The Normpocalypse!

[thepull_mods]

Who: OPEN LOG
When: 12/12/12, beginning at 12:12am and ending around 10pm at night.
Where: Siren's Port, across all sectors
Summary: Everything detailed here is going down, citywide. Panic and chaos ensues as shortly after midnight, everyone in Port loses their special abilities. Is The Core playing a cruel doomsday trick? Or is it something even more sinister?
Warnings: Violence & Civil Unrest. Angry swearing inevitable!

Comments

[forzare]

When John reminds him of elevators (especially that old, creaky one in their current lodgings), Harry makes a face. No elevators if they can avoid it. He'd rather deal with hiking four flights of stairs, even with a banged up leg, than continue to struggle with the thought of the elevator breaking down mid-climb or plummeting to the bottom of the shaft. It had happened once, although that was due largely to the giant scorpion that had been attempting to rip both elevator and him apart. Yeah, he led an interesting life.

Interesting enough to wind up cruising the countryside in a freaking sidecar on a bike driven by Gentleman-Baron John Marcone, christ. Sometimes the normalcy of it astounded Harry. Other times, he'd realized he'd begun to accept this as life as he was to know and live it. It wasn't even weird now, but it wasn't as though that made it easy to put words to their situation. Besides sucktastic, that is.

"Keep what?" Harry emphasizes the latter word, and arches a brow at John. Tries to, at least. He winds up looking owlish and surprised when he does it. He asks, and John actually answers, which is surprising. He always pegged the man for a close-lipped guy, a lot like himself. Hey, if he was going to get introspective and thoughtful, he might as well use a model he (somewhat) understood. "Oh. Yeah."

That wasn't the most comforting thing to say, but it served as a segue as he took a breath and leaned his head back against the sidecar. "Gee, I wonder why? Anyone who'd ever heard of you knows you took whatever power you wound up with your own two hands." He points it out, and it's actually astounding that he understands that much. It's not everything, but he can relate. "Whatever you had, you made it work for you."

Harry fists his gloved hand. Fire and force. That's what he's made of. If so, what could John can break himself down into? "Now this. You never needed it before," he offers, not to put things into perspective because he's certain John's done that already, but to put it to words. "And no one asked you if you wanted it. No wonder you're not happy."

[freeholding]

John smiles in a private, pleased way. It is remarkable to think that they are almost two months into this tenuous cohabitation and their relationship has been so radically affected. Harry is warm to him for the first time ever, and it's... not what he would have asked for, back in the days when he wanted the wizard on his side, but it's rather nice in its own way.

That casual, familiar touch of Harry's hand resting on his leg is a revelation.

"To be fair, plenty of my power was ill-gotten. But I will forever stand by the fact Marco Vargassi threw the first stone." He'd been perfectly content as a capo in the famiglia. If Marco hadn't take the fight to John, hadn't seen him as a threat to the throne, so much would be different. "Regardless... I looked into the ways to accrue magical talent before I contracted Ms. Gard. I judged all the prices too high back then. And here, I'm not even sure what the price is."

John takes them southerly, now with an actual destination in mind. The city is going to be a mess for a while, and they may have to hide out for a while. There's time to find shelter before the sirens, more than enough to detour to Winthers Lake. He's only seen it in passing, on his way to the more upper-scale Sectors. Now, John pulls off towards the waterfront, into the grass a few yards back from the lake. It's dwarfed by Michigan back home, and is small enough to actually freeze over. The center is still open and deep, liquid blue, but the edges are iced, radiating white and grey frost in a swirl inward. With the sun out, it catches the light, wetly glistening.

He doesn't look at Harry until he's killed the engine, then turns to him. "How's your leg?"

[forzare]

Of course, the one thing that would still set him off would be any discussion on the matter of ill-gotten power and the cost-benefit ratio that was John Marcone's constant presence in Chicago. It's not something Harry would like to get into, not at this time, when he's wounded and constantly in contact with John. No, he hasn't seen John as a complete and total monster since the thing with the Shroud (and that is a private thing and a thing-that-do-they-not-speak-of-lest-blood-be-spilt), but what Harry thinks of John is still far from complete approval.

If their conversation just prior to Harry's fisticuffs with Castiel is any indication of where they stand, it is still not entirely on the same side. At ease as he seems, Harry still bristles at the thought that they're going to have to get into their respective morals. Or lack thereof. So he bites his lip and tries not to think back to that day in the back of his car and how much he might have cost.

Instead, he flicks a glare up at the Baron, and simmers. "Still can't afford me." He states, and while he doesn't spit it with as much venom as he once would have, it's still a dare. Still a warning that he will get in John's face and stand on the toes of his shiny shoes and push back if he's pressured. Theirs might be an easier relationship, but they are far from at ease with each other.

Then he turns his head away and deigns to ignore the other, watching the passing scenery until they slow. Then stop. He's puzzled, of course, by the choice of location, but the relative quiet of the lakefront reminds him of the lake back home and for a while, he just sits back in the sidecar, arms crossed over his stomach and drifts. He does that thing where every thought is fucking visible in his eyes and on his mouth as he goes through the emotions: homesickness, irritation at his injuries, confusion because why would john bring him here?, and gradual peace as he regards the lake blindly.

He almost misses the question, but his autopilot-driven mouth speaks up in his brain's stead: "It's still attached." If that's any indication of how he feels, it's definitely ornery enough to get sarcastic. With that, Harry clambers out of the sidecar, leaving staff and bag behind as he limps a few feet away, towards the lake, and stands for a moment with his breath misting faintly in the air. Then he turns, just a little, and asks cautiously: "Why the lake?"

[freeholding]

John watches Harry trundle away from him with a bemused expression. It makes sense, that Harry should be so prickly. Being cooped up indoors has not brought out the best in him, and his magic being gone... It's decidedly not the best of days here in Siren's Port for Harry.

Sometimes, you handle Harry Dresden with kid gloves, and sometimes he'll only respond to something with a meaner bite to it. John's voice as been low and soft, not quite the Southie drawl he carried in his twenties, but nonetheless looser than his boardroom voice. Now, it hardens, less casual Friday and more Sunday best. "I am loathe to bruise your ego, Mr. Dresden," John says with exaggerated politesse, "but you were not my only option, nor the only venue I explored."

There were other deals he could have made. Too many wanted his soul in return. And if that is the bargaining chip he eventually used... that's no one's business but his own. And Donar Vadderung's.

John can read the homesickness in Harry's eyes, and he sympathizes. The lake is lovely in its own right, but it's hard not to see all the ways it's not Michigan. He wonders if he'll ever stop viewing the world through the filter of Chicago. If he will, he's definitely not to that point yet.

The staff sticks out of the sidecar awkwardly and John catches it as he gets up and walks by it, taking it with him. It's sturdy in his palm, and this close he can see it's carved... but it's not the time to look closer. Instead, he holds it out to Harry, because that limp tells of the pain he must be in, and there is no point in agitating a healing injury.

"Last night, I was in the underground mall. Everyone went mad when the powers vanished. It was a meat grinder." He shakes his head, remembering the crush of panicked souls, unable to handle their sudden powerlessness. "The city's going to be a mess for a while. This Sector's the only place really separate from that."

He hunches his shoulders against a cool wind off the lake, pulling up the collar of his bomber jacket and shucking his hands into the pockets. "And I've been meaning to come here for a while. Never seem to have a good enough excuse to stop though. Until now." He looks askance at Harry. "Unless you'd prefer to be elsewhere?"

[forzare]

Honestly, it only bruises a little. A glancing blow at best, because by now, he gets it: he's not the only hot shot fire-slinging punk out there, there are better candidates with better skills, more finesse, with a morality that is a little more flexible than his. And of course, Harry recognizes that along with that tone of voice that's being used and he prickles a little more in retaliation, his tone dry and eyes narrowed. "Shame on you," he mock-scolds, "I thought I was the only one, but you were going behind my back all along. And me trying to play hard to get. You're no gentleman."

Like hell if he'd been playing hard to get, that's obvious enough. Harry crosses his arms about his chest and shivers against the breeze, jerking his eyes away from John's. Shit, at this rate they'll end up bickering again. Not that he cares if that's how it goes; he fights with the man like an alley cat, and being cooped up has done nothing for his temper, regardless of his reprieve from his roommate and the idea that fuck, he might have a job soon enough. It'd just take getting back on his feet for the legwork.

Regardless of his mood, when John offers him his staff, he takes it because there really isn't a point in agitating his leg any more than it already has been. That they can agree on, without discussing it. He leans on it, but makes it a point not to say 'thank you' this time. Petty vengeance; he truly is the mature one, you see.

The irritation bleeds from him when John speaks of the experience. While it doesn't vanish, he's able to look out the corner of an eye to that all-too-familiar sight. When did it become like that? He'd look, and John'd be there, at his side. Less disturbing, more comforting, especially since he'd... come that night. Picked Harry up and carried him home and taken care of him, he supposed. Things were a little fuzzy around the edges. He just hoped he hadn't embarrassed himself.

"Yeah. Fear escalates quickest when it has something to feed off of. Especially more fear." His words were unhelpful, and he knew it. A filler quip while his mind tried to muddle through what that might have been like. Meat grinder. In contrast: the placid environment they'd fled to. And John asks him about elsewhere at the same exact time Harry says: "I wouldn't mind staying out here."

[freeholding]

"I didn't pick the name," John replies coolly, but doesn't elaborate further on that. "If it helps, you were top of the list." Some of the options were the names of other wizards. Some were people who could make magic spark to life in John himself. One was Odin. None were as hoped-for as Dresden's hand.

John didn't expect the thank you anyway. Helping Harry recover has had its ups and downs, and the wizard getting a little surly is nothing compared to the first few days, where John was monitoring pain dosage and Harry was so frustrated it was practically arching off him like lightning. And really, before their stay at Siren's Port, Harry's manner would be considered downright amiable.

"We have a few hours." John leaves Harry for a moment, retreating to the bike. He pulls the shotgun from its slot, along with the bag Harry brought, the emergency blankets from the side car, and a small cooler that John keeps water in. Loaded down, he looks around and finds a decent sized tree to set up under. The shade might make it colder, but it'll also block the winter wind, and that is where the real sting of cold comes from.

One blanket gets laid out to sit on, a barrier from the damp ground. The shotgun is set within reach, in case anyone or anything should sneak up on them. John fusses with the way the blanket's spread, killing time until Harry hobbles over. If he needs help sitting on the ground with his leg, John wants to be there to help, but as inconspicuously as possible. He'd like a calm afternoon to recover from the very not calm night he had, and keeping Harry from biting his head off is part of that.

"You take your medicine?" John asks, unable to shake off when he'd call a solicitous nature but Harry might call being a nag. He'll be happier with Harry resting with the other blanket over his legs.

[forzare]

Those first few days had been hellish. While he handled pain well, he did not typically have someone there to help him while he was recovering. Having John there to help him manage his medications and admonish him when he ought to have been resting rather than hobbling around and getting into things he shouldn't have been. It made him testy, gave him reason to lash out at the slightest provocation, especially when John would ask him how do you feel currently.

Okay so, in retrospect, his attitude could have used some work, but in his pained haze, John had been standing between him and what would take that away. Still, he'd been the one to save Harry's ass, so...

So what? What was this now? No, seriously-- "What are you doing?" Harry gestures to whatever it is that John is up to. "Are w-- is this a picnic?" By then, the question was rhetorical, because it was obvious that this outing had become a picnic of all things. The city in chaos behind them, and they're going to have a sit down by a pretty lake. And oh, make no mistake, people are frightened and Harry is loathe to leave them behind, he'd rather be there helping but maybe he's a little smarter for his injuries.

Despite questioning the entire spread, he steps closer. Pauses. Is he really going to sit about? (Not really much of a choice, Dresden, you can't drive the bike.) He chooses to sit, with a grunt of vague pain as he flops to the ground while trying to avoid agitating his bad leg. "I took it earlier today. I'm okay," he says, rolling his eyes all the while, because yes, John is a bit of a nag. He's got it now, calm down. "So. We're picnicking."

[freeholding]

John shook his head, smirking faintly. He's tired, and handling Harry does nothing good for his frayed nerves, so the wizard fixating on this of all things is a relief.

He settled onto the other side of the blanket, half-turned to Harry, his legs folding up into a loose lotus position. Once he's down, he snaps open the other blanket with a flick of his wrists and floats it down onto Harry's legs without a comment about it. His own shoulder twinges at the cold, and he can only assume Harry's leg is not much better.

"You said it," John points out mildly. "You seem unduly excited about the idea. If I'd known, I'd have packed a basket." As it is, his supplies don't stretch that far. There's a few granola bars in his pack, which he tosses to Harry as a paltry replacement for a picnic meal.

"You've been cooped up for over a week and I've spent every day the same or in the city. Sometimes, away time is needed. Even I took vacations from Chicago." Specially planned vacations set at the perfect times to help John rejuvenate and maximize productivity, but that still counted.

John looks around, like he's half-expected their little outing to be interrupted by hostile forces. But after a moment of playing look-out, his eyes slide closed. With his palms flat against his knees, he might seem to be meditating. That sounds better than falling asleep, at least.

[forzare]

"Picnicking!" Eloquent, Harry. He gestures openly to the setup, the mere idea of it. It's not the sort of picknicking he'd always imagined, but there it is: the concept of it. He doesn't explain that it's with a kid's delight that he thinks of picnics, of late summer afternoons spent in the shade of a tree, with potato salad and cherry kool-aid and rocks to weight down the corner of a red-and-white gingham blanket, waiting for the sun to go down and the fireflies to come out. It's not something he knows, but it's that postcard-perfect sort of moment that he's always imagined.

This is just as good, to be honest. It's chilly though, and he still scowls vaguely as John fusses over him. Really, they're going to end up shoving that blanket on and off his lap at this rate. He'll eat the granola bar anyways, leaning back a little with his good hand spread out behind him to keep him from capsizing onto the ground. "Not to mention the anarchy." He points out, casting a concerned eye in the direction he assumes the city to be.

If he thinks of going back, he makes no other mention of it. The authorities are there - and he'd just be getting in the way again. Instead, he settles in and eats the granola bar in two or three bites before opening his mouth to speak to John again about something or other. Whatever it is, he forgets it the moment he notes that John's eyes are closed. (Is this for real? Did he fall asleep?) Harry resists the childish urge to lean in and double-check, and elects to lightly flick the blanket off his own lap and onto John's as softly as he can. Let's let resting tigers lie, yeah?

Then he's the one who sits back and turns an eye on their surroundings, almost naturally taking over John's role as look-out. Things seem placid enough, but who knows what might happen next in this place. Besides, John's taken care of him for long enough. Harry remains alert, but fishes out his NV to continue his notes (and maybe with enough prodding, the Network will let him on so he can keep job hunting).

[freeholding]

John is not asleep yet (well, perhaps a light doze), and the flip of the blanket is enough to have him open his eyes and blink owlishly.

Harry hasn't made any remarks about John's tiredness. That's something of a miracle, considering how much Harry has reveled in winding John up lately. He takes the silence as a blessing and shifts until he can lay down on his side. He makes an effort to encroach on Harry's personal space as much as he can to throw the spare half of the blanket back over Harry's legs, particularly the injured one. The message is clear.

"Wake me at least an hour before the sirens," John says quietly before shutting his eyes, his arm tucked under his head. Just a little sleep will do him well, and he's fairly confident that if Harry was going to kill him in his sleep, he'd have done it sometime last week.

[forzare]

If John has put up with his bitching and complaining and getting into trouble for around a month now, then Harry figured it would be kind enough for him to keep his mouth shut and not make underhanded passes at the other man's exhaustion. He's been moving nonstop, and it only serves to remind Harry that he has to find work. He's got to pull his own weight; he may not owe John in letter, but Harry has always been about breaking even, so in spirit? He continues to feel a little indebted to John Marcone.

"I'll wake you," he doesn't so much promise as affirm, turning through the pages of his NV with lazy, casual passes of his fingers. His eyes, however, watch John like a hawk. If they are to share the blanket... he'll shift his legs just a little closer. It's chilly, and it's sensible to keep watch over the needs of the unconscious party, after all.

He won't kill John in his sleep. As a graduate of the school of you'll be facing me, and you'll be armed, he's honestly not the sort of man who'd stab a guy in the back, or get after him while he's sleeping. He is the sort who will draw at ten paces and put a hole through your heart - be it with fire or a bullet. It's a little over an hour before the sirens are due, and the sky is only just beginning to grey at the edges. That's the point where, quietly, he leans over to put a hand on John's ankle and give it a firm shake. Better down there, in case John is the sort of sleeper that wakes up fast and hard and has a knife in his hand. The thought had crossed Harry's mind, after all.

[freeholding]

John comes to like a light turning on. He was soundly asleep, make no mistake, but when Harry shakes him, he's back. Green eyes blink rapidly, adjusting to the light, but he's completely alert again. Call it an old habit from his military days.

It's still light out. That's good. Sitting up, he looks at Harry, scanning his form. That sort of fast cataloging of Harry's condition is second nature to John. He looks much the same as before, and John is satisfied with that.

"Thank you," John says, both for the wake up and for the watch Harry kept. "I'm ready to head out when you are. We can try the city, see if we can get into the underground mall for the evening. Or we can try--" A yawn sneaks up on him, remnant of his nap. It cracks his jaw before he can smother it. Well, it's not like Harry isn't aware that John's impervious act is a carefully constructed lie. "We can try to find someplace in this Sector, as long as we keep our distance from the AGI compound."

Getting up, he starts to get ready to move out again. Supplies are stashed back in the sidecar, the shotgun is slid back into its slot, and the granola wrappers are tossed into the closest trash can. That only leaves the blanket Harry's sat on; John offers the wizard a hand up.

[forzare]

Immediately, Harry takes his hand from John's ankle and raises it, a placating gesture to let him know that all is well.

While he had never been a member of the military, the Wardens operated as a unit often enough for him to understand the basics of what it means to immediately inform someone of their status. Especially if they were asleep, or unaware of their surroundings. It's safe; he woke John because it was time, not due to emergency. He says nothing, but eventually drops his hand back into his lap and shuts his NV, pocketing it before going through the motions to get back on his feet.

It means rolling over a little, onto his good hip, pushing up with his hands until he can get his good leg under his weight - then standing while simultaneously trying to keep his balance. Where some would have been adept by then at maneuvering, Harry manages to look like an infant giraffe fumbling to his feet while on the ice. He's all arms and legs flailing until he puts out a hand to keep his balance and winds up closing his hand around John's wrist. Well, that's better.

He straightens and clears his throat, hobbling a little to pick up his staff and then lean on it again. "Totally meant to do that," he coughs into his fist. Yeah, and his face wasn't red from exertion and embarrassment. Venture back to the city or find temporary lodgings out in the countryside? Harry thinks about it for a moment, and then-- "You know. I thought I saw a house a couple miles back the way we came from. It was a little off the beaten trail, but I think the bike could get back there."

[freeholding]

Dear god. The infant giraffe metaphor springs directly to John's mind as well. It nearly gives him secondhand embarrassment to watch Harry struggle to his feet, and John wears his most opaque blank-faced mask as he helps Harry get upright. He is mortified, but it doesn't show to a point that might be even more of a tell. Jesus, Dresden.

John braces Harry, holding his arm, just in case he wants to teeter around some more. Once he's settled, John folds up the blanket. "Of course you did."

The mention of a house has John flipping through his mental notebook. Said notes are more vague that he usually likes to deal with. Call it a consequence of running on no sleep and trying not to crash the bike. "You'll have to point it out to me. I must've missed it."

He walks with Harry back to the bike, even if that requires him to walk at a pace that'd be charitably described as leisurely. Once Harry's settled, he hands over the blanket and climbs on, getting them back on the road in short order, this time going back the way they came.

[forzare]

Look John, you have got to be used to Harry's antics by now. He's ungainly, he talks to himself, he does weird things like combine rusty nails and glass shards and kitchen chemicals in the kitchen sink and take notes because he's bored and he likes to experiment. Anyone else would think he was attempting to make fragmentary grenades or something. If there was one person who could be simultaneously disturbed and completely understand the oddity that was Harry Dresden? It was John.

"I'm practicing for my up-and-coming audition for the role of Odette," Harry shoots back again, absent and natural as can be. That shotgun mouth of his, going off again. He'd even attempt to stand arabesque, because he was just that sort of a lunatic, ludicrous man. Comparing his flailing to ballet, dear god. And -- pausing, with his hand wrapped around John's wrist, his eyes elsewhere. In another memory, at another time - one where he had ripped his hand out of reach as though he'd been burnt.

It would be a bold discrepency were he to do that now, when taking a look at all the absent contact he's offered John over the course of the last week or so. The knuckling of his fist against the man's shoulder when discussing something particularily funny to Harry. The back of his hand resting against his ankle, only hours ago. While Harry doesn't know whether to count his actions as a positive development or a new madness, he does not jerk away. All he does is release John's wrist, without a word. He doesn't need to say anything, anyways. He has a very expressive face.

"How about you focus on doing driving, and let me do the directing?" that's working together. Harry clambers back into his seat and groans when John offers him the blanket, again. Nanny. Worrywort. Nitpick. Harry stuffs the blanket around his hips and over his lap just to make John happy and settles back, keeping an eye out for the particular patch of earth and the subtle absence of trees that he'd mentally highlighted for later exploration. After a few minutes on the road, he lifts a hand and points to the spot -- through the trees, the garish flash of paint. "Back there."

[freeholding]

Understanding the oddity doesn't mean John doesn't resent the moments when he has to try and discretely throw out a smoldering kitchen pot that smells like a molten slag. John will always get some sort of awe from magic, but when potions go awry and result in a need for new kitchenwares... it's less awe-inspiring. Seeing the trial and error needed for magic did remove some of the mystique of the thing. Not that seeing Harry sling fire or direct wind would ever get old.

Harry has been doing that fairly often. That jerk-stop moment, like someone unfamiliar with the brakes of a borrowed car, has been writ on the wizard's face more than once this past week. Any attempts to get an answer out of Harry has only warranted more smart remarks and dismissals. So John makes note, adding a tic mark on a mental tally, and moves on.

Once he lays eyes on the house through the trees, he's not surprised he missed it. The house peeking through the trees is a chipping burnt sienna with a discolored cream trim, and his mind must've skipped over the sight of it for its own safety. It's an aesthetic nightmare, and the overgrown grass and encroaching trees are a sort of blessing, shielding it from view.

John slows as they turn onto the rough road leading up to the thing. From here, John can see antiquated Darkness-proofing; many places on the island upgraded their protections from physical reinforcement to electrical shields and automated systems. This place is like a house fallen out of time, its protections bulky physical things.

"Mother of God," John breathes as he kills the engine. "Why hasn't someone done the world a favor and burned this thing to the ground?"

[forzare]

Harry remains hesitant to talk about himself, beyond surface-level answers and ironic quotations that he feel befits the moment and will annoy John enough so that he drops the topic. Or talks about himself. See, Harry doesn't mind when people talk about themselves, he likes learning, and that generally meant learning about people as well. When presented with something new, something 'unlike' him or how he may have once reacted in Chicago, he scrutinizes it as though it is a foreign notion, then he puts it aside to look at it at some later date. Save for the part where he forgets to unpack it.

That's what he does even now, absently tossing the memory back into the pile of them in favor of moving on as steadily as he can. John keeps neat tally marks, Harry accumulates rubble.

The house is garish, that's for sure. It's no wonder that Harry, with an eye for picking out strange details and extraneous information, had noticed it in the first place. He sits up a little more in the sidecar when the bike slows, then quiets. Where John's voice is full of what can only be horror, Harry's is absolutely excited as he crows over the other man: "It's beautiful." Immediately, he fumbles his way out of the sidecar and takes a brisk hop towards the garish, burnt-sienna building, throwing his arms out. "Shut up Marcone, it has character! Look at it."

Of course he would like something that looked utterly eccentric, battered by fauna and weather. It only resembles everything in his apartment back in Chicago. In contrast to John, Harry looks absolutely elated to be able to see the sagging monstrosity up close and personal. "Can we go inside?" And without missing a beat: "Oh screw you, I'm going inside and taking a look around." He then began to pick his way through the overgrowth, limping in a wavering loop up to the house - muttering things like you are just the prettiest ugly house and don't you listen to mean ol' marcone's words he's just jealous and listen i know i have a bad track record with old buildings but i won't burn you down.

[freeholding]

"Beauti--" Oh no, it sounds like Harry is already forming an attachment to the eyesore. Nevermind that looking at it straight on gives John a headache. That's probably a point in its favor for Harry, come to think of it.

John kills the engine before hurrying after Harry. He hasn't seen the man move so quickly since before the Castiel incident. When he's near enough, he can vaguely hear Harry talking to the house, Christ. John shakes his head and passes by, up the porch, which is sturdy enough. "I wasn't aware colorblindness built character," he grouses mostly to himself, sorting through his pockets. There's a few thin tools that he pulls out before kneeling on the floor in front of the door. It has two locks, and John sets to picking them open.

It's just a matter of time, really. They only have about forty minutes, fifty if they're lucky, before the sirens. That's enough time for John to find an alternative, but maybe not with Harry hobbling around crooning at this collection of chipping paint, worn hinges, and clouded glass that calls itself a house. John is capable of thinking pragmatically even when his sensibilities are offended. God, that orange is awful.

He picks the upper lock before settling in on the doorknob itself. "This isn't a field trip, Harry. When I get this open, check for vulnerabilities first. All the character in the world isn't going to hold off the Darkness."

And it's more lack of use he fights against on the second lock than the actual tumbler. It eventually comes free and John shoots Harry a quelling look, eyes serious, as he retreats to grab their equipment and supplies from the bike, leaving Harry to explore his find.

Mother of God, when John wanted to start looking for new places to live, this is not what he had in mind.

[forzare]

Heedless of John's obvious exasperation, Harry makes it up onto the worn porch and proceeds to hover by a window. He cups his hands around his eyes so that he can better see through a gap in the wooden boards. The interior is dark. There's way too many walls to understand how the rooms are meant to be broke up. The floors are ugly and made of linoleum or whatever god-awful plastic exists in that shade of yellow. Which, of course, means that his grin is full of teeth by the time he sees that.

Once he'd acquainted himself with a cursory look into the belly of the dirty, orange beast of a house, he turns from the window (with a swatch of dirt across his nose, because there is literally no reason why that wouldn't happen to him) and proceeds to limp his way to the other side of the porch to knock about the corner of the home and take a studious look at the nearly antiquated Darkness proofing and what defenses the structure has to offer.

"I can't get to the back," he admits, if only because there is wooden debris where the porch roof had gone and caved in over on the rightmost side of the building. "But all the defenses are still up and working." The evening is creeping up on them, and he's all but doomed them if they didn't. But he'd had a good feeling about this house, a similar sort of tug-and-pull that he'd felt the first time he'd been on that grumpy old island out on Michigan. Though he knows his magic isn't there to provide that sense, Harry is still the sort that accepts his gut reactions as an acceptable reason to throw their lives into potential chaos and danger. Of course. He doesn't run the numbers in the same manner that John does.

The defenses are humming to life as evening creeps up, he draws attention to them by pointing. "See?" More an absent gesture, as he's certain John is regarding the quality of the place's defenses now as well. The man has made his way back to the bike, and in return, Harry proceeds through the open doorway. Cautiously. The floor looks old and dark and god knew how old it was, he'd rather not topple through a weak spot and bang himself up further. John didn't need to be taking care of his sorry ass any more. And as much as he wants to go exploring, he takes preemptive steps to test the few windows, to check the back door (overgrown with ivy, how pretty) and poke about the walls.

"Surprisingly sturdy," he calls out again, before turning about to regroup with John. "Old and dusty, but really freaking stubborn. Here, give me something to carry will you?"

[freeholding]

When John comes back, he's got all their bags and supplies over his arm, about his shoulders, hung from their straps. He must look like a pack animal for the moment, but the bike it empty, its engine pinging quietly as it cools for the night. Harry wants to help, and John knows no better way to irritate the wizard than to deny him the privilege; all he gets is his staff and the shotgun, and only because John doesn't want to drop either, and the rest John carries into the house.

It's a small mercy, but the smell of the house is musty and wooden, not like something (or someone) was dead inside. That's a point in its favor, which does little in the face of the plasticky floors. They're worn, curling up in areas, and are torn wholly away from the living room. At least underneath is decent wooden floors, albeit scuffed all the hell. The living room is enormous, possibly half the entire house with a ceiling that goes all the way to the roof. At the top, there is one ceiling fan, jauntily crooked, and certain to shake itself free if anyone dared to turn it on. John nods up to it. "Character," he says sardonically.

There's furniture, shrouded in white sheets that John is almost afraid to move. There's a kitchen, with more linoleum. It smells clean, and there's no rotting food or anything of the like in the pantry.

Once he gets past the hideous outsides, it's not the worst house he's ever seen. Granted, if it were property he'd bought back in Chicago, he'd take a wrecking ball to it, but it's not a complete catastrophe. Though he hasn't seen the upstairs; the stairs are broken.

"All right," John says with an air of resignation. "It's better than the stairwell I hid out in that one time I was out past the sirens." He unloads everything into the living room, then turns and notes that every step they've taken has left footprints in the dust. "It's an asthmatic's nightmare though."

By the time he's done setting out supplies, he can hear the sirens winding up. Sighing hard through his nose, he looks at Harry. "Do you actually like this place or are you winding me up? Because the latter is fine, but the former makes me worried about your tastes."

[forzare]

Well yes, he wants to help. Can't John see the way that his hands are mysteriously empty of any of their things, and how helpful two free hands might be? Apparently he does, and wants to put a vague scowl on the wizard's face, because all Harry gets out of his offer is the artillery. Okay sure, if that's how they're going to play the game. Harry keeps an eye out on the dimming sunlight (the siren's going to go off any time now, and he hates that their lives are already so oriented around two piercing noises at dawn and dusk), and shuts the door behind them once they've both set foot inside.

He props his staff up against a wall - and puts the shotgun on a countertop and takes his duster off to drop it lazily over one of the stray pieces of furniture. Dust clouds eddy in his wake.

"Character!" Just to make sure John got the message. Third time was the charm after all, because Harry gestures to the high ceiling and the really dirty windows that have been boarded over for a long time it seems. He'd like to see what's upstairs, but with the stairs broken and he with a bad leg, he'll save himself the struggle for another day. "I mean, okay. The color is pretty crazy." He'll give John that.

Ah, there's the sirens. Harry's attention wavers to them for a moment, and then to the house. Structurally sound, good defenses that could use some upgrading, plenty of space to ward. Despite his obvious affections towards the place, he had no experience with it, and it kept him alert enough. Finally, he returns to the pieces of covered furniture and sits on the arm of the couch. Not because his leg is starting to hurt, no. It's a couch, it needs sitting on to know it's loved.

"I like it because you don't," Harry states, and smirks. Then he turns his eyes up to the ceiling again, like he's thinking of filling the space with stolen sky or something. He doesn't look back down, even though he speaks to John. "Definitely because you don't. Come sit down and go back to sleep, I'm too keyed up, so I'll watch out for a few hours."

[freeholding]

John's eyes linger on the staff. It's an excellent clubbing device, strong enough to rival an officer's truncheon with five times the reach, but the way it is set aside makes John grimace. There is a sense of wrongness, leaving it to the side, even more so than the shotgun. He is too certain that this power situation will be lifted, it's hard to even think of Harry staying like this, without his magic. What is the wizard without the magic? Which might be a cruel thought if John were not sure Harry would think along the same lines.

"The color is an aesthetic assault. Perhaps it was painted such a way to combat intruders, rendering them blind upon approach," John intones, dry as the Sahara. He looks at the way his steps are painted in the dust is distracting, and John does half of a gliding dance step just to see the echo of it. Then, shaking his head, he starts pulling the sheets off the furniture, careful to roll them up as he does to avoid scattering the dust.

And there go the sirens. John looks up, like they'll manifest in the air, and sighs. The days are so short this time of year too....

"Of course you do," John mutters, long-suffering as ever. He looks askance at Harry, that far-away look in his eyes as he stares up. It feels like he is seeing more than the rickety ceiling fan. "You're not mentally picking out drapes and wall paint, are you?" His voice is heavy with dread as he lays down on the sofa, head near Harry's perch. At least, under the shroud the furniture isn't completely awful. Out of date, but serviceable.

[forzare]

The staff is going to stay right where it is, because Harry still has fingers decked in silver and his blasting rod hanging from his coat, which is still slung over one of the chairs. Other than when he had decided where to place is things, Harry has been rather pointedly been avoiding deeper thought about the gaping void where his magic had been. If the Port has been calling people to it - people with unique powers, and gifting people with powers - he's sure the situation will be resolved. What would be the point otherwise?

"I don't know," Harry shoots back with a bit of a grin, "you're the only one who feels like you're being attacked by a color." But he notices the way John slides through the dust. He notices in a hundred and one ways, and keeps one hundred of them to himself. The single one he doesn't takes the form of a private smile that causes the wizard to duck his head and bite his lip rather than share.

That one's his. It's so silly, he'll keep it to himself.

Harry's eyes wander away from the ceiling, and he twists a little so that he can glance down at John as the man lays back down. "If I am, that's for me to know and you to wonder about when you wake up. I mean it. Try not to let it keep you up."

1/2

[freeholding]

"Only one out of two?" Really, Dresden? Is that what you're going with? John is unimpressed. Harry's level of taste has always been suspect, though John used to give him the benefit of the doubt; the duster with its obvious protections are one thing, and it's entirely possible that the only wizard in the phone book wasn't able to afford fine taste. Having lived with him a while, though, has made it clear that no, Harry's just colorblind.

John nodded and shifted onto his side, tucking his arm under his head. "Maybe I'll just burn the place down and say you did it," he says on an exhale, eyes closing. "You're overdue, firestarter..."

He trails off, letting himself relax. With sturdy walls around him and Harry above him, he drops off almost immediately.

[freeholding]

John wakes at the sirens, coming awake like a shot; sudden, and all at once. There will come a time when the sirens won't bother him at all (and some mornings he does sleep straight through them), but he's not to that point of familiarity yet. In truth, he's glad for that.

When he looks to the room, he sees Harry's taken over the oversized reclining chair for his own slumber. There's a pinched look there that has John wondering if Harry deigned to take his medicine before falling asleep, but there's nothing for it now.

Sitting there, John feels it, now hyperaware of its presence after dealing with its sudden absence: that gift Siren's Port gave him.

As Harry starts to stir, John sits up on the sofa and thinks you cannot see me if I don't want you to, your eyes will slide right past me, I'm no concern of yours.

Then he calls out in a low voice, "Dresden."