sirenspull_logs | to the little room with the broken faucets

Entry tags:

to the little room with the broken faucets

Who: Harry Dresden & John Marcone.
When: The morning after this mess.
Where: The Tower Apartments.
Summary: John finally comes back.
Warnings: Maybe language. Will update as necessary.

The thing about the Darkness? It's the biggest legitimate threat he's met, this side of the Queen of Air and Darkness herself. Irony abounds. The warnings, helpful words and chill that permeates the night had forced him to retreat. The blow to his ego was expected, but still hard. It meant he couldn't go out there, it meant he had to entrust that the vanilla mortal he'd arrived with would fare better. Be smarter, wiser, more resourceful. Things that John Marcone was, without a doubt.

Even still, Marcone was his only tie to home, to Chicago and matters left behind and unsettled and on the edge of total breakdown.

Harry didn't sleep at all, perched on the edge of his bed in their apartment, worrying at anything and everything he could get his hands on. Resisting the urge to fire off another string of tempestuous and freakishly frantic messages to his companion. He did not do waiting well, that was for sure. Paranoid practitioners tended to think on the side of "potentially catastrophic" or "worse-case scenario". It leaves him twitchy and agitated, watching the apartment door with the air of someone about to lunge out the moment morning broke.

For that matter - it was.

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It was a long time since John's arrogance got him into trouble.

Generally, he knew better than to show off. Deciding to pick up dinner for the wizard on his way back home was a reckless move, intended to childishly remind Dresden who was providing for them. But then the sirens, coming sooner than he expected.

He drove fast, putting the new bike through its paces and testing the fifty year old engine. It ran like a dream, sending John into memories of bygone days, of the time before Calumet Park, when he and his cohort would argue the merits of a Harley versus an import. Better days, except in all the ways they were not, that he was too blind to see.

Speaking of. He could only make it so far before the sirens faded and the other sounds started. The Darkness wasn't like a moonless night; it was a tangible veil draw over everything. Just the feel of it--

He stopped for the night in a shelter.

It was a long night.

It was only after the sirens went off again that he finished his journey home, face drawn, mind worn out, just thinking over and over everything is fine, nothing to see here, just let me get back.

Thankfully, it's only ten more minutes to the Tower. John parks the bike and leans on the bars, breathing out slowly.

Edited 2012-11-17 06:41 (UTC)

While the idea of surviving in the midst of nigh-constant danger wasn't new to Harry (or Marcone, for that matter), the idea that there were actual things that reigned above them? It brought out the more obsessive traits in the wizard, particularity the ferocity in which he would check windows (he hated windows), doors, locks, whatever barriers they had between their world and the night world and location of the only familiar face in this new world.

Paranoia was going to eat him up at this rate. Now, Marcone was missing, and he'd bitten his thumbnail ragged in barely-contained agitation. He'd rather have gone hungry if it meant the other would be caught up. Now his mouth had gone and gotten someone else in trouble, hadn't it? By the time he reaches the front doors, he's nothing but tightly-balled emotions and readied fists.

Find John. Make sure he was okay. If okay, kick his ass. Easy!

He could fall asleep like this, arms hanging off the front of the bike as the sun finally starts peeking out over the tops of the houses. That way, he'd also avoid running into Dresden, who John cannot imagine being civil after missing dinner, especially when he's not able to use the kitchen without destroying.

More than anything, John wants to crash in one of his many properties back home. Sitting there, he makes a mental ranking of his favorites. The Gold Coast one is too cavernous for his liking, but has the best view of the city. The Old Town one is homey with actual furniture. Albany Park's place is a stone's throw from the market...

John snaps to attention as much as he can when running on so little sleep, coming out of his daydream when the front doors slam open and Dresden marches out, looking ready to blast the first poor soul to cross his path.

Except he walks right past John.

Frowning, John calls out, "Dresden."

Harry would have kept his mouth shut about dinner, if he'd remembered to take into account that their day was literally fenced in between day-sirens and night-sirens. It wasn't like he hadn't gone without when money was tight. Was he taking advantage of Marcone's too-casual willingness to make sure they ate, and therefore were at the top of their game? That was a thought he hadn't thought he'd ever entertain. Taking advantage of the Baron. Next he was going to be rethinking every step he'd take, and that just wasn't going to fly.

He really did walk right past the Baron. Which was why when Marcone's voice sounded from somewhere behind him, he practically broke his ankle, wheeling around as sharply as he had. Only to stare incredulously at the man leaning on his - contraption. He really had bought the thing, it wasn't just some obnoxious gambit or whatever. (Harry remembers Murphy's bike, sleek and fast and nothing like the faithful-looking old thing John was straddling.)

"Wait. Where did you just come from?" He demanded sharply, "Were you just standing there all along?" Because he certainly had not missed a thing. Unless he really was that single-minded.

"Yes," John breathed out. Interesting. He has been all over the commercial districts of the city, ever since he shed his hand-tailored Givenchy and found jeans, sweaters, and a decent bomber jacket were just as effective a disguise. He's weaved his way in and out of half of the establishments the Port has to offer, and no matter how out of place he's been, eyes just passed over him. Even the eyes of corporate bouncers.

The inkling of an idea has been growing in the back of John's mind for some time now. Dresden's keen gaze skipping over him feeds it more. Very interesting. But also... unsettling. Unasked for. Some minute violation felt down to his bones. It's hard not to show his discontent on his face, especially when he's so off his game.

"You look ready for war, Warden. Did I worry you?" He aims for smug, aloof, but he just sounds tired to his own ears. Too little sleep during a night full of loud, violent sounds.

Edited 2012-11-17 07:56 (UTC)

"You asshole," with a default setting of ornery, Harry rounds on his roommate.

Traditional insults for shallow reasons because, if anything, he's terrible with change and while he's been holding it together, this is still too much too fast. He took the windows because it was one more threat, one more fight he could get into because that was something he knew. Surviving by the skin of his teeth was a constant. Marcone was a constant, but (previously) by reputation more often than physical presence. Talk about emotions attempting to jockey for position.

"I left you messages." Accusingly, he stabs a finger in Marcone's direction -but he's just as tired, and the rage simmers out - flat and grey - because his companion is okay. Still an asshole, but he's okay and for now, that's good enough. Yes, his tone says. And I hate you for making me worry. "You could have told me you weren't dead at least. And where the hell were you - then and just now? You're definitely not sneaking up on me with that mechanical beast."

The fire in Dresden fades to an ember so fast, there is something in John's gut vaguely in the shape of guilt. It's been a long time since he's felt that, but his sympathies are with Dresden. Were the tables turned, John would be furious with the wizard, fair or not. They have so little on this godforsaken island. Few things are better at making allies out of enemies than isolation.

The mention of messages makes John dig his NV out of his pocket. With a pang, he fails to activate it, even after holding the power button. "It seems I got a little too talkative yesterday and wore down the battery. And I would've been home sooner, but there was traffic and I'm still learning the layout of this place." Also, there is the matter of the dinner John had to stop off for. It's a paltry apology, but likely the only one Dresden will get: he grabs the paper bag out of the sidecar and hands it over. The BLT and fries inside are cold by now.

Boosting a bike, having it refitted with new registration, given a paint job, and getting a sidecar installed is no easy feat. It was mostly a challenge to himself, to see if he still knew how things worked, how to blend the legal and extra-legal into something viable. His tone is slightly defensive: "You don't like it?"

Edited 2012-11-17 08:57 (UTC)

To his credit, Harry avoided arching a brow expectantly - he was no Vivien Leigh. He did tap his foot, awaiting a response from Marcone about why on earth he would not have checked his messages. Didn't vanilla mortals live, breathe and die on their smart phones? The reason was: because the batter was dead and Harry, who had never owned anything that was battery-operated, had not even considered that as a reason.

"Ohh." The reply was weak, but he uncrossed his arms and reached out for the cold dinner that John still had stopped to get for him. Harry stood there, cupping the bag in his hands before opening it and reaching for the cold food. Waste not, want not; and he didn't know how to show his gratitude, or even begin to apologize otherwise. Halfway through a mouthful of fries, he gave the bike another good, long look. John looked completely at home perched astride it. Enough to where Harry's eyes traveled from the sidecar, to the wheels, up the body and then -- up the body. John had changed his attire, and it suited him as well as the suits had. Harry continued to eat through the bag of cold food, heedless of the fact that his eyes lingered on everything from the engine to John's legs.

"How's it run?" Deflecting with another question, Harry tucked into as much of the cold, soggy burger as he could before it was doing no more than ruining his appetite. "I've only ever ridden on the back of Murphy's once or twice, so I don't have much of an educated opinion on bikes yet. I suppose if you'd like something purring between your legs, nothing beats a bike." He'd said something similar to her once, and the memory made him smirk. "Am I really supposed to fit into that sidecar?"

John couldn't help the frown that stole over his face as Harry took the food and chowed down on it. It'd gone cold hours ago, but he didn't seem to even notice. Likely years of trashy eating had hardened his system into something like kevlar.

Weary as he was, he could feel himself pushing past the need to sleep into that state of over-tiredness that came from dodging rest for too long. The surface of his eyes felt scratchy every time he blinked, but his alertness was ratcheted to its highest point. It wasn't a pleasant feeling, but a hollow one. Strong enough to almost distract him from the way Dresden was suddenly staring at him. It was enough to make John think he hadn't patched up well enough from the few scraps his run-in with the Darkness gave him, but a discrete look down showed him no, it wasn't that. Perhaps Dresden was just doing that odd thing he often did, when he stared at some people like a starved alley cat thinking about his next meal.

Dresden for you.

John shifted his weight and rested his foot on the starter lever. "It runs beautifully with me, but obviously its untested on wizardly interference. Let's see." It turned over perfectly (yes, it was quite a purr, Dresden, John said with an eloquent eyebrow lift). Whoever John had lifted it from was either going to be furious over their prized toy going missing or they'd never notice one out of a collection going missing. John knew both types.

Over the rumble of the engine, he said, "I got the sidecar with the most leg room." Small considerations, or as small as they could be when Dresden's legs were involved. In the 1940s, they'd doubtlessly be called stems, the sort of legs that demanded your attention. The sidecar reflected that. "Get in."

Edited 2012-11-19 03:31 (UTC)

When you worked with an unstable paycheck, you learned how to eat pretty much anything and everything. Cast iron stomach, owned by one Harry Dresden. Plus, John had gotten him food. That he'd ~~asked for~~ demanded. A demand that contributed to his being kept late and caught at some waypoint that was not their apartment. They were both exhausted as a result, and while Harry was pretty insensitive (and pretty damn ignorant) at times - he minded the one familiar face with the same rapt attention he had to his friends' body language.

When you couldn't look someone in the eye to gauge their feelings, you watched their body instead.

Not that his wandering eye was entirely focused on John's body language. He caught himself slowly, once his eyes had settled on the man's hands - having completed a languid circuit from head to toe - shook his head to snap out of it and took another look at the sidecar. Oh. Harry tipped the rest of his cold meal into a nearby garbage can and snickered under his breath: "Yes, boss." Then he flopped into the sidecar and shifted and--

"Hell's bells, Marcone," a faint grunt and Harry glanced up with a sullen expression, "It's like riding sidesaddle. You don't want my skirts flying up or something?"

That John did not let out a wild grin at boss was solely a triumph of his reflexes. It was nice to hear from Dresden's soft baritone though, doing more to wake him up than anything else could have. He looked away, making a show of checking his wallet to duck his head away. Obviously Dresden was their ticket back to Chicago and that was a huge motivator for John's work so far. Playing provider, fleecing the entire city little by little to keep their heads above water was vital, but it did come with that bonus; Harry relying on John. A partnership forged by circumstance.

Still, boss. It was nice. A piece of what might have been.

Tucking the wallet back away, assured by the amount of spare cash folded away, John smirked at Harry's comment. "I only meant to provide a comfortable ride for you and the stilts you call legs. If you wanted a dress, you should've said. I saw a few while I was shopping for clothes, we could find something in your color."

He hadn't driven a bike in years, but some things you just didn't forget. He walked it back out of the parking space easily before gunning the throttle only enough to get them moving. It was a slow lap around the Tower at first, just listening for any protest from the engine. Best to find out if the motorcycle disagreed with Dresden's presence now rather than later.

Forgetting for a moment that John has attempted to recruit him at multiple times, one way or another, Harry calls him "boss" for the sheer irony of it. One more sarcasm-laced quip that isn't meant to claw at the man's armor, but demonstrates how quickly the wizard has come to grips with their predicament and moved past 'I don't like him' to 'okay, we're working together'. And they are, without a doubt. Harry realized that last night, after hitting him with about eight angry, worried messages demanding his safe return. While he knew he could do it alone (he'd done it long enough that it was nothing new), he'd rather have someone with him. Someone reliable.

John Marcone was definitely reliable, if not still a criminal back home in Chicago - and one Harry did not approve of. But this was not Chicago, and while he continued to stubbornly cling to his morals, he accepted the cold truth that working with John was going to benefit them both. Also, it wasn't half bad. Having someone to talk to that knew the world he'd come from and all the little nuances and knew him was - for lack of better term: comforting.

"I think I look best in cool colors and neutrals, and I know I could work anything in midnight blue," he drawled out, hiking his elbows up onto the sides of the sidecar, legs crossed right over and sticking out like a battering ram. "It's a good color for dinner jackets." It was sleepy trivia time, it seemed, because as they lapped, he focused - trying to see how much influence he could impress upon the bike before it might falter. The thing held up magnificently - so Harry peered up and shrugged a shoulder curiously.

"Go for it," a suggestion, as he sat up a little straighter.

"I was thinking red," John said quietly, almost lost to the sound of the engine and wind. Red, but not like flame. Something darker to bring out his pale skin and dark eyes. If he were going to see Dresden dressed up, it would be in warm colors. Cool ones did not suit a firebrand.

... Christ, he must've been getting drunk from the lack of sleep. It didn't do to think about the wizard's dress sense so keenly.

Out of the corner of his eye he can see Dresden relax in his care, long legs crossing and body reclining in the seat. It's a comfort and justification for all the effort he put into choosing the sidecar. This was a better choice than leaving Dresden to the subway, or more accurately to leave the commuters to the mercies of Dresden's technology-killing habits.

John smirks, feels something wild in his gut, and does as he's told. It's after the morning work rush and the roads are mostly clear as John guns it and soars down the road. The acceleration would've driven him into a wheelie if not for the weight of the sidecar. As it is, feeling the inertia of the vehicle and the rumble of the engine is exhilarating in a way he'd almost forgotten.

"Lunch?" He shouts over the din. Hm. He needs to pick up some helmets...

The Port is a half-decayed monstrosity of a city, mottled with pockets of life still desperately eeking out a living that is independent of the pervasive sense of lurking darkness. Not even the sentient kind, that which came out at night and overpowered the unprepared. Harry looked upon it just last night, gauged it and decided he was not going to back down ever again - call it pride, maybe stupidity, but he would not live a timid life. Not even in this place, not if he wanted to get home most of all.

He's taken from his thoughts, the contemplation of the city around them and the wind ruffling through his hair, when John says something. It's almost too quiet to hear, and Harry glances up at the very end to file something away about his companion. He chooses not to mention the idle words, and sits up a little higher when John guns the bike and does as he's told. Harry would rather have a frame and four walls to his mode of transportation, but that's because the Beetle has taken beatings through the years - beatings that would have left Harry dead were it not for that extra line of defense. It's being out in the open like this that is as worrisome as it is... exhilarating.

"I already ate," he shoots back, "but if you're hungry, you should get something." A cold dinner might not the best or most filling meal make, but he's not going to mention that. It's not important, and he won't be the ungrateful one. The corner of mouth that is unscarred had long since curled up - he's never seen this side of Marcone. Never put thought to anything but his role as Baron and boss. Now, that's been put on the sidelines, and they're two men with Particular Talents, trying to get home. Common bond, common goal.

John doesn't see life in this city. He doesn't look for it, either. It's something that he cannot look at closely. Dresden will get them home; John is depending on it. He can't stay in this place. It isn't where he's supposed to be. Chicago is not a place, it's is a purpose, and for the Grey City he'd do anything. Absolutely anything.

That sort of dedication isn't healthy. It isn't what you're supposed to do with free will. But it's what John has, and without it

what's left?

He doesn't think about it. Drives aimlessly because there's no point in learning the finer points of the Port's streets and traffic when they'll be home shortly.

Shaking the lost look from his eyes, he replies, "Three bites of a cold meal isn't lunch. I can spot you, Dresden." He comes to a stop at a light and takes the opportunity to give Dresden a grin that reaches his eyes. "You can pay me back when we're home."

If there's one thing he doesn't want, it's to become attached to the Port and the people there. That scares the hell out of Harry; the idea that he might wake up one day and be graced with the ticket out of there, and he'll sit there and waffle between choosing between one group of people in need and another. It scares him enough to be the leading cause of his long nights without sleep, the dark circles under his eyes, the sideways looks at John.

John, who's presence is what keeps those thoughts firmly under control. John, who becomes his excuse. He has to get John home, there is no other choice. There is Harry's responsibility and duty to the Baron of Chicago to return him to where he belongs, and he will abuse that notion to get himself through that door when push comes to shove. It's not healthy, it's not even sane, but that's how Harry's always been. John looks lost in the city. Harry looks like he'll be swallowed up. They're both torn up on the inside and at least one of them is practically incapable of seeing it for what it is.

They're not safe here. "I can't," he mutters. Whether to himself or to John, he doesn't know. When he looks up, it's into that grin - and it hurts a little. He offers a smile in return, something that isn't anything less than what John's offered him, forces it across his face and into his eyes and pumps confidence and motivation into his heart.

"I've got to watch my girlish figure, John. Honest, I'm good." And it sounds like he's beginning to mean it. "Grab a sandwich or something, I'll thank you by taking a nice long nap when we get back to the apartment and take a look at this lead on people who've actually left the city for some time."

"Thirty-two inch waist," John mutters. That Dresden continues to be a slip of a man despite what information John has collected on him (particularly his dietary habits), it's remarkable. There are people in the world who would murder for his metabolism. He wonders if Dresden's ever considered that; surely he can bottle that metabolism. That, or perhaps the act of magic burns off too much of his energy. That could be it too-- John has seen the slightly put-out look Harry has gets after s regular meal. Obviously he has an appetite the likes John has never seen.

If only Gard were here. She'd know, or at least would keep John from such inane musings.

Oblivious to Harry's worries, John pulls into a drive-thru, leaning over towards Dresden to check that the sidecar is going to clear the curb. Need for extra space is taking some getting used to.

He orders a chicken sandwich and elects to swap out the fries for a fruit salad instead. Much of the north side of the island is farmland and John's been pleasantly surprised by the produce it puts out.

John's charming face appears when he gets to the payment window, and it's enough to make the college girl there duck her head and almost fumble his cash back. When he gets it, there's an extra five in there, likely a mistake on her part. It's the easiest way to fleece someone; with a smile.

Feeling on a roll, he does it again on the boy at the pick-up window, playing the role of a friendly but disappointed customer who coulda sworn he asked for the salad extra, not instead of, oh darn...

It works out well enough that the young man turns as red as his freckles, and John pulls away having spent three dollars and driven away an extra bag of food. Which is even more than he'd shot for. As soon as they're out of sight of the place, John idles to a stop and checks the extra bag that clearly must've been his. Burger and fries. John pawns it off onto Dresden.

"Not bad, considering I look like I haven't sleep in a week."

((OOC: Fuck now I am getting meta-feels of Swiftian ideas. Like the difference between voluntarily being swallowed by a city and the joy that brings vs being eaten involuntarily and the terror of that. Where is that electric eyed asshole to be my mouthpiece?))

Edited 2012-11-22 17:34 (UTC)

Absently, Harry presses his hands to his waist through his shirt - as though trying to gauge if his waist actually were that big around. The last time he'd ever put conscious thought to his measurements, he'd been renting a tux to a shindig involving the Shroud of Turin. Then they'd been discarded, because knowing his body like that was just not essential to his everyday life. Not in the way they might have been to John, who wore tailored suits like armor. The idea of someone (anyone, not just John Marcone) knowing the little details of his body that intimately gave him the heebies. He grimaced a little, and quickly moved his hands before he gave himself away.

He is conspicuously silent as John panhandles the joint, perhaps because he's fucking floored by the charisma and confidence that radiates from him - just like everyone else that wasn't the man doing the work.

He comes to when John drops the warm bag of food into his lap, and finds himself engaged in a silent debate. ( does he return the food? it's stolen, stolen is bad, bad is not what he tries to be. one might see the gears turning in his brain, catching and tired as he just-- ) groans and opens the bag, taking a bite of burger with a self-made promise to slap money on the counter one day, to pay them back. Yeah, he can do that.

"All right, if you're all done showing off your new toy: home, Jeeves," Harry points haphazardly into the streets, all long fingers and leather sleeves and lazy sarcasm: "You need to eat and sleep. Want me to tuck you in and read you a story?"

"Before your overwound morality clock goes off, keep in mind that it's a fast food place. They one, don't care, and two, will not care if they do, and three," he's counting off on his fingers for Dresden's benefit, "I'm halfway certain this one is owned by AGI, so some fleecing is deserved."

John's loathing of AGI is boundless and absolute. Not only are they jumped up mafia, but they're sloppy about it. The misery they cause bleeds out into its own employees, let alone the slaves and addicts AGI leaves in heir wake. John resolutely doesn't care about the Port, but his contempt for AGI is steady and strong.

"Don't act like you aren't impressed, Mr. Dresden," John says and makes a show of looking Harry over. The sidecar seat is big enough that almost seven feet of wizard can sprawl in it. That alone is a great accomplishment in John's. Without taking the rest of Dresden's bait, John pulls them away from the curb and back to their temporary home.

The moment John mentions that the joint is, most likely, owned by one of those twin pillars of dark power, Harry takes a particularly angry bite out of the burger and puts thought of remuneration out of his mind. Say no more, John - he got the picture, and it was one that he also vehemently despised. Experimentation on one hand, enslavement on the other - two such notions that brought a flush to Harry's skin, a hardness to his eyes. Settle down, Dresden.

He controls himself well, as there is no fuel to add to the proverbial fires.

"Ooh, Mr. Marcone," he simpers dryly, tilting his head back against the back of the sidecar, closing his eyes for a moment. "It's your criminal wiles that totally turn me on. I'm glad you finally figured it out." Yeah, he's impressed, but not admitting to it. Crossing his legs at the ankle, he allows himself to relax just enough to enjoy the wind through his hair and picking up under the hems of his pants, his shirt - until they reach their destination. "Thanks, by the way," he utters quickly, flailing the food at John as he tries to Get Out Of Dodge before he's called on his words.

No amount of sarcasm will make Harry's words weightless. John smirks at them, pleased, because yes, it does seem like Dresden is impressed. You can only overcompensate so far before it's obvious what you're covering up. It's a shame that he can't bring Dresden along with him as he goes out and learns to bend this Port to his will. The wizard's seen nothing yet.

"Don't oversell it, Dresden," John murmurs just loud enough to be heard, like this is some secret advice being dispensed. His only mercy is that he'll keep his eyes on the road and not Dresden for the return drive.

It's a short drive now that John's eager to get back, to eat and sleep as Harry suggested. He catches the utterance before killing the engine. It would be easy to give a flippant reply, something in line with most of their interactions, but things have been different on the island. Hurling invectives and winding each other up worked when they shared a city, not an apartment. So John nods his head seriously. "Of course, Harry."

He grabs his own bag of food and slides off the bike, standing still as his body gets used to not having an engine rumbling beneath him. Dresden wasn't far from the mark-- it is appealing.

"You haven't seen oversell until the Girl Scouts come a'knocking." Tt's obvious that Harry's a sucker for a pair of hopeful eyes, and cookies. Otherwise, he attempted to not rise to the bait, lest his attempt to bypass further discussion on whether he was impressed (he was) or not. He clambers out of the sidecar when it comes to a halt, and puts a few feet between himself and John before he turns around and lingers.

He's silent, but it's obvious that he's waiting up for John. After last night, it doesn't seem likely that he'll be straying too far, not keeping up with a call or two. In fact, Harry's jaw works thoughtfully, before he steps back towards John and hovers there for a moment. "The messages I left," he states, rational and calm, because he understands what he about to be asking. "One of them - I said think it'd be smart if I had some of your hair. Just while we're in the Port."

Ah.

There are many things that John has had to learn, the sort of things that are likely second-nature to Dresden, but never to a vanilla mortal. Gard has briefed him on magic systems and drilled into him some basic truths.

You never invite someone inside. You take care who you say "thank you" too. You damn well never utter the words "I owe you" to anyone. You only make eye contact when you are willing to deal with the consequences.

You never speak your name aloud to anyone. (Easy.)

You want a hair cut? You do it with enchanted scissors or you burn the remnants afterward.

John doesn't reply right away, instead putting a finger to his lips and nodding to the Tower before heading up. He doesn't speak in the elevator, despite it being cramped between the two of them and the space being oppressive.

Inside the apartment, John settles in, throwing his jacket over the sofa and taking his bag of food to the table. Finally, at last, he says, "Were I a paranoid man," (humor the remote possibility, Mr. Dresden) "I would point out that you have seen me as your enemy for eleven years and that your governing body is nowhere in sight."

He unwraps his chicken sandwich and takes a bite. After swallowing: "But then again, you've had my hair before and you used it to save my life. Well," he smirks coolly. "To save the Archive's life, with me as collateral."

John might be a vanilla mortal, but he had been thrown into the deep end of the pool the moment he had become Baron. For that, Harry also felt responsible. He was responsible, since his signature had been on the paperwork. Of course, the ever-resourceful "gentleman" had figured out how to make the odds work in his favor, or at least make it look like they were. That was why John was good. Harry kept his mouth shut until they got into the elevator - after a moment's protest, because while the thing looked like and shivered like something from the 1920s, and while Harry had rode it once for safe measure, it didn't mean he liked the thing at all.

It had him sandwiched between the metal grille and his companion, looking at the ceiling because there wasn't much else to do without making things awkward.

He took off his duster in the apartment, only to keep it within eyesight (Darkness, you know?). "I would point out that I'm not a murderer," he replied testily. "Despite that our history hasn't really put us on the same side, we are now. If you're unhappy with the obvious power and influence that would give me over you, regardless of my intentions--." Harry pauses and tries not to make it sound like he's chewing glass with his words: "I could trade you. Equal value. I really don't want a repeat of last night, okay? I couldn't find you."

"No, it's not murder if it's self-defense, is it?" John counters easily. He is getting used to Harry's hair-trigger temper. It rolls over him now, harmless so long as John watches for angry evocation. So far, so good. "Do you want to have that conversation right now, Harry? About how we justify murder when it's to save ourselves and others? Do you think you'd win that one, as it were?" And he gives Harry a dead-on stare, at once tired and yet daring Harry to go to the mat on this one.

Harry's killed. For himself, for his friends, for the world, for Chicago. John has killed, for himself, for Chicago, and for Dresden at times. He has no illusions about his morality, but to split hairs on this of all things is annoying at best and divisive at worst.

And the idea of that is fascinating. Absolutely captivating. "Equal value. What is my life and safety worth, wizard?" He chuckles and finishes his sandwich, cleaning his hands with the napkin after. "Your pocket change, perhaps? A coupon for the matinee? Don't answer that. I don't want to hear what you may come up with."

He stands up, puts his salad in the fridge to eat later, and then steps right up to Dresden. Reaching up, he runs his fingers over his scalp, seeking for a moment. "Gard told me that taking it from the root prolongs the connection." And voila, he offer Dresden his pinched fingers, a few strands caught there. "Is that sufficient?"

"Don't put me in a position where I have to answer that." Whether it's a bluff or a warning or a dare, Harry hisses at his roommate, and pitches his food onto the table pointedly. Contrary to his previous state (rather relaxed, to be honest), the elevator ride and their immediate foray into the topic of killing has drawn his shoulders into a tight line, just like his mouth. John might be locking eyes with him, but he's too contrary to look away. "Why don't you answer that, John. You started it, after all."

While before, he might have been okay with John in his space, he's nothing but bottled tension now. Eyes dark and focused hard on the other man as he moves in close.

"Again, don't put me in that position, you might not like the answer," Harry retorts, but doesn't take the hair yet. Part of him is surprised he didn't have to fight and barter for it, and while another part is extremely wary. Maybe it's the result of dealing with faeries and their machinations on a semi-regular basis. He looks down at the other man, and swallows that glass, and states quietly: "Okay, you know that's not how the game gets played, right? We barter, we haggle until we're in agreement. You name your trade now, or never."

You don't get something for nothing, he means, and in his experience, that's how it goes. Period.

"I did, did I? Mr. Dresden, in the future, do not accuse me of murder unless you are willing to answer for your own sins." His eyes unfocus, as John takes a half-second to remember the face of every person he's killed personally. The ones that get done in by his empire, who get in the way-- that's the price of doing business. But for every time John has pulled that trigger himself, he remembers. Nonetheless, he says in a quieter, private voice: "I sleep well at night. If you don't, I consider that a shame." And that is as kind as John will be on the topic.

John... blinks. He's offered it freely, perhaps in part to smooth the feathers he's just ruffled, but Dresden... Well. It does make sense. Gard's never found anything concrete regarding Dresden's connections to Winter, but everyone in the supernatural community knows that the wizard has tangled himself deep in Faerie, and on all sides. That he is still alive and relatively autonomous is a testament to how well Dresden plays the game.

John is quiet for a stretch of time, staring Dresden in the eye, making him watch. If Dresden is going to pull this, then he will watch John consider every angle and measure the weight of every favor he could extort from this man. What is being offered is piece of mind for Dresden with the caveat that he could use this token to control John or hurt him or even kill him. It's not cheap, and it's Dresden's own goddamn fault for blowing off a gift freely given without obligation.

Then.

John smiles, wide with his teeth, like something about to bite.

"I am too tired to dance, Harry," John says wickedly. "Say please."

Edited 2012-11-26 06:20 (UTC)

Harry bares his teeth, all blind rage and vehement denial of the idea that the title of murderer might actually apply to him. He'll insist to death that he was a fighter, not a murderer. And that would wind up playing into John's earlier words about self-defense and that lot. Rather than wind himself up any further, he hisses through his teeth - were he an animal, his hackles would be up. As it is, he makes due with the tension in his shoulders and the wildfire in the irises of his eyes. Quietly, he opens his mouth to retort - probably something about how John's face is a shame... and then he just shuts his mouth, and looks away.

That's all he's got, so he tried to close that book before they wind up at each other's throats. It's hard to get away, even in an apartment that's bigger than his back in Chicago. Sure, he could hide in his room, but that was childish (not that he hadn't ever been childish before). Stomp his feet? Slam the door? Not that he'd had a childhood where he'd been able to do that. That was what normal kids did, right?

When John finally names his damn price, it's like Harry melts. Something within him equates freebies as something untrustworthy, and leads him to plant his feet firmly on the ground only when someone wants something from him, of him, or him. A motley of emotions crosses his face, because he wears them as a damn shield: relief, is the first, followed by vague annoyance because he knows exactly why John asks that.

It doesn't mean he likes John's price, but it's more a petty anger than anything else. Harry chews up the inside of his cheek as he hovers around the words, thinks about how well this balances them. "Please," and quietly, he gives the word (and its loaded, personal meaning to them both) up.

It is no surprise to John that Dresden is somewhat well known for being easy to manipulate. His tells are vivid and obvious, and setting him off can be done in five words or less. The cognitive dissonance is absolutely remarkable; Dresden can be so very careful with his words, knowing the price of loose lips. But at the same time, he's completely devoid of deception. His emotions and thoughts can be read on his face and in the set of his shoulders. Perhaps John is too close, having seen what is hidden behind amber-brown eyes. Or Dresden is just very lucky that when dealing with the supernatural, it is the letter and not the spirit that will take your soul.

And John has clearly cast his chip correctly. He can see the tension drain out of Dresden when his price is set. It's remarkable to see, as though that please has been as good for him as it has for John, even considering how reluctantly as it was given all those years ago before the Deeps.

He will never have Dresden. He knows this, and has known it since that night at his Winnetka estate with the loup-garou. But the idea has never lost its appeal, even a decade later. Instead, his want for the wizard has mellowed into something less domineering and petty, into a warm give-and-take that John indulges in mercilessly. Nathan has always been quick to point out how stupid John gets with the wizard and how they are fortunate that their paths only cross on occasion.

Now, on this island away from home, he's spent more time in Dresden's company than the rest of his life combined. He can almost feel the madness Dresden gives him settling in for the long haul, like something chronic and deadly.

John wonders if there is some equivalent fever on Dresden's side.

"Pretty please." And to hell with drawing it out; they both know what he wants. "With a cherry on top."

Harry is fantastic at missing out on what's right in front of his nose, but making up for it in the long run. That's part of why he's known as a loaded gun, just point and shoot. His strong suit is the safety features he's installed on himself (control issues, his stark morality) and the fact that he'll see the situation completely in the end. He might even catch up with the bullet. For someone particularly easy to rile and soothe, he is just as good at subtle, unconscious manipulation games. A man with power and a strange charisma - just look at his allies, just look at his enemies.

Look at John Marcone, for that matter.

It's at the point that John makes his actual demand that Harry drops his arms and turns sideways, stepping into the other man's space with hackles raised but... comfort in the corners his eyes. He takes comfort in their exchanges, as it's something that hasn't changed, even though their setting has. "Pretty please," he growls, low and deep and clearly forcing the words out. That's what John wants, after all. That's what he wanted years ago, but Harry had chosen to cuss him out instead because he knew John would do what he was asked to anyways.

It's a madness in him too, because all the dark, spiteful energy dissipates when he puts something saccharine and charming into his words and reaches for the hair in John's hand at the completion of his request: "With that goddamn cherry on top."

And that...

It is a visage that John has only imagined before. His mind is like a steel trap, trained to remember every thing he sees in case it could be of use later. He has seen Dresden with a cocksure smile and hate burning in his eyes. He's seen him laid on the shore, breathing hard with skin damp from river water. He's seen his face set for battle, the unshakable focus, like fire given consciousness. He's seen him laugh cruelly and seen him stare with wonder at a display of John's dexterity.

Snapshots and images that John has held over the years.

This is new. Dresden's eyes are at peace, but that drive is still there, and the angle of his smile is mocking, promising all kinds of damage. He is a burning match, and John feels very much like something volatile. It could take as little as a brush of skin to set them alight...

He is forgetting himself. This is not his estate in Winnetka, a solid mile from anyone else, and this is not his penthouse on the Gold Coast where it is just him, a tumbler of something expensive, and the city. This is a cramped apartment that he must share with Dresden, who knows him all too well for him to let his mind wander.

His indulgence is that he grabs Dresden's hand, opens the palm and presses his strands of hair there. Like this, his thumb can press subtly against the pulse there as he meets the wizard's gaze dead-on.

This is what unobservant people think: that a heart can skip a beat. Not so. But it feels like it does when it first begins to race.

"It is forever a pleasure doing business with you, Warden Dresden," John says in a quiet tone that is the more urbane cousin to the rumbling growl Dresden gives him.

If the thumb pressed against his wrist is seeking evidence, then John won't be disappointed. Harry is notorious for using his emotions as a weapon - not at hiding them, disguising them or lying about them for what they are. There's a lot of heavy-duty lockdown he'd have to do to prevent them from being what they are, and on display for all to see - and that's just not in his nature. It takes a moment though (that flicker of a moment where his eyes dart to where their hands are flattened one to the other and isn't that so like a mirror what are they really to each other?), but his eyes travel back to John's, and settle there.

Every time is like the first time. All he has to do is look at the edges of those green eyes, and he remembers the edges of John's soul. Sharp as a knife, blurring into infinity like some insurmountable odd. You can't climb that mountain and claim it in your name, all you can do is huddle at the base and pray the man will be merciful when the avalanche occurs. And you know it's all your fault when you're buried, and you suffocate under the weight of his goddamn person. Harry doesn't flinch, but John must be satisfied, because Harry's pulse begins to hammer under his thumb.

Not one to back down, he pulls his mouth up into a wide smirk and replies in kind: "Don't oversell it, Marcone." Using the exact tones and words that John had used on him earlier, of course. Harry curls his fingers securely around the hair, and moves vicously: molten rock over a gentle slope as he pulls back.

For a moment, he is sure he has shown his hand. Not that he has gone out of his way to hide it; he has always treated Dresden... in a different manner than he would his other rivals, but Dresden has appeared blissfully ignorant. And earlier, John was not subtle about using his, say, force of personality on the boy at the restaurant. This is a somewhat more extreme instance, with John's exhaustion and the new-found familiarity with Dresden making him sloppy.

But... John decides that he doesn't particularly care if Dresden manages to figure it out. So long as it doesn't dissolve the wizard into a stuttering mess of aggressively heterosexual panic, it doesn't matter.

John steps away, smirking still. "Well then. That's settled. You can stalk me as you please." The idea of Harry following him around, particularly into the places where John has a drink and evesdrops on the patrons, is ridiculous. As if Dresden would know how to comport himself in a club.

"If there's nothing else, I haven't slept in a rather long time."

And whoosh, right over the top of his head. Harry misses the point, and the point lets out a faint whee as it sails off into the distance and the wizard doesn't seem to be concentrating on putting two-and-two together. He's living in a little bower of ignorance. It's safer there.

"Ha ha," Harry mutters, closing his fingers around the hairs carefully. That was one problem down. At least now he'd be able to track Marcone down, in case there was a Situation like the one just now. It put him at relative ease - the idea of doing something unwholesome or unsavory with it simply did not occur to him. For starters, Harry wasn't the sort who pulled covert assassinations. He was a student of the school "you'll be awake, you'll be facing me, and you'll be armed". A painfully noble trait, and not the most intelligent when dealing with a man as cunning as Marcone.

"Go get some sleep," he finally replies, and glances up - almost ready to say something more. Instead, Harry just flaps a hand and wanders off towards their battered couch to crash for an hour or two.

Already, John can see something calm in Dresden. He has the token he wants and it was paid for, in his mind. It is as much a relief for John; living in close quarters with Dresden has not been the smoothest process, and has required no small amount of handling.

This has perhaps been handling the wizard as well, but that's fine. Anything so they don't have to replace any more lightbulbs. And the quite reassurance that should he fall, Dresden will at least know... it's worth the hair.

"Sleep well," John says, and excuses himself to his room, closing the door behind him and at last going to bed.

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to the little room with the broken faucets

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