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.
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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.