There is a map around Harry's neck, though - along with the weight of his mother's necklace, his mother's memories and his mother's legacy. It is her title, as the woman who ran alongside Faerie, that has been a quiet reassurance through his days spent in Winter. It is as though she has been shaping the course of his life since the day he was born, and he could argue, based on what he knows, that nothing short of her machinations has brought him to Winter's realm. Why else would his Godmother be bound to him the way she was, if not because he shared blood with that woman - at once beloved as she was spited?
Harry's caught by his comfort, and finds that his fingers had wandered to the necklace meditatively, though his eyes are on John. To think just a kiss would scatter his attentions between subtle, coy predation and seeking humanity. John's mouth had been so warm, and the beat of Harry's heart had echoed Chicago for a moment, rather than Winter. He steps into the midst of the bed, picking through the assortment of linens until he can pull out the comforter that had been closest to the fire.
It's clear Harry's a tactile person - everything is textures, varied between soft microfleece and a knitted afghan that had been another birthday gift, this time from the Mothers. The one he's selected is saturated with warmth and the scent of smoke, and Harry elects to tuck it around John to tide him over until he can rejoin the Baron. Of course, he pulls the man's pants down from the ankles with a wolfish grin, whisking them away to dry before the fire like everything else.
"Gotta' keep you on your toes," Harry purrs, looking all-too pleased to have the man tucked away in his stash like another prized possession. "I'll be right back, so be good and don't go anywhere." Ah yes, there's still the hot chocolate he'd promised John. He'll be back in a moment with a pair of mugs and - dear god, he's even got peppermint sticks in the steaming drinks. One of the mugs he offers to John, before settling into a patch that is relatively clear of bedding to sip his own.
"It's from Walmart," he promises, nodding to the hot chocolate, "not Faerie. Though if you come back for Winter's Christmas gala, I hear that Her Majesty makes egg nog to die for." Another smile, and it's all teeth. It's a valid, well-timed response - especially considering Harry is openly making a point that he's not aiming to bind John to him. No, they're already bound up in each other, aren't they? This is just... encouraging that. Politics and personal relations all wrapped up in one, with a hint of why did it take me so long to realize you for what you are from Harry.
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Harry's caught by his comfort, and finds that his fingers had wandered to the necklace meditatively, though his eyes are on John. To think just a kiss would scatter his attentions between subtle, coy predation and seeking humanity. John's mouth had been so warm, and the beat of Harry's heart had echoed Chicago for a moment, rather than Winter. He steps into the midst of the bed, picking through the assortment of linens until he can pull out the comforter that had been closest to the fire.
It's clear Harry's a tactile person - everything is textures, varied between soft microfleece and a knitted afghan that had been another birthday gift, this time from the Mothers. The one he's selected is saturated with warmth and the scent of smoke, and Harry elects to tuck it around John to tide him over until he can rejoin the Baron. Of course, he pulls the man's pants down from the ankles with a wolfish grin, whisking them away to dry before the fire like everything else.
"Gotta' keep you on your toes," Harry purrs, looking all-too pleased to have the man tucked away in his stash like another prized possession. "I'll be right back, so be good and don't go anywhere." Ah yes, there's still the hot chocolate he'd promised John. He'll be back in a moment with a pair of mugs and - dear god, he's even got peppermint sticks in the steaming drinks. One of the mugs he offers to John, before settling into a patch that is relatively clear of bedding to sip his own.
"It's from Walmart," he promises, nodding to the hot chocolate, "not Faerie. Though if you come back for Winter's Christmas gala, I hear that Her Majesty makes egg nog to die for." Another smile, and it's all teeth. It's a valid, well-timed response - especially considering Harry is openly making a point that he's not aiming to bind John to him. No, they're already bound up in each other, aren't they? This is just... encouraging that. Politics and personal relations all wrapped up in one, with a hint of why did it take me so long to realize you for what you are from Harry.