Chapter Text
The Beetle was facing away from the steadily devolving chaos. Bob could fix that by just turning it around, or… A passage from the Smokin’ Hot Rods series—notorious for its ridiculously detailed street racing scenes—popped into his head.
The Blue Beetle was a rear wheel drive, engine in the back; hell’s bells, he might actually be able to pull this off. He could feel his heart beginning to pound as adrenaline coursed through his system.
Bob had never driven a car before, but, hey, he’d never brewed a potion himself before, and he was great at that by proxy. He’d been there when Harry was learning to drive; he knew the theory. How hard could it be?
Without further ado, Bob put his hands on the wheel and got ready for chaos.
Bob's left foot pushed the clutch pedal as his right hand disengaged the handbrake. He kept the clutch pedal down and eased on the gas enough to rev up the engine again. Once the tachometer's needle was steadily brushing the red, it was showtime. Bob eased his right foot off the gas for a split second then slid off the clutch, slammed on the gas, and prayed to an uncaring pantheon of long-dead gods that the driveshaft, clutch, and transmission held.
The Beetle’s rear tires chirped as the transmission abruptly engaged and the driveshaft and rear wheels went from zero to spinning at approximately Mach Jesus.
Time for part two of the horrible life decisions du jour.
“Hard to port!” Bob crowed, grinning like a maniac. He spun the steering wheel ninety degrees to the left, pushed the clutch to the floor, and engaged the hand brake. The Beetle’s rear tires squealed again at the continued abuse as they began to skid. Handbrake and clutch off, accelerator to the floor, and the Beetle’s rear end whipped around in a somewhat perfectly executed donut.
Bob cackled. Hell. Yes.
After a donut and a half, Bob straightened out the Beetle and aimed it at Lea.
Normally, the Beetle took forever and a day to get up to speed, but with that much of a windup and a driver who thought that air resistance was for bitches and quitters, the Blue Beetle flung itself towards Lea far, far faster than it had any right to go.
Oddly, Lea didn’t so much as twitch at the sound of squealing tires, which was either really good or really bad. Either way, it was too late for Bob to change his mind now. Besides, Bob figured that Lea was expecting anything that Marcone or Harry were known to dish out: gouts of flame, machine gun fire, a swarm of Wyldfae wielding box cutters, maybe even grenade launchers if Marcone had been feeling particularly paranoid that day.
However, to slightly mangle the words of Cardinal Ximénez, nobody expects the Blue Beetle. Though, to be fair, Bob doubted most people expected to be kneecapped from behind by almost a ton of automotive steel going faster than it had any right to be going.
The bumper (which happened to be mostly exposed iron) slammed into the back of Lea’s knees, taking her legs out from under her with enough force to—well. It was a good thing she was death-resistant, that was all Bob would say. The inertia shoved her up the hood and her back slammed into the windshield, shattering it. Whoops. At least it was laminated safety glass.
Before Lea could register what had happened or see who had had the audacity to hit her with a car, Bob slammed on the brakes, engaging the handbrake for good measure. Inertia (and maybe a little magical help) sent her tumbling forward off of the hood with enough force to send her tumbling a good thirty feet in front of the Beetle.
Conveniently, Bob's sudden brakefest also brought the Beetle to a halt within just a few feet of Harry and Marcone, the former of whom was staring at Bob like he’d grown a second head. Though, to be fair, he kind of had. Did it count as a second head if the first one wasn’t Bob's own creation? Questions to think about later.
Bob eyed Lea warily, making sure she wasn’t going to get up and rip his brand-new spine out through his ass or something equally sadistic.
She stayed down.
Bob exhaled shakily, offering up silent thanks to Chuck Tingle, patron saint of smut. What? He might be mostly incompatible with religion, but that didn’t mean he didn’t know a miracle when he saw one. There was no way that should have worked—not as well as it had, at least. Real-life accuracy in romance novels was hit and miss at best, and laughably bad on average. Statistically, Bob should’ve failed, and yet, here he was.
Bob parked the Beetle (though he left the engine running) and rolled the window down.
“Did somebody order donuts?” he quipped.
“Buddy, if you think there are any cops to feed here, you crashed the wrong meeting," Harry replied.
“Aw, Boss, you don’t recognize me? I’m hurt,” Bob said, clutching a hand over his heart dramatically. He picked up his skull from the passenger seat and tossed it to Harry. “Here, catch.” Harry caught it, thankfully. Bob would have been somewhat shit out of luck if he hadn't.
Harry looked down at the obviously empty skull, then up at Bob.
“What—Bob?” Harry said—well, squawked, really—and yeah, no shit. Sometimes Bob wondered how Harry had managed to survive this long, he really did.
“Got it in one, Boss," Bob said drily.
“I told you to stay put!”
“No, you told me to stay in the car,” Bob corrected. “I stayed in the car.”
“What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking that you weren’t! ‘Stay in the car,’ you said! ‘It’ll be fine,’ you said! Are you trying to win a Darwin Award, Harry? Because this is how you earn a Darwin Award!” Bob shot back, gesturing more animatedly than he would have normally to hide how his hands were still shaking from fear and adrenaline.
“How was I supposed to know that Lea was going to show up?” Harry demanded, throwing his hands in the air.
“Because every time you do anything even remotely important, it’s like putting up the Harry Dresden Batsignal for every enemy you’ve ever made!”
“What else do you want from me? I can’t just stay home and do nothing, Bob.”
“You could, but you won’t,” Bob corrected. "You and your martyr complex make sure of that."
“Care to introduce us, Dresden?” Marcone asked, arching an eyebrow. Bob had to give the man kudos, he hid his utter bafflement well.
“No. Absolutely not. You two do not need to get to know each other.”
“Come on, Harry, don’t be rude,” Bob chided.
“Your associate is right, Mister Dresden. It would be impolite not to introduce the two of us, especially if he’s someone who you trust enough to bring to this meeting as backup.”
Harry groaned. “There’s no way I can convince either of you to drop this, is there?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Not a chance,” Bob said, smug.
Harry sighed. “Fine. Marcone, this is Bob, my research assistant. Bob, this is Marcone, mob boss and all-around pain in my ass.” Oh, that was no fun at all.
“Let's try that again. Gentleman Johnny Marcone, I’m Bob, Harry’s research assistant and resident sexpert—”
“Sexpert?” Harry repeated, disbelieving.
Bob ignored him. “—and, if I may, you look absolutely stunning in that suit.”
Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “Keep it in your pants, Bob.”
Bob grinned. He’d been hoping Harry would say that.
“What pants?” he asked innocently.
Only then did Harry seem to register what Bob had been vaguely aware of the whole time: Bob wasn’t wearing anything more than a pair of tight black boxer briefs and a smile.
“Bob, what the hell? Why are you naked?”
“Why aren’t you?” Bob countered. “Besides, I’m only mostly naked.”
“Still close enough for a public indecency charge.”
“I was a little preoccupied, Harry. Your godmother showed up looking like twenty pounds of crazy in a five pound bag, and you think clothes were anywhere on my list of priorities? You’re lucky that I remembered underwear!”
“Hell’s bells, at least summon a pair of pants or something.”
“Why? Do you find me distracting, Harry?”
Harry muttered something entirely uncalled for under his breath. “Look, just put some pants on before you get out of the car so you don’t get arrested for indecent exposure. There should be a pair of sweatpants under the backseat. I’m fine with you wearing them as long as you don’t get any ectoplasm on them.”
“Ectoplasm? Do I look like an amateur to you?” Bob huffed, unbuckling his seatbelt and reaching back to pull the sweatpants out from under the bench seat. If he tied the drawstring a little loosely so that they’d slip down to ride lower on his hips than some (Harry) considered to be decent, then that was his business, and his business alone.
Harry’s vicarious modesty preserved, Bob got out of the car, stretching. He’d missed having a body, and it felt great to finally be able to move freely. The sweatpants slipping down to reveal the skin an inch or two above his groin that may or may not have definitely not been visible with his boxers on was just a bonus.
What? If he was wearing pants, then there was no reason not to freeball it.
“There. Better?” Bob asked.
“Marginally,” Harry sighed, like they weren’t all fully aware Harry had been checking Bob out more than a little bit.
“Prude.”
“Not wanting to deal with you getting thrown in the drunk tank doesn't make me a prude,” and oh, those were fighting words.
"Last time I checked, Harry, I wasn’t the one who regularly spent hours ranting about how I ‘totally don’t want to bang the mob boss like a screen door in a hurricane, no, really!’ I swear, with how many times you’ve gone on about worn-dollar-bill-green eyes and tigers and stainless steel refrigerators, I’m tempted to kiss him myself just to see what the fuss is about!”
Marcone arched an eyebrow. “Is that so?”
Bob turned back to Marcone. “Only if you're willing, of course. Consent is sexy and I like not being riddled with bullets.”
“I see.” There was something calculating and smugly pleased in Marcone’s eyes, and Bob got the impression that he was being allowed to see it, was being willingly given a little insight. Marcone’s eyes flicked to Harry, raking up and down his form like he wanted to eat the wizard alive.
“Do you have anything to say about your associate’s claims, Mister Dresden? I must say, I was unaware that you harbored such thoughts about me, but the news isn’t unwelcome,” he purred, a tinge of smugness to his voice that Bob just knew would piss Harry off to no end, and, sure enough, Harry bristled like a damn porcupine.
“Really, Marcone? My godmother was KOed by the Blue Beetle after attacking us out of nowhere, and you’re hitting on my research assistant?”
“He’s not the only one I’m trying to flirt with, though your obliviousness would make me worry about your abilities as a private investigator if I hadn’t seen your skills firsthand.”
Harry’s fists were clenched and his pupils were blown, and Bob had read more than enough romance novels (and the occasional manual on body language) to know what that meant: Harry couldn’t decide whether he wanted to deck Marcone in the face or kiss him.
Though, the tension between the two put almost every single novel Bob had read to shame. If all of the interactions Harry and Marcone had were like this, then, hell, Bob would have to get Harry to let him tag along more often. If Bob played his cards right, he might even be able to get in on the action, get himself a slice of hot mobster pie… Or cake, as it were. Whatever Marcone paid his tailor, it couldn’t possibly have been enough, because the way the fabric clung…Fuck. Bob had seen porn stars with asses that Marcone’s put to shame. He kind of wished that he had a roll of quarters so that he could see if they’d bounce. Gentleman Johnny had an ass that could stop traffic.
Bob took a moment to really, thoroughly appreciate Marcone’s assets—making no secret of it and even leaning back a bit to get a better view—before he replied.
“You’ll probably have to be more direct. Boss isn’t good at realizing this sort of thing,” Bob confided.
Marcone hummed. “Perhaps next time. Best not to push too far.”
“You can push me any day, handsome,” Bob purred.
“Bob! Stop hitting on the mob boss!”
“Oh, please, Harry, like you weren’t thinking the same thing. You’re a man of many talents, Boss, but subtlety isn’t one of them, especially when your downstairs brain gets involved.”
“You sure you’re not confusing me with yourself, there?”
“And whose personality did I pick up on, again?”
"Hey, I was a teenager, I've matured since then!"
Bob snorted. "Sure you have, and I'm a Queen of Faerie."
“Getting back on topic, I think we can agree that it would be best to reschedule the meeting.”
“Yeah. Much as I hate spending more time around you than is absolutely necessary, the potential threat of—Uh." Harry cut himself off, glancing at Lea's still-unconscious form. "Of that thing you told me about warrants it.”
“I’ll call you later this evening to work out the details, then.” Marcone smiled wryly. “I think we can forgo the more stringent clauses of the non-aggression pact in future.”
Harry snorted. “No, really? I thought we’d pelt anyone who showed up with loose pebbles. They’ll never know what hit them.”
Bob glanced over at where Lea had landed to make sure she wasn’t awake and felt his heart fall out of his ass. Lea was not only awake, she looked pissed.
“Uh, Boss?”
“Yeah?”
“Much as I love watching the homoerotic tension you two have got going on, we need to get the hell out of Dodge.”
Bob made direct eye contact with Lea, and saw her elegant features twisted in rage, blood-red lips curling around the word ‘you.’ Thankfully, she didn’t have time to do anything else before the business end of Harry's staff hit her square in the head with a dull thunk.
“Huh. Probably a good thing she can't get concussions,” Harry remarked offhandedly, standing over his once again unconscious godmother's body.
Marcone laughed, sharp and short. “Indeed.”
“While I’d love to discuss how fucking hot that was, I think we can agree that the dirty talk can wait until we’re behind your wards and safely away from your irate godmother.”
“She's out for the count, Bob.”
“Yes, for now, but when she wakes up? She is going to skin me. She is going to hunt me for sport. She will make the Wild Hunt look like Elmer Fudd. Do I make my point clear?”
“Fine, fine.” Harry got in the car, and Bob followed, circling around to the passenger seat. Harry handed Bob his skull and Bob cradled it carefully. It might be empty now, but it had still been his home for a very long time.
Bob leaned out of the window and made a ‘call me’ gesture at Marcone. Harry rolled his eyes.
“Stop being a horndog and get in the car, Bob.”
“Is that an order?” Bob asked, somewhat mulishly. So sue him, he’d just saved Harry’s skin from becoming a pelt, and he thought that a little gratitude from Harry wouldn’t be amiss.
“Does it need to be?”
Bob opened his mouth to respond, but stopped when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Lea might have left, but one of her hounds had stuck around and was coming toward the Beetle. “No, no it does not, and we should really, really go now, Harry,” Bob said, understandably panicked. Lea's hounds were pieces of work, to say the absolute least.
“What’s—” Harry glanced in the rear-view mirror. “Oh, Empty Night. Yeah, time to go.” Bob scrambled for his seatbelt, hissing as the sun-hot leather made contact with his bare back.
There was a woof roughly the volume of an air raid siren from the backseat, and Bob damn near jumped out of his skin. He whipped around, hoping against hope that there wasn’t another of Lea’s hounds in the car, and came face to face with Mouse.
He slumped in relief. “Don’t scare me like that.”
Mouse snuffled inquisitively at Bob’s hand, then wagged his tail lazily.
“Told you things would go wrong if you left.”
“Where'd you disappear off to, Mouse?” Harry asked. Bob spotted another of Lea's hounds and grabbed the oh-shit handle.
“Later! Drive, Harry!”
Harry put the Beetle into gear (though nowhere near as dramatically as Bob had), the Beetle’s wheels protesting as they peeled out of the parking lot.
Bob took a moment to appreciate Marcone’s planning in having the meeting take place long after rush hour—it had been scheduled for dusk in early June, which, now that Bob thought about it, explained part of why Lea had been so easily incapacitated… Though, not all of it.
It also meant that there was little traffic to hinder their escape, so Bob was willing to avoid looking that particular gift horse in the mouth… For now.