InsaneJournal

Current mood:	busy
Entry tags:	dresden files, mcr: bob bryar, mcr: matt cortez, my chemical romance

For LunarScythe (MCR/Dresden Files, gen, 13/15ish)



titleIt Sure Is Monday
author:lisa roquin
fandom: MCR/Dresden files
rating 15ish
pairing/characters: Harry, Matt, Bob
disclaimer: lies, fiction, untrue. completely and totally made up. I know no one, know nothing of their personal lives. I make no claims of knowing much of anything. Harry belongs to Jim Butcher
author notes: random thought/scribble that kind of maybe hit a stopping enough point. Is doubtful will ever emerge into full fic.
word count: 1818





I looked up surprised at who walked through the door of my office. I hadn't seen Bob in years.

"You look like shit," Bob snorted. Even if I hadn't seen Bob since not long after he graduated from high school, and only rarely before that from the time I graduated from high school, that being his greeting really wasn't enough to make me think twice. Bobby had said almost the exact same thing when I had first met him over twenty years before. Though the word of choice had been crap then, quickly amended to crud after a sharp "Robert Corey!" from his mother.

The shock was that Bob walked through the door, at least for a second. Then I was more surprised I honestly wasn't that shocked. Not long after I started up and put the ad in the yellow pages, a package had come in the mail from Bob. CDs. It was the thought that counts, I supposed Bob forgot how well electronics and I interacted. Every so often something else would come in the mail, mostly T-shirts and CDs. A hoodie once. Post cards from various places around the globe and strange little tourist trap trinkets. The stranger the better with the trinkets. Bob hadn't been a conversationalist as a child. That he simply sent things without so much as a note didn't seem odd once the shock of the first few arrivals had gotten past. It was to the point I almost looked for them, they were slightly erraticaly timed, never less than three weeks, not more than two months, but there was always something.

Nor was it a surprise I looked like shit, as Bob so charmingly put it, either. I'd spent the weekend chased by my fairy godmother's pets and had the aches, pains and bruises to prove it. She was up to no good again, and none too happy with me since I was the one that put a monkey wrench in her fun.

Yes, I have a fairy godmother. She's my godmother, and a fairy--fae. She's not someone to cross, even if I do regularly. Every time we meet honestly.

No, I'm not crazy.

I'm a wizard. Yes, a real wizard. It says so on the door of my office. Harry Dresden, Wizard. It says so in the ad I have in the yellow pages. No, I don't do birthday parties or bar mitzvahs. They still call to ask that, even if it clearly says so in the ad.

Carol Bryar was one of the truly decent human beings I encountered in my childhood. Her son somehow ended up something of a friend. He was a few years younger, three or four, which was an eternity of difference back then. Bobby had had ruddy chubby cheeks that were almost always stained with a blush. He leaned toward pudgy, was blond and blue eyed and quiet as a mouse, shy prefering the corners so much you almost forgot he was there. Bobby Bryar didn't talk to many people. I was, for some reason, one of the fortunate ones that Bobby spoke to from the start.

We met early on during the two years Carol was my caseworker. I think I was supposed to be a lesson to start with. Show Bobby how good he had it after he threw a tantrum over some thing or another, at least for an introduction. We hit it off, shocking Carol most of all I believe. She managed to arrange for us to have the same "Big Pal", a friend of hers who would take both Bobby and I to things that bored us to tears or attempted to get us to play ball. Neither of us were much for ball. Or anything else that Max came up with for us to do really. I suppose Max did try, and Bobby and I weren't intentionally difficult (I because Carol would be upset and she'd been decent to me), the man simply didn't know what to do with either of us.

Bob was still shorter than I by a good three inches. Still blond, at least the hair hanging in waves from under his sock cap down to his shoulders. He had a lip ring and a beard now. The beard a little darker and redder than his hair and almost as wildly overgrown. He was dressed in raggy jeans that were a size or two big and hanging low on his hips held up precariously by a belt. It seemed he had a goodly amount of odds and ends in his pockets at the way the jeans pulled at the belt. No I wasn't "checking out" Bobby. I learned the hard way to pay attention to every detail when my dear godmother was up to her usual havoc wreaking. Another it might have concerned me, but Bobby had a propensity for shoveing everything but the kitchen sink in his pockets as a boy. It was hard to say if he lost the last of his childhood pudginess or not, he had several layers of flannel (evidenced by the single untucked shirttail) sweatshirts, hoodies on, the top one once-black faded to mottled dark gray, zipped up.

"You look like a bum," I said.

Bobby, Bob, snorted. "Yeah, that's what Mom says."

I stared, actually shocked as the door opened again. A Latino man carrying three sacks from the deli down the street and a tray of takeout coffees.

"A little help would be nice, asshole," the newcomer huffed.

"Yeah. And?" Bob shot back, but moved to take the coffees.

The Latino looked around the office, his expression getting darker by the second, looked at me and shouted "FUCK!"

"Yeah, figured. Told ya I didn't think you were crazy though." Bob sighed sounding resigned and worried. "Oh, c'mon, Matt. Tofu?" Bob complained looking in the first bag sat on my desk.

"Habit," the Latino named Matt shrugged.

He was just a bit shorter than Bob, an inch or two, obviously slender despite similar layers of sweatshirts and hoodies. His hair was cut short and he was clean shaven, with a lip ring as well.

"Tofu is habit?" I frowned. Nonsensical perhaps but I was unnerved by Matt's reaction to my office and Bobby's comment. Especially with my Godmother in a snit and having managed to slip out this side of the Nevernever two nights before.

"Frank," Bob and Matt answered in near unison.

"This shit's fucking crazy," Matt complained.

"I didn't believe him, he made a squirrell extra crispy then tried to make me forget it. No crazier than that shit."

The squirrel was an accident. I meant to disentigrate a branch. It seemed the memory spell on Bobby had gone equally as wrong. He'd never acted like he remembered, nor had he ever seemed scared of me after that.

"Ray's gonna have a fucking tortured fit. Frank will go nuclear. Brian will have a coronary and Gerard will..."

"And..."

"FUCK!"

"You said that," Bob said drolly. "Brian's gonna be having a fucking fit anyway when we get back."

"You didn't tell him we were taking off?"

"Do you see Chase or Mark around anywhere?"

"Oh your ass is the one in a sling for that, not mine, Bryar. I have enough of a fucking headache. You get to deal with Schechter going apeshit."

"You're a hero. You tagged along to keep an eye on me and protect me from rabid fangirls and stray flames."

"Don't you dare say that to Bri. Reminding him of you--fucking extra crispy is not going to make him any less of pain in the ass going apeshit at us."

"Flames?" I managed to get out trying to make any sort of sense of their conversation not knowing who Ray, or Frank, or Brian, Gerard, Chase, Mark or Schechter were.

"Accident a few years back, my calf got burnt a bit."

"Fucking third degree burns! And then your stupid ass wouldn't listen to shit! You ended up with gangrene and staph that nearly fried your fucking stupid brain!"

Bob rolled his eyes and shrugged. "His grandmother's into Santaria and tarot cards and shit. Her and her spirit guide and her cards came up with you...and I finally beat Matt's nightmares the last couple months out of him."

Matt flipped Bob off and sat on my desk, rifled through one of the bags for a sandwich and started to eat. He very much had the look of a man trying to figure out how to say something he thought I'd consider insane. I got that look a lot with people who finally out of desperation came to me not quite believing the supernatural mess they'd become embroiled in even if they couldn't deny it.

Bob shoved a sack at me. "Eat. You drop another ten and you'll be as skinny as Mikey."

"Crazy not human bitch? L's all I got...but not human. Family but not..." Matt said

"My fairy godmother," I sighed. Of course it was her. I didn't doubt it. I wasn't quite sure I was willing to believe in Matt's dreams yet, or his grandmother's spirit guide and tarot cards but I certainly wasn't going to dismiss them with what he did say, and the feeling that settled in my own stomach.

Matt nodded. He eyed his coffee and sighed before picking it up to drink.

"We'll really hear it. Mikes Gee and Brian will smell it no matter what. Not enough gum, mouthwash and mints in the world."

"Yeah," Matt snorted.

I looked from one to the other.

"Mikey, Gerard and Brian are recovering alcoholics. They're going to be pissed enough. We go back with booze on our breath--it'll just be louder." Bob shrugged.

Matt looked around my office yet again, clearly more agitated with every detail he took in.

"I trust Harry," Bob said softly.

"FUCK!" Matt snarled.

I looked from one to the other cautiously taking a sip of the coffee that had been handed to me.

"She wants...she wants a human Seer."

Well, if the she was my dear godmother, that at least was some possibly useful information.

"Most of the bloodline is protected." Matt continued.

"Bloodline?"

"Runs in the family. No making squirrells extra crispy but mediums, seers, sometimes a healer."

"She wants Matt. At least that's what he's been dreaming, and according ot his grandma and her tarot cards, a wizard that knows someone close to Matt can stop her from getting him. I'm the only one that knows a wizard. The rest are kinda wanting to check Matt into rehab or get him to see a shrink for his nightmares, and your office is what he's been dreaming by the way he was looking around. And it's your damned godmother."

Matt gave Bob a dirty look.

Someday I was going to have to have a Monday that wasn't, well, so very much a Monday.