"Marcone is a neat freak." Harry supplies cheerfully, casting a look around the apartment. "By that, I mean he's all about first and second and third impressions." Were he living by himself, the place would have been decidedly messy. If anyone acted like the textbook definition of bachelor, it was Harry Dresden when he was all on his own. Thankfully, having a roommate seems to have done him some measure of good. He keeps his stuff out from underfoot, folds his own clothes and even manages to make his bed. Sort of.

His leg is starting to twinge, and he smooths a hand over the bandages irritably, as though trying to soothe a fitful animal. It's so absurd, how disconnected he is with his own body. "It sounds like a nicer faerie world than the one I'm familiar with, that's for sure." As though to emphasize his disdain for his personal dalliances with faeries, he rolls his eyes and slouches back into the couch. "I mean that you survive in Chicago. It's like a jungle."

He points to the scarring on his face, as if that'll explain everything; drops his hand into his lap and twines his fingers through each other; avoids talking about how he's feeling by putting on a deceptively bright smile and leveling a finger in Ella's direction. "So! How about you tell me about what's bugging you?" Because he gets that there's something going on, he just can't describe it - not yet.