This is an expanded, and rewritten, of course version of a scribblet - a single piece, written to a song - from a Music Shuffle Challenge I wrote, the original of which can be found on my LJ (kalira9-livejournal-com/63453-html). The song that came up and inspired the the original was 'I Feel for You' by Kylie Minogue.
Bob ascended the stairs to the small room Harry used as a bedroom, having abandoned his project as soon as he felt the fluctuations that signalled his wizard's newly unsettled sleep. He argued the relative ethics of this with himself every night - though he'd gotten rather adept at wrapping up the debate swiftly, particularly in the last few weeks.
After all, he knew what the outcome would eventually be, that he would give in to his craving, why waste time pretending he was going to talk himself out of it?
Bob shook his head, dismissing the errant thoughts and settling in his usual spot, tucked away in the corner of Harry's room, to watch his wizard sleep.
Occasionally Harry whimpered or twitched, though he didn't wake, and Bob would almost forget that he couldn't touch in his desire - his instinct - to soothe the nightmares away from the man he loved.
Failing that, however - much as it pained him - he spoke, endless rounds of nonsense, anything, as long as he could continue to speak, and sound calm. It was a new kind of ache, knowing that his voice reassured Harry when nothing else would.
Still, in an effort to keep on with the soothing rambling, he detailed ingredients, formulae, the plots for Dean Koontz novels - only recently Bob had begun to dare speaking of his own tightly-held feelings towards the deeply sleeping man.
Harry woke suddenly, still shaky from a dream of his Godmother, and surprised at how quickly his nerves settled. Within moments, he thought he knew why, as he heard a very familiar voice - as familiar as his own - speaking to him, in soothing, calm tones.
Harry smiled softly, still fuzzy with sleep and unwilling to throw off that lack of clarity to rise, even to find out - as he wondered - what Bob was up to in his bedroom in the middle of the night. It was strange for him to be here in Harry's bedroom at all, unless he was engrossed in delivering a lecture, and not to be put off.
Usually, in fact, he stayed in the lab and worked on his personal projects while Harry slept. Unless, of course, something big was going on, in which case he would spend the time researching or devising, himself, some method of dealing with the latest crisis.
Then Harry registered the words Bob was now almost whispering into the still room, and he felt his world rapidly reshuffling itself around him as his eyes widened.
Harry was shocked and confused - and he wanted to turn over to ask Bob- To speak to him, at least. The part of his brain that had spent years having planning, critical thinking, and the importance of patience pounded into it - ironically, by Bob - insisted noisily that he had to wait. Rushing this sort of conversation would help nothing.
Harry frowned slightly, impatient and not happy about his decision to put this off, despite how tired he was. Harry sighed, and realised that his back was stiff and a little uncomfortable . . . he must have tensed up while he was thinking.
Bob's voice hitched slightly as he reached out again, six hundred years of incorporeal confinement not enough to quash the reactive urge to touch. Harry was uncharacteristically still, now, he realised. Normally he thrashed slightly, even when his sleep was untroubled - he always had, even when he was a boy.
Bob smiled fondly, remembering the gangly child who had begged him to stay - to talk with him, and just be there until he fell asleep. The memory was tinged by a deep-seated loathing of the man who had so terrified Harry with stories of magical creatures that he was unable to sleep for days.
Bob paused in his speech for a moment, gritting his teeth and trying to control his suddenly sparked fury.
He had belonged to many loathsome masters, but Justin Edward Charles Morningway - Bob felt the familiar thrill that came with the silent recital of the bastards Name - was, by far, the one for whom he held the bitterest resentment - not only on his own behalf, but for the child that had been left to suffer at the man's hands.
Bob's attention was jerked back to Harry as he shifted again, turning onto his back this time. As Harry's brows drew together, Bob realised that he had stopped speaking, and hastily began again, murmuring an apology while he attempted to pick up the thread of what he had been saying before.
Harry made himself relax - and kept his eyes closed, despite the temptation to look at Bob. His brows rose as Bob offered an apology and then resumed his previous murmuring . . . confession.
Harry sighed again, voice sounding almost contented, even to his own ears - he wondered what Bob thought of it. He shifted more fully into the hollow his body had worn into his mattress and felt himself starting to drift back to sleep to the soothing, familiar voice.
Sorry for the lack of resolution, there! I did try to add more - the next day, for instance - but it just wasn't right. I hope you liked it anyway.