Archive of Our Own

Harold managed sleep by the expedient of several ounces of Glenfiddich, and then shuddered awake at three in the morning, shaking and sick. Not sick enough to vomit, but -- he analyzed the roil in his stomach -- finally suffering the emotional hangover he deserved. He'd been building toward it all week, from the moment he'd put Grace in John's sights and pulled the trigger.

Gun metaphors, Finch? said John's dry voice in his head, as he got up to wash his face, and he realized once again just how much he'd come to value that commentary, real or imagined, as a reliable presence in his life. As a rule, John was silent except when conveying information or cracking a deadpan joke; this last week he'd bordered on prolix. Many of those words, addressed to Harold, had struck unyielding stone. The rest had landed on the welcoming soil of Grace's attention.

Harold had wondered, more than was good for him, whether John would stop talking in bed. In the end the act had been… not silent, but (as John had astutely pointed out) not that different, over the open phone line, from one of the innumerable fights he'd undertaken on Harold's behalf during their association: noises, subject to interpretation. He remembered the first time that, holed up quietly in the Library, he'd heard John utterly destroying an opponent in the field, and had said to himself not only What have I done? but What must that be like?

The difference, here, was that he knew precisely what it was like. He'd sat at his desk, reading Hooker's translation of Rostand's words aloud, trying to feel Cyrano's satisfaction at hitting his target, and knowing that his aim had been wrong, that he'd been preparing all along to shoot himself in the foot. Or in the heart. His words were reaching John, but not Grace; anything that Grace felt, she felt for John alone. And John had managed the seduction with no more help from Harold than when punching a nose or blasting out kneecaps. Harold's money had bought the gun, that was all.

He looked at his face in the mirror, made a disgusted grimace, and went back into the bedroom, sitting on the bed, meaning to lie down again and sleep. But he couldn't stop hearing the noises: the squelch of disembodied kisses, John's raspy breathing, Grace's gasps and cries, the rhythmic creaking of the bed. The bed had been creaking for years now; she'd never fixed it, but then he was pretty sure she'd had no opportunity to hear the creak since he'd gone.

It had been a different bed in the beginning; he'd waged a long one-sided campaign to get her into it, and then when he'd finally worked up the courage to ask, she'd laughed and said "Of course, Harold" and he'd thought, I could have had this earlier. At the time, a hypothetical few extra weeks of bliss had seemed a mere luxury. Now… well, he had to congratulate John on not wasting time. And seduction was the wrong word; John was seductive, certainly, but he was also alarmingly straightforward. And so, it seemed, was Grace. They'd pretty much just… grabbed each other. And Harold had sat head in hands realizing exactly what he'd done, realizing that he'd been drunk on poetry and planning and altruism, and that what he was hearing was sober reality, and that John and Grace had arrived there all on their own.

He hadn't thought ahead because… well, he hadn't meant to be listening; one didn't intend that kind of thing, as it implied motives too base to be admitted. John had (straightforwardly) asked him if he was getting off on hearing the two of them on their dates, and… in the initial stages of the project, yes, to some extent, although Harold wouldn't have used that expression. Nor had he actually gotten off at any point in the proceedings, which lack had become fairly obvious by the time push came to shove (creak, creak, creak). It was, in fact, possible to be utterly despairing and horribly aroused at the same time. But he hadn't done anything about it then or since, because that would mean he was a mere voyeur (or auditor), and while he had eavesdropped on sex before, where it hadn't been inadvertent it had always been about the power of surveillance rather than about... the sensation.

The wanting.

Grace, he heard John saying. That's what I've been given. It would be too much to ask for the same gift twice.

You're a better poet than I am, Gunga Din, he thought with a grim smile. And knew that he would manage no more sleep that night.

The whisky bottle wasn't empty, but he knew how drinking would make him feel later in the morning, and there might be a new number. He had some coding to do, and a few obituaries and employment records to create, and other random items that he could knock off the to-do list while away from the Library's resources. Tugging a robe on over his pajamas, slippers on his feet, he walked into the apartment's darkened living room, his brain's obstacle-avoidance programming firing automatically. He hadn't slept here in months; the relative unfamiliarity had appealed to him tonight, but he still remembered the steps too well. Time to hotel-hop for a while, perhaps--

A sudden flurry of movement on the sofa to his left; he whirled, almost fell; adrenaline shot through him, and then he relaxed. He knew the silhouette with a revolver at the end of its arm, better than he would have known his own reflection.

"John," he said; his first feeling was relief, immediately followed by indignation. "What are you doing here?" and it was too late to say "Mr. Reese" but he should have made the tone of the encounter clear. "Did you follow me? Really, that's quite unacceptable--"

"I know about most of your hidey-holes by now, Finch. And whatever boundaries we'd got left, I think we took care of earlier tonight." This was take care of in the sense of kill, maim or make vanish. They'd thrown the boundaries out a window; buried them in a shallow grave or a Mexican prison; crippled them for life.

"Fine," he said, as crisply as he could, "but you didn't answer me. What are you doing here?"

"Sleeping on your couch. Planning to make you breakfast, if you have any actual food in the place." He shrugged. "Being a concerned… second party."

"You think I'm going to… what? Off myself?" It was an interesting expression, akin somehow to the previously referenced getting off, the same sense of stepping away from the world for a time, or forever. The big death and the little one.

"Suicide watch? No. Not your style. Besides, we agreed you've got a big day tomorrow. Today, I mean."

"We have not--"

"You want to fight me on this, Harold?"

John's voice was particularly suited to threats; Harold had often noted it. This one was a gentle threat; it shouldn't have been possible, but John accomplished it.

He considered a childish you don't run my life retort, a reasoned argument taking into account the fact that he was John's employer, a risky physical assault, and a sobbing breakdown, and then was relieved of all the options when his gorge rose and he had to turn and limp for the bathroom as quickly as possible. He made it in time, barely, collapsing toward the toilet bowl and choking out the acrid fluid in spasms.

When his stomach was empty, he tried and failed to get up. His body would work in a minute; there was no point in rushing, because once he was up he'd have to start thinking again. Feeling again. John had followed him; he'd been aware of that even in the middle of the vomiting. Now he heard the water running: felt a cool washcloth on his forehead. The toilet flushed, and John knelt next to him, a hand on his shoulder, and cleaned his face. His glasses were removed and returned to him spotless.

"Now we're going to stand up," John said, and lifted him bodily to his feet, walking him to the sink. He filled a glass with water, took up the toothpaste and seemed to hesitate over squeezing some into the glass; Harold managed, "Mouthwash in the cabinet."

John fetched it; he rinsed his mouth, and then took some water in sips. "Better," he said.

"Good." They left the bathroom; Harold half-expected John to tuck him into bed, but he was steered back to the sofa instead. "Let me know when you feel up to food," John said, sitting close and putting an arm around Harold's shoulders.

"I don't think there is actually--"

"Frozen empanadas. They look homemade."

"Oh. Mrs. Diaz must have--"

"Does she clean and cook for all your identities, or just this one?"

That woke Harold up a little. "Just Partridge, of course."

"Of course. Basic spycraft." And then they were silent, breathing together. It should have been anything but comforting, yet it was. Mammalian instinct, Harold thought vaguely: curling up next to a big, warm presence. He leaned a little closer; John ducked his head and nuzzled at Harold's temple.

"Where's Bear?" Harold asked, the association irresistible.

"In the Library. I didn't think you'd want your face licked."

"I have made diligent attempts to train him not to do that; if you wouldn't undermine--"

"Aw, but it's fun," and there was the slightest touch of a tongue on his cheek; Harold shuddered. He turned, quickly before he could reconsider, and angled his mouth toward John's; John stopped him with a finger on his chin.

"No," he said, and Harold was about to counter with something about mouthwash when John added, "It's not that easy."

Harold withdrew, still shaking. It would have been easy, he thought, until I took care of that possibility. Choked the life out of it, threw it off a building, shut it into a freezer truck and left it to die. "I'm sorry," he whispered. "I am so, so sorry, John."

"Well, I'm not. I'm the one who got laid, after all."

It was a knife in the ribs, but the twist could have been much more vicious; John was barely trying. The casualness of his violence had always vexed Harold more than the essential fact of it. "Yes, and I gather you enjoyed yourself," he said, trying for silky and only achieving snippy. "Congratulations."

"And was it good for you too, Harold? That's nice. How about we move on to the next thing now? And I don't mean the empanadas."

"I am not going to let Grace know--"

"Yes," and now the threat was not gentle, "you are." John shifted to face Harold, leaned over him, braced a hand on the sofa arm, pinning him in.

"Are you planning to beat me up if I don't?"

"You'd like that too much. I'm planning to leave."

No.

It wasn't an actual word that escaped him: barely a vocalization, in fact, but as expressive as any of those grunts of pain or need he'd heard and interpreted at a distance. Up close, with his face no doubt echoing all the fear and denial and desperation he felt, John couldn't possibly have missed its meaning, and yet… he shrugged and said, "Well, if you're okay with that, Harold--"

"I am not. Not okay. You can't."

"Nothing in my contract that says I have to give two weeks notice."

"You don't have a… no, there isn't, but I--" He'd already said I love you several ways over the course of the night; he couldn't think of any others right now and the declaration didn't seem to go with a discussion of employment policy anyway. "I can't replace you on short notice. I can't… I can't replace you at all, John; you know that." A sudden inspiration seized him and he added, "And it would be ungentlemanly to walk away from Grace now."

John didn't move but managed to grow more menacing nonetheless. "I dress the part," he murmured. "Doesn't mean that's what I am. And I know how to leave people. I've practiced." He paused, then added, "I could take her with me."

This time Harold got the words out. "No. Please."

"No," John agreed. "But let's review your options, Harold. Either she finds out you're alive and I stay, or I go, and you can do whatever the hell you want about Grace. But I can't stay and watch you tear your guts out over this. Literally, almost," he added, nodding toward the bathroom.

"Too much whisky."

"Mm. Hacked its way into your glass. Tricked you into swallowing it." The hand that wasn't preventing Harold from rising lifted to his face and drew a thumb-line down his cheek, a disconcertingly tender gesture, like tracing the path of an invisible tear. "I realize it's been a tough day. But it's tomorrow now. In" -- John consulted his watch -- "four hours or so you can go to Grace. Or I will, if you'd prefer. The result's the same."

"And what do you think that result will be?"

John shook his head. "You heard her. I asked if she'd want you again, if you were alive, and she said yes."

"No. She said, and I quote, 'Yesss!!'" He put everything he had into the mimicry, nailing Grace's breathy ecstasy and piercing his own heart in the process, then added in bland tones, "I believe she may have misheard the question. Considering the circumstances."

The expression on John's face was almost worth all the pain. "I… didn't know you could make that noise, Harold. And no; she heard me just fine. Trust me; I was there."

"And somewhat distracted."

"If I'd been that distracted I wouldn't have asked. I realize the timing was…"

"Incongruous?"

"Yeah." He hesitated a moment, then added, "I was trained to be ruthless. It comes out at the oddest times."

It wasn't an apology, but then Harold didn't deserve one. "I'll talk to Grace," he said, feeling both the relief of decision and the stomach-dropping sensation of stepping out over a pit. "And it'll be her choice what to do, to be with one of us, or neither of us. If she chooses you, Mr. Reese, you will be there for her. You were also trained not to back down when challenged."

Purposefully disproving the point, John met Harold's intent gaze, nodded slowly, and sat back. "But she won't choose me."

"Oh, I think she will," Harold said, seizing his advantage. "If I have anything to do with it."

"Harold…" John hesitated a long moment and then went on, "Why don't you hate me?"

There were a lot of answers to this; Harold didn't hesitate over which to use. "Do you know how beautiful you were together?" he said, and heard John draw in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry that I eavesdropped on your courtship. It was an appalling breach of decency and I swear to you I will never do it again. But I wish, for that one time, that there'd been a camera."

They weren't touching any longer; in the stillness that followed, Harold knew it was the most intimate they'd been all night. Finally, John spoke.

"So do I," he said.

*

In the end, they left the empanadas in the freezer, and John went out for doughnuts. The sugar, and the mild caffeinated lift of the tea, settled Harold's nerves and his stomach. They spoke randomly, as if nothing had changed -- the current showings at revival houses, Asian fusion cuisine, the implications of Szymanski's murder -- but of course their life together had never been immutable or stable; today's alteration sang in a different key, louder and with wilder harmonies, but it was the same old tune. He could hum it in his sleep: the ballad of Harold and John and the walls tumbling down. And he couldn't bring himself to wish that he'd constructed firmer barricades from the beginning; for one thing, John would have taken even more pleasure in tearing them apart, and for another… there was much to be said for having a clear view. Even if it made one's vulnerabilities painfully obvious.

Grace was an early riser; there was no point at all in putting off the inevitable. At eight-thirty Harold was in Washington Square Park, Bear at his side, listening to John over the phone line once again.

"Grace," he said as soon as she answered the call. "I only have a little time."

"It's nice to hear your voice even if it's for a short while."

"Same with yours," John said awkwardly, and paused before going on. "I have to say two things. First, thank you for last night. It was a wonderful gift."

"For me too, John."

A quick, audible exhale, then: "Next, I have something for you, but I can't deliver it in person. My associate's in the park; you'll be able to pick him out by his dog." He described Bear. "Please go to him now."

"You're not going to tell me what this is about?"

"No, I'd… like it to be a surprise."

"All right, John. Will I see you soon?"

"It's a complicated case. But as soon as possible."

"I look forward to it," she said, and then a giddy little, "Goodbye," and she ended the call.

"Harold?" came John's voice. "You ready?"

"As ready as I'll ever be, Mr. Reese. But oh dear, she has no sense of personal security whatsoever, going to meet a strange man with a dog and a mysterious thing to give her--"

"She trusts me, Harold. It's… refreshing. If not unique. Has she left the house yet?"

"No… yes. Here she comes." Harold gulped in air, added: "I think I'm panicking."

"It adds to your ineffable charm. Good luck. I won't be listening."

"No, John; wait, I--" but the line was dead.

He'd already turned off the phone alarm; it had felt like slicing through a safety belt in advance of a crash. So there was nothing to listen to as she approached other than his own pounding heart, birdsong, the noises of the city, children screeching across the park. Bear was alert but not radiating protective aggression, although certainly he must sense Harold's fear. It was a familiar feeling, as strongly associated with Grace now as longing was. He'd rationalized it as fear for her, as if contact with him would slap an immediate target on her back, flashing neon, horns blaring, drawing in enemies. But it was also fear for himself: self-preserving instinct like throwing up a shield against a knife or stepping behind bullet-proof glass.

He was wide open now. "Blijf, Bear," he said, and stood up as Grace spotted him.

"Are you John's friend?" she called out, and then she stopped dead in utter shock.

"Yes," he said, to say something, to stop her from speaking, to get both of them breathing again. "Yes. I'm John's friend." He'd never actually defined himself that way before; he thought he'd have to do it more often. "This is Bear," he added.

Grace looked at Bear, then back at Harold, as if she couldn't quite reconcile the pair of them. "You're alive," she said, and then immediately, "Stupid. What did we used to say? Not Captain Obvious but Major-General Obvious. 'You're home!' 'You got dinner!' 'You're alive!'" She took a step closer. "Oh, God, Harold. You're not dead. Where have you been?"

"Here. All along. Well, not in the park. Not more than once a week, anyway." He was dangerously close to babbling. "I had to go, Grace. I'm so sorry. I promise to explain, as much as I can--"

"You had damn well better," she said, sounding very fierce for a second, and then the fluster came back. She glanced at Bear again; he looked up, hopefully, probably assessing her as a source of treats. "You have a dog," she added: an accusation of deep betrayal.

"Yes, well. People do. He's John's, really. Well, we share him."

"You share a dog. How… how do you know John?"

How do I know thee, let me count the ways. "We work together."

"You're in the police?"

"No. Oh, this is going to be difficult to explain. Could we go in the house? In... your house?"

She didn't answer, and he couldn't read her. "John said he had something for me," she stated.

"Yes. It was, um. Me, I suppose." He felt, suddenly, that he should have brought a token of some kind. A bouquet of flowers? There were early-blooming daffodils in the beds around them; he'd probably get arrested for picking them. What had she been expecting? It was a little early in the relationship for a ring, and they weren't usually delivered by mystery men with dogs anyway. The first clue in another scavenger hunt?

"Hm," was all she said, and then, "Come inside."

He signaled Bear to rise and followed her. She walked quickly, but hearing the hitch in his gait she looked back: a flash of Orpheus and Eurydice in his mind, but he didn't slide back to any hell deeper than the one he was already in. "The accident," he reported.

"What is it they say? 'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger'?"

"I'm not sure that's true," he said dryly, and for the first time she smiled at him. And then she turned and walked just as quickly across the street, letting him scurry in her wake.

He practically didn't breathe again until they were inside, but he was almost certain no one (except the Machine, of course) had been watching. "Sit," she said, and both he and Bear did; Bear's English was improving rapidly.

"Afliggen," he added quietly, and the dog sank down to the beautiful hardwood floor and put his head on his paws. The room looked almost the same; he'd tried not to remember the details.

Grace sat opposite Harold and stared at him for a moment. He wanted to express to her how very lovely she was looking, but it struck him as a bad plan. "So," she said finally. "Explain," and he did.

He didn't tell her everything, but he managed to imply secret projects and kill orders and hiding in the shadows, and he didn't shrink from confessing that she'd never learned his real name. "You didn't seem to want to know what I was doing," he said. "But I should have told you. I was frequently on the verge of the truth. Never stepped over."

"I grew up around people with secrets," Grace said. "I got a little too used to it, perhaps."

"Your father was in the military, but…" Grace was shaking her head. "I never knew," Harold said, stunned at the implications. "Why did I never know?" he added half to himself, and half to a ghostly presence to whom he was not currently visible.

"Why should you have?" and then he could see her face change as she was struck by the full weight of realization. "Because you… you knew everything about me before we met, didn't you? All the little things I liked; you always got them right. You were the perfect boyfriend. Top of the class. Because you cheated on the exam."

He wanted to tell her: it's not that simple; surveillance doesn't tell you everything. Instead he said, "I cheated, yes. It's what I do; I find things out and then I use them."

"But why?"

"Because I needed you. Because I wasn't complete without you. That's still true. I'm just… used to being incomplete. May I…" He gulped, the pit opening under him. "May I tell you the rest? The truth, Grace. About what I'm doing now. About John."

She nodded, and then put up a hand to stop him, blurting out, "I slept with John. Last night."

"Yes. I know," and he winced. It wasn't the now-familiar pain of being slapped by reality, it was the gut-punch of recognizing what she must think of him. What it looked like. "I'm not a good person, Grace. I do think I've been doing some good, and I'll tell you about that. But I pushed you and John together; I manipulated both of you, and spied on you, and… I can only hope…"

"That I enjoyed it?"

"Yes." There was more; there was I hope you'll be happy together for the rest of your lives, but it was the kind of thing he'd lost the ability to say long ago, if he'd ever possessed it.

"Well, I did," she said, so coolly that he almost couldn't tell she was furious, and then her control fractured; she clutched her knees hard and said, shaky-voiced, "Screw you, Harold, all right? Now tell me what you've been doing," and he had never been more in love with her than at that moment.

"I've been saving people," he said, and then he plunged into the abyss.

*

One thing about the Machine that impressed Harold -- and it was an independent entity; he was allowed to be impressed -- was that it understood which people were aware of its existence. He'd fed it the initial list, but since then it had made it clear, at least to someone as intimately familiar with its deductive method as Harold was, that it had recognized John as an asset and then a partner, and Root as a threat (although he'd wondered if, in its own private thoughts, it was flattered by Root's mission). Now it would mark Grace as an insider, he was sure: possibly because it had discovered a way to eavesdrop on their conversation, but he preferred to think that she'd pause on the street to look up into a traffic camera and it would simply know.

She'd taken in the revelation with the unswerving attention he recalled from their time together; in the early days he'd felt stared at, until he realized that forming a picture of him talking was just as important to her as hearing what he said. What that had been, he had a hard time remembering now. Clearly he hadn't been telling her about his work or his childhood. He was surprised she hadn't -- almost literally -- seen through his lies. The Machine color-coded, or it had when he still had access to its interface; he hoped Grace could sense the change in hue he'd just undergone. And understood her own, as well.

"So," she said, "you said the Machine drew your attention to John, and you decided he'd make an ideal ally. Why?"

"John will have to tell you his own story; I won't presume. I can say that his service background provided him skills which have been more than ordinarily useful in our task. It also… damaged him, deeply, but I believe he's healing."

"He said he'd killed people. Well," Grace added with an edge in her voice, "of course you heard that. I found it hard to believe he'd hurt anyone on purpose. But then I'm clearly not the best judge of what people are capable of." Her mouth twitched. "I always knew you were a genius, of course. So, Harold. Why tell me now?"

"Because John made me do it," he answered, realizing he sounded like a five-year-old.

Grace laughed. "Well, that's honest. I thought you were his boss."

"We… sometimes make decisions jointly."

"Like the one where John pretended to be a detective and took me out to dinner and kissed me and -- don't stop me, Harold -- let me take him to bed without telling me you were alive?"

"That was mine," he said quietly.

"And I ask again, why?"

"Because I wanted you to be happy, and I can't make you--"

"No. I mean, why would John do that? And then make you come to see me the next day, I just don't--" She stopped. "Would you like a cup of tea, Harold?"

She needed a break; he understood that. He understood if she wanted to run out the back and never see him again. "Yes," he said. "Thank you."

"You still like sencha?"

"Yes, but if you don't have--"

"I do. Hang on a minute."

She busied herself in the kitchen. After a moment he got up, telling Bear to stay, and followed her, leaning in the doorway, watching. There was something about domesticity; it charmed him to watch John preparing food and drink, too, on the rare occasions he got to observe it.

"You think someone's going to come after me and kill me, don't you?" she said, without turning around.

"Not necessarily," he said. "If I go away now… if we sever this connection permanently…"

"No." She pirouetted, tea strainer in hand. "Whatever you think of me, I'm not a coward. I ducked this for too many years; I tried not to be curious, and that was wrong. And I'm proud of what you're doing now, Harold. I want to help, if I can."

He stared at her, instincts battling inside him. "All right," he said finally. "But you'll be of most use to us if you stay safe. We won't be able to see each other in public. You and 'Detective Stills' will continue to spend time together--"

"No thanks. I'm done with dating men who don't exist. There are other means of communication. I can be helpful to you for any cases in the art world; I have friends in publishing, in the theatre, in restaurants, in museums. I have a life without you, Harold. Let's take advantage of it."

A last tendril of protective need stretched out toward her, yearning, and snapped. "Very well," he said. "We use untraceable phones; I'll provide you with one, and you'll dispose of it when I tell you to, or if you feel the slightest threat. Aside from that, we'll keep the contact minimal--"

She put down the strainer and took a step toward him. "How minimal are we talking?" she said.

"Very," he said weakly, and she took another step, looking like she had a goal in mind. She hadn't touched him yet, and he was panicking all over again at the thought of it. He edged into the room, found his back against the fridge, art-themed magnets poking into his spine. Grace came close and blocked him in with a hand on either side; he was reminded irresistibly of John.

"When you said you couldn't make me happy," she said, "did you mean… is there something about your injuries you haven't told me?"

He couldn't think for a moment what she meant, and then… "Oh. No, I'm… fine. There." Beginning to be more than fine… he tried to breathe normally, and went on, "I'm sure I couldn't equal John's--"

"Harold," she said, leaning in, "you are ridiculous. And I'm not going to apologize, by the way."

"I would never expect you to--"

"It was time. You'd been gone so long. But I did wait. For him, which is… interesting. How about you? Has there been anyone?"

"No." He thought of trying to kiss John, early that morning. "No, there hasn't."

"Good," and she smiled, with intent, astonishing, generous intent. Oh, my Grace.

"Are you sure?" he said, heart pounding.

"The two of you," she commented, "need to stop asking me that. And yes, Harold; of course I am." She ducked her head a little, looked up at him, brought her mouth within breath of his. "Idiot. You had me at 'you complete me.'"

He couldn't stop himself smiling. "Not too cheesy?" he asked.

"No," she said. "No," and the teakettle whistled unheeded as they found each other once more.

*

Hours later, they were kissing again in a slow burn of lips and tongues, curled up in an armchair in the Library, when John walked in on them. Harold had been delighted to discover that he could sit Grace on his lap without distracting levels of pain, but it did pin him down, and though she startled at the footsteps, she didn't leap away, just made a little "oh!" sound and looked up at John.

"Well," said John. "I guess it went okay, then." He had a very odd expression on his face, as if he couldn't decide whether to cheer or break into a swearing streak, not that Harold had ever seen him do either.

Grace glanced at Harold, and then back at John. "It went surprisingly well," she said, in a tone Harold had never heard before, as if she'd caught his bitter dryness like a virus, through lingual contact. "But then it's been a day of surprises. Wouldn't you say?"

"Yeah," John said, a hard little syllable, and all the glory of the last several hours fled, leaving Harold desperate with guilt again. "So, Finch," John went on, indicating their surroundings with a tilt of his head, "I guess you've told her everything?"

"Except 'Finch,'" Grace said, the corner of her mouth quirking. "I hadn't heard that yet. I like it." She climbed off Harold's lap. "You," she told John, "are 'Mr. Reese,' which is very appropriate. Man of mysteries," she added, looking as though she'd solved them. With sudden decision, she walked up to John and went on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek; he flinched. "I'm sorry," she said, though she didn't sound it. "Is it that you think I broke through his walls too fast? Because, believe me, it doesn't feel that way."

"It's fine," John said, and turned away abruptly, pretending to do something important with a book in the Renaissance history section. Grace turned to Harold, lifting her eyebrows. You know him better than I do.

He levered himself to his feet and went over to John, touching him on the shoulder. "I didn't quite mean to bring her here. But… there really can't be any more secrets, not once I've…"

John put his face closer to Harold's, though carefully within their range of public propriety; he was… scenting, like an animal, and Harold knew he could smell Grace on his skin. Could hear the bed creaking. "I'm very pleased for you," he said.

"She's going to help us when we need a favor," he said. "No more."

John gave him a look, a very clear I didn't think you were going to ask her to shoot out kneecaps reprimand. "Zoe's never been to the Library," he said, prodding at limits, at boundaries. "Nor has Carter."

"Leon has," Harold pointed out, and John visibly restrained himself from eye-rolling. "I didn't blindfold her," he added, admitting to whatever crime John was accusing him of.

"No," John agreed, "that would be… I wouldn't have either." If I'd been allowed, Harold interpreted. If you'd let me. "Though," John added, "it had to be your choice."

Harold put a hand on John's other arm and turned him; he couldn't stand this half-communication any longer. "John. Are you mentally packing your bags as we speak?" he said bluntly.

"No." The astonishment was obvious.

"Considering drinking too much and retching your guts out in the middle of the night?"

"No," and now amusement tinted John's voice.

"There should be some satisfaction in knowing you were right."

"We should have had a bet on. At four a.m. I could have gotten that apartment out of you, easy. The whole building." His thumb traced down Harold's cheek again, an exact replica of the earlier gesture, desperately revealing. "I'm glad you're happy," he said.

But I'm not, Harold realized, and then I can't be happy if you're not. And then Grace laughed, a laugh of ringing bells and the joy of discovery.

"Just kiss him, Harold," she said, and Harold didn't ask her if she was sure; he reached out and pulled John in and the walls came crashing down.

*

Three weeks later

Joss Carter was good at her job because she noticed anomalies, inconsistencies, little pieces of weird floating through the air and hiding in corners. And then, sometimes, on days like today, she got walloped with weird in the face like it didn't want to hide at all.

First, usually when she and Fusco got invited to lunch with Harold and John, it was "invited" in the sense of "right now and no saying no" and "lunch" in the sense of "you seriously expected a chance to eat your french fries?" An engraved request for their company would have been so strange she'd have left town, but a text message a day in advance was still unprecedented. Second, the venue wasn't an anonymous chain restaurant or a sleazy dive; it was -- she knew even before she'd double-checked the address -- Burdett's brownstone. Okay, she already knew that was one of Finch's secret hideouts even if Fusco didn't, but it still felt like she'd been asked to watch the little guy take off his clothes in public. Which was not one of her dreams, though it would probably be unexpectedly riveting.

Together she and Fusco looked like a pair of cops making an inquiry, so they agreed to arrive separately. When she rang the bell, and was slobbered on by the dog and then ushered in by John Reese wearing a pinstriped apron (after all she'd seen him do already, this barely registered on the weird scale), she found Fusco already settled in a chair, looking gleeful.

"What?" she whispered, leaning over toward him and watching Reese stride back to the kitchen in response to a beeping sound, shooing Bear back.

"Just watch," he said. The kitchen door swung open with a rush of hunger-inducing smells, and Finch was briefly visible on the other side, hands on the shoulders of a red-haired woman, touching his lips to her forehead.

"Four-Eyes is getting laid," Fusco hummed in triumph, and then, "I knew he had it in him," but now Finch was in the room with his lady friend, and Joss kicked Fusco hard in the ankle. "Ow!"

Finch's mouth twitched; he'd heard. "Detective Carter," he said, "I'd like you to meet Grace Hendricks." They made polite noises and shook hands, and everyone sat down; Fusco had apparently been introduced already. He was right, Carter thought; Harold looked like he'd had his desires gratified about six ways to Sunday, perpetual lines around his mouth smoothed out, tight muscles relaxed.

"Grace can't stay for lunch," Harold went on, "but I wanted you two to know of her existence. If you happen to be looking into something for me, and run into her, I should appreciate it if you fail to acknowledge that you've met before. While still watching out for her safety."

Carter could feel Fusco sit up a little straighter. When he really meant something, Harold's voice always called for attention, but this particular emphasis she'd only heard before… when he was talking about John. Huh.

"You got it," Fusco said, and "My pleasure," Carter echoed.

"Thank you," Grace said, "though Harold worries far too much about protecting me. I can look after myself."

"That art smuggler with relationship troubles you arrested last week?" came John's voice from the doorway. He'd taken off the apron. "That was due to her. She did barely get out in time," he added, stressing his words in a chiding tone that… he usually only used with Finch. "And had a near miss with the police, too, which is why you needed to meet her."

"Though this is more than a social call," Finch said, "and we have much business to discuss after lunch. John has made us what I'm sure will be a delicious meal." Carter snuck looks in each direction: Fusco was goggling, and John was smirking. "Is it ready, John?"

"Ready as it'll ever be, Harold."

"And I must run," Grace said. "Pleased to meet you both. Bye, love." She kissed Harold on the lips, quick but intimate, open-mouthed. And then she got up, went to John, and did the same.

Fusco managed to contain himself until Grace was out the door, and then let out a breath of air and a "Holy shit."

"Glad you approve, Lionel," John said dryly, and then he paced over and plopped himself down on the couch next to Harold, and… leaned over and kissed him, and okay, that wasn't much of a surprise; she and Fusco had discussed the massive thing Harold and John had for each other over beers half a dozen times now. Except for the part where they'd actually acted on it, that was kind of startling. She had a feeling it wouldn't have ever happened, without Grace, and she was pretty sure she didn't want to know the details.

"So you're just having yourselves a hell of a good time, aren't you?" she said, and Harold actually laughed, and John cracked a tiny smile.

"Yes, well," said Harold, "blessings fall even on the undeserving. There's an old tale," he went on, "about a woman whose husband is lost at sea. She waits and waits for him to return, and then the god of dreams comes to her to say that's he's dead, and in her grief she drowns herself. And the gods take pity, and turn them both into kingfishers, so they can live together flying over the ocean, and for one week a year there are no storms so they can nest. It's why we speak of halcyon days, a period of respite from adversity. Because kingfishers are halcyons, you see."

"Yeah, I see," said Carter. "Except you're not really dead. And there are three of you. I don't think kingfishers do that."

"They don't do a lot of crime-fighting, either," Fusco put in. "Or saving people's lives. And okay, I'm trying to keep the pictures out of my head right now, thanks, but… good for you. I don't think you're undeserving."

"Thank you," Harold said quietly.

"Just kind of insufferable most of the time," Fusco added. "I suppose your little story means you think there's a storm coming?"

"I'm afraid so, Detective. The winds may have been held back for our benefit, but when they're released… we'll just need to be ready." He was the strangest man, Joss thought: one second blushing over his love life, and the next… it was like he was keeping them all still, and safe, by the force of his will alone. Like he was one of those gods he'd been talking about. God of the wind. God of the storm.

"And being ready," Finch added brightly, "means keeping up our strength. Shall we eat?"

As they migrated to the table, he put a hand on Carter's arm. "It might be quite appropriate," he said, "if someone were to say grace."