John has to touch, and Harry could put up a good argument about having planned for that reaction all along. That he knows John Marcone well enough, that his eyes have been opened wide enough to recognize what he would not when he was just mortal. Not that he isn't now - there's just a little something else in there, mixed up. Harry is not at peace, but he's clearly peaceful. Knighthood hasn't been that bad, to be honest. It's been hard, and it's why he looks thin, tired, in need of a nice vacation where he can stretch out in the sun and defrost. To remember mortality and reality.
That's not tonight, however.
"Yes, a tactical map is going to be right out in the open where anyone can mess around with it," Harry rolls his eyes, clearly nonplussed by John's rapid defense of his city. Their city, maybe more John's than his, but theirs as citizens and residents (even if Harry's permanent address no longer existed) and people who walked the streets, took the cabs, paid their taxes. "No, John, all those maps are in the war room." Sarcastically, he turns a Look on the Baron - one that barely softens when it takes in the way he looks upon the stardust and faint glamour that is the map.
It's why he plants his presence, physical and insistent, right up against John. Snap out of it, you've got something real to return to, not just a dream to visit when you're cooped up. "Of course she is," Harry agrees, low and private. "Now start walking, stop gawking." And he proceeds to march John from the clearing, back through the thicket and out onto the paths he knows so well by now. He spends his free time walking, running, exploring. The seen and unseen routes in Winter, the Ways with his mother's voice in his ears - and her title looming in the far distance.
Harry continues to usher John along, back to the walls of Arctis Tor, back through the doors and into the halls, "The sort of cold that makes a hot cup of cocoa, a book and a fireplace the best afternoon wasted in my entire life." He stops there, once they've reached their destination, but doesn't let go of the Baron just yet, holding onto his wrist now, grip firm but easily broken should John wish.
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That's not tonight, however.
"Yes, a tactical map is going to be right out in the open where anyone can mess around with it," Harry rolls his eyes, clearly nonplussed by John's rapid defense of his city. Their city, maybe more John's than his, but theirs as citizens and residents (even if Harry's permanent address no longer existed) and people who walked the streets, took the cabs, paid their taxes. "No, John, all those maps are in the war room." Sarcastically, he turns a Look on the Baron - one that barely softens when it takes in the way he looks upon the stardust and faint glamour that is the map.
It's why he plants his presence, physical and insistent, right up against John. Snap out of it, you've got something real to return to, not just a dream to visit when you're cooped up. "Of course she is," Harry agrees, low and private. "Now start walking, stop gawking." And he proceeds to march John from the clearing, back through the thicket and out onto the paths he knows so well by now. He spends his free time walking, running, exploring. The seen and unseen routes in Winter, the Ways with his mother's voice in his ears - and her title looming in the far distance.
Harry continues to usher John along, back to the walls of Arctis Tor, back through the doors and into the halls, "The sort of cold that makes a hot cup of cocoa, a book and a fireplace the best afternoon wasted in my entire life." He stops there, once they've reached their destination, but doesn't let go of the Baron just yet, holding onto his wrist now, grip firm but easily broken should John wish.