i'll pretend my heart's not on fire if you steal my true love's name [NC17] John/Harold
Title: i'll pretend my heart's not on fire if you steal my true love's name
Author: queenklu
Beta by: judgebunnie
Pairing: John Reese/Harold Finch
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 11.8k
Warnings: uh...knotting. mentions of mpreg. alpha/beta/omega dynamics. lots and lots and lots of consent, but if going into heat squicks you as a concept feel free to skip this fic.
Summary: Kara used to call John an “attack dog” in and out of his hearing. A “loaded gun,” once. But you have to point the gun and fire, she’d whispered in his ear, you have to tell the dog what to bite. After that it’s just a dumb animal, or a lump of metal. Useless until you say the word.
A/n: Title from Young Blood by Norah Jones.
Detective Carter seems like a nice lady, and John supposes if he has to be arrested for thrashing some punks on the subway, it could be worse. Jail means a place to sleep, food, shower. Maybe he should beat up people more often.
“You know I can smell it on you,” she says after her speech about helping hands and self-punishment. “You’re an Alpha.”
John is impressed, distantly. “You can smell anything past the-“ He dips his nose into his collar, winces and snorts. Alcohol. Dirt. Sour, dried flop-sweat.
“I have a very good nose,” she says, tapping the side of it. “Which is why I’m downwind of you right now.”
He pushes the corners of his mouth up for her, not sure if she can see it through his beard, and waits for the inevitable question.
“Why don’t you have a job? You and I both know all you have to do is find an Omega with hiring abilities. There have to be some doing service work, labor even.”
She seems genuinely concerned for his welfare, which is why John is willing to ignore her casual prejudice. He knows she’s a Beta-probably grew up surrounded by other Betas who don’t know better and Alphas more willing to abuse their power than John.
It’s always been his problem.
“Not cut out for it,” he says finally, and hopes he doesn’t show too many teeth.
It’s only after her expression shifts that he realizes she’s smarter than he gave her credit for. That it was a test.
Strangely enough, he thinks he passed.
~*~
In John’s specialized line of work, his “coworkers” were mostly brutal Betas and a few rare Omegas with chips on their shoulders deep enough to mirror the Grand Canyon (Kara was one of the Omegas, so bitter and disillusioned that she’d laughed like swallowing glass at John being assigned as her partner). Alphas with his skillset should have been perfect for his line of work-should have, but there’s that little evolutionary hair-trigger that says Alphas don’t want to take orders from fucking anybody, even superior officers. They either bumped down the ladder fast or got promoted.
John holds the record for longest Alpha operative in his division. Sometimes it sat well with folks-perfect little soldier, they called him, Alpha strength and near-Omega obedience. But the longer he stayed, the longer the higher-ups looked at him, stared at him, wondered what the fuck was screwed loose in his head. Wondered when he was going to snap, how many men he’d take with him when he self-destructed.
He feels like a bag of loose screws these days, wrapped with skin and the scraps of his will to live. Lots of little metal bits, nothing for them to dig into. Not even needed for spare parts.
When John leaves the precinct, he thinks that his unfortunate predilection for following orders is why he follows the man who is obviously not a lawyer out into the street, into the car filled with men who are obviously hired guns. Later, when he’s drinking himself past the point where he can’t be anything but honest to himself, he knows it’s because it doesn’t matter if they kill him, his skin going translucent with wear.
He thinks he dreams of owlish eyes blinking at him behind a pair of glasses, but he couldn’t say for sure.
~*~
Mr. Finch, the man called himself. Maybe he’d decided to capitalize on the bird resemblance.
The air reeked of Betas when they met-all the bodyguards, probably not by accident, and Finch himself-anxiety carrying with it a chemical tang as the gunmen realized they were dealing with a rogue Alpha. Not Finch, though. His scent was steady, as unwavering as his gaze when he said, “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Reese.”
It hadn’t been nearly long enough since John last heard that name. It’s not as dangerous as his real one, but it’s dangerous enough. Brought John’s hackles straight up, kept them bristling as Finch offered him a job, a…purpose.
Kara used to call John an “attack dog” in and out of his hearing. A “loaded gun,” once. But you have to point the gun and fire, she’d whispered in his ear, you have to tell the dog what to bite. After that it’s just a dumb animal, or a lump of metal. Useless until you say the word.
Maybe she was right. But this attack dog doesn’t need another leash and shock collar, not as broken down and crippled as he is. John would rather bite the hand that feeds. His Alpha-born pride, maybe, or the fact that he’s been thrown into the ring too many times and come out bloody.
He uses the wallet he swiped from the fake lawyer to buy a motel room and a bottle of whiskey. Uses the shower and the cheap razor someone left under the sink to scrape at his skin. He isn’t making an effort; he just can’t stand his own stink anymore.
~*~
Coming to with his hands fastened to the bed is a wake-up call in more than one way. He has to fight back panic and the urge to puke until the whiskey is wrung out of the lining of his stomach-how could he let someone sneak up on him, a untrained Beta? He’s swallowing snarls when Finch calls, lets them tear free when he hears the fight in the other room. He’s trapped, he’s trapped, he’s an Alpha, he will not be tethered.
But Finch is in the next room alone, and through the pounding blood in his ears John finally hears the tell-tale tinned noise overlapping the fight: a recording. He was fooled by a-
“You were too late for her,” Finch says. “Just like you were too late for your friend, Jessica. You were halfway around the world when she got killed.”
Finch looks shocked to be slammed into a wall, John’s lips pulled back over his teeth, not so much growling as letting out a low, feral roar. John feels Finch’s legs buckle-could be fear, could be the limp. The chemical scent is sure stronger, though, enough to itch at the inside of John’s nose, make him snort.
It displaces his anger, sneezing on the guy. Finch’s own features go rigidly blank, blinking behind his spit- and snot-speckled glasses. John reaches up with the edge of his sleeve, ready to wipe them clean.
“You’ll scratch the lenses, Mr. Reese,” Finch says, wriggling out from between John and the wall and somehow making it look graceful. He pulls a soft blue cloth from his pocket, and when he removes his glasses to clean them he looks startlingly…vulnerable.
John’s Alpha instincts have always been strongest when it comes to protecting people. If what Finch says is true, he’s offering John an opportunity to keep that part of himself sated.
“You left the Government because they lied to you,” Finch says, settling his glasses back onto his nose to fix John with a startlingly clear grey-eyed stare. Not many people look John in the eye, even fewer since he took to the streets. “I never will.”
Well. It isn’t like John is doing anything better with his time.
~*~
“I overheard your conversation with Detective Fusco,” Finch says. It’s already easier than John thinks it should be to soothe the unsettled part of himself that hadn’t known Finch was listening in on that conversation; John is beginning to suspect that some part of Finch is always tuned in. It’s starting to rankle a little bit, yet another omnipresent employer, but John hasn’t yet had time to indulge in research.
Finch seems to be waiting for a response. John looks up, and catches the slightest twitch of his mouth, more a glitch in coding than human expression.
“You don’t seem to care for him,” Finch says finally, tone and features balancing on the knife’s edge of a tease.
“I don’t,” John agrees.
“Is it because he’s an Omega?”
John’s look is sharp, but Finch doesn’t flinch, just blinks a little, mouth pushed into the blandest of smiles.
“Fusco is spineless,” John says. “Pretty Alpha growls at him and he rolls right over, bares his belly, betrays his honor as a cop and an Omega. They don’t have to roll over,” John says, letting his voice drop hints of a growl. He understands that Finch isn’t socially intelligent-hell, John is no master of human interaction himself-but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Reese,” Finch says. John quickly hides his surprise. “Today’s society gives too much power to our born assignations; too often we let it dictate who we are, what we want.”
John watches him, sidelong. “It doesn’t seem to have stopped you from becoming one of the most powerful men in the world, as a Beta.” A survey of the entire United States shows that 89% of the highest paid and most influential jobs are held by Alphas. The statistics don’t shift much in other countries.
Still, John expects his observation to be shrugged off like most of his casual fishing, but Finch replies, “No, it hasn’t. Because I never wanted power if I had to steal it from someone else.” He pauses, then adds while John is still reeling from the insult, “I wouldn’t wish to be an Alpha for the world.”
John’s teeth lock together for a long moment, guard back up where it belongs. “Is that what you think of me?” he asks, as blandly as he can. “That I steal power?”
Finch doesn’t seem too bothered by the edge in John’s voice, or maybe he can’t hear it. “I think everyone has power within themselves,” he says; his eyes seem to be peering inward. “No matter how small or seemingly insignificant. What they choose to do with that power-well, that determines the kind of person they are. Man, woman, or child; Alpha, Beta, or Omega; we all have a choice to abuse that power or use it to help those around us.”
Finch’s phone blips with new information that sends John across town before he realizes Finch never answered his question. Maybe he doesn’t really want to know.
~*~
Finch might slip him the first couple times, but John’s always been a fan of that old saying: if at first you don’t succeed, try until either they’re dead or you are.
The office building is dull verging on the edge of quaint-neat little cubicles, splashes of color where people try too hard to pretend they aren’t part of a faceless corporate conglomerate. Finch has a calendar of island beaches that’s never been written on, and a stack of rainbow post-it notes. Paperclips, none of them in a chain. A username and password written on a piece of paper that John is sure opens up a perfectly boring proxy and alerts Finch immediately, if it does anything at all.
The elevator dings, and John’s nostrils twitch. Omega on the floor. Slightly unusual, but not unheard of in an office setting like this. The Alpha John’s been keeping track of for no reason other than being the department manager stands and moves out of John’s line of sight.
“Morning Harold.”
John goes still. Harold is a common name.
“Listen, that database you’re coding? We’re going to need it…a little faster. Okay? You’ve gotta keep up.”
The Alpha’s condescension is palpable. John notices several Betas responding to it, even if the most they do is try to shrug off the sense of unease, settled when the Omega keeps his head down.
“’Kay.” Harold Finch’s voice is low, but John hears it as clearly as if the words were said against his ear. “I’ll see what I can do, Dave.”
John has five seconds to compose himself before Harold enters his cubicle and stops in his tracks. “Well,” John says, not sure at all if he’s managed it, “not exactly what I expected.”
He had a plan; he’s holding Harold’s Software Engineer of the Month plaque in his hand, but he can’t remember why.
The Beta scent chemicals-stupid, John has been trained in covert ops, how had he not figured it out-have been washed away, leaving the soft, clean spice of an unremarkable Omega. John wants to lean in close and inhale, just to see if-but no, he knows a real scent now that he’s paying attention. The cologne must have been hellishly expensive to have fooled him for this long, but since when has money ever been a problem for Harold?
“You’ve worked here seventeen years and only been promoted twice,” John comments, and raises his eyebrows.
“And you think it’s because I’m an Omega,” Harold snaps-or as close as someone can snap barely moving their lips, rigid with indignation and…disappointment.
“I think it’s because you own the company,” John says, letting his voice carry the significance.
“Oh.” Harold’s shoulders give a quarter of an inch; the rest of him doesn’t move.
“How many people know?” John tries to sound teasing but this is important; none of what he’s found explains Finch’s seemingly unlimited wealth. It’s important because John needs to know if there are other people Harold trusts to keep him safe.
“No one,” Harold says. Something feral in John’s belly uncoils with a pleased growl, and John smothers it. Just his Alpha instincts reacting to a new Omega; they’ll settle down once he’s used to the idea. “The best place to hide, Mr. Reese-as you well know-is in plain sight. And no one suspects me as I am.”
He isn’t quite looking at John, keeping his gaze always just a little diverted. It’s proper Omega-to-Alpha behavior, but John finds it annoying more than anything else. “I’ll make it quick then,” he says, “The girl is alive. And, well, kicking.” He shows Finch his bandaged hand and Harold’s nostrils flare, possibly in distaste, even though the wound is clean and well-wrapped. “Seems she has some trust issues,” John says, and waits for Harold to dart a look up to his eyes to read John’s unuttered thought: She isn’t the only one.
John includes himself, of course. If this is going to work, he needs Harold to trust that John won’t ever make him roll over. And John needs to know that Harold won’t throw him away when he’s done with him.
~*~
Fusco gives a side-eyed double take so big John’s surprised the Detective doesn’t sprain something the first time he sees Harold and realizes the even bigger, badder Alpha he assumed was holding John’s tether is just an Omega like him. But, to give the Detective the barest bit of credit for meeting the criteria of a decent human being, he doesn’t say anything to Harold’s face. Harold is borderline curt with him, but no more than he is with anyone new, and when he leaves John can’t tell if his shoulders are stiff from chronic pain or something else.
“So is that what your deal is?” Fusco demands the next time he and John are alone. “You can’t get him to roll over so you take it out on me?”
John stops, turns, and stares at him hard enough that Fusco trips and stumbles into a chain link fence. “I realize this might be a difficult concept for you to grasp, given your history with other Alphas,” John says, using small words, “but I don’t actually want every Omega I meet on their knees for me.”
“Thank God for that,” Fusco says, forcing out an uncomfortable laugh.
“As for the other thing, the way I treat you?” John says, taking a step closer. Fusco tries to take a step back, but can’t because of the fence; his eyes are suddenly low and to the left, proper deference. John would feel bad about it except for one thing: “You’re a dirty cop. You’ve been doing some good things for us lately, but that doesn’t change the things you did. This is something learned in grade school, Lionel; if your friends jumped off a bridge would you do it too?”
“It’s different for you,” Fusco spits, head still down. “You don’t know what it’s like, every instinct in you screaming to show your throat.”
“No,” John admits after a moment of heavy silence, “I don’t.”
Fusco is shocked enough by the admission to meet John’s eyes for a second, but not for longer. “Stills was my friend,” he says, quieter now, “He was an Alpha, he looked after me in the bullpen, all through the academy. You think many Omegas make it in the NYPD, even with equal hiring opportunities? I would’ve been a desk jockey if it wasn’t for him and the rest of the crew.”
“Real friends don’t ask you to go against your oath and break the law. And I don’t think he forced you-you smell too guilty for that.” All the time, Fusco reeks of it; the scent makes John irritable, at least part of the reason he’s short-tempered with Fusco, though not all of it.
“I think he gave you a choice, and you chose wrong,” John says, ducking his head to catch Fusco’s wary, shocked-wide gaze. He smiles, and doesn’t put too much effort into making it look friendly. “If I snap at your heels-think of it as a reminder to make good choices.”
“You snap at Mr. Glasses’ heels too?” Fusco dares ask, jut of his chin proving that not all is lost; he does have a spine, he just tends to remember it at the worst possible times.
Still.
John leans in until Fusco is forced to pay very close attention. “My relationship with Finch is none of your business.”
Fusco backs down fast-“Okay, okay, okay, just asking, can’t blame a guy for being curious.”-but John finds himself thinking about it as he strides away. He can’t imagine Harold needing herding. Nudging, maybe. Brushing against his leg to guide him around an obstacle, offering unspoken support. Whether Harold might want or accept the gesture is another thing entirely.
John thinks and listens to his ear-bud, wondering if he can hear the slightly different kind of silence that means Harold is listening in.
~*~
It’s mildly surprising how well the urge to earn Harold’s trust sits with him. About as surprising as how often he indulges the desire to check in with Harold, brush noses in a manner of speaking, something to say I’ve found you here you are hello.
It’s not ‘proper’ Alpha-Omega behavior-he should be demanding Harold give him his undivided attention when in a room, should put him down every so often to check he knows his place-but John likes drifting in and out of Harold’s line of sight. Likes catching Harold off-guard as much as he likes being caught off-guard by Harold.
Harold starts to join him in the diner, after their first few rocky starts, and after that they share more meals, or coffee, or casual information. Once John stops digging for the unimportant things-a real name, an address, detailed information on the machine-and learns to trust that Harold will give him all the information that he needs.
Harold’s Omega status seems largely insignificant-though once in a while he uses different scents when going undercover, it always makes John sneeze and leaves him unsettled for days. Most of the time John’s natural scent is camouflage enough; with John around the assumption is that Harold is claimed, and even less interesting than before.
But equilibrium is found, especially when John is wheelchair-bound and still doesn’t growl at Harold to be lower than him. It isn’t even a struggle to keep his Alpha instincts in check; John likes the attention Harold pays him in the details-his clothes, his food, even that ridiculous pillow. Balance is found, yes, but more than that-friendship. Ever-so-tentatively pack.
And then Leila happens.
~*~
John stares at her, crouched down on his haunches, watching her burble happily in an enclosure of books. He can feel Harold’s tension at his back, but he only has himself to blame for not telling John what to expect before coming in.
“Ah,” says Harold shortly, “I should have thought- I’ve heard of Alphas being displeased by unknown children in their territory-“
“This is your territory,” John dismisses, distracted; in the back of his mind he notices that Harold goes very still. Leila shrieks and claps her hands. She smells like baby, soft and pink, and Harold, from holding her, from letting her chew on his tie. John gets his legs beneath him and scoops her up, settling her in his lap as he sits cross-legged on the floor; she makes more noise, grabbing at his chin.
“Yes, I can see my concerns were completely unfounded,” Harold says, dry. “You realize we can’t keep her, Mr. Reese.”
“Of course.” She belongs to a pack, even Harold should be able to tell. John presses a kiss to her head where her hair is silk-fine and her scent is purer, less dizzyingly mingled with Harold’s.
He keeps himself curled around Leila while he and Harold talk about her predicament, and fights down a spike of irrational jealousy when Harold mentions she kept him up all night and John realizes he took the baby home. It makes sense that he would, but it still grates a little that Leila has been where John will never be invited.
“I need to speak with Detective Carter,” Harold says after a pause John hadn’t been paying attention to until it was over. “Leila was just changed and fed, but if need be I have all the supplies here.”
John blinks up at him. “You trust me with her?”
Harold stares at him a moment, but John can’t think why. “I can honestly think of no safer place for her than in your arms,” he says, and John thinks he sees him swallow after, as if his throat is dry.
John knows his smiles are often more unsettling than reassuring, but he can’t help the one tugging at his mouth now, beaming up at Harold while Leila gurgles in his arms.
~*~
Carter doesn’t share Harold’s belief in him, but John can’t find it anywhere in him to care.
“Are you sure you’re not the Omega?” she asks when they meet her at the waterfront. “You look like the proudest new mommy on the block.”
“Somebody’s jealous,” John sing-songs to Leila, swaying her a little in the carrier strapped to his chest. She tips her head up, beanie almost falling in her eyes. It’s one of John’s old hats; now she smells like both of them.
He can’t tell what Harold feels about the implication that he’s not maternal enough. Offense, maybe, in the corners of his mouth. John lifts one of Leila’s hands where it’s wrapped around his thumb to give Harold a little wave.
“One cute happy family,” Carter drawls.
John refuses to let the ache in his chest expand. He can’t quite shake it, even later as he’s watching Bradley Petrossian settling a hand over the swell of his boyfriend’s belly, Harold crooning nonsense to Leila in his ear.
He knows this is temporary, a fleeting indulgence cut short by Leila finding one of John’s tear gas grenades and sending Harold into a panic. This isn’t working, one of us always here minding the baby, and John knows, he knows, this is something they can never have. Either of them. No mates, no families of their own.
He’s always known this. It shouldn’t be something he has to relearn.
He thinks Harold would have made a good mother. Maybe he is a mother, some voice whispers in his head, Maybe he was and something bad happened. John shifts his expression until it’s blank. He watches Harold walk back to the office with Leila in his arms and wonders, and wonders.
~*~
Leila is gone. Harold is injured and Leila is gone.
~*~
“Mr. Reese. John. John.”
John looks at him, but can’t stop pacing. Her scent is gone. His whole body is shaking. He failed.
“I’m sorry we have to move you again,” Harold tells Claudia’s parents. “Please go get your things.”
Mr. and Mrs. Cruz are just two Betas already rattled by events and ratcheted higher by John’s frantic behavior. They have every instinctive right to look to John before obeying the Omega in the room, and they do, and it still grates on him, makes him want to pull his lips back from his teeth.
“Now, please,” Harold says, eyes down, chin down. They flee.
“If we don’t recover Leila tonight she’ll be out of the country. Gone for good.” He can’t stay still. No, that’s not true. He can. He won’t.
“John. Please look at me.”
The please throws him, but what makes him stop is the way Harold keeps his eyes down and his head-his head tilted just a little, the slightest baring of his throat.
“What are you doing,” John demands, voice strangled.
“I need you calm.” He’s playing submissive but his voice is all control, barely wavering at the edges to show he’s feeling the same strain. “What can I do,” he starts, wincing as he shifts to kneel on the floor, “to-“
“Get up,” John growls, “Get up now.”
He doesn’t mean it as an order, but Harold obeys like it is one, on his feet as quickly as his leg allows. John is already moving to help him, grips Harold’s shoulders when he arrives too late.
“It’s alright,” Harold says before John can unclench his jaw. “It’s alright. What can I-what should I do?”
John makes himself stop, and think, hindered by the tremors he can feel jittering down Harold’s frame. God, he hopes they’re not because of him.
“Here,” Harold says after a moment, “come here,” voice as gentle as his hands as they guide John’s head down. For a moment John is sure it’s for a kiss.
But then Harold tilts his head again and offers up his scent where it’s headiest at the base of his throat. John breathes in hungrily, desperately, swallowing the anxiety he tastes until it’s just Harold. He can feel both their heartbeats slowing down, almost synching up. Calming, to the point where John doesn’t flinch when Harold asks, “What do we know about the men who took her?”
“Albanian.” The chain is still clutched in his hand. “And I have their scent, from the car, from where they hurt you.” He wants to nuzzle the growing bump on Harold’s forehead, where his scent is sharp with copper, but he refrains, and pulls back.
“Good,” Harold says. His eyes are grey and blue, and meet John’s perfectly. “That’s a start.”
In the end all roads still lead to Elias.
~*~
Giving Leila to her grandparents is fractionally less painful that John anticipated, but since John was braced for being knifed in the side it isn’t saying much. They’re her family, her pack. John and Harold were just looking after her for a while. She doesn’t look back. She’s still so little, she won’t remember them.
“It would be nice to have kids,” John says, half-surprised to hear the words outside of his own head. It isn’t until Harold goes very still at his side that John realizes how it might sound, coming from an Alpha to an Omega, a presumably childless, unclaimed Omega at that. “I didn’t mean,” he starts, but Harold cuts him off.
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Reese.” He doesn’t sound alright-his voice is stiff, blunt, but John senses whatever problem Harold has it isn’t with him. Harold gives an indecipherable look to his own shoes. “I’m afraid children are outside the realm of possibility for me, even disregarding the dangerous nature of our work. Tried, once. Didn’t take, never took. Found out there’s a fault in my own genetic coding. The Alpha in question soon lost interest.”
John deliberately doesn’t stare. He usually has to pick up scraps of information Harold scatters like a trail of breadcrumbs in his wake. Maybe he has Leila to thank for this, exhaustion wearing down their guards to raw emotional honesty. It still feels like a burning coal he’s being offered, but it’s tangible this time, something he can wrap his hand around.
“Your partner? The one you built the machine with?” he asks, careful to keep his angry indignation out of his tone. It doesn’t feel like such a big thing to admit he knows this much-How could anyone toss Harold aside?
“No, not Nathan,” Harold scoffs, in a way that suggests Never Nathan. “But I was wary to trust other Alphas for some time afterward. Nathan was the first to show me that a relationship between an Alpha and an Omega could be beneficial, when built on mutual respect.” He tilts his whole body instead of just turning his head to look at John. “I suppose you have him to thank for my willingness to give you a chance.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” John says. He watches Harold push out a breath, absently tugging his collar away from his throat, and asks, “And the other Alpha?”
“Your interest in retribution on my behalf is noted and completely unnecessary,” Harold says, guards back up so fast John almost gets whiplash.
“Are you alright?” John asks, shifting his weight away from the car.
“I’m fine,” Harold says, waving him off, “Just a little warm.”
“Warm?” John repeats. “It’s freezing out here.”
“I may be coming down with something,” Harold admits, worry furrowing his eyebrows. “I hope I didn’t give it to Leila.”
“She’ll be okay,” John says, and hopes it’s true. He’d gotten to her as quickly as he could, bundled her up and rubbed her tiny fingers to keep the circulation going, but it had been terrifying when her wails turned to hiccups and she’d stopped crying.
He shakes off the memory and the itch under his skin, looks more closely at Harold. “You do look a little flushed,” he says, “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Oh, you know where I live now, do you?”
Finch’s tone is light, but it’s also the first time in a while that John has called Harold by his assumed last name in his head. John does his best to smile, but he’s fallen out of practice, giving so many real ones to Leila. “Just a figure of speech.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Finch-Harold-says, brusquely dusting his hands against his coat with a sigh. “That was rather snappish of me.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, no it isn’t.” Harold’s lips thin, gaze stuck on the middle distance in front of him. Then he blinks, and busies himself limping around to the passenger’s side of the car. “The truth is I’m between homes at the moment. One is being remodeled, one in escrow, and I recently burned an apartment thanks to Carter’s inquisitiveness. The others are simply too far.”
“So which hotel can I chauffer you to?” John asks when Harold seems stuck on how to continue.
Harold fiddles with the door handle. “Hotels have such an impersonal feel to them,” he begins, and stops when John’s eyes widen.
“You’re sleeping in the library?” Another thought occurs. “With Leila?”
“I turned a side office into a sparse bedroom some time ago, it’s quite sufficient,” Harold defends, looking even more flushed than before, though John suspects this time it might be something less viral, like embarrassment. “And there was more than enough room to fit a crib.”
“It can’t be very cozy,” John points out, thinking of how drafty the library gets at night. When Harold says nothing, ducks his head and opens the door, John mirrors his actions and follows him into the dark interior of the car. It gives him just enough time to think of a plan, and not enough time to reconsider his offer. “What if you stayed at my hotel room tonight?”
“I’ve set up at least three of your aliases with more than enough financial means for an apartment,” Harold mutters, then blinks as if he’s just now processed the rest of John’s sentence.
He must really be not feeling well, John thinks, shifting his stance until Harold can see him speaking too, if he needs the visual. “I don’t mind taking the couch. It’s closer to the door, anyway.”
It’s a gamble, instinct. Harold’s apartment was burned months ago; if he hasn’t found a new one it’s for a reason. If that reason is because he hasn’t felt safe-well, providing safety is the entirety of John’s job description.
Harold stares at him behind his glasses. “I might get you sick!”
John tries his best not to smile. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take, if you are,” he says, and turns the key in the ignition to get them wherever they’re going.
“The library please,” Harold says after a long moment of idling. “I, I need to wrap up some work on Leila’s case.”
John nods, not letting it sting too badly. He thought-especially recently-that they were closer to trusting each other. John should be used to being left several steps behind.
part two
Author: queenklu
Beta by: judgebunnie
Pairing: John Reese/Harold Finch
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 11.8k
Warnings: uh...knotting. mentions of mpreg. alpha/beta/omega dynamics. lots and lots and lots of consent, but if going into heat squicks you as a concept feel free to skip this fic.
Summary: Kara used to call John an “attack dog” in and out of his hearing. A “loaded gun,” once. But you have to point the gun and fire, she’d whispered in his ear, you have to tell the dog what to bite. After that it’s just a dumb animal, or a lump of metal. Useless until you say the word.
A/n: Title from Young Blood by Norah Jones.
Detective Carter seems like a nice lady, and John supposes if he has to be arrested for thrashing some punks on the subway, it could be worse. Jail means a place to sleep, food, shower. Maybe he should beat up people more often.
“You know I can smell it on you,” she says after her speech about helping hands and self-punishment. “You’re an Alpha.”
John is impressed, distantly. “You can smell anything past the-“ He dips his nose into his collar, winces and snorts. Alcohol. Dirt. Sour, dried flop-sweat.
“I have a very good nose,” she says, tapping the side of it. “Which is why I’m downwind of you right now.”
He pushes the corners of his mouth up for her, not sure if she can see it through his beard, and waits for the inevitable question.
“Why don’t you have a job? You and I both know all you have to do is find an Omega with hiring abilities. There have to be some doing service work, labor even.”
She seems genuinely concerned for his welfare, which is why John is willing to ignore her casual prejudice. He knows she’s a Beta-probably grew up surrounded by other Betas who don’t know better and Alphas more willing to abuse their power than John.
It’s always been his problem.
“Not cut out for it,” he says finally, and hopes he doesn’t show too many teeth.
It’s only after her expression shifts that he realizes she’s smarter than he gave her credit for. That it was a test.
Strangely enough, he thinks he passed.
~*~
In John’s specialized line of work, his “coworkers” were mostly brutal Betas and a few rare Omegas with chips on their shoulders deep enough to mirror the Grand Canyon (Kara was one of the Omegas, so bitter and disillusioned that she’d laughed like swallowing glass at John being assigned as her partner). Alphas with his skillset should have been perfect for his line of work-should have, but there’s that little evolutionary hair-trigger that says Alphas don’t want to take orders from fucking anybody, even superior officers. They either bumped down the ladder fast or got promoted.
John holds the record for longest Alpha operative in his division. Sometimes it sat well with folks-perfect little soldier, they called him, Alpha strength and near-Omega obedience. But the longer he stayed, the longer the higher-ups looked at him, stared at him, wondered what the fuck was screwed loose in his head. Wondered when he was going to snap, how many men he’d take with him when he self-destructed.
He feels like a bag of loose screws these days, wrapped with skin and the scraps of his will to live. Lots of little metal bits, nothing for them to dig into. Not even needed for spare parts.
When John leaves the precinct, he thinks that his unfortunate predilection for following orders is why he follows the man who is obviously not a lawyer out into the street, into the car filled with men who are obviously hired guns. Later, when he’s drinking himself past the point where he can’t be anything but honest to himself, he knows it’s because it doesn’t matter if they kill him, his skin going translucent with wear.
He thinks he dreams of owlish eyes blinking at him behind a pair of glasses, but he couldn’t say for sure.
~*~
Mr. Finch, the man called himself. Maybe he’d decided to capitalize on the bird resemblance.
The air reeked of Betas when they met-all the bodyguards, probably not by accident, and Finch himself-anxiety carrying with it a chemical tang as the gunmen realized they were dealing with a rogue Alpha. Not Finch, though. His scent was steady, as unwavering as his gaze when he said, “You don’t owe me anything, Mr. Reese.”
It hadn’t been nearly long enough since John last heard that name. It’s not as dangerous as his real one, but it’s dangerous enough. Brought John’s hackles straight up, kept them bristling as Finch offered him a job, a…purpose.
Kara used to call John an “attack dog” in and out of his hearing. A “loaded gun,” once. But you have to point the gun and fire, she’d whispered in his ear, you have to tell the dog what to bite. After that it’s just a dumb animal, or a lump of metal. Useless until you say the word.
Maybe she was right. But this attack dog doesn’t need another leash and shock collar, not as broken down and crippled as he is. John would rather bite the hand that feeds. His Alpha-born pride, maybe, or the fact that he’s been thrown into the ring too many times and come out bloody.
He uses the wallet he swiped from the fake lawyer to buy a motel room and a bottle of whiskey. Uses the shower and the cheap razor someone left under the sink to scrape at his skin. He isn’t making an effort; he just can’t stand his own stink anymore.
~*~
Coming to with his hands fastened to the bed is a wake-up call in more than one way. He has to fight back panic and the urge to puke until the whiskey is wrung out of the lining of his stomach-how could he let someone sneak up on him, a untrained Beta? He’s swallowing snarls when Finch calls, lets them tear free when he hears the fight in the other room. He’s trapped, he’s trapped, he’s an Alpha, he will not be tethered.
But Finch is in the next room alone, and through the pounding blood in his ears John finally hears the tell-tale tinned noise overlapping the fight: a recording. He was fooled by a-
“You were too late for her,” Finch says. “Just like you were too late for your friend, Jessica. You were halfway around the world when she got killed.”
Finch looks shocked to be slammed into a wall, John’s lips pulled back over his teeth, not so much growling as letting out a low, feral roar. John feels Finch’s legs buckle-could be fear, could be the limp. The chemical scent is sure stronger, though, enough to itch at the inside of John’s nose, make him snort.
It displaces his anger, sneezing on the guy. Finch’s own features go rigidly blank, blinking behind his spit- and snot-speckled glasses. John reaches up with the edge of his sleeve, ready to wipe them clean.
“You’ll scratch the lenses, Mr. Reese,” Finch says, wriggling out from between John and the wall and somehow making it look graceful. He pulls a soft blue cloth from his pocket, and when he removes his glasses to clean them he looks startlingly…vulnerable.
John’s Alpha instincts have always been strongest when it comes to protecting people. If what Finch says is true, he’s offering John an opportunity to keep that part of himself sated.
“You left the Government because they lied to you,” Finch says, settling his glasses back onto his nose to fix John with a startlingly clear grey-eyed stare. Not many people look John in the eye, even fewer since he took to the streets. “I never will.”
Well. It isn’t like John is doing anything better with his time.
~*~
“I overheard your conversation with Detective Fusco,” Finch says. It’s already easier than John thinks it should be to soothe the unsettled part of himself that hadn’t known Finch was listening in on that conversation; John is beginning to suspect that some part of Finch is always tuned in. It’s starting to rankle a little bit, yet another omnipresent employer, but John hasn’t yet had time to indulge in research.
Finch seems to be waiting for a response. John looks up, and catches the slightest twitch of his mouth, more a glitch in coding than human expression.
“You don’t seem to care for him,” Finch says finally, tone and features balancing on the knife’s edge of a tease.
“I don’t,” John agrees.
“Is it because he’s an Omega?”
John’s look is sharp, but Finch doesn’t flinch, just blinks a little, mouth pushed into the blandest of smiles.
“Fusco is spineless,” John says. “Pretty Alpha growls at him and he rolls right over, bares his belly, betrays his honor as a cop and an Omega. They don’t have to roll over,” John says, letting his voice drop hints of a growl. He understands that Finch isn’t socially intelligent-hell, John is no master of human interaction himself-but that doesn’t mean he can’t learn.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Reese,” Finch says. John quickly hides his surprise. “Today’s society gives too much power to our born assignations; too often we let it dictate who we are, what we want.”
John watches him, sidelong. “It doesn’t seem to have stopped you from becoming one of the most powerful men in the world, as a Beta.” A survey of the entire United States shows that 89% of the highest paid and most influential jobs are held by Alphas. The statistics don’t shift much in other countries.
Still, John expects his observation to be shrugged off like most of his casual fishing, but Finch replies, “No, it hasn’t. Because I never wanted power if I had to steal it from someone else.” He pauses, then adds while John is still reeling from the insult, “I wouldn’t wish to be an Alpha for the world.”
John’s teeth lock together for a long moment, guard back up where it belongs. “Is that what you think of me?” he asks, as blandly as he can. “That I steal power?”
Finch doesn’t seem too bothered by the edge in John’s voice, or maybe he can’t hear it. “I think everyone has power within themselves,” he says; his eyes seem to be peering inward. “No matter how small or seemingly insignificant. What they choose to do with that power-well, that determines the kind of person they are. Man, woman, or child; Alpha, Beta, or Omega; we all have a choice to abuse that power or use it to help those around us.”
Finch’s phone blips with new information that sends John across town before he realizes Finch never answered his question. Maybe he doesn’t really want to know.
~*~
Finch might slip him the first couple times, but John’s always been a fan of that old saying: if at first you don’t succeed, try until either they’re dead or you are.
The office building is dull verging on the edge of quaint-neat little cubicles, splashes of color where people try too hard to pretend they aren’t part of a faceless corporate conglomerate. Finch has a calendar of island beaches that’s never been written on, and a stack of rainbow post-it notes. Paperclips, none of them in a chain. A username and password written on a piece of paper that John is sure opens up a perfectly boring proxy and alerts Finch immediately, if it does anything at all.
The elevator dings, and John’s nostrils twitch. Omega on the floor. Slightly unusual, but not unheard of in an office setting like this. The Alpha John’s been keeping track of for no reason other than being the department manager stands and moves out of John’s line of sight.
“Morning Harold.”
John goes still. Harold is a common name.
“Listen, that database you’re coding? We’re going to need it…a little faster. Okay? You’ve gotta keep up.”
The Alpha’s condescension is palpable. John notices several Betas responding to it, even if the most they do is try to shrug off the sense of unease, settled when the Omega keeps his head down.
“’Kay.” Harold Finch’s voice is low, but John hears it as clearly as if the words were said against his ear. “I’ll see what I can do, Dave.”
John has five seconds to compose himself before Harold enters his cubicle and stops in his tracks. “Well,” John says, not sure at all if he’s managed it, “not exactly what I expected.”
He had a plan; he’s holding Harold’s Software Engineer of the Month plaque in his hand, but he can’t remember why.
The Beta scent chemicals-stupid, John has been trained in covert ops, how had he not figured it out-have been washed away, leaving the soft, clean spice of an unremarkable Omega. John wants to lean in close and inhale, just to see if-but no, he knows a real scent now that he’s paying attention. The cologne must have been hellishly expensive to have fooled him for this long, but since when has money ever been a problem for Harold?
“You’ve worked here seventeen years and only been promoted twice,” John comments, and raises his eyebrows.
“And you think it’s because I’m an Omega,” Harold snaps-or as close as someone can snap barely moving their lips, rigid with indignation and…disappointment.
“I think it’s because you own the company,” John says, letting his voice carry the significance.
“Oh.” Harold’s shoulders give a quarter of an inch; the rest of him doesn’t move.
“How many people know?” John tries to sound teasing but this is important; none of what he’s found explains Finch’s seemingly unlimited wealth. It’s important because John needs to know if there are other people Harold trusts to keep him safe.
“No one,” Harold says. Something feral in John’s belly uncoils with a pleased growl, and John smothers it. Just his Alpha instincts reacting to a new Omega; they’ll settle down once he’s used to the idea. “The best place to hide, Mr. Reese-as you well know-is in plain sight. And no one suspects me as I am.”
He isn’t quite looking at John, keeping his gaze always just a little diverted. It’s proper Omega-to-Alpha behavior, but John finds it annoying more than anything else. “I’ll make it quick then,” he says, “The girl is alive. And, well, kicking.” He shows Finch his bandaged hand and Harold’s nostrils flare, possibly in distaste, even though the wound is clean and well-wrapped. “Seems she has some trust issues,” John says, and waits for Harold to dart a look up to his eyes to read John’s unuttered thought: She isn’t the only one.
John includes himself, of course. If this is going to work, he needs Harold to trust that John won’t ever make him roll over. And John needs to know that Harold won’t throw him away when he’s done with him.
~*~
Fusco gives a side-eyed double take so big John’s surprised the Detective doesn’t sprain something the first time he sees Harold and realizes the even bigger, badder Alpha he assumed was holding John’s tether is just an Omega like him. But, to give the Detective the barest bit of credit for meeting the criteria of a decent human being, he doesn’t say anything to Harold’s face. Harold is borderline curt with him, but no more than he is with anyone new, and when he leaves John can’t tell if his shoulders are stiff from chronic pain or something else.
“So is that what your deal is?” Fusco demands the next time he and John are alone. “You can’t get him to roll over so you take it out on me?”
John stops, turns, and stares at him hard enough that Fusco trips and stumbles into a chain link fence. “I realize this might be a difficult concept for you to grasp, given your history with other Alphas,” John says, using small words, “but I don’t actually want every Omega I meet on their knees for me.”
“Thank God for that,” Fusco says, forcing out an uncomfortable laugh.
“As for the other thing, the way I treat you?” John says, taking a step closer. Fusco tries to take a step back, but can’t because of the fence; his eyes are suddenly low and to the left, proper deference. John would feel bad about it except for one thing: “You’re a dirty cop. You’ve been doing some good things for us lately, but that doesn’t change the things you did. This is something learned in grade school, Lionel; if your friends jumped off a bridge would you do it too?”
“It’s different for you,” Fusco spits, head still down. “You don’t know what it’s like, every instinct in you screaming to show your throat.”
“No,” John admits after a moment of heavy silence, “I don’t.”
Fusco is shocked enough by the admission to meet John’s eyes for a second, but not for longer. “Stills was my friend,” he says, quieter now, “He was an Alpha, he looked after me in the bullpen, all through the academy. You think many Omegas make it in the NYPD, even with equal hiring opportunities? I would’ve been a desk jockey if it wasn’t for him and the rest of the crew.”
“Real friends don’t ask you to go against your oath and break the law. And I don’t think he forced you-you smell too guilty for that.” All the time, Fusco reeks of it; the scent makes John irritable, at least part of the reason he’s short-tempered with Fusco, though not all of it.
“I think he gave you a choice, and you chose wrong,” John says, ducking his head to catch Fusco’s wary, shocked-wide gaze. He smiles, and doesn’t put too much effort into making it look friendly. “If I snap at your heels-think of it as a reminder to make good choices.”
“You snap at Mr. Glasses’ heels too?” Fusco dares ask, jut of his chin proving that not all is lost; he does have a spine, he just tends to remember it at the worst possible times.
Still.
John leans in until Fusco is forced to pay very close attention. “My relationship with Finch is none of your business.”
Fusco backs down fast-“Okay, okay, okay, just asking, can’t blame a guy for being curious.”-but John finds himself thinking about it as he strides away. He can’t imagine Harold needing herding. Nudging, maybe. Brushing against his leg to guide him around an obstacle, offering unspoken support. Whether Harold might want or accept the gesture is another thing entirely.
John thinks and listens to his ear-bud, wondering if he can hear the slightly different kind of silence that means Harold is listening in.
~*~
It’s mildly surprising how well the urge to earn Harold’s trust sits with him. About as surprising as how often he indulges the desire to check in with Harold, brush noses in a manner of speaking, something to say I’ve found you here you are hello.
It’s not ‘proper’ Alpha-Omega behavior-he should be demanding Harold give him his undivided attention when in a room, should put him down every so often to check he knows his place-but John likes drifting in and out of Harold’s line of sight. Likes catching Harold off-guard as much as he likes being caught off-guard by Harold.
Harold starts to join him in the diner, after their first few rocky starts, and after that they share more meals, or coffee, or casual information. Once John stops digging for the unimportant things-a real name, an address, detailed information on the machine-and learns to trust that Harold will give him all the information that he needs.
Harold’s Omega status seems largely insignificant-though once in a while he uses different scents when going undercover, it always makes John sneeze and leaves him unsettled for days. Most of the time John’s natural scent is camouflage enough; with John around the assumption is that Harold is claimed, and even less interesting than before.
But equilibrium is found, especially when John is wheelchair-bound and still doesn’t growl at Harold to be lower than him. It isn’t even a struggle to keep his Alpha instincts in check; John likes the attention Harold pays him in the details-his clothes, his food, even that ridiculous pillow. Balance is found, yes, but more than that-friendship. Ever-so-tentatively pack.
And then Leila happens.
~*~
John stares at her, crouched down on his haunches, watching her burble happily in an enclosure of books. He can feel Harold’s tension at his back, but he only has himself to blame for not telling John what to expect before coming in.
“Ah,” says Harold shortly, “I should have thought- I’ve heard of Alphas being displeased by unknown children in their territory-“
“This is your territory,” John dismisses, distracted; in the back of his mind he notices that Harold goes very still. Leila shrieks and claps her hands. She smells like baby, soft and pink, and Harold, from holding her, from letting her chew on his tie. John gets his legs beneath him and scoops her up, settling her in his lap as he sits cross-legged on the floor; she makes more noise, grabbing at his chin.
“Yes, I can see my concerns were completely unfounded,” Harold says, dry. “You realize we can’t keep her, Mr. Reese.”
“Of course.” She belongs to a pack, even Harold should be able to tell. John presses a kiss to her head where her hair is silk-fine and her scent is purer, less dizzyingly mingled with Harold’s.
He keeps himself curled around Leila while he and Harold talk about her predicament, and fights down a spike of irrational jealousy when Harold mentions she kept him up all night and John realizes he took the baby home. It makes sense that he would, but it still grates a little that Leila has been where John will never be invited.
“I need to speak with Detective Carter,” Harold says after a pause John hadn’t been paying attention to until it was over. “Leila was just changed and fed, but if need be I have all the supplies here.”
John blinks up at him. “You trust me with her?”
Harold stares at him a moment, but John can’t think why. “I can honestly think of no safer place for her than in your arms,” he says, and John thinks he sees him swallow after, as if his throat is dry.
John knows his smiles are often more unsettling than reassuring, but he can’t help the one tugging at his mouth now, beaming up at Harold while Leila gurgles in his arms.
~*~
Carter doesn’t share Harold’s belief in him, but John can’t find it anywhere in him to care.
“Are you sure you’re not the Omega?” she asks when they meet her at the waterfront. “You look like the proudest new mommy on the block.”
“Somebody’s jealous,” John sing-songs to Leila, swaying her a little in the carrier strapped to his chest. She tips her head up, beanie almost falling in her eyes. It’s one of John’s old hats; now she smells like both of them.
He can’t tell what Harold feels about the implication that he’s not maternal enough. Offense, maybe, in the corners of his mouth. John lifts one of Leila’s hands where it’s wrapped around his thumb to give Harold a little wave.
“One cute happy family,” Carter drawls.
John refuses to let the ache in his chest expand. He can’t quite shake it, even later as he’s watching Bradley Petrossian settling a hand over the swell of his boyfriend’s belly, Harold crooning nonsense to Leila in his ear.
He knows this is temporary, a fleeting indulgence cut short by Leila finding one of John’s tear gas grenades and sending Harold into a panic. This isn’t working, one of us always here minding the baby, and John knows, he knows, this is something they can never have. Either of them. No mates, no families of their own.
He’s always known this. It shouldn’t be something he has to relearn.
He thinks Harold would have made a good mother. Maybe he is a mother, some voice whispers in his head, Maybe he was and something bad happened. John shifts his expression until it’s blank. He watches Harold walk back to the office with Leila in his arms and wonders, and wonders.
~*~
Leila is gone. Harold is injured and Leila is gone.
~*~
“Mr. Reese. John. John.”
John looks at him, but can’t stop pacing. Her scent is gone. His whole body is shaking. He failed.
“I’m sorry we have to move you again,” Harold tells Claudia’s parents. “Please go get your things.”
Mr. and Mrs. Cruz are just two Betas already rattled by events and ratcheted higher by John’s frantic behavior. They have every instinctive right to look to John before obeying the Omega in the room, and they do, and it still grates on him, makes him want to pull his lips back from his teeth.
“Now, please,” Harold says, eyes down, chin down. They flee.
“If we don’t recover Leila tonight she’ll be out of the country. Gone for good.” He can’t stay still. No, that’s not true. He can. He won’t.
“John. Please look at me.”
The please throws him, but what makes him stop is the way Harold keeps his eyes down and his head-his head tilted just a little, the slightest baring of his throat.
“What are you doing,” John demands, voice strangled.
“I need you calm.” He’s playing submissive but his voice is all control, barely wavering at the edges to show he’s feeling the same strain. “What can I do,” he starts, wincing as he shifts to kneel on the floor, “to-“
“Get up,” John growls, “Get up now.”
He doesn’t mean it as an order, but Harold obeys like it is one, on his feet as quickly as his leg allows. John is already moving to help him, grips Harold’s shoulders when he arrives too late.
“It’s alright,” Harold says before John can unclench his jaw. “It’s alright. What can I-what should I do?”
John makes himself stop, and think, hindered by the tremors he can feel jittering down Harold’s frame. God, he hopes they’re not because of him.
“Here,” Harold says after a moment, “come here,” voice as gentle as his hands as they guide John’s head down. For a moment John is sure it’s for a kiss.
But then Harold tilts his head again and offers up his scent where it’s headiest at the base of his throat. John breathes in hungrily, desperately, swallowing the anxiety he tastes until it’s just Harold. He can feel both their heartbeats slowing down, almost synching up. Calming, to the point where John doesn’t flinch when Harold asks, “What do we know about the men who took her?”
“Albanian.” The chain is still clutched in his hand. “And I have their scent, from the car, from where they hurt you.” He wants to nuzzle the growing bump on Harold’s forehead, where his scent is sharp with copper, but he refrains, and pulls back.
“Good,” Harold says. His eyes are grey and blue, and meet John’s perfectly. “That’s a start.”
In the end all roads still lead to Elias.
~*~
Giving Leila to her grandparents is fractionally less painful that John anticipated, but since John was braced for being knifed in the side it isn’t saying much. They’re her family, her pack. John and Harold were just looking after her for a while. She doesn’t look back. She’s still so little, she won’t remember them.
“It would be nice to have kids,” John says, half-surprised to hear the words outside of his own head. It isn’t until Harold goes very still at his side that John realizes how it might sound, coming from an Alpha to an Omega, a presumably childless, unclaimed Omega at that. “I didn’t mean,” he starts, but Harold cuts him off.
“It’s quite alright, Mr. Reese.” He doesn’t sound alright-his voice is stiff, blunt, but John senses whatever problem Harold has it isn’t with him. Harold gives an indecipherable look to his own shoes. “I’m afraid children are outside the realm of possibility for me, even disregarding the dangerous nature of our work. Tried, once. Didn’t take, never took. Found out there’s a fault in my own genetic coding. The Alpha in question soon lost interest.”
John deliberately doesn’t stare. He usually has to pick up scraps of information Harold scatters like a trail of breadcrumbs in his wake. Maybe he has Leila to thank for this, exhaustion wearing down their guards to raw emotional honesty. It still feels like a burning coal he’s being offered, but it’s tangible this time, something he can wrap his hand around.
“Your partner? The one you built the machine with?” he asks, careful to keep his angry indignation out of his tone. It doesn’t feel like such a big thing to admit he knows this much-How could anyone toss Harold aside?
“No, not Nathan,” Harold scoffs, in a way that suggests Never Nathan. “But I was wary to trust other Alphas for some time afterward. Nathan was the first to show me that a relationship between an Alpha and an Omega could be beneficial, when built on mutual respect.” He tilts his whole body instead of just turning his head to look at John. “I suppose you have him to thank for my willingness to give you a chance.”
“I’ll add it to the list,” John says. He watches Harold push out a breath, absently tugging his collar away from his throat, and asks, “And the other Alpha?”
“Your interest in retribution on my behalf is noted and completely unnecessary,” Harold says, guards back up so fast John almost gets whiplash.
“Are you alright?” John asks, shifting his weight away from the car.
“I’m fine,” Harold says, waving him off, “Just a little warm.”
“Warm?” John repeats. “It’s freezing out here.”
“I may be coming down with something,” Harold admits, worry furrowing his eyebrows. “I hope I didn’t give it to Leila.”
“She’ll be okay,” John says, and hopes it’s true. He’d gotten to her as quickly as he could, bundled her up and rubbed her tiny fingers to keep the circulation going, but it had been terrifying when her wails turned to hiccups and she’d stopped crying.
He shakes off the memory and the itch under his skin, looks more closely at Harold. “You do look a little flushed,” he says, “Come on, let’s get you home.”
“Oh, you know where I live now, do you?”
Finch’s tone is light, but it’s also the first time in a while that John has called Harold by his assumed last name in his head. John does his best to smile, but he’s fallen out of practice, giving so many real ones to Leila. “Just a figure of speech.”
“I’m sorry, John,” Finch-Harold-says, brusquely dusting his hands against his coat with a sigh. “That was rather snappish of me.”
“It’s okay.”
“No, no it isn’t.” Harold’s lips thin, gaze stuck on the middle distance in front of him. Then he blinks, and busies himself limping around to the passenger’s side of the car. “The truth is I’m between homes at the moment. One is being remodeled, one in escrow, and I recently burned an apartment thanks to Carter’s inquisitiveness. The others are simply too far.”
“So which hotel can I chauffer you to?” John asks when Harold seems stuck on how to continue.
Harold fiddles with the door handle. “Hotels have such an impersonal feel to them,” he begins, and stops when John’s eyes widen.
“You’re sleeping in the library?” Another thought occurs. “With Leila?”
“I turned a side office into a sparse bedroom some time ago, it’s quite sufficient,” Harold defends, looking even more flushed than before, though John suspects this time it might be something less viral, like embarrassment. “And there was more than enough room to fit a crib.”
“It can’t be very cozy,” John points out, thinking of how drafty the library gets at night. When Harold says nothing, ducks his head and opens the door, John mirrors his actions and follows him into the dark interior of the car. It gives him just enough time to think of a plan, and not enough time to reconsider his offer. “What if you stayed at my hotel room tonight?”
“I’ve set up at least three of your aliases with more than enough financial means for an apartment,” Harold mutters, then blinks as if he’s just now processed the rest of John’s sentence.
He must really be not feeling well, John thinks, shifting his stance until Harold can see him speaking too, if he needs the visual. “I don’t mind taking the couch. It’s closer to the door, anyway.”
It’s a gamble, instinct. Harold’s apartment was burned months ago; if he hasn’t found a new one it’s for a reason. If that reason is because he hasn’t felt safe-well, providing safety is the entirety of John’s job description.
Harold stares at him behind his glasses. “I might get you sick!”
John tries his best not to smile. “It’s a risk I’m willing to take, if you are,” he says, and turns the key in the ignition to get them wherever they’re going.
“The library please,” Harold says after a long moment of idling. “I, I need to wrap up some work on Leila’s case.”
John nods, not letting it sting too badly. He thought-especially recently-that they were closer to trusting each other. John should be used to being left several steps behind.
part two