Bring Me A Dream

Studying runes in Wilson's frankly sickening apartment isn't exactly how Harry thought he'd be spending his afternoon but, then again, he did set himself up for it.

Staring blankly at a page halfway through Ancient Runes Made Easy, book held tightly in hand and unsure of what he'd actually read in the last few minutes, Harry suddenly remembers why he hadn't taken Ancient Runes when he was a boy. Apart from the fact that he'd been trying to learn as much as he could to defeat the Dark Lord, leaning towards subjects like Charms and Defence, he'd never been a very good student when it came to theory. Practical learning is more his forte, especially considering that, presently, his magic is more instinctual than anything. Up until now that has always been a good thing. Now...

"'Need to do some research', I said," Harry grumbles as he tries to focus, flipping through pages and pages of unrelenting blocks of text. It makes his eyes want to bleed. "'Could be months, maybe even years', I said! Ugh, what a twat."

Now he needs to read up on the history of runes, learn which groups of ætt they belong to, learn every possible meaning each rune has (including their reversals), learn which runes should go together or should never go together, learn what those particular combinations mean when grouped together, and that was just to start. He hasn't even had a chance to give more than a quick glance over the tattooed runes on Death's skin, and he definitely won't be able to anytime soon.

Glancing up from his book, Harry eyes the ominously closed door of Deadpool's bedroom.

It didn't help that, earlier, Death had fluttered her lashes at him and requested that he cast a Muffliato so that she and her beloved could have some 'privacy'. Harry hadn't liked the way Wilson was blatantly leering through his mask, giggling and making some disturbing hand gestures, but he trusted Death enough to know what she was doing. And cast it he did. He'd cast the most saturated and secure Muffliato he'd ever done, enough so that the buzzing makes his ears want to bleed as much as his eyes.

They've been holed up in there for hours since then, while Harry had filtered through several texts on runes, and he isn't naive enough to misunderstand just what the pair of them were up to. It couldn't be all that much, considering they couldn't actually touch each other -

Harry's suddenly assaulted by truly unholy images of Death and images of Wilson, and images of Death and Wilson together.

He gags in utter disgust, his entire being recoiling from that, and he's in sudden need of at least two Firewhisky bottles: one to drown in his sorrows and another to pour directly onto his poor brain. "That was cruel and unusual and entirely unnecessary!" he shouts at the bedroom door.

Well, you were wondering.

"I was not!" Harry slams his mental barriers down against the mischievous, slightly sultry, thought that invades his pure, innocent mind, blushing furiously and desperately trying not to think about why Death's mental voice sounds so breathy -

And he's not thinking about it. Nope. He's thinking about runes. Reading about magic and runes. Magical runes and theory. Ah yes, beautiful, boring theory that uses old Norse words like Hávamál and talks about how significant the number nine is when casting spells with runes. Yes, it's all very interesting and most certainly worth all of his attention.

With a put-on sigh, Harry slides further down on his comfortable, conjured chaise - because the only surfaces he's willing touch in this place are his own creations - and studiously bookmarks each section of the book that could offer some insight into this predicament, all the while suspiciously checking his barriers. This was most definitely not how he'd planned on spending his afternoon.

It isn't until another couple of hours later that the door finally opens just enough to allow Death to slink through.

Harry raises his book to block her from view.

"There's no need for that, Master. I'm decent."

"Oh right," Harry says, a touch sarcastic, and peeks over the top. "You'd just show me anyway, hmm?"

Thankfully true to her word, she's wearing her normal robes along with the most nauseatingly smug grin he's ever seen. Even her eyes are twinkling!

Harry blinks out of his outrage the moment he registers that and really looks at her. There's a lively flush across what skin he can see, her posture more relaxed than he'd ever seen, and her grin is slowly forming into an honest-to-goodness smile. She allows him his scrutiny with quiet amusement, and even that feels more sunny and chaste than her usual dry, sardonic humor! He stares at Death in the face and all he can see is such a genuine, shining happiness that he can't help the tingling warmth of paternal satisfaction. Which is honestly such a ridiculous thing to feel, considering she is Death and he has an actual daughter.

Bah, he's getting far too sentimental with age. Clearing his throat and ignoring the knowing expression on her face, Harry looks back at his book and grumbles, "You're enjoying this very much, aren't you."

From the corner of his eye, Death shrugs. "Perhaps. But I've never lived before today, so I think I can indulge."

There's a beat of silence for Harry to process that short statement and -

Oh.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, meeting her curious gaze. "I... hadn't thought of it like that."

She glides over and comes to sit next to him, patting his hand. "Worry not, little Master," her soft words hang in the air for a moment, a solemnly resigned thing, before her lip curls up in what could almost be a sneer. It's relieving to see something so familiar, and the tone that follows is as welcome as it is aggravating. "I'm not so delicate that your small-mindedness can hope to shatter my sensibilities."

"Wasn't aware you had sensibilities," Harry says coolly.

"Wade found them for me," she purrs in reply, raising a sly brow.

"Oh stop it," he nearly adds a desperate please, but only just. "It's awkward enough having you ask me to cast the Muffliato."

"That was for your benefit. If you like, we could do without -"

"For Merlin's sake, no, no," Harry shudders, wincing. "Forget what I said, it's not awkward at all. Please, ask away."

"As you say, Master," Death smiles her skeleton-grin. "Now, have you made any progress on these?" She doesn't need raise her arms in gesture for Harry to know what she means, but she does and he valiantly ignores the bruise-like marks proudly displayed there. Were those - How did they even manage -

No, no he does not want to know.

He glares at her, gritting through his teeth. "Not as such."

"Hmm," Death leans back on her arms, tilting her head to reveal even more horrifying marks. On her neck. "Such a shame."

"You have no shame," Harry growls, picking up his book, shielding himself from her undoubtedly pleased expression. Such a cruel creature. He doesn't dare to look at her again, doesn't think his sensibilities can handle much more, and simply waves his hand in a 'shoo'-ing motion. "Please, continue snogging your human and leave me in peace."

She only laughs and saunters away.

His unfortunate ears catch an enthusiastic, "Oh baby, back for more, eh?" and a girlish giggle before he reinforces the Muffliato with extreme prejudice.

Harry sighs in relief at the buzzing in his ears and collapses against his chaise, feeling strangely drained and exhausted by the whole interaction. He lets himself lie there for a moment, staring at the the stained ceiling, before he comes to the dignified conclusion that there is absolutely no fucking way he can keep this up. This whole 'I need to research' affair was meant to make Wilson suffer and, by the look and sound of it, Harry is suffering more than anyone. And there are better things he could do than listen to Death fondle her human.

To save himself from further indignities and embarrassment, he'll have to fix Death's fatal touch sooner rather than later. No doubt Wilson will be ecstatic about that, but their current predicament doesn't seem to be hindering their... activities.

"Ugh," Harry chokes. "I need help."

There isn't a chance he could possibly figure it all out on his own. Not before he either throws Wilson or himself through a wormhole.

He needs someone who can understand runes and possibly examine Death with him. He needs someone he can trust with that, someone who knows him better than he knows himself, someone who isn't afraid of his power. There are a few he can think of at the top of head who could be up to the task, but only one person who could do it the best. He needs the best right now.

"Morgana's sagging tit," Harry curses in despair. "I'm going to have to consult her, aren't I?"