"You brought me out there to gawk," John chides Dresden lightly. "With the express purpose to gawk, unless this is a ploy to drop my guard as I feared?" He meets the sarcastic look with his own sardonic one, making eye contract like he's making a point. John is fine to accept that this isn't the Knight's incredibly round-about way of assassinating him; this is not Harry Dresden's style, and John has looked into his eyes without another soulgaze, so the man must be at the core still himself.
By the time they make it to Winter's capital city, John is grateful for the cover it offers. The walls of stone and ice are still cold, but they are a solid cold, not the biting chill of outside. There are times, in summer, when John can stand outside in a full suit and not break a sweat. The heat surrounds but does not permeate. The air in the city is the icy twin to that. It's not exactly pleasant, as John's feet are still damp and going numb slowly, but it's bare-able.
What he would like is some non-glamoured alcohol, a hot shower, and dry clothes. It is a shame that hospitality laws do not extend so far to ensure the guest is waited on in that way, because John wants it bad enough he can taste the memory of the scotch in his office back home.
Dresden, of course, is a hot chocolate man. Some things do not change. "Yes, I am sure that is how you've been spending your time here," John murmurs, private and solicitous. "Have you seen sunlight anytime recently?" He almost says, Chicago has not see you, because John would be alert of Winter's emissary in his city. It's been a long time since such a report has reached him, and that's on the mortal side of the world. Who knows how long Mab has kept her Knight from his homeland.
When he's drawn to a stop, John looks around, hoping to recognize anything. But it's not the banquet room the Signatories loitered in before the meeting, nor the area where the Accords met. The ice is even a different color. "Guest quarters? Am I being put up for the night, or what passes for such in Faerie?" Throw me a bone, Harry.
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By the time they make it to Winter's capital city, John is grateful for the cover it offers. The walls of stone and ice are still cold, but they are a solid cold, not the biting chill of outside. There are times, in summer, when John can stand outside in a full suit and not break a sweat. The heat surrounds but does not permeate. The air in the city is the icy twin to that. It's not exactly pleasant, as John's feet are still damp and going numb slowly, but it's bare-able.
What he would like is some non-glamoured alcohol, a hot shower, and dry clothes. It is a shame that hospitality laws do not extend so far to ensure the guest is waited on in that way, because John wants it bad enough he can taste the memory of the scotch in his office back home.
Dresden, of course, is a hot chocolate man. Some things do not change. "Yes, I am sure that is how you've been spending your time here," John murmurs, private and solicitous. "Have you seen sunlight anytime recently?" He almost says, Chicago has not see you, because John would be alert of Winter's emissary in his city. It's been a long time since such a report has reached him, and that's on the mortal side of the world. Who knows how long Mab has kept her Knight from his homeland.
When he's drawn to a stop, John looks around, hoping to recognize anything. But it's not the banquet room the Signatories loitered in before the meeting, nor the area where the Accords met. The ice is even a different color. "Guest quarters? Am I being put up for the night, or what passes for such in Faerie?" Throw me a bone, Harry.