POI FIC: Praying in agony on waiting shores
Title: Praying in agony on waiting shores
Fandom: Person Of Interest
Characters: Finch, Reese (gen)
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Notes: Written for the picfor1000 challenge. Thank you to everyone who helped me out with ideas. I really appreciate all your amazing insight!
Warning: Character death or at least the possibility of it
Summary: John has been dead before; Harold certainly won’t count him out now.
Praying in agony on waiting shores
By Lenore
There’s no standing item on Harold’s calendar, no set schedule. He'll simply be out walking and his steps turn in that direction, down the long avenue blocks, past dingy takeout places and loading docks that smell of diesel fuel, until he’s standing at the water’s edge.
He stares at the oil-skinned river, and it plays in his head, what happened that day, or at least how he pictures it, since he wasn’t there, only listening. The guns fired non-stop, a deadly staccato-John’s former CIA cronies were nothing if not relentless-and John’s breathing came faster and heavier as he ran, until he ran out of island. Harold imagines his expression as he launched himself off the quay, the wry almost-smile, knowing he was going to ruin his favorite suit.
Three months, eleven days, and there has been no sign, no body to claim. John has been dead before; Harold certainly won’t count him out now. He stares into the river as if it's an oracle and wishes for a variation on Newton, what goes in must come out, but the brown-stained water is stubbornly opaque and uncooperative. It has nothing to offer him.
There's work to do of course-always the work-so Harold turns his steps toward the library, where a new number is already waiting.
He has no replacement for John, just the necessity of the moment, a man named Jarvis, former NSA, an efficient sociopath who does at least come when Harold calls. He listens blank-faced as he's briefed on the latest situation; it's the one expression he's capable of, this imitation of a cinderblock wall.
“I’m on it," is his only comment.
He strides briskly away and out of the library. Harold has never told him where the numbers come from, and he’s never asked, never wanted to know about Harold’s life or followed him to his day job, never seemed to care about anything beyond doing what was required and being paid for it. Harold can’t ignore the irony of getting what he thought he wanted and hating it this much.
He's happy to sink into the backseat of the waiting car when his day at the library is done. Rush hour traffic snarls and tangles all the way to Larchmont, and once he’s finally home and settled in his favorite chair, Jim brings him a glass of scotch and the waiting stack of mail.
Mixed in among the corporate earnings statements and the offers for discounted cell service in various names is a renewal notice for the lease on John’s apartment. For the past three months and eleven days, Harold has been paying John’s bills, keeping everything the way he left it, a placeholder for his life. He sets the notice aside, not ready to make the inevitable decision. A little while longer, he tells himself.
The numbers keep coming, and the days bleed into one another, the monotony of salvation unrelieved by a dry sense of humor on the other end of the phone, a soft voice that always seems to be insinuating-something.
There's no catalyst, no milestone. It's just a stray Wednesday, three months, twenty-seven days, when Harold decides. John will need a complete resurrection when he comes back, a new place to live, somewhere safe. No use putting it off any longer.
When they pull up outside John's building, Jim offers, “I can do it."
“That won’t be necessary.”
This is Harold’s job, although it doesn’t prove much of a task. John might be a sensualist at heart, but he lives with strict economy. In the bedroom, Harold finds a single suit hanging in the closet. He folds it neatly into the shopping bag he's brought, clears out underwear and socks from a drawer, a neat stack of dress shirts, some still in their cellophane wrappers. When John comes back, Harold will buy him a new wardrobe, anything he wants.
On the nightstand sits Look Homeward, Angel, one of Harold’s books. He picks it up, to feel its familiar heft, but when he notices the dogeared page, his throat becomes suddenly too tight. He never really thought John would read it, and knowing that he did, that he was when-Harold adds it to the shopping bag. He'll never be able to look at it again.
Some impulse makes him turn back when he’s at the door, for one last check. As he kneels down, back protesting, to look under the bed, he finds them, half-hidden by the coverlet: John’s well-worn leather boots. He carries them down to the car along with the shopping bag. When he forgets to drop them off at the charity shop with the other items, it’s simply an oversight, nothing more.
Jim finds them as he’s doing his nightly maintenance on the car and brings them in, his expression apologetic. “If you want, I can-“
Harold takes the boots from him. “That won’t be necessary.”
After dinner, he carries them upstairs. His wardrobe is one of his fondest indulgences, and as he steps inside, he admires the neat racks of suits, the beautifully turned cabinetry, drawer after drawer filled with bespoke shirts and silk neckties. He keeps his shoes neatly lined on shelves, and he makes a place for the boots between his brown wingtips and his favorite black oxfords. The irony isn’t lost on him that he’s keeping John’s belongings closer than he ever allowed John himself. He can’t even promise that things will be different when John comes back, but at least-they will be.
Afterward, he settles at his desk, the way he does every night. The setup here is just as sophisticated as the one at the library and even more private. Privacy feels more important than ever as he monitors the feeds, looking for anomalies, some sign, a hidden message from John. Proof of life.
By the time he falls asleep hunched over his computer, light is already glimmering on the horizon-and a new number is waiting.
Fandom: Person Of Interest
Characters: Finch, Reese (gen)
Rating: G
Word count: 1,000
Notes: Written for the picfor1000 challenge. Thank you to everyone who helped me out with ideas. I really appreciate all your amazing insight!
Warning: Character death or at least the possibility of it
Summary: John has been dead before; Harold certainly won’t count him out now.
Praying in agony on waiting shores
By Lenore
There’s no standing item on Harold’s calendar, no set schedule. He'll simply be out walking and his steps turn in that direction, down the long avenue blocks, past dingy takeout places and loading docks that smell of diesel fuel, until he’s standing at the water’s edge.
He stares at the oil-skinned river, and it plays in his head, what happened that day, or at least how he pictures it, since he wasn’t there, only listening. The guns fired non-stop, a deadly staccato-John’s former CIA cronies were nothing if not relentless-and John’s breathing came faster and heavier as he ran, until he ran out of island. Harold imagines his expression as he launched himself off the quay, the wry almost-smile, knowing he was going to ruin his favorite suit.
Three months, eleven days, and there has been no sign, no body to claim. John has been dead before; Harold certainly won’t count him out now. He stares into the river as if it's an oracle and wishes for a variation on Newton, what goes in must come out, but the brown-stained water is stubbornly opaque and uncooperative. It has nothing to offer him.
There's work to do of course-always the work-so Harold turns his steps toward the library, where a new number is already waiting.
He has no replacement for John, just the necessity of the moment, a man named Jarvis, former NSA, an efficient sociopath who does at least come when Harold calls. He listens blank-faced as he's briefed on the latest situation; it's the one expression he's capable of, this imitation of a cinderblock wall.
“I’m on it," is his only comment.
He strides briskly away and out of the library. Harold has never told him where the numbers come from, and he’s never asked, never wanted to know about Harold’s life or followed him to his day job, never seemed to care about anything beyond doing what was required and being paid for it. Harold can’t ignore the irony of getting what he thought he wanted and hating it this much.
He's happy to sink into the backseat of the waiting car when his day at the library is done. Rush hour traffic snarls and tangles all the way to Larchmont, and once he’s finally home and settled in his favorite chair, Jim brings him a glass of scotch and the waiting stack of mail.
Mixed in among the corporate earnings statements and the offers for discounted cell service in various names is a renewal notice for the lease on John’s apartment. For the past three months and eleven days, Harold has been paying John’s bills, keeping everything the way he left it, a placeholder for his life. He sets the notice aside, not ready to make the inevitable decision. A little while longer, he tells himself.
The numbers keep coming, and the days bleed into one another, the monotony of salvation unrelieved by a dry sense of humor on the other end of the phone, a soft voice that always seems to be insinuating-something.
There's no catalyst, no milestone. It's just a stray Wednesday, three months, twenty-seven days, when Harold decides. John will need a complete resurrection when he comes back, a new place to live, somewhere safe. No use putting it off any longer.
When they pull up outside John's building, Jim offers, “I can do it."
“That won’t be necessary.”
This is Harold’s job, although it doesn’t prove much of a task. John might be a sensualist at heart, but he lives with strict economy. In the bedroom, Harold finds a single suit hanging in the closet. He folds it neatly into the shopping bag he's brought, clears out underwear and socks from a drawer, a neat stack of dress shirts, some still in their cellophane wrappers. When John comes back, Harold will buy him a new wardrobe, anything he wants.
On the nightstand sits Look Homeward, Angel, one of Harold’s books. He picks it up, to feel its familiar heft, but when he notices the dogeared page, his throat becomes suddenly too tight. He never really thought John would read it, and knowing that he did, that he was when-Harold adds it to the shopping bag. He'll never be able to look at it again.
Some impulse makes him turn back when he’s at the door, for one last check. As he kneels down, back protesting, to look under the bed, he finds them, half-hidden by the coverlet: John’s well-worn leather boots. He carries them down to the car along with the shopping bag. When he forgets to drop them off at the charity shop with the other items, it’s simply an oversight, nothing more.
Jim finds them as he’s doing his nightly maintenance on the car and brings them in, his expression apologetic. “If you want, I can-“
Harold takes the boots from him. “That won’t be necessary.”
After dinner, he carries them upstairs. His wardrobe is one of his fondest indulgences, and as he steps inside, he admires the neat racks of suits, the beautifully turned cabinetry, drawer after drawer filled with bespoke shirts and silk neckties. He keeps his shoes neatly lined on shelves, and he makes a place for the boots between his brown wingtips and his favorite black oxfords. The irony isn’t lost on him that he’s keeping John’s belongings closer than he ever allowed John himself. He can’t even promise that things will be different when John comes back, but at least-they will be.
Afterward, he settles at his desk, the way he does every night. The setup here is just as sophisticated as the one at the library and even more private. Privacy feels more important than ever as he monitors the feeds, looking for anomalies, some sign, a hidden message from John. Proof of life.
By the time he falls asleep hunched over his computer, light is already glimmering on the horizon-and a new number is waiting.