Off to see the wizard - locked to Harry Dresden
[Warning: Will contain m/m content, up to an R rating]
In a comedy of errors that had completely failed to amuse John, he and his pertinent euphemism had spent the last few weeks occupying the same space without ever seeing one another. At one point they'd even been in the same suite-- Harry had been with the Carpenters taking care of their daughter even as John had been invited in for prayer and dinner, but Harry had been asleep and John preoccupied. They lived in the same hotel, in the same small town, and yet John hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of him walking in the opposite direction. Not since the sky had ripped apart and rained monsters.
There had been letters from Harry, simply talking to the Carpenters was enough to establish that the man WAS in decent health, but the fact remained that he hadn't seen the man on his feet and breathing since the attacks.
He didn't carry a messenger these days; any replacements given to him were returned to the desk with a smile and a 'I couldn't ever figure these doohickeys out, can you?' The phone lines he'd never felt were particularly secure. And playing letter tag sounded like a recipe for madness.
It was to this end that John-- his limp gone, his leg healed with preternatural quickness-- stalked through the halls of the hotel with a cold look on his face, and knocked on the door of Harry and Bob's shared room.
"It's a Saturday and you have no social life, Mister Dresden," he said, not particularly kindly. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."
In a comedy of errors that had completely failed to amuse John, he and his pertinent euphemism had spent the last few weeks occupying the same space without ever seeing one another. At one point they'd even been in the same suite-- Harry had been with the Carpenters taking care of their daughter even as John had been invited in for prayer and dinner, but Harry had been asleep and John preoccupied. They lived in the same hotel, in the same small town, and yet John hadn't so much as caught a glimpse of him walking in the opposite direction. Not since the sky had ripped apart and rained monsters.
There had been letters from Harry, simply talking to the Carpenters was enough to establish that the man WAS in decent health, but the fact remained that he hadn't seen the man on his feet and breathing since the attacks.
He didn't carry a messenger these days; any replacements given to him were returned to the desk with a smile and a 'I couldn't ever figure these doohickeys out, can you?' The phone lines he'd never felt were particularly secure. And playing letter tag sounded like a recipe for madness.
It was to this end that John-- his limp gone, his leg healed with preternatural quickness-- stalked through the halls of the hotel with a cold look on his face, and knocked on the door of Harry and Bob's shared room.
"It's a Saturday and you have no social life, Mister Dresden," he said, not particularly kindly. "I know you're in there. We need to talk."