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"How about going for a walk? I don’t feel like going back to my tiny apartment just yet."
John said, turning to Harold as they stepped out of the Lyric Diner. A few weeks had passed since the new arrangement had changed the dynamic between them. It hadn’t happened suddenly, but gradually as they discovered more about each other.
John now knew trivial details about Harold, such as his favorite color, rarest edition, oldest bottle of wine, and favorite dessert. In return, Harold knew that John often lost at xiangqi to Mr. Han, that he listened to jazz, and that nothing calmed him more than emptying and reorganizing his drawers. These were ordinary things, but they made sense amid the chaos of their lives.
They had truly created their own space at the Lyric Diner. They would often sit opposite each other in comfortable silence, neither feeling the need to say anything. Tonight, however, the conversation had felt forced, as if John were trying to fill the silence despite having nothing to say.
Harold had noticed this, which was why he turned fully towards John, his scrutinizing eyes studying John’s face.
"I thought I noticed you weren't in the best mood today," Harold said softly.
John looked down and shoved his hands into his coat pockets as he tried to compose himself. "Sorry," he murmured.
"Don’t be. Let’s go for a walk. I think you could use it," Harold replied.
They walked for a while with no particular destination in mind. The city around them was nothing more than a blurry backdrop filled with the distant hum of sirens and taxis. They walked so close together that their arms often brushed against each other, but neither moved to avoid it.
When they reached the promenade alongside the East River, John noticed that Harold’s pace had slowed slightly. He guided his friend toward a bench facing the river. The bench was wide, but they sat side by side, leaving just enough space for a hand to slip between their hips.
John stared at the sun glinting off the water, lost in thought.
"I dreamed about Kohl last night," he said after a long pause. "Ever since I woke up, I've been thinking about a lot of things he told me. You know, he... he was just like me. A former spy who had been betrayed by his government. He lived under a false identity and sought revenge for the death of a loved one. He didn’t like killing, but he clearly excelled at it. That made me think back to my early days at the CIA's Special Activities Division. And...
John clenched his hand around the cold edge of the wooden bench, his knuckles turning white from the tension triggered by his memories.
Suddenly, a warm hand gently rested on his. It was a simple gesture, almost imperceptible, but the touch sent a jolt through him. Under Harold’s touch, John’s hand relaxed, and his breathing steadied.
"I knew, Harold, I..." he continued in a hoarser voice. "I knew it wasn’t right. But I was constantly told, ‘It’s necessary.’ My own partner kept repeating, ‘Your country needs you.’ And that was all I was good for."
"That's what they wanted you to believe," Harold said firmly. His voice didn’t waver as he gently took John’s hand in his.
"But that's who I am. It's the only thing I'm good at," John insisted, a veil of pain in his eyes.
Harold gently countered, "I disagree, John."
"That's why you hired me in the first place."
Harold shook his head, a sad smile playing on his lips. "Do you remember Daniel Casey?"
John was startled and let out a short gasp before nodding.
"I was there, John," Harold continued. "Casey was a number that the machine had given. I arrived on the scene in the middle of your meeting with him. From a distance, I saw you lying to your partner to protect him. I heard you tell Casey that he wasn’t a traitor and didn’t deserve to die. You made such an impression on me. I’d never seen anyone do that before like you did. That was the day I started thinking of you as a potential partner."
Harold felt John’s hand tremble beneath his and tightened his grip around it.
John swallowed several times before replying, "The day Kara killed those two men right in front of me without batting an eye or asking a question and told me we didn't have to question it and to clean it up, I thought I’d lost my soul."
Harold slid his thumb beneath John’s hand and caressed his palm in a circular motion. In a soothing tone, he said, "You haven’t lost it. What I saw that day should tell you that. I know better than anyone that government agencies are capable of anything in the name of the so-called ‘good of the nation’ or ‘the greater good.’ They don’t hesitate to sacrifice men like you, who are willing to do anything to save the world. But the fact that you’re working with me to save real people, not abstract ideals, shows me that they haven’t succeeded. You’re not a monster, a weapon, or an empty shell, John. Otherwise, you wouldn't have deliberately missed your target with Casey that day. " John turned his hand beneath Harold’s, palm to palm, their fingers intertwining naturally, and in that moment, it was as if that were the only thing anchoring him to reality.
"You know, Darren called me a ronin—a samurai without a master," John said in a low voice after a few moments. "Technically, I should have taken my own life. If only he knew how true that was back then..."
"Jo-" Harold began.
"It was true back then, before you came and recruited me," John cut in. "Thanks to you, I feel like I’m helping people more than I did in all those years working for the CIA. I don’t think you realize what you’ve done for me."
"I hope, though, that you know you could have said no. You can still say no at any time."
"That's exactly it. You gave me a choice. You’re giving me a choice."
John turned toward Harold so he could see him better. Harold turned toward him, their hands still intertwined.
"By choosing this job, I finally had both a boss and a partner I could trust, who I knew would really have my back." He paused, searching for the right words, before adding almost hesitantly, "And now, a friend."
Then, he saw a shadow pass over Harold’s face. His lips tightened and his expression darkened for a moment before he regained his composure.
"Did I say something wrong?" John asked, suddenly worried.
Harold shook his head, a faint, uncertain smile playing on his lips. John replayed the scene in his mind, searching for where he’d gone wrong. He lowered his eyes to their clasped hands.
"Friends," he murmured, his throat tightening. "That's already far more than I could ever have hoped for, given who I am."
"John, look at me."
John lifted his head, and the moment his gaze met Harold’s, he had to swallow. The cautious distance of the calculating man was gone, replaced by a raw emotion he had never seen there before.
"You can hope for much more than that, John," Harold said in a clear, almost pleading voice. "I want you to hope for more. Much more."
Harold shifted his gaze from John’s eyes to their intertwined hands resting on the wooden bench, then back to John. There was an invitation in that gesture, a door left ajar to something far vaster than mere friendship.
John felt the hope he had buried deep within himself finally begin to sprout again. He had thought he was no longer entitled to it. With a lump in his throat, he nodded slowly, drinking in the infinite gentleness he saw in Harold’s gaze.
Then, he turned his gaze toward the horizon. Closing his eyes, he turned his face toward the sunlight and finally allowed himself to feel its warmth.
Suddenly, he felt Harold shift slightly on the bench, closing the distance between them further as Harold placed their intertwined hands on his lap.
"Let's extend the neutral ground of the Lyric Diner a little bit to here," Harold said softly. "Let's not think about Kohl, the past, or the CIA anymore. Let’s enjoy this afternoon a little longer before we get back to work."
John nodded, a sigh of contentment escaping his lips.
I want you to hope for more. Much more.
More. That was the possibility, at last, of allowing himself to grow close to someone who understood the darkness he carried and chose to stay with him despite it all.
A silence settled in, the comfort of a mutual understanding that went beyond their professional partnership. They were two men broken by systems that pushed them into the shadows, who found in each other a place where they could finally exist.