For a moment, Harry had thought that the reality-bending, stomach-churning act of unnatural metaphysics (lovingly called The Pull) that had brought them to the Port in the first place was a singular act, never to be repeated unless under certain circumstances. Then he found himself toppling ass-over-teakettle into a field, and was thankful that this time, he didn't wind up swallowing dirt. It does skin his palms when he throws them out to break his fall, and it does slap him in the face with chill.

He can hear John's voice a few feet away, and utters a groan that might contain a few choice curse words as he rights himself, the world and stumbles to his feet. One moment: packing. Next moment: field. The world is a cruel child that enjoys mean pranks, and this is just another one of them. "Present and accounted for," he drawls, brushing his hands off on his pants. They're a little sore, but he rubs them together briskly (Mister Miyagi, eat your heart out) and puts his mouth to them - breathing warmth into the gaps with his words.

"Marcone, get your ass over here." There might be a glow springing up from the cracks in his hands - a simulated heat. Harry is just as cold, but he cradles light and heat in his hands and goes hunting for his partner because the poor bastard is in a t-shirt and no jacket.