Reassuring isn't quite the word, but nor is Matt put off, precisely. Rather, he seems to be weighing Harry's answer word by word, shadowed tones and stormcloud expression and all. He supposes if he had to pick between forms of violence, hard and fast and finished would be preferable to bloody attrition. But although Matt's only familiar with most violence from a scholarly distance, he has the impression it isn't that simple.

Then Harry droops, and Matt exhales like a string between them has gone slack. With the edges of his awareness, he marks Harry's folded posture, the tightness in the shoulders and closely held elbows and knees. Matt's always fascinated by the physical particulars that set people apart--their scars and dyed hair, their familiar gestures and little tells. Harry seems so bound up in his invisible bubble, a magician in a straitjacket, that Matt can't help wanting to see him unfurl a little.

Then Harry launches into his pitch, and Matt's eyes brighten for scale model of Chicago. By the time he hits thaumaturgically linked, his face is practically luminous. Matt sways in for that crooking finger like it's a physical tug, forgetting to politely soften his eye contact as he answers in a hushed, buoyant tone, "Yes. Absolutely."