to the little room with the broken faucets

[forzare]

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.

Comments

[freeholding]

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.