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Switching gears to a career in education after Nathan died had not been one of his better decisions, Harold has to admit, after his first few classes. While much of the remedial algebra crowd genuinely wants to succeed, few of them will care about math beyond grades, he suspects. They'll keep him busy, but not engaged. Better for him, really. The further under the radar he can stay, the better.
Professor Harold Wren. From insurance to professor at a community college. A strange, dull pipeline for a strange, dull man. He works. He goes to physical therapy. He works some more. It's enough to keep him from missing Grace, from missing Nathan. From missing The Machine.
Then comes John Reese. John isn't a particularly remarkable student. Older than most of his peers, better at math than most of them, taller, and quite handsome, but that's hardly enough to catch Harold's tired eye. There are other older students, other smart ones, other beautiful ones. Really, he can't say what he finds so compelling about the man.
"Just wanted to go over how to do these again," John says, ducking in during office hours one day. Harold ignores the inappropriate skip in his chest and flutter in his belly at the flash of John's self-conscious smile, the fall of his black hair and its glimmering grays. "Don't think I'm quite getting it."
Tamping down on his fool of a libido, Harold tells him to, "Have a seat, Mr. Reese," and wheels around to the front of the desk. John, unlike many others, does not blink at Harold's use of a wheelchair today, and sits down already eager to work. "Let's see what the trouble is."
By the time John leaves, he has more than wrapped his head around linear equations, and Harold has a major problem.
A crush on a student. How shameful. That Harold's paranoid research into his students' lives told him that John is well into his 40s and left a lengthy, highly decorated career in the Army just over a year ago doesn't matter one whit. John is still vulnerable. He quit the military after his former girlfriend died in a car accident in Washington State—a few months after Nathan did, something Harold emphatically does not think about—then spent the next six months homeless. He has friends, but no family. And Harold is still his teacher. Every student needs protection, and dating one is strictly forbidden.
Harold has more important matters to attend to than a crush anyway.
The numbers never stop coming.
Harold never sleeps the whole night through anymore. Nathan and Grace keep starring in his nightmares. His neck and back and hip hurt so much he breaks down in tears in the dark more than once.
The numbers never stop coming.
The numbers never stop coming.
The numbers never stop coming.
He feels like a figure in a superhero comic book when he hires a man for his clandestine operation. Professor by day, billionaire vigilante handler by night. And while Rick Dillinger is more obnoxious savior than hero, he is effective. Thanks to him, Harold, for the most part, manages the delicate balance between his day job and saving lives.
Fitting grading into it is a chore, but he never has been all that good at sleeping, and now that he's in constant pain, dreams are even more elusive. The distraction of busywork is welcome. But it isn't sustainable. The numbers need more of his attention. His students deserve more of his attention.
With John Reese in the picture, it is difficult for him to say which job is more stressful. Either way, he needs to consider giving one of them up.
Every week, John stops by his office for assistance at least once, sometimes more often. Harold deflects John's attempts at more personal chatter, steering him back to math whenever John asks about his life or offers details and anecdotes from his own.
Harold hoards every bit of information John gives him anyway. John lives in an apartment fairly close to Wren's place, has a Belgian Malinois named Bear that he stole from a neo-Nazi who was roughing up a neighbor, and teaches a self-defense class every Saturday with two ex-Marines, Kara and Shaw, after spending the day volunteering with the homeless. He escorts anyone who asks to the nearest subway stop if they're heading home late at night. He's hoping to become a nurse.
"Bit late for it, but I've been kind of spinning my wheels since I left the service, and I've always really wanted to help people, so..." John shrugs, and lets out a soft, sheepish laugh. "And my friend Shaw's looking forward to calling me a 'murse,' I think."
"It's never too late to change your life, Mr. Reese," Harold says, and thinks, briefly, of telling him how he changed his. He doesn't. That would be inappropriate.
From what Harold can tell, John is a wonderful, wonderful man.
But John is still a student, and Harold is a professor with many, many secrets. That is what Harold must remember. John Reese is a student. John is a student. And Harold is a longtime fugitive who just broke off an engagement because his fiancée's life was in danger just for knowing him.
He can't make new friends. He can't date. Even if he could, he can't and shouldn't do either one with a student. Somehow, he must crush this hopeless crush of his before it crushes him.
Still, somehow, John's visits become the highlights of his weeks. And while more and more of his students are trickling into his office and earning his fondness, none of them compare to John.
"I like your suit," John tells him one morning, when a number runs long and Harold throws on one of the nicer ones stashed in the Library in a hurry—a dark gray one with a charcoal shirt underneath and a sleek, burnt orange tie that goes perfectly with the changing leaves outside. "Everything okay, though? You look a little tired."
"Perfectly fine, Mr. Reese," he lies. Though John likely means nothing much by it, Harold feels warm to his aching bones at the thought that someone cares. "Let's see what's troubling you today."
John moves in closer, leaning over as they discuss the material, the scent of him warm and distracting. Woodsy, spicy cologne melds with the rich smell of his leather jacket and the steam wafting from his ever-present cup of coffee from the campus shop—an intoxicating fragrance Harold is shocked doesn't leave John covered in lusty women and men. With that low rasp of his, those fine cheekbones, the soulful blue eyes, and the easy beauty, it's a wonder that John doesn't have a ring on his finger and doesn't talk about having a partner when he shares all those details about his life.
Harold tries not to be transfixed by John's long, strong fingers pointing at the problems in his textbook and his notebook, the way his eyes seem to shine through his thick eyelashes whenever he glances up, his impressed smiles and invasive questions. He fails spectacularly. As John's understanding of the material grows, so does Harold's smile, his pride.
"You're gonna make a mathematician out of me yet," John says, and Harold, to his own surprise, laughs.
"Don't get your hopes up, Mr. Reese," he teases, and John grins.
The fourth time Harold can't hold back a yawn, though, John asks, "Am I that boring?" before excusing himself, saying, "You really need to lay off the orgies, Professor—or whatever the hell you young people are getting up to these days," as he gathers his things.
Harold laughs. Young. "I'm probably a decade older than you." Inaccurate. He is six years older than John, but he isn't supposed to know that.
The young people and their extracurriculars, though. What a disturbing thought. "And I'm not sure I want to know what most of my students are up to, to be honest. Fraternities, YouTube..."
"Tumblr," John says. "What the hell is Tumblr, anyway? And Facebook? Twitter? FriendCzar? What the hell happened to MySpace and—what was that other one..."
"Connectroid. Or LiveJournal, or...others. As for your other question..." Harold shrugs. "More shiny new platforms for people with a craving for attention and no regard for online privacy, I suppose. How anyone can keep up..."
"Jesus." John shakes his head. "Whoever came up with all this shit must be swimming around in a pool full of cash right now."
No, Harold thinks. He is wealthy, yes, and he's also far behind his own creation, bowing to the whims of another creation, and teaching math to college students these days. "I'm sure they've made themselves very rich. Though if there's an ulterior motive for all of this invasive garbage..." He waves a hand.
"Conspiracy theorist?" John sounds delighted.
Harold scoffs. It's not a theory if it's true. "I prefer to think of myself as a cynic and a realist."
"No wonder you can't sleep at night," John says, with a small chuckle. "See you tomorrow."
Feeling lighter than usual, Harold decides to warn him, "Be sure to do some studying tonight." John raises his eyebrows. "I'm planning on giving a pop quiz tomorrow. Don't tell anyone."
"Classified class information." John chuckles. "I can keep a secret."
"See that you do." Harold can't help smiling at him again. "Have a good day, John."
John's grin suddenly turns shy, sweet. "You, too, Professor. You, too."
As soon as the door closes behind John, Harold's own words dawn on him. John. For what was likely the first time, he called him John.
God. He's getting too familiar. It needs to be the last.
It isn't the last.
He's drafting his resignation letter the next time John drops in for office hours. John brings him a turkey sandwich wrapped in plastic cling film and a cup of, "Sencha green tea," John says, proudly, as he hands over the paper cup, "one sugar."
Harold is astounded. It's nearly enough to make him scrap the letter. "You've been paying attention." He should turn both down, he knows, but he can't quite make himself do it. A number interrupted his attempt to get breakfast, and the chocolate snack cake from the vending machine he gulped down wore off hours ago. "Thank you, John," he says, without thinking, and he opens up his tea so it can cool and dives into his sandwich.
The bread, to his surprise, is homemade, its edges somewhat gnarled, its slices uneven—no bakery would tolerate such imprecision. But the first bite tastes like heaven, tender turkey and crisp lettuce and creamy mayonnaise melding with ripe tomato and soft, flavorful bread. Harold cannot resist eating another, and another, before declaring, "This is very good. Where did you get it?" He suspects he already knows.
"I, uh..." John, caught, gives him a small, awkward grin and rubs at the back of his neck. "I got it somewhere..."
"Your kitchen, perhaps?"
John scratches the back of his neck. "Maybe..."
Harold decides not to ask about the bread. John's expression is answer enough. "Thank you again," he says. "Now, I'm guessing you'd like to discuss your grade on that quiz?" Thank goodness for the rationality of math. That every problem had only one answer worked in his increasingly biased favor. John earned his high B, and no one can argue otherwise.
They go over the small number of problems John missed, and the ones he struggled with. He's getting so much better, understanding it so much more. "Kinda dreading passing this class," he tells Harold. "You're really good at explaining this stuff to me."
"I'm quite good at advanced math." If John still needs him, he'll stay. "If you find yourself struggling..."
"I know where to find you." He smiles. "Thanks."
Oh, thank goodness. Harold breathes a mental sigh of relief. Much as he'd rather not admit it to himself, he quite likes John's visits. And it would be a good incentive to stay on as a professor. Can he continue to balance this career and his work with the numbers, and his many other identities? Hard to say.
But the thought of losing access to John's smiles, John's soft laughter, John's bad jokes and kindness and brilliance—it's unbearable. He's starting to feel much like he did in those early days with Grace, like John is becoming a vital part of his heart. Most of the professor and student relationships he's heard of have been something tawdry, built upon lust and an imbalance of power. This, however...
John is beautiful, yes. Goodness, he is beautiful. That isn't what keeps drawing Harold's eyes toward him. There are several other attractive students in the class, a few of them close to his age or John's. And as for the power dynamics, he's more worried about taking advantage of John than thrilled by the prospect.
He likes John. He enjoys John's company. John is, without a doubt, his favorite student. And John seems to enjoy his company, always listening to him blather on and on ad nauseum about math with an endearing smile, always finding a subject to discuss to keep their meetings going on longer. John's intelligent, John's funny, John's kind. A friendship with him would be as much of a delight as a romance.
But Harold's living a double life—more than two, most days. Any romance, any friendship, is a terrible idea. He's friendly with some of the other professors, friendly with some of his other students, but anything more than friendly acquaintanceship...it cannot be. He cannot get close to anyone.
Still...god, does he want to get closer to John Reese.
How can he make this infatuation go away?
John continues dropping by, usually with more tea and treats, and Harold continues to allow it. Every system has a weakness, he supposes. His, these days, is John.
With every visit, Harold can feel his guard dropping and his resolve crumbling. John's smiles grow more frequent. That resignation letter remains unfinished. And Harold finds himself spilling those details about himself that he so closely guarded at the beginning: that he used to run an insurance company, that he lives alone in a townhouse, that he enjoys opera and fine suits and good food. That he collects rare books.
"And you said the other day that you were having difficulties in Professor Smith's English course as well?"
"Some of those books are kind of...dense." John grimaces. "I feel kind of like a dumbass when I try to get through 'em. Swear I know how to read, but..."
"Some prose can be a challenge. I understand." Will struggled much the same way, and sought out Uncle Harold's assistance all the time. "I'm quite the bookworm, though, and I believe I've read everything assigned for her class. I'd be happy to help you understand that material as well."
"Really?" John brightens, and Harold's heart tries to betray him again.
"I want you to succeed, John." He finds himself reaching out and touching John's hand—a dangerous breach of propriety, and yet he can't bring himself to resist. John's skin is warm beneath his fingertips, dry, in need of moisturizer. I should buy him some, he thinks, and nudges the thought aside instead of dismissing it like he should. "You are a gifted student, with an exceptionally noble goal. I want you to achieve it."
Before John can respond, the door swings open, and Dillinger strides inside, slamming it shut behind him. "Whoa, this how you are with all your students, Finch?" he asks, and Harold jerks his hand away and stares, struck dumb with shock and fear.
John recovers first. "I know you," he says, pointing at Dillinger. "Shaw's sparring buddy."
Some of Dillinger's bravado vanishes. He clenches his jaw. John grins.
"How many times has she kicked your ass now, Rick?" There's a mischievous, malicious glint in John's smug smile. "Didn't know you were a student."
"I'm not," Dillinger says, his voice clipped and agitated. "And if I was, I'm not dumb enough to get stuck in math for idiots—no offense, Harold."
Anger, slow and quiet, begins simmering in Harold's chest, replacing some of the fear. "Mr. Reese is an incredible student," he says, his voice going low and dangerous, "as are most of my pupils, and I'd thank you not to imply otherwise."
"Sure they are," Dillinger says. "Here." He thrusts something in Harold's face with a bandaged hand. "Good news is the girl's alive. This here is how Princess Slasher has been making her money."
"Credit card skimmer," John says, as Harold turns the device over in his hands. Harold gives him a curious look. "One of the women in my weekend class lost a bunch of money 'cause of one of those. Cleaned her out."
"Really," Dillinger says, his voice flat with disinterest. "Good for her." To Harold, he says, "I'm gonna give finding her another shot. You gonna work your Finchinator hacker mojo—" He waggles his fingers, miming typing. "—to help me out? Otherwise..." Drawing a finger across his throat, he makes a cracking sound. "Might not save this one in time."
"I thought I made it very clear what we were and were not to discuss in front of others, Mr. Dillinger," Harold says, sharply. To everyone, including John, Professor Wren is not good with computers. Professor Wren would not associate with someone like Dillinger, either, or have anything to do with credit card skimmers or girls who may or may not be alive—Schrödinger's teenager, he thinks, wryly.
"Oh, relax," Dillinger says. "It's not like I said anything about your not-so-imaginary imaginary friend."
His stomach curdling with horror, Harold glances at John, expecting to see confusion or betrayal. Instead, John looks intrigued. "And here I was thinking you were full of shit when you kept going on about being a hero," he says, nodding toward Dillinger's bandage. "Guess you did get all those cuts and bruises for a good cause."
"Oh, yeah, I'm a real damn hero," Dillinger says, smug as can be, and he claps Harold on the shoulder, jarring his neck, making him wince. "And Finchy here's got the magic brain and the moneybags to keep me saving lives in style."
Harold tries to get a handle on his simmering anger, barely getting out, "Mr. Dillinger..." through gritted teeth.
"Do you guys need some help?" John asks. "An extra pair of hands, maybe? I haven't forgotten what I learned in the service."
"Yeah?" Dillinger asks, clearly skeptical. "How good are you?"
John slips a knife out of his jacket and looks it over—an alarmingly large and familiar knife. Dillinger pales. "Blackwater guy, huh?" John says, with a smirk, while Dillinger looks between John and his knife, dumbfounded. "Got your gun, too." He hands back the knife. "Nice piece. Beretta 92FS. I'm a SIG-Sauer guy myself. You're not getting it back, though—not 'til you learn how to treat your weapons properly."
"Who the hell are you?" Dillinger demands, and John's smile grows.
"I'm the guy who keeps saying no to the CIA."
"He's one of my students," Harold says, "and Mr. Dillinger, I think you should go. Now."
With a clipped nod, Dillinger backs up toward the door, and points his sheathed knife at John. "I'm getting my gun back," he says.
Grinning, John says, "I'd like to see you try."
Dillinger heads out, and a silence descends upon Harold and John. Patiently, John waits, while Harold tries and fails to come up with a good lie. What do you say after something like this? How do you explain?
"So you two help people, too?" John finally says, once it's clear a story won't be coming.
Harold swallows hard, and nods. "Yes. That's a good summary of what we do, yes. I suppose vigilantes would also be fitting." Gathering himself, he adds, "And this is another reason why this...flirtation that's been building between us should not continue."
Saying it is just as painful as he expected, and when John's face falls, it hurts even more.
"I wasn't kidding when I offered to help," John says, softly. "I wasn't kidding."
"John..."
"The CIA wanted me bad—really bad. Don't know how many times they tried to get me to say yes. I was Special Forces—Delta. And I was damn good at it."
"I know," Harold says. "I looked into you—and everyone else—when you signed up for my class. But John..."
John leans in and lays a hand on Harold's thigh. "I could be a big help."
"It would be inappropriate," Harold insists. "Probably more inappropriate than this." Still, he lays his hand on John's, and John's smile blooms again. "I can't ask you to..."
"I'm offering." John turns his hand over and wraps it around Harold's. "I'm not like all your other students—you know it and I know it. The CIA doesn't try to recruit just anyone—not the guys who wanted me. I've seen some things, done some things..."
"I know," Harold says, with a nod. "I saw those, too." John gives him a surprised look, and Harold shrugs. "I'm good with computers."
That makes John smile again. "I had a feeling you were pretty interesting the day I started class—not just cute. I was right."
Cute. Him, cute? His cheeks grow hot. "I don't know how you got that impression," Harold says. "Most of the reviews for me on FriendCzar's school pages talk about how boring I am."
"Reviews by a bunch of drunk teenagers who can't see what I do." He tightens his grip. "You were really nice to that kid who was all messed up by the anniversary of that bombing—" Harold's heart gives a painful squeeze. "—and anyone else who's been trying but having some trouble. You're a good guy. I like that."
"I'm still your professor," Harold says.
"For how long? I'm guessing as soon as this semester's over, you're gonna drop this gig for your other one, and I'm never gonna see you again." Harold doesn't bother to deny it. "I'm not fishing for a good grade, Harold, and I'm not some kid you can take advantage of."
"You're still worthy of protection, John." He knows what's happened to John, how much he's been used, how much he's lost. Somebody should guard John Reese's heart, if John's not going to do it himself.
"I don't need it."
"But you deserve it." Still, Harold finds himself lacing their fingers together. "People who get close to me..." His throat clenches. "There's a reason I'm not married, why I don't have friends anymore, why—"
An alarm beeps in John's pocket. With a swear, John pulls out his phone and silences it. John has never stayed long enough for it to go off before, but Harold knows what it means. "Time to head to your next class."
"I can skip it."
Harold smiles sadly. "I don't think someone who wants to be a nurse should miss an exam worth thirty percent of their grade in Introduction to Nursing."
"I could—"
"John," Harold interrupts, gently, and even though it hurts, he draws his hand away. "No. Go to class."
With a grim expression, John rises from his seat and gathers his belongings in silence. As he packs, Harold says, weakly, "Thank you for the food, Mr. Reese. Please don't do it again."
John nods once, his eyes downcast, his lips pressed tightly together. "And if I need more help with my homework..."
"You are my student," Harold says. "I will be glad to help you."
The Theresa Whitaker number devolves quickly later that afternoon. With one phone call, he and Theresa are trapped on a hotel floor, trying to flee from a hitman and more likely to die than escape.
"Mr. Dillinger," Harold whispers, as the hitman searches the room he and his charge just abandoned, "where are you?"
Dillinger answers with a scorching, frustrated, "Fuck," before replying, "Still ten minutes out. Goddamn Carter's on my ass again. You're gonna have to figure something else out."
Harold clenches his eyes shut. A man with a bad limp and a teenage girl armed only with a box cutter. God.
"I'm sorry, Harold." For once, Dillinger sounds sincere. "I'm doing everything I can, but I don't think I'm gonna make it."
With an aching heart and a gut full of lead, Harold looks to Theresa, who is staring back at him with so much faith in her terrified eyes. Nobody is coming for them. He's supposed to be saving this girl's life, and he has failed her. But surely there is something he can do. Surely there's another way.
"I got an idea, though," Dillinger continues. "I bluejacked your boyfriend's phone this afternoon. Looks like Johnny's at a coffee shop just a block away from you."
John. Could John help him with this? "I can't call him safely," Harold says. "Can you?"
"Already dialing."
All it takes for John to agree is Dillinger saying, "Finch is in trouble." With a quick conversation, John is on his way, still armed with Dillinger's gun. That doesn't mean that Harold and Theresa stay put. They make a break for it, aiming for the service elevators, and wind up cornered.
Brave, brave Theresa refuses to leave him behind. She steps between him and the hitman, her little box cutter held high in her trembling hand, and waits to face her fate.
The bang of two gunshots resounds through the air, and the hitman falls to the ground, his knees suddenly rendered useless. John steps in and kicks the man's gun away, then tucks his own into his jeans. His troubled eyes don't leave Harold's.
Theresa is still skittish, her knife clutched tight as she watches John approach. Harold, however, finally finds enough mental capacity to heave a sigh of relief and slump against the nearby wall. "John," he breathes. "You made it.
"I did." John reaches Theresa's side, and he stops and turns to her. "Hi, my name is John," he says, gently, not even trying to touch the shocked girl. "I'm a friend of Harold's."
"Theresa," she says, slowly lowering her knife and withdrawing the blade. "I'm Theresa."
"Nice to meet you, Theresa." John gives her a kind smile. "Are you hurt?"
Shaking her head, she replies, "I'm okay."
Satisfied, John's attention shifts to him. "Harold?"
How to respond? His hip aches terribly, his heart is still pounding, he just watched the man he loves—his student—shoot another man to save his life. His mind refuses to formulate an answer, so he waits until John is standing before him, checking him over, before dragging John into a kiss.
John kisses him back, hot and hard, wrapping his arms tight around Harold's quaking frame. His mouth slides deliciously upon Harold's, desperate and reverent and full of relief, while his hands roam over Harold's back. Kissing back just as desperately, Harold clings to him, until the first sliver of reason kicks in.
"Someone will have heard those shots," he says, as he and John lean against each other, foreheads pressed together, breathing hard, "and my wallet can only do so much."
"We need to get moving," John says, without bothering to do so.
"We do." But Harold doesn't want to let go.
Luckily, he doesn't have to. He and John hold each other tight as they make their escape with Theresa, the three of them slipping with ease into the crowd of people hurrying down the stairs. John, thank god, doesn't ask about his hip. It's a difficult descent, but the stairs in the Library and on campus are worse, and he manages those. Still, he appreciates John's subtle, wordless help and the comforting splay of John's hand on his aching back, and the wonderful smell of him from up close.
"You know there are easier ways to get an A, Mr. Reese," he teases, as they reach the ground floor, and John chuckles.
"I kind of figured getting fresh with you and then shooting someone would get me an F, to be honest."
Harold laughs. "Fail for flirting, then pass for saving my life."
"And giving you one hell of a kiss."
"You sound quite sure of yourself. What makes you so certain it was a good one?"
John turns and kisses him again, soft and tender, cradling Harold's chin. "Never got any complaints before."
"First time for everything, John," Harold says, with a grin, and he kisses John again, then they get back on their way.
They step out into the sun together, just as Dillinger pulls up in the Town Car and the first of the police vehicles scream onto the sidewalk. Making sure the officers don't see his face, Harold turns to John and says, "Do you need a ride?"
"Sure," John replies, letting Theresa into the front passenger seat. Her shock is setting in, tears starting to roll down her cheeks, which Dillinger takes as his cue to get out of the car. John, meanwhile, gives Theresa's shoulder a squeeze and says, "You'll be okay," and she looks up at him, her eyes full of hope.
"You think so?"
"I do," John says. "But if you have trouble, Harold's not the only teacher here. I do self-defense classes every weekend, if you think you might be interested. Free of charge for Harold's friends."
Theresa considers that for a moment, then nods. "Yeah," she says. "Yeah, I think...yeah."
"I'll get you his information once the heat wears off a little," Harold says. "A young woman comes back from the dead..."
"Cops and reporters are gonna be all over that," Dillinger says. "John's a good guy, though." He claps John on the shoulder. John doesn't react. "He'll have your back."
Harold can't help his look of surprise. Dillinger shrugs. "You remember when I said a friend of a friend helped Casey get out of the country?" Dillinger asks, and John gives him a one-sided smirk. "You were the guy, weren't you? The guy Sam said could get him out of here?"
Staring at them both, Harold tries to wrap his mind around the information. The Daniel Casey number nearly ruined his and Dillinger's partnership, until Harold finally told him about The Machine. Then, taking a leap of faith, he let Dillinger have a friend "who knows somebody" help them get Casey out of the country with his new identity.
"I was," John says. "Told you I hadn't forgotten my time in the service—or the people I met."
"You did good, John." Unable to handle standing any longer, Harold eases himself into the back seat. "Then and today."
John's smile softens, turning sweet and shy. "Thank you."
Harold pats the space beside him. "Let's get going. There's still a lot to do."
The three of them leave Theresa behind in Washington Square Park, clad in Dillinger's black jacket, to be fetched by Detective Carter. Then Dillinger heads off in the opposite direction while Harold and John walk hand in hand back to the car.
Nerves writhe in Harold's stomach, all for the possibility of being seen—by students, by the police. By Grace.
Grace. He cannot help looking in the direction of the home they once shared, where a piece of his heart still lives, just in case. His chest clenches. A good man stands at his side—a man he loves dearly, who he thinks he could be with for a very long time, should fate be kinder than he deserves. Nevertheless... "Part of us always lingers with the people we left behind," he says, "doesn't it?"
John is silent for a moment, then, in a hoarse whisper, he says, "Yes."
Harold nods, and he stops, staring at the townhouse. John stops beside him. "Her name is Grace Hendricks," Harold says. "She's an artist, a painter. She is...the most incredible woman I've ever met. But I had to leave her. It wasn't safe for her to be with me. It might not be safe for you."
"I don't like safe." John flashes him a smile.
Now that they're here, so close to the place he once called home, Harold feels compelled to say more. "She thinks I'm dead. There is a very good reason why. I'd like to tell you that reason, if I may. If I can guarantee that you can keep it to yourself." He looks at John. "I trust you, but I have to be sure."
"I still have top secret clearance, Harold. I can keep things quiet."
"I know," Harold says. "But it's more for your safety than it is anything else." With a hand on John's back, Harold steers him toward the car. "When you get in, I'd like you to turn off your phone, please. Just in case."
Once they're inside, Harold driving, John riding, Harold takes a deep breath, and he begins telling John about The Machine.
By the time he pulls into the parking garage closest to John's building, the sun is going down, and Harold has told John almost everything, from ARPANET to Nathan to The Machine. John listens intently, his hand drifting to Harold's thigh when the anxiety starts tripping Harold's tongue. Harold even finds himself telling John about the ferry bombing and his injuries—a matter he has never spoken of aloud.
"I know it all probably sounds somewhat farfetched," Harold says, "absurd, unbelievable..."
"Government's been trying to do something like your Machine since 9/11. Not surprised someone figured it out." His eyes and voice full of sympathy, John adds, "I don't know if I should be proud or sorry that it was you."
Oh, what a dilemma. "Neither do I," Harold admits. "Neither do I."
Once he's parked and the car is turned off, he and John sit in silence for a while, John's hand still warm and heavy on Harold's thigh, until Harold finds more words to say. "If you decide to pursue this—either a relationship with me or a job working the numbers or both—I doubt that it will end well. Sooner or later, both of us will probably wind up dead—actually dead this time, for me."
John nods once, slowly, and takes a moment to speak. "I always thought I'd die in the Army," he says. "Some mission in the middle of bumfuck nowhere, shot up or blown up or something. Missile. IED. Torture. Anything. Came pretty close a few times. Got lit up with electricity for sixteen hours once when I got bagged by some insurgents in Kandahar—"
"Oh, good heavens."
"All they wanted was my name. Thought I was gonna die. Still didn't give it." John pauses. "I made peace with death a long time ago. I don't mind going out doing something good, for someone good. Been preparing myself for something like that my whole life." He takes Harold's hand, and Harold lets out a soft sigh.
"You would make an extraordinary nurse." Harold laces their fingers together. "The medical field would be losing out on someone special if you were to sacrifice yourself. But you don't have to decide today. Please, finish the semester at least."
"Okay," John says, "I will. I'll finish it." Then, switching gears, to Harold's surprise, he asks, "You wanna come in? Got some food that should be done by now. Beef stew, crockpot. Really good stuff. Some more homemade bread, too."
Food. It's been a long day—and such a long time since lunch. And John inviting him in is promising. A home-cooked dinner, too. How long has it been since he last had one of those? "That sounds excellent."
"Gotta take Bear for a walk first, though. You wanna come with me or crash on my couch 'til I get back?"
The cooling air won't be kind to his aching body, but the walk might. "I think I'll join you, if you don't mind."
John grins. "That'd be great. Let's go inside."
Harold gets Bear's sloppy-tongued seal of approval several times, and, after a good walk in a nearby park and a delicious dinner, he spends the evening wrapped in John's arms with the dog's big head resting in his lap. "I've never had a dog," he says, scratching Bear behind his tall, velvety ears. "Of my own, anyway. Grace used to foster, but the only ones she had were small. Usually she preferred cats."
"I like cats," John says. "Always been more of a dog person, though."
Smiling, Harold leans further into John's broad chest. They've just gotten together, he reminds himself. It's too early for talk of shared pets and other such things—and with a student, no less. Good lord, Harold. It's the sort of thing Nathan would do, not him.
But there's a comfort here that he's only felt with one other romantic partner, a compatibility. John's hair is full of grays, too, his bones get stiff, his joints creak. They both have pain cream on their bathroom sinks, and bottles of fiber supplements and antacids sitting out in the open. The pictures hanging on John's walls are all old—authentically vintage—and it's easy to recognize the sad-eyed little boy who grew into the man who's holding him close. And few young men would have a kitchen as well stocked as John Reese.
This is not a dalliance between a middle-aged man who cannot let go of his youth and some vulnerable and beautiful ingénue who doesn't understand the world yet. They have both seen the world and the worst it has to offer. They've loved and lost and lost again, and still, here they are, daring to reach out to one another.
Harold takes hold of John's hand and entwines their fingers together. John's skin, as always, is dry and rough, his long fingers and broad palm callused with use. Moisturizer. He needs to buy John some moisturizer. Badly.
But there are more important matters to think of first. "Where do we go from here, I wonder. As teacher and student, not a couple—I'm aware it's too early to decide on anything on the romantic front."
"I've still got a math class to pass." John kisses the back of Harold's head, and Harold's heart quivers. "You made it pretty clear on day one that banging the professor's not gonna get anyone a better grade."
Harold lets out a bark of laughter. He did, didn't he—to one young lady's dismay. "Mathematics is an impartial subject. That's been helping me since I started...noticing you. I believe that will continue to be true."
"Probably. And I'm not trying to get an A—I'm trying to understand it, so I can do well in the harder classes."
"I know," Harold says. "And I don't think you'll have any difficulty. But if you do..."
Tightening his hold, John says, "I know where to find you."
Indeed he does.
After a moment of quiet, John says, "You want me to stay in school and not help you and Rick with the numbers, don't you?"
That is easy to answer. "Yes. I know neither you nor I can guarantee safety, but I'd at least like you to live a safer life. I trust you can protect yourself—" He leans back and looks John in the face. "—but if it's all the same to you I'd rather you not put yourself in harm's way if you can help it."
John cocks his head, making a show of thinking it over. "Never really saw myself being the kind of guy who stays out of trouble, but I can probably make it happen...long as you're a little more careful, too."
"Most days, I stay in our headquarters, unless I am truly needed. We also have a detective in our pocket—albeit not a very good one." Part of him wants to believe Detective Fusco can change for the better. The rest of him, sadly, is not an optimist. "And Mr. Dillinger has started amassing a decent collection of allies. Hopefully this will allow me to stay at my computers when I'm not busy as Professor Wren."
"Good." John kisses him on the lips, and Harold returns his smile, then leans back against his chest again. "Wanna keep you safe, too."
"I know," Harold says, while John buries another kiss in his hair. Idly musing, he adds, "I was planning on resigning, but...staying on as a professor might help keep me a little safer."
"I hope so. And you like it, don't you?" John kisses him again. "Teaching people stuff? You've been getting really good at it."
Does he like it? Harold considers that. At the beginning of the semester, he thought he'd made a terrible mistake. Him, a professor—what a terrible idea. But as time has gone on, he's started to see how much his students care to learn, even students other than John, and he's started to remember how much he enjoys helping people learn and sharing knowledge. Perhaps he didn't make a mistake after all.
"I do," he says, and finds himself settling further against John. "I enjoy it a great deal, actually."
"Then keep doing it."
"I think I will." Harold smiles, and he brings John's hand up for a kiss. "I think I will."
There will be more to it than this, Harold knows: the complications of a secret relationship, the balancing act between jobs and cause and, now, personal life, the inherent difficulties of any romance—especially between two deeply wounded people. But John is quite the remarkable man. All of the effort it will take to make this work will be worth it.
Perhaps becoming Professor Wren wasn't such a bad decision after all.