bakerstreet | ( hitch your wagon to a star )

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( hitch your wagon to a star )

the stargazing meme

oo1. comment with your characters
make sure to put names, series, & preferences somewhere!
you can use < ! > sans the spaces to make the comment "blank"
oo2. reply to others in character
oo3. use the rng and enter 1-10
oo4. play out what happens -- anything goes!
oo5. profit? oh yeah!

prompts

one → meteor shower you just saw a falling star! and another! make a wish!
two → aliens what was that? was that really? omg no way a ufo!
three → lunar eclipse you've been sitting out for hours, waiting for this. it's so cool!
four → comet does it move fast or slow? either way, it's amazing.
five → full moon the moon is so huge! just don't look too long, it's really bright too.
six → star dust anything can happen in space. make up your own plot!
seven → solar eclipse this might be happening in the middle of the day!
eight → planet sighting is that a new star? nope, just a neighbor in the solar system!
nine → constellations do you know the stories behind these odd patterns?
ten → deep space normal stargazing isn't that much fun. you got a telescope!

taken from here.

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[ Surprisingly, Harry's been waiting rather patiently. John would either wake up, or he'd have to be woken up. Sleeping in a snowbank was a little detrimental to one's health. Maybe the two of them ought to have a serious conversation about that - and about John's drinking habits. One did not attempt to outdrink the Allfather, for starters. Especially Chicago's dearest Baron.

All Harry wants to do is wiggle the toe of his boot into said Baron's ribs, give him a little jolt to wake him up, but his hopes are dashed when John gets up.

It's not like he's been waiting that long, but it's with Winter's remoteness that he held off from immediately waking the man. Survival, quite obviously, was up to the individual - although Harry wouldn't be letting John sleep through their first meeting in a... long time. He's not wearing his duster, but some dark hip-length peacoat that Maeve demanded he pair with this scarf not that one if he was going to meet up with John Marcone of all people. ]

Sorry that I wasn't there to greet you personally - the Queen had me out repainting her roses. [ Harry drawls brightly after a moment, picking his feet up out of the snow to step into John's peripheral vision. He looks worn thin, but smiles honestly enough. Like he might actually be happy to see the one person who he could still claim tied him to Chicago, even if the thread were a fragile one. ] Hiya Baron Marcone. Looks to me like you got hazed.

John blinks slowly and follows the long expanse of the Winter Knight's legs to his rather fine coat to a scarf wrapped around a mildly amused face. It's foggy and John takes a moment to show an ounce of weakness, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes and waiting for the world to resolve itself.

There are political ramifications, of course, to passing out in Faerie and being handled by Winter's representative. That is it Dresden and not Lady Maeve or the fucking Leanansidhe bodes somewhat well, though. He hates dealing with the sidhe; no matter what you do you're going to piss off someone. At least Dresden's used to taking flagrant offense to John's very existence. Nothing new there.

He pushes himself up gingerly, first just to his knees, then stops. God, there are hangovers then there is Beltane wine hangovers. He breathes slowly, then says, "How much time have I lost?"

The worst part of taking a nap in the Nevernever, doubtlessly, if the time dissonance. And John thought the Rome-to-O'Hare jetlag was bad. Christ.

"Come on," Harry wraps a hand around John's arm to get him to his feet. Even though he knows the vanilla mortal is going to be stuck with a whopping headache, he needs to get up. Harry elects to brush snow off him methodically, keeping his hands busy and clinical as he runs his mouth off: "You should know better than to take a nap in a snowdrift. That's how you get hypothermia and die." It's a point he has to make.

Accidents, you know? They happened. Maybe even to ballsy mortal Signatories.

Get your ass up. Harry's tugging is ruthlessly expressive, and he jerks John to his feet. "The important thing," he explains evasively, "is that you weren't buried too deep." Just a bite of chill to John's digits and his nose. And nothing detrimental done unto his precious Chicago. Unless one squinted and realized the ploy for what it was.

Just a bit of unexpected time off that means John's schedule back in Chicago is rearranged just enough, most likely. Yeah, or maybe it was a plot to get Knight and Baron together. Maeve had been super-eager to pretty him up, after all. It wasn't paranoia anymore, it was how things went.

"I mean, the parties are wild - but I never thought you'd get bored and come all the way out here just to stargaze." Harry hadn't been there there, but a proxy had stood in while he was out, uh, 'repainting roses'. That same proxy had let him know the Baron went missing shortly after the meeting, and Harry had slogged out into the Nevernever to find him.

"Wasn't what I set out for, Dresden," John said through a thick tongue, letting Dresden take his weight. He was coming back to his senses, but it was gradual. He could still taste the wine, fruity and tart and thick like syrup, and see in his mind's eye the quicksilver glance Donar had shot him. Winter played the game harder than anyone else John had sat with. "There was a treat offered up free of obligation by the Lady Maeve. Everyone else accepted. To not would be a slight." And if John sounds pissed about it, it's only because he is. The goddamned Winter Court and their power plays.

It was minutely frustrating, that for all the strides John had taken he was still a mortal man without magic. The other Signatories couldn't pull the wool over his eyes with the usual underhanded tricks they played on each other. So it descended into something juvenile instead.

At least the remnants of the wine keep him warm deep in his belly, stopping the shivers. Nothing would add insult to injury more than shuddering as the Winter Knight holds him up.

"Where do I stand now, Sir Knight?" John asks, hating that he does need the barometer. But this is what he gets for leaving Nathan at home. In truth, he is fearful of very few things, but one of them is Winter getting their claws into someone else of the Chicago Freeholding. Especially Nathan. "Am I trespassing, under the Accords provisions for meetings, or," he pulls a face, "under the Queen or Lady's hospitality?" God, anything but that.

Of course it wasn't what he set out for; there were ways to accord oneself, especially during a meeting. You couldn't poison one guest, but if that one guest happened to be one of many who ingested the same poison - and they so happened to be fallible? Well then. John being the single mortal in the midst of all those immortals, offered a free gift of hard alcohol? Harry's already begun to think that this has Maeve's x's and o's all over it.

She's a lot like the Sidhe version of a gal pal - won't put up with his shit, plays dress-up with him as she tries to set him up with the Baron, gives him wet willies and freezes them after...

Harry judges that John can stand up by himself for a moment, and unwinds the scarf from around his neck, draping it about the man's shoulders. He doesn't presume to do wrap it around John's throat, because that could be a precursor to an attempt on his life. So he leaves it there and unbuttons his coat, shrugging it off so that he can hold it up, clearly intending John to put it on instead. Harry deals well enough with the cold those days. "For starters," he begins sagely, "you're in a snowbank. You're lucky it was me who found you, not some other Sidhe. Let me walk you back, and we'll call it even-stevens."

John is determined to hold onto his outrage, and the righteous fury that comes from being singled out and shamed in front of his peers. If this results in any boldness on the parts of the other Signatories, John is going to seed every Way into Faerie that he knows about with iron and steel.

But the good and fair Knight of Winter is doing his best to stamp out John's upset. The cloth wound around his neck is a strange mixture, like Dresden himself: the finery of Winter worn down into something warm and comfortable. It is placed on him, not offered, and that would mean no recompense was needed. A gift, freely given. Like the wine, but entirely different in nature. It bolsters him instead of impairs, and when Dresden holds out the arms of his pea coat...

That is not a gift offered freely, but John accepts anyway. Dresden has not changed so much that John cannot look into his eyes and see his soul again. The man he knew is still in there.

"I see that your sense of humor rose from the ashes with the rest of you in your resurrection. A shame." John settles the coat down his arms, noting the rich green color and the odd way the sleeves seem to shorten to fit his arms better. The scarf he wraps more fully around his neck and feels warmer and more cognizant for it.

His back is to the Knight and John thinks about what has thus occurred. For a moment, he feels a tension... "Am I being handled by Winter, Sir Knight?" And what a disappointment that would be. Perhaps it is inevitable that Winter would use his and Dresden's connection in such a way. But it feels like a trespass.

In his pocket is one of Gard's rune tiles. He breaks it, and an efficient (but expensive) rescue will be launched. Oh, that he wouldn't have to use it...

"You missed me," Harry snickers, as he takes it upon himself to cut through the bullshit.

If he was meant to be more like a citizen of Winter, it certainly doesn't show. All he looks is a little tired, like he needs a good night's sleep - and that's from being run ragged and through his paces. It's a busy life, running the various gigs he did. At least dear old dad had taught him to juggle. The only hint into his new nature is the fact that he wears a light, long-sleeved shirt underneath the coat he's offered to John - and isn't bothered by the cold. Or maybe the way his breath barely mists in the air, compared to John's.

Harry tucks the coat shut, buttoning it up with a satisfied expression. It's not a smile, but it's not malicious, at least. "You're being handled by me, John." He replies, lifting his eyes up to meet the other's, just long enough to make a point. He can see the way John has come to a screeching halt the moment he dons the jacket, and Harry is quick to sooth. He's either learned to manage an emotional crisis, or Winter's taught him new tricks.

All he does his cross his arms over his chest and tuck his hands under his armpits, looking at the now-bundled mortal and nods, approving. "Anyways, I wouldn't play you like that," once more, he easily tucks his arm through John's to support him, and this time, he begins walking. "Come on, let's walk as much wine off as we can. It's a clear night; I'll show you something cool if you behave."

"Like something on collision course." And when John thinks it, he is imagining the chaos of two planes aimed for each other and the ensuing carnage and destruction. But when he says it, Harry's hands have alighted to the coat, straightening it, almost fussing over it. The words change tenor as he says them, without his permission, into something less scathing and more familiar.

It's not exactly unwelcome, but it's hard to stay still under Dresden's attentions. Something is off, and usually John can read the man like the dossier he saw in his chocolate eyes, some decade ago. But he has missed something, perhaps when he was asleep? He should have paid the Winter delegation more mind during the meeting but. Well. Wine.

"I... see." He almost says, I didn't mean literally, but when Dresden thread their arms together, he doesn't think it's meant as a pun. He has missed something, definitely. Perhaps Winter owes him a favor? Or he is going to be asked for one soon?

They trudge out of the snow, and then above it and John's jaw clenches with nervousness as he waits for the moment Harry withdraws his boon and sends John falling into the drift. He can feel it coming. "I am lucid, Dresden," he protests, but it sounds weak even to his ears. Christ, what if this is some beltane fever dream? He hadn't considered that. Fucking Faerie is already dreamlike on its own. John's grip on Dresden's arm tightens, suddenly needing that physicality to ground himself.

Edited 2012-11-28 07:14 (UTC)

With an extraordinary amount of generosity, Harry elects to accept the description of their relationship with a knowing smirk. They'd spent the better part of a decade keeping out of each other's paths, save for a number of situations that Harry could count on two hands. When they came together, emotions ran high, the impact was resounding and the carnage was spread out in their wake. Chicago had always known when they two stood together. So had the opposition - and lord, it was almost cruel to see Dresden and Marcone stepped out onto the field, especially while on the same side.

"Easy there." He almost adds the unnecessary "tiger" to make it a double-reference. Spider-man AND something really personal. Not a good mix on the first date. Harry wiggles his arm a bit when John constricts around it. A sideways-and-slightly-down glance at the other man, and he slows their pace. Someone was awake enough for the logic to return and the confusion to creep in. "I'm real," it's not a promise, but it's something. "And you're lucid enough to know that Faerie could only wish it could create anything that resembled me."

He fucking glows away, that half-mad Knight that he is. The weather is pleasant to him, and it's put him in a rather good mood. Unlike him, John is still mortal and thus... well, not fragile, but more susceptible to things such as the cold. He doesn't want to keep him outside too long, even tucked into Faerie-garments. It's why he keeps him above the snow, because Winter-bitten or not, cold feet sucked.

"Okay, through here." It's rather abrupt, but he folds himself down and shoves his shoulders through a bush, shattering frosty leaves in his wake. It brings them out to a clearing in Winter's woods, and where some would look both ways before crossing the street - Harry does the same before ghosting out into the clearing, having deemed it secure. It opens on the sky, and with glee (like the guy is high or something wow what is going on with you dresden), he wordlessly throws a hand up to point at the sky.

The Nevernever is a screwy place, and Faerie is no better. Time and reality are mere afterthoughts. Harry has brought John to a place he would sometimes visit while he was mandated to the Court - when he was fresh(er) and new(er) and three times as prone to homesickness. The night sky is full of stars, and that is an understatement towards its true nature. Even as he looks up, the scene shifts; it reforms to reflect a familiar landscape, albiet an three-dimensional, upside-down landscape that is actually Chicago. Right down to little glowing stars that stroll the streets and vanish when they clamber into buildings and homes or little cars that amble along and cut each other off because it's a city and traffic is never not brutal.

"Space!" Harry cackles, "the final frontier!" (Someone has apparently accepted that Star Wars fans and Star Trek fans can co-exist.)

John looks sideways at Harry, taking in the man's profile and considering his words. The slightly crooked nose (broken, set, and broken again likely) is still the same shape. The eerie, moonless night light illuminates the scar through his lip, the same length and depth as it has always been. He is still a tall bastard who looks wiry like he was assembled from spare parts. Perhaps his eyes are brighter. That is it, maybe, what John finds so unsettling. There is manic light, turning his eyes to amber, and John has never seen that before. His file on Dresden-- both the mental and the one kept on his private server-- has nothing like this.

He looks away, down at Harry's arm curled around his, guiding him along. Dresden's skin is pale, and in Faerie it lacks the glamour of his patrons but still has an otherworldly sheen, like opal perhaps. Dresden is changed, but familiar, and frankly John would not be so unbalanced if Dresden were spitting invectives and snarling at him like usual. What about the mantle has made him... like this? Whatever this is?

John's joke is strained. "And one would hope that if Winter was going to use someone against me, they'd be kind enough to use someone else." He almost smiles at the thought. "Or they've heard Lady Raith's grievances." Lara Raith will never stop amusing John.

Dresden moves like a boy wanting to share a secret away from his parents' prying eyes, and it's ludicrous that John is the object of his attention right now. He has a hard time getting past why me.

Until they break into the clearing and John is staring up at what is unmistakably his city. Chicago and all of its souls are so bright, the clearing brightens from the sheer amount of starlight. He can trace the tourists out at Millennium Park, and once he spots that, he steps away from Dresden to walk underneath that spot. He can see the souls crowding around the Bean, the Cloud Gate, and he knows their faces of wonder without having to see them. They lean in close and marvel at the beauty of the Mag Mile in the mirrored surface, and Gard has told John that their regard and reverence is poured into Chicago like tribute.

John imagines that feels like this; there is a unraveling of tension in him as he holds his head tilted all the way back, following the ley lines of the city and the light sparkling in the river.

A phantom city.

This is what makes John shiver finally. He says, cool and level as he can, "Am I meant to be impressed, Dresden?"

Edited 2012-11-29 01:18 (UTC)

It proves hard for Harry to take his damn hands away. When he does, his boon (or what-the-hell-ever John wants to call it) is revoked. At least he's polite enough to wait for the man to be standing on his own two feet. relinquishing his hold allows him to amble across the clearing, back and forth along the general path of city streets, stretching a hand up to the starry mobile like a child playing with the glow-in-the-dark stickers on a ceiling. He stirs a hand through where Wrigley Field would be - scattering the stars and winding them into a maelstrom about his wrist, his bright eyes wistful.

It's an eerie thing, attributing a windstorm to the diorama of Chicago.

For a bit, he ignores John - lets him have his own moment in as much privacy as can be given. They both love Chicago, maybe to different degrees, but the city is etched into the marrow of their bones by one force or another. He comes down from his toes, and turns back towards the Baron. "Are you?" He counters smoothly, and slouches closer. "No, I just wanted to share. It's pretty. I came here to remember." The information is offered like a tribute: all vulnerable and personal and gentle-toned.

When it comes Harry's turn to assess John, he takes it in stride. Even with the coat and scarf, the man spent some time in a snowbank. His clothes would be damp enough for a chill to rapidly set in. While the brief thought of treating Marcone with his newly-minted bedside manner was alluring, the still-human bits were quick to protest. Spending more time in the company of a mortal (who smelled good and looked really REAL and probably tasted delicious surely he wouldn't protest if harry gave the curve of his ear a teeny tiny nibble--) was bringing him down from the manic, playful high.

Just enough to manage.

Harry returns to John's side, and once more links their arms. He doesn't need to, but he likes to. "Anyways. Winter knows better than to send me after you," he states, firm and unyielding. Hell, Winter knows better than to send Harry after his friends, let alone John. "It's not that sort of cold that lives here. Speaking of cold, you look it. Let's get you back to the keep already."

Seeing Dresden play with the stardust painting makes something clench in John's chest. Magic will never be commonplace for him, no matter how much of it he sees. There is something awesome in the classical sense about seeing Dresden fling fire and walls of invisible force. But something as benevolent and curious as this sort of magic, it brings out a wonder in John that is very hard to stamp back down.

Especially when he reaches up and catches the sparks that make up the South Side neighborhood where he and his friends used to climb on top of the water towers with bottles of crap beer stolen or bought with fake IDs. The light feels hot at first, but it's the burn of frost, not flame, and John lets it go, watching it drift back into place.

Christ.

The nakedness in Harry's words is strange, skittering over John's skin. By now, the effects of the wine are fading, the cold of Winter is settling on him, and that tone of voice-- they all work together to make John shiver again. Winter lives up to its name, of course. John wraps his arms around himself but continues to stand there, looking up at his city, the place he is entreated to protect and keep. "Perhaps this is a tactical map," John suggests. "Perhaps you and your rulers stand out here and plan the fall of my borders so you can swoop in to seize it." He exhales slowly, breath rising in a wide plume from his mouth. "Tell me she isn't worth the effort," he whispers in quiet reverence.

John blinks out of his reverie when Dresden takes his arm again. When he mentions it, the effects of the cold start to bother John. Even his lips are chapped, his ears (well, ear-and-a-half) are stinging. It doesn't take much coaxing to get him moving. "And what sort of cold is it, Sir Knight?"

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.

"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.

Edited 2012-11-29 06:41 (UTC)

With a hint of fire, Harry retorts: "Well, now I'd like you to quit gawking because I said so. What a shame it'd be if you caught pneumonia. Poor Baron, I'd feel so bad." What's frightful is the way Harry's mind visibly steps back (he's still got a shit poker face), contemplating several things in a matter of moments. Something that wasn't on a spectrum of black and white, not even grey. Something on the highly contrasting scale of blue and orange. It's almost unnerving, the flash of something bright and Sidhe-like in his eyes before he settles on discarding it. but he doesn't apologize, after all, that is a part of him now.

The least he can say is that it is not malicious. Because it is not malice that brought John back to the relative security of the keep, out of the cold and away from the Sidhe who may have occupied the place, and may have wanted to niggle at the adorably mortal Baron who'd gotten himself drunk and meandered away. Harry, at least, does not draw attention to his defense of John's already bruised pride.

Sunlight? Harry chances an indirect answer, glancing down at his pale skin with a wry twist to his lips. As if. Winter had sunny days as it had dark ones, but they simply weren't the sort you went sunbathing in. "It's been a while," he finally adds, quietly. And lonely. It's not that he isn't without company. It's the unfamiliarity of the company, their obvious semblence inhumanity that he's assimilated in spirit but not in letter.

"I found you," he finally brings himself to purr, and gestures to the hall they stand in. It's obviously his. The hallway that leads to his home-away-from home, because the lights are turned down low, the ice is darker and resembles stone, rather than frosted glass. "That means if you'll have my company - I get to keep you for the night."

Of course it has been a while. That is what worries John. That, along with the light in Dresden's eyes. It's bright and hard to look away from, like when a sunspot flickers over your vision and you just have to find the reflective source. Looking at Dresden is like that now, the way he catches John's attention and holds it. It makes John want to take Harry back to Chicago, if only for a little while. Summer is coming, and the oppressive heat of the city could at least begin to melt the frost that has overtaken him.

John is about to extend that invitation with all the pomp and circumstance that such a thing demands, when Dresden plays his card.

It's partly the way it's said, with a low, curling rumble that makes John's adrenaline spike hard enough that he can feel the rush of blood. It's catlike, sidhe-like, mixed with the sort of casual aggression that the wizard always had. John steps away immediately, feeling like someone who just discovered the ground he walked on was not solid street, but treacherous black ice. His hand settles on the tile in his pocket, warm against his fingers and comforting.

Before he snaps it, he manages to still, calm himself. Rewind and replay what was said. "If I will have your company?" He slides a half step closer, at once careful of proximity but also tempted by this stupid dangerous thing laid out for him. "You make it seem like you've made claim, like the rules of the Hunt... Do I have choice here?"

He hates to admit weakness, especially with the Winter Knight looking at him with that strange hunger in his eyes, but he is in the tall grass here. "Who told you? About... this?" My fascination with you, with your eyes, your hands, and the power behind them. Could Mab have discovered?

There's a hairline fracture in John Marcone's composure. He's been caught off-balance, a difficult and rare moment that Harry covets as much as John might covet the moments where Harry is - well, anything but at his throat in seething hatred. It takes a lot of willpower not to take a step towards him, when he steps back. There is, after all, an invisible thread that links them, and every step may as well be an entire dance. Harry always has room on his dance card, right at the bottom, for John. No, he holds himself together well, remaining stationary, though he tucks his hands into the pockets of his jeans and runs the toe of his shoe up his calf, scratching some imaginary itch.

"Finder's keepers," he quips, not as delightfully, but just as brightly. "Though you always have a choice. I'm not Sidhe, just part of their system. If you'll have my company, you're welcome to stay in my quarters. I'll take good care of you. If you would like to decline, you'll be granted guest quarters and no political offense will be taken. Maybe just my pride will suffer." Harry pantomimes a pain in his stomach, but it's all farce and play.

When he straightens, it's to cant his head to one side. It makes him look like a goddamn bird. "I wasn't told anything." No, there were no words given to him that made him turn his head and look twice. Harry ducks his head, and comes up with a smile like a shark that wants to make friends, voice dry: "Knighthood has been a rather eye-opening experience."

Harry takes his hands from his pockets and gestures openly, peaceably. "Yay or nay is up to you. I'd appreciate the company, as it's been a while, but you're not actually under obligation to repay me. I told you that when I got you out of the snowbank, and it still holds. You were handled by me, I just -." And he actually has the audacity to turn red, now of all times, as he mutters something under his breath.

What Dresden looks like is a pale flamingo, his long legs shifted with easy grace (impressive, as John finds every surface of Arctis Tor slightly slippery), his head animated and birdlike with that discerning animal darkness to his wide pupils, surrounded by that thin ring of amber.

It makes John breathe out through his nose slowly, keeping a stranglehold on the parts of him that want to snap that tile and hide. In the past, when John challenged Dresden in words or action, Dresden fought, but almost refused to truly engage It was always "scumbag" this and "lesser evil" that. Never something head-on, not outside of combat where they rose to each other and worked together like a machine.

This must've been what Dresden felt like. John is almost sympathetic.

"Good care," John echoes quietly. If his skin flushes at the thought of what good care entails, he hopes it's blamed on the chill in the air. The last person John was with intimately wanted to murder him and almost succeeded. When he recalls that... Nothing Dresden can throw at him could be worse. And to be in someone's care for a night, after years without a night of absolute peace... Just the idea of that release of burden is as seductive as anything else.

He takes his hand out of his pocket, leaves the tile there. "If no one has told, then I have certainly taken a misstep. Perhaps my own pride could use some mending." And here John drags his eyes from Dresden's face and sweeps them quick but calculative over the Knight's form.

John steps forward sharply, stopping with his toes very precisely touching against Dresden's. "Go on. Be frank with me or I'll be on my way out." And John never dreamed that the bait he would use on this man would be himself. That... was unfathomable even an hour ago.

They really are mirrors. Moments after John's hand withdraws from his pocket, one of Harry's is pulled from his own. He'd planned to crook a finger at the Baron, to encourage him just a little closer - but John defies expectations, and stands so close that Harry has to look down at him. They'll collide one way or another: through brief touches or eye contact. "Maeve says you pine," the amusement in his voice is clear, though Harry continues on pointedly: "She says the same about me, though."

When he'd opened his eyes to the Winter Court, he'd found out that being the Knight was a lot like being in another foster home. As he learned his ropes, he was better able to accord himself among his new "siblings" - particularly the Winter Lady, who had become as much an elder-younger sister as she had a gal pal. Maeve had been less subtle about the way Harry pined after the Baron, especially after the brief glimpse he'd caught before being assigned to those "roses".

The hand he'd yanked from his pocket brushes against the front of the peacoat Harry had bundled John into, palm smoothing across the tailored waist, thumb flicking a button open boldly. "If you'll have me," he reminds John, dedicated and infatuated with threes until the last, "I'd like to invite you to my quarters. Drinks. Dry clothes. A fireplace to languish before." Harry's hand wraps around the scarf, tugging it far enough from John's neck so that he can lean in (every inch of him is tense because he just wants a nibble--) and take a chance, by kissing the man's jaw. "And me, of course."

John rocks back on his heels. "I do not--" The idea is so ridiculous he can't even finish it. Pining. "You are the obviously bleeding heart romantic here, Dresden, not me."

All right, perhaps John has no name for the feeling in his chest when he looks at Dresden, but it's too... much to be pining. Pining brings to mind simpering over a fetching young man as one sits on a daybed with the embroidery. What John feels at the sight of the wizard-turned-knight is a howling, messy creature that, unlike most of the troublesome parts of his psyche, John cannot figure out how to kill.

He wants so much from Harry Dresden, everything from bed sheets to blood to handcuffs to quiet Sunday mornings. There is not enough time in a mortal lifetime to have it all.

But drinks and a fireplace, away from the cold of Winter.... it would tick a few things off the list.

John's hands catches Harry's, stilling them as he feels the heat creeping up his neck. The shudder that wracks his spine at the touch of Harry's mouth has nothing to do with the cold. His brain is short-circuiting, too much stimuli to sort through. Beltane wine and snow drift naps and cold damp clothes and stardust Chicago and now this revelation. He defaults to a language he usually leaves up to Dresden: "Mr. Dresden, you're trying to seduce me," he murmurs.

Edited 2012-11-30 06:59 (UTC)

Harry stills when his hand is caught, hovering where he is without any intention of backing up unless John were to press him to. His teeth might be itching, but his self-control is anything but brittle - he holds out, and leans back a little, so that he can see the profile of John's face out of the corner of his eye. Just enough to put a hair's breadth between them, but close enough to still feel the inherent warmth of another's body. He huffs. It's not mean-spirited. "It took you that long to figure it out?"

Of course he is. Harry doesn't claim to be a smooth operator - no matter how much time he's spent among Winter, his fingers still tremble when he softly tucks his hand into John's, his teeth still bite his lip and his eyes still widen as though disoriented by his own brass. He fucking shakes in place, as much from excitement as from nerves. "Though it wasn't much of a proper date. I suppose that leaves me an excuse to make it up to you."

Harry finally steps back, though his hand has once more refused to relinquish its hold on the Baron. "Is it really working?" By that, he means his attempts to entice the other. "Because if it is, I'd suggest a more private location-" To which he jabs a thumb towards his door, and takes another step back, stretching their arms out between them. "-where I'd let you call me Harry, and do better than I could in the hallway." Slowly, he lets go of John's hand, and turns away, taking pointed steps towards the doors that lead to his quarters.

"It was more of a date than I've had in a long time," John says, oddly drawn to reassuring the man. The gift of seeing Chicago like that is one he will carry with him a long time.

John almost catches Harry's fingers as he lets John go. The break in contact is unwelcome. He can still feel the impervious, cool feeling the Knight carries with him. It makes John want to hold onto him. If he cannot take Harry back to Chicago and treat him to real sunlight, he'd have the next thing-- press his skin to Harry's until heat is rekindled. The man shakes, and it's unlikely due to the cold, given his affiliation, but the image still affects John and makes him want all that much more to warm him.

At the separation, his hand remains out for a second, hoping for the contact to return. The ache he feels is sudden and overwhelming. Since he woke up cold and alone, Harry's hands have been touching him like he can't figure out how to stop, and now John feels that himself. He's following before making the conscious decision, feet crossing the distance before Harry reaches the door.

"But if you feel obligated, I am..." John smiles faintly. "Willing to see what you have to offer, Harry."

The life of Signatory and self-styled prince must keep him awfully busy, if this slipshod tour of a precious few of Winter's wonders is satisfactory. Harry takes heart in it regardless, encouraged by the reassuring words. Surely, that means he had not failed to entice John closer, and that he might have another opportunity. The mere idea that Harry had hopes for further meetings was a testament of what had actually changed when he took up the mantle.

There was next to no hesitance when it came to drawing close to John, or to quirking a metaphorical finger in his direction, asking him to come along. He stops asking at that point, because the rest is laid at John's feet. His decision. Harry busy himself with the lock on the double doors leading to his quarters, pushing one of the doors open once it's unlocked. The soft footfalls behind him tell him that the Baron has come to a decision - and privately, the Knight smiles to himself.

"I don't feel obligated, John. That's the beauty of it." I wanted to, his tone implies. Though with a shake of his head, he beckons to the softly-lit interior, inviting the Baron in. The candles are all out, but the fireplace casts dim flickers against the walls. An implicit need to make his assigned space his had driven him to redecorate. A muted incantation sets the candles alight, and immediately brightens the interior of his lair to a level where they can at least see where they're walking.

John catches the implication in Harry's voice and that alone warms him. When he heard of the man's deal with Mab, John did see it as a death sentence for Dresden as John knew him. Being bound would destroy him, he thought. But here on the threshold of the Winter Knight's quarters, he doesn't think Harry is broken or tied to Mab's pinky. It reminds him of Gard, when he sees her in Mr. Vadderung's presence. There is a support behind her, and unshakeable power added to her own. He imagines it's hard to feel alone with such company backing you.

Gard has the All-Father. Harry has the Winter Court. There may be a freedom in that.

At the beckon, John steels himself and slides past Dresden, into the room, aware that he's just put himself even further into the Knight's mercy. A potential rival taken into the private quarters of one of the highest members of the Court. Even the tile might not save John now.

That is hard to focus on. John is too busy looking around the new surroundings. Much of the same at first-- stone and ice. But there are rugs scattered across the floors, and fireplace set into ice, and there's a large four poster bed. The last of which doesn't look amenable to sleep; there's dirty clothes slung over the posts and what looks like wizardly accouterments (ie symbolic junk) scattered over the sheets.

John looks up and sees a chandelier of ice set with candles. One candle is covered in a sock.

He turns back to the door to give Harry a silent, bemused look.

Harry meets the look he's given with a crooked, boyish smile. He's so proud of the mess he's made of his room, an explosion of personality and power that he's draped over every surface. In the wake of his previous apartment having burnt to the foundations and been built over (it still stings a little, sue him), he gradually built the new rooms into something he could take refuge in. He might not claim his new abode as a sanctuary, he'd undoubtedly taken steps to make something of it.

He repossessed the rooms with candles, with shelves full of books and knicknacks - the majority of which had suddenly appeared the evening he'd come back from birthday festivities, courtesy the Winter Queen and her daughter. One night spent in the bed had convinced him that he absolutely hated how lonely it felt, and he'd abandoned it for the semi-circle pit by the fireplace, piling pillows and blankets and throws into it with greed rivaling any dragon.

"She told me to make myself at home," he replies, speaking of no other 'She' than Mab herself.

Harry shuts the door quietly, toeing his shoes off so that his steps are silent as he slips up behind John. His arms settle around the man's waist, fingers absurdly graceful as he steadily unbuttons the coat he'd lent him. "First thing's first," he explains, having bent down just enough to press his mouth along the curve of John's ear, "let's get you out of those damp clothes and warm you up."

this is going to be so good...

switching to the other style because imma jerk

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