He's too far from any safe houses, to weak to open a Way back to Mab's lands, and too broke to hire a cab. Harry settles against the barred door of Mac's pub with the last of his energy and thinks, as exhaustion swoops in, how lucky it is that pneumonia is no longer a worry.
When he wakes, aching all over and with a thundering headache, he notes the absence of tingle that cold has become. He is bent and curled up to lie longways on a worn flannel couch, just managing, and covered with a blanket.
Someone shuffles about, the light flickering as they cross before its source. The heavy footsteps and and flash of thick silhouette are enough to identify Mac.
Harry licks his lips and tries to speak, only achieving a croak.
Mac hears anyway, pauses where he's bent over something that sloshes. "Rest." he says, and the liquid noises resume.
For once Harry obeys without comment.
He sleeps. Wakes again a little when Mac places a warm, damp washrag above his eyes. Movie medicine. It steams when it touches his skin, unnaturally cool, and Mac curses without energy. Harry grins, intends to make some teasing remark about his effort, but the scratch in his throat wins again. Mac smoothes a rough hand through his hair and shushes him like a child.
The next time he comes too it's because of a flare of brightness, a series of crackling. Mac is balanced on the bit of cushion at the concave of his stomach, nearly touching. Just so close that Harry can feel the strange buzz of whatever type of magic the man is leaping between them, like sparks, mingling with his own. The older man grunts as he leans to awkwardly poke at a fresh log on the fire. Harry places a steadying hand on the low of his back, digging his fingers into body-warm flannel.
And once more he wakes. The fire is glowing ash, but the room still warm. A plate of something hearty that smells like onions and gravy has been left on the coffee table, a mug of cider next to it that retains an amount of heat. Harry sits up to eat and ignores the unhappy twinging from unhappy limbs.
It's morning, he discovers. He passes Mac behind the bar while bound for the door and claps his friend heavily on the shoulder, knowing the gesture will be understood.
Mac takes his wrist as he's pulling away and holds it until Harry meets his eyes.
"Watch yourself." His voice is gruff as rock, jagged and little exercised. "Don't like finding you on my stoop."
The wizard blinks, a little aghast at the sudden show of vocabulary.
It's probably because of so much recent time spent in faerie courts that his first instinct to demonstrate the depth of his gratitude is bend down and meet their lips.
It's not a particularly involved kiss. A light, lingering touch, a bit of extra press before he withdraws, surprised as his actions catch up with him at the lack of blow to the jaw.
Mac squints at him, and slaps his bar rag against the counter.