[ Harry's got rings on his fingers and bells on his toes, but he doesn't set them off. Aimed at John's ribs as they might be, it's more the threat of his magic and John's speed that's keeping them from a Mutual Kill. ] I never said you couldn't. Just that you think it's going to be you.
[ And what if it's something else that gets me?, his eyes ask. Because Harry leads a stormy life, one of defying death far too many times for far too many reasons. He holds no grand illusions of immortality. He doubts he'll make it to his next birthday, let alone centuries. Will you be sorely disappointed, John? No mistake: Harry appreciates life, but that doesn't mean he doesn't throw himself into situations that could snuff him out on a regular basis. It's not that he's been lucky so far, it's that he's too stubborn to stop living because that's pretty much all he's got left. ]
This evening-- [ He begins, though his tongue knots around itself, and he stammers. ] It could have been worse. You fed me and gave me booze, that was more than I could have expected. Surprise me, I says. Surprise me, he does.
[ Harry leans further onto the table, practically bent in half over it, trying to get under John's chin. Trying to catch the hesitancy in John's eyes. His own narrow, simultaneously suspicious and pleased at the development - it's easier as the pursuer than as the pursued. The evening has felt like one giant game of cat and mouse. Or chicken, he thinks when he takes another look at their hands. John's absurdly warm, and he thinks he can almost feel the texture of his palm, and maybe he's imagining the calluses, and maybe that's a scar - but it's hard to know for sure. ]
no subject
and bells on his toes, but he doesn't set them off. Aimed at John's ribs as they might be, it's more the threat of his magic and John's speed that's keeping them from a Mutual Kill. ] I never said you couldn't. Just that you think it's going to be you.[ And what if it's something else that gets me?, his eyes ask. Because Harry leads a stormy life, one of defying death far too many times for far too many reasons. He holds no grand illusions of immortality. He doubts he'll make it to his next birthday, let alone centuries. Will you be sorely disappointed, John? No mistake: Harry appreciates life, but that doesn't mean he doesn't throw himself into situations that could snuff him out on a regular basis. It's not that he's been lucky so far, it's that he's too stubborn to stop living because that's pretty much all he's got left. ]
This evening-- [ He begins, though his tongue knots around itself, and he stammers. ] It could have been worse. You fed me and gave me booze, that was more than I could have expected. Surprise me, I says. Surprise me, he does.
[ Harry leans further onto the table, practically bent in half over it, trying to get under John's chin. Trying to catch the hesitancy in John's eyes. His own narrow, simultaneously suspicious and pleased at the development - it's easier as the pursuer than as the pursued. The evening has felt like one giant game of cat and mouse. Or chicken, he thinks when he takes another look at their hands. John's absurdly warm, and he thinks he can almost feel the texture of his palm, and maybe he's imagining the calluses, and maybe that's a scar - but it's hard to know for sure. ]