[ Harry blurts, ] Are you sure? [ right before he sees the legal pad skitter away off the edge of the island. Well okay, that answered that question. John means business now, enough to strike out in a way Harry's never seen him before. Control, composure, every stripe in order - that's Marcone. (Unless he counted that night, barely a few weeks ago, when he had unwrapped the man like a present and known him from pulse to breath.) He picks his hands up, gestures slowly as though it'll placate the other man. It might be his wide-eyed attempt at being a sarcastic git, but they've both had a long night. This could very well be the stress of the glamour (almost-glamour?) or Hendricks...

At least, he thinks so until John takes a moment. Patiently, a feat unto itself, he waits on the edge of the island, hands in his lap, perches like a goddamn stork on the stool, even though he has to bend his knees up high to fit them onto the rung about the bottom. ]

[ It was his damn, foolish romanticism that tripped them both up in the end. His desire to make his answer matter. Harry looks down at his own hands, big and winding one long, silver-ringed finger around another and they're oh-so-interesting all of a sudden. ] ... wrong kind of ammunition, Marcone. It doesn't fit the gun I own. And I don't hate you, remember? Can't kill you if I don't hate you, not entirely. I know we talked about it and all, but it just comes down to that to me.