Post finale fic: Pandora's Box
I've just posted a fic... as soon as I wrote it... inspired by the finale of season 3. I'm still angsting and have had very little sleep. It's going to be a WIP, possibly about their activities during the time between the finale and the start of season 3, possibly venturing into AU territory. Or it might just be a series of vignettes that are angsty.
Pandora's Box, Chapter 1/?
Or read it:
He sits down on the park bench, feeling open, exposed, as if he’s being watched by a million eyes. His shoulder hurts but he forces himself not to rub at the wound. The dog next to him whimpers and nudges at his thigh.
“It’s all right, Bear,” he whispers. Should they have given the dog a new name too? Is Samaritan looking even for their dog?
Their dog? No, not theirs any more. Harold worries about Bear, remembering how badly he missed John when he was locked in Rikers, how happy Bear was when John finally came home…
Home… Their home was gone too. The library was compromised. Harold had loved that building, even more because it had been chosen by Nathan. It had held all their files and the history of all their work saving the irrelevants. And so many other memories: of banter and snarky comments, of ease and comfort, of hot Sencha tea and donuts, of bandages and antibiotic ointment… and stolen moments of love.
He forced his mind away from those images; they hurt too badly.
He ached, not just his shoulder wound which he’d never gotten any further care for. John’s suggestion that Shaw take a look at it had been forgotten and now, a week later, it was sore and probably infected. It still seeped blood, but Harold didn’t dare go to a hospital. He’d always been paranoid, now the feeling was compounded. He was nobody, had nothing. And that was the only thing that was keeping him alive.
His ache was soul deep. He ached for their work, those simple days when they had been so busy with number after number. He ached for switching on his computer screens and using his expertise to help someone, or to ruin some big wig who had hurt an innocent person. He ached for the sound of John’s voice in his ear.
“Oh, John… “ The whisper was dragged out of him unvoluntarily, his voice broken with pain and loss. They couldn’t meet, couldn’t expose themselves. Their new identities were too fragile, Samaritan too all seeing.
He was so tired. He’d barely been sleeping for months, Root’s comment about less than four hours a night had been right on target. Since parting company with Reese and Shaw after D.C. he had slept less, trying to find a way to prevent Decima from bringing Samaritan online and worrying about Grace. And since he’s gone willingly with Greer to save her -- what a damn fool I was! he had slept not a wink from then until the kangaroo court. In the past week, he’d caught a few winks on park benches or on the subway.
He kept thinking he spotted John. He’d glance idly across the street and catch sight of a tall man striding with purpose, wearing a black winter coat and his heart would stop, his breath catch in his throat. But he was always wrong. Someone’s cell phone would ring or vibrate and he’d reach to tap his own ear… but there was nothing there. someone’s sleep on the street… and he was wrong every time.
Weary, he took off his glasses and rubbed at his burning eyes. At his feet, Bear whined again. Listless, Harold just sat, his glasses held listlessly in his hands.
Bear suddenly lunged. Gave a yelp. Without looking up, Harold gripped the leash tighter. “Zit, Bear,” he ordered.
Bear ignored him. He barked, his tail starting to wag rapidly.
At a loss and too dispirited to think, Harold looked up. In front of him stood a tall man wearing a gray running suit and shabby sneakers.
“Nice dog,” a rough, very quiet voice murmured. A fine boned hand reached down to pet the dog’s head briefly.
Harold was so startled he dropped his glasses on the ground.
The man bent to retrieve them. Harold caught sight of salt and pepper hair, mussed from the wind.
“Here you go, fella,” the dry, raspy voice said.
Harold looked up, too desperate to believe. “Uh… th-thank you,” he managed finally.
“No problem.” The man’s fingers brushed against his as he handed over the glasses and then he was gone.
Fumbling in haste and an agony of hope, Finch struggled to put the glasses back on and to look for the disappearing figure in the crowd.
But the man had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.
Bear continued to whine and wag, listlessly now.
It took a moment for Harold to realize that along with the glasses, a balled up piece of paper had been handed to him.
Trembling, he smoothed it out and looked at it.
Firm handwriting he would recognize anywhere. No message, no name.
Just an address.
Harold hurriedly memorized the street and number, awkwardly getting up from the bench and heading in the opposite direction from the one the other man had taken, dropping the paper into a trash can as he passed it.
to be continued...
Pandora's Box, Chapter 1/?
Or read it:
He sits down on the park bench, feeling open, exposed, as if he’s being watched by a million eyes. His shoulder hurts but he forces himself not to rub at the wound. The dog next to him whimpers and nudges at his thigh.
“It’s all right, Bear,” he whispers. Should they have given the dog a new name too? Is Samaritan looking even for their dog?
Their dog? No, not theirs any more. Harold worries about Bear, remembering how badly he missed John when he was locked in Rikers, how happy Bear was when John finally came home…
Home… Their home was gone too. The library was compromised. Harold had loved that building, even more because it had been chosen by Nathan. It had held all their files and the history of all their work saving the irrelevants. And so many other memories: of banter and snarky comments, of ease and comfort, of hot Sencha tea and donuts, of bandages and antibiotic ointment… and stolen moments of love.
He forced his mind away from those images; they hurt too badly.
He ached, not just his shoulder wound which he’d never gotten any further care for. John’s suggestion that Shaw take a look at it had been forgotten and now, a week later, it was sore and probably infected. It still seeped blood, but Harold didn’t dare go to a hospital. He’d always been paranoid, now the feeling was compounded. He was nobody, had nothing. And that was the only thing that was keeping him alive.
His ache was soul deep. He ached for their work, those simple days when they had been so busy with number after number. He ached for switching on his computer screens and using his expertise to help someone, or to ruin some big wig who had hurt an innocent person. He ached for the sound of John’s voice in his ear.
“Oh, John… “ The whisper was dragged out of him unvoluntarily, his voice broken with pain and loss. They couldn’t meet, couldn’t expose themselves. Their new identities were too fragile, Samaritan too all seeing.
He was so tired. He’d barely been sleeping for months, Root’s comment about less than four hours a night had been right on target. Since parting company with Reese and Shaw after D.C. he had slept less, trying to find a way to prevent Decima from bringing Samaritan online and worrying about Grace. And since he’s gone willingly with Greer to save her -- what a damn fool I was! he had slept not a wink from then until the kangaroo court. In the past week, he’d caught a few winks on park benches or on the subway.
He kept thinking he spotted John. He’d glance idly across the street and catch sight of a tall man striding with purpose, wearing a black winter coat and his heart would stop, his breath catch in his throat. But he was always wrong. Someone’s cell phone would ring or vibrate and he’d reach to tap his own ear… but there was nothing there. someone’s sleep on the street… and he was wrong every time.
Weary, he took off his glasses and rubbed at his burning eyes. At his feet, Bear whined again. Listless, Harold just sat, his glasses held listlessly in his hands.
Bear suddenly lunged. Gave a yelp. Without looking up, Harold gripped the leash tighter. “Zit, Bear,” he ordered.
Bear ignored him. He barked, his tail starting to wag rapidly.
At a loss and too dispirited to think, Harold looked up. In front of him stood a tall man wearing a gray running suit and shabby sneakers.
“Nice dog,” a rough, very quiet voice murmured. A fine boned hand reached down to pet the dog’s head briefly.
Harold was so startled he dropped his glasses on the ground.
The man bent to retrieve them. Harold caught sight of salt and pepper hair, mussed from the wind.
“Here you go, fella,” the dry, raspy voice said.
Harold looked up, too desperate to believe. “Uh… th-thank you,” he managed finally.
“No problem.” The man’s fingers brushed against his as he handed over the glasses and then he was gone.
Fumbling in haste and an agony of hope, Finch struggled to put the glasses back on and to look for the disappearing figure in the crowd.
But the man had vanished as if he’d never been there at all.
Bear continued to whine and wag, listlessly now.
It took a moment for Harold to realize that along with the glasses, a balled up piece of paper had been handed to him.
Trembling, he smoothed it out and looked at it.
Firm handwriting he would recognize anywhere. No message, no name.
Just an address.
Harold hurriedly memorized the street and number, awkwardly getting up from the bench and heading in the opposite direction from the one the other man had taken, dropping the paper into a trash can as he passed it.
to be continued...