to back, top to bottom. His vision alternately flickered and tunneled. Bainbridge’s red tie became green, and the green scarf on Dresden’s desk became orange red. Shit. Not here. Not now.

“Morgan! You okay? You’re not looking too good.” Dresden peered at him. Brilliant. He knew the sweat was running off him. He opened his mouth to say something, anything, so he could leave, but the room spun suddenly, and he realized with horror that he was going to vomit – probably on his own shoes. His involuntary reflexes were working quite well. How charming. Dresden and Bainbridge would never let him live this down.

“Bob, he’s going down,” he heard Dresden warn as his knees buckled beneath him. He could no longer see or think, and his hearing went in and out. Dresden, or both of them, caught him and lowered him to the floor. Someone removed his tie, and other hands removed his coat and suit jacket. There was a hand on the back of his neck, supporting his head, and the touch of a glass to his lips. He wanted to drink, but was afraid he would only throw that up too. He sipped a little.

“Morgan, what is it?” Dresden’s voice, concerned, no gloat in the tone. He fought to speak clearly.

“Head…ache.” His own voice was unrecognizable.

“Have you had this before?” The voice was calm, its pitch low.

“Yes,” he admitted.

“Working on something for days, not eating, just your usual single-minded pursuit of justice, huh?”

“Yess,” he growled.

“Okay. We can fix that. Bob, help me get him upstairs.”

Over my dead body, Morgan thought. When he tried to get up, he was left breathless by the pain.

“Are you mad?” Bainbridge’s voice, full of doubt. Wise, that.

“He’s in pain, Bob. I know what to do. I can’t just chuck him out. He’d do that to us, but I can’t do it. Come on, help me.” Dresden’s tone was cajoling.

“You’re playing with fire, Harry. He could be very angry when he’s done with this…with us. He could make more trouble for us than he already has.” Bainbridge’s voice was wary, but not angry or vindictive. Strange. Neither of them should want anything to do with him. He wouldn’t, if he were in their shoes.

“He’s one of us, and he needs help. I don’t need any more than that. If he wants to give us grief he will, regardless. But we’re strong together, you and I. I’m not so worried about the future any more.” No cajoling now, just quiet reason.

“Very well,” Bainbridge sighed. “He does look bad.”

He couldn’t help them much as he was supported between them, and they literally did have to almost carry him. His nervous system seemed to have short circuited, and his limbs would not obey. He knew that if he opened his eyes even for a moment he would vomit again. He was perilously close even now. He sat down on the edge of a bed, hands holding him upright.

“Let’s get him more comfortable,” Dresden urged. His shirt was removed, and his belt, and his shoes, and he was laid back on the bed. He couldn’t have moved on his own if his life depended on it.

“What now?” Bainbridge asked. Just the question he would have asked, if he could have formed a coherently purposeful thought.

“Light a couple of candles over there, turn out the lights, bring me a wet cloth and a bowl with some cold water in it, and then go downstairs. I’ll be down in a while.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

There was no further discussion between them, and Dresden did and said nothing until he heard the soft tread on the stairs.

“Good luck.” Bainbridge’s voice was soft, strangely caressing.

He heard the cloth being wrung out, and felt a blessed coolness over his face, then down his neck, shoulders and chest. As hard as he tried to remain silent, some sound of relief must have escaped him, because Dresden’s hand covered his, squeezing gently. Sympathy. Empathy. Things he did not need and did not want. They could be insidious and beguiling, and were always to be guarded against.

He could hear Dresden’s deep breathing in the darkness, preparing for a healing. After a few moments, without the sense of feeling anything touching him, Morgan was aware of a faint warmth creeping over his scalp, and then extending over his entire head. He could almost, but not quite, sense a hum of energy emanating from Dresden. The pain decreased slightly, to the point where he no longer felt like he had to either scream or throw up, or both. After another couple of minutes, testing gingerly, he found he could open his eyes.

“I believe I am capable of leaving now,” he ventured. Dresden snorted.

“You’re not, and we both know it. At this point, the minute you sit up or stand up, never mind try to walk downstairs and out of here, the pain will come back and you’ll be right where you started, so what’s the point?” Dresden shook his head. “To prove to me and to Bob that you don’t need anybody? People need other people sometimes, Morgan. We’re wizards, but we’re human beings, and it’s a fact that everybody needs somebody sometime, to paraphrase Dean Martin. People need, and sometimes people give, with no strings attached. They just give because we’re all human, y’know?” he explained quietly. “So, we’re not done yet – okay?” Dark eyes glinted in the candlelit room.

Warnings were screaming in his brain – don’t do this, you fool, you’ll regret it. Why should Dresden and his necromancer do anything for you? Why should you fall for his ‘I’m just a nice guy’ routine? What does he want? What’s going to come back and haunt me about this? But the darkness of the room was comforting, his head still hurt, and he knew Dresden was right about the pain. Dresden’s voice was somehow comforting as well. A trick? Something he learned from Bainbridge. That man could comfort a snake. But right now, he was too tired to run. He’d been running for four days, and his tank was on empty now. Like it or not, he did need. Maybe this once, he should just take what was offered and worry about the consequences later, if ever.

“Okay,” he heard himself croak. Dresden nodded.

“Roll over onto your stomach,” he coaxed. Slowly, so as not to jar his aching head, Morgan did so.

“Now, close your eyes and just relax,” Dresden ordered softly. As if!

Warm hands, slick with oil, rested on his shoulders, thumbs pressing hard against the taut muscles at the base of his skull, moving in slow circles, working out the spasm, coaxing the blood to flow again. It helped; he could feel it. Strong fingers dug carefully, gently, at the tops of his shoulders, working the knots out. It felt so good that it was several minutes before Morgan stiffened, wondering just what the purpose of this massage might be.

As if Dresden could read his mind – apparently he could read his muscles easily enough – he sighed.

“Relax, Morgan. I’m legit. I worked my way across Europe doing this, for money – and there weren’t any ‘extra services’ involved. I know what I’m doing. Just relax,” Dresden’s soft voice told him, working on shoulder blades now.

It was easy to be suspicious; there was always something to suspect. Belief and trust, now, those were difficult. But if he had no reason to trust Dresden, he had no special reason to suspect him of anything at the moment either. The exquisite relief that Dresden’s hands were giving him won out, and at last he gave himself up to nothing but those hands and let his mind seek rest along with his body. By the time the former Boy Wizard was weaving long, slow strokes from the top of his hips and lower back and up to his shoulders, Morgan was barely conscious, and when Harry stepped away from the bed to pad downstairs, he was asleep.

^^^^^

Morgan wasn’t sure how much time had passed when he woke, his headache now more of a memory than a reality. The back of his head felt as if he’d been kicked in the head by a mule, but it was more a soreness than the flashing, blinding pain of the headache. He stood, unsteady, and after a few seconds, made his way gingerly to the top of the stairs – and wondered why he hadn’t known, or guessed.

The low murmur of a television could be heard, muffled. Dresden lay on the couch, half turned, and Bainbridge lay against him, between his sprawled legs. They were kissing, intently and sometimes intensely; making out, his father would have said. Yet there was a relaxed, comfortable quality to their actions, accompanied by soft chuckles, squirms and squeaks, that made it obvious this was more loveplay than sex. Moreover, they both appeared to actually be attempting to watch whatever was on the television. Most surprising of all, Bainbridge seemed very content lying in the midst of this dance, clearly feeling no need to be Master here. He had felt wary of Morgan’s ire because the two of them were simply happy together, and wanted no trouble about their life together. It could, of course, be something else – something dark and underhanded – but following his gut instinct, which had rarely led him astray, Morgan believed he was seeing the Truth about Harry Dresden and Hrothbert of Bainbridge. They had wanted to help him because all was right in their world, and because, as Dresden had said, sometimes people just do things to help other people.

Moving slowly back to the bed, Morgan lay down. The last thing he wanted to do right now was think about Life with a capital “L”, and what a cock-up he had made of his. How his life might have been different if he had found someone to lean on and trust, someone to watch his back and put up with all his anal, obsessive compulsive crap. Might have been different if he’d allowed himself to have friends. Friends as powerful, and as loyal, as his two rescuers.

Closing his eyes, he couldn’t get the vision of them together out of his mind. Bainbridge undulating against Dresden, their cocks clearly dancing a slow dance through their trousers. Dresden licking and biting at Bainbridge’s ear. Only a part of him was aware that he’d unzipped his trousers and taken hold of himself. “’love you, Bob’”, he’d heard Dresden murmur, hugging him close. “Sweet my Harry lover,” Bainbridge had returned. They were so clearly in thrall to each other that it almost hurt to watch. Morgan doubted he would ever have such a thing, but he was glad he’d seen it; found he was glad that someone had it. And he, pitiful wretch that he was, was halfway to coming just thinking about what he’d seen. What would he want if they’d actually…. But he was not so far away as he’d thought; the barely unspoken vision in his mind’s eye was impetus enough, and he came. He didn’t even think of it as pleasure in the sense that he might have control over his own pleasure; Dresden and Bainbridge had allowed him to come, between them. A very twisted thought, Morgan. Very twisted indeed, he recognized before he slept again.

^^^^^

It was dark when he woke again, cleaned himself, and dressed. He came down the stairs quietly. The couch was empty. He heard voices in the kitchen, and came upon them eating pasta, bread and wine, at the kitchen table.

“Better, Morgan?” Dresden asked him.

“Yes,” he nodded in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Dresden. I’m grateful for your help. You too, Bainbridge,” he nodded to the other end of the table.

“Hungry?” Dresden indicated the spaghetti.

“No, thank you,” he heard himself say, although he was starving. “I should be going.”

“Places to go, people to see,” Dresden teased, a gleam of understanding in his eye.

“Yes,” Morgan gave an almost-smile.

“You’re welcome,” Dresden grinned. Morgan turned to Bainbridge.

“Your fears are groundless, necromancer, unless you give me a good reason to doubt you,” he offered. The sorcerer looked at him for half a beat, and then gave a slight nod. Morgan turned to leave.

“If you’re in the neighborhood, feel free to drop by.” The dry voice was Bainbridge’s.

“Yeah – don’t be a stranger.” Dresden, sounding as if he might mean it.

“Gentlemen,” Morgan acknowledged, a faint smile curving his lips, before going out the door. He knew that he would do everything he could to stay away, and he knew that he would not.