Firestarter. Overdue. Harry emits a particularly unladylike snort at that, shakes his head at the thought of it. "Not my fault," he protests, though his voice has dropped lower, softened as the light dims and casts the house into shadow. It paints foreign patches of darkness on the walls, and Harry breathes into the dark living room. Steady. Calm. The temperature will drop a little, he knows it. For a moment, he regards his duster on the back of the chair. Just two strides away. He knows its weight and warmth, and contemplates dropping it over John for a moment.
They have blankets for that, though. He chooses to limp to their bags and fish one out, spreading it over John's legs idly before he retreats to his own spot - over in the chair where his duster is. He stretches his leg out, hands running over it with a wince. There's a kink in his knee he's been fighting all day, too stubborn to let on that he's in pain (because then John will make him take his fucking medicine, and John's tired enough as is, he needs the sleep). He props his chin on his knuckles, his elbow on the arm of the chair and chooses to keep a watch as the shadows shift around the room.
A flicker of motion, and his attentions snap to it. Empty night, he just can't do this to himself. The house is secure. There's a goddamn shotgun where he left it. So, he sits back and slumps in the chair. It's a little lumpy, but he's slept in stranger positions, in stranger spots. Gradually, even he nods off--
--only to awaken when he hears his name called. Alert, eyes flashing with power that had been decidedly absent (hello fire, he's missed you) and now that it's filling his nose and his lungs and his fingertips, he's brighter, he's alert, he's alive. He's -- looking for John. "Oh god, you're making me do this right now," he grumbles blearily, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Fine. Fine, he'd said he would. Dragging his fingers down the length of his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes and mouth and cheeks he draws together.
There's a palpable shift in the air. Harry doesn't take his hands from his face, but bridges the fingers over the nose and it amplifies his breathing for a moment and his eyes are closed, but he sways a little, and then stops. Stills. A deep breath, almost as though steeling himself for something - some psychic blow. Then he opens his eyes.
1/2
They have blankets for that, though. He chooses to limp to their bags and fish one out, spreading it over John's legs idly before he retreats to his own spot - over in the chair where his duster is. He stretches his leg out, hands running over it with a wince. There's a kink in his knee he's been fighting all day, too stubborn to let on that he's in pain (because then John will make him take his fucking medicine, and John's tired enough as is, he needs the sleep). He props his chin on his knuckles, his elbow on the arm of the chair and chooses to keep a watch as the shadows shift around the room.
A flicker of motion, and his attentions snap to it. Empty night, he just can't do this to himself. The house is secure. There's a goddamn shotgun where he left it. So, he sits back and slumps in the chair. It's a little lumpy, but he's slept in stranger positions, in stranger spots. Gradually, even he nods off--
--only to awaken when he hears his name called. Alert, eyes flashing with power that had been decidedly absent (hello fire, he's missed you) and now that it's filling his nose and his lungs and his fingertips, he's brighter, he's alert, he's alive. He's -- looking for John. "Oh god, you're making me do this right now," he grumbles blearily, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. Fine. Fine, he'd said he would. Dragging his fingers down the length of his face, wiping the sleep from his eyes and mouth and cheeks he draws together.
There's a palpable shift in the air. Harry doesn't take his hands from his face, but bridges the fingers over the nose and it amplifies his breathing for a moment and his eyes are closed, but he sways a little, and then stops. Stills. A deep breath, almost as though steeling himself for something - some psychic blow. Then he opens his eyes.