sirenspull_logs | here is a map with your name for a capital

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here is a map with your name for a capital

Who: team chicago ( dresden & marcone )
When: [BACKDATED] to the evening of 11/27
Where: sector 5, at first
Summary: john gets called to the scene; harry tries to learn from his mistakes
Warnings: Mentions of violence. Will update as necessary.

Moving is a chore and a half, because one leg is still viciously tangled up in the chainlink fence that had previously served as a barrier between himself and the amusement park. That was before being thoroughly thrashed by Mister God Complex. Harry takes a moment to assess the damages, and drags his NV out with one hand - the other's not exactly following his commands. Everything hurts, but he writes out a message and takes a huge risk.

[text: to john marcone
can you cme pick me up
i mean litrly pck me up

follow the prikling on your scalp]

Worst penmanship ever, he thinks, and stuffs the NV back into his pocket. Keep moving, Dresden, or you're going to conk out again. Harry keeps going, reaching for his pocket to make use of the link he had to his roommate. There is a circle. There is a force of will. And then somewhere in the city, Marcone will most likely be feeling the sensation of someone's hands grabbing at his hair oh how rude of the wizard.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

John is on his way home, having learned his lesson about the sirens when something hits him hard enough he nearly swerves off the road.

Pulling off to the side, he claps his hand over the point of contact, only to find nothing there. His skin is unbroken and there's no mark when he checks in the side mirror. It happens again about five seconds later, and now that he's aware of it, it feels like a pull, like someone is yanking on his hair.

John considers that in the space between the phantom tugs against his scalp and it eventually clicks for him. His NV is out of his pocket the next instant and he thumbs the thing out of silent mode.

... Fuck.

The sun is dropping and the wizard's in trouble, and in the opposite direction of the Tower.

John grits his teeth and turns the bike around, opening up the engine and rocketing down the road. The bike makes an ungodly amount of noise, the sort of sound pretentious youths pay too much to have their vehicles modified to make, the motorcycle equivalent of the gaudy spinners put on cars. John's made a ridiculous amount of money back home on people like that.

He depends on the late hour to keep the roads scarce, ignoring traffic signals as he follows that insistent pull at his head.

Of course when Dresden uses his hair to summon him, he does it in the most irritating way possible.

It really isn't like being in the middle of a dangerous and potentially fatal situation is new for him. The credit might go to the wizard, for he's able to lean back a little and keep calm, despite the knowledge that it hadn't just been his ears ringing from the resounding bitch slap, and he doesn't like that his side burns when he draws breath.

Stay steady, he reminds himself, and swallows the wave of fear (he's vulnerable this sucks bring it on darkness he'll flatten what he can just try to take him on) - because John will be there. Right?

He keeps up the brief tugs, playing a game of hot-and-cold dowsing with Marcone, though one deep-drawn breath causes his consciousness to sputter for a moment. But it's in the distance that he hears the rumble of the bike, thank you bike, and he lifts his head, then his arm, defiant of bodily harm to the last. Even if they hadn't spoken to each other in a long time, had been avoiding each other after their last "discussion", it was still to John he called.

Harry waves, but drops his arm with a wince and gets right to business: "You get to admonish me later, okay? Help me get the fence out of my leg, I can't work a hand."

When the tugging stops, John burns rubber bringing the bike to a halt and looking around. It's dark, too dark, and while John isn't afraid, there is a dread starting to seep into him. Quietly, he has been cataloging the weaknesses of the buildings around them, thinking about what he can break into quickly without wrecking any of the safety measures. He's slept in stairwells, waiting out the night.

That idea evaporates when he finds the fucking wizard wrapped up in the chain links of a godforsaken fence.

John can hear the sirens winding up and moves fast as a snake, sliding off the bike and over the sidecar's hull to the hatch on its side. There's tools in there, enough to pick a lock or jack a car or make hell for a tail. He has wire cutters out in a second. When he moves to Dresden, he doesn't pretend to not be in a rush. To hell with appearances-- there's no time.

"I'll admonish you now. I can multitask," John snaps, angry but calm. He's on a mission, and there is only so far he can be rattled in this state of mind. It's compartmentalized, kept in a lock box at the back of his mind. You can lose your composure later. "It was Castiel, wasn't it?" John's hand trace the points where the metal's dug into Harry's leg, and he's not going to bother trying to safely remove it. He starts clipping the fence away a link and a half above the impact area.

The wave seems to have taken the rest of of his usual defiance out of him, because he clams up and focuses hard on assessing the rest of the damage. No, screw that. It's the fencing holding him down, and that'll have to go if they want time to figure out what's liquefied or broken inside of him. He can taste blood on his lips, and he doesn't want to know if it was his nose or a head wound - he wants out, he wants out, he wants out.

Calling John was a huge risk, not because it would incur another damnable debt, but because it put both of them at risk. Not just Harry, because it was stupid and he'd been dumb and ah-- hindsight is always twenty-twenty.

"If that's actually his name, then yes." The wizard helps however he can, getting his unwounded hand into the links of the fence to hold it steady while John cuts. Pain is something he's familiar with, and he's fully capable of remaining silent and hard-eyed as he watches. Watches and holds it together until he's free, and then Harry's on his feet as fast as he can, holding a hand to his chest and the other to the fencing. "Drive. If anything comes at us, I'll shoot it down."

Even in the dark, the red on Dresden's lips is bright, heightened by the paleness of his skin. John's jaw hurts from being clenched so hard. Part of him wants to kill the wizard himself for being so combative in a place where they decidedly don't have the home field advantage.

"Christ, wait a moment," John growls and just abandons the cutter on the ground to seize Dresden before he falls down. "Don't move your leg with a fence embedded in it, you imbecile." Dresden has always seemed to have a remarkably high pain tolerance-- he perhaps didn't realize how deep the wounds are.

John manhandles Dresden, to hell with the man's personal space issues. An arm goes around his chest, tucked under the shoulder for leverage, and John's other lifts Dresden from the thighs. The man is not light, but there is a reason that John keeps his body in the shape he does. "Lean on my shoulder," he grunts before hefting Dresden to the sidecar, trying to let his leg hang loosely.

They barely have any advantage, compounded by the fact that both of them are abrasive when it comes to how they interact with the city. Not the people, because the people are all-too-often in the same situation. But the Port itself (and the two headliner groups) is like sandpaper against an open wound. Harry has never been good with change, and his hostility towards Castiel was the both result of days upon weeks of pent-up stress and pure frustration.

"I got it--!" Apparently, he doesn't, because Marcone has hands on him, and for a brief moment, Harry forgets where he is and what the hell just happened and hisses in pain and in warning, hot enough for a wisp of smoke to curl from the corner of his mouth before he settles down. There's not much room to bitch about it, and he swallows whatever pride he's got and leans on the man he'd called for help. Hah, there was a first.

Harry pulls himself to the back of the sidecar, putting a hand back on the fencing half-welded into his leg to keep it as still as he can. He doesn't need to bleed all over Marcone's bike. "Sorrysorry," another low hiss, as his head lolls back for a moment. Whether he's apologizing for the situation, or the art of bleeding - who knew. The muscle in his jaw working before he twists, setting his teeth against the pain. Whimper later, is the motto in his eyes, you deserved what you got. "Go," he commands sharply, "don't worry about breaking laws, they won't even- empty fucking night ow- see us."

And John should've seen it. Perhaps would have if he elected to be in Dresden's company for more than a five minute span lately. He knows the man so well, it's almost like the wizard's temperament is an extension of himself. If he'd noticed Dresden's stress becoming so stark-- but he didn't, and thinking about it will do nothing.

John barks a laugh at the thought. "There aren't any traffic cops out in the Darkness, Dresden," John informs him. He's driven late in the evening and knows that people don't pull you over for a ticket when the sirens are starting up. "Hang on." Hang in there.

John fucking vaults onto the bike and tears them away from the curb, taking the turn as wide as he can, thinking of Dresden's leg. As soon as the front wheel is pointed towards the Tower, he accelerates so hard, the front wheel lifts an inch off the ground before thumping back down.

Here it comes, the darkness that has its own weight to it. It's slow, but it's coming, and John cannot force the engine to go faster than it already is. He hates this fucking island, this Darkness, and the way Dresden seems to be having problems holding his head up. He is not losing his goddamned wizard. Not like this.

Edited 2012-12-01 06:15 (UTC)

Not that Harry's going to blame John. What's said and done is said and done, arguing over old news isn't going to help either of them. Pointing fingers won't either, so it's right to forgetting that they had barely spoken since their last argument, barely been in the same room. And while the distance was easier to live with when there was an entire city between them, the fact that they lived within feet of each other, on a goddamn island, with no way out? It made silence and separation difficult.

Damn it, he had not grown attached to the other man.

"The Darkness is in the Darkness," Harry snaps back eloquently, if only because his anger is keeping him from closing his eyes. The wounds aren't life-threatening. Pain and anger keep him as alert as can be, though his eyes unfocus when he sits up and leans into the wind, words tumbling off his tongue like mist. He can't muffle the sound completely, but the world might go a little foggy at the edges as he pulls a veil down around them.

Hey, twenty rounds of hide-and-seek with the Carpenter kids teaches an old dog new tricks. He stifles a cough, because that hurts his side (and he can't tell if it's his ribs, or if the fencing had torn more than just his leg). This would be humiliating if he wasn't Harry fucking Dresden, and didn't feel wholly alive when he was half-dead and the odds were stacked against him.

John is fine with Dresden lashing out at him. The man looks awful, and at the very least, his need to have the last word against John will keep him alive. "Your gift for observation is always inspiring," he says back, not so much because he cares, but to give Dresden something to focus on. It's when he stops talking back that John will worry.

The city is a blur of grey and descending Darkness as the sirens begin to taper off. John's heart is beating fast, but he breathes out slow and calm, dropping into a deep well of concentration. His mind is quiet but for a few clear thoughts. One is a mental map of the Port, one that he hasn't realized he's pieced together. he was so determined to not learn the island's roads, but in this moment, the knowledge comes to him easy.

Under that is a litany: I'm not here, they can't see me, I'm moving to fast, I'm not here. It's repetitive and instinctual, looping over and over in his mind, somehow seeming stronger with every reiteration.

They reach the Tower sooner than John anticipates, and John skids to a halt in the middle of the lot, to hell with the parking space. The abrupt stop rocks the entire bike, and John says, "Sorry," quick and quiet, knowing the harsh treatment must hurt Harry.

"Oh no," Harry finally warbles, his concentration faltering as he realizes something. He's a fucking mess, beaten halfway to hell and back, but all he can say is: "I ruined the nice pants you got me." The words are slurred, and he sounds honestly miserable that this is the case. Not that he's hurt, and the Darkness is still coming, but that he's gone and ruined the pants John bought him. In that moment, his focus flutters, and he is forced to shake his head, fighting to stay awake to the last.

It actually helps when John slides them into the parking lot, and Harry bounces off the side of the sidecar with an annoyed ow and a delirious whee.

The wizard drags himself from his spot, putting weight on his leg as carefully as he can while he observes their surroundings. He can't focus on a veil at this point, which means it's spell-slinging if things come down to it. Harry grumbles, and takes a deep, steadying breath and readies his good hand to do some menacing to get them to the front door. Without warning, he menaces, flinging a wave of force abruptly at a pit of Darkness in his peripherals.

It plasters his back to John's side, his good arm stretched out across the man's chest in defense. "Got your back," he explains softly, and jerks his head to the front door.

John's circling around to Harry before the bike stops rocking from its inertia. It's almost black out, and John wants to get them inside now or sooner. "How dare you," he says, barely thinking about the words, just determined to keep Dresden talking. "I'll buy you that dress, the red one. That'll teach you."

His eyes shoot wide when Harry unleashes a spell, trying to see what it hit. It doesn't matter, not really, but the morbid curiosity is there. Shaking himself, John catches Dresden. For a second, he considers picking the man up again... The door to the building is only twenty feet off; that's doable.

"I told you not to put weight on it," John growls and sets about picking Harry up in the same haphazard but effective carry. Once they get inside, he can take his time getting Dresden safely up to the apartment, but haste first.

"Don't you fucking dare," Harry snarls back, though his voice is weak and the fire in his eyes is half-buried. He clings to the anger though, half-conscious of John's attempts to keep him from collapsing in the parking lot, where the two of them will be most vulnerable. John could make it though, Harry wouldn't let him stick around and suffer from his mistakes. The sheer irony of his need to protect a man he'd otherwise be jonesing to see the end of makes him laugh, a wet, hard sound in his chest.

Without prompting, he leans on Marcone, making a nuisance of himself as he twists against the man, craning to keep eyes on the creeping, crawling Darkness (it'd be right near the door that they'd get it that's how it happens right when you think you're home free the monsters come). Harry lashes out, shoving more force from his rings at a patch of blackness that comes too close to his likeness.

Then the front door. Then shoving it shut. Then Harry drops to his knees, but only then, laughing and shaking and uttering faint apologies for being such an idiot. "At least--," he wheezes, "at least you couldn't see all the blood against the dress!" Apparently this is hysterical to him, because he loses it for a moment longer before reaching up for John.

"Help me." Half an order, half a plea - entirely Harry.

Harry is bleeding on the floor.

That's dangerous, and John should get him inside. The entryway is tiled, and his blood will linger. Someone could collect some, make a thauma.... a magical link. Hurt him when he's already down.

By now, John's working mechanically, stimulus and response. Dresden's on the floor. So help him up and set him against the wall.

The blood. Nothing to clean it with and no time. Grab a handful of dirt from the withered potted plant in the entryway and cast the dirt into the puddle, swirling it with the toe of a boot until its useless.

The plea strums a chord in John's chest, and it hums and vibrates long and loud and painful. The laughter is too wet and the words are too out of control.

"I've got you," John says quietly, coming back to Dresden. Now, he wants to be careful. The man is pale and weak and approaching delirium. There's no way to know if it's from the pain or blood loss. Either is bad news.

Thank god for the hours he's spent in the gym every week back in Chicago, along with the exercising he does every morning here in the Port. He certainly needs the muscle strength today. John takes extra care this time, settling the wizard's long, limp weight across his arms before lifting him off the ground. Walking slowly, mindful of his balance, he gets them into the elevator. "Since I'm the one paying for it, you'll wear it and you'll like it," John says, still just in hopes of keeping Harry lucid for a while longer. He'll need to catalog the injuries shortly.

'Tis only a flesh wound, John.

At least, were Harry a telepath, that's what he'd tut over. All he can do is use the wall as a crutch, steadying the fencing with a hand again as the other man busies himself with erasing the trail, eradicating something that could be used against him. The image burns into Harry's eye, and surprise is writ across his brow. He might be disoriented, but he understands what it is that John just did for him - and it speaks volumes.

"You're giving me a piggy back," Harry titters from his perch on the other's back. It's hysterical to him, the idea of being tucked up on John's spine like this, wounded arm stubbornly wrapped around firm shoulders while the other does its best not to let the chainlink remains bash against the doorway in the elevator. "I won't wear a dress," he continues to contest the idea, clinging to the idealizations he has about keeping his 'pride as a man'. "With my track record, it'd be ruined within an hour."

"So I am," John mutters, hitting the button for six. The elevator moves, but slowly, and it rubs at him like sandpaper. Just another little inconvenience. He hates this place, right now. "Maybe if you deigned to have normal body proportions like the rest of us."

And now, with Dresden down, they're going to be stuck here regardless.

It's good that John's face isn't visible to Harry, because the face he pulls then is one of unsuppressed fury and frustration. His teeth are bared and he sees red for a moment. But as ever, John taps it down, gets a lock on it. There's no point to it. Best to skip the impotent anger when there's better things to do.

The elevator opens and John gets them down the hall to the door. He lets go of Dresden's undamaged leg to unlock and open the door. "Then naked it is. And December closing in. Hope you have a ward against frostbite."

Harry gets deposited on John's bed before John darts back to lock up behind them and grab the suspiciously well-stocked first aid kit.

Harry murmurs into John's shoulder, and it sounds a little like: "M'sorry." It's just barely audible, and he offers it because it's really difficult not to be hyper-aware of the way the way the man's muscles bunch up at his neck and shoulders when Harry is pretty much draped over them. He isn't sorry about picking a fight, because that's part of who he is - rebellion wrapped in defiance wrapped in a lifetime's worth of bad choices. He's not sorry about how battered he is, because eh, that's normal and he'll heal.

Harry's sorry that all he's done is further burden his roommate, when he should have been getting them home to Chicago.

Still bleary, he mumbles after John when the man drops him off and keeps himself moving. The purpose of motion is all-too familiar to Harry, who runs when he's agitated, who walks when he doesn't want to think of difficult things, who paces in circles when he wakes in the wee hours of the morning and has to manage a miniature crisis. He shakes his head, waving the first aid kit off. He must be delirious to do so.

"I'm sorry." He repeats it again, reaching out to catch the sleeve of John's jacket. "I screwed you over. Again."

John's eyes go distant. There are emotions welling in him-- anger and worry and a furious need to go find who did this and destroy them with the sort of ferocity that he tends to save for his worst enemies. But not now. Later.

He can see he's losing Dresden's attention, the clarity in the wizard's eyes fading out. He needs rest, and John wants to let him have it, but there are other things to attend to first. It pains him to do so, but he sets the first aid box aside and gets on his knees in front of Dresden, looking to catch his eyes and make it easy for the battered man.

"Listen to me," John says in the sort of tone that leads mobsters and vikings alike. He slaps his hands lightly against Harry's cheeks, then holds his face there, cupped between his palms. "I have no quarter for this. I don't want your apologies, nor do I need them. Whether you have realized it or not, we are in this fucking Port together, and we are all each other has. There is no room for debts or obligations here."

He shakes Harry's face a little, just to see that his pupils are tracking John's own. "You are injured. I am going to take care of you. But you need to tell me where you're hurt."

We are in this fucking Port together.

Together. The irony of that is like a kick to the stomach. Here he is, sitting in an apartment that isn't his, with a roommate that - most of the time - he can't stand to be around. Put them back in Chicago and none of this would even be. But here, thousands upon god-knows-what-realities-are-measured-in miles, all he has is the man he'd always marked as his enemy.

It's not even a lesser of two evils moment, sitting there with his face in between Marcone's hands - eyes flicking back and forth in obvious confusion. Certainly, he listens. That, in itself, was the amazing thing - even Harry shuts his mouth when John commands it of him. Just like the time in his office, when nervous hands had darted for every available weapon, and John's sharp command had prevented needless bloodshed.

No room for debts or obligations. The distance in Harry's eyes sharpens (there's a variety of emotions first, all at once: confusion, fear, disbelief, distrust, pain--), and he breathes in what might be relief. "Okay," he agrees, and gestures to his hand, to his ribs, to his leg. Those are the problem areas, and then Harry reaches up to pry John off his face.

Ah. There he is. John smiles, a hint of relief in the quirk of his lips. Which is fine; Harry is dazed, and probably will not remember this later. But John will. A command from him rooting Harry back in himself, calming him, banishing some of the dullness in his eyes. It's a comfort, that he can direct this obstinate man when push finally comes to shove.

John lets his hands be pulled away. He has better things to attend to.

Medical scissors are sharp as throwing knives, and its no trouble to cut Harry's shirt off him. The denim of his pants is harder, but eventually comes apart with a musical tear. He's effectively made Harry's pants into a pair of Daisy Dukes, and it'd be amusing if not for the ugly injuries.

Triage. None of the problem areas are bleeding that profusely as clotting finally sets in. Chest, then. "I'll take care of your ribs, then you can lie down while I do the rest," John tells him before touching. His fingers are firm, but careful, tracing each of Harry's ribs, looking for breaks.

While he flounders, trying to keep his head above the pain, John's fingers across his ribs bring even Harry to wincing. He's quiet though, biting his lip hard in adamant refusal to make any more sounds of pain. Neither does he close his eyes, cataloging his own injuries with a distance that can only be learned. You're not born to remain silent when you hurt. He sits there and shuts his mouth, because then John can work.

However, he can't stop brief twitches when the man hits tender spots, his good leg jerking up a fraction of an itch. It's like playing a game of cold and that hurts don't do that.

"I can help." The offer is made only because he's gotten real good at stitching himself up over the years. "Because if I lay down, I'm going to be out cold. Just let me help, it'll go faster that way."

John knows that feeling. When a fomor wizard attacked his offices, he broke his arm, was diced up rather neatly, and didn't say a word. But that was in front of an enemy and people who weren't Nathan Hendricks. Stoicism is the face of pain is a remarkable talent. But at the moment, unneeded. "Don't bite through your tongue," John murmurs. "And if you don't show where its hurting you, I cannot bandage you properly."

At Harry's suggestion, John gives him a dull, unamused look. Then lifts Harry's good arm, stretching it out, and holding him by the bicep for a moment. His arm held out might not be immediately significant, but John nods to the hand that is very clearly shaking. "As much as I appreciate the offer."

It doesn't take long to apply some medicinal cream to the man's ribs, then wrap his torso. "You're lucky. Just bruised ribs, perhaps a few minor cracks. They'll hurt, but heal on their own if you avoid agitating them."

Once finished with that, John pulls the top covers down the bed and puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, urging him back. "You can lay here until I handle your hand and leg. Then I'll move you to your bed. It'll be less bloody."

"I'm not biting my tongue," he grits his teeth and speaks tersely through them, coming back from encapsulating guilt to vague anger. He won't boil over, he's too tired and too banged up - but he can give John a few tight quips and complaints as his ribs twinge. It's almost a fucking melody, to go right along with the symphony of aches and pains that are becoming more and more distinct now that the adrenaline rush is fading away.

And John is still fucking poking.

Harry looks at his hand, and seems to be surprised that his hand shakes the way it is. It drives the point home quickly, and he sighs, soft and low. Can't be much help with shaky hands, can he? Not that the hand that still works is much good when it comes to fine motor control - he still wears a glove over the burn scars. It just means he's slowly running out of ways to protest; which means he literally has to entrust himself, vulnerable as he is, to John.

The thought might have been daunting once upon a time, but spending as long as he had in the other man's company was bound to start shifting the bricks he'd used to build the wall between himself and Gentleman John Marcone who is anything but gentle with those haNDS OH HELL.

"Ow," Harry bitches, and lies back carefully. He can't even prop himself up on his elbows, and tucks his head to one side, trying not to make a nuisance of himself any more than he already has. He groans, and covers his face with his one semi-working hand. "Stars, I fucked up your bed too." Harry almost admits that he owes John big time, but remembers words that were just spoken to him and tries not to feel like a the kid teetertotter who's partner just up and left. It's weird.

"Sorry," John mutters quickly, and tries to ease Harry's transition to horizontal. It's hard to get a hold of the man, no scrap of skin unbruised, no place to brace that will not pull tender muscles. He'll take time to be furious about that later. But Harry settles eventually, and John only spends a moment seeing to his comfort (shift the pillow so Harry'll breathe air, not cotton, and pull the rest of the covers off the bed wholesale).

Then he's digging into the aid kit again and producing a bottle of clear liquid and a syringe, a packaged sterile needle, wrapped thread, and antiseptic. "If you have any medical oddities or conditions I need to know about, now's the time. I'll give you a local for the suturing, and the lack of pain might help you rest." Which would be for the best. He can work while Harry's out or at least drifting, and maybe the man would stop with his quiet noises of despair. They're distracting, and John doesn't have the time to take care of them while Harry is slowly staining the sheets muddy red.

John sits on the bed next to Harry and spreads a clean towel on his lap before carefully setting Harry's maimed hand on it. There is dirt and blood everywhere, and John sets to cleaning up the wound as best he can. "I'll take the sofa." That's if he leaves Harry's side tonight. "Want to repay me? Don't ask any questions or make any jabs about the high-grade medical supplies." In his defense, he stole them from an SERO group, not the hospital. But morphine and other premium chemicals aren't exactly on the shelf at the local pharmacy.

Medical oddities or conditions? Harry holds up a finger to signal that he needs a moment - and then waves a hand to dismiss the question. He'll heal; in fact, he'll heal well and faster than most, especially since he knows he can't stay bedridden, he cannot take forever to knit and mend because he needs to get back out there. It's raw determination to pick himself up and get moving that takes him over now, and breathes out hard.

"At the moment, I'm glad we have medical supplies." Lord knows one of them wasn't remiss about being prepared. Then again, John is the man who has always been scary-prepared and Harry's relatively known for making shit up on the fly. It works for them both, surprisingly. But working together was more important now. If that was what John was asking, then Harry could give it to him. It's actually a comfort to know what was wanted of him. Enough so that he's even able to close his eyes along with his mouth and just let John patch him up.

Without any conditions to complicate things, the damage is fairly straightforward, albeit severe. John has seen worse, a mark of the territory he ruled.

He can see Harry finally relax, and it's too much like the incident with John's hair for John to ignore. This level of neurosis is remarkable, but perhaps to be expected from someone like Dresden. Outside of his clutch of friends, every kindness has a price tag attached to it. And even with their unique circumstances, John is not a friend, is barely an ally.

That's fine. He's used to that, with Dresden.

John tends to the hand first. The damage looks much worse than it is. There was scratches and lacerations, enough to bleed profusely, but once the worse of the grim and blood is wiped away, there's not much to be stitched up. He cleans the cuts and applies cream before wrapping it loosely in gauze and resting the hand carefully on Harry's chest.

Moving down, he starts on the leg. It's worse, easily, but not as bad as he feared. The fence is ugly splitting Harry's skin, but it went straight in and didn't hit bone.

John looks up, checks on Harry resting, and gets to work, applying the local to numb the area before getting to the gruesome part. To distract Harry or himself, he also starts talking. As out of it as the wizard is, he might not even remember this later.

"You can take your time," he says quietly. "There is no rush here. You don't have an obligation to me, and we aren't on a time table. It's something I learned a while ago, but haven't... mentioned. Perhaps because I am still trying to deal with it. But we aren't losing time. Chicago isn't spinning out of control in our absence." He stops, mouth suddenly dry. "For us, time is suspended while we are missing. Which makes sense, given the nature of the Ways and such. Time dilation and manipulation isn't unheard of." He's silent a moment. "So... take your time. We can figure out our next move when you've recovered."

Because John has no idea anymore.

Well, come to think of it, by this point in his life, Harry's come to the conclusion that he had a problem with communication. To put it lightly, he was shit at it. He doesn't know if it's the pain or the sudden wash of painkiller, but there's a heck of a lot of woulda, coulda, shoulda's tumbling about in his head while John cleans his words.

The irony is that, those, he keeps to himself.

The local sedates him enough so that he doesn't think to try and talk. Pretty sure if he tried, it'd be a garbled stream of consciousness that would either piss John off or confuse him. About all he can do is watch the ceiling go furry in the corners of the room and oh, John's talking while he works and his hands are knife. Harry either will remember snippets of conversation, or the entire thing will be a blur - regardless, he does communicate while John talks absently to him. At best he can, at least, as his voice is sluggish and it takes him forever to turn his head so that he can look at the other while he works and maybe even think before he talks.

"We float on," he lifts his good hand, rocking it a little through the air. Yeah, that's right. That's the hardest part. Being stuck on an island with its own set of chronometry, distinct from their own reality. At least, that's what Harry can understand: they'll float on, and when (not if, he's not at the point where 'when' has become 'if') they return... well. That'll be hard too.

Even though it's his bad hand that's closest to John, he reaches out with it and bumps his bandaged knuckles over the man's shoulder. He'd grab it if he was dexterous enough, but about all he can do is hook his fingers loose into John's shirt and hang on. It might be the local loosening his tongue, or making him less prone to prickle at the thought of 'compromising his morals' or maybe he's starting to reach the point where he's realizing his morals are worth shit when this is where he winds up.

"We're gonna' be okay." He mumbles, because addle-brained as he is, he's been stuck for nearly a month in Marcone's company and they've long since known what each other is made of. He's been filling the corner of his mind that John's soul lives in with his mannerisms and tone-of-voice and gestures and the muscles in his shoulders and however briefly they bunch is a great give-away to how upset he is. Oblivious he might be, but not when he actually pays attention. "She's not going anywhere without us."

Of course he means Chicago. He means it more for John than himself, because he's always had feet that like to travel. Chicago is where he made his home, but it's been John's only option. Her streets are sunk into his skin, and maybe it's the local that makes it all sort of click - just how important the city is to Marcone and why he does what he does. It's just such a fucking pity his evening will be such a blur, and all Harry will feel is the encompassing sense that he lost something so vital, despite knowing how to best carry on.

He doesn't let go of John's shirt, and watches him with glassy eyes and sudden, overflowing sympathy.

"Yet another of Harry Dresden's famously well-considered plans," John says, tone completely devoid of bite. Float on, as if that's an option. Drifting. Aimless. The idea is already rooting under John's skin like something parasitic and deadly. He doesn't do floating. He does being made of steel and gunpowder and having a target. A gun without a target's no more than a useless showroom piece. He never expected or want that for himself. It was always his intention to die doing his job. Not in fucking Canada, time locked away from home.

When the stitches go in, Harry's leg already looks better. There is red and pink puffed skin, and the blue of his veins is worryingly bright, but besides the incongruous black stitches, he looks almost whole again. The local is lingering, maybe long enough to let Harry sleep; when John touches his finger new the leg wounds, Harry doesn't even flinch.

He's not expecting Harry to feebly grab him, especially not with a hand almost immobile in gauze. It catches the attention, how Harry's long fingers peak out from the white wrap and curl in John's shirt. For once, John doesn't do anything to contain his fond smile. There is enough fog in Harry's eyes to coat the Chicago River on an autumn morning, and John assumes he's floating himself, aloft on that medical haze.

John holds Harry's grasping hand carefully and breathes though the sentiment. That Chicago will wait for him. It's a small comfort, when he is not sure how to-- there's just not a lot in him that isn't branded with layers of the Grey City's color. So much of it has built up in him over the years, willfully accepted as part of his body's machinery, that the idea of scraping away to see what's underneath, what is left outside of Chicago inspires a bone-deep fear in him, one he wasn't sure he was even capable of anymore.

Exhaling hard, John bends down enough to press Harry's hand against his cheek. His eyes are closed and he focuses on the man like he's the only thing left in the universe. The mental gymnastics John has undergone to make it all right to let Harry Dresden live are ridiculous. Such insolence and such clear and present danger is not tolerated in the citizens of the city, not when Chicago's stability depends on John. He should have hired a discrete sniper and taken Harry out back when the Shroud happened, if not earlier.

But he's told himself that Harry is a part of the city. As much a fixture as the Cloud Gate or the Tribune Tower. More similar to the L-- something vital to keeping the city's heart beating.

In a way-- a self-deluded way built up carefully over the years until its become a safety catch holding John's efficient wrath back-- Harry is a piece of the city. He's the only piece John has left.

This must be what a binding feels like. To feel the full force of your obsessions and your will shift focus and rest upon something else. Someone else.

There is no possible way for this to go badly, John thinks to himself with a dark smirk.

Then he gets up and helps Harry sit. "Come on. Other bed. Then you can sleep."

Harry lifts a hand and waves it, sloppy and idle through the air as though attempting to be an overeager student. Save for his drugged to the gills and can't coordinate thought to motion. Somehow, he manages to turn the wave into a gesture, ah. To himself. He's been trying to point to himself, which is ultimately needless because it looks like John hasn't looked away from him once. Now he's watching with those bright, pretty-green eyes of his and Harry would like to reach out and put a finger over one of John's eyelids for the hell of it.

"Super genius," is what he manages to drawl, in reference to his obviously amazing plan to stay afloat and not drown. Think ships, not balloons, John. Don't punch holes in his ship, he'd rather not drown.

Unfortunately, he misses the shift in John's attentions. The sudden clarity of focus goes right over his head. He'd just like to hang onto his shirt and maybe, oh, okay he can pat John's face too. Comforting. He can do the comforting thing, it doesn't take much thought. Wordless noises of sympathy and gentle passes of the unbandaged tips of his fingers over the side of the Baron's face. Hey, he wants to say, I've got your back. But that's a silly thought because saying that changes the dynamics of their ~~relationship~~ ~~acquaintanceship~~ ~~partnership~~ fucking ships what good are they. It changes the dynamic of John and him up in new and interesting ways that Harry notes he's not terrible adverse to.

What he manages is a groan, because John's sitting him up and trying to remove him from the surroundings he'd just gotten used to. "Not tired," he complains vaguely, but hooks an arm around the other man's shoulders and attempts to use him as leverage to stand up and obey the command. Too out of it to argue for once. "What about you?"

All right, epiphany over. The horizon has changed, his compass still points to Chicago, but the relative Chicago has been redefined. Really, not much has changed. For John, anyway. That Harry doesn't notice the full weight of John's regard on him is a miracle of modern medicine. Ah, the power of drugs.

John smiles wanly as Harry-- pets him? It's nice, to have Harry touch him without a shadow of violence or looming trepidation. It's probably going to be bad for him in the long run, his refocusing of his energy being positively reinforced. When Harry wakes up, drugs leaving his system, he will be far less free with his affection.

John looks down at the man for a moment: battered, bruised, half covered in gauze, jeans ruined and shirtless, eyes fever bright. This is who he's going to protect. Christ. "You are so, Harry," he chides. "Don't be childish."

Mindful of Harry's leg, John decides he has it in him to do this once more, and that's it; he bends down, sweeps up Harry with an arm under his thighs, another at his back, carefully below the bruised ribs. He sets off for Harry's room, where a clean(ish) bed awaits. "What about me?"

The power of drugs indeed. While Harry's tongue has loosened, his ability to articulate has taken a nosedive and it's left him slurring out half-thoughts and emoting through vague noises and a stray hand gesture towards John as if to say i'm making complete sense don't you see.

He'd like to get to his feet, but John isn't cooperating with him and that's disorienting. So's being picked up again, because the world swims a little more when he doesn't have his feet planted on the ground. He nearly flails, but can't find it in him to do more than mumble in confusion and grab for John's shoulder with his good hand and fist his fingers in his shirt. Where'd the ground go? Where'd you put it, John? Fuck drugs, seriously.

Harry says: "I'll show you 'childish'." Thankfully, he never really gets around to it. Rather, he hovers between wondering if he's going to flop out of John's arms to prove to him that he can totally make the walk himself or hanging on tighter because the ground is still gone. He winds up somewhere closer to hooking an arm around John's neck, attempting to keep his weight balanced (which pretty much meant he didn't squirm about obnoxiously). Hey, see! Real thoughtful-like and everything.

Then his brain catches up with his mouth and he laughs, quick and winces when it jabs at his ribs. It's still funny though, and he deigns to share: "I am so Harry." Oh lord, he's playing at words now. "And you can call me so -- I mean 'Harry'. Yeah, that's okay."

Not that he let go when they got to his room, because even drugged his first reaction is to take a hard look at the single window in the room. Self-preservation somehow overrides even drugs. Save for the usual, faint rattling of glass in its frame behind dark, drawn curtains, all is well (enough). "You've got blood all over your bed," he points out, intelligently. Well yes, and it's his blood but still-- "Where are you going to go?"

Edited 2012-12-12 05:55 (UTC)

He is getting too old to carry overgrown men around in his arms. It's almost fine until Harry wriggles around and curls up to wrap his arm more securely around John. John huffs out a breath, stirring the dark hair that's now almost in his mouth. With an eyeroll, he carries Harry to the bed, not responding lest he wind up with strands of hair caught in his lips. He wants close proximity to the man, but there are still limits, short as they are.

Turning down the bed, he sets Harry down. His arms ache from all the work and carrying and playing medic. The adrenaline from earlier in the night has run completely dry, and John feels tired at last. Almost done, thankfully. The wizard's shirt is gone, along with his shoes and socks. The jeans that John ruined with the scissors need off. He gets on that, keeping his hands steady and clinical as he unbuttons and unzips.

"I have been calling you Harry for some time now," John informs him. He looks up, catches Harry's eyes for the first time in a while (and he will never stop to think about that, how not staring into the man's eyes is far stranger than anything, like they're magnetic opposites pulled to each other). "But your permission is appreciated."

John notices the rattle after a moment, when the noise doesn't fade away like most apartment sounds tend to. His eyes are drawn to the window. Does it do that every night? Does Harry just sleep through it like its nothing? That certainly explains a few things... He will see about buying plywood or something, anything to nail over the window to stop the rattle.

"Your concern is appreciated, but unneeded," John says kindly. Anything to assuage Harry's worries so he'll sleep, for God's sake. "It's still early, relatively speaking. I've got to get rid of the sheets, see if we have any more. If not, the sofa will work for tonight.

"You," he puts a hand on Harry's shoulder, "need to sleep. Get to REM cycle before the pain comes back. Focus on getting better."

"Oh." Well, he'd only just noticed that 'Dresden' had become 'Harry' and was wondering when that had happened and why he honestly didn't care any more. While once it was a way to keep the other at a professional distance, there was absolutely no reason to keep it up on the island. So - permission granted and boundary negated. If they're working together, it'd feel better to be on a first-name basis, right?

Harry's articulate response is swallowed up by his hands, as he covers his face and lets out another stray, muffled noise that's half-exhaustion and half-protest. When he finally pulls his hands away, it's to double-check the window - still faintly rattling in its frame - and try to sit up one last time. John's hand is on his shoulder, and he does fight it. With a lot less fire than usual, but even still.

"One--," he gets a single word out before his brow knits in what can only be pure, drugged determination and he hauls John down (carefully) and fuck it all, he wraps his good arm around the man's shoulders and hangs on. Only it's not hanging on, and he's really not trying to keep John there any longer than he'd like to be. It's just a hug. A very messy, loose hug but the sentiment is there, nevertheless. "--more thing." Harry finishes, his voice muffled into John's shoulder.

His hand drifts to the back of the man's neck, softening in case he doesn't want the embrace or has had enough of suddenly-clingy wizards and their ability to get into way more trouble than they're worth in a matter of weeks. "Thank you." And that's it, really. Not even because he feels like he owes John now, but just - thank you and i'll do better from now on and i have your back i guess that's it before he finally lets go and does his best to behave and go to sleep.

It honestly takes a few seconds for John to figure out what the hell Dresden is doing. When it finally sinks in, John could be knocked over with a feather were he not being help upright by Harry's embrace. He isn't sure what he's done to warrant this, if he just looks that peaky, if Harry has missed his presence, or if Harry is just affectionate when on medication. Whatever it is, John is careful, like the moment will break apart at the slightest nudge.

He bows his head, resting against Harry's shoulder, and places his hand lightly against the space between shoulder blades. It's a... nice moment.

John huffs out a breath and says, "If you fall asleep on me, I will not take kindly to it." But there's no threat there, not really.

He helps Harry lay down as much as he can, even pulling the blankets up around him once he's settled. And if he had to fight tooth and nail to get please out of the man, a thank you was even more unexpected. John smiles.

"I would say 'anytime,' but let's not encourage you to get yourself maimed by faux-gods." He lays his hand on Harry's forehead for a beat, brushing the hair back. Then, "Sleep."

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