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John’s hand was slung around Harold, his hand flat on his chest. They stood in the abandoned hallway, every sense heightened as they listened to any and all signs of danger.
There had been a crash in the next room over, loud and metallic.
“Sorry,” Harold said, still holding onto John. “I’m still rather jumpy.”
“I don’t think anyone can blame you for that,” John said, keeping his voice even.
The last Samaritan agent was dead, John had shoved the corpse into the broom closet to the left. They had spent weeks hunting her down, even if she’d left a pile of corpses in her wake and was hell-bent on destroying everyone in her path for no other reason than that she’d been brainwashed to the point of having lost everything but an overwhelming sense of hatred and fear.
Even with Samaritan gone, that hadn’t gone away.
This was just a matter of clean-up, Kara would have told John. Carter and Fusco had taken care of most of the other agents, small-time criminals and murderers on the loose that were no longer under Samaritan’s protection. Root and Shaw had been delighted to roam around the city on a very expensive motorbike, beating up tough-guys and the sort of agents that liked to think that they could just keep hurting other people without consequences.
There were people on the floor above them, he could hear people walking around and talking loudly on the phone. Chairs screeched on the floor, they were clearly doing some sort of all-nighter.
“Stay close to me,” John told him, the words came easily to him. “Just in case.”
John didn’t remove his hand, Harold’s heart beating right below his palm.
“Of course,” Harold said, glancing at him.
The hallway was in dire need of a sweeping but it was clear that it had once been very well maintained. All the lights still worked, the floor was still in good condition. It was a good hideout, all things considered.
“I think we’re safe,” John breathed out, listening intently for footsteps. “Finally.”
“No backup,” Harold said, his breathing easier as he relaxed beneath John’s hands. “That’s right. I’ve gotten so used to there always being another agent on the way-“
“Yeah,” John said. “Me too.”
“I wasn’t sure we’d get this far,” Harold said, his back still flushed against John’s form. His heart was still beating fast, his breathing was shallow from climbing up too many stairs and being forced to limp far too fast. “I’m glad.”
“It’s been a rough couple of years,” John said.
They’d almost lost Carter and Root several times, who had been saved in the nick of time. Shaw’s medical expertise had helped speed up their recovery but the entire team was shaken by just how close they had been to not making it.
“You can say that again,” Harold said.
John brushed his thumb against Harold’s tie, enjoying the sensation of the smooth silk.
There was no sound in the hallway but sirens screamed outside, the city was always awake. Even if the moonlight was doing its best to bathe the skyscrapers, it wasn’t doing much cleaning.
“There’s been too many near-misses,” Harold said, his voice heavy. “But we’re all still here.”
“Yeah,” John said, allowing the relief he was feeling to flood his voice. “Against all odds, huh?”
John loosened his grip on Harold, his hand sliding down his chest and his fingers brushing against a button on his waistcoat. He didn’t want to let go, he’d have happily spent a few more minutes enjoying the feeling of the other man pressed up against him, carefully committing every aspect of it to memory to linger on later.
He was a man that had lived off crumbs for years.
He could keep doing that until the very end.
For a moment he considered going back for the body in the closet, thinking about how he could drag it along until he found a better place for it. A dumpster, for example.
But his body was harshly slamming receipts on the counter of his mind: Legs aching from walking and running all day and night, operating on nothing much more than seven cups of coffee, adrenaline and a pastry he’d nabbed from Fusco. Four hours of bad sleep, sweat drenching his back and making his shirt cling to everything but the hastily bound wounds on his side and arms.
Moving a body was no picnic.
And his own body was in no shape to do that at the moment.
Not to mention that he was carrying around more weight than he had when he’d started working for Harold. Working a day job had forced him to loosen his grip on his usual gym routine and yoga classes, as well as making him do horrendous amounts of paperwork. The weight slowed him down, so he’d done his best to remedy matters by fasting and purchasing a few pieces of hardcore shapewear so that he could still fit into his old dress shirts. The fact that those hurt after eight hours of wear didn’t matter, but it was annoying.
Root had poked fun of him for it when she’d realized that he was moving rather stiffly because of the shapewear and not because his bullet wounds were aching. He’d brushed her off when she’d patted his belly and joked about him needing to go on a diet, ignoring the hot coil of shame that lodged itself deep in his mind.
Shaw hadn’t said much, to his surprise. She’d just bought him sandwiches sometimes when she was getting one anyway and he’d seen her chatting with Finch sometimes and glancing at him.
John suspected that Harold had quietly tailored his suit trousers when he’d stayed overnight at the subway, since elasticated panels had appeared overnight. He’d tried to thank Harold by stocking up on sencha green tea and sugar cubes, leaving the tea boxes and sugar prominently by the tea kettle in their little kitchenette.
Maybe he’d noticed.
John hoped that he had.
“Against all odds,” Harold confirmed. He put his hand on John’s shoulder, leaning on him.
“Let’s get going,” John said, taking on most of Harold’s weight. “I want to make sure that we’re safe before we head home.”
They opened the door to the next room, which turned out to be an unused private office. The sort that reminded John of detective noir films, down to the blinds on the window and the empty bottle of scotch on the desk.
A broken vase lay on the floor, shattered.
The printer was covered in dust, but it was still humming.
Harold wandered over as soon as it started printing, grabbing the paper.
“Empty,” John said, smiling. “I don’t know about you, Harold, but I’d like a hot shower and some breakfast.”
“The Machine sends her regards,” Harold said warmly. “All our old aliases and such are available to us again. It took some time to make sure that everything was up and running, so to speak.”
“I’ll stop darning my socks and box up my desk décor at the station, then,” John said. “Joss will be happy to see that I’ve stopped cluttering it up with take-away coffee cups.”
Harold was smiling, his shoulders lowering.
“I am in the mood for bagels,” Harold said. “I think we can find ourselves a decent hotel room.”
“You don’t want to go back to the subway?” John asked. “I’m sure that Bear would like to celebrate, too. We could get him some steak.”
“Ah,” Harold said, looking up from reading the paper in his hand. “Well. Miss Shaw and Root are there. Celebrating. Rather loudly, as I understand it.”
“Getting our stuff can wait, then,” John said. “Let’s find someplace where I can change my shirt.”
Before John could wrap his head around the fact that Samaritan was no longer on their heels, Harold had booked them a hotel room nearby. He’d also done something no doubt extremely complicated on his phone, making small content sounds as they lingered in the hotel lobby.
Perhaps he was using one of his wealthier aliases to pay Professor Whistler handsomely for some research project, so that he could afford a small holiday. After all, university professors didn’t have the best salary around.
It was nice to be able to enjoy the relative silence inside the hotel lobby instead of having to endure the crowd outside.
John had gotten used to being brushed aside in his life as a detective, so it was strange to see the hotel receptionist meet his eyes as soon as Harold implied that John had been working overtime for months and they’d need some in-house laundry services and room service.
He’d been prepared for a quick shower and a nap, but Harold seemed to have gotten a very different idea because he asked for a suitcase to be pulled out of premium storage and got it. The suitcase was a dark green number with sturdy straps on, completely inoffensive looking.
“Last room in the house,” Harold said, sounding pleased.
John nodded.
His hands and legs were heavy, his only thought was to find a wall to lean up against so that he could at least get some semblance of rest.
How long had it been since he’d slept in a good bed instead of the lumpy old mattress at Detective Riley’s apartment?
At least a month, if not more.
Bear’s dog bed was comfier than that bed.
“Let’s get upstairs,” Harold told John, a hand on his upper arm. It was an affectionate gesture, one that Harold tended to reserve for a private moment. “I know you’re tired, even if you deny it.”
“I borrowed some of Root’s concealer,” John joked, drenching up some humor like a bucket from an internal well. “I suppose it’s gone by now.”
Harold took this seriously.
“Concealer isn’t enough to hide behind, I’m afraid,” Harold said, handing over the wheeled suitcase and accepting a large toiletry bag from the receptionist. “I saw how you almost knocked yourself out just earlier because you didn’t wait for the electronic doors to slide away.”
John opened his mouth, then closed it.
Harold wasn’t wrong.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve had any time off.” Harold continued, finding his wallet. “Hold on, I’ll pay for our room.”
“Right,” John said. “Thank you.”
“There’s no need to thank me,” Harold said, adjusting his glasses. “Really, John.”
John nodded, distantly aware that he was just standing there with a suitcase by his side. He wondered if the staff took him for some sort of security guard. He wasn’t young enough og fit enough to be an elite bodyguard anymore.
“One premium accessible suite, extra large bed for you and your spouse,” said the receptionist, nodding at Harold as she kept typing. “Please enjoy your stay, gentlemen.”
John’s heart thumped painfully in his chest at that, not sure how to respond.
Harold thanked her as John looked around the lobby for any possible threat, but he only spotted a sleepy priest chatting to a very tall concierge with the posture of an old-money aristocrat. The rest of the people there were tired tourists.
“I packed some pajamas,” Harold said, turning around as he pocketed his wallet. “And a change of clothes for the both of us.”
“Good thinking,” John said, blinking. He allowed Harold to lead the way to the elevator, exhaustion clawing at his insides. “I don’t remember the last time I slept through the night.”
Harold’s limp was worse than it had been just twenty minutes earlier, so John put an arm around his waist as soon as the doors closed.
He kept his hand there as the elevator started moving, not willing to let go when they had come so far.
It wasn’t something he thought about, even as he was aware that Harold was looking at him with clear curiosity. Harold wasn’t a very touchy person, preferring to stay keep everyone at arm’s length as a rule unless they were Bear.
His side was soft, even with the four layers of clothes covering him. John wanted to say something about how Harold had made it though the storm that was the last few years without losing even a shred of elegance while John was a wreck held together with industrial tape and hope.
Their eyes met.
“John?” Harold asked. He looked unguarded in that moment, just another worried middle-aged man with glasses like a million others. “Are you alright?”
For a split second, John wondered what Harold saw when he looked at him like this, worn down and running on fumes. He hoped it was something worth keeping around.
Harold didn’t look away, his hands steady as he took John’s hand in his. As if trying to wake him up from a dream.
“We made it,” John managed, hearing just how raw his voice was. “We really did.”
“Yes,” Harold said, a relieved smile on his face. “Sometimes the antiques outlast the new tech, after all.”
He put his arm around John as well, leaning against him in a strange sideways hug until the elevator pinged and he let go.
They hurried down the carpeted hallway, dragging the suitcase behind them.
It wasn’t until John had showered properly and wrapped himself in a white fluffy towel that he could start to deal with the other signals that his body was shoving at his face.
He changed the bandages on his side before shaving and drying his hair with a towel. Then he put on the boxer briefs and soft pajamas that Finch had handed over wordlessly before John had headed for the bathroom. The pajamas weren’t anything special, just a t-shirt and shorts but they were soft and clean.
When John came out of the bathroom, he saw that Harold had parked himself at the desk with a laptop and a cup of tea.
His coat was put away, his shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
“You look refreshed,” Harold said, giving him a very blatant once-over. He didn’t appear disappointed by what he saw, but it still made John think about how he should have put the robe on as well to provide coverage. “There are bagels on the cart, as well as some soft-boiled eggs and smoked salmon.”
“Sounds good,” John said, looking over.
He put on the free slippers, then headed over to the table.
“No pastries, I’m afraid,” Harold said, stretching his wrists. “But I’m told that they have fresh ones available in a few hours. I know that you’re fond of them.”
“This is fine,” John said, sitting down. “It’s been a while since I’ve had more than a granola bar for breakfast.”
He’d gotten into the habit of skipping breakfast for the last few months, even when Bear would point out cafés and diners on their morning walks. The only time he’d stop and go inside was to get some tea or a cup of coffee, refusing to think about the time in his life when he’d show up with donuts to work.
Peeling the shell, John allowed himself to get lost in the familiar noises of Harold’s typing.
He took the top of the egg off with a spoon, eating without tasting it.
“I wasn’t sure we’d get this far either,” John said, picking up the salt shaker. “I kept thinking that I’d drag the whole team down with me, you know. Or that I’d die in the field.”
Harold stopped typing.
“When things got more complicated,” John said, forcing the words out. “When it wasn’t just about saving the Numbers with you anymore, I figured that I’d outlived my usefulness. Even if I’d been an international spy, even with all my training, I am far past my prime.”
John gestured to his body, then at the bandaged bullet gaze on his arm.
Five years ago, he could have dodged that bullet completely.
“No, you’re not,” Harold said. “I’ve told you before. You are not replicable or an acceptable loss. Not to me, not to anyone on the team.”
Harold was staring at him, all humor gone from his expression.
“I remember,” John said, raising both hands in the air. “I’m just trying to say that…I want to stay. I know that we’ve got Shaw and Root now, they can handle a lot more Numbers than I can at this point. I want to rebuild the Library as our HQ and go on walks in the dog park with you and Bear.”
He tried to smile.
“Oh,” Harold said, still staring at him. Then he smiled, adjusting his glasses. His voice was warm when he spoke again. “I want you to stay as well, John.”
John hummed at that, doing his best to stay focused on his breakfast. He waited for Harold to resume typing and when he did, John was able to keep eating. He had two eggs and some smoked salmon, eating slowly.
There were still crumbs on Harold’s plate, but it was clear that he’d polished off a cream cheese bagel with salmon and had tea, so John started thinking about the prep that he’d have to do before they could move back home. He had first-aid kits to stock and all sorts of things to consider.
Harold was muttering to himself in the way that he did when he was happy about something or puzzling out some complicated problem. It was a habit that Reese was fond of, as it usually signaled that Harold was enjoying himself.
John made his way to the bathroom to wash his hands and face, then brushed his teeth.
Even if he did his best to just look at the sink, he caught a glimpse of himself in the unforgiving mirror. The shower had washed away the blood from the cut on his jaw, small enough to be considered an accident while shaving. But it had done nothing for his dark eyebags or his bloodshot eyes.
He crawled into bed without a word, turning off the lamp on the bedside table.
John listened as Harold called Shaw and asked about Bear’s wellbeing, then spoke to Bear in Dutch about how Bear had to eat his dinner and that he’d be back soon with John. Shaw was in a good mood, as far as John could tell, telling Harold all about how she’d taken Bear to the dog park and let him run around all he liked.
He’d made himself comfortable beneath the cool sheets when the mattress dipped.
“Is this alright?” he asked, his voice low. “I’d have gotten us separate beds, but time was of the essence and it’s not like we haven’t shared one before. While the circumstances were different then, I hope that you-“
“It’s fine,” John tried to reassure him as Harold arranged the pillows to suit him better. “I think we can afford to both sleep at the same time for once instead of taking shifts.”
“I thought you’d offer to sleep in the shower,” Harold said. “Miss Shaw said that is what you always do when you have a situation like this.”
“Shaw sleeps with a gun under her pillow and has a baseball bat under the bed,” John said. “If that’s not enough, Root tends to stick around and can terrorize anyone that tries to target them.”
“Fair enough,” Harold said, taking off his glasses and then laid down carefully on his back, smelling like toothpaste and expensive cologne.
The last time they’d had sex was the day before they’d had to abandon the Library for good. It had been a hurried, desperate affair that left them both bruised and out of breath.
“Tomorrow we can hire a van for all your Playstations and the computer setup,” John said, rolling over to his side so that he could face Harold. “Get started on packing up our things.”
“I remember that you pack light,” Harold said, looking vulnerable without his glasses.
“Eh,” John said. “I’m carrying around a bit more than a gun and a toothbrush these days. And I’m not talking about my old coffee machine.”
Harold blinked at that, then shrugged.
“Nothing wrong with that,” he said, covering them both with the duvet. “It wasn’t as if I was ever expecting physical perfection from a man that life had treated so roughly. Besides, It provides some cushioning for when your body needs resources to heal.”
Harold’s calloused fingers ran over a scar on John’s stomach, then traced another one that was lower down. A bullet wound.
It was more of a caress than anything else.
“Hm,” John said, having never considered that. “I’ll try not to get shot.”
Harold shifted, then made a doubtful sound.
“We’ll have to make room for your gun collection, Shaw’s various weapons and Root’s things in the Library,” Harold said, sighing. “Even Bear has some luggage.”
“Good night, Harold.”
“Good night, John.”
They slept.