Don't want to. [ Petulantly, he attempts to refuse John's motions. If the man wants him off the table, he'll stay on it, just to refute him. To cling to some idea of defiance, even in his inebriated state. Harry swings his legs over the edge of the table, leaning forwards against his knees at John's left, and that's as far as he goes. The night has brought him closer and closer, and now that he's that far, he can't take a step back. Earlier, maybe, he could have thrown himself back at the couch and pretended that nothing had gone on; returned to their frightfully antagonistic dead-end relationship and easily forgotten the small kindnesses (for whether John saw it as a requirement that he be a perfect host or not, it was a kindness). ]

The headlines: "mob boss and PI wizard not enemies; chaos ensues." [ A soft, spiteful little laugh, directed at the situation, himself, everything but John fucking Marcone and his need to match secret with secret, rescue with rescue, keep the scales balanced. Only then does he slide from the table, and braces his shoulder against the man's well-tailored jacket, his shoulder underneath. He'll chalk it up to being loony on that mead, but at least he doesn't have to look John in the eye. ] You have to hate someone to want to kill them, though. Right to the core, to put an end to 'em in some way or form. Doesn't matter what caused it, so long as you hang onto that feeling right until you're done.

If I can't hate you, John, then I don't think I can kill you. That puts me at a disadvantage, and I swear if you try anything right now, I'll cripple you.