Title: Getting the Idea

Author: Magelight07

Rating: um… PG-13?

Warnings: My first fic. Ever. In any fandom.

Nefarious!Bob.

Also, pre slash. You've been warned.

Summary: Harry had an exceptional talent for ignoring what he didn't wish to see.

Author's notes: Originally written for the 'night challenge' over at Greatest Journal's skullboylove this story went off in it's own direction and became completely unrecognisable. Oh, well.

My 'Bob's bare forearms' obsession is down to dreammender and pinkdoom. As pinkdoom said, it's Bob!kink at its best.

Un-beta'd.

Getting the Idea

Harry locked his Jeep and trudged to the door of his office, disjointed thoughts consisting largely of 'Shower. Sleep.', and unlocked it. Bob appeared as soon as he lurched through the door, concern touching his face.

'Good lord, Harry. Are you alright?'

'I'm fine, Bob. Tired, mostly.'

Which was true; he'd only taken a couple of hits, nothing major, but he'd expended a whole lot of power taking down the Big Evil Pain in the Ass of the Week. Month. Whatever. He needed sleep. Now.

'Ah. Good.'

Bob glided toward him, stopping barely a foot away, crossing pale, wonderfully muscled arms over his chest. Wait. Harry's thoughts were suddenly even more disjointed. Bare arms. Bob's bare arms. Harry blinked and finally realised that Bob was not wearing one of his customary jackets. In 25 years, Harry didn't think he'd ever seen Bob without one. The slacks and shirt were still there, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows (what the hell?), but seemed…blacker than usual, as if instead of reflecting the faint light coming through the windows they were absorbing it. Bob's skin gleamed in contrast. Harry swallowed and continued to stare, eyes roaming up Bob waistcoat-free ('It is not a vest, Harry, it is a waistcoat') chest, over gently sloping shoulders to- oh, fuck. No ascot. No 'way-too-English-you-look-really-stuffy' ascot in some pocket handkerchief-matching shade of dark; just pale, pale skin with faint blue highlights and oh-so-biteable tendons and a glimpse of collarbone and oh, stars and fucking stones but he wasn't tired anymore. Nope. Completely awake, now. Fuck, but Bob looked good in all-black 21st century smart-casual clothes. Where the hell had he come up with that idea?

'Harry?'

From the tone, it wasn't the first time Bob had said it.

'Uh, yeah, Bob?'

'Are you sure you're alright?'

'Um. Yeah. Just, y'know. Tired.' Liar. Harry wasn't sure he should mention it after his little bout of bare-skin-induced staring, but wouldn't it be suspicious not to ask about Bob's sudden penchant for casual dress after decades of stuffiness? Yeah. Right.

'Um…Bob. What's with the style makeover?' God, he sounded like a retard.

'Hmm?' Glance down at the clothes. 'Oh, I thought I'd try something a little more modern for a change. It wouldn't do to be taken for a ghost, now would it?' Bland expression. Hint of mischief in the jade green eyes. A little heat, maybe.

'Uh…' Hell's bells, did he hit his head at some point tonight and just not notice?

'It's…very you. In a non-stuffy kinda way.'

In a totally hot way.

'As much of an oxymoron as that may sound.'

Finally, something intelligent. Sort of.

Pursed lips of palest pink. Dirty look, but still with the mischief behind the eyes. Dry voice.

'Thankyou, oh so much.'

'You're welcome.' Nod.

Silence. Raised eyebrow from Bob. Harry was having trouble keeping his eyes away from all that bare skin. Which there wasn't all that much of really, but hell, it was Bob. 'I-may-be-a-little-behind-the-times-but-I-still-look-like-a-friggin'-upper-class-fashion-plate' Bob. Hrothbert of the Way Too Many Layers of Clothes. The bare arms were bad enough, but that throat was-

'I thought you were tired.'

More than a hint of mischief, now, and a slight curve to the mouth.

'Yeah. I'm gonna go to bed.'

Shower first. Cold one. Very, very cold.

'G'night.'

'Goodnight, Harry.'

Bob stood, one arm crossed over his chest, the elbow of the other resting on his fist, fingertips touched lightly to pursed lips, watching Harry trip up the stairs in his haste. He heard the shower a moment later and stood in silent thought, head bowed, eyes hooded, until Harry emerged, no doubt delightfully damp and wearing very little- if he wore anything at all- and fell into bed.

Really, Bob hadn't expected Harry to come home looking like death just when he was about to begin his little experiment, but this was Harry. The boy attracted trouble like blood attracted vampires. He'd been planning this for a few days. His previous efforts had apparently been too subtle for Harry. Bob had expected this, really, but one didn't just charge into such things. It was unseemly. One had to try a little subtlety at first, even if one suspected the effort would be wasted.

Had Harry been almost anyone else, Bob's motivations would have been painfully obvious but Harry had an exceptional talent for ignoring what he didn't wish to see. However, if his reaction tonight was anything to go by- and it usually was, the boy was terrible at masking his thoughts- he might finally be getting the idea. Bob just had to ensure that this particular idea- and it really was a delightful idea, if he did say so himself- remained firmly in Harry's thoughts. A slow, anticipatory smile spread across his face.

He was going to enjoy this.

And if he had his way, so was Harry.

Reviews are love, constructive critisism is even bigger love and flamers will be ingnored as the morons they are. So there. ;D