[ Well, that was going down on the "dumb shit Harry's done" list, as soon as he retrieves his hand. He'd have react just the same, with someone reaching for his throat, let alone John. Wisely, he didn't say a word when he was struck down, but his free hand wrapped around the glass (bludgeoning tool, anyone?) as though preparing to lash out in retaliation. It still hurt to get old scars manhandled like that, so perhaps he shouldn't have been so quick and so naive to think that he could go reaching for John's. ]

It's so cute that you think you're going kill me, [ Harry mutters. His tone is flippant, but he knows the reality of those words. It's not enough to keep him silent. ] But the sentiment? That's mutual.

[ It's hard to maneuver his fingers still, but he shifts his thumb over the man's pinky erratically, brushes over the knuckle in passing. Glares through a mess of dark hair and lashes as he pulls his drink back, polishes it off and flicks the glass off the table towards Marcone's cellphone, knocking both objects off. ] So then, [ Harry nods to his pinned arm, ] what are you gonna' do, Johnny? Because if you don't make your move, I will.