Chapter Text
Turned out, when Vinny said “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he fucking meant it and Harold should have listened. Sure, everyone told stories about Arkham but that’s just it, right? Stories. Scare the newbies into working hard so they don’t get transferred to hell on earth, Massachusetts.
That’s what he’d thought, right up until he’d unpacked his meager belongings and started his six month stint renting office space in the least desirable place he could fathom. Cults were supposed to be secretive and mysterious, weren’t they? Not to mention rare. He’d gone a good (real good, he realized now) 27 years never having to think about them outside of some trashy stories, before he started working here.
Now, as he stood in the doorway of yet another PI office that had been abandoned under “mysterious circumstances” and still reeked of bleach despite the cracked window, all he could think was please let these guys last long enough to pay a few months rent.
The sight of them, loitering outside the building caught up in some kind of argument when he went to investigate if they’d arrived yet, didn’t make him any more confident about how the day was going to go.
One of them, he could only assume, had been in the war and come out the worse for it. A bit too gaunt to be healthy, and scarred six ways from Sunday. The way he startled when Harold cleared his throat only solidified the theory; had to be shell shocked if he was that jumpy, with that kind of faraway look in his eyes.
The other one, though, somehow managed to be worse. He was taller and broader, pale as a corpse with eyes that felt like they were staring straight through Harold. Eyes that he thought weren’t quite the right color, but close enough to brown that he wasn’t sure from moment to moment whether it was just his imagination. The chuckle that escaped the man felt like it rumbled through into bone, and made Harold’s skin crawl.
“Sorry if we’re late," the scarred one started, but Howard just shook his head.
"Don't worry about it," he replied, maybe a bit too quickly, and motioned for them to follow. From behind him he could hear more muttering in that too-deep voice from the pale one, but he ignored it. Didn’t matter how much they creeped him out as long as they wanted the place and paid on time.
Arthur and John, as he soon learned were their names, had actually chosen to move back to Arkham from New York. That alone would have been enough for him to doubt their motives. So would the way Arthur seemed to do all the talking when it came to answering Howard’s questions but John was the one handling all the documents. But the kicker? That had been when he’d seen their IDs. He’d glossed over the comment Arthur had made about putting Lester & Doe on the door, only half-listening anyway, but actually seeing the creepiest bastard he’d ever met trying to claim his real name was John Doe? Come on. Harold looked between the two of them. John stared back at him, his face as blank as a mask, while Arthur kept that odd unfocused gaze but broke the silence after a moment with a chuckle.
“It’s his real name, I assure you. You wouldn’t believe the hassle; it’d be easier to make up a fake but he’s quite attached to it.”
“Arthur…” John absolutely growled. Like an animal. God, Harold couldn’t wait to be done here.
“Would you prefer I say that I’ve seen your birth certificate with my own eyes? Met your father and he’s a right bastard?” Arthur was looking downright smug now, a crooked smirk on his face as he looked slightly to the right of where John was standing, and it would only be that night, at the bottom of a stiff drink, that Harold would fully put two and two together and realize the man was blind.
“Fuck you Arthur. I’ll lock you out the first chance I get.”
“I’m the one who taught you how to pick a lock, remember?”
“...So do you want the place?” Whatever these two had going on, Harold needed to not be in the middle of it any longer than absolutely necessary. Both of them turned, as though they’d entirely forgotten he was even there. At least it got their attention back on the paperwork, and shut them up. He intentionally didn’t ask as many questions as he would have before his transfer, and got the forms signed as quickly as possible.
He’d have to see them again in a few days to hand over the keys, but after that he’d ideally not have to speak to, hear about, or think of Arthur Lester and John Doe until it was time to scrape the names off the glass and rent the place out again.