less bigger than the least begin [NC17] John/Harold
Title: less bigger than the least begin
Author: queenklu
Beta by: leupagus
Pairing: John/Harold
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 16k
A/N: OKAY HOLY FUCK. A million years ago (I'm actually afraid to do the math) giandujakiss bought me in that AO3 auction (yeah, yeaaaah, now you're getting a picture of how long this fic has taken). And she gave me several prompts, one of which I latched onto like a giant life-sucking mollusk. After three brutal re-writes that leupagus was a goddamn saint to help me through, here we (finally, finally) are.
Title from e.e.cummings' poem "love is more thicker than forget."
Just because the man to John’s left has his head bowed low doesn’t mean he’s afraid for his life.
John watches the man spin a whisky glass in a listless circle on the bar top, stiff blond hair haloed in the bar light. He’s classically handsome, broad-shouldered-if John were in a different sort of mood he’d think about practicing his rusty flirting skills, try to brighten the guy’s day. As it is, he’s not really feeling it; recent events have left him…unsettled. Tonight is for settling.
“Do you ever wonder how your life would be different,” the guy says, only slurring a little bit as he leans into John’s space uninvited, “if you just. Weren’t such a complete fuckup?”
He looks at John, grey eyes searching, framed by thick blond eyelashes. There’s something in the way he holds himself-even drunk and slumped over-that hints at a military background. Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s the witching hour, maybe it’s the loneliness, but John finds himself opening his mouth and giving an honest answer.
“Sometimes,” John says, telling himself he’s only throwing the guy a bone. “But then sometimes I think about how other peoples’ lives would be a lot worse if I’d made better choices.”
The searching look shifts to considering as the man quirks the corner of his lips in a smile. “I don’t know. I could stand to have my life be a little better. People could appreciate me more, you know?” He watches John, lashes lowered, trailing his finger through a puddle of condensation on the bar; his suit is upscale, pricy, not bespoke but high-end off the rack. “What about you? You get appreciated?”
“Enough,” John says and doesn’t know he really means ‘be quiet’ until he hears the word drop from his mouth.
His companion doesn’t seem to hear it that way, regardless. “Lucky,” he mumbles into his beer, “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
John pulls out a twenty to settle his tab, patience vanishing into thin air and leaving nothing in its place besides a sick, hollow feeling. So much for settling.
“Hey,” the man says, stopping just short of grabbing John’s arm; as drunk as he is, he must have some self-preservation instincts left. It’s still enough to stall John’s momentum. “Do you-“ He clears his throat, head lolling where he’s propped himself up on one hand. His neck is long and bared, cheeks flushed rosy. “I know I’m…” He waves a hand at himself. “But do you wanna? Sometime? I have a number-card,” he corrects, fumbling in his pocket. “We could…hang out.”
John gently stills his hand, and the guy lets out a long, miserable sigh. “Do you need someone to call you a cab?” John asks.
“Bartender did,” the guys mumbles. “I’m just waiting.”
John gets the man’s uncooperative limbs into the jacket thrown over his chair, helps him out to the curb, and pours him into the cab when it arrives. Not another word is exchanged between them, and John watches the cab leave, sifting through the possibilities of this man being a threat. Well, he can always ask Harold to run facial recognition in the morning, if this niggling feeling in the back of his skull hasn’t gone away.
The plan works fine, until he comes in the next morning to find the man’s face already on Harold’s computer screen.
~*~
“New number?” John asks as his heartbeat kickstarts, stuttering before he can get it back under control. Harold…Harold wouldn’t care that John had the opportunity to go home with that man. Doesn’t care. About any of it.
Harold startles at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever train of thought had kept him too absorbed to look up when John entered the room. Bear bounds over to say hello, tail wagging, and John drops to a crouch to give him the attention he deserves.
“Sorry,” John says, attempting a smile as he flops Bear’s ears back and forth. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
It’s been five days since Root kidnapped Finch for the second time, four days since the machine by all intents and purposes became incorporeal, taking one more step towards becoming an omnipotent, omniscient deity. Four and a half days since John saw Harold in the park and called out to him, and Harold got into the car with Root.
He understands now why Harold did it-he needed to stay ahead of John to lead him to the warehouse. But it had left John gut-punched when it happened.
“No need to apologize,” Harold says, stilted and distracted. John looks up as best he can once Bear calms down enough to lean against his side; Harold’s expression is odd. “You’re going to spoil him.”
John makes an effort to do what he’s always done-he rolls his eyes, cradling Bear’s head in his hands. “He’s had a hard week,” John says, holding up his own hangdog expression for Harold’s comparison; Bear ruins the effect by licking his chin, and it should be normal, but it feels half a beat off and jarring. John’s heart is still beating too hard.
Harold clears his throat. “Did you have a good night?”
John looks up from his crouch, wonders at the sudden strangled note in Harold’s voice. “Yes,” he answers, carefully. Does Harold know John brushed elbows with their number last night? Is it a problem?
Harold nods before John can talk himself into offering more information, turning back to his screen. “Evan Gully,” he says, standing stiffly to limp over to the printer as it whirs to life. “Military out of high school, then CIA, black ops. Specialties include diffusing violent situations-often with violence of his own.” Harold gathers the pages as they spit out and hands them in a gathered sheaf to John, without looking at him or the papers. “Not much family left-at least, none that he sees any more. No romantic relationships that I can tie him to, no social life to speak of.”
John is listening with one ear while he reads the details, so his words aren’t as calculated as they should be when he says, off-hand, “Sounds like we have a lot in common.”
Harold twitches, quickly removes his glasses to clean them against his shirt where it peeks beneath his vest. “Regardless,” Harold says, “Mr. Gully’s case is going to require more delicacy than a run-of-the-mill number.”
“Oh?”
“His training makes him extremely dangerous,” Harold says. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, mouth pursed with concern.
His worry tugs John forward a step, though Harold is quick to turn away; a low, concrete feeling settles in John’s stomach. Now would be the time to tell Harold about the bar. “We’ve dealt with dangerous numbers before,” is what he says instead.
“Mr. Gully is my former employee,” says Finch, fingers splayed over another stack of printouts, Gully’s blank-smiling face lurking in the upper left corner.
“Oh.” John waits, but Harold doesn’t add anything, doesn’t move except where his fingertips are twitching against the paper. "Forgive me for saying so, Harold, but that seems like the kind of information you’d lead with.” He keeps his tone light and dry, and just in case follows up with, “Do we need to worry about him being a disgruntled former employee?”
“What?” Harold blinks at him. “No. Evan and I parted on excellent terms.”
Evan, John’s treacherous mind repeats. “Not so excellent that you’re convinced he couldn’t be the perpetrator,” he points out.
“I said he’s dangerous because he is,” Harold says, limping around his desk with a small stack of books in his arms. “Mr. Gully’s primary source of income when I knew him was as a bodyguard-though he mostly stuck to above-board security details I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s since branched out.”
John watches the tightening in Harold’s jaw, wonders if it’s physical pain from his leg or something else.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Trail him. Discretely,” Harold stresses, from the far side of the room. “We don’t know yet if Mr. Gully needs our help or our interference-our one advantage is that he doesn’t know we’re looking into him.”
It shouldn’t sting, shouldn’t feel like Harold is pandering to him. So it doesn’t. “Sure,” John says, starts shedding his weapons.
“What are you doing?” Harold asks as John’s gun and hostler clatter on the table. He sounds alarmed.
“He’ll be looking for clothing bulges,” John shrugs. Harold’s mouth snaps shut. “Also, the probability of me being able to tail him is slimmer than you know.”
“He’s good, but he’s not untrackable,” Harold says, baffled.
John takes a moment to steady himself, and meet Harold’s gaze head-on. “There’s a distinct possibility that he’ll recognize me from last night.”
Harold’s expression goes through several complicated maneuvers before settling on a blank canvass. “Oh?”
“Yes,” John says.
Silence. Harold’s fingers flit over the lid of the tea John brought him, and John can’t tell if he’s searching or waiting-either way, there are no words, and no movement beyond the soft brush of his fingertips against the lid.
After a long moment Harold clears his throat. “Do what you can,” he says, distant and dismissive.
John leaves.
~*~
Five days ago, John stood on the sidewalk with Harold and tried to remember how he used to breathe. How he used to stand, what his hands did, where his eyes were supposed to linger if not on Harold’s face.
The world wasn’t ending, just shedding its skin. A new age of the machine, omniscient and now independent. John felt like his own skin had gone translucent-what was the point of hiding anything when it could be written down in ones and zeroes? If the machine knew, then Harold knew, and there was no hope-no point-in pretending that John only cared for Harold as a friend. He felt the declaration written out clearly in his frame, as loud as if he’d shouted it at the top of his lungs.
Harold had looked away. He hadn’t commented. Which, John knew then and knows now, is its own response.
John tells himself he wouldn’t mind so much if Harold had kept up his end, playing oblivious. If he’d only kept pretending things were always as they had been, instead of tripping over silences, careful to keep distance between them physically and in the tone of his voice.
When John imagined being rejected by Harold-which is natural, being prepared, figuring out an exit strategy for multiple scenarios-he hadn’t braced himself for this slow death of their previous relationship. He thought Harold would be kind enough to tell John definitively no, not leave him to see his refusal in every facet of their stilted conversation.
Leaving Harold with the chance to assume John had slept with his ex-employee-a bodyguard, like Harold said, like the handful Harold had surrounded himself when he found John on the streets-is petty and a little bit vengeful, but it feels like a handhold, too.
~*~
Evan Gully is tripping out of the lobby door of the six-story walk-up in his name when John catches up with him. He looks badly hung-over, shielding his eyes with one hand when his path takes him out of the shadows, worn grey coat buttoned to the neck. The grimace on his face is so tired it pulls a pang of sympathy from John’s chest; the only thing that could force a man like Gully (a man like John) onto the street in this condition-defenses stripped, reflexes shot-is duty. Or desperation.
“He doesn’t look good,” is what he tells Harold, careful not to touch his ear.
“Hm,” is the only noise Harold makes, a quiet, distrustful hum.
Gully walks five blocks south, occasionally touching the walls to catch his balance. The buildings are more and more familiar, darker, looming, tightening John’s shoulders, hunching them in. His breath must be shortening too, though John only knows because Harold gives a sharp, “Mr. Reese?”
“He’s stopping,” John says, keeping his voice steady with effort.
“Has he seen you?” Harold asks, urgent.
“No.” Gully only has eyes for one person, a huddled bundle of rags across the street clutching a cardboard sign. John watches Gully’s haggard face, asks Harold, “What do his finances look like?”
“Not good,” Harold says, then more to himself, “Very not good. He’s in debt up to his ears-not poor investments, it looks like…a lot of steeply frivolous spending. Gambling debts. He’s behind on his rent and most of his bills. It looks like ten thousand dollars were deposited into his account three weeks ago under ‘independent contracting’; just last week fifteen thousand went out to that same corporation-Miguelian Management-devastating the last of his savings.”
“That sounds like a penalty fee,” John tells him. “Someone paid him half to do a job, took fifty percent and their money back when the job wasn’t completed.” Gully leans heavily against the building at his back, dragging a shaking hand across his face. “Seems less and less like our guy is a perpetrator. Someone might be after him for not finishing what he promised.”
“The job could have been to murder someone,” Harold protests, loudly disbelieving. “He could be trying to make up for his mistake now.”
“I don’t think so,” John says.
“Oh really?” Harold asks; John hears Bear bark over the com, distressed by Harold’s tone. “What makes you so sure?”
John grits his teeth and tries to remember- No, he can’t, snaps, “Because I know what a man looks like before he runs out of options,” and pockets the earpiece, striding toward Evan Gully.
Only half of it is so Harold can’t call him right back; Gully is trained to look for espionage equipment, and John’s spur-of-the-moment plan doesn’t involve starting off on the wrong foot.
“Hey,” he says, sliding on his warmest smile; Gully still jumps, but John is careful to keep his body language non-threatening, half-turned away as if he’d really been walking by before Gully caught his attention. “Didn’t I meet you last night at O’Flatterly’s?”
“Oh.” Gully stares, back still to the wall. He has nice eyes, John thinks idly, flat grey and unwavering. “Yeah. Oh man, I remember you.” Gully drags a hand over his face, embarrassed.
“Really?” John smiles brighter, but it seems to have an adverse effect, so he dims it a little. “You seemed to be having a bad night,” he says, kindly.
Gully makes an effort to straighten up, arranging his face in a reciprocal smile. “It’s looking a little better now. I’m Evan,” he says, and offers his hand; his grip is warm and firm, lingering a fraction of a second. Huh. Maybe not so adverse after all.
“John,” John says. “Listen, I know it’s a little strange-“ He looks up through his eyelashes, shifts his smile into something shy. “-but I’m kind of new in town and I was just about to grab a bite; do you want to join me? My treat? You seem like an interesting guy.”
“Oh really?” Evan laughs; it’s a nice enough sound, if a little strained. “You can tell I’m interesting because I slobbered out my sob story and you put me in a cab?”
Evan’s throat works after he finishes, a dry click that makes John realize affording a cab probably hadn’t been in Evan’s budget for the evening-though it should have been, the way he was drinking. John shakes off the thought.
“You seemed kind of down. I didn’t want to take advantage,” John promises with an awkward shrug. “I only got half the story; trade you lunch for the other half?”
His flirting is more than rusty-he has to focus on it hard enough that for a moment he forgets Harold is in his pocket. Remembering, in the end, only sets his jaw.
Evan looks up to the sky, hands in his pockets and a smile that looks closer to genuine on his face. After a moment, he sighs, shoulders slumped but relaxed. “Sure, why not. I’d have to be crazy to turn down an offer like that, huh?”
“Crazy is relative,” John says as they start to walk, companionably brushing shoulders. He touches the earpiece with the tip of his finger and smiles at Evan, manages not to falter when Evan smiles back.
~*~
Lunch is fine. The sandwich shop caters to eclectic tastes and light wallets, wrapping everything in brown paper bags they then take to a sturdy table with an ideal line-of-sight. John lets Evan put his back to the wall, even though it leaves John more exposed.
“So you mentioned last night you’re in some kind of trouble?” John asks, halfway through their sandwiches.
“Me? ” Evan scoffs, not too convincingly. “Nah, just a rough patch. I’ll get by, always do.”
“You did promise me the story,” John reminds him, leaning forward to snag his own bag of chips; the movement knocks his feet against Evan’s under the table, just for a split second. Evan looks surprised, then quietly pleased, and John nudges his feet a little closer.
“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing at his blond hair. His coat is a little worse for wear; underneath, John thinks he sees last night’s suit, though Evan doesn’t smell like he slept in it, at least. “Yeah I did. Okay, well. A while back I had this…really great job-I mean, great job in that the pay was fantastic. The job itself was a little…” He pulls a face, wobbling his hand. “Shitty hours, no set schedule, and the boss-Jesus. Real piece of work.” He shakes his head, and John thinks he sees a muscle ticking in Evan’s jaw. “Anyway. Got fired. Ex-boss made sure I had a hard time finding work afterward. Everything just went downhill.”
It isn’t exactly a detailed history, but it’s somewhere to start in finding out why Miguelian Management withdrew so much money from Evan’s bank account. John returns Evan’s wincing smile with a softer one. “No jobs since then?”
“Oh, yeah, this was years ago,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I’ve picked up the odd job here and there, but slim pickings for the kind of work I do.”
Not a reason for Miguelian Management to withdraw funds from his account, then. “Which is?” John prompts.
“Bodyguard, mostly. Don’t worry about it,” Evan says; his grin is sharp, and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got a plan.”
“Well, just in case,” John says, and pulls Carter’s card from his wallet.
“A cop?” Evan says, startled when he reads it-other than that, John can’t get a read on him.
“She’s good people,” John assures. “And she knows a couple guys if you’re looking for work.”
“What, ah, construction? Labor?” Evan sits up straighter, dragging his hands down the front of his shirt. There’s clear disdain in his voice, and John understands that, for some, pride is the hardest thing to let go of.
“No one there will judge you,” John starts, but Evan’s smile has vanished completely, hand up to scratch at the back of his neck.
“Oh,” he says, after a moment. “Um. Yeah.” He looks up at John, lets his hand drop to the table. “Shit, man, I really appreciate it. I mean, you’re buying me lunch and everything…I just figured I’d had my share of luck and, like, basic human kindness for the day. Thank you,” he says, meeting John’s eyes. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” John says easily. “Someone did the same for me, once.” Resting his hand over Evan’s feels like the right move, properly choreographed. At first Evan goes very still, but when John rubs a thumb over his knuckles and says, “Just trying to help,” Evan seems to relax, letting his lashes fall low.
“Sorry,” Evan says, gripping John’s hand. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember I’m out of the military. And,” he adds, scowling to hide the flush creeping up the back of his neck, “though some details are fuzzy about last night, some really…aren’t.”
John idly wonders if Harold has hacked the sandwich shop’s security feed yet. Or not so idly, because he almost misses Evan saying, “You want to get out of here? My place is kind of a dump, but if your place is close…”
“I’d love to,” John says, projecting regret as he gives Evan’s hand a squeeze. “But if I don’t leave soon my boss is going to kill me. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“I remember that feeling,” Evan says, turning his hand over, fingers trailing the inside of John’s palm. It tickles more than anything. “Like he’s always watching you, looking over your shoulder, right?”
John looks at him, but there’s nothing at all in Evan’s expression that says he’s hinting at knowing who John works for-he’s only given the security cameras a cursory glance since they walked in, and relaxed the instant he had his back to a wall.
“Right.” John gives him another regretful smile and doesn’t turn around, even though he’s sure he can feel the pulse of a red recording light beating at the back of his neck. “Something like that.”
~*~
Harold is pointedly absent by the time John returns, though he has left a note that he’s out walking the dog. John sighs and settles in to wait.
The sound of the door shutting and the click of Bear’s claws make John sit up; the look on Harold’s face stiffens his spine.
Harold’s anger broadcasts loud and clear. He stops at the edge of the room, still holding tight to Bear’s leash; Bear doesn’t tug because he knows better than to threaten Harold’s balance, but he prances and whines, trying to urge Harold closer.
“Please don’t do that again,” Harold says, voice very quiet.
“Take out my earpiece?” some petulant part of John says. “I’ve done it before.”
“And it’s needlessly dangerous, every single time you do,” Harold snaps. “Especially with a number as potentially dangerous as Evan Gully. What if something had gone wrong? What if I’d had vital information that could have saved your life? Do you think you would have had time to answer a phone call?”
John closes his eyes, very briefly. Harold cares, it’s obvious that Harold cares. It should be-it has to be-enough.
“I was safe,” he says. “Evan Gully isn’t a threat.”
“You don’t know that,” Harold says, voice loud as he steps forward, every line in him tense. Bear barks at John, loud enough that Harold drops the leash; he looks horrified at himself.
“He’s just anxious because you sound upset,” John soothes as he slides out of Harold’s chair into a crouch, holding out a hand to calm Bear’s worried jitters. Bear moves quickly under his arm, pressing his body alongside John’s to lick under his chin.
“I am upset,” he thinks he hears Harold mutter, but when he looks up Harold’s eyes are closed, and he seems to be making an effort to calm himself down.
“John,” Harold says, and it’s been so long since he’s heard anything but ‘Mr. Reese’ that John goes rigid, tense even before Harold continues with, “there’s something I should tell you-“
Cold panic hits John’s chest like a fist. Every bitter feeling of Harold dragging this out vanishes-he can’t. He thought he could brace himself to hear Harold say the words, I’m flattered but. He doesn’t need-can’t bear to hear the whys.
“I know,” he says quickly, forcing his lips into a smile. He’s grateful Bear chooses that moment to nose at his chin; he’s not sure how long he could’ve kept up the expression. “I figured it out.”
He doesn’t mean to sound as reproachful as he does.
“It’s fine,” he adds when Harold only stares at him. Then, “It’s not going to be a problem.”
John isn’t going to let it be a problem.
“Did you hear what Gully said about a plan?” John says, a bit obvious for a change of subject, but it’s what he’s got. “You could be right about him if his plan involves killing someone to get his reputation back. Or it’s possible whoever was displeased with his services wants him dead for messing up the job.”
“Actually,” Harold says, crossing to the desk, “I did find something while you were out on your lunch date.”
He hits the consonants just a little too hard, slowing John’s movements to join him. “Oh?” he asks finally.
“Two days ago the CEO of Migeulian Management was killed,” Harold says, handing John a printout with two pictures of an older man, white, with drooping eyes and ears; in one photo he looks tired but serene, in the other he looks unmistakably dead. “Carl Russell,” Harold continues, “was shot in his car in the company parking lot. According to the police reports, Mr. Russell had received several threatening messages from an eco-terrorism group angry with the company’s recent acquisition of wetlands they intend to turn into a strip-mall.”
Several photographs of type-written letters pull up across Harold’s screens-John catches a number of all-capitalized words describing ways the author would like to see Carl Russell dead; all of them sound more painful than one gunshot wound to the chest.
“Where does Evan come into this?” he asks, prompting, not doubting the connection. Harold still glances at him.
“He was hired to be Carl Russell’s bodyguard.”
John takes a breath. “You think he shot the man he was hired to protect?”
“For what it’s worth, no, I don’t.” Harold keeps his eyes on his computers, mouth pinched down in the corners. “Regardless, the man under his protection was murdered and Migeulian Management demanded a refund on Evan’s services. The extra five thousand dollars as penalty were written into his contract.”
John doesn’t ask how Harold got his hands on a copy of it. “That sounds like a terrible contract,” he says instead.
“We already knew he was desperate,” Harold points out, disdain blurred but still hiding in the edges of his tone.
“Company car lot means they would have to know the building,” John says, fingertips moving restlessly against his thigh, “They’d need a gun, and they’d need to know where all the cameras are. This really doesn’t sound like a crime of opportunity. Why didn’t we get this guy’s number?”
Harold exhales very quietly. “When Carl Russell was killed the machine had…other priorities. It was the same day Root had administrative control, when…well, yes. You couldn’t be everywhere at once, especially not that day. The machine likely prioritized the numbers you could reach at the time.” He starts typing something, looking intently at the monitors. A twist of fondness grips John by the throat, fondness and something like exasperated kinship-self-blame for something impossible to control is usually John’s job.
Bear chooses that moment to nudge into John’s hand, drawing his attention down to his watch and the time. “We need to hurry,” John says, quickly petting Bear before gathering his coat. “Gully has a meeting with Miguelian Management in an hour.”
“We-” Harold stops, visibly swallows and busies himself with gathering his own coat, following John’s lead even when he doesn’t know the specifics. The fondness in John’s hearts swells until he feels like he might choke. “When did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t. I lifted this off him.” John holds up the thin business card that had been protruding from Evan’s pocket as he stood; the card is for a soap store in the village, but on the back is scribbled ‘MM 2:30 S. Russell.’
“Oh,” Harold exclaims, eyes widening at the name. “Scott Russell is Mr. Carl Russell’s son. Now acting-CEO of Migeulian Management.”
This feels closer to normal, closer to what they used to have. Or John tells himself it does. “Mr. Rooney can’t get an appointment on such short notice.”
“But Mr. Krane can,” Harold finishes, already setting his shoulders into the stance he uses for one semi-pretentious multi-billionaire. John hides his smile.
“I doubt anything dangerous will happen at the meeting, unless Evan Gully is more reckless than I think he is.” After speaking to Evan over lunch, John saw desperation, yes, but nothing that suggested he was on a suicide mission. Whatever his plan is, he genuinely believes it will work. “Still,” John shrugs, “there’s a faint possibility that Scott Russell might be in danger.”
He meant to come down on Harold’s side, offering what he hadn’t before: that Evan Gully might be their perpetrator. But Harold buttons his coat up to his neck, a look of determination fixed to his face. “So might Mr. Gully.”
John tilts his head as he opens the door for Harold. “I thought you were convinced he couldn’t be the victim.”
“I…well.” Harold waits until John is at his side once more, gaits matched as they move through the library toward the exit. “I may have implied a more amicable parting occurred than what actually took place.”
“Why Harold,” John says, allowing his tone to turn teasing, “could you have been the hellish employer who ruined poor Evan Gully’s life all those years ago?”
“You know very well he was talking about me,” Harold huffs, but his posture seems more relaxed as he steps into the chill, clear air of the afternoon. “Though I hardly think it’s fair of him to blame me for his frivolous spending and gambling debts. And I absolutely did not try to ruin his chances finding other gainful employment.”
“You did say you parted on excellent terms.”
“The terms were excellent,” Harold says, blinking at him, “I gave Mr. Gully quite the severance package, and in return he left with the intention of never letting our paths cross again.”
“The machine is usually a much better judge of character,” John comments, not paying attention to his hands as he opens the passenger’s door on their black town car. “It couldn’t predict Evan Gully wasn’t suited to be your bodyguard?”
Harold goes still-at first John assumes it’s the question, and then he realizes he can feel Harold’s tension against the palm of his hand, where it’s lingering in the small of Harold’s back. He forces himself to withdraw the touch naturally, not snatch it away; he steps back, puts the car between them with as much calm as he can muster.
“At first he seemed quite suited,” Harold says after a moment, swallowing like his throat might be dry. “But ultimately we had…conflicting interests.”
John lets him duck into the car first, only partly to give himself time to control his expression; his knuckles are white where he’s holding onto the door too hard.
~*~
“Security’s on high alert,” John comments, eyes scanning the lobby and finding four guards with their hands lingering on their hips, close to their guns. “Jumpy.”
“You would be too if your boss was killed on the premises,” Harold points out under his breath. John fights off the image of Harold bleeding out in the library, John not knowing until it was too late. “Oh, poor choice of words,” Harold realizes belatedly, pulling a face.
“I think I’d be a little bit more than jumpy,” John says, careful to keep his tone light as he ushers Harold along with a last nod at the front desk employee who’s caught their eye, waving them up now that she’s confirmed their appointment with Scott Russell. “But let’s avoid testing the theory.”
All of the offices are walled with glass; some of the larger conference rooms have etched lines at seated-eye-level for a semblance of privacy, but the whole décor screams We Have Nothing To Hide. Scott Russell’s office at the far end of the corridor is easy to spot, and his receptionist sees them immediately. Not many places to take cover, if they need it.
“Mr. Krane,” his receptionist starts, worried frown pulling her immaculately sculpted eyebrows together, but Russell pops his head out of his office to cut her off.
“Mandy, stand down,” he laughs, patronizing and dismissive. John carefully doesn’t narrow his eyes as Russell waves them into his office-the room is half-packed up, and a thick-necked bodyguard lurks in one corner with his beef-slab hands folded at his waist. “Mr. Krane, a pleasure to see you,” Russell says grandly. “I’m afraid you did catch us at a bit of a bad time-“
John hopes so-they’re only fifteen minutes before Evan’s appointment.
“That’s quite alright,” Harold assures Mr. Russell, all smiles. “Traffic was astonishing! I really don’t mean to throw your whole schedule off; please, allow my associate and myself the use of one of your conference rooms until our appointment. It would mean so much to me.”
John watches the thought of doing a multi-billion dollar investor a favor dawn across Russell’s face. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Russell says, as John discreetly slips a bug and video camera onto the handle of the door. “I’m sure I could rearrange my schedule.”
And make Mandy bend over backwards trying to juggle everything last minute, yes of course he could. “No, no, please,” Harold says, voice suddenly brimming with pity. “I’d hate to put you out. Your father was a good man; I’m sure everything has been hectic enough without me making a mess out of your day. The conference room with be fine.”
“Thank you for your kind words and understanding,” Russell says, stretching out his arm. “Please, this way. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” he adds to John.
“Rooney. Asset Manager,” John says with his own faint smile.
“Ah, I’m glad I asked. At first I wondered if you might be like my associate Mr. Arsenault,” Russell says with a nod to the thick-necked man in the corner. “His profession is keeping me alive.” He chuckles easily, and Arsenault scowls.
Russell settles them in the conference room next door-one with enough opaqueness in the glass to shield the details of their bodies, if not their shapes, from the outside-even being so kind as to give Harold with the password for the guest wifi, and afterwards he disappears back into his office with his bodyguard.
“The whole building is terrified about an unidentified shooter and he laughs about having a bodyguard,” John murmurs once they have the place to themselves.
“Yes, I noticed that too.” Harold’s laptop screen pulls up footage from John’s bugs instantly; the audio is piped directly to their earpieces. Miguelian Management’s security footage appears next, and Harold plugs in his facial recognition program to alert them when Evan enters the building.
“Now we wait,” Harold says.
The time passes slowly-mostly Russell taps away on his computer or shuffles a few more things into boxes, and Arsenault practices different variations of scowls in the corner where he’s been banished.
Evan doesn’t disappoint. Not ten minutes later, while Russell pokes his head out to tell Mandy to get coffee for Krane and Rooney, the laptop blips with Evan’s identification in the front lobby. John looks at the way he walks, the way he holds his coat, the way he keeps his head down and angled away from most of the cameras.
“He has at least one gun,” John says. “Probably more.”
“If he’s not here to kill Mr. Russell he’s definitely here to intimidate him,” Harold says, sounding worried.
“Or,” John says, “he’s afraid someone is after him next.”
Evan looks visibly spooked to see Mandy’s desk abandoned, but John watches him set his shoulders through the security feed, leaning in too close over Harold’s shoulder. Evan doesn’t even glance toward their conference room, eyes only for Russell in his office.
“Come in,” Russell says, flat and ominous even over the live feed.
Evan steps inside, presses the door shut. For a moment, they have no eyes inside the office besides the hallway security, which is skewed to show them only Evan’s feet and Mandy’s desk. It’s a horrible angle to have a camera, unless it’s been tampered with. Then Evan shifts to one side, and they can see again.
“Alright, Mr. Gully,” Russell says, making no move to sit or offer Evan a chair. “You have the ten minutes you begged for.”
All John can see of Evan is his hand, which curls into a fist. Ten seconds pass by on the clock, and Russell only looks bored. “I want to know,” Evan says, voice steady, and quiet, “why you did it.”
“Why I did what?” Russell says. “Hire you? I can only say that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Scott Russell hired Evan,” Harold says, mentally recalibrating. “Not Russell’s father?”
“It looks good to juries if you need to prove you cared about keeping your dad alive,” John points out, just as soft.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Evan growls. “You know that. Why are you telling the lawyers something different?”
“You were charged with my father’s protection, were you not?” Russell advances, almost casually, halting only when it’s clear Evan doesn’t have anywhere to go. “And he’s dead. Under your watch.”
“It wasn’t my watch.” John shifts, hand on his gun; nothing good has ever come from a tone like Evan’s, scraped raw and furious. “You called me, you told me to leave early.”
“When?” Russell scoffs. It’s almost convincing. “Do you have proof? It better be pretty convincing to make a jury take the word of a degenerate gambler.”
“He’s practicing for the courtroom,” John gets out, just before Harold’s sharp inhale and the view of the camera brings him up short.
“He’s drawn his gun,” Harold says. “Evan’s drawn his gun.”
John doesn’t have time, but he drops a hand on Harold’s shoulder as he moves past him toward the door. “Excuse me while I go diffuse the situation,” he says, aiming for levity. “Evan won’t shoot; he’s desperate, not stupid-“
The gunshot seems impossibly loud next to the sound of an entire wall of glass shattering.
John shoves Harold out of his chair and under the table, more bullets snapping through the air only one room over. Through the din John hears Harold say, “It wasn’t Evan, the bodyguard, he fired first-” but John knows, can see Evan scramble for cover behind the secretary’s desk through the broken glass of the door and surrounding wall.
“Stay here,” John orders, shielding Harold’s body as he moves for the door.
“Did he miss?” Harold yelps but he goes to the floor under John’s hand. “What kind of bodyguard misses at that range?”
“Trying to draw him into a shoot-out,” John says, “Stay down.”
Evan sees him just in time not to shoot him, barking out a startled, “John?” before leaping up out of his crouch, providing John unnecessary cover-fire to join him behind the desk. In the commotion John gets the distinct impression Evan thinks he came from further down the hall, not from the conference room. “What the hell?”
“I told you I had a meeting,” John says, ducking as Arsenault sends another volley over their heads, splintering the wood of Mandy’s formerly immaculate desk. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t returned fire,” he adds, under his breath.
“What?” Evan shouts over the noise, Arsenault pausing long enough to bring a filing cabinet crashing down for better cover.
“They’ve tampered with the security feed,” Harold calls. John closes his eyes, as briefly as he dares. “They’ll try to say you fired first!”
“Mr. Sparrow?” Evan hisses, furious disbelief shocking his eyes even wider open. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I should think that’s fairly obvious,” Harold says, and if John can tell that despite the tremor of panic Harold is attempting to joke-it’s clear Evan doesn’t see it that way.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he snarls. Then he turns to John, hands him one of the small guns tucked into the back of his waistband. “Take this, stay low, follow my lead.”
John very carefully doesn’t look at Harold. “I’d really not rather shoot anyone.”
A spray of bullets over their heads delays Evan’s barked response, but only by a second. “Does it look like you have a choice, soldier?”
It’s on the tip of John’s mouth to say no, to write this situation off as a lost cause and get Harold as far from danger as possible, with Evan or without him. But Evan-despite everything-yells, “Alright, Sparrow, on three you run to us. One-“ and before John can suck in a breath he shouts, “THREE.”
John’s training takes over, following Evan shoulder-to-shoulder out of their crouch, high enough to fire just as Arsenault starts shooting through the thin wall separating office and conference room. He’s too well shielded behind Russell’s overturned desk and the cabinet to get a good shot, but John manages to shoot a cupful of pens toward his head just in time for Evan to clip the barest curve of a shoulder he shows over his fortress. Arsenault’s cursing becomes steeply more creative, and Harold is-
Harold is safely behind the desk, Evan braced to cover him from the worst of the possible gunfire. Still a bodyguard, through and through.
“Mr. Gully.” Harold is cut off by Arsenault returning fire, chunks of desk raining down on their heads. Harold hasn’t been trained for this, hasn’t been trained to watch what he says when he’s being shot at. “It would be in your best interests to let us help you!”
“Us?” Evan says, voice sharp with something like unlearned possession.
Some ugly thing John has been ignoring far too long starts to click in his head.
“He works for you?” Evan gapes, eyes wide as he gestures at John. “Wait. Is he your new-me?”
John feels his ears start to ring. He tries to keep his tone bland. “Now isn’t the time-”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Evan snarls as Arsenault starts swearing at them in German, now. “Mysterious numbers, victim or perpetrator, playing God with the whole fucking world-any of this ringing a bell?”
John looks at Harold, watches his annoyance with Evan fade to deep confusion when he takes in John’s expression. “John?”
Arsenault either has more than two guns or he’s reloaded again, firing another spray of bullets over their heads.
John drags Harold further down, arm across his chest to make him stay. They’re unbearably close, Harold’s breath puffing against John’s cheek. Distantly, John can hear glass shattering, gunfire, Evan cussing up a storm.
“How much time to we have before all this noise brings reinforcements?” John asks, not sure who he’s talking to.
Evan gives an unamused huff; Harold’s the one who answers, hesitantly. “I-the doors all lock electronically. I’ve set up a program to block the building’s calls to the police long enough to buy us some time, but-“
“I can get us out of here,” John says, and starts to stand.
part two
Author: queenklu
Beta by: leupagus
Pairing: John/Harold
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: NC17
Word Count: 16k
A/N: OKAY HOLY FUCK. A million years ago (I'm actually afraid to do the math) giandujakiss bought me in that AO3 auction (yeah, yeaaaah, now you're getting a picture of how long this fic has taken). And she gave me several prompts, one of which I latched onto like a giant life-sucking mollusk. After three brutal re-writes that leupagus was a goddamn saint to help me through, here we (finally, finally) are.
Title from e.e.cummings' poem "love is more thicker than forget."
Just because the man to John’s left has his head bowed low doesn’t mean he’s afraid for his life.
John watches the man spin a whisky glass in a listless circle on the bar top, stiff blond hair haloed in the bar light. He’s classically handsome, broad-shouldered-if John were in a different sort of mood he’d think about practicing his rusty flirting skills, try to brighten the guy’s day. As it is, he’s not really feeling it; recent events have left him…unsettled. Tonight is for settling.
“Do you ever wonder how your life would be different,” the guy says, only slurring a little bit as he leans into John’s space uninvited, “if you just. Weren’t such a complete fuckup?”
He looks at John, grey eyes searching, framed by thick blond eyelashes. There’s something in the way he holds himself-even drunk and slumped over-that hints at a military background. Maybe it’s that, maybe it’s the witching hour, maybe it’s the loneliness, but John finds himself opening his mouth and giving an honest answer.
“Sometimes,” John says, telling himself he’s only throwing the guy a bone. “But then sometimes I think about how other peoples’ lives would be a lot worse if I’d made better choices.”
The searching look shifts to considering as the man quirks the corner of his lips in a smile. “I don’t know. I could stand to have my life be a little better. People could appreciate me more, you know?” He watches John, lashes lowered, trailing his finger through a puddle of condensation on the bar; his suit is upscale, pricy, not bespoke but high-end off the rack. “What about you? You get appreciated?”
“Enough,” John says and doesn’t know he really means ‘be quiet’ until he hears the word drop from his mouth.
His companion doesn’t seem to hear it that way, regardless. “Lucky,” he mumbles into his beer, “Lucky, lucky, lucky.”
John pulls out a twenty to settle his tab, patience vanishing into thin air and leaving nothing in its place besides a sick, hollow feeling. So much for settling.
“Hey,” the man says, stopping just short of grabbing John’s arm; as drunk as he is, he must have some self-preservation instincts left. It’s still enough to stall John’s momentum. “Do you-“ He clears his throat, head lolling where he’s propped himself up on one hand. His neck is long and bared, cheeks flushed rosy. “I know I’m…” He waves a hand at himself. “But do you wanna? Sometime? I have a number-card,” he corrects, fumbling in his pocket. “We could…hang out.”
John gently stills his hand, and the guy lets out a long, miserable sigh. “Do you need someone to call you a cab?” John asks.
“Bartender did,” the guys mumbles. “I’m just waiting.”
John gets the man’s uncooperative limbs into the jacket thrown over his chair, helps him out to the curb, and pours him into the cab when it arrives. Not another word is exchanged between them, and John watches the cab leave, sifting through the possibilities of this man being a threat. Well, he can always ask Harold to run facial recognition in the morning, if this niggling feeling in the back of his skull hasn’t gone away.
The plan works fine, until he comes in the next morning to find the man’s face already on Harold’s computer screen.
~*~
“New number?” John asks as his heartbeat kickstarts, stuttering before he can get it back under control. Harold…Harold wouldn’t care that John had the opportunity to go home with that man. Doesn’t care. About any of it.
Harold startles at the sound of his voice, snapping out of whatever train of thought had kept him too absorbed to look up when John entered the room. Bear bounds over to say hello, tail wagging, and John drops to a crouch to give him the attention he deserves.
“Sorry,” John says, attempting a smile as he flops Bear’s ears back and forth. “I didn’t mean to surprise you.”
It’s been five days since Root kidnapped Finch for the second time, four days since the machine by all intents and purposes became incorporeal, taking one more step towards becoming an omnipotent, omniscient deity. Four and a half days since John saw Harold in the park and called out to him, and Harold got into the car with Root.
He understands now why Harold did it-he needed to stay ahead of John to lead him to the warehouse. But it had left John gut-punched when it happened.
“No need to apologize,” Harold says, stilted and distracted. John looks up as best he can once Bear calms down enough to lean against his side; Harold’s expression is odd. “You’re going to spoil him.”
John makes an effort to do what he’s always done-he rolls his eyes, cradling Bear’s head in his hands. “He’s had a hard week,” John says, holding up his own hangdog expression for Harold’s comparison; Bear ruins the effect by licking his chin, and it should be normal, but it feels half a beat off and jarring. John’s heart is still beating too hard.
Harold clears his throat. “Did you have a good night?”
John looks up from his crouch, wonders at the sudden strangled note in Harold’s voice. “Yes,” he answers, carefully. Does Harold know John brushed elbows with their number last night? Is it a problem?
Harold nods before John can talk himself into offering more information, turning back to his screen. “Evan Gully,” he says, standing stiffly to limp over to the printer as it whirs to life. “Military out of high school, then CIA, black ops. Specialties include diffusing violent situations-often with violence of his own.” Harold gathers the pages as they spit out and hands them in a gathered sheaf to John, without looking at him or the papers. “Not much family left-at least, none that he sees any more. No romantic relationships that I can tie him to, no social life to speak of.”
John is listening with one ear while he reads the details, so his words aren’t as calculated as they should be when he says, off-hand, “Sounds like we have a lot in common.”
Harold twitches, quickly removes his glasses to clean them against his shirt where it peeks beneath his vest. “Regardless,” Harold says, “Mr. Gully’s case is going to require more delicacy than a run-of-the-mill number.”
“Oh?”
“His training makes him extremely dangerous,” Harold says. His eyes are wide behind his glasses, mouth pursed with concern.
His worry tugs John forward a step, though Harold is quick to turn away; a low, concrete feeling settles in John’s stomach. Now would be the time to tell Harold about the bar. “We’ve dealt with dangerous numbers before,” is what he says instead.
“Mr. Gully is my former employee,” says Finch, fingers splayed over another stack of printouts, Gully’s blank-smiling face lurking in the upper left corner.
“Oh.” John waits, but Harold doesn’t add anything, doesn’t move except where his fingertips are twitching against the paper. "Forgive me for saying so, Harold, but that seems like the kind of information you’d lead with.” He keeps his tone light and dry, and just in case follows up with, “Do we need to worry about him being a disgruntled former employee?”
“What?” Harold blinks at him. “No. Evan and I parted on excellent terms.”
Evan, John’s treacherous mind repeats. “Not so excellent that you’re convinced he couldn’t be the perpetrator,” he points out.
“I said he’s dangerous because he is,” Harold says, limping around his desk with a small stack of books in his arms. “Mr. Gully’s primary source of income when I knew him was as a bodyguard-though he mostly stuck to above-board security details I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s since branched out.”
John watches the tightening in Harold’s jaw, wonders if it’s physical pain from his leg or something else.
“What do you want me to do?”
“Trail him. Discretely,” Harold stresses, from the far side of the room. “We don’t know yet if Mr. Gully needs our help or our interference-our one advantage is that he doesn’t know we’re looking into him.”
It shouldn’t sting, shouldn’t feel like Harold is pandering to him. So it doesn’t. “Sure,” John says, starts shedding his weapons.
“What are you doing?” Harold asks as John’s gun and hostler clatter on the table. He sounds alarmed.
“He’ll be looking for clothing bulges,” John shrugs. Harold’s mouth snaps shut. “Also, the probability of me being able to tail him is slimmer than you know.”
“He’s good, but he’s not untrackable,” Harold says, baffled.
John takes a moment to steady himself, and meet Harold’s gaze head-on. “There’s a distinct possibility that he’ll recognize me from last night.”
Harold’s expression goes through several complicated maneuvers before settling on a blank canvass. “Oh?”
“Yes,” John says.
Silence. Harold’s fingers flit over the lid of the tea John brought him, and John can’t tell if he’s searching or waiting-either way, there are no words, and no movement beyond the soft brush of his fingertips against the lid.
After a long moment Harold clears his throat. “Do what you can,” he says, distant and dismissive.
John leaves.
~*~
Five days ago, John stood on the sidewalk with Harold and tried to remember how he used to breathe. How he used to stand, what his hands did, where his eyes were supposed to linger if not on Harold’s face.
The world wasn’t ending, just shedding its skin. A new age of the machine, omniscient and now independent. John felt like his own skin had gone translucent-what was the point of hiding anything when it could be written down in ones and zeroes? If the machine knew, then Harold knew, and there was no hope-no point-in pretending that John only cared for Harold as a friend. He felt the declaration written out clearly in his frame, as loud as if he’d shouted it at the top of his lungs.
Harold had looked away. He hadn’t commented. Which, John knew then and knows now, is its own response.
John tells himself he wouldn’t mind so much if Harold had kept up his end, playing oblivious. If he’d only kept pretending things were always as they had been, instead of tripping over silences, careful to keep distance between them physically and in the tone of his voice.
When John imagined being rejected by Harold-which is natural, being prepared, figuring out an exit strategy for multiple scenarios-he hadn’t braced himself for this slow death of their previous relationship. He thought Harold would be kind enough to tell John definitively no, not leave him to see his refusal in every facet of their stilted conversation.
Leaving Harold with the chance to assume John had slept with his ex-employee-a bodyguard, like Harold said, like the handful Harold had surrounded himself when he found John on the streets-is petty and a little bit vengeful, but it feels like a handhold, too.
~*~
Evan Gully is tripping out of the lobby door of the six-story walk-up in his name when John catches up with him. He looks badly hung-over, shielding his eyes with one hand when his path takes him out of the shadows, worn grey coat buttoned to the neck. The grimace on his face is so tired it pulls a pang of sympathy from John’s chest; the only thing that could force a man like Gully (a man like John) onto the street in this condition-defenses stripped, reflexes shot-is duty. Or desperation.
“He doesn’t look good,” is what he tells Harold, careful not to touch his ear.
“Hm,” is the only noise Harold makes, a quiet, distrustful hum.
Gully walks five blocks south, occasionally touching the walls to catch his balance. The buildings are more and more familiar, darker, looming, tightening John’s shoulders, hunching them in. His breath must be shortening too, though John only knows because Harold gives a sharp, “Mr. Reese?”
“He’s stopping,” John says, keeping his voice steady with effort.
“Has he seen you?” Harold asks, urgent.
“No.” Gully only has eyes for one person, a huddled bundle of rags across the street clutching a cardboard sign. John watches Gully’s haggard face, asks Harold, “What do his finances look like?”
“Not good,” Harold says, then more to himself, “Very not good. He’s in debt up to his ears-not poor investments, it looks like…a lot of steeply frivolous spending. Gambling debts. He’s behind on his rent and most of his bills. It looks like ten thousand dollars were deposited into his account three weeks ago under ‘independent contracting’; just last week fifteen thousand went out to that same corporation-Miguelian Management-devastating the last of his savings.”
“That sounds like a penalty fee,” John tells him. “Someone paid him half to do a job, took fifty percent and their money back when the job wasn’t completed.” Gully leans heavily against the building at his back, dragging a shaking hand across his face. “Seems less and less like our guy is a perpetrator. Someone might be after him for not finishing what he promised.”
“The job could have been to murder someone,” Harold protests, loudly disbelieving. “He could be trying to make up for his mistake now.”
“I don’t think so,” John says.
“Oh really?” Harold asks; John hears Bear bark over the com, distressed by Harold’s tone. “What makes you so sure?”
John grits his teeth and tries to remember- No, he can’t, snaps, “Because I know what a man looks like before he runs out of options,” and pockets the earpiece, striding toward Evan Gully.
Only half of it is so Harold can’t call him right back; Gully is trained to look for espionage equipment, and John’s spur-of-the-moment plan doesn’t involve starting off on the wrong foot.
“Hey,” he says, sliding on his warmest smile; Gully still jumps, but John is careful to keep his body language non-threatening, half-turned away as if he’d really been walking by before Gully caught his attention. “Didn’t I meet you last night at O’Flatterly’s?”
“Oh.” Gully stares, back still to the wall. He has nice eyes, John thinks idly, flat grey and unwavering. “Yeah. Oh man, I remember you.” Gully drags a hand over his face, embarrassed.
“Really?” John smiles brighter, but it seems to have an adverse effect, so he dims it a little. “You seemed to be having a bad night,” he says, kindly.
Gully makes an effort to straighten up, arranging his face in a reciprocal smile. “It’s looking a little better now. I’m Evan,” he says, and offers his hand; his grip is warm and firm, lingering a fraction of a second. Huh. Maybe not so adverse after all.
“John,” John says. “Listen, I know it’s a little strange-“ He looks up through his eyelashes, shifts his smile into something shy. “-but I’m kind of new in town and I was just about to grab a bite; do you want to join me? My treat? You seem like an interesting guy.”
“Oh really?” Evan laughs; it’s a nice enough sound, if a little strained. “You can tell I’m interesting because I slobbered out my sob story and you put me in a cab?”
Evan’s throat works after he finishes, a dry click that makes John realize affording a cab probably hadn’t been in Evan’s budget for the evening-though it should have been, the way he was drinking. John shakes off the thought.
“You seemed kind of down. I didn’t want to take advantage,” John promises with an awkward shrug. “I only got half the story; trade you lunch for the other half?”
His flirting is more than rusty-he has to focus on it hard enough that for a moment he forgets Harold is in his pocket. Remembering, in the end, only sets his jaw.
Evan looks up to the sky, hands in his pockets and a smile that looks closer to genuine on his face. After a moment, he sighs, shoulders slumped but relaxed. “Sure, why not. I’d have to be crazy to turn down an offer like that, huh?”
“Crazy is relative,” John says as they start to walk, companionably brushing shoulders. He touches the earpiece with the tip of his finger and smiles at Evan, manages not to falter when Evan smiles back.
~*~
Lunch is fine. The sandwich shop caters to eclectic tastes and light wallets, wrapping everything in brown paper bags they then take to a sturdy table with an ideal line-of-sight. John lets Evan put his back to the wall, even though it leaves John more exposed.
“So you mentioned last night you’re in some kind of trouble?” John asks, halfway through their sandwiches.
“Me? ” Evan scoffs, not too convincingly. “Nah, just a rough patch. I’ll get by, always do.”
“You did promise me the story,” John reminds him, leaning forward to snag his own bag of chips; the movement knocks his feet against Evan’s under the table, just for a split second. Evan looks surprised, then quietly pleased, and John nudges his feet a little closer.
“Yeah,” he says, scrubbing at his blond hair. His coat is a little worse for wear; underneath, John thinks he sees last night’s suit, though Evan doesn’t smell like he slept in it, at least. “Yeah I did. Okay, well. A while back I had this…really great job-I mean, great job in that the pay was fantastic. The job itself was a little…” He pulls a face, wobbling his hand. “Shitty hours, no set schedule, and the boss-Jesus. Real piece of work.” He shakes his head, and John thinks he sees a muscle ticking in Evan’s jaw. “Anyway. Got fired. Ex-boss made sure I had a hard time finding work afterward. Everything just went downhill.”
It isn’t exactly a detailed history, but it’s somewhere to start in finding out why Miguelian Management withdrew so much money from Evan’s bank account. John returns Evan’s wincing smile with a softer one. “No jobs since then?”
“Oh, yeah, this was years ago,” Evan says, shaking his head. “I’ve picked up the odd job here and there, but slim pickings for the kind of work I do.”
Not a reason for Miguelian Management to withdraw funds from his account, then. “Which is?” John prompts.
“Bodyguard, mostly. Don’t worry about it,” Evan says; his grin is sharp, and doesn’t reach his eyes. “I’ve got a plan.”
“Well, just in case,” John says, and pulls Carter’s card from his wallet.
“A cop?” Evan says, startled when he reads it-other than that, John can’t get a read on him.
“She’s good people,” John assures. “And she knows a couple guys if you’re looking for work.”
“What, ah, construction? Labor?” Evan sits up straighter, dragging his hands down the front of his shirt. There’s clear disdain in his voice, and John understands that, for some, pride is the hardest thing to let go of.
“No one there will judge you,” John starts, but Evan’s smile has vanished completely, hand up to scratch at the back of his neck.
“Oh,” he says, after a moment. “Um. Yeah.” He looks up at John, lets his hand drop to the table. “Shit, man, I really appreciate it. I mean, you’re buying me lunch and everything…I just figured I’d had my share of luck and, like, basic human kindness for the day. Thank you,” he says, meeting John’s eyes. “I really appreciate it.”
“No problem,” John says easily. “Someone did the same for me, once.” Resting his hand over Evan’s feels like the right move, properly choreographed. At first Evan goes very still, but when John rubs a thumb over his knuckles and says, “Just trying to help,” Evan seems to relax, letting his lashes fall low.
“Sorry,” Evan says, gripping John’s hand. “Sometimes it’s hard to remember I’m out of the military. And,” he adds, scowling to hide the flush creeping up the back of his neck, “though some details are fuzzy about last night, some really…aren’t.”
John idly wonders if Harold has hacked the sandwich shop’s security feed yet. Or not so idly, because he almost misses Evan saying, “You want to get out of here? My place is kind of a dump, but if your place is close…”
“I’d love to,” John says, projecting regret as he gives Evan’s hand a squeeze. “But if I don’t leave soon my boss is going to kill me. I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.”
“I remember that feeling,” Evan says, turning his hand over, fingers trailing the inside of John’s palm. It tickles more than anything. “Like he’s always watching you, looking over your shoulder, right?”
John looks at him, but there’s nothing at all in Evan’s expression that says he’s hinting at knowing who John works for-he’s only given the security cameras a cursory glance since they walked in, and relaxed the instant he had his back to a wall.
“Right.” John gives him another regretful smile and doesn’t turn around, even though he’s sure he can feel the pulse of a red recording light beating at the back of his neck. “Something like that.”
~*~
Harold is pointedly absent by the time John returns, though he has left a note that he’s out walking the dog. John sighs and settles in to wait.
The sound of the door shutting and the click of Bear’s claws make John sit up; the look on Harold’s face stiffens his spine.
Harold’s anger broadcasts loud and clear. He stops at the edge of the room, still holding tight to Bear’s leash; Bear doesn’t tug because he knows better than to threaten Harold’s balance, but he prances and whines, trying to urge Harold closer.
“Please don’t do that again,” Harold says, voice very quiet.
“Take out my earpiece?” some petulant part of John says. “I’ve done it before.”
“And it’s needlessly dangerous, every single time you do,” Harold snaps. “Especially with a number as potentially dangerous as Evan Gully. What if something had gone wrong? What if I’d had vital information that could have saved your life? Do you think you would have had time to answer a phone call?”
John closes his eyes, very briefly. Harold cares, it’s obvious that Harold cares. It should be-it has to be-enough.
“I was safe,” he says. “Evan Gully isn’t a threat.”
“You don’t know that,” Harold says, voice loud as he steps forward, every line in him tense. Bear barks at John, loud enough that Harold drops the leash; he looks horrified at himself.
“He’s just anxious because you sound upset,” John soothes as he slides out of Harold’s chair into a crouch, holding out a hand to calm Bear’s worried jitters. Bear moves quickly under his arm, pressing his body alongside John’s to lick under his chin.
“I am upset,” he thinks he hears Harold mutter, but when he looks up Harold’s eyes are closed, and he seems to be making an effort to calm himself down.
“John,” Harold says, and it’s been so long since he’s heard anything but ‘Mr. Reese’ that John goes rigid, tense even before Harold continues with, “there’s something I should tell you-“
Cold panic hits John’s chest like a fist. Every bitter feeling of Harold dragging this out vanishes-he can’t. He thought he could brace himself to hear Harold say the words, I’m flattered but. He doesn’t need-can’t bear to hear the whys.
“I know,” he says quickly, forcing his lips into a smile. He’s grateful Bear chooses that moment to nose at his chin; he’s not sure how long he could’ve kept up the expression. “I figured it out.”
He doesn’t mean to sound as reproachful as he does.
“It’s fine,” he adds when Harold only stares at him. Then, “It’s not going to be a problem.”
John isn’t going to let it be a problem.
“Did you hear what Gully said about a plan?” John says, a bit obvious for a change of subject, but it’s what he’s got. “You could be right about him if his plan involves killing someone to get his reputation back. Or it’s possible whoever was displeased with his services wants him dead for messing up the job.”
“Actually,” Harold says, crossing to the desk, “I did find something while you were out on your lunch date.”
He hits the consonants just a little too hard, slowing John’s movements to join him. “Oh?” he asks finally.
“Two days ago the CEO of Migeulian Management was killed,” Harold says, handing John a printout with two pictures of an older man, white, with drooping eyes and ears; in one photo he looks tired but serene, in the other he looks unmistakably dead. “Carl Russell,” Harold continues, “was shot in his car in the company parking lot. According to the police reports, Mr. Russell had received several threatening messages from an eco-terrorism group angry with the company’s recent acquisition of wetlands they intend to turn into a strip-mall.”
Several photographs of type-written letters pull up across Harold’s screens-John catches a number of all-capitalized words describing ways the author would like to see Carl Russell dead; all of them sound more painful than one gunshot wound to the chest.
“Where does Evan come into this?” he asks, prompting, not doubting the connection. Harold still glances at him.
“He was hired to be Carl Russell’s bodyguard.”
John takes a breath. “You think he shot the man he was hired to protect?”
“For what it’s worth, no, I don’t.” Harold keeps his eyes on his computers, mouth pinched down in the corners. “Regardless, the man under his protection was murdered and Migeulian Management demanded a refund on Evan’s services. The extra five thousand dollars as penalty were written into his contract.”
John doesn’t ask how Harold got his hands on a copy of it. “That sounds like a terrible contract,” he says instead.
“We already knew he was desperate,” Harold points out, disdain blurred but still hiding in the edges of his tone.
“Company car lot means they would have to know the building,” John says, fingertips moving restlessly against his thigh, “They’d need a gun, and they’d need to know where all the cameras are. This really doesn’t sound like a crime of opportunity. Why didn’t we get this guy’s number?”
Harold exhales very quietly. “When Carl Russell was killed the machine had…other priorities. It was the same day Root had administrative control, when…well, yes. You couldn’t be everywhere at once, especially not that day. The machine likely prioritized the numbers you could reach at the time.” He starts typing something, looking intently at the monitors. A twist of fondness grips John by the throat, fondness and something like exasperated kinship-self-blame for something impossible to control is usually John’s job.
Bear chooses that moment to nudge into John’s hand, drawing his attention down to his watch and the time. “We need to hurry,” John says, quickly petting Bear before gathering his coat. “Gully has a meeting with Miguelian Management in an hour.”
“We-” Harold stops, visibly swallows and busies himself with gathering his own coat, following John’s lead even when he doesn’t know the specifics. The fondness in John’s hearts swells until he feels like he might choke. “When did he tell you that?”
“He didn’t. I lifted this off him.” John holds up the thin business card that had been protruding from Evan’s pocket as he stood; the card is for a soap store in the village, but on the back is scribbled ‘MM 2:30 S. Russell.’
“Oh,” Harold exclaims, eyes widening at the name. “Scott Russell is Mr. Carl Russell’s son. Now acting-CEO of Migeulian Management.”
This feels closer to normal, closer to what they used to have. Or John tells himself it does. “Mr. Rooney can’t get an appointment on such short notice.”
“But Mr. Krane can,” Harold finishes, already setting his shoulders into the stance he uses for one semi-pretentious multi-billionaire. John hides his smile.
“I doubt anything dangerous will happen at the meeting, unless Evan Gully is more reckless than I think he is.” After speaking to Evan over lunch, John saw desperation, yes, but nothing that suggested he was on a suicide mission. Whatever his plan is, he genuinely believes it will work. “Still,” John shrugs, “there’s a faint possibility that Scott Russell might be in danger.”
He meant to come down on Harold’s side, offering what he hadn’t before: that Evan Gully might be their perpetrator. But Harold buttons his coat up to his neck, a look of determination fixed to his face. “So might Mr. Gully.”
John tilts his head as he opens the door for Harold. “I thought you were convinced he couldn’t be the victim.”
“I…well.” Harold waits until John is at his side once more, gaits matched as they move through the library toward the exit. “I may have implied a more amicable parting occurred than what actually took place.”
“Why Harold,” John says, allowing his tone to turn teasing, “could you have been the hellish employer who ruined poor Evan Gully’s life all those years ago?”
“You know very well he was talking about me,” Harold huffs, but his posture seems more relaxed as he steps into the chill, clear air of the afternoon. “Though I hardly think it’s fair of him to blame me for his frivolous spending and gambling debts. And I absolutely did not try to ruin his chances finding other gainful employment.”
“You did say you parted on excellent terms.”
“The terms were excellent,” Harold says, blinking at him, “I gave Mr. Gully quite the severance package, and in return he left with the intention of never letting our paths cross again.”
“The machine is usually a much better judge of character,” John comments, not paying attention to his hands as he opens the passenger’s door on their black town car. “It couldn’t predict Evan Gully wasn’t suited to be your bodyguard?”
Harold goes still-at first John assumes it’s the question, and then he realizes he can feel Harold’s tension against the palm of his hand, where it’s lingering in the small of Harold’s back. He forces himself to withdraw the touch naturally, not snatch it away; he steps back, puts the car between them with as much calm as he can muster.
“At first he seemed quite suited,” Harold says after a moment, swallowing like his throat might be dry. “But ultimately we had…conflicting interests.”
John lets him duck into the car first, only partly to give himself time to control his expression; his knuckles are white where he’s holding onto the door too hard.
~*~
“Security’s on high alert,” John comments, eyes scanning the lobby and finding four guards with their hands lingering on their hips, close to their guns. “Jumpy.”
“You would be too if your boss was killed on the premises,” Harold points out under his breath. John fights off the image of Harold bleeding out in the library, John not knowing until it was too late. “Oh, poor choice of words,” Harold realizes belatedly, pulling a face.
“I think I’d be a little bit more than jumpy,” John says, careful to keep his tone light as he ushers Harold along with a last nod at the front desk employee who’s caught their eye, waving them up now that she’s confirmed their appointment with Scott Russell. “But let’s avoid testing the theory.”
All of the offices are walled with glass; some of the larger conference rooms have etched lines at seated-eye-level for a semblance of privacy, but the whole décor screams We Have Nothing To Hide. Scott Russell’s office at the far end of the corridor is easy to spot, and his receptionist sees them immediately. Not many places to take cover, if they need it.
“Mr. Krane,” his receptionist starts, worried frown pulling her immaculately sculpted eyebrows together, but Russell pops his head out of his office to cut her off.
“Mandy, stand down,” he laughs, patronizing and dismissive. John carefully doesn’t narrow his eyes as Russell waves them into his office-the room is half-packed up, and a thick-necked bodyguard lurks in one corner with his beef-slab hands folded at his waist. “Mr. Krane, a pleasure to see you,” Russell says grandly. “I’m afraid you did catch us at a bit of a bad time-“
John hopes so-they’re only fifteen minutes before Evan’s appointment.
“That’s quite alright,” Harold assures Mr. Russell, all smiles. “Traffic was astonishing! I really don’t mean to throw your whole schedule off; please, allow my associate and myself the use of one of your conference rooms until our appointment. It would mean so much to me.”
John watches the thought of doing a multi-billion dollar investor a favor dawn across Russell’s face. “Are you sure you don’t mind?” Russell says, as John discreetly slips a bug and video camera onto the handle of the door. “I’m sure I could rearrange my schedule.”
And make Mandy bend over backwards trying to juggle everything last minute, yes of course he could. “No, no, please,” Harold says, voice suddenly brimming with pity. “I’d hate to put you out. Your father was a good man; I’m sure everything has been hectic enough without me making a mess out of your day. The conference room with be fine.”
“Thank you for your kind words and understanding,” Russell says, stretching out his arm. “Please, this way. I’m sorry I didn’t catch your name,” he adds to John.
“Rooney. Asset Manager,” John says with his own faint smile.
“Ah, I’m glad I asked. At first I wondered if you might be like my associate Mr. Arsenault,” Russell says with a nod to the thick-necked man in the corner. “His profession is keeping me alive.” He chuckles easily, and Arsenault scowls.
Russell settles them in the conference room next door-one with enough opaqueness in the glass to shield the details of their bodies, if not their shapes, from the outside-even being so kind as to give Harold with the password for the guest wifi, and afterwards he disappears back into his office with his bodyguard.
“The whole building is terrified about an unidentified shooter and he laughs about having a bodyguard,” John murmurs once they have the place to themselves.
“Yes, I noticed that too.” Harold’s laptop screen pulls up footage from John’s bugs instantly; the audio is piped directly to their earpieces. Miguelian Management’s security footage appears next, and Harold plugs in his facial recognition program to alert them when Evan enters the building.
“Now we wait,” Harold says.
The time passes slowly-mostly Russell taps away on his computer or shuffles a few more things into boxes, and Arsenault practices different variations of scowls in the corner where he’s been banished.
Evan doesn’t disappoint. Not ten minutes later, while Russell pokes his head out to tell Mandy to get coffee for Krane and Rooney, the laptop blips with Evan’s identification in the front lobby. John looks at the way he walks, the way he holds his coat, the way he keeps his head down and angled away from most of the cameras.
“He has at least one gun,” John says. “Probably more.”
“If he’s not here to kill Mr. Russell he’s definitely here to intimidate him,” Harold says, sounding worried.
“Or,” John says, “he’s afraid someone is after him next.”
Evan looks visibly spooked to see Mandy’s desk abandoned, but John watches him set his shoulders through the security feed, leaning in too close over Harold’s shoulder. Evan doesn’t even glance toward their conference room, eyes only for Russell in his office.
“Come in,” Russell says, flat and ominous even over the live feed.
Evan steps inside, presses the door shut. For a moment, they have no eyes inside the office besides the hallway security, which is skewed to show them only Evan’s feet and Mandy’s desk. It’s a horrible angle to have a camera, unless it’s been tampered with. Then Evan shifts to one side, and they can see again.
“Alright, Mr. Gully,” Russell says, making no move to sit or offer Evan a chair. “You have the ten minutes you begged for.”
All John can see of Evan is his hand, which curls into a fist. Ten seconds pass by on the clock, and Russell only looks bored. “I want to know,” Evan says, voice steady, and quiet, “why you did it.”
“Why I did what?” Russell says. “Hire you? I can only say that it seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“Scott Russell hired Evan,” Harold says, mentally recalibrating. “Not Russell’s father?”
“It looks good to juries if you need to prove you cared about keeping your dad alive,” John points out, just as soft.
“It wasn’t my fault,” Evan growls. “You know that. Why are you telling the lawyers something different?”
“You were charged with my father’s protection, were you not?” Russell advances, almost casually, halting only when it’s clear Evan doesn’t have anywhere to go. “And he’s dead. Under your watch.”
“It wasn’t my watch.” John shifts, hand on his gun; nothing good has ever come from a tone like Evan’s, scraped raw and furious. “You called me, you told me to leave early.”
“When?” Russell scoffs. It’s almost convincing. “Do you have proof? It better be pretty convincing to make a jury take the word of a degenerate gambler.”
“He’s practicing for the courtroom,” John gets out, just before Harold’s sharp inhale and the view of the camera brings him up short.
“He’s drawn his gun,” Harold says. “Evan’s drawn his gun.”
John doesn’t have time, but he drops a hand on Harold’s shoulder as he moves past him toward the door. “Excuse me while I go diffuse the situation,” he says, aiming for levity. “Evan won’t shoot; he’s desperate, not stupid-“
The gunshot seems impossibly loud next to the sound of an entire wall of glass shattering.
John shoves Harold out of his chair and under the table, more bullets snapping through the air only one room over. Through the din John hears Harold say, “It wasn’t Evan, the bodyguard, he fired first-” but John knows, can see Evan scramble for cover behind the secretary’s desk through the broken glass of the door and surrounding wall.
“Stay here,” John orders, shielding Harold’s body as he moves for the door.
“Did he miss?” Harold yelps but he goes to the floor under John’s hand. “What kind of bodyguard misses at that range?”
“Trying to draw him into a shoot-out,” John says, “Stay down.”
Evan sees him just in time not to shoot him, barking out a startled, “John?” before leaping up out of his crouch, providing John unnecessary cover-fire to join him behind the desk. In the commotion John gets the distinct impression Evan thinks he came from further down the hall, not from the conference room. “What the hell?”
“I told you I had a meeting,” John says, ducking as Arsenault sends another volley over their heads, splintering the wood of Mandy’s formerly immaculate desk. “Oh, I wish you hadn’t returned fire,” he adds, under his breath.
“What?” Evan shouts over the noise, Arsenault pausing long enough to bring a filing cabinet crashing down for better cover.
“They’ve tampered with the security feed,” Harold calls. John closes his eyes, as briefly as he dares. “They’ll try to say you fired first!”
“Mr. Sparrow?” Evan hisses, furious disbelief shocking his eyes even wider open. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I should think that’s fairly obvious,” Harold says, and if John can tell that despite the tremor of panic Harold is attempting to joke-it’s clear Evan doesn’t see it that way.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he snarls. Then he turns to John, hands him one of the small guns tucked into the back of his waistband. “Take this, stay low, follow my lead.”
John very carefully doesn’t look at Harold. “I’d really not rather shoot anyone.”
A spray of bullets over their heads delays Evan’s barked response, but only by a second. “Does it look like you have a choice, soldier?”
It’s on the tip of John’s mouth to say no, to write this situation off as a lost cause and get Harold as far from danger as possible, with Evan or without him. But Evan-despite everything-yells, “Alright, Sparrow, on three you run to us. One-“ and before John can suck in a breath he shouts, “THREE.”
John’s training takes over, following Evan shoulder-to-shoulder out of their crouch, high enough to fire just as Arsenault starts shooting through the thin wall separating office and conference room. He’s too well shielded behind Russell’s overturned desk and the cabinet to get a good shot, but John manages to shoot a cupful of pens toward his head just in time for Evan to clip the barest curve of a shoulder he shows over his fortress. Arsenault’s cursing becomes steeply more creative, and Harold is-
Harold is safely behind the desk, Evan braced to cover him from the worst of the possible gunfire. Still a bodyguard, through and through.
“Mr. Gully.” Harold is cut off by Arsenault returning fire, chunks of desk raining down on their heads. Harold hasn’t been trained for this, hasn’t been trained to watch what he says when he’s being shot at. “It would be in your best interests to let us help you!”
“Us?” Evan says, voice sharp with something like unlearned possession.
Some ugly thing John has been ignoring far too long starts to click in his head.
“He works for you?” Evan gapes, eyes wide as he gestures at John. “Wait. Is he your new-me?”
John feels his ears start to ring. He tries to keep his tone bland. “Now isn’t the time-”
“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Evan snarls as Arsenault starts swearing at them in German, now. “Mysterious numbers, victim or perpetrator, playing God with the whole fucking world-any of this ringing a bell?”
John looks at Harold, watches his annoyance with Evan fade to deep confusion when he takes in John’s expression. “John?”
Arsenault either has more than two guns or he’s reloaded again, firing another spray of bullets over their heads.
John drags Harold further down, arm across his chest to make him stay. They’re unbearably close, Harold’s breath puffing against John’s cheek. Distantly, John can hear glass shattering, gunfire, Evan cussing up a storm.
“How much time to we have before all this noise brings reinforcements?” John asks, not sure who he’s talking to.
Evan gives an unamused huff; Harold’s the one who answers, hesitantly. “I-the doors all lock electronically. I’ve set up a program to block the building’s calls to the police long enough to buy us some time, but-“
“I can get us out of here,” John says, and starts to stand.
part two