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John sat on the edge of the bed, looking out the window. He was up early. There was nothing to do yet, no chores, no missions, nothing better to do than sit and stare at the world outside. He could, of course, try to go back to sleep, but that wasn't in his nature. His internal clock was firmly set to wake him up around six in the morning, no matter the time of the year. Looking out the window was better than confronting what was behind his back, anyway. He smiled sadly, resting his cheek on the back of his hand. If he was lucky, he wouldn't have to confront it for an hour or two more. Maybe even more, though he wasn't counting on it. He suspected that his activity would bring about his doom sooner - which is why he hadn't yet gotten up and made tea for himself.
It wasn't all bad, he thought. He was no stranger to compromising his morals until he was forced to pretend he did not have any to begin with. Perhaps he should be used to this. At the end of the day, what he did was arguably nothing compared to many other things he'd done and grown numb to. For a paycheck, he would do just about anything. He imagined there were things he would protest against as much as he could, but luckily he never had to actually check that. At least, for most of them. Remembering he accepted the task of torturing a child still left a bitter taste in his mouth, which he usually spat out in the direction of his boss. It was his fault. His order.
In any case, he couldn't excuse himself with a paycheck in this case. He wasn't getting paid for this. Perhaps he would have felt less ashamed otherwise. No, it was all on him.
He glanced back over his shoulder. Fitzgerald was still there, in the flesh, sleeping peacefully. If John stayed quiet enough, he wouldn't wake up for at least a few hours. He seemed tired, bags and wrinkles under his eyes noticeable even in the dim light. John felt a certain tenderness in his heart at the sight, and he quickly attempted to shake it off. That was what got him here to begin with. He grimaced and turned away, hiding his face in his hands.
He knew that he was making a big deal out of nothing. Fitzgerald didn't harm him in any way - except perhaps wound his pride a little. John scoffed at himself. He never thought he would have fallen for a rich man. A capitalist. That was one of the principles he held onto for dear life, and the thought it would be the easiest one to go his entire life without breaking. He knew that to rich men, people like him were, generally, less than nothing. Ants. Mules. There to be used and never listened to. To think highly of a capitalist was a big mistake, to fall for one was perhaps the biggest mistake of all. It was usually a forgivable one, though, because nobody like him would have the chance to act on it. Not on any reasonable terms, at least.
It took him so long to admit to himself that Fitzgerald was different. Not in every way, not even close - but different enough. He still possessed a lot of traits John couldn't stand. He had the audacity to complain about his wealth, and did not even have the decency to break down for long when he went bankrupt. John knew, now, that he'd spent a few days homeless, begging for change. He probably would still be in that state if Alcott hadn't found him. That, or he would be dead. John wasn't sure what he preferred. Somewhere deep in his heart, a quiet voice suggested that things went as well as they possibly could.
He couldn't help but admire those same traits that irritated him. The stubbornness, inability to give up, the self-confidence. He also had to begrudgingly admit that Fitzgerald paid him well while he was just an employee, and accepted him back under his wing when he failed to destroy him. It was a rather nice gesture. One he wouldn't afford himself if he were in Fitzgerald's place, admittedly. In certain ways, he was detestable. In other ways, he was better than he had any right to be.
John looked at his sleeping face again. At that moment, he was entirely vulnerable. John pondered that for a moment. It was dangerous to allow this situation. If, say, John was only pretending to fall for him and wanted to stab him in the heart with the knife he still had in his shirt's breast pocket, he could easily do that. But Fitzgerald trusted him not to and, dammit, John was too loyal to. They both knew that. Not to mention that he'd fallen head over heels - genuinely.
He allowed himself to smile softly at the sleeping body. The Fitzgerald who confessed to him lacked all the controversial traits that John grew to admire and detest. He wasn't confident, or stubborn, or bombastic. He sounded vulnerable, much in the same way as the current, sleeping Fitzgerald. Indeed, he almost seemed sad to admit his feelings. Perhaps, John thought, it wounded his pride to admit that he'd fallen for a poor farm boy, just as much as it wounded his to admit that he'd fallen for a rich, married man. He brought up the marriage issue in the last ditch attempt to keep himself from going with the proposition. It was some sort of open marriage, Fitzgerald assured him. His wife would know and not mind. And finally, he said that he would understand if John wanted to forget all about it, but he couldn't keep his feelings to himself. John got the feeling that their entire relationship was already filled with struggles and attempts to soften his feelings somewhat. Fitzgerald liked a challenge, and didn't give up for a long time, but he wasn't going to be desperate.
John said yes. That was the evening before. And now, it was morning, and he wasn't even surprised to have woken up in Fitzgerald's bed. He remembered that they talked a lot. He couldn't remember much else when he woke up, perhaps because even his groggy mind was too embarrassed to face the truth. It wasn't all that scary, was it? In a way, he felt powerful. A rich man had fallen for him and was the one to confess to him - risked a lot to confess, in fact. John could play with his feelings all he wanted, and that was certainly something to keep in mind.
He scanned the dear, unconscious face with a fresh eye. Hair, usually perfectly styled and slicked back, was falling on his forehead and sticking up in the back. His light eyelashes fluttered, indicating that he was in the middle of a dream. His cheek was resting on the back of his hand, always perfectly manicured and groomed. He was a handsome man, John admitted reluctantly, especially when he wasn't talking.
Fitzgerald's eyes opened and looked right into his. John shuddered, frozen in place, staring into the distant, faded grey-blue eyes.
'Steinbeck…?' Fitzgerald mumbled, clearly still half-asleep.
'Yes, sir,' John replied automatically with his usual polite smile. Curious how ingrained certain things can be.
Fitzgerald blinked a few times and opened his eyes wide. 'You're leaving…?' he asked, suddenly anxious. John could notice the anxiety in his eyes, in the way his fingers curled under his cheek. Leaving, he realised, meant more than just leaving the bed or the room.
He hesitated for a moment, but shook his head and, after another moment, laid back down, facing Fitzgerald. 'No sir,' he assured with a gentle smile, stroking his cheek, 'I'm not leaving.'