Monster

[madimpossibledreamer]

This one is very, very AU.  In my defense, the beginning was a dream.  I just expanded on it.

Main Points:
Dresden Files AU, M is for Marcone Series, although it's actually Dresden's POV for once
Chapter Summary: Marcone needs Dresden's help.
Word Count: 3052
Rating: Teen

           Usually, Marcone’s goons are more careful with me, careful about setting off the ticking time bomb wizard, but they’re strangely silent and strangely forceful when they grab me off the street.  Apparently he’s visiting one of his investments, because the hotel’s only half-finished and there don’t seem to be a lot of staff around, so he’s not staying here.  They don’t seem to mind me swearing them out, colorfully and creatively, so I do that rather than setting everything on fire.  Much as I don’t like criminals, they’re still human.  When they throw me into the room with Marcone and stand there as if entranced, I get ready to include the scumbag in my insults when I realize that something major has happened.  The crime lord’s not his usual immaculate self, with a tie that looks like I tied it and slightly rumpled shirt.  It’s so odd I almost don’t notice that it takes two tries of the man dismissing his henchmen before they actually leave.
           "I need your help," Marcone insists.  He actually looks a little fevered.  Anything, my brain insists, because the scumbag is someone that I...hate.  I don't even realize when I've gotten so close, hand on his forehead checking for a fever.  From this distance, I can see the slightly glazed look in his eye, watch his Adam's apple bob as he swallows.  "Harry," he begins uncertainly, and I pull my lips back in a snarl.
           "Scumbag," I start, and swallow the 'screw you' (to which my annoying Id pops up and insists that I one hundred percent absolutely would, right here and now) as he tries to pull back.  I follow, moving my hand to the back of his head to pull him into an electrifying kiss.  I need more.  Then I blink, dazed, because my cheek is stinging and he's suddenly somehow out of reach, panting.  The realization makes parts of me viciously proud.
           "Are you back to your senses?" he demands, and I process the words as if through molasses.  Once I do, though, my cheeks turn bright.
           "What was that?" I demand, half certain that he did this to me, but—no.  Not on purpose, at least.  There's a slight snarl on his lips, too, and his stance right now is that of a wounded animal that won't hesitate to strike if it feels it's in danger.  He's half feral.
           I look away as he licks his lips unconsciously.  I've had experience dealing with this sort of thing, after all.  I just didn't expect it to be coming from Gentleman Johnny.  "And I thought you wanted me to crawl into your pocket."  And, yup, there's the smart mouth, once my brain started working.
           The sound of his chuckle starts a fire in me, but thinking about Mavra seems to be working fine.  "I would be honored if you would, if you were in your right mind, but the 'Gentleman' moniker is not for nothing.  I'm big on consent."  His tongue gets a little stuck on the s, hissing sibilantly, and that reminds me of something, but I'm distracted.
           "You'd sleep with me."  I'm a little insulted.  As if that's some kind of perk, supposedly, for coming to the dark side.
           His answer isn't what I'd expect, predatory, befitting the mob—but then, he hadn't taken advantage of me after that kiss, either.  It's swift enough he's thought about it, but...wistful.  Like he doesn't expect it'll ever happen.  "In a heartbeat, if I could.  If you'd let me."  There's a moment of silence as I attempt to take that in, before he adds stiffly, "Please, ignore that.  I'm sure you don't want to dwell on such a revelation any more than I do."  Once again, there's a slight buzzing on the s sounds.
           It's hard to believe, but his defensiveness on the subject, the fact that he only answered the question when he wasn't in his right mind, they're all pointing to a picture I don't quite like.  "This isn't about...about owning my services."
           I glance up to judge the truth on his face and almost miss the rueful half-smile he quickly wipes off his face.  The sibilance is starting to sound natural in his voice.  "I'd ask if you'd want the answer but that in of itself would be one, wouldn't it?"
           Yes.  Yes, it would.  I'd ask what I'd done wrong, but he wasn't likely to give me an answer to that anyway.  And by the looks of things, maybe it wasn't something I'd done wrong.  For all of his faults, all of his criminal ways, Johnny had a code of honor that looked to be a bit more extensive than I'd previously thought.  He'd made himself the monster, which meant he could play by his own rules.  Treat the girls at Executive Priority like valued employees, not cattle. Prevent the deaths of innocents, if he could.  Value, not force, loyalty.
           I was under no delusions that that made him all the more deadly.  Or annoying, because it’d be easier for me to dismiss him if he was nothing more than the mustache-twirling man.  I let out a big breath of air and table that panic attack for another time.  When it comes to it, I don't want an out of control half monster Marcone around any more than he does, and while I can't exactly admit it in polite company, I do enjoy a magical puzzle.
           Probably the easiest way to check for certain what’s wrong is using the Sight, though I hate doing so.  The hissing reminds me of snakes, but I only vaguely paid attention when Bob was telling me about the hazards of the East because I didn’t think I’d run into any of that in Chicago.  So, of course, I should’ve expected to tangle with each and every one of them.  Maybe I had and I hadn’t even noticed; it’s not like I know what the Jade Court is all about, after all. 
           What I see doesn’t surprise me, though it does strike my inner eye as a little wrong, since I associate Marcone with a tiger, not a snake.  The gold crown especially doesn’t surprise me, since he probably sees himself as the king of his little kingdom.  He is the Freeholding Lord of Chicago, too, so essentially a lot of people probably see him that way.  I ignore the thought that I kind of do, too, because Chicago’s not just his.  A hood flares like a mane around his neck and head, though there’s a noticeable notch (probably where he’s still got the bite out of his ear).  Almost delicate-looking scales cover his cheeks like freckles, catching the light as he breathes.  The medieval armor on his upper torso does catch me a little off guard, burnished gold complimenting the hungry, fiercely intelligent slitted jungle green eyes.  Around his waist, just below the breastplate, his body seamlessly transitions into a tail, brilliant scales complimenting his eyes and the armor, disappearing behind him.  I’d never seen a snake that big, but I imagined it as a scaled-up version of a boa constrictor, since the muscles under the skin ripple a little as he moves under my gaze.  Normally, Marcone wouldn’t even flinch, but given that he’s somehow managed to be changing into a naga and yet another of his secrets came out, I suppose even crime lords get a little nervous.  That, or the fever he’s getting that’s changing him…probably the fever, actually.
           I close the Sight to find him discreetly searching my face.  “Stop that,” I remark, irritated, and he smirks.
           “I’m sure your gaze has been less innocent around any number of women,” he banters back, and I breathe carefully, ignoring the sudden desire to go over there and kiss every trace of that smug look away.  Covering for weakness again, I realize, once I deal with the lust and irritation.  He’s concerned how I’m taking both the not-confession and his change, only rather than ask like a normal person he just stares like a jungle cat instead.
           “Congratulations, you’re changing into a naga.  How did you manage that?”  As far as I know, the process is one-way, but I’m not sure I want to tell him that yet.  I want an easy escape route, in case he takes it badly.
           He shivers, breathing growing more rapid, and I lock my gaze on his eyes, as for once that seems safest.  “I…”  He doesn’t actually look surprised, I realize.
           “Did your Amazon tell you?” I ask, slightly irritated, because if he’d told me that I wouldn’t have had to use the Sight.
           He actually bares his teeth at that, and I back away.  Just slightly.  See, Bob, I do have a working sense of self-preservation. Sometimes.  “Miss Gard…”  Oh.  Huh.  He doesn’t mind scumbag, but insulting nicknames for his employees get him.  “…generally only knows about fighting naga.  She was unsure of the process of becoming one.”
           “What happened?”  Normally, I’m against taking money from the man, but I’m not about to do him a favor, so billing him it is.  And right now, he’s being a difficult client.
           He doesn’t want to tell me.  He’s…embarrassed?
           “Marcone,” I insist, and he sighs.
           “It should be obvious that I’m not like you.”  I’d be insulted—I value romance pretty highly, and from the sounds of things, he does the same—but he continues smoothly.  “I’m not easily distracted by a pretty face, which, of course, is an asset against White Court Vampires and Fae, among others.  I thought I was asexual—and to get your ignorant questions out of the way, no, it’s not due to trauma, and no, there’s nothing wrong with me.  Asexuality, or, in my case, being on the asexuality spectrum, has nothing to do with sociopathy.  On rare occasion, I even enjoy pleasuring myself.  But the thought of actually doing the deed with a stranger…”  He trails off.  Huh.
           “So, uh, those rumors…”  Rumors said that, occasionally, he did bed people (a few rumors also said males were included, and I’d dismissed those, but given his attraction to me, maybe I shouldn’t have)—this is a really weird conversation to be having, after his confession.  Damn.  I’d been trying not to think about that.
           His smile is pleased—I guess because I’ve been keeping track of him, too?  “Oh, I’m not sex-repulsed.  It’s more like—I dislike the loss of control, feeling vulnerable.  The pleasure is nice, true, but I can achieve the same end with a good debate, a fine wine, excellent food, an intriguing book, and with less consequences for my mental faculties.  That being said, I’ll use the tools I have, when necessary.  Though, yes, those rumors are slightly exaggerated.  It might surprise you, as I doubt you have considered the matter, but women enjoy being treated as an equal rather than a pretty face on occasion.”
           It’s hard to think.  I’m not sure if it’s because he’s smiling at me in a non-threatening manner which is confusing both my libido and my risk assessment, or because it’s so hard to picture what he’s talking about, but either way, my brain hurts.  “But all the factions that use lust…they can do so even if they’re not your usual type.”
           Apparently he has equal issues communicating from his side as he looks thoughtful, attempting to find the right words to express what seems equally obvious to him.  “Willingness does not equal attraction, Harry.  I don’t experience primary attraction—that is, I don’t see a stranger and feel lust or attraction.  Any awareness of beauty is aesthetic only, the way one might admire a painting.”
           That’s such a weird thought, but does explain some of his reactions to the various predators in Chicago.  And probably contributed to his continued survival.
           “So why me?”  Not the question I meant to ask, but it slips out of me anyway, and he frowns and looks away.
           “I experience secondary sexual attraction.  I require an emotional connection and history with a person before I feel that attraction—and again, no, before you ask, it doesn’t happen with every person I’ve known for a while.  I don’t wish to seduce Hendricks, for example.”  He must mean Cujo.  “I’ve only felt this twice.”  Maybe if we’d only been enemies, never worked together, this could’ve been avoided.  He could’ve kept his distance viewing me as an enemy.  Of course, he’s also sneaky and practiced in the art of removing obstacles in his path, so maybe it’s best for my continued existence that didn’t happen, as much as he unnecessarily complicates my life.  “Now, may we stop focusing on this?”
           I sigh.  I want to say yes, and almost do, but it’s still kind of important.  “That doesn’t explain how the naga lady got to you, unless it’s Helen.”  The only thing I vaguely remember is that male naga aren’t born, so a female naga has to sleep with a human male and die and somehow, male naga!  I especially was ignoring Bob when he was explaining the process of naga copulation, for the sake of my own sanity.
           He breathes out and closes his eyes, irritated, though his voice when he speaks is level and doesn’t show a sign of it.  “Please use your brain, Harry.  I said that I’d use the tools I had, when necessary.  She was an acquaintance, a daughter of another family in my line of work, seeking an alliance.  Miss Gard raised no concerns, but apparently the magic of nagas is subtle enough a slight glamour is enough to fool even her, and generally unfamiliar due to her background—I stated her only experience was in combat, during which they are hardly attempting to pose as human.  Had I known what she was, I certainly wouldn’t have agreed to a liaison, and would have taken extra precautions.  She broke the few I had, and, I would assume, drugged me or something similar.”
           “What did you do with the body—no, I’m not accusing you of killing her.  For once,” I add, just in case he has concerns about that.
           “I would have disposed of it, but I’m not sure of the protocol when it comes to naga.  They are Signatories, I am told, though rarely attend meetings.  I need to know how they will view this, whether this is an attack.  I need to know how to control this change, because as much as I would have nothing against using my newfound boost in charisma to convince others to a path with less bloodshed, I also do not need to be seducing everyone I speak to.  I need…”  He falters, swaying, and repeats, “I need.”
           I sit back with alarm, just in case it has any similarities to the making of a White Court Vampire.  It’s a ridiculous thought, but it feels like I can feel the heat across the room, inviting.  “First things first, can Cujo—I mean, Hendricks…” I amend as he glares at me, “…babysit you?”  He’s less likely to try to jump him, for one thing.  (I ignore the fact that I was the one to jump him as that’s an inconvenient fact.)  Marcone’s uncertain look would be anyone else making a face.  “What?”
           “I’d rather not interrupt him while he’s defending his thesis,” he admits, and it takes a little while for the words to penetrate.  I’ve only the vaguest idea of what a thesis even is, not having gone to college myself, and the thought of Marcone’s hulking bodyguard doing so strikes me as really, really strange.  As strange as Marcone turning into a snake rather than a tiger, maybe.  Okay.  I realize he’s continued talking and he honestly might even be rambling in his way.  I’m not sure.  “…seen you do it, so I’m certain—”
           “Huh?”  Eloquent it’s not, but I’m still stuck on the school thing.
           The glare he sends me this time suggests I’m not the only one who would like to shut the other up in creative ways, and parts of me are a little too excited about the prospect.  The two of us can ignore our libidos long enough to work this out, at the very least.  “Miss Gard is not present currently, as she is consulting with her own employer about any possible changes to the contract this might necessitate, as well as the reaction of other members of the Accords.  She cannot be on hand to protect me until she knows if the contract is still intact, as Vadderung must be seen as neutral in these affairs.  I would prefer to remain in your living room, where I will at least be protected, though if you can think of another location with equal protective measures, that will suffice.  I’ve seen you use a circle of magic to contain a creature before, and suspect it would be easier with me willing.”  I choke on my own saliva at the phrase.
           “There’s a handkerchief in the suit pocket,” he indicates the wardrobe, and I chuckle through the coughs.  Gentleman indeed.  I’d used all of mine on sunlight (or alternatively, some have holes from fire for some reason).  As the fit eases, I consider it.  The only unknown factor is any combat magic he might have if he fully turns, but at least in my home it’ll be dampened and I’ll have the home-field advantage.  I definitely can’t invite him inside, in other words.  Thomas won’t be happy, but the idea of not helping and suddenly having another Bianca or worse in my city doesn’t sit right.  Besides, if a bunch of snakepeople probably from the Nevernever plan on claiming Chicago, I’d like some forewarning for once.
           “All right, but you’re going in the back seat.”  Oddly, on a normal occasion even knowing what I know now, I’d trust him to keep his hands to himself, but it’s an open question how close he is to losing his probably legendary self-control right now, and I do not need to get into a car crash because someone couldn’t keep his tail to himself.  Possibly literally, depending on how quickly this change is going.
           The fact that he doesn’t argue with me convinces me that he’s closer to that edge than he’d like, himself.