I'm supposed to be the terrible liar, you know. [ Harry arches a brow at John, particularly after the comment about the contents of his insides. Not the visceral ones, because he's pretty sure they're perfect mirrors of his own and he's glad neither of them got disemboweled by angry trees. The contents of John's soul, he means. Looking upon it was a two-way street, and if the man Harry likened to a tiger was going to hoist that banner high when he pleased, then Harry was going to whip it out when he wanted a leg up in the conversation.
Still, the mere idea of a vanilla mortal who could shrug off glamour that swiftly? It made him feel all sorts of scholarly curiosity. Maybe it was partly John's consolidation of power within himself and within Chicago that helped, maybe it was some biological adaptation. Regardless, Harry was - for lack of better term - as relieved as he was apprehensive of the new discovery. ]
[ It'd be best to finish out the night before the topic of last time was ever brought back up. Harry was going to make a point not to mention it - while he was still sore and confused, he was capable of using it as fuel for the flames. It was nice to unwind. ] Yeah. I'll give you that much - just give me a moment, don't go anywhere. [ And he walks off with a faint muttering into the woods, head bent low in search of something. Off in the distance, he could be seen reaching down - and he returns in less than a few minutes with his staff in tow. ] Okay, lead the way.
[Dresden is the terrible liar, and John isn't going to entertain the idea that he has the same affliction. John knows Harry's soul, that he is kind man at his core and constantly buffeted by his better angels, so taking him at his generous word is foolish. So John won't.
It's a few minutes of walking to cross. The temperature is dropping further as the night goes on, and the grass starts to crunch with light frost. The old shoulder injury feels like there is a dagger slowly boring into it. And god, it's only Dresden nearby to see, and he's seen John's scars. John shifts his rifle over so he can press the heel of his hand against the scar, exhaling hard. Nights like this are happening too often lately.
The house is not a home, but it's glowing orange in the night, and once they cross the threshold, the A/C indeed has held the cold out.] You are invited in, Harry Dresden, with all the powers of your title. [Gard had explained that a wizard leaving his powers at the door was an acutely unpleasant experience, like having a gap in your soul. Melodramatic, but when was magical theory not?]
[John toed his boots off by the hall closet and hung up his tac-vest like it was nothing more than a jacket.] I need to put this away, [he tapped his rifle] and see about Mr. Hendricks condition. Do you need anything, maybe medical attention?
[ Wisely, perhaps kindly, Harry doesn't make a comment on the gesture. A few weeks ago, he'd been inebriated and getting nice and intimate with the skin of John's torso (don't think about that), and knew the scar for what it was. Something that hurt on a cold night, during a battle, when finally alone and able to run a hand over it and remember it for what it was. Harry's got old scars, just like the one on his face - marred by splinters and abrasions, and he knows them for how they feel. Just like how John feels.
So, carefully, he drifts closer. A casual gesture - for all anyone knew, the path was a little more even where John was - that put him nearly shoulder to shoulder with the other man. There wasn't a sound from him, but a quiet offering. The sort given when hauling a comrade out of hell, the promise of a shoulder to lean on in time of need. He almost offered to take the rifle, a hand twitching up to mirror his thoughts, before catching sight of that status-symbol house he'd never come back to since that October night with the wolves and the agents and all the rest. ]
[ Of course he lingered in the doorway until invited in, and left his own shoes on in defiance -- how big did a place need to be. It looked empty, in that way only houses built ill-proportioned to human life did. ] Uh, [ stop gaping at the place jeeze ] just point me to the bathroom and a first aid kit, I'll clean myself up. Tell Cujo I said 'hi' and 'get well soon'?
[And again, generous, even against his better judgement. John's half certain that Dresden does this without actually realizing it. He's an empathetic creature, possibly a by-product of using his emotions to fuel his magic. It would be hard to maintain that and not be moved by certain situations, like a flower towards the sun. If John were to take that offer, to lean against Dresden's shoulder, would the wizard realize his doing, recoil and run away?
Best not to test it. Once incident between them didn't break their relationship. He should not be so eager to see if it'd survive two.]
All right. One is ahead and to the right, under the stairway. Help yourself to anything you need.
[With that, John excuses himself. There is an armory hidden in the walls of the house, and John slips into it to store his things. A detour to the office gets him a secure line to call the hospital. Nathan is awake by the time he calls, being held overnight for observation, but coherent enough to talk on the phone. A tension in John's spine loosens at the sound of his voice. If Nathan is all right, then everything is that much better.
Equipment put up and calls made, John thinks about neutral ground and decides the office is not it, all things considered. Too much lingering over the last time he and Dresden were in one. Instead, John picks up a legal pad and some paper, heading for the open kitchen. There is an island there with bar stool chairs along with food. It'll do.
John unplugs all the appliances he wants to protect (specifically, the coffee maker) before looking through the fridge for something palatable.]
[ A jaunty salute, and Harry takes off for the medical kit and the bathroom. While John is busy somewhere else in the house, Harry spends his time picking splinters out of his face, scrubbing the abrasions clean with meticulous skill, cussing under his breath because it stings and there's no putting clean bandages on that without wrapping half his head up in sloppy loops of gauze so it'll just have to stay uncovered and he'll suck it up. Harry avoids looking in the mirror for long, only for cursory glances at his wounds, washes his hands, packs the kit back up. Exits, puts the thing back where he found it.
There's a lot of fumbling about the house, he gets lost in the size of it, stretching hands up towards a ceiling he actually can't touch with a chuckle, meandering back in the direction of the entrance. Catching sight of John on the way, he sets his staff aside, shirks his duster over the back of a chair and slouches into it, propping his chin up on one hand. ] He's doing better, I take it?
[ Then he tugs the legal pad towards his edge of the table and begins to write something, his account most likely. He's not going to talk about it. Not about what happened last time. Not this close. He's not going to think about it either. Not going there. Even if he left hopping mad, still feels mad when he turns the situation over in his head-- ] You ever make change for me? For the Thai? [ WAY TO GO, MOUTH ]
Mr. Hendricks is very resilient, awake and coherent already. He'll be out tomorrow. [Watching Dresden make himself at home in this place is strange, like he's able to be more at home here than John ever has been. He fills the space in a way that even the parties John's been forced to host here haven't managed. The entire room feels warmer and the air somehow thicker, filling his lungs more completely.
There isn't much in the house that doesn't require cooking, and John is too tired to play host that well. And offering Harry a full meal feels fraught with danger. The ice they're standing on is thin, but holding; there's no need for John to test it.
But then. Of course. Just as John finds a box of blackberries that'd make a good snack, Harry opens his goddamn mouth.
John keeps his back turned, hiding his frozen expression as his mind whirls. What does that mean? Did he make change for him? From the twenty that Dresden forced him to take, even when John silently begged him not to? After John missed some crucial signal, something Dresden expected from him that he failed to comprehend.
Take a moment. Breathe once, deep but quiet. All right? Good.
John returned to the island after washing the fruit and tumbling it into a bowl. Normal, normal, utterly normal. He sits on one of the stools and pops a berry into his mouth.] I'm afraid it slipped my mind. What do I owe you?
[ He's so fucking thankful that John's back is turned when his mouth goes off, because his hand covers it as fast as could be. That wasn't conversation he'd wanted to bring up, not here - not in a kitchen, with a legal pad detailing his account of casework and burned-to-death-nymphs and Hendricks on the mend (he doesn't even know hendricks that well but he sympathizes with him and john more than he'll let on) and those blackberries were looking awfully appealing right up the point where he sees John's ribs expand when he takes a deep breath, because he's looking that close and then
he lowers his hand, and his breath tumbles out of his lungs. ] No, you don't owe me--. [ There's a lot of open mouth close mouth try to find the words and fail involved. Stay cool. ] I said ask me in the morning, because that's when I'd be sober and my answers would actually matter.
I shouldn't have brought it up, it's not a good time. How's the... report look?
[John slaps his hand onto the legal pad and, in a strange mirror of that night weeks ago, gracelessly slings it down the length of the island and off the side, where it falls straight off.] Forget the damn report.
[It's a sharp bit of physicality, and it's unusual. John didn't mean to do it, a sudden, violent gesture. John uses violence, it never uses him. Control over his body is a well-honed aspect of his persona. But it's gone in that moment, and right after, he feels so fucking tired. He leans his face into his hands.] Give me a moment. [Otherwise he's going to strangle the wizard.]
[Another slow, deep breath.] I realize that I've carefully cultivated an image of omniscience and projected it onto the city. It's a very calculated process with a lot of work behind it, and it's always proven to be ultimately worthwhile. People are far less likely to keep secrets when they are sure you already know them.
But even with the soulgaze between us and the years of trading debts with each other, you have always been incomprehensible. Fascinating, awe-inspiring, but sometimes so inscrutable that I--
[John drops his hands, sighing, and eats another berry.] You have enough ammunition from that night to kill me ten times over and you haven't.
[ 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.
We did talk about a lot of things. [Talked. Drank fucking Odin's mead down to the bottom of the bottle. Grabbed each other with no thought of kindness. Settled into each other's space without the sort of conscientious avoidance that defined all their other interactions. Drew line after line in the stand only to dash them away moments later. John did not sleep with people. He fucked them sometimes, but at no point did he leave himself so vulnerable with someone. It was for his sake and for the entire city's sake, and yet.
He'd gone to sleep with half a bottle of mead in his and Dresden's soft breaths against his chest, and he'd survived.
And then he left.
And now claims to not hate him. Right. Maybe Dresden wielded his weapons unknowingly. Didn't realize the power of revoked sanctuary and kindness. Strange, given his ties to the Courts.]
I'm somewhat confused on that matter. We did talk. And then I gave you the out, if you needed it. And you took it.
I said "ask me in the morning", when I'd be sober and nothing was lurking outside, keeping me there. Just me. [ Okay, this wasn't how he wanted it to go down between them. Opening his mouth like that was going to put them right back to the aftermath, barely a few weeks ago. Harry can already feel the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense up, his mood torquing into something prickly and quick-to-protest. It took him weeks to rationalize it, to file all his confusion-and-enjoyment away in another box labeled "damn it John" and stuff it in the back of his head. (He was pretty sure his subconscious had begun to style himself as king of all those box-up, repressed things - the bastard.)
It went both ways: Harry didn't drink himself senseless, not unless he was alone, behind locks. It was too easy to take that out, to rely on the drink. Plus, he didn't like the idea of being impaired by it. To have gone over the edge and enjoyed it -- to say he didn't want the alcohol to do the talking was the least of his issues.
Harry slaps his hands onto the edge of the counter, curls his fingers into (was it marble?) the surface and draws in a tight, deep breath. Use your head and not your heart, Dresden. ] Look, I get this [ Harry beckons between the two of them, between their eyes, their hearts ] but I don't always get what's going on up in here. [ And then he taps his own temple, looking pointedly at John. ] And you threw the book at me.
It's not like I was any better, because I took that out. I didn't bother; I had my hands all over you and I didn't--. Me. [ There's a certain quality to it: incredulous, bemused, like he doesn't understand his own actions. ] You unwound and didn't stab me, so that "wow he didn't shank me in my sleep" feeling extends both ways. And I can't hate you, so that's it. That's what I got.
That is what you meant. When you told me it's morning. [John is... Perhaps he should have a spark of hope in him over the misunderstanding, about the opportunity presented. But it is weeks later and has been a rough night and this dance is, for once, tiring. Perhaps it was the glimpse of contentment and soft-focus joy the dryad pushed onto him, making everything else more acute.]
[He dispassionately watches as Harry explains. And maybe he wants a few things. Wants to slide his hands up Harry's back, peel off that duster, push Harry into the island, curled against him like a comma, breathing in the sweat and ash of his hair and mouthing the rough curve of his jaw. But those are all things he is years-used to wanting.]
You are here. Sober with nothing lurking outside. I am not going to stab you. I don't hate you and you don't hate me.
[One more bite and a moment to suck the juice off his fingers, the juice darker than bloodstains.] You know what I want. It has never changed. [He'll take Dresden, by hook or by crook or by kiss or by kill. Any of it will satisfy the terrifying howling thing in his chest.] What do you want?
[ For a moment, he watches John. Just watches him as the gears whir and settle into place. How easy it would have been to have said that, weeks ago; but hindsight is twenty-twenty and anger speaks in shades of regret. When he's done watching, Harry nods - slow and deep, agreeing with John's assessment. Yes, that's exactly what he meant. Yes, he'd messed up by acting on anger and blind confusion, rather than trying to control his temper. John controlled himself so well, that Harry found himself acting as his polar opposite: uncontrollable, irascible, because maybe that was how he complimented the other.
Maybe. ] Yeah, that's what I meant.
[ Meant what I said, said what I meant - but, this elephant's not that good at faith, he thinks to himself. There's facts, laid out on the table, parroted and professed and bare. Things he knows are true, that he might be able to lean on, to think that they'll support him just enough to give in a little more. No alcohol this time, just raw decision-making skills, wary and rusted by the years.
What does he actually want though? Time granted him a small mercy in a few weeks of borrowed time, to think things over. To no avail or conclusion. Harry shifts where he sits, and lifts a hand - the ungloved one, wavering for a moment before he reaches out again, across the island, to press his fingertips softly to the place where there is a scar that aches during cold weather, where he'd acquainted himself not too long ago. He flattens the pads of his fingers there, and steels himself against what remains (cowardice) and nods softly.
Then he drops his hand and steals one of the blackberries, popping it into his mouth pointedly. He could play in circles, but he's tired too and there's really no fucking need to beat around the bush. Yeah, he's confused but that's not what's crowned here. He's known for fire and not backing down, so he chews up the blackberry, draws his mouth up into the most crooked, debonair smirk he can: ] I'm not going to get used or manipulated by you. I don't work for you. You're not going to file me away like you did back when we first met. I probably won't ever even agree with you or like what you do. You'll fear and respect and adore me the same way I will you, and you'll like it all the same.
Knowing that, if I said "I want you", where would that put us?
It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.
[ It's more of a command than a plea, that's for sure. Harry isn't the type to beg, after all. Certainly, he'll swagger in and limp out, but he doesn't beg. Pressing his fingertips to the countertop, he balances his weight on elbows and hands, hunching his shoulders towards his ears as he leans across the island. It's honestly not that hard, everything is weighted and measured for human beings that were not particularly his height. It puts him that much closer to John when it's his turn to speak, and dark eyes flick from the man's mouth to his eyes, to his chest (ah still breathing that's good) and back. ]
You meant to put me in a cage, John? [ He practically purrs the words, frighteningly intent on that idea alone. His anger simmers, snapping through the air like static. ] The last time I was ever put in a cage, I was sixteen and helpless and swore to myself that I would never end up like that ever again. I am now an adult and decidedly not helpless. So, I highly suggest you dismantle and destroy it, and by that I mean: do not make me do it myself. Clear?
[ Harry falls silent for a measure, watching the man. Making his point with the severity of his gaze, the sudden way he's drawn himself up - before he shakes his head. Wouldn't do it well, or like others? ] You know, I never expected you to. Remember? We did that thing with the eyes and the soul-baring? And - despite the hangover in the morning, that was the best night's sleep I'd had in a month. I hesitate to use the word "safe" in relation to you, but. It'd been a while.
What I'm trying to say is: I don't think we ever fit convention, John. I've never -- you know. Am I getting this right?
A cage. A collar. Maybe just put you in a bed and make you shake apart until you can't think to move. [John matches Harry, and the island is not so big that doing so doesn't put him right in Harry's space. He puts a hand on Harry's face, letting it trace the bow of his lips, then the rough edge of his chin. It's fast when his fingers slide into the dark hair. His fingers tighten, his thumb rests lightly on the soft skin under Harry's eye, and John leans in to whisper in Harry's ear.] Maybe I could put you in the panic room's circle and see you climb the walls before breaking it from the inside. I'll let you destroy it if I can watch.
[Christ, but he is touched in the head. This is news to nobody though. His lips are against Harry's ear, kissing the curve of it, then the pulse point just underneath. He can feel the wizard's heartbeat and hums against it.]
[After lingering for a moment, John sits back, letting go of Harry and shaking the few threads of hair he managed to liberate from him. Then, another blackberry.] Well then. If that doesn't scare you off, no one can tell me I haven't gotten your completely informed consent on the matter.
[He gets up, off the stool, and stands next to Harry, waiting.] You helped me vanquish a dryad tonight, Warden Dresden. [He offers his hand.] Allow me to repay you in whatever manner you'd like.
[ While narrowly resisting the urge to reach up and readjust the worn collar of his shirt, Harry misses controlling other reactions: the way his mouth goes dry, the way he bites his lower lip and swallows hard -- Christ, John said he had central heating, but he didn't say he had central heating. (Nudgenudge, winkwink, say no more.) He might not have invaded Harry's personal space, but he certainly washes over the wizard like a goddamn heat wave. To the man who was often fashioned as the firestarter, John has clearly won the proverbial crown - fair and square.
All Harry musters is a faint noise, which is notably less to buy for time and more an inarticulate admission of just how much John affects him. Damn. ] Oh John, [ he recovers enough to grasp the offered hand ] if a little romp through the woods is enough to win me your favor, I'd love to know what the prize is when I actively try. If I knew breaking your things got you hot and bothered, I'd have made a show of it.
[ That's that, then. Despite the threat, the darkly stated intentions, he hasn't run off, hasn't even backed off. He's not happy with the idea of being caged, but he's oddly... okay with it. Harry slides off the stool, contemplative and hovering. Waiting for the other shoe to drop? No, he's more uncertain than anything. He's taken that step, and it's something more. Not unwanted, but more of a step then he's taken in a while. Pointedly, he jerks his head at the bowl of blackberries. ] Grab some more goodies, but no alcohol. Not this time. [ And in an alarmingly abrupt manner: ] Make a night of it?
You are always a show, Mr. Dresden, [John purs, lips curved in a smile. A pyrotechnics display of Navy Pier for the Fourth of July, or the sort of vibrant display of rockets and sparks and lights that shimmers in the River every year at the Lights Festival. About as noisy, too. Harry is a miracle of fire and uproar, and his fearlessness in the face of John's mildly possessive nature is a marvel in of itself. By now, Harry must know the worst of it; that John has plans to kill him, that he would if he had to, that part of him has always wanted Harry and not always in an okay way.
This though. Might be enough to appease that.
John takes Harry's hand in both of his own, grip firm. He'll always want to push the wizard into corners to see his reaction, to shield his eyes from the blaze that ensues. But tonight, he does owe a favor.] A night of it? I had no idea you were that kind of boy. [His smile goes toothy, like something that might bite if you're not careful. But all he does is play the gentleman, running his thumb over Harry's hand before bending to kiss it regally.]
I can see what I have. [John reluctantly separates to search the kitchen again, now with something more sweet on his mind. The fridge has a full bag of mixed berries, meant his post-gym yogurt-and-granola breakfast. There's honey in the cabinets, but he's seen Harry's skin under his shirt; viscous stickiness doesn't go well with hair. The dipping chocolate, though, could work.]
Bed? Or is that too formal? [John asks once he has a few things.]
Yeah, the off off-Broadway kind. [ There's something about John's smiles. Not the little, professional ones Harry has seen while they square off on a sidewalk with hands in their pockets and fingers on triggers. Not anything like what Harry swears he's witnessed in the middle of a full firefight, like the one on top of the train so many years ago. The ones that are slow like blood and molasses, silent, dark and stirring all sorts of odd emotions in Harry's guts. He wants to reach out and touch the corner of John's mouth, right about then. Stick a hand right between the beast's maw and lock eyes: bite me i dare you i triple dog dare you because i bite back.
And Harry will - and part of him wants to shove his way into John's space and put him through the nearest wall. All teeth and tongue and hands and-- ] John, [ Harry sighs, closing his eyes while the man's mouth presses a kiss to his hand like it's Harry who's the king and John who's the weapon at his right. ] We might know each other real intimately, but you have no idea what kind of boy I can be when I choose to.
[ Harry fidgets terribly while he waits - shifting his weight, messing with his hair, running a thumb over the spot on his hand that lips had just touched. He does it while John's back is turned, and his motions are steadier when eyes are on him (nothing up my sleeves, watch closely everyone). It's a Cheshire's leer that spreads across his mouth - heedless of the threat of cage, collar, death. ] That depends on whether or not you consider this the third date. The way I figure it - the Deeps, your office... yeah, this would be the third. Bed's good by me.
[That is too much of a tease to go unanswered. John puts the things down on the island and crosses right into Harry's space, hands on his hips while inching up the hem of his shirt. Standing on his toes, he says against Harry's mouth,] I believe I could make a few guesses. [He's very still for a moment, watching Harry exhale before moving fast, catching his wrists, and folding them behind his back. It's simple to lean in, put Harry's back against the island, and grin down at him.
It's a guess, but an educated one. John runs a brothel that caters to certain proclivities, and it's insightful at times. Something tells John that a young wizard who loudly, repeatedly refuses to yield for even a moment might eventually want a night to let go.
John loosens his grip, keeping Harry's hands in place with just one of his own pressing lightly down. It's more of a suggestion than a demand, and John uses his free hand to feed Harry one of the remaining blackberries from the bowl.]
If the Deeps is your idea of a successful date, I would hate to see what a bad one is in your opinion. [He'll just hold Dresden here for a moment longer, enjoying the proximity, before leading him upstairs.]
[ There's something to be said about personal space and the idea that it just didn't seem to exist between the two of them any more. The memory of lips and teeth jostle in the back of his mind, stirred up by John's sudden proximity. He's right there, living and breathing and Harry can, once again, take note of the fact that John's eyes are made of a million different shades of green - and the flush that spreads across his neck is a product of recalling drunken thoughts. The association of green and life, or something like that. Harry certainly knows he's alive, because his pulse is hammering in his throat and aching in his temples - which only aggravates the bruised and scraped-raw side of his face.
Every muscle in the wizard's neck and shoulders goes tight when he's grabbed, pressed back along the cool surface of the island. He doesn't lash out, though he could. As John hovers, the black tension drifts out of Harry's eyes and body. By the time there's a blackberry held to his lips, he's gone softer than before - a cautious estimate of John's intentions - and with an amused smirk, takes the blackberry. Bites John's fingertips for good measure. ]
Who said anything about the success of the date? It's said the third time is the charm, right? [ He waits, and when John moves away, he grabs his things from the kitchen and trails after the other man, trying not to look weak-kneed and wobbly as he does so. ]
[There is the urge to bite back. There is always the urge to match Harry in all things, especially physicality. Harry's teeth at playful when they nip John, but there pressure is a reminder of how close they are, have been, and will be. He wants the bite, the twinge of pain flirting along his muscles. Let Dresden set a line in the sand so John can test it and settle into it. He could live in that place where Harry bites the hand that feeds him, just as long as it is John's.
The want to be held down was simple to see in Harry. The food thing was less obvious, though John can pick that apart just as easily. Harry will not take any money or power from John, but something tangible like a hand-fed morsel... that might be the thing. John can work with that. Upstairs he has a large bed that needs filling, and if Harry would like to lay out and tangle himself into the sheets until he can't move, leaving John to take care of him
that is also fine.
John collects the food again as Harry grabs his things. A shame; John liked the clutter.] Come on, [he says, voice hushed now.
It feels tenuous, tentative to lead Harry upstairs. This isn't an accidental tryst on the floor of his office. There is much more purpose to taking someone to his bedroom. He thinks for one moment about detouring to any of the stocked guest rooms, but to hell with it. If this is going to be the big trust, then let it be the big trust.
It's down the hallway, and John holds the door open for Harry, the final and absolute last out John is going to give him.]
[ The house is big. Big enough to get lost in, big enough to where Harry just couldn't figure out why some people felt they needed so many rooms. It was different for John. That much he knew after looking after the memories of what made the guy tick at his core for so many years. He follows in John's wake, because while he's the type of man who's rather lead (use the physical advantage known as his legs to his advantage), this is one of the few moments he's seemingly content to trail along behind. He's not a hurricane on a leash, but he does feel that the moment has granted him the opportunity to contemplate the shapes that make up the man.
From behind. Now, he might be overthinking it, but Harry's pretty sure that John doesn't just turn his back on anyone he knows could cause him serious harm. Let alone Harry, himself. So, he covets the moment quietly - eyes zigzagging down the length of the man's body (he had nice shoulders, and that reminds Harry that John's old scar was hurting earlier), right to his ankles. It's one of the few times he's consciously gone and appreciated the way another body was put together, was aware of it - but not enough to stop him from jolting when he realized that the door was being held for him. The message clear.
Harry deliberately swans in, fumbling over his own two feet when he recognizes the lived-in state of the bedroom. Ah, so not just a guest room. John's room. And it's with that, that he casts his things out - puts his staff against the wall, throws his duster messily over whatever it lands on and proceeds to claim John's bedroom with his scattered presence in the name of 'Harry Dresden, professional wizard'. ]
Be honest with me, okay? [ Quietly, he looks over his shoulder. Then jerks a head at the bed. ] Am I going to drown if I dive into that?
[The duster almost makes it over the desk chair int he corner but slides to the floor after clinging for a moment. John looks at the puddle of ridiculous black leather.] Do make yourself at home. [It's like a bird leaving it's plumage all over the place.]
[He toed off his shoes by the closet, taking the socks with them, and came up behind Harry. In his bare feet on the deep carpet, his steps were even more quiet than usual. John smiled, meeting Harry's gaze over his shoulder and steps in to rest his hands on those narrow hips.]
Not drown, no. [It is conspicuously large. John often sticks to maybe a fourth of the damn thing, nearest to the door.]
[He's definitely planning on saying something more, but finds a spot where Harry's shirt has ridden up just a little bit over his pants. It's a sliver of skin and John can only press his thumb into the space, but it's distracting.]
Don't mind if I do. [ Harry retorts lazily, watching the way his things wind up all over the place. His hiking boots too, because he's bent over to wrestle them off his feet and roll them each towards the wall and out of the way. Unlike John, he keeps his socks on out of unconscious habit, even though the floor is carpeted and that is a luxury he likes. Soft, fuzzy carpet - like the hodgepodge of rugs he's thrown about the stone floors of his apartment. He barely resists the urge to shuffle across the carpet and pop John in the nose with a finger of static electricity, if only because by the time he's straightened up, the man is back and in his space.
John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2012-11-10 05:28 am (UTC)Still, the mere idea of a vanilla mortal who could shrug off glamour that swiftly? It made him feel all sorts of scholarly curiosity. Maybe it was partly John's consolidation of power within himself and within Chicago that helped, maybe it was some biological adaptation. Regardless, Harry was - for lack of better term - as relieved as he was apprehensive of the new discovery. ]
[ It'd be best to finish out the night before the topic of last time was ever brought back up. Harry was going to make a point not to mention it - while he was still sore and confused, he was capable of using it as fuel for the flames. It was nice to unwind. ] Yeah. I'll give you that much - just give me a moment, don't go anywhere. [ And he walks off with a faint muttering into the woods, head bent low in search of something. Off in the distance, he could be seen reaching down - and he returns in less than a few minutes with his staff in tow. ] Okay, lead the way.
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Date: 2012-11-10 05:50 am (UTC)It's a few minutes of walking to cross. The temperature is dropping further as the night goes on, and the grass starts to crunch with light frost. The old shoulder injury feels like there is a dagger slowly boring into it. And god, it's only Dresden nearby to see, and he's seen John's scars. John shifts his rifle over so he can press the heel of his hand against the scar, exhaling hard. Nights like this are happening too often lately.
The house is not a home, but it's glowing orange in the night, and once they cross the threshold, the A/C indeed has held the cold out.] You are invited in, Harry Dresden, with all the powers of your title. [Gard had explained that a wizard leaving his powers at the door was an acutely unpleasant experience, like having a gap in your soul. Melodramatic, but when was magical theory not?]
[John toed his boots off by the hall closet and hung up his tac-vest like it was nothing more than a jacket.] I need to put this away, [he tapped his rifle] and see about Mr. Hendricks condition. Do you need anything, maybe medical attention?
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Date: 2012-11-11 01:48 am (UTC)So, carefully, he drifts closer. A casual gesture - for all anyone knew, the path was a little more even where John was - that put him nearly shoulder to shoulder with the other man. There wasn't a sound from him, but a quiet offering. The sort given when hauling a comrade out of hell, the promise of a shoulder to lean on in time of need. He almost offered to take the rifle, a hand twitching up to mirror his thoughts, before catching sight of that status-symbol house he'd never come back to since that October night with the wolves and the agents and all the rest. ]
[ Of course he lingered in the doorway until invited in, and left his own shoes on in defiance -- how big did a place need to be. It looked empty, in that way only houses built ill-proportioned to human life did. ] Uh, [ stop gaping at the place jeeze ] just point me to the bathroom and a first aid kit, I'll clean myself up. Tell Cujo I said 'hi' and 'get well soon'?
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Date: 2012-11-11 02:35 am (UTC)Best not to test it. Once incident between them didn't break their relationship. He should not be so eager to see if it'd survive two.]
All right. One is ahead and to the right, under the stairway. Help yourself to anything you need.
[With that, John excuses himself. There is an armory hidden in the walls of the house, and John slips into it to store his things. A detour to the office gets him a secure line to call the hospital. Nathan is awake by the time he calls, being held overnight for observation, but coherent enough to talk on the phone. A tension in John's spine loosens at the sound of his voice. If Nathan is all right, then everything is that much better.
Equipment put up and calls made, John thinks about neutral ground and decides the office is not it, all things considered. Too much lingering over the last time he and Dresden were in one. Instead, John picks up a legal pad and some paper, heading for the open kitchen. There is an island there with bar stool chairs along with food. It'll do.
John unplugs all the appliances he wants to protect (specifically, the coffee maker) before looking through the fridge for something palatable.]
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Date: 2012-11-11 03:57 am (UTC)There's a lot of fumbling about the house, he gets lost in the size of it, stretching hands up towards a ceiling he actually can't touch with a chuckle, meandering back in the direction of the entrance. Catching sight of John on the way, he sets his staff aside, shirks his duster over the back of a chair and slouches into it, propping his chin up on one hand. ] He's doing better, I take it?
[ Then he tugs the legal pad towards his edge of the table and begins to write something, his account most likely. He's not going to talk about it. Not about what happened last time. Not this close. He's not going to think about it either. Not going there. Even if he left hopping mad, still feels mad when he turns the situation over in his head-- ] You ever make change for me? For the Thai? [ WAY TO GO, MOUTH ]
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Date: 2012-11-11 05:09 am (UTC)There isn't much in the house that doesn't require cooking, and John is too tired to play host that well. And offering Harry a full meal feels fraught with danger. The ice they're standing on is thin, but holding; there's no need for John to test it.
But then. Of course. Just as John finds a box of blackberries that'd make a good snack, Harry opens his goddamn mouth.
John keeps his back turned, hiding his frozen expression as his mind whirls. What does that mean? Did he make change for him? From the twenty that Dresden forced him to take, even when John silently begged him not to? After John missed some crucial signal, something Dresden expected from him that he failed to comprehend.
Take a moment. Breathe once, deep but quiet. All right? Good.
John returned to the island after washing the fruit and tumbling it into a bowl. Normal, normal, utterly normal. He sits on one of the stools and pops a berry into his mouth.] I'm afraid it slipped my mind. What do I owe you?
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Date: 2012-11-11 06:50 am (UTC)he lowers his hand, and his breath tumbles out of his lungs. ] No, you don't owe me--. [ There's a lot of open mouth close mouth try to find the words and fail involved. Stay cool. ] I said ask me in the morning, because that's when I'd be sober and my answers would actually matter.
I shouldn't have brought it up, it's not a good time. How's the... report look?
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Date: 2012-11-11 07:13 am (UTC)[It's a sharp bit of physicality, and it's unusual. John didn't mean to do it, a sudden, violent gesture. John uses violence, it never uses him. Control over his body is a well-honed aspect of his persona. But it's gone in that moment, and right after, he feels so fucking tired. He leans his face into his hands.] Give me a moment. [Otherwise he's going to strangle the wizard.]
[Another slow, deep breath.] I realize that I've carefully cultivated an image of omniscience and projected it onto the city. It's a very calculated process with a lot of work behind it, and it's always proven to be ultimately worthwhile. People are far less likely to keep secrets when they are sure you already know them.
But even with the soulgaze between us and the years of trading debts with each other, you have always been incomprehensible. Fascinating, awe-inspiring, but sometimes so inscrutable that I--
[John drops his hands, sighing, and eats another berry.] You have enough ammunition from that night to kill me ten times over and you haven't.
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Date: 2012-11-11 07:35 am (UTC)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.
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Date: 2012-11-11 05:00 pm (UTC)He'd gone to sleep with half a bottle of mead in his and Dresden's soft breaths against his chest, and he'd survived.
And then he left.
And now claims to not hate him. Right. Maybe Dresden wielded his weapons unknowingly. Didn't realize the power of revoked sanctuary and kindness. Strange, given his ties to the Courts.]
I'm somewhat confused on that matter. We did talk. And then I gave you the out, if you needed it. And you took it.
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Date: 2012-11-11 11:41 pm (UTC)It went both ways: Harry didn't drink himself senseless, not unless he was alone, behind locks. It was too easy to take that out, to rely on the drink. Plus, he didn't like the idea of being impaired by it. To have gone over the edge and enjoyed it -- to say he didn't want the alcohol to do the talking was the least of his issues.
Harry slaps his hands onto the edge of the counter, curls his fingers into (was it marble?) the surface and draws in a tight, deep breath. Use your head and not your heart, Dresden. ] Look, I get this [ Harry beckons between the two of them, between their eyes, their hearts ] but I don't always get what's going on up in here. [ And then he taps his own temple, looking pointedly at John. ] And you threw the book at me.
It's not like I was any better, because I took that out. I didn't bother; I had my hands all over you and I didn't--. Me. [ There's a certain quality to it: incredulous, bemused, like he doesn't understand his own actions. ] You unwound and didn't stab me, so that "wow he didn't shank me in my sleep" feeling extends both ways. And I can't hate you, so that's it. That's what I got.
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Date: 2012-11-13 02:54 am (UTC)[He dispassionately watches as Harry explains. And maybe he wants a few things. Wants to slide his hands up Harry's back, peel off that duster, push Harry into the island, curled against him like a comma, breathing in the sweat and ash of his hair and mouthing the rough curve of his jaw. But those are all things he is years-used to wanting.]
You are here. Sober with nothing lurking outside. I am not going to stab you. I don't hate you and you don't hate me.
[One more bite and a moment to suck the juice off his fingers, the juice darker than bloodstains.] You know what I want. It has never changed. [He'll take Dresden, by hook or by crook or by kiss or by kill. Any of it will satisfy the terrifying howling thing in his chest.] What do you want?
THIS THREAD EATS MY ATTENTION /claws at face
Date: 2012-11-13 05:28 am (UTC)Maybe. ] Yeah, that's what I meant.
[ Meant what I said, said what I meant - but, this elephant's not that good at faith, he thinks to himself. There's facts, laid out on the table, parroted and professed and bare. Things he knows are true, that he might be able to lean on, to think that they'll support him just enough to give in a little more. No alcohol this time, just raw decision-making skills, wary and rusted by the years.
What does he actually want though? Time granted him a small mercy in a few weeks of borrowed time, to think things over. To no avail or conclusion. Harry shifts where he sits, and lifts a hand - the ungloved one, wavering for a moment before he reaches out again, across the island, to press his fingertips softly to the place where there is a scar that aches during cold weather, where he'd acquainted himself not too long ago. He flattens the pads of his fingers there, and steels himself against what remains (cowardice) and nods softly.
Then he drops his hand and steals one of the blackberries, popping it into his mouth pointedly. He could play in circles, but he's tired too and there's really no fucking need to beat around the bush. Yeah, he's confused but that's not what's crowned here. He's known for fire and not backing down, so he chews up the blackberry, draws his mouth up into the most crooked, debonair smirk he can: ] I'm not going to get used or manipulated by you. I don't work for you. You're not going to file me away like you did back when we first met. I probably won't ever even agree with you or like what you do. You'll fear and respect and adore me the same way I will you, and you'll like it all the same.
Knowing that, if I said "I want you", where would that put us?
mind your nails
Date: 2012-11-13 06:01 am (UTC)It leaves John with a man with a crooked grin, one that someone dared to damage, leaving that thin scar through. If Harry fears him, John finds it hard to believe with that sort of cocksure smile. It's the smile of a man who'd take a hit to the face and laugh as he spits blood onto the sidewalk, asking for more.
But it also leaves John with a touch so warm he can feel it through his shirt. Ambient magic, he has to assume. No human run that hot unless he's fevered, and Harry's eyes are miraculously clear. It's a balm, and John swags forward when Harry takes his hand back, covering by leaning on his elbows. As if his want isn't obvious on his face. It always has been; its hardly his fault that Dresden's never cared to see it there.
Adore me. It sounds like a command more than anything, the words sharp and bright in an otherwise normal sentence. But there is the catch to it.]
It would put us here, sitting in the kitchen with a bowl of blackberries. I have alcohol in the sitting room or a bed upstairs. A guest room, if you're the traditional type that doesn't put out until the third date. But I also have a safe room left over from night with the werewolves; I meant to put you there.
Let's say I adore you. [As if it is not a solid fact that's been plain to them for some time now.] And let's say that you've lost enough good sense to want a repeat of that night with the mead, minus the mead.
[John laces his fingers together, resting his hands against his mouth. His eyes are steady, waiting for the moment Dresden's face contorts with disgust or the moment when it... doesn't.] I may adore you, but I wouldn't do it very well, or like others would.
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Date: 2012-11-14 03:44 am (UTC)You meant to put me in a cage, John? [ He practically purrs the words, frighteningly intent on that idea alone. His anger simmers, snapping through the air like static. ] The last time I was ever put in a cage, I was sixteen and helpless and swore to myself that I would never end up like that ever again. I am now an adult and decidedly not helpless. So, I highly suggest you dismantle and destroy it, and by that I mean: do not make me do it myself. Clear?
[ Harry falls silent for a measure, watching the man. Making his point with the severity of his gaze, the sudden way he's drawn himself up - before he shakes his head. Wouldn't do it well, or like others? ] You know, I never expected you to. Remember? We did that thing with the eyes and the soul-baring? And - despite the hangover in the morning, that was the best night's sleep I'd had in a month. I hesitate to use the word "safe" in relation to you, but. It'd been a while.
What I'm trying to say is: I don't think we ever fit convention, John. I've never -- you know. Am I getting this right?
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Date: 2012-11-14 04:57 am (UTC)[Christ, but he is touched in the head. This is news to nobody though. His lips are against Harry's ear, kissing the curve of it, then the pulse point just underneath. He can feel the wizard's heartbeat and hums against it.]
[After lingering for a moment, John sits back, letting go of Harry and shaking the few threads of hair he managed to liberate from him. Then, another blackberry.] Well then. If that doesn't scare you off, no one can tell me I haven't gotten your completely informed consent on the matter.
[He gets up, off the stool, and stands next to Harry, waiting.] You helped me vanquish a dryad tonight, Warden Dresden. [He offers his hand.] Allow me to repay you in whatever manner you'd like.
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Date: 2012-11-15 01:08 am (UTC)All Harry musters is a faint noise, which is notably less to buy for time and more an inarticulate admission of just how much John affects him. Damn. ] Oh John, [ he recovers enough to grasp the offered hand ] if a little romp through the woods is enough to win me your favor, I'd love to know what the prize is when I actively try. If I knew breaking your things got you hot and bothered, I'd have made a show of it.
[ That's that, then. Despite the threat, the darkly stated intentions, he hasn't run off, hasn't even backed off. He's not happy with the idea of being caged, but he's oddly... okay with it. Harry slides off the stool, contemplative and hovering. Waiting for the other shoe to drop? No, he's more uncertain than anything. He's taken that step, and it's something more. Not unwanted, but more of a step then he's taken in a while. Pointedly, he jerks his head at the bowl of blackberries. ] Grab some more goodies, but no alcohol. Not this time. [ And in an alarmingly abrupt manner: ] Make a night of it?
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Date: 2012-11-15 06:58 am (UTC)This though. Might be enough to appease that.
John takes Harry's hand in both of his own, grip firm. He'll always want to push the wizard into corners to see his reaction, to shield his eyes from the blaze that ensues. But tonight, he does owe a favor.] A night of it? I had no idea you were that kind of boy. [His smile goes toothy, like something that might bite if you're not careful. But all he does is play the gentleman, running his thumb over Harry's hand before bending to kiss it regally.]
I can see what I have. [John reluctantly separates to search the kitchen again, now with something more sweet on his mind. The fridge has a full bag of mixed berries, meant his post-gym yogurt-and-granola breakfast. There's honey in the cabinets, but he's seen Harry's skin under his shirt; viscous stickiness doesn't go well with hair. The dipping chocolate, though, could work.]
Bed? Or is that too formal? [John asks once he has a few things.]
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Date: 2012-11-16 03:15 am (UTC)And Harry will - and part of him wants to shove his way into John's space and put him through the nearest wall. All teeth and tongue and hands and-- ] John, [ Harry sighs, closing his eyes while the man's mouth presses a kiss to his hand like it's Harry who's the king and John who's the weapon at his right. ] We might know each other real intimately, but you have no idea what kind of boy I can be when I choose to.
[ Harry fidgets terribly while he waits - shifting his weight, messing with his hair, running a thumb over the spot on his hand that lips had just touched. He does it while John's back is turned, and his motions are steadier when eyes are on him (nothing up my sleeves, watch closely everyone). It's a Cheshire's leer that spreads across his mouth - heedless of the threat of cage, collar,
death. ] That depends on whether or not you consider this the third date. The way I figure it - the Deeps, your office... yeah, this would be the third. Bed's good by me.no subject
Date: 2012-11-16 06:19 am (UTC)It's a guess, but an educated one. John runs a brothel that caters to certain proclivities, and it's insightful at times. Something tells John that a young wizard who loudly, repeatedly refuses to yield for even a moment might eventually want a night to let go.
John loosens his grip, keeping Harry's hands in place with just one of his own pressing lightly down. It's more of a suggestion than a demand, and John uses his free hand to feed Harry one of the remaining blackberries from the bowl.]
If the Deeps is your idea of a successful date, I would hate to see what a bad one is in your opinion. [He'll just hold Dresden here for a moment longer, enjoying the proximity, before leading him upstairs.]
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Date: 2012-11-17 03:06 am (UTC)Every muscle in the wizard's neck and shoulders goes tight when he's grabbed, pressed back along the cool surface of the island. He doesn't lash out, though he could. As John hovers, the black tension drifts out of Harry's eyes and body. By the time there's a blackberry held to his lips, he's gone softer than before - a cautious estimate of John's intentions - and with an amused smirk, takes the blackberry. Bites John's fingertips for good measure. ]
Who said anything about the success of the date? It's said the third time is the charm, right? [ He waits, and when John moves away, he grabs his things from the kitchen and trails after the other man, trying not to look weak-kneed and wobbly as he does so. ]
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Date: 2012-11-19 06:40 am (UTC)The want to be held down was simple to see in Harry. The food thing was less obvious, though John can pick that apart just as easily. Harry will not take any money or power from John, but something tangible like a hand-fed morsel... that might be the thing. John can work with that. Upstairs he has a large bed that needs filling, and if Harry would like to lay out and tangle himself into the sheets until he can't move, leaving John to take care of him
that is also fine.
John collects the food again as Harry grabs his things. A shame; John liked the clutter.] Come on, [he says, voice hushed now.
It feels tenuous, tentative to lead Harry upstairs. This isn't an accidental tryst on the floor of his office. There is much more purpose to taking someone to his bedroom. He thinks for one moment about detouring to any of the stocked guest rooms, but to hell with it. If this is going to be the big trust, then let it be the big trust.
It's down the hallway, and John holds the door open for Harry, the final and absolute last out John is going to give him.]
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Date: 2012-11-20 04:40 am (UTC)From behind. Now, he might be overthinking it, but Harry's pretty sure that John doesn't just turn his back on anyone he knows could cause him serious harm. Let alone Harry, himself. So, he covets the moment quietly - eyes zigzagging down the length of the man's body (he had nice shoulders, and that reminds Harry that John's old scar was hurting earlier), right to his ankles. It's one of the few times he's consciously gone and appreciated the way another body was put together, was aware of it - but not enough to stop him from jolting when he realized that the door was being held for him. The message clear.
Harry deliberately swans in, fumbling over his own two feet when he recognizes the lived-in state of the bedroom. Ah, so not just a guest room. John's room. And it's with that, that he casts his things out - puts his staff against the wall, throws his duster messily over whatever it lands on and proceeds to claim John's bedroom with his scattered presence in the name of 'Harry Dresden, professional wizard'. ]
Be honest with me, okay? [ Quietly, he looks over his shoulder. Then jerks a head at the bed. ] Am I going to drown if I dive into that?
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Date: 2012-11-21 09:52 pm (UTC)[He toed off his shoes by the closet, taking the socks with them, and came up behind Harry. In his bare feet on the deep carpet, his steps were even more quiet than usual. John smiled, meeting Harry's gaze over his shoulder and steps in to rest his hands on those narrow hips.]
Not drown, no. [It is conspicuously large. John often sticks to maybe a fourth of the damn thing, nearest to the door.]
[He's definitely planning on saying something more, but finds a spot where Harry's shirt has ridden up just a little bit over his pants. It's a sliver of skin and John can only press his thumb into the space, but it's distracting.]
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Date: 2012-11-22 07:21 am (UTC)John's hands are warm on his hips, and so's the rest of him - what little has brushed up against Harry's shoulderblades, and the heat of his body. The contact, the warmth - it's nice. Whatever retort had been on the width of his tongue fades when thumb meets his skin. He turns a little more, knowing it might break contact for a moment, because he wants to raise a hand of his own, reaching out. Then rethinking it. Quietly, he curls his fingers to his palm, bringing the fist to his mouth. A whisper of faux-Latin that brings a spark into his eyes, locked on the other man's.
Harry's fist then makes contact with John's torso, over the spot where the old scar is - the one he's seen with his own eyes, the one that hurt from the cold. Gradually, he spreads his fingers out over it, releasing the cupped heat across skin and into muscle, and holds it there. ]
I get cramps when I run sometimes. [ Suddenly overcome by hesitance, he looks to his hand, rather than John's eyes. ] Can't use a heating pad, so...
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From:/CHANGES WRITING STYLE
From:prose > brackets aw yeah
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