[ Harry's face lights up when he's given his options, and oh, it's like Christmas. Twenty-five days worth of fuck you Marcone I'll take whatever option I make up because when have I ever done what's expected of me. It's rows of teeth, bared in a too-wide grin. Eyes that reflect the furnace in his soul, chewing up John's animosity and conviction as fuel. ]

Well, [ he elects to say ] at least that's one of those things about you that I goddamn count on. [ As equally irrational, but perhaps just as sentimental is his act of agreeing. Two options, and he hasn't said whether he'll take either one, but he'll accept them all the same. ]

[ It's Harry's turn to wag a finger at the man, admonishing him for administering such a dare. He turns his hand over and crooks a finger, beckoning John a little closer. ] Okay, okay. It might just be the mead talkin' but I'm going to tell you a little secret, Johnnyboy. C'mere. [ Lend him an ear, or no surprises; Harry tugs on John through their handhold, hiking a hip, a leg, onto the table. He sits at the edge so that he can lean towards John's bad ear - that one that brings up so many thoughts, even as he looks at it with a guilty grimace. Sympathy pangs for the enemy, good god. ]