Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The CIA had been watching John, so when he reenlisted after 9/11 they snatched him up before he could be sent overseas again.  

John was a good killer.  He could be quick and efficient, and he could be slow and detailed.  He was willing to follow orders, to kill for his country and most of all, he wasn’t a zealot.  He didn’t hate killing.  He didn’t love it.  He didn’t seek it out.  He wanted to avoid it if it wasn’t necessary, but he was readily convinced by people in power that it was.  He didn’t stress over having done it.  

They learned that he was too curious for his own good and sent him for special training to break him of the habit of asking questions.  It didn’t quite work, but he learned not to ask them out loud and convinced them he’d stopped wondering about things.  

One day, on a long weekend away from the Farm and training, John flew to New York City and chatted up a government contractor and his wife, went home with them, fucked them both silly and stole the plans for a new unmanned drone prototype that the contractor had on his computer, just for fun.  

The CIA reevaluated his usefulness and sent him for even more specialized training.  

John found himself living in New York in deep cover as an escort, having sex for money and to spy on Americans and foreign nationals there for business.  It wasn’t unpleasant.  He liked sex much better than killing, and they let him keep the tips, so he had a nice stash of cash and guns and necessities, plus a posh apartment and more free time than he suspected other CIA agents had.  

They occasionally pulled him away for more difficult jobs that required his killing skills, but it wasn’t often enough to bother him or make him rethink his career path.  

John had two main “uniforms” for work.  A simple dark suit which helped him blend in almost anywhere in the world, and near-skintight jeans with a tight black t-shirt, which many of his “clients” appreciated.  Both uniforms also included a pair of fake dog tags that had a tracker welded into each piece that was then molded over to feel genuine, if heavier than real ones.  On the three occasions John had been kidnapped, his CIA handler had been able to use it to find and retrieve him.  He wore them under his suits, and on any escort mission, even if he had no surveillance equipment or phone.  

Tonight he wore the jeans and t-shirt with a leather jacket to ward off the chill and a messenger bag over his shoulder.  His mark was a man named Nathan Ingram, the CEO of a tech company that the CIA wanted to know more about. So far, any agents sent inside were fired or let go within a few weeks, a pattern that had sparked the CIA’s interest after the first NSA-detected hint.  John was to learn all he could and find out as much as possible about the mysterious unnamed, undocumented government contract Ingram’s company seemed to have — the “Orwellian Nightmare” he’d referenced in passing to an employee once.  

Ingram didn’t seem to have a history of relationships with men, but that didn’t mean anything.  John excelled at pillow-talk interrogations.  

He met Ingram in the lobby of an expensive hotel.  They shook hands and Ingram introduced Gina, John’s “colleague.”  He recognized her from the escort agency.  She was a 24-year-old graduate student who’s real name was Rachel, earning her way through school.  She’d started about six months earlier and they’d never met in person.  He sequestered that knowledge and named her Gina in his working memory.  A civilian. 

“He usually likes to watch,” Ingram said at they got in an elevator.  “But I’ve set up with your agency for the whole night for both of you,” he continued.  

“I’m sorry, but who —?” Gina asked.  

“I’m not your client.  Well, I’m paying the bill, so I guess I am…” Ingram trailed off.  “You’re for my friend.  He’s been overworking and I want him to relax before he burns out.”  

“And he likes watching?” John clarified, giving Gina a more thorough once-over.  She batted her eyes at him.  She was dressed appropriately for a fancy hotel, but he could see the outline of her nipples and imagined the weight of her breasts in his hands.  

“Oh, yes.  Watching is his thing.  Has been since college.  I suppose it’s possible he’ll want to participate, but I wouldn’t count on it.”  

“And yet you’ve hired us until morning?”  

“Hmm,” Ingram agreed, exiting the elevator.  

They followed him all the way down the hall to a corner room — a suite, if John guessed correctly from the hotel blueprints.  

“Must be a good friend,” John murmured to Gina, loudly enough for Ingram to hear.  

“You won’t hear me complaining,” she replied with a grin.  John smiled back as he was supposed to — she was certainly attractive enough and a professional, so it would be a pleasant experience.  Even so, it was looking like this mission would be a wash.  He’d have to find another way to get to Ingram.  His handler wouldn’t be happy, but deciding what to do would be on his bosses, not John himself.  

Ingram knocked loudly, ignoring the Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the door handle.  “Room Service!” he called.  He glanced over his shoulder.  “I should probably warn you that he doesn’t know you’re coming and will try to refuse.  Don’t let him.”  

The door opened to reveal a forty-something brown-haired man with round, wire-rimmed glasses and a frown on his face.  “Nathan, I’m —“  He broke off when he saw John and Gina.  “Who —?” 

Ingram pushed his way past his friend and motioned them to follow.  John gave him a brief smile to indicate he’d noticed him and followed Gina inside.  

The hotel suite looked lived-in.  Coffee cups, takeout containers and utensils spilled over the edge of the coffee table.  Books were piled in stacks on the floor, desk and armchair.  Two laptops hummed side-by-side on the desk where the man had clearly been in the middle of working.  There was a half-full bottle of scotch and a glass with a quarter inch of liquid sitting to the right of the laptops, next to a tea cup and saucer.  John noted the the desk had been pulled away from the wall so that the screens were blocked from view of someone coming into the room as well as from the windows, an unusual habit in a hotel room and therefor an important fact for his mental notebook.  Though the man was dressed in slacks and a white button-down, without a tie, John could see several expensive-looking suits in the half-open closet, along with a tracksuit and well-used running shoes.  

“Harold, it’s time you took a break from work. These are your new friends for the night,” Ingram declared, waving his hand at John and Gina.  

Harold turned to Ingram with an aghast expression on his face.  “You didn’t!” 

“It’s been, what, three years?  Four?  Of course I did.”  

Harold sent Ingram a withering look and sat down behind the desk.  He started typing.  

“Make yourselves comfortable,” Ingram said, then turned his focus to Harold.  “Look, you’ve been working non-stop on this project since 9/11 and you need a break.  You’re working from home on the weekend!  Again!”  

John made several more mental notes.  

“I know you’re a workaholic, but this is too much.  I’m staging an intervention.”  

Harold looked up from his screens.  

“First, this is not my home.  I’m here to get solid work done without interruption.  Second, the project is nowhere near complete.  Third, we need it done as soon as possible!”  He drew a breath.  “Fourth, I don’t need you to —“ 

“Mind if I borrow a book?” John interrupted.  “If this is going to take a while?”  Gina frowned and hit his shoulder to tell him he was being an idiot.  Ingram made a shushing gesture.  

Harold eyed John suspiciously for a moment, then turned around and reached for a book in a stack behind the desk.  

“Thanks,” John said, accepting the book — Etiquette by Emily Post.  He made the face he knew he was expected to make while he added another note to his mental dossier.  This Harold was turning out to be quite interesting.  He settled on the couch to “read.” After a moment Gina joined him, pulling a gossip magazine from her purse.  He wondered briefly why she didn’t have any school readings with her but chalked it up to the image she was trying to present.  She probably didn’t want her clients knowing about that aspect of her life.  He didn’t blame her.  

With both Gina and John seeming to be distracted, Ingram and Harold’s argument became more heated — though quieter.  John learned that they’d not only gone to college together but shared a room, which is how Ingram discovered Harold’s interest in watching certain activities.  John learned that they’d been working together ever since and that Harold made most of the technical breakthroughs of their company.  He learned that Harold needed “inspiration” to produce some of the best breakthroughs.  

“You’re a better programmer when you’re getting laid,” Ingram hissed.  “I don’t care if you do them or not, but get yourself off a few times watching at the very least.  We need you back in top form!  The government will only wait so long.”  

Harold, who had returned to typing while they argued, sighed.  His hands stilled on the keyboards.  John figured he was about to give in.  

“Please, Harold, for me,” Ingram pleaded, on the same page as John.  

“Fine,” Harold said, his voice resigned.  “For you.”  He pressed a few keys and shut one of the laptop lids.  

“Excellent,” Ingram exclaimed, getting to his feet.  

“Yes, yes, you’ve successfully managed my orgasms by hiring me prostitutes,” Harold grumbled, pushing himself to his feet to walk Ingram to the door.  

“Escorts,” John interjected cheerfully.  He’d been getting the feeling that Harold was the more important of the two men — that Harold was the one who really knew things and did them.  He was clearly the one writing software for the government.  With that in mind, he adapted his persona to meld more with what he thought Harold might like — snark, and, potentially, intelligence.  He’d taken a few minutes to memorize the list of books he could see scattered around — the topics were wide and varied, and there was enough literature to show John some of Harold’s tastes.  Me Talk Pretty One Day by (gay) humorist David Sedaris was a big clue into the potential for John being able to seduce secrets out of him.  

“Oh, I like him, Harold,” Ingram declared.  

“Then maybe you should sleep with him,” Harold suggested, annoyance back in his voice.  John thought he detected a bit of embarrassment, as if Harold were trying to deflect away from an attraction to John.  

“Ha ha, you know I don’t swing that way.”  

Harold shook his head and patted Ingram’s shoulder on the way out.  He turned to John and Gina, who looked up from her magazine expectantly.  

“It’ll be at least two hours before he believes there’s been sex,” Harold stated.  “He’ll be waiting in the lobby to see if you leave early.  Please keep to yourselves and be quiet until then.  I need to concentrate,” he added, eyeing John meaningfully as he emphasized the word quiet.  

“What if I finish the book?” John asked.  

Harold rolled his eyes and plucked another book from a pile.  John smiled when he saw the title.  The Count of Monte Cristo, one of his favorites.  He set aside the etiquette book and dug in, not missing the slight upturn of Harold’s lips reflected in the glass of a painting.  

The book was in French.  

John glanced over at Harold, catching him watching for his reaction.  

“I’ve never read it in the original,” John said in French.  “Perhaps I’ll like it more.”  

“Your accent is atrocious,” Harold commented, turning his focus to his computers.  He re-opened the one he’d just closed.  

“I’m an American, what do you expect?” John countered.  Harold sniffed and didn’t respond.  John saw that as a good sign.  It was becoming increasingly clear that Harold found him attractive.  

“Where did you learn French?” Gina asked, taking the book from John to flip through a few pages.  

“College,” John answered, his escort identity’s history so ingrained that he didn’t have to work at remembering it.  “I figured the class would be full of girls.”  He paused.  “Or effeminate gay boys who wanted to own wineries on the French Riviera,” he added.  “Either way I’d boost my dating pool.  Turns out I was good at it.”  

“French or dating?”  

“Both,” John answered, grinning, deliberately looking in Harold’s direction.  

“Do you speak any other languages?”  

“A little Spanish, enough to get by.”  

“If you wouldn’t mind being quiet?” Harold asked peevishly.  

“Worried you’re not my type?”  

“I’m sure Nathan has paid you enough to make that question irrelevant.”  

John smiled and began reading.  

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Chapter Text

Harold closed one of the laptop lids and stood.  He reached into the suit jacket on the chair behind him and extracted a money clip from which he peeled off a few bills.  He walked around the desk and offered a folded $100 bill to Gina.  

“Thank you for your time,” he said.  “I won’t be needing anything else.”  Harold turned to John and handed him a twin of the first bill.  “Please leave now.”  

Gina got to her feet and rearranged her hair in the mirror by the door, no doubt lingering to see if John would convince Harold to have sex after all.  Usually John would jump at a night off when he’d expected to work the whole time, but this was a CIA mission, not just an escort’s evening.  He couldn’t leave yet.  

“Do you mind if I finish the chapter?” John asked, looking up to meet Harold’s eyes.  He watched the slight dilation of Harold’s irises and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed.  

“Don’t take too long,” Harold admonished.  

Over Harold’s shoulder John saw Gina wink and wave goodbye — she knew a ruse when she saw it and had even teased John about the flirting when Harold had briefly gone to the bathroom an hour into their vigil.  Harold tore himself away and rushed behind his desk.  

John bent to pretend to read the book.  The door clicked closed behind Gina.  John waited.  Harold started typing.  

Gotcha, John thought.  

Ten minutes later Harold’s computer made a long beep.  John looked up to see Harold standing.  

“Shall we?” Harold asked, casually removing his cufflinks and tossing them to the desk next to the computers.  Diamonds sparkled.  

John contemplated pretending to act surprised but decided against it.  He got to his feet and peeled off the t-shirt over his head in a smooth, practiced motion, dropping it to the couch as his other hand settled the dog tags against his chest.  Harold’s eyebrows went up.  John finished by stroking down his chest to settle at his belt buckle.  

“Wait,” Harold said.  “What are your rules?  Restrictions?”  

“Your friend purchased the deluxe all-night package,” John said.  He took a step closer to Harold.  “Just about anything you want, you’ve got until 7am.  No BDSM the first session, but that can be negotiated for subsequent sessions at a premium rate.”  

“That’s not very specific.”  

John took another step and reached for Harold’s shirt to start undoing the buttons.  “I can suck your dick, lick your balls, rim you…” He noticed Harold’s breathing quickening.  “I’m already stretched, so you don’t have to do anything but tell me to bend over unless you want to.”  He slipped the shirt off Harold’s shoulders and helped Harold with his undershirt.  “I’m a flexible guy — you think of a position and I’ll be able to do it.”  

Harold pressed his palms to John’s chest, rubbed a nipple with his thumb.  He licked his lips.  

“You want more than rimming, I’ll finger you.  I’ll play with your prostate while I suck your dick.”  He nuzzled Harold’s ear.  “I’ll fuck you like you’ve never been fucked,” he whispered, nipping Harold’s earlobe.  “You’ll see stars.”  

Harold stroked up his chest and over his shoulders, pulling John close.  John kissed his neck, breathing in the lingering scent of Harold’s cologne.  

“That’s — that’s not very original,” Harold said, gasping.  “Seeing stars.”  

“You want originality, hire a poet.”  John dropped a hand to Harold’s hip, then started rubbing his erection through his slacks.  “You want an expert blowjob, stick with me.”  

“Condoms?”  

“I only require them for anal.”  

“That’s not the safest —“  He broke off when John deftly opened his fly and started touching skin.  

“Don’t worry, I’ve got more than enough for blowing you while wearing one.”  John twisted his wrist, making Harold gasp again.  “Dental dams for rimming, gloves, three kinds of lube, whatever makes you feel good.  I get tested every month.  Want to see the sheet?”  

“No, that’s not necessary.  What about drugs?  Poppers?  Meth, ecstasy?”  Harold paused.   “Viagra?”  

“Poppers are for amateurs,” John declared.  “Though I’ve got some if you want for yourself.  $20 extra, cash only.  Club drugs don’t mix with work,” he continued.  “As for the little blue pill… it doesn’t seem like you’re in need of it, hmm?”  

“For fuck’s sake, get these pants off me!” Harold exclaimed.  

John dropped to his knees, already reaching for the condom in his pocket while Harold shoved his pants and underwear out of the way.  

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“Stop,” Harold barked, tugging on John’s hair to pull him away from the blowjob.  John rolled his tongue in his mouth, trying to disipate the taste of latex.  “Lose the clothes, get on the bed, hands and knees,” Harold continued.  

John grabbed his messenger bag and emptied two of the pockets, dropping a pile of supplies on the bed.  He didn’t carry a gun on escort missions, but he had a knife and zip ties hidden in a secret compartment of the box he had for first aid and power bars.  The “iPod” was actually a sophisticated recording device that had been listening and transmitting everything since he turned it on right before walking into the hotel — the earbuds hanging out of the bag picked up much more sound than the average microphone would.  He also had spare underwear and socks, a bottle of water, a small notebook where he recorded cryptic notes about his clients and a flip phone that was exactly what it looked like — a cheap phone that he used only for escort jobs.  

Harold went to examine the lube, testing each on his fingers before wiping them clean and putting on a pair of gloves.  He sorted through the condoms to pick the ones he wanted, then swept all the others off the bed onto the floor.  John, already in position, opened his mouth to protest but the look on Harold’s face kept him from saying anything.  Suddenly, Harold meant business.  

“You said earlier that this was all night.  Does that mean you’ll sleep in bed with me afterwards?”  

“If you want me to,” John said.  

“Cuddling?”  

“Part of the package.”  

Harold hesitated.  He rested a gloved hand on John’s ass.  “Kissing?” he whispered hopefully.  “On the mouth?”  

John hated when clients asked him this.  He always had to decline.  Too easy for feelings to develop if there was kissing.  He was very good at breaking off his own feelings, but clients started getting needy and unreasonable.  Neither he nor the CIA could afford needy clients when they wanted him gathering information and sometimes poisoning and killing people.  He had a few long-term clients, people he saw once a month or every few months, people that continuously fed him information they didn’t realize they were leaking, but he mostly saw people once or twice.  His favorite asset was the diplomat’s daughter who would steal top secret documents from her father’s safe and bring them in to impress John with the official letterheads.  Though she made sure to cover the actual documents when she showed him, he took pictures of everything while she slept.  

“Not until the third date,” John said, surprising himself with his answer.  

“Date?” 

“Assignation,” John corrected, going for the most sophisticated synonym he could come up with on short notice.  “Session, appointment, get together.  Whatever.”  

“Why the third?” Harold wondered, squeezing lube onto his fingers and then right down John’s crack.  Harold leaned over to press his lips to John’s shoulder as he spread the lube over John’s opening and slipped a finger inside him.  It went easily, as John had promised.  

“The first time’s an accident,” John explained.  “The second is curiosity.  The third is an active choice to continue.  It means it’s more likely to be an ongoing arrangement.”  

“You’re interested in ongoing arrangements?” 

“With the right people.”  

“How do you decide?”  

“Computer algorithm,” John declared, trying to get a reaction.  Harold pulled his finger free and John looked over his shoulder to see Harold’s frown.  

“Wha —“ 

“Relax,” John interrupted, sensing something off about Harold’s demeanor.  “It’s about how they fuck and how they treat me.  I don’t even know what an algorithm is!  Math, right?”  

Harold’s eyes narrowed as he scowled.  

“You — you saw my computers and thought you were being funny?” Harold asked after a prolonged moment when John worried he’d be kicked out on his ass before he learned anything else.  Clearly, computers were a delicate subject for Harold.  Would Harold be a deep enough sleeper for him to get a look on the laptops? 

“Yeah.  Fell flat, I guess,” he continued, adding softening phrases to convince Harold he was harmless and ignorant of computers.  “I know computers can’t do stuff like that.  I mean, it’d have to be a pretty big computer to be able to predict people’s behaviors, let alone how two people would interact.  I doubt the government has time for that.”  He paused, thinking.  “And if they did, why would they use all that power to predict an escort’s perfect client list when they have terrorists to catch?”  

Harold’s expression softened.  His shoulders lowered as he relaxed.  He let out a sigh.  

“Sorry.  I’m a bit… punctilious where computers are concerned.  It does seem ludicrous that anyone would want to predict something so personal like that on computers.”  

“Will you kick me out of bed if I admit I don’t know what punctilious means?” John wondered, turning away.  He’d heard the word before, but never looked it up and figured he’d need to tone down the aggressive intelligence to keep Harold’s attention.  He wanted smart, but not too smart.  

Harold laughed.  He pulled off the gloves to be able to stroke John’s back.  “What’s your name?”  

“John.”  

“Really?”  

“Really.”  

“Hmm.  Let’s get back to what we’re here for, shall we?”  

Harold stretched him in silence after that.  He rubbed on John’s prostate and John couldn’t hold back on the groan that escaped his lips.  Most of his clients that month had been women, and only one had wanted to fuck him.  He closed his eyes and let himself relax into the feeling for a moment.  Dangerous to get caught up in it, he knew, but it felt good, and Harold enjoyed giving him pleasure, if the grunt of satisfaction at John’s relaxation and pleasure was any indication.  

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Chapter Text

John waited for Harold to fall asleep, then allowed himself to doze for another half-hour before getting out of bed to search through Harold’s things.  He knew that the computers would probably make a sound when they turned on, so he carried them into the bathroom and turned on the tap to mask the beep.  

“Hard drive reformatting complete.  Please insert operating system disk to begin.” 

John frowned at the message.  What kind of person reformatted his hard drive before bed?  Harold was looking like even more of an enigma.  He tried the second laptop and got the same message.  

There were no notes, papers or discs of any kind that he could find in the room.  All the books were simply books, no cutouts to hold other things among them.  The two laptop bags were empty of everything except spare power cords and an extra mouse and keyboard.  

He went through all of the pockets in all of Harold’s suit jackets and shirts and pants, finding only the money clip he’d seen before and not a single piece of identification.  Not even a credit card!  His briefcase was similarly bare — yesterday’s newspaper, two pens and a pad of paper.  No business card, no appointment book, no memos or company letterhead.  

Empty-handed, he returned to bed.  He lay awake for another hour composing his field report in his mind before relaxing enough from the failed recon attempt to fall asleep.  

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John had a preternatural ability to wake up to full alertness instantly, seconds before his bedmate or an alarm, so he was already feigning sleep when Harold sat up, yawning and stretching to reach for the alarm, the next morning.  He followed Harold’s movements from half-closed eyes as he went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth.  Then Harold stepped up the the bed next to him and touched his shoulder.  John opened his eyes.  

“Morning,” he murmured in a low, sleepy voice, smiling invitingly.  Harold smiled in return and ran his fingers through John’s hair.  

“Good morning.  I have to leave for work in an hour.  Would you care to join me in the shower?”  

The blowjob wasn’t one of John’s best, but Harold seemed satisfied.  John had been distracted, hearing movement in the main part of the suite.  When he emerged from the bathroom a few minutes after Harold, he discovered its source: All of Harold’s books were gone, boxed up and removed by hotel staff.  Harold, mostly-dressed in a suit, stood at the mirror taking care of his tie and giving orders about how to pack his clothing and other essentials.  John, with a towel around his waist, paused in the doorway.  Harold made a motion and one of the men offered John his messenger bag.  Taking the hint, John went to get dressed.  

Harold was handing out $20 bills to each of the staff when John returned.  The room was bare of everything except the furniture — and a large manilla envelope on the now-spotless coffee table.  

The door closed behind the final staff member — carrying the two laptop cases.  Harold turned to John.  

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” Harold said.  “As I said, I have to be going, but feel free to order breakfast on my tab.”  John nodded.  “I’d like to see you again, if I’ve passed your evaluation?”  

John grinned, cocked a hip as he leaned against the wall.  “Yeah, I think that can be arranged.”  

“Excellent.  I’ve left a non-disclosure agreement for your signature.  I assume you’ve had to sign such documents before?”  

“Every so often,” John answered.  “Anything out of the ordinary in it?”  The CIA would go over it with a fine-toothed comb and plumb the document for hints into who Harold was, but it never hurt to ask the expected questions.  

“No, but the number for my lawyer is on the cover page if you have any questions.”  

“What if I want to ask you?”  

“Bring it with you next time and we can discuss it.”  Harold pulled a cell phone out of his pocket that John could swear wasn’t in the room the night before  and offered it to him, a few folded bills tucked carefully underneath.  “I realize that I’ll need to go through your agency to make the appointment, however this is a way to contact me without the them looking over your shoulder,” he explained.  

John accepted the phone and tip, slipping both into his pocket without counting the cash.  It was a good sign that Harold wanted another meeting, that he wanted a “secret” way for them to talk, and being gauche about money probably wasn’t the right tactic, given how freely Harold handed out money to hotel staff and the expense of this particular hotel.  Harold wanted to be perceived as generous, whether he actually was or not waited to be seen.  He wondered how soon it would be before Harold texted or called.  

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said.  Harold nodded in farewell and left the suite. 

John picked up the hotel phone to order breakfast — might as well take advantage of the opportunity.  

There were more than enough notes in his mental book that he knew his handler would want a thorough examination of Harold and his connection to Ingram and the project they were working on.  He settled on the couch to wait, reaching for the manilla folder.  

Who are you, Harold? he wondered to himself.  What are you doing?  

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Chapter Text

Even with the considerable resources of the CIA, there wasn’t much information about Harold Wren to be found.  He was a college classmate of Ingram, there was an MIT yearbook to prove it, but other than that, he had no social media profile.  Just a small blurb on his company’s website. An insurance adjustor, he apparently wrote software for Ingram under the table — there was nothing in his taxes to indicate the second job, and the NDA had been in his own name, not an alias.  The forensic accountants would have to work harder to find what they needed, John figured, maybe a shell company or two.  He’d seen it before.  

Though their data analysts were able to find his morning jogging route (and the different afternoon and evening routes) by going over CCTV captures of every conceivable park in the five boroughs, Harold slipped tails with as much ease as a seasoned agent, so they had no idea where he lived — the address on his taxes was a sham apartment, well-furnished but without signs of regular use.  He seemed to disappear into thin air between one moment and the next.  John suggested trying tailing him himself, but his superiors wanted his relationship with Harold as simple as possible to have the best chance at building trust and turning him into an unwitting asset.  

Nathan Ingram was much easier to surveil and follow, so when they discovered that Ingram’s government contact was Alicia Corwin, a high-ranking intelligence officer with the National Security Council, they told John to speed up his seduction of Harold.  

Harold hadn’t called or texted the phone he’d given John, and his bosses were worried Harold had lost interest, even though he’d scheduled a meeting with John through the escort agency.  John wasn’t worried.  He knew he’d have to work on Harold a bit before they started texting, just from the few hours they’d spent together.  

Still, he went along with his boss’s plan to have him bump into Harold during a morning run two days before their second meeting.  Harold had purchased the same package as Ingram had, yet another good sign for John despite the lack of texts.  They were supposed to meet at a different high end hotel, and because it was scheduled in advance, his CIA team could bug and surveil the place beforehand, getting video and audio of the encounter.  He’d long since given up on the illusion of sex as a private activity.  Blackmail was another popular way to extort information from assets, and though he didn’t do the blackmailing himself to keep the relationships clean in case they were needed later, other agents posing as PIs or other types of actors were able to use pictures and videos for that purpose.  

“John?” Harold called, slowing to a stop next to where John had been stretching for the last five minutes in anticipation of the encounter.  John pulled the earbuds from his ears and pretended to turn off music while actually turning on the recording technology.  

“Harold,” he said, straightening.  “Going for a run?”  

“Would you care to join me?  Is that ok to ask?”  

“Sure.”  

They started running again, John matching his pace to Harold’s.  John had already warmed up, so he was comfortable for the rest of Harold’s route.  They stopped after 20 minutes near a gate to the park — the one John and his team expected.  Good.  

“This is me,” Harold said, wiping his brow with the back of a hand.  John offered him water.  He took a long drink and returned the bottle.  “Are you continuing, or…?”  

John, who had broken a sweat but wasn’t breathing hard, stretched before answering, just to let his shirt ride up and show off a bit of skin.  “I could be persuaded to stop.  Buy me breakfast?  I think there’s a diner down the street.”  

Harold laughed, his expression full of pleasure at John’s audacity.  

The diner in question had already been vetted by the CIA and there were agents intermingled with the customers.  He and Harold took a booth near the back and ordered coffee and tea, eggs and toast.  

“When do you have to be at work?” John asked, sipping his coffee.  

“As you saw the other week, my hours are erratic.  I can make my own schedule, except for meetings, and I don’t have one until this afternoon.”  

“Your friend called you a workaholic.”  

“He’s right,” Harold said, taking his tea and leaning back.  John let the silence envelop them.  Harold seemed excited, nervous.  “Do you — are you… free?”  

“Private time, private rates,” John replied, glad Harold was taking the bait.  “I don’t date clients,” he added bluntly to keep Harold off-kilter.  

“No, of course not,” Harold agreed.  “I wasn’t implying —“ 

“Relax,” John interrupted, smiling.  “We can talk business after breakfast.”  

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Harold hailed them a taxi and took John to a midprice hotel twenty blocks from both his insurance job and Ingram’s company.  He spent the ride texting on his phone.  He breezed in, collected a keycard and what appeared to be an envelope of cash — no doubt to pay John — and motioned John to follow him, just a dozen words spoken between him and the hotel concierge.  

“Come here often?” John joked as they rode the elevator.  

Harold frowned.  

“Sorry, it’s just that they seemed to recognize you.  Usually it’s the other way around.”  

Harold sighed.  “I suppose you’ll learn soon enough,” he muttered to himself.  “I send instructions ahead, which include my description or a photo, so I don’t have to waste time with unnecessary social pleasantries,” he continued at a regular volume.  

“Unnecessary social pleasantries,” John repeated.  “Huh.”  

“I’m a very private person, Mr. Tallis,” Harold snapped.  “Something I would expect you to appreciate, given your profession.”  

John backed away a step, holding up his hands to show surrender, startled that Harold would use his name from the NDA when John worked fine for both of them.  The door opened and Harold stepped out.  

“Well?  Are you coming or not?” 

“I’m not sure.  Should I?”  

Harold rolled his eyes.  John followed him down the hall.  

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John deliberately didn’t stretch himself before the op to seem like he’d just been out on a run.  Harold took this in stride, simply opening the brown paper bag on the coffee table to produce his preferred lube, condoms and gloves to begin the process — he must have arranged that ahead of time when he’d taken care of the room, John mused.  

They chatted about the weather, sports, and what they’d each been up to since they’d seen each other — working.  Harold asked if John had googled him before signing the NDA so John answered according to the script he’d prepared.  

“I was curious, so yes,” he said.  “It makes sense in my profession,” he added, echoing Harold’s earlier comment. 

“Completely understandable.  I would’ve been concerned if you hadn’t,” Harold replied.  “I should tell you that I researched your references with the escort agency,” he added.  “You come highly recommended for someone who’s been doing this only a few years.”  

John grinned and let out a deep breath as he relaxed his muscles.  “I have particular talents in this area.”  

“Indeed.  You have a varied… portfolio, I suppose you’d call it?  Not many long-term clients, though, and all of them women.”  

“I have high standards.”  Harold added another finger, stretching John’s rim.  John felt a rush of endorphins.  “Most men take me at my word and don’t do much prep before plunging in.  If I’m going to see someone more than twice, I want more than just a rough fuck.”  Harold paused.  “I like rough ok, but not all the time, you know?” 

Harold gently withdrew his fingers and pulled off the gloves, tossing them over the edge of the bed.  He nudged at John and he obligingly rolled to his back.  Harold cuddled up against him, throwing a leg over John’s thigh, stroking his chest and playing with the dog tags he still wore.  

“Something wrong?” John asked.  

“No, I’m just re-considering the ramifications of this relationship.”  

“Oh?”  

“I only hire people over twenty-five,” Harold explained.  “It makes me feel more comfortable, because I assume that if someone is doing this job at that age, it’s voluntary.  They’re choosing to do it.  I prefer long-term arrangements and everyone I’ve done this with has, too.  I’m flattered that you would consider me for that role, but if the only reason is that I don’t hurt you —”  

“That’s not the only reason,” John said, grabbing Harold’s hand to stop the nervous movement.  He needed to reassure him, to keep him hooked.  “I looked you up, like I said.  You’ve been at your job for a long time — that means you’re stable.  You’re not likely to disappear suddenly.  You seem like a nice guy — no one has friends for thirty years if he’s an asshole!  Besides, I can tell you have a wicked sense of humor.”  John pressed Harold’s hand to his chest, then outlined the edge of his ear with a finger, carefully, slowly.  

“There’s a tenderness in you, Harold, and I don’t think you realize it.”  John sat up and leaned over to kiss Harold’s temple.  “I know how to judge people.  You’re a good man.  I like being fucked by good men.  There aren’t enough of you in the world.”  

He lay down again and tried to analyze how his words had affected the older man.  Harold’s eyes were wide — wider than usual, anyway, and he seemed to be at a loss for words. 

John hadn’t expected to be the first person Harold paid for sex — the matter-of-fact way he handled their first interaction had all but guaranteed that, but Harold’s concern that the people he hired be free from traditional coercion surprised him.  He gambled when he called Harold tender and nice.  It was in him, John was sure, but he couldn’t tell how close to the surface Harold wanted those qualities to be.   

“Are you not including yourself in the list of good men?” Harold finally asked.  

“I’m a prostitute.  I think that takes me out of the running.”  

“Escort,” Harold corrected.  

John chuckled.  “Fine, escort.  I still think I have a ways to go to be called good.”   

Harold rested his head on John’s chest.  “Would you be horribly disappointed if I decided I wanted to wait until Friday to fuck you?”  

“Not at all.”  

Harold started fiddling with the dog tags again.  

“They’re not real,” John said after a few minutes, concerned that Harold would figure it out for himself.  

“Oh,” Harold said, dropping them.  “You wear them with such ease, I assumed…” 

“I have real ones,” John hurried to explain, wanting to keep Harold from becoming any more upset.  “I was in the army, Special Forces.  But those tags are too important for everyday wear, especially at a job like this,” he elaborated.  “I don’t want my social security number out there for everyone to find.  It’s identity theft waiting to happen.”  

“Ah, I understand and empathize.  Digital stalking being what it’s becoming, it’s a reasonable safety precaution.”  Harold picked them up again.  “I see now, this isn’t your real name.”  He carefully put them down.  

“No, only clients with NDAs get to know that.”  

Harold chuckled. “How did you go from what must have been a successful military career to this?” 

John paused, choosing his words carefully.  “I’d seen too many deaths.  I wanted to do something life affirming.”  

“Something must have tipped you over the edge?”  

“Yeah.  9/11.”  

“For me, too.”  

“Oh?”  

“I used to think I was doing something for the world, something that mattered.  Turns out I was just making money.”  

“That’s not a bad thing.  You can do a lot of good with a lot of money.”  

“Mmm,” Harold murmured.  “When I sat there with Nathan watching the Towers come down over and over on the news, something broke inside me.  I’d always been a bit of a loner, but seeing so many people dead so quickly, so — so senselessly… and so close to where I was working, unaware of the tragedy until that evening, it made me want to do something about it.  To do something to help humanity.  Money’s not going to fix society.”  

“What did you do?” John asked, keeping his voice deliberately nonchalant.  He was about to learn what Harold did, and he couldn’t tip his hand that he needed the information.  

“Something no one can ever know about.  I’m sorry, John, but I can’t tell you.”  

John shrugged as if it didn’t matter.  “Classified, got it.  There were a lot of things like that in the army, too, only I was low enough on the totem pole that I never knew any of it.”  

“Tell me about the army,” Harold said.  

John spoke of a few missions, Iraq, Afganistan, sanitized for Harold’s civilian sensibilities.  They were all true, even, a trick to earn Harold’s trust.  Interperse the truth with fiction and the lies would feel more real.  When Harold got bored, John asked about some of the books he’d seen in Harold’s hotel room the last time and Harold spent 45 minutes regaling him with his opinions, then decided he wanted to fuck after all.  John jotted it all down in his mind and hoped that this time the recorder in the iPod worked.  There had been some kind of interference before that made it impossible to get any useful audio, so his handler made the decision to simply record the encounters, rather than try to transmit them live to the team monitoring John.   

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“Is today the second assignation, or third?” Harold asked as he opened the hotel room door for John.  

John smiled, buoyed that Harold was already thinking about kissing him — it might not be ideal, especially if Harold turned out to be a needy client, but the comment about classified work two days ago had sent his handler into a frenzy of excitement for the mission, even though the audio recording had been corrupted again.  “I’ll tell you in the morning.”  

Harold tilted his head and motioned John inside.  “You’re taunting me for a reason, I presume?”  

“We only talked about my criteria for a long-term relationship last time.  I want to hear what you’re looking for before I make a decision.  You said you’d done it before.”  John set down his messenger bag.  He’d dressed in one of his suits this time, and hadn’t missed the once-over Harold gave him when he first saw him.  

They settled on the couch in the sitting area and Harold opened a bottle of wine.  John wet his lips to see if it would make them tingle as he watched Harold take a real sip.  

“Yes, well, I may have exaggerated a bit,” Harold admitted, looking away.  “Unless once a month for six or seven months counts?”  

“It counts,” John reassured him.  “Is that what you want with me?”  

Harold pursed his lips and took another sip of wine.  “No.”  

John waited, knowing Harold would have to elaborate.  

“Weekly.  Perhaps with dinner first.  And I thought we could discuss BDSM as an occasional occurrence.”  

“That all sounds good to me.”  John stroked the back of Harold’s hand where it lay on his thigh.  Harold twitched, clearly tense.  “Something else?”  

Harold swallowed, tried to drink from his empty wine glass and frowned at it.  John picked up the bottle and poured.  Harold gulped a mouthful and set the glass down.  

“I’m very attracted to you,” Harold whispered.  “I’ll require your assistance in keeping the relationship professional.”  

John’s stomach twisted.  This was exactly the kind of vulnerability he was trained to exploit.  It would be easy — make explicit, obvious attempts at keeping things professional while subtly encouraging more feelings and devotion from Harold.  As Harold fell in love with him, he’d be more willing to tell him things, more amenable to do what John wanted, more loose with what he shared.  

Could he keep his own emotions in check while he encouraged Harold’s?  Would he be able to compartmentalize Harold into two separate boxes in his head?  One for displays of love and affection, another for spying and information gathering?  

“We’d better not kiss, then,” John said, allowing a small bit of regret into his voice.  Harold met his eyes immediately.  “Honestly, that’s often how it starts.  Take me from the back more often than the front — you’ll be less tempted.”  

“That seems logical.  Is this what you recommend to women?”  

“I don’t usually have to,” John replied.  

Harold nodded silently, his expression thoughtful and sad.  John put down his wine glass and turned to face Harold directly.  They met each other’s eyes.  He cupped Harold’s cheek.  

“Once, to seal the deal,” he murmured, leaning forward.  It was a risk, kissing Harold so soon after he said they shouldn’t, but he suspected the experience would give Harold something to think about — a desire John would push back against until he had Harold desperate and malleable.  

Harold’s entire body relaxed as they kissed.  His lips tasted tart from the wine and his tongue felt warm as it tangled with John’s.  A good kiss — a long kiss.  John broke it as he felt Harold preparing to pull him closer and stood.  He shrugged out of his suit jacket and undressed, then moved to Harold’s clothing.  

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Chapter Text

The third time appeared to be the charm, as John’s iPod downloaded thirteen hours of uncorrupted recordings onto his computer when he got home after his meeting with Harold.  Finally!  

He transcribed the encounter, adding commentary as he went, then wrote his report.  He developed a set of suggestions for future interactions and behaviors to get more information from Harold and sent it off to his handler.  Within three days he had a new set of objectives and tasks related to Harold, as well as a commendation for how he handled Harold’s request for keeping their relationship professional and his plans to undermine that.  

He and Harold developed a pattern of weekly meetings.  True to his request, Harold often had John meet him at a restaurant for dinner, which removed the CIA’s ability to pre-surveil the hotels they went to, but gave John more information for his profile of Harold as a man.  He liked expensive versions of everyday food, but wouldn’t say no to a hotdog from a cart on a windy Friday when they went for a walk instead of dinner.  He enjoyed seeing John in a suit, and while he said he preferred John to wear a tie, he spent a lot of time ogling his exposed throat when John didn’t.  He had a sweet tooth.  He could be a haughty asshole with waiters and hotel staff and be courteous and considerate with John in the next breath.  He wanted John to enjoy the sex and got off on John’s vocal exclamations of pleasure.  

Harold also wanted to see John outside of the regular sessions, arranging to go running together before heading to a hotel every two or three weeks.  These meetings, while shorter than the Friday nights, gave John more of an insight into Harold’s work life.  He wore better suits when he went to the insurance agency, but was more excited about his job on the days when he freelanced.  He had different laptops for each job.  It took a while, but John was able to exhaust Harold enough to make him fall asleep a few times, thereby giving him access to the laptops.  He sent USB drives full of Harold’s data to the analysts and ran into another dead end — there was absolutely nothing personal on either laptop.  

Three months into his assignment with Harold, the CIA called John away for some work in Mexico busting a drug cartel and taking their money and business to fund the CIA’s war on terror.  It was the kind of work John hated because it exposed the underbelly of the organization he worked for and he wanted to pretend they were better than that.  Still, he didn’t have to deal with this side of the work every day, so he could live with his choice more easily.  And it made him appreciate his regular job more.  

Because IFT was still a priority mission, John’s handlers scheduled the op so that he only missed one weekend of escort work.  He returned to New York tired but without any new injuries or scars, a first for him.  He was glad of it, because he hadn’t looked forward to coming up with an excuse for Harold, who was likely to mistrust anything he said about something that looked like a knife or bullet wound.  

“I have a second job,” John told Harold when they were resting after the first round of sex — Harold was often good for two, and a blow job in the morning.  His stomach growled loudly, making them both laugh.  They’d skipped dinner and gone straight to bed.  Harold reached for the phone to order room service.   

“I know,” Harold said when he’d hung up.  “You’re still listed as on active duty with the army.”  

“How do you know that?” John demanded, startled, sitting up to look down at Harold.  

Harold removed his arm from where it covered his eyes.  “Really, Mr. Tallis, do you think I wouldn’t fully vet you before entering into an arrangement such as this?  I might not have mentioned it initially, but I looked into it after we ran into each other in the park and you told me about your past.”  He tugged on the fake dog tags around John’s neck.  “Although how you manage both jobs is still a mystery,” he commented, obviously digging for the answer, his tone telling John that he expected it.  

“It’s like the National Guard.  A weekend a month and two weeks a year, only I add up the weekends into two-week chunks throughout the year to accommodate this job.”  

“And they allow it?  What about Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell?”  

John chuckled.  “Technically I’m employed as a personal assistant through a temp agency.”  

“Hmm, stress on the personal, I imagine?”  

“Yeah,” John agreed, letting his fingers wander over Harold’s spent cock.  “Personal.”  

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John adjusted his bowtie as he entered the art gallery and immediately went looking for Harold as they’d agreed on beforehand.  He felt awkward in the ridiculously expensive bespoke tuxedo, but Harold had taken time off work to accompany him to the tailor and pay for the whole thing, so he went along with it to further their relationship.  Going to the show last week and this gallery opening required more formal wear than his own suits, so he hadn’t had a choice, even if the thing cost more than his annual salary.  Harold and his tailor spent a lot of time talking about John while he stood being measured and waiting, and the huge mirror afforded him the ability to see the glances they shared and the obvious way Harold made clear that they were lovers.  

He found Harold at the far end of the main room, talking to a couple.  Even from a distance he could see Harold’s discomfort.  Harold held himself stiffly upright, and the empty champagne glass in his hand trembled slightly as he attempted to maintain his equilibrium.  

The couple consisted of a man who seemed at least fifteen years older than Harold and a woman John’s age.  John dismissed the man immediately as irrelevant to Harold’s discomfort and focused on the woman.  Wearing a low-cut blue gown and covered in sapphire and diamond jewelry, she exuded arrogance and privilege.  She appeared to be needling Harold about something, her expression that mixture of fake pleasantness and cruelty John had learned accompanied a certain type of entitled rich person.  There was a flush on Harold’s cheeks, and his eyes darted away as often as he could pretend was polite.  

He caught sight of John and raised an eyebrow in entreaty.  John interpreted it as a request for rescue, so he glided over, slipped an arm around Harold’s waist and kissed him gently on the cheek.  The woman’s voice cut off abruptly.  

“Sorry I’m late, darling,” John murmured, loud enough for the other couple to hear.  “You wouldn’t believe the trouble at the studio,” he added, pitching his voice and intonation to imitate a stereotypical “gay” accent.  “Rodrigo just wouldn’t let me go on time.  You know how he is when he has one of his inspirations.  ‘One more photograph,’ over and over.  I think he must have taken seventy!”  

John turned to face the couple.  “Hello, I’m John.”  He winked and extended a hand to shake theirs.  

The man, clearly perturbed, muttered his name and shook John’s hand, then excused himself to get new drinks for him and his date.  She stared at them in shock, looking between them as if for confirmation of their relationship.  Harold’s expression lightened as he smiled.  He put his arm around John’s back and tugged him close.  

“John, this is Ms. Melissa Doubleday.  I believe I mentioned her once or twice?”  

John didn’t need to think hard to remember what Harold had said about this former lover — she’d cheated on Harold and continued to comment on his lack of sexual prowess whenever they ran into each other.  She’d been the reason Harold first started hiring escorts ten years ago.  He took her hand and kissed the knuckles.  

“Charmed.”  

As he raised his face to meet her eyes, he maintained a hold on her hand so he could squeeze in just the right place to make her thumb and index finger go numb.  It wouldn’t last, but it would be warning enough to stay away from Harold.  She snatched her hand back, gave a brittle smile and scurried away.  John watched her leave with satisfaction.  He turned to Harold.  

“I hope that was ok,” he said.  “We never talked about PDA or if you were out of the closet around people you know.”  

Harold gripped his side and tilted his head up for a proper kiss.  John obliged him, wondering if Melissa was watching.  It didn’t matter.  Harold would be grateful and perhaps in a mood to talk later.  

“Thank you,” Harold said when their lips parted.  “I didn’t think I’d run into anyone I knew here.  You arrived right in the nick of time.”  He paused.  “I’m not in the closet, per se, it’s just not something I talk about.  Though it was quite amusing to see Ms. Doubleday’s reaction.  She’s always been a jealous person, and seeing us together will drive her mad!” Harold finished with a sparkle in his eye.  “You’re far more attractive than her date.”  

John nuzzled his sideburn and let go of him, taking a step away while also taking Harold’s free hand.  “You want to look at the art now, or do we have other places to be?”  

“Oh, I think we should rub this in her face a bit more.”  

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Chapter Text

John worked in Eastern Europe over Thanksgiving weekend, returning to New York with a number of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, along with a bullet wound in his right arm.  Harold didn’t ask for an explanation, simply cooing over the injury and being especially gentle when they had sex.  

“I wish you didn’t have that other job,” Harold complained as they soaked in the jacuzzi afterwards, John’s bandaged arm carefully resting outside the tub.  “It would be so much more convenient if you stayed here all the time.  In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask —“ 

John kissed him to prevent him from finishing the sentence.  

Harold furrowed his brow.  “Not very subtle, Mr. Tallis,” he said, turning around to face away from John.  He leaned back against his chest.  “But you don’t want me to ask, do you?”  

“I like my job, Harold,” John answered, using his first name in contrast to Harold’s use of his surname.  “Both of them.  I didn’t get into this work to be a kept man.  I don’t think I’d be a very good one.”  

“You pretend well enough,” Harold grumbled.  John kissed his ear, then his neck, trying to distract him, to annoy him, to provoke a more emotional or volatile response of some kind.  “Stop changing the subject!”  

John matched the frustration in Harold’s voice when he spoke.  “I can do it for a day or two, a long weekend, but then I get antsy.  I’m not good at staying in one place, with one person.”  

“If you would let me finish, you’d hear that I’m not asking for that,” Harold snapped.  He stood up and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around his waist.  He left the bathroom in a huff, slamming the door to leave no question about his feelings on the matter.  

John felt his lips turning up into a satisfied smirk and quickly flattened his expression.  This was a good sign.  Harold had never gotten angry with him before, and for it to be about deepening their relationship, or whatever Harold would eventually suggest, made it even better.  He considered ways to use the fight to bring up Harold’s work or life outside their meetings.  

He took his time getting out of the tub and drying off, wondering if Harold would still be in the suite.  Could he have left to blow off steam?  Was he about to fuck John while angry, another first?  Was this fight really about John getting injured, rather than John’s brush-off?  Perhaps.  

“Bend over that,” Harold demanded, pointing at a wedge pillow he’d propped up by the end of the sofa.  He’d put on a t-shirt and sleep pants while John lingered in the bathroom, so John doubted there’d be sex immediately.  He’ll want to tie me up and punish me for the cheek, John thought.  He shrugged and did as he was told. His toes touched the ground, barely, and he felt blood rushing to his head as he settled into position.  He felt exposed, as intended.  The height was perfect for impact play.  

“Will it aggravate your injury to tie your hands behind your back?”  

John paused.  

“The truth, John!”  

“Yes,” he admitted.  

Harold snorted.  “That wasn’t difficult, now, was it?”  

“You’re in a mood,” John muttered.  

“Yes, I am.  I’m very angry with you, so I’m not going to fuck you, but you’re going to stay there until I’m ready.  Green, blue or black plug while we wait?”  

John closed his eyes and sighed, choosing the biggest on offer.  He’d half-wanted the rough, angry fuck, though thinking more made him realize that Harold would know that and choose to make John wait because of that desire — he should know better than to expect Harold to slip up when he was angry.  It was the softer, tender moments when he let tidbits of information out, and John hadn’t taken advantage of the opportunity earlier, too relieved to be back in Harold’s arms and away from guns and blood and death to concentrate properly on his mission.  Harold inserted the black plug and John started squeezing his anal muscles to prepare for whatever Harold planned next.  

“May I blindfold you?” 

“Yes.”  

“How long can you stay like this?”  

“Give me a five-minute break every hour to walk around and I can do this indefinitely.  It’ll change depending on what else you want to do.”  

“For now, just this,” Harold said.  He tied the blindfold without pulling on John’s hair.  

Now in the dark, John could only listen as Harold moved around the room.  There was an electronic beep and Harold began to type.  Was there a laptop?  He hadn’t seen evidence of it earlier.  Then again, he hadn’t been as strict at looking for technology or notes while Harold slept the past few sessions.  After months of finding nothing, week after week, he’d grown lax.  Fuck, he’d have to tell his handler about this.  He wasn’t looking forward to the reprimand, not after doing so well for so long.  

But they hadn’t slept yet, so John hadn’t had the opportunity, so maybe he hadn’t messed up too badly?  He could look later, whenever that happened to be.  

“I don’t appreciate being manipulated,” Harold said, startling John out of the quiet place in his mind where he went when being tortured or during BDSM play.  How long had he been out?  He vaguely remembered Harold encouraging him to stand and take a break — more than once.  

He blinked a few times, realizing that the blindfold wasn’t around his head.  The lights in the room were lowered, likely to keep them from hurting his eyes.  Classic Harold, taking care of him even when angry.  

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rough from disuse.  Harold offered him a glass with a straw and he sucked up a mouthful of cold water gratefully.  He was still on his front on the wedge pillow, and he could feel that Harold hadn’t removed the butt plug yet.  He’d want John to be present for that, he assumed.  

“This is, at its most basic, a transactional relationship,” Harold continued.  “I pay you to be who I want you to be, to do the things I want you to do, when I want you to do them.  I don’t pay you to sass me or assume you know things about me or try to get more from me than I’m willing to give.”  

“Yes,” John agreed.  

“I’m prepared to be lenient, as this is the first time you’ve done something like this, but you need to convince me that it won’t happen again.”  

“What do I need to do?” John asked, getting ready to promise whatever Harold wanted.  He’d touched a nerve tonight, that much was clear, and the introduction of discipline and the reminder that he was only there for Harold’s pleasure told him that he was on the right track — even if he dared not risk looking at the computer tonight.  And he wouldn’t, not with Harold in this kind of mood.  

“You will listen to what I have to say and give thoughtful, honest answers.  Then you’ll take your punishment.”  

“Will you fuck me?” John blurted.  Then he cursed himself silently.  He wanted to be fucked — him, the man, not the spy.  And he wanted Harold to do the fucking.  

“We’ll see,” Harold answered.  “Paddle, crop or my hand for the punishment?”  

“Your hand,” John said without hesitation.  He wanted the most personal option, and he suspected that the intimacy of having him sprawled in Harold’s lap while Harold slapped his ass would further Harold’s connection to him, especially when he became aroused at the play and Harold would have an erection pressing against his thigh.  

“Very well.”  

Harold took his time playing with the plug, alternating between stretching John’s rim and pressing against his prostate.  Still in the haze of the vigil, now with the addition of pleasure, John relaxed into the sensations and floated.  At some point, Harold started talking.  

“…very much.  You’ve been an excellent companion, but I need more from you than sex.  I need trust.  I need you to trust that I have your best intentions at heart.  I want you to have a full life where you can make your own decisions.  I realize that it will take time and effort to get there, but I’m willing to put in that effort, because you are, at the core, a decent man.  

“I won’t have you avoiding topics I bring up.  I won’t have you neglecting yourself.  If we’re to continue this relationship, I need your commitment that you’ll consider my suggestions rather than brush them off.”  

“You have it, Harold,” John said.  

“Good.  Now, would extending our sessions until 10am on Saturday work for your schedule?”  

John’s mouth fell open in shock.  That’s all Harold wanted?  A few more hours a week?  He wasn’t asking John to be his rent boy or his exclusively?  He hurried to get his shock under control.  

“Probably,” he answered.  

“Thank you.  That wasn’t what you expected, was it?”  

“No.”  

“This is what comes of making assumptions, John.  Are you ready for your punishment?”  

Harold helped John to his feet and settled himself against the headboard with a towel across his lap.  John tried not to frown at how scratchy that would be on his dick.  Harold patted his thigh and John arranged himself to Harold’s liking.  

“Here.  I don’t want you to chafe,” Harold said, offering a silk handkerchief for John to put between his cock and the towel.  

“Thank you.”  

Harold stroked his back, down his ass and over his thighs.  “While we do this, I’d like you to concentrate on my hands,” he said.  “My left hand will ground you,” he continued, placing it on John’s back.  “It will remind you that you’re not alone, that I’m here and that I care about you.  My right hand will provide the punishment.  This is a correction of your behavior, not something of malice or torture.  Do you understand?”  

“Yes, Harold.”  

“I’m punishing you for interrupting me, assuming you knew what I was thinking and manipulating me.  For that and that alone, I’m punishing you.”  

“Yes, Harold,” John said again, feeling himself relaxing as Harold explained the parameters of what was going to happen.  

“Since this is a correction, you may squirm and vocalize if you want to, though if you move too much I may miss my target.  This isn’t about denial, so come if you need to.  I won’t ask you to count them, just trust that I will know when you’ve had enough and learned your lesson.”  

“Yes, Harold.”  

“Your safeword?”  

“Daffodil.”  

“Excellent.  Why am I punishing you, John?”  

“Interrupting you, assuming I knew what you were thinking and manipulating you.”  

“Good.  We begin.”  

Harold’s open palm struck his ass, providing a spark of pain and a jolt of arousal.  He felt the plug he still wore shift against his prostate, heightening the sensation.  Harold slapped him again, in a different spot, then again.  John grunted.  His ass would be bright red by the time this was done, and he’d need to be careful sitting for a day or two, he suspected.  God, the fucking when this was over would be wonderful! He shivered in anticipation.  

“Focus, John.  Why am I punishing you?”  

“Interrupting you, assuming I knew what you were thinking and manipulating you.”  

“Good.”  

Harold continued with the punishment.  

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John couldn’t remember having a worse day.  First of all, it started pouring rain in the middle of his run, and every single taxi already had fares.  Second, he was out of shampoo and had to use soap to wash his hair.  Third, and this was the kicker, he dropped his last egg so all he had for breakfast was an old loaf of bread he’d been meaning to throw out.  At least it wasn’t too moldy.  

He burned the toast.  Normally this wouldn’t phase him, but instead of making a new slice he yanked the toaster from the outlet and threw it against the floor in a fit of rage that far exceeded any normal response to the situation.  

He forgot that he was still barefoot from his shower and bruised his toe when he kicked the toaster for making him mad, then tripped and fell as he hopped around his kitchen in pain.  

He spilled coffee all over the counter.  

He tore the newspaper when he tried to open it to read.  

He brushed his teeth too hard and made his gums bleed.  

What the fuck was wrong with him?  

He thought about the meeting with his handler yesterday and felt a rush of shame and inadequacy.  

“Why don’t you have a recording of the second half of the night?” his handler asked.  “We haven’t had trouble with the recordings in months.”  

“As far as I can tell, the recording stopped when he turned on his computer.  I didn’t know it’d been turned off, so I didn’t turn it back on.”  

“We’ll have to come up with a work-around for that.  Why don’t you have a transcript of what was said?”  

“I don’t remember,” John admitted, cringing internally.  

“What do you mean, you don’t remember?” his handler demanded. “You said he punished you, but you don’t remember the conversation?”  

“He was upset I tried to stop him from talking.  He just wanted a few more hours, not what I expected.  But no, I don’t remember the exact words he used.  I dissociated.”  

“You’ve been trained to remember even when that happens.  This isn’t acceptable.”  

“I know, sir.”

“Do better,” the man admonished.  “What about a USB of his computer contents?  You don’t mention getting that, either.”  

“As I said in my report, I fell asleep while Wren was fucking me and didn’t wake up until the morning,” John explained.  “I had no opportunity to look at his computer.”  

“You should’ve made one!” 

“I know.  I’ll do better next time.”  

John rubbed his temple, feeling a headache coming on.  The day seemed to be getting worse.  At least his client this evening wasn’t a CIA mission, though he wished he had the night off.  Could he cancel?  No, being in a bad mood wasn’t being sick.  Did he have time to go to the gun range in the afternoon?  Shooting things always seemed to help his mood.  

One of the phones on his desk rang, and he tripped again on the rug as he went to get it, though he managed not to fall on his face this time.  

Harold.  

Harold only texted, and he chose today of all days to call for the first time?  

John took a deep breath to center himself and flipped the phone open.  

“Harold?”  

“Good morning, John.  I hope I’m not intruding on your day, but I wondered if you’d meet me for breakfast?  Or coffee if you’ve already eaten?  I won’t be able to stay on as we usually do.”  

John wondered if he’d woken up in an alternate universe.  Harold didn’t want to fuck him?  What?  

“Uh, sure,” he managed to say.  “I’ll get dressed.”  

Harold had a booth in the back when John arrived at the diner — not one they’d been to before.  He tossed his phone and iPod on the table as he sat.  The waitress set coffee and a plate of food in front of him before he could reach for the menu.  He glanced at Harold, who thanked her and sipped his tea.  Harold picked at his scone.  

“What’s going on?” John asked, feeling the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end.  

“Aftercare,” Harold replied.  “Eat.”  

“Aftercare?” John repeated, feeling even more confused.  

Harold closed his eyes and sighed.  When he opened them, they seemed even more blue than usual.  “We had an intense scene the other day, and I wanted to make sure you weren’t sub dropping.  Or that if you were, I could help.”  

John closed his mouth.  

“Please eat,” Harold repeated.  He waited for John to take several bites before continuing.  “In retrospect, this is a conversation we should’ve had months ago, but we’d never done something quite like that, and I assumed that you had your own plans for aftercare as it’s part of your job, but then I was thinking about the differences between the other scenes we’ve done and the one the other day, and I realized that even if you did have support and aftercare and a whole cadre of people, that it was still my responsibility to look after you.”  

John carefully chewed his mouthful of eggs and took a sip of coffee.  “You don’t have to take care of me,” he responded.  “I’m fine.”  

“Yes, and I’m very glad to hear it, but I wanted to see you in person and reassure you that you did very well and to say that you’re worth a lot more than you give yourself credit for and that I’m no longer angry.  I forgive you.”  

John felt his throat tighten and he cleared it, gulping more coffee.  Harold reached across the table and took his free hand, squeezing it gently.  John blinked rapidly.  There was dust in his eye, making it water.  He set down the coffee and tried to remove it.  Harold got out of his seat and slipped onto the booth’s bench beside John and pulled him into an embrace, pressing John’s cheek to his chest and hiding his face from anyone nearby.  

“I’m crying,” John whispered.  Harold stroked his hair and kissed the top of his head.  “Why am I crying?”  

“You’ve been holding in a lot of feelings,” Harold murmured, still stroking his hair.  “It’s natural to cry after what we did.  There’s nothing wrong with you.  You’re not broken.”  

“But I am,” John continued in the small voice.  “You don’t know everything.  I’m not good.  I’m not good for you.”  

“You are a very talented man.  Talented and strong and caring.  I want you in my life.”  

“I’m not good for you,” John repeated, feeling the tears coming more quickly.  “I’ll hurt you.”  

“Maybe, maybe not.  No person can predict the future.  But one thing I know for sure is that you’re a good man and you deserve to be taken care of.  You don’t get that often enough.”  

John drew in a shuddering breath and allowed Harold to tell him all the reasons he was good and wanted and whole.  

When John arrived home an hour later, he felt lighter, as if a burden had been lifted from his shoulders.  He frowned at the broken toaster, but couldn’t summon any negative feelings about the incident.  It was over, in the past.  Harold forgave him.  He plugged the iPod into his computer to download the recording of their meeting.  

John felt relieved to find that the file had been corrupted so he could fabricate a lie about an innocuous breakfast that Harold wanted on a whim rather than report on the truth of what passed between them.  

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Chapter Text

For the first time in over seven months, Harold wasn’t waiting when John arrived for their appointment.  He waited fifteen minutes before texting, nursing a glass of water.  He didn’t like drinking before he saw clients and tried to avoid it during sessions, if at all possible.  Harold would order them wine, however, and he’d have to partake.  

Everything ok?  I’m at the restaurant. 

Harold responded three minutes later.  

I got caught up in work.  Grab some takeout and meet me at the hotel.  Sandwiches. 

Sure thing, John answered, shoving the phone in his pocket.  He knew that dosas weren’t Harold’s preference for finger food so he apologized to the waitstaff and left a tip before going to find a deli.  Harold texted an address while he waited for the sandwiches, so he was able to grab a taxi and be there within forty minutes.  

Harold’s hotel room had the lived-in look reminiscent of their first meeting that cropped up every few months.  

“Sorry it’s such a mess,” Harold mumbled as he let John in.  

“No worries,” John answered.  He started clearing space for dinner.  

Once they’d eaten, Harold apologized again and went back to work, muttering to himself about bugs and data sets and inconsistencies.  It was a coding project, possibly the one for Ingram,  John thought.  He made himself useful by getting rid of all the trash and organizing the books into one area.  

“Feel free to read one,” Harold said absently, nose still buried in the computer.  His fingers flew over the keyboard.  “This will take a while.”  

“Sure you don’t want a break?” 

“I just had one.”  

“True, but wouldn’t a blowjob help?”  

Harold’s fingers stopped moving and he looked up, startled.  His expression seemed quizzical, as if he couldn’t understand why John would be offering such a thing.  

“It’ll help you relax,” John explained.  “Make the work flow.”  

“Do you like the taste of latex so much that you’d volunteer?”  

John shrugged.  “I’m here to make you feel good.  Blowjobs feel good.”  

“When was your last STI screening?” 

“I got the clean results this morning.  And yes, you’re the first client I’m seeing since.”  

“What about a partner?”  

John shook his head.  “Don’t have one.  I prefer this to dating.”  

Harold tapped his fingers against the desk.  He looked around, seeing the neatly-made bed and closed closet door, the lack of clothes on the couch and the full trash bin.  

“Or I could rub your shoulders?”  

“Does anyone ever choose that over a blowjob?” Harold asked, pushing his chair back to make room for John in front of him.  John grinned and moved into position half under the desk.  He undid Harold’s belt and fly with deft fingers, bringing out his cock.  He gave it a few gentle tugs, encouraging an erection.  Harold sighed and leaned back, closing his eyes.  “Forego the condom, if you’d prefer,” he said.  “When your screenings align, I’d be comfortable this way.” 

John hummed in approval and pressed kisses along Harold’s shaft, then followed with his tongue. It didn’t take long for Harold’s dick to release the first bead of precum and John happily lapped it up.  Harold sighed again, a slow breath of pleasure.  One of his hands landed on top of John’s head and he started massaging John’s scalp.  John took the head of his cock into his mouth.  

“Oh, I do like this better,” Harold murmured.  His hand tightened in John’s hair as John swirled his tongue along the bottom of his shaft.  Harold took off his watch and pressed a button.  He returned to the one-handed scalp massage.  “Slowly, John.  Let’s see how long we can make this last, hmm?”  

John bobbed his head.  

Harold resumed typing with his free hand.  

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Harold fell asleep almost immediately after his orgasm.  John helped him to bed, stripped off his shoes, pants and shirt, leaving him in just boxers and undershirt.  He placed Harold’s glasses on the nightstand, then picked up Harold’s watch, stopping the timer.  He snorted smugly.  

He jiggled the mouse to wake Harold’s laptop.  He’d seen Harold input long passwords, though he’d never been able to discern what they were.  Twelve characters, at a minimum, maybe as many as sixteen or twenty.  He wouldn’t be able to guess it.  Instead, he pulled out the special USB drive he carried on missions with Harold and other CIA clients and plugged it into the laptop.  If it worked like it had on the few previous times, it would copy Harold’s hard drive without needing the password.  

He sat down in Harold’s chair to shuffle through the papers on the desk while he waited.  Spreadsheets, insurance risk analyses and quarterly financial reports for Universal Heritage Insurance made up the bulk of the information, all of which John took pictures of, despite the irrelevant nature of it.  Three pages from the bottom of the stack John found a small yellow sticky note.  

NSA — live translations? 

He smiled.  This was exactly the kind of break he and his team needed!  Harold was thinking about the NSA, not something that most people considered during their day-to-day lives.  It meant might Harold have concerns that he was being listened to, which meant he could be doing something he didn’t want the government to know about — something they already suspected.  

“Live translations,” though?  As far as he knew, Harold spoke some French and Italian, but he wasn’t fluent in either and only used them in particular circumstances, not everyday conversation.  Of course, John didn’t know what he really did during the day despite the team that monitored him at work and kept an eye out at IFT.  Perhaps he spent most of his time speaking other languages to disrupt the government listening stations from understanding him when he talked about his projects?  Both of those languages were common-enough in the States that it would be very easy to find someone to interpret them.  

The light on the USB turned off and John put it back in the special zippered pocket inside another pocket in his coat.  His eyes fell on Harold’s phone.  It was locked with a thumbprint, which wouldn’t have been a problem with Harold sleeping nearby, but it also required a passcode.  He put it back where he’d found it.  

Content with his work, he grabbed a book and stretched out on the couch to read.  

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Harold woke after two hours.  He sat up, groggily rubbing his eyes and squinting at John.  

“Enjoy your nap?” John asked.  

“Very much so,” Harold replied.  “I see you’ve found something to occupy your time.”  

John glanced at his watch.  “It’s still early.  Do you have any particular plans for the evening?”  

Harold put on his glasses.  “Unfortunately, I have to finish that report.”  

“Make sure you delete any long strings of gibberish,” John suggested.  “You weren’t paying any attention by the end.”  

“No, I had other things on my mind, didn’t I?”  Harold settled into his seat and woke the laptop.  “I’ll have that shoulder rub now, if it’s still on offer.”  

“Of course,” John said, getting to his feet.  He stood behind Harold and read over his shoulder as he massaged him, seeing Harold write a twenty-page report on insurance industry trends in under an hour.  John went back to his book.  

“Do you ever think about the fact that the government can legally read every email and listen to every phone call we make?” Harold asked some time later.  

John looked up from the book — It Can’t Happen Here by Sinclair Lewis.  He’d been slowly working his way through the books Harold carted around when he took a long weekend to work.  Though some of the books changed every time, there were others that kept showing up and he made a point to read them so they could discus them.  

“That’s a loaded question,” John answered, thinking of the sticky note.  He closed the book around a finger to keep his place.  Harold made the face that meant he knew John was stalling and planned to wait him out for a real opinion.  

“I’ve thought about it, sure.  It feels invasive and like the government’s going to turn into Big Brother or become fascist, like what’s happening in this book.  But then I remind myself that I’m just a regular person going about my life.  Why would they care what I do to the extent that they’d look into my calls or emails?”  

“You work for the government by being part of the army.  Don’t you worry that they could find out about this job and destroy your career?”  

John forced a laugh.  “I’m sure I could find a way to make up for the loss of pay.  You want another day? Tuesdays are usually free.”  

Harold rolled his eyes.  “Be serious, John.  What if they could listen even when you’re not on a call?  What if they could turn on the microphone of your phone at any moment and hear what you were doing?”  

“Are you worried about that?” John asked.  He set aside the book and got to his feet.  “Are you worried someone will find out you hire an escort and make a stink?  Destroy your career?”  Harold shut his computer as John stalked over.  “I think the government has bigger fish to fry than an insurance executive.”  He climbed onto Harold’s lap and removed his glasses, setting them on top of the computer.  

“Does it turn you on to think about some FBI agent or whoever listening to us having sex?”  

“Not particularly.  I like watching, not being watched.  And certainly not being listened to.  The audio aspect has never appealed to me.”  

“That’s right, you said you don’t like phone sex.  So you watch porn on mute?”  

“Who said anything about watching porn?”  

“Me.”  John pulled off his undershirt.  “What do you do when I’m not around?”  

Harold glanced away.  “I wait until I see you.”  

“What?  Really?”  

“You’d be surprised how dull my life is outside these meetings.”  

“You don’t even jerk off?”  

“Why bother when I have so much work to do and I know I’ll see you within a week?  I’ve gone years without sex or masturbation and not missed it.  My shameful secret,” Harold said.  He looked up at John.  He placed his hands on John’s waist and shifted him slightly for a better position.  “Don’t you have secrets?” Harold asked.  “Things you wouldn’t want anyone to know?”  

“Of course I have secrets.  I don’t put them in emails, though,” John answered quickly, trying to get them back on the NSA topic.  “Do you?”  

Harold chuckled, shaking his head.  

“Do you want to know one of my secrets?  Since you’ve already shared one of yours?” John whispered, lips brushing Harold’s ear.  Harold shuddered.  John felt his dick hardening.  “I got into bar fight when I was nineteen.  Joined the army to avoid jail.”  

Harold licked John’s left nipple, drawing it into his mouth to suck.  John made an appreciative noise and ran his fingers through Harold’s hair.  

“You again.”  

Harold pulled off his nipple and met his eyes.  He sighed.  “I never graduated high school,” he said.  “I lied on my college application.”  

“Risky,” John commented, storing the fact for later research. 

“I didn’t lose my virginity until I was 22.”  

“Nothing wrong with waiting until you’re ready,” John said.  Could that be true, given what he’d overheard that first night when Nathan introduced them?  Maybe Harold just watched for a while.  Although going years without masturbating seemed out of the ordinary, as well, but it would gel with that experience.  

“How old were you?”  Harold asked.  

“Fifteen.  My best friend’s sister.  We weren’t friends after that.”  

Harold paused.  

“Do you think the government’s listening now?” John asked.  “Do you think they care what we’re doing or talking about?  I doubt they’d prosecute you for lying on a college application thirty years ago.”  

“No, not for that,” Harold said softly.  “Not for that.”  

“You can certainly get out of a soliciting charge easily enough.  You’ve got the money for good lawyers.  Something else?” John cupped both of Harold’s cheeks in his hands and bent to kiss him.  “You shouldn’t tell me,” he added when he felt Harold’s leg twitch.  “I shouldn’t have asked.  I’m sorry.”  

“Sometimes I want to.”  Harold pulled John closer until their bodies were pressed tightly against each other.  “I want to trust you,” he continued.  “I want to have someone to talk to.  But if they’re listening in…” 

“They’re not,” John reassured him.  “They don’t care about you or me.  They don’t have time to care about us.  They have terrorists to catch.” 

“It’s difficult, knowing things I can’t share or talk about,” Harold admitted.  

“Your classified projects?  Yeah, I bet it would be.” John reached for the hem of Harold’s undershirt.  “Would it help to whisper it while I’m asleep?  So you get to say it to someone, but don’t have to risk him hearing it?”  He dropped the undershirt to the floor and moved to kiss Harold’s neck.  “I’m very discrete, you know.”  

“I know,” Harold said.  “Believe me, I know.”  

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Harold hadn’t taken John up on the offer of whispering secrets while he slept, John discovered when he downloaded the recordings the next day.  Not that John expected him to.  He was too paranoid.  Still, they had more information than the day before, and John’s team started scouring high schools in 1950-70’s Ohio for boys named Harold or Wren who hadn’t graduated high school.  There were a lot to go through.  When that found no clear results, they branched out throughout the Midwest, on the off-chance that Harold lied when he told John he was from a small town outside Columbus.  Still no luck, just like when they’d done the initial search for high school graduates named Harold or Wren.  

Many Harolds and Wrens, no leads to MIT or pictures that could conceivably be their Harold Wren.  When they physically went to MIT to look at paper records from the time, Wren’s file didn’t exist, though there was a mention of him declining to give the valedictorian speech and his name on the Honor’s Roll lists all sixteen semesters.  

John opened the search to boys with the first initial H and a bird as a surname.  Even more results, still no Harold.  

He thought about Harold sitting at home, missing him and choosing not to masturbate.  Knowing he’d see John soon was such a flimsy excuse… was he into denying himself?  John hadn’t noticed anything like that in the months they’d been meeting.  Harold demanded what he wanted and got it.  

John shifted in his chair and tried to picture Harold’s apartment.  Probably expensive as all get-out, with large rooms and empty spaces that were such a premium in New York City.  Lots of books.  A comfortable chair in front of a fake fireplace.  Did Harold sit there when he couldn’t sleep, imagining what he wanted to do with John?  Did he consider positions and tempo and how many orgasms he could get while John rode his cock?  

John felt blood rushing down to his dick, making it swell in his pants.  He palmed the bulge.  

He remembered sitting in Harold’s lap feeling his erection.  He’d wanted more.  He’d wanted them both to be naked so he could slide down on Harold’s cock and dance for him.  He would put on a good show, he knew.  He’d writhe and undulate his hips and make Harold sit perfectly still while he took care of everything.  

Harold could suck his nipples.  He’d allow that.  

He opened his fly.  

Harold wouldn’t be able to carry him to bed while John rode his cock, so they’d have to separate for a moment — only to come together again with Harold on his back and John on top of him once more.  

He could control everything from that angle, taking all of Harold’s cock and lining it up perfectly with his prostate.  Tweaking his own nipples to arouse them both, then raising his arms over his head to stretch, showing off his full torso as he ground down on Harold’s cock.  

Suddenly frustrated, he tore off his clothes and went for a dildo.  He didn’t stretch himself, simply slathered the thing with lube and inched it inside himself with a slow burn that made his eyes tear up and his blood sing.  

God, he wished it were Harold’s cock!  

Closing his eyes, he knelt on the carpet and imagined Harold again, thrusting into him, kissing him, calling him handsome and kind.  

He came with a shout, collapsing to the floor in a heap of limbs.  He curled around himself.  There were tears on his cheeks.  He hugged himself and held the dildo inside himself until he stopped crying and fell asleep.  

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Chapter Text

John was screwed.  Literally and figuratively.  On the one hand, he and Harold had been meeting for sex through the escort agency once a week for ten months, and his bosses were content to keep the mission going and allow John to play the long game with a man who was more than a little paranoid and definitely up to something they wanted to know about.  On the other hand, he wasn’t getting as much information as either he or his bosses wanted.  He had to up his game, and he was dreading it.  Sort of.  

He looked forward to Friday nights with Harold.  He looked forward to the sex, to the cuddling after, to the conversations, to being able to sleep without fearing for his life.  He looked forward to Harold’s wit and intelligence and encouragement to think about changing his life.  He looked forward to the brief moments he allowed himself to let go and simply feel while they fucked.  Harold was the only one with whom he felt comfortable doing it on a regular basis, and that alone was both exhilarating and terrifying, because if his bosses knew he let go like that as often or as long as he did, they’d call him compromised and pull him from the mission, and maybe New York, and he’d never see Harold again.  

Harold, who bought him expensive suits so that he could take John to Broadway shows and restaurants with celebrity chefs and gallery openings at the Met, like the one back in October where they’d been obnoxiously affectionate to annoy an ex-girlfriend of Harold’s.  That night had been a turning point, and after that they’d play pretend boyfriends when out in public — holding hands, giving each other smoldering looks and kissing.  John would always remind him not to kiss when they got back to the hotel room, but he’d started letting Harold kiss him a few times before the reminder, and Harold was more than content to go with that flow.  

Once they were in bed or clothing came off, kisses became off-limits and John could tell that Harold was getting impatient about it.  Soon he’d have to think about allowing more kissing and affection during sex, just to keep up the plan and whittle down Harold’s defenses.  He wasn’t dreading that at all — thinking of kissing Harold while they made love kept him up at night, touching himself and cursing his dick for wanting the extra time with an asset. 

Harold, in his turn, became more generous with tips and gifts and time, even going so far as to meet John for a morning run, breakfast and sex at least once a week now that the weather was getting warmer.  He explained that seeing John was a motivation to exercise more, but they both knew the truth.  Harold’s feelings were deepening.  

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John watched the grainy CCTV image of Harold and Nathan Ingram walking together in a park.  

“Olivia wants to extend the trial separation another six months,” Ingram said, his voice tiny and distant through the inexpensive computer speakers.  “Neither one of us wants to bring up the D word.  When you get married, you think you’ve found the one.  I mean, how do you know?  How does anyone know?”  

“Well, I’m no authority on these matters,” Harold replied, his expression closed off.  “But if you want to take some time off, work things out…” 

“Work’s the one thing that keeps my mind off the situation.”  They approached an empty bench.  “So, tell me, how goes our little experiment?”  

“I’m glad you asked!” Harold exclaimed, sitting down and opening a laptop with a wireless internet antenna.  The audio and video shut off abruptly.  

John glanced at his handler.  

“That’s all we have.  The feed returns an hour later, after both of them are gone.  Find out what their experiment is.  This is the biggest lead we’ve gotten since that NSA note in February.”  

“If Wren’s offering Ingram time off, does that mean that he’s the boss?  Why don’t we have record of that?  Wren doesn’t work for IFT or Ingram!”  

“Find out,” John’s handler repeated.  

John glanced through recent texts from Harold.  “He wants me to go with him to some bigwig convention on Friday.  Maybe that will give a clue.  If Ingram’s there…”  

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“I should warn you,” Harold said in greeting, “there may be acquaintances of mine here.  No one I really know, but people who will recognize me.”  

John looked around the crowded convention hall, noting the signs and booths and array of expensive suits.  “Yeah, me, too.”  

“Oh?”  

“You’d be surprised how many male executives want to try fucking a guy without social repercussions,” John murmured.  He snagged a pair of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and handed one to Harold.  “I can’t tell you how many single-issue NDAs I’ve signed.  How do you want to handle running into them?”  

“I don’t suppose business associates… “  

“Harold, you matched our pocket squares.  Boyfriend, partner, lover or hired help?”  

“You make it sound so degrading,” Harold grumbled, sipping his wine.  He grabbed John’s hand and interlaced their fingers.  “Boyfriend.”  

“It is degrading, according to most people,” John replied as they started walking through the main aisle.  “We’re either in the industry because we’re traumatized, needing to pay for drugs, in debt up to our eyeballs or some other bullshit.  No one thinks what I do is an actual profession that I chose because I wanted to.”  

“I suppose that’s true enough,” Harold agreed.  

“Anyway, if we run into former clients of mine, they’ll assume you’re like them, trying it out for shits and giggles.  If we run into a colleague, they’ll stay clear because they’ll know I’m working.  What about people you know?”  

“I’m sure they’ll be shocked to see me with a partner, let alone a man.  I rarely come to these events, but it’s my turn,” he added with a sigh.  “There are certainly disadvantages to everyday jobs.”  

“I don’t know, you get health insurance, right?  Don’t have to buy your own?”  

“Of course.”  

“There’s a difference right there.  If I didn’t have the gig with the army, I’d be paying a ridiculous amount for mine.  And this doesn’t seem so bad.”  John indicated one of the booths that offered “holistic aromatherapy for the stressed executive.”  The one next to it had a display of handcrafted writing implements, all hundreds of dollars each, followed by a larger booth on the corner for massaging desk chairs.  There was a line to sample them.  

“Wait until the speeches.  My company is one of the major sponsors of the conference, so if I leave early, it looks bad.  I’ve managed to avoid it the past five years, but as I said, it’s my turn.”  

“Speeches?”  

“Hmm,” Harold said, setting down his glass.  

John examined Harold more closely.  “Don’t tell me you’re giving one?” 

“Remember when I said that my life was boring?”  

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Despite years of training, John zoned out during Harold’s speech.  He recognized bits from the report he read over Harold’s shoulder several months ago, but most of it made no sense.  Also, Harold’s speech-giving voice differed from his regular dry tones, becoming a monotone that made John want to curl up and nap.  Looking around, he wasn’t the only one propping himself up with an elbow while stifling a yawn.  

Harold kissed his cheek as he retook his seat next to John when the final speaker took his place at the podium.  They held hands under the table, Harold’s thumb stroking John’s knuckles.  John felt at peace, connected to Harold in such a simple way.  

Leaving at the end of the night turned out to be more difficult than either of them predicted, as several dozen people wanted to shake Harold’s hand, exchange business cards and comment on his speech — apparently it had been one of Harold’s most interesting.  John caught the eyes of three former clients with their wives, all of whom immediately turned and disappeared, not staying to see Harold.  The one escort John knew by sight was across the room, so they didn’t have to interact. 

Harold greeted most people by name.  

“I thought you said you didn’t know anyone,” John commented in a lull between brownnosers.  

“I researched the attendees before arriving,” Harold replied, extending a hand to the next person and giving a fake smile.  “It’s called being polite.”  

John grunted, thinking of how many people were here and that it would take his team several days, if not weeks, to go through them all.  He wondered if he’d be able to keep that many names in his head the way Harold was doing and amused himself by trying while Harold did the glad-handing.  He didn’t get very far.  Without context or distinguishing features, most middle-aged and older white men looked the same, especially when they came one after another in a long line.  He remembered the half-dozen women, one of whom ignored John’s presence and flirted with Harold.  Harold didn’t seem to notice.  

Once in the car on the way to the hotel, Harold let out a groan.  He pulled loose his tie and rubbed the bridge of his nose, both signs of stress Harold rarely displayed.  John scooted closer and began massaging his temples.  Harold took a deep breath and let it out, allowing John’s ministrations to help him relax.  

“Don’t ever tell Nathan I said this, but he was right,” Harold said.  John made an inquiring noise, instantly on alert.  “I should’ve stayed in computers.  There’s such simplicity in code and coding.  This kind of event makes me regret my choices,” he muttered, waving a hand behind them towards the convention center.  

“You can change your mind, you know,” John commented.  “Do something different.  You tell me that often enough,” he added without thinking it through.  He should’ve kept Harold as the subject, not himself.  Could he work the conversation back to Harold and his choices of work? 

“True, but after our conversation earlier, perhaps I won’t continue doing that.  I was making assumptions that you didn’t like what you do or wanted to do something different but enjoy the freedom of the money you earn.  When you talked about actively choosing to do it, well, I realize I don’t understand you as well as I thought.”  

“I think you understand better than most of my clients,” John said.  “You acknowledge that this is a business relationship with certain parameters and you don’t try to push my boundaries into doing something I’m not comfortable with.  That’s giving me respect, treating me like a person instead of a piece of meat.”  

“I don’t know how I’d possibly push your boundaries when you agree to everything I suggest.”  

John left off the massage and took off his own tie, looking down at it.  He pulled it tight between his hands.  Time for some truth, followed by good old-fashioned emotional manipulation. “When we first talked about BDSM, I said that I didn’t do erotic asphyxiation or wear collars or do strangling fantasies because of a situation in my past.  You’ve never tried to do those things.  You’ve never tried to convince me to do those things.”  

“Of course not!” Harold exclaimed.  “Why would I do something you specifically requested we not do?”  

“Because I’m a whore.”  

“That’s —“ 

“No, Harold.  That’s what I am, no matter what fancy words I use to try to dress it up, no matter that I chose it and enjoy it, for the most part.  I’m someone who sells his body for money.  I don’t have any rights.  If someone raped me, you think I’d go to the police?  Even if we assume they’d believe me, which is a big assumption because so many people don’t think men can be raped, or that prostitutes can be raped when they agreed to it in the first place, I’m still doing something illegal and could face charges.”  

“But there’s laws…” 

John gave a bark of bitter laughter.  They sat in silence as the car continued on the way.  John waited, knowing Harold’s compassion would appear soon and he could use it to change the topic of conversation.  Harold’s hand creeped over the seat to squeeze John’s knee.  

“I’m sorry.”  

“No,” John replied, covering Harold’s hand with his.  “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”  He patted Harold’s hand.  “Tell me about coding.  You said it was simple?”  

“Simple?  Hardly.  I was referring to the ability to create perfection within a system that will do whatever’s asked of it within the guidelines already imbedded in its very structure.”  

“You’ve lost me.”  

“I studied coding in college, back when computers were the new frontier of technology, when we all had grand dreams and ambitions.  There was so much innovation.  The field moved so quickly.  I loved the ability to take a bunch of ones and zeroes and turn it into a calculator, a picture, a video game.  And the industry kept evolving.  FORTRAN led to COBOL led to BASIC led to C and C++ and Python and Java.  Last year someone made a language called Squirrel, of all things.  The list goes on and on.  New languages are being created right now!  Nathan, God bless him, is heading a company that’s rivaling Microsoft and IBM and Apple.  He’d give me a job as soon as I asked, despite the fact that I haven’t been in the field for decades, but staying current with all the research is so daunting…. The insurance business is dependable, predictable and easy.  I have time to do other things,” he concluded, stroking John’s thigh.  

“So that’s it?  You coded in college and gave it up?  I don’t believe that.”  

Light from a passing streetlight reflected off Harold’s glasses, but John caught a glimpse of his eyeroll when the reflection passed.  He knew he was threading a needle by talking back to Harold, but sometimes these verbal vollies paid off.  

“I dabble,” Harold admitted.  “Little projects here and there.  Personal passions, you might say.”  

“What’s the current passion?”  

Harold chuckled and leaned against John’s side, settling into one of his story-telling moods.  If John read him correctly, Harold would expound upon his topic enthusiastically for quite a while, which could give him some valuable information his handlers desperately wanted.  “You know about spell checkers, yes?  What if your spell checker could not only notice your errors but correct them for you? What if it could learn your particular style of writing?  What if you could program it for different things, say, reports and fiction and recipes?”  

“Well, you can train them already, can’t you?”  

“Only rudimentarily.  But what if it went behind you and fixed your errors before you knew you’d made them?  Without you having to do anything?  What if it could predict your style so well that it knew the difference between that and than and then, all on its own?  What if you never had to deal with another typo, ever again?  No more tits when you meant this or its or it’s.  There’s so much potential!”  Harold’s enthusiasm waned.  “Nathan wants me to commercialize it,” he said.  “He thinks it’ll be the next big thing.  He’d get a cut of the profits, of course.”  

“It sounds like you don’t want that.”  

“I don’t care about the money.  The thing I worry about is someone else taking my program, my creation, and using it for nefarious purposes.”  

“Huh, I’d have to think about that,” John said, feeling slightly deflated that Harold’s project was just a fancy spell checker.   

“Yes, well, so does Nathan.”  

There was another pause, more awkward than before.  

Could that possibly be it? John wondered.  Nearly a year of sex and stalking and sleuthing only to find something so mundane?  He didn’t believe it.  He couldn’t believe it.  If that were it, he’d have no reason to see Harold, and he doubted the CIA would approve of him spending so much time with an asset that wasn’t worth it.  If they pulled him, could he keep seeing Harold on the sly?  Find a way to make it work? Rejigger his schedule to make sure he used his non-CIA time with Harold?  They wouldn’t be able to see each other as often, or as regularly, but it would be something… 

“What would you like to do when we get back to the room?” Harold asked, interrupting his thoughts.  “We’re almost to the hotel.”  

“Have sex?” John answered, confused. 

“Yes, yes, but what kind?”  

“Whatever you want.”  

“I want to know what you want tonight.”  

“You’re still thinking about my job and making it more fun or acceptable or whatever.  Don’t.  I’ll do whatever you want.”  

Harold huffed and crossed his arms over his chest.  He turned to look out the window, dismissing John until he stopped being stubborn.  

John lost the battle of wills.  As usual.  

“Lie on your back so I can ride you,” he said begrudgingly.  

Harold snorted.  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”  

“I’m not used to clients asking my opinion.”  

“I recognize that there’s a power differential between us, John, but I also want you to enjoy yourself while we do this.  If you’d prefer one position over another, please consider telling me.”  

“I can try,” John promised.  

“Good.  And I’ll solicit your opinion more often.”  

“If we have a second round…” 

“Yes?”  

“Come down my throat.”  

“I think that can be arranged,” Harold said with a smile.  He ran his fingers through John’s hair and leaned over for a kiss.  

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Chapter Text

Harold’s thrusts were sure and deep, hitting John’s prostate and dragging deliciously against his rim with every movement.  John closed his eyes and relaxed, giving a little more of himself to Harold, just for a thrust or two.  Or three or four or five… 

“Good, good,” Harold murmured, blunt manicured fingernails scratching down John’s back.  He kissed John’s shoulder.  “Can you turn over for me?”  

John hadn’t felt this aroused in a long time with anyone other than Harold — it was more than just the physical sensations, more than just the hormones flooding his system and making him float.  He felt at ease, cared for.  Intellectually he knew this was business, work, that he was supposed to be spying and certainly not falling in love, but his mind had detached from the rest of him and he gave in to the moment.  He rolled to his back and grabbed his thighs to hold his legs  apart when Harold withdrew.  

“Do you like this, John?” Harold asked, his breath hot on John’s ear as he bent him nearly in half to continue the deep thrusts.  “Do you like having me inside you?”  

“Yesss,” John hissed.  He turned his head towards Harold’s face, wanting a real kiss.  Instead, two of Harold’s fingers slipped into his mouth.  He started sucking them, wetting them for whatever Harold had planned.  

“Good,” Harold said again.  He caressed the edge of John’s hole next to where his dick thrust.  “Do you want more?”  

John watched himself nod from halfway up, heard Harold’s voice as if from a far away hill.  Harold inserted a finger with the next thrust and John heard his own voice groaning, saw his body writhing underneath the other man.  

He slammed back into his body when Harold jerked out the finger to grab John’s dick in both hands, slick with lube.  He came so hard he almost blacked out.  Harold finished quickly after that, picking up the pace of his thrusts until his hips blurred and John thought he could feel Harold’s dick pressing against his stomach from the inside.  

Not really, but it made him smile to imagine.  

They lay there panting, John with a goofy grin on his face, until Harold’s softening dick slipped out of John and he had to look away to deal with the condom.  John wrapped his arms around Harold and rolled them over, pushing Harold into the bed with the weight of his own body.  He couldn’t wait any longer.  His self-control snapped.  

His lips found Harold’s and he kissed him with a passion and desire he’d been diligently suppressing for months.  He doubled down when Harold tried to turn his head, grabbing the sides of his face to hold him in place and kissing him harder.  

Harold made a small mewling sound.  John raised his head to check Harold’s expression, unsure what the sound meant.  Was he protesting?  Was he happy?  Harold surged up after him and kissed him back with just as much passion, shoving his tongue into John’s mouth and clinging to him with both arms.  

Things got hazy after that.  John remembered falling off the bed as they wrestled to keep kissing, he remembered the scramble back into bed and diving between Harold’s legs to rim and finger him, he remembered Harold’s sharp cry of condom! as John moved to fuck him.  He remembered kissing the breath out of both of them as rough fucking melted into the slowest, smallest thrusts he could manage, kissing all the while until they were both begging, demanding, desiring, flying.  

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“How often do you dissociate during sex?” Harold asked later, cuddled against John’s side, fiddling with his dog tags and drawing invisible spirals on his chest.  As soon as he spoke, John wondered why he hadn’t asked sooner — tonight was hardly the first time it’d happened while they were together, even if they didn’t count the BDSM scenes.  

“Sometimes,” John admitted, not bothering to hide this truth.  That Harold had asked “how often” instead of “do you” meant that he understood it was a hazard of John’s profession.  “There’s different kinds,” he continued, deciding to see where the conversation would go, what new information he could pry from Harold by dribbling hints of his own.  

“What do you mean?”  

“Usually —“ John cleared his throat.  “Usually it’s because I’m bored.  I’m doing a job I’ve done hundreds of times and there’s no real point in paying attention, especially when I’m being fucked from behind and don’t have to worry about my expression.” 

“I take it today was different?” Harold wondered.  John heard the hope in his voice and knew what he was supposed to do.  

“Yeah.”  He turned his head away, even though Harold hadn’t made a move to look at his face.  For the first time in years, he didn’t want to follow the orders he’d been given.  No, that wasn’t true.  He didn’t want to follow many orders when Harold was involved and hadn’t since that November morning when Harold called to offer support rather than sex.  He still did as he was expected to do, for the most part, but he left some details out of his reports and fudged transcripts when the conversation hadn’t been picked up well enough by the microphone.  Small things, insignificant things.  His desire for Harold, most of all.  

“I’m not sure I can describe it.  It’s like —“  John closed his eyes and searched for the right words.  Words that would create an intimacy that would get Harold to spill secrets, the spy inside whispered.  Words that would — 

John gently pushed Harold off him and sat up, running his fingers through his hair as he argued with himself.  He didn’t want to be a spy tonight.  He didn’t want to be an escort.  He hugged his knees.  

Would he ever be allowed to be just a man again? 

Not in this lifetime, he thought.  The CIA owns me until I’m dead. 

“Most of the time, with men, it’s not just being bored.  It’s wanting to be somewhere else.  Like I said at the beginning, not everyone takes the time to stretch me.  I went into this knowing what I was doing, knowing what would happen to me, what kinds of people I was likely to serve, but…” He glanced back at Harold who’d sat up and was leaning against the headboard, waiting patiently.  

“Another reason I don’t like long-term commitments is that people are more likely to notice me when we do this enough.  They want to get in my head, know what I’m thinking, what I’m feeling.  And I can’t really tell the truth, you know?  Clients don’t want to know I’m making up my grocery list or planning how to shift my exercise routine or wondering when it’ll be over so I can go home and shower when we’re fucking.” 

He sighed.  

“Tonight, though, tonight I — I wanted to kiss you.  I’ve been wanting to kiss you, for weeks, and I know that’s not what we agreed on, but the lines have been blurring, so dissociating is a way to keep from doing it and keep everything contained and objective.”  He lowered his head to his knees.    

“More than that, though,” John continued in a muffled voice, “I felt safe,” he said, knowing it for the truth even as he planned the words to have the most impact.  He met Harold’s eyes again.  “You make me feel safe.  It’s terrifying.”  

Harold’s eyes widened at the admission.  He gasped softly.  “Oh, John, I can’t tell you how much it means to me for you to say that,” he said, pulling John into a hug.  “I care about you, a lot.  More than I should, I think, and I’m so happy to hear you say that.  So happy.  Not that you’re scared, of course, but that you feel safe with me.”  

“I don’t feel safe with clients.  I don’t want to kiss clients.  And yet I feel safe with you and want to kiss you and I care about you, too.  I look forward to the surprise dates, and the gifts and to waking up next to you Saturday mornings.  I want your attention.  I want your caring.”  He closed his eyes as he looked away.  “I want more than I’m allowed to have, more than I deserve.” 

“I like waking up next to you, too,” Harold said softly, his breath warm on John’s cheek.  “I love how responsive you are, how eager.  Intellectually, I know there’s an element of acting, but I forget, in the moment.  It feels real.  That smile earlier, I almost cried, seeing you so happy.”  

“I was happy.  I am happy.  With you.”  

John allowed himself to be held, allowed Harold to pet his hair and kiss him and use endearments.  He allowed himself to soak up the affection and care to store away for the long nights when he’d be with much less appealing clients.  His stomach felt like a flock of birds were trying to escape.  He wanted to throw up.  

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“Jessica,” John said out of the blue.  “I was dating Jessica on 9/11,” he clarified, staring into the dark and not sure Harold was awake to hear him.  Harold shifted, rolled over and rested a hand on John’s chest, over his heart.  “We were in Mexico.  I’d just quit the army to be with her.  I thought I wanted to marry her.”  

Harold kissed his shoulder.  

“We decided to go to New York to help the recovery.  She was a nurse, I was a recent veteran.  We had skills that would be helpful.”  

“She was a nurse?”  

“She got that syndrome.  The one from all the chemicals in the air.  It happened so fast…”  John trailed off, feeling his heart constrict at the pain of losing her, again.  “I rejoined the army the week after her funeral.  It was still 2001.”  

“Oh, John,” Harold murmured, leaning up on one elbow to be able to see his face in the dim light.  “I’m so sorry.  So very sorry.”  

John blinked, feeling water on his cheeks.  

“Oh, my dearest John,” Harold said, and held him while he sobbed.  

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They woke aroused.  Not an unusual occurrence, it felt especially important to John this morning after all they’d shared the night before.  After all he’d shared.  

“How are you?” Harold asked, touching his face gently.  

John remembered crying about Jessica and closed his eyes in pain.  “I never let myself mourn her,” he responded.  “I feel… lighter.”  He opened his eyes and pulled Harold into his arms.  “Thank you,” he murmured into his hair.  

Harold squeezing him tightly, then tilted his head for a kiss.  “Anything I can give you, I will,” he said.  “Peace of mind, safety from your demons, protection.”  

With the barrier to kissing fully crushed, they explored each other’s mouths slowly, taking their time.  John reveled in the feeling of Harold’s tongue stroking his.  So entranced with the new closeness, they came rutting against each other, creating a sticky mess.  

In the shower Harold sucked John off, then pressed him against the tiles and took him — no worries about refractory periods this morning.  John closed his eyes and let himself go completely.  

“What does all this mean?” Harold asked as they got dressed.  He paused.  “You said you don’t date clients, but that felt like more than… what we’ve been doing…”  Harold trailed off, clearly uncomfortable.  

“I don’t know,” John said.  “This kind of thing has never happened to me before,” he added, pulling scripts from the handbook on maintaining assets’ interest, making them feel special.  He frowned at the white iPod he’d taken from his bag, thinking about what his handlers would say about his performance and how screwed he’d be when they heard everything.  Bringing up Jessica… that was a mistake and he knew it.  Too personal.  Too real.  

“It feels different to me, too.”  He shook his head to clear it.  “I want so much…” He looked up at Harold with a pleading expression on his face, silently imploring him to take control, to tell him what to do.  “What are we going to do?”  

Harold plucked the iPod from his hands, replacing it with a brand new black one.  “I’d meant to give this to you earlier,” he said.  “I think the black suits you better.”  

“I can’t take this,” he said, the same thing he’d said with the suits and expensive dinners and Broadway tickets.  As usual, Harold ignored his protests.  

“I added my favorite running playlist.”  Harold took off the earbuds from the white iPod and returned them to John, putting the CIA’s iPod in his inner jacket pocket.  He rested his palm against John’s cheek.  “I realize that we’re on uncharted waters, so to speak, and that things may change between us.  If you want to continue to go through the agency, I understand.  I imagine there’s a certain safety for you keeping ours a professional relationship.  If you’d rather a real date, however… you know how to contact me.  I won’t schedule with them until I hear from you, either way.”  He kissed John lingeringly on the mouth.  

John was still trying to formulate a reply when the door closed behind Harold and he was alone, no recording and no desire to send in a report.  

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Chapter Text

The most recent session with Harold threw everything on its head, especially John’s objectivity.  Harold’s deeper feelings could be the wedge John needed to exploit to finally break through his defenses, but did he really want to do that to Harold?  Did he have a choice?  

His handler had listened to the recording of Harold’s story about the spell checker two weeks ago and dismissed it as irrelevant to the real project Harold was hiding.  Too simple, too reasonable.  There was no need for the level of his paranoia if that’s all he was making for Ingram.  

John was to dig deeper, and he’d just been handed an opportunity.  If they were “dating,” it would be conceivable that John would get to see where Harold lived, which would be a huge win for the Agency.  They could do a thorough search while John distracted him elsewhere, and with enough time, they’d be able to unlock some of Harold’s mysteries and secrets.  

If they were dating, John wouldn’t have to hold back on kissing him… 

John sat staring at a blank document, struggling to compose his thoughts to be able to write his report without revealing too much of himself.  

John had five suits and a tuxedo gifted to him by Harold in his closet.  They were all expensive, tailored to order from scratch and perfectly fitted to John’s body.  He walked over to look at them, run his fingers over the fine wool.  Soon he’d have to get fitted for a lighter suit, he thought, as the weather continued to warm as June approached. Harold had mentioned open-air concerts and rooftop dining and hinted at planning a trip to the Mediterranean.  Could he convince Harold to use a lighter weight fabric but keep the color dark the way he liked, or would Harold want him in some ostentatious light-colored ensemble Harold preferred?  Harold loved paisley, but John shuddered to think of having to wear it himself.  Couldn’t he be the dark-suited trophy boyfriend, dressed conservatively to accentuate Harold’s more flamboyant tastes?  

That certainly wouldn’t be out of place in Europe, he knew from experience, especially with the obviously bespoke nature of the suits.  He’d had to do escort work there occasionally, in addition to the interrogations and assassinations.  

Would the CIA allow him to spend a week away from New York with Harold?  Would he be able to convince them it was a necessary step to wear away at Harold’s defenses?  Alone with each other for an entire week or two, Harold was sure to slip up, give more information about himself and his project.  

And the sex they’d have… 

It wasn’t just about sex, though.  It was about feeling safe.  It was about feeling cared for and thought about and considered.  He hadn’t felt safe for longer than a few hours since he joined the army over ten years ago, and before then he’d been a kid without much understanding of how fleeting safety could be.  

Harold’s responses to his real and made-up confessions had increased his feelings of being cared for, of Harold wanting to make him feel good more than just physically.  Of safety.  

Harold meant safety.  Full stop.  

Except Harold was an asset, the opposite of safety because his bosses were monitoring everything they said and did — at least what John was able to record with his iPod and was willing to report on. 

He picked up the black iPod from his desk and sighed.  What was he going to do about himself?  He wanted to be free to take Harold up on his offer, but he wasn’t.  He had a duty to protect the United States, and finding out what Harold was coding for the government would help with that mission — something that secretive had to have an ulterior motive.  

He wanted more days with Harold, more time — if he didn’t have his other job with the CIA, could he just be Harold’s rent boy, or whatever a grown man was to his wealthy lover?  Let Harold buy him a fancy apartment and a wardrobe and be available whenever Harold wanted? For whatever Harold wanted?  No more escort work?  No more Agency work?  Just days and nights filled with Harold and his whims? 

Harold wouldn’t lie to him.  Harold wouldn’t abuse him.  Harold wouldn’t order him to kill… 

In fact, he could imagine a life where he had hobbies, even friends…once he figured out how to make them.  He didn’t have to live with Harold.  It might be better if they didn’t.  Harold could keep his secrets and John could stop pressing him for them and they could be happy.  They could take that trip to Italy or Spain or wherever Harold wanted.  

He plugged the iPod into his computer and watched iTunes open automatically, asking if he wanted to download the new music.  He scrolled through the playlist, and not seeing anything suspicious, clicked yes.  He watched as each song downloaded, waited for the beep indicating the process was done and pressed play.  Harold’s music filled the room.  Classic rock, perfect for running.  He caught himself smiling and wiped his face with his hand to remove it.  

Returning to the word processor, he started working.  

I’m compromised, he typed.  Cursing to himself, he deleted the sentence.  He glanced around the apartment, reminding himself where the monitoring equipment was.  Safe for the moment, he turned back to the computer.  

I’m compromised.  I’m developing feelings for an asset.  

He deleted everything he’d written.  Did they have a keystroke tracker on his computer?  How would he know?  He wasn’t good enough with computers to be able to tell — something he’d been working on since he started seeing Harold, but he knew he had a long way to go to understand even a tenth of what he suspected Harold knew.  

Spying on Harold, he reminded himself harshly.  I’m spying on him. 

His eyes fell on the phone Harold had given him the first night.  They texted every other day, mostly to confirm rendezvous or arrange the gifts Harold sent, nothing bordering on untoward or even personal.  Harold didn’t like phone sex or sexting — he was very clear on that.  He also didn’t like small talk.  John stared at it, wondering how Harold would respond if he sent a heart or smile emoticon, just to let him know he was thinking of him.  That wasn’t exactly small talk, was it? 

The CIA monitored the phone, like all his other phones and email accounts and movements.  He couldn’t call Harold without them knowing and listening.  He couldn’t ask for help.  He could flirt, he thought, to keep up the cover… 

He wasn’t sure he could keep the flirting CIA-appropriate.  He’d get lost in the emotions of it and lose even more of his objectivity, what little he had left.  

He sent the heart.  

After twenty minutes pacing around his apartment without a response from Harold, he sat down to work.  He dragged the original file to the trash and emptied it.  He opened a new document to try again.  

I’m falling in love with him.  It feels better than with Jessie.  

He reformatted his hard drive.  

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“You don’t have a recording of the meeting with Harold Wren this week,” John’s handler said.  “Why not?”  

“As I stated in my report, he took the iPod and left before I could get it back.  I chose not to break my cover and let him have it.  Given how paranoid he is, I stand by my decision.”  

There was nothing unusual about his handler questioning him like this, John reminded himself.  He was always being questioned, about everything, and going over one of his reports several times to make sure the facts lined up and stayed consistent was a basic technique he’d learned how to master and thwart years ago.  It was his handler’s job to figure out if John was compromised.  He couldn’t let on that he already was.  He needed to protect himself, but more than that he needed to protect Harold.  If the CIA suspected he was developing feelings for an asset, they could drag the asset in for questioning, and there was no doubt in his mind that Harold would be assigned enhanced interrogation techniques if they ever brought him in.  

“So he’s not going to schedule another appointment until you tell him if you want to keep things status quo or decide to date him?”  

“That’s correct.  He also hasn’t contacted me about a morning rendezvous, which should have happened yesterday or this morning, if he kept to the schedule of twice a week we started this month.”  

“I notice that you haven’t given an opinion on which action to take.”  

“It’s not my job to make that kind of decision,” John said firmly.  “But from my years doing this work, I think keeping things status quo would be a detriment to the mission.  Wren’s level of paranoia will only increase if I were to continue to keep him at arm’s length after such an emotional conversation.  I can amend the report to include that,” he suggested.  

“Do that.”  His handler reread some of the fabricated conversation.  “This part, after you told him you felt safe, what was his demeanor like?”  

“Startled, happy, relieved.  Like he’d been wanting some declaration from me like that for a while and was finally getting it.  He stressed the words ‘a lot’ when saying how much he cares about me, perhaps indicating that even with the modifier it was too small of a description for the situation.”  

“He didn’t say he loved you?”  

“No.  He called me dear and darling, but he didn’t go that far.”  

“You didn’t think it was the time for you to say it?”  

“Too soon,” John replied.  “He wouldn’t believe it yet.  Besides, I’d have to be able to convince him it was real feelings and not a desire to manipulate him for more money.  We haven’t talked about feelings often enough to quash his suspicions.” 

“All right, we’ll wait and see what Langley says.”  

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Chapter Text

Harold didn’t wait for John to give him a decision.  After avoiding their morning runs  for two weeks and missing one Friday, the first since he’d hired John aside from a few CIA missions, he called on Thursday, asking if they could meet at their usual time.  John agreed before he thought to inform his handler or check his schedule with the escort agency.  Hearing Harold’s voice, even though they were on the phone less than a full minute, put a smile on John’s face for the next hour — until he remembered he had to call his handler about the development and he felt his mood fall off a cliff.  

His handler was thrilled with the unexpected contact and gave the go ahead to meet and feel out what Harold wanted “dating” to be, even though they hadn’t gotten a response from Langley.  

Thirteen days without contact from Harold had been difficult — John found himself staring at the phone, hoping for a text from Harold and talking himself out of reaching out.  Harold never responded to that first emoticon and John hadn’t wanted to press his luck and try again, much as he ached to.  He felt like his hands were tied between waiting for orders and fantasizing about a life without orders from anyone except Harold.  

John wore one of the suits Harold bought him, arriving at the hotel early and getting a drink at the bar to settle his nerves.  He didn’t usually drink on the job if he could help it, but he had no idea what to expect from Harold or himself and wanted something to blame if things went sideways.  Harold must have had similar thoughts, because he showed up before the set time and slipped onto a bar stool next to John and waved for a drink.  

They sat next to each other sipping in silence for two minutes.  

“I must apologize,” Harold said.  John glanced over, seeing concern in his expression.  “I said I would wait and then I didn’t.”  

“I said I would give you a decision and I haven’t,” John countered, wondering yet again why Langley hadn’t sent him orders yet.  They were usually quicker.  There were several reasons that he could think of, none of them good for him or Harold.  “There’s more to talk about than whether or not I want what you’ve offered.  It’s not just about what I want.  I —”  

“Come upstairs with me,” Harold interrupted.  “I can’t stand not touching you.”  

John threw a fifty on the countertop and got to his feet.  Harold hesitantly took his hand in the elevator.  Something they’d done in public, there was a poignancy to doing it now, alone, as they thought about embarking on a new kind of relationship.  John squeezed encouragingly.  

Once in the room, they kissed.  And kissed.  And kissed.  

Harold got on his knees before John and looked up, eyes wide and pleading, hands trembling on John’s thighs.  John nodded and soon Harold had his fly open and his dick in his mouth — not bothering with a condom the way he had the last time they’d seen each other.  As he floated on sensation, John remembered that he’d just had his monthly bloodwork and that he got the negative results yesterday afternoon, a day earlier than he’d expected — sixteen minutes before Harold called.  He hadn’t told Harold yet. Did Harold know, or had he stopped caring?   That didn’t seem like him.  Perhaps he trusted John enough to know he’d stop him if it wasn’t ok? 

It didn’t matter.  

What did matter was that John had been scheduling his bloodwork so that his first sexual encounter would be Harold for the past six months — even before Harold gave him the go ahead to skip condoms when he had fresh negative results.  If the guys at Langley put that together… 

Harold stood and started taking off his clothing.  John rushed to join him in nakedness.  They clambered onto the bed and Harold kept kissing him as he stretched him.  John didn’t need much — he’d taken his time getting ready earlier, his mind on Harold and how good it would feel to have him inside him again.  

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” Harold admitted as he rolled on a condom.  “Every day, all the time.  I know I can’t ask you to stop seeing other people,” he continued.  “It’s your job.  I can’t ask you to give that up.  But I want —“  He stopped suddenly, looking away.  “I wish I could.”  

John rolled into a sitting position and faced Harold, reaching to take his hand.  “You can have anything you want,” he said in a soft purr, kissing his knuckles.  “Here, now, I’m just with you.  That’s all that matters right now.  You have me now.”  John lay back, exposing himself in a way Harold found especially enticing.  

“I have you,” Harold repeated, easing into him.  “I have you.”  

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John woke to the sound of Harold drawing in a breath to begin speaking.  The room was completely dark, except for the alarm clock and a wisp of light from where the curtains hadn’t been fully closed.  The scene had the feel of John’s confession about Jessica.  

“I lost my father when I was very young,” Harold said, confirming John’s suspicions.  “Not as young as some, but I was a teenager, and those are particularly difficult years.”  

“Lost mine when I was ten,” John replied, fudging his own history into that of his escort identity.  “Don’t remember much more than the funeral.”  

“Has that effected your relationships with men, do you think?  It certainly has mine.”  

“Probably.  I’ve never thought about it like that.  It moved me towards the army as a career path, though.  He’d enlisted, been on the Reserves when he died, though that wasn’t how it happened.”  

“Hmm,” Harold hummed.  “I would never have been bold enough to sleep with a man, were my father alive.”  

“No?”  

“My experience with small towns is that they either accept a person’s oddities by never talking about them or refuse to accept them and run them out of town.”  

“Being gay or bi isn’t an oddity,” John protested, even as he stored these new tidbits about Harold away to report on and research later.  Not that Harold had ever identified a particular sexuality, John reminded himself.  

“It was where and when I grew up.  My father was a kind man, but he made clear that I wasn’t to talk to the sissy-boys, as he called them, in my high school.  Being as intelligent as I am made me stand out enough as it was.  I suppose he was trying to protect me, but it left an impression.”  

“What about your mom?” 

“She passed when I was a baby.”  

John made a sound of acknowledgment and rolled over to cuddle up to Harold, kissing his shoulder, his neck.  “What has you thinking of that now?”  

“I was thinking about how much has changed between us since we met.  If we don’t alter how we interact, I suppose we could keep this up for years.  My patronage alone is more than some families make in a year, not including the material items I provide.  With dating, however, I wouldn’t be paying you… and you could leave any time you wanted.  Not that you couldn’t leave now, of course, but you have a solid motivation to stay.  So it wouldn’t be too much of a stretch to say I’m thinking about loss.”  

“Losing me, specifically,” John clarified.  

“Yes.”  Harold started stroking John’s arm.  “I worry that these feelings we’re developing for each other have changed things too radically.  I feel out of control, which hasn’t been a common occurrence the last twenty years.  It makes me uneasy.”  

“Yeah,” John began, deciding this was an avenue to exploit.  “Me, too.  I’ve been thinking about it a lot.  What dating would mean, the differences between that and what we do now, why I’ve hesitated to contact you.  I haven’t made up my mind.  I’m conflicted.  I can’t say it’s not about the money, but it’s not just about the money.”  

“What else is it about?”  

“Closeness.  Being vulnerable.  Secrets.”  

“I’m sure we each have enough secrets that we don’t need to carry each other’s as well,” Harold mused.  

“I’d want to,” John said, weaving his tale.  “When I’ve dated people, the thing I hated the most was when they kept things from me.  Lying, omitting details, misdirection.  I told you about Jessica.  When we were in Mexico, she told her mother that she was with a friend named Cindy, not me.  It hurt.  I understood, of course.  I was a soldier, not her usual white collar type, and her mother disapproved of me.  I still didn’t like it.”  

“No, I can imagine not.”  

“What about you?”  

“Me? I have secrets enough for ten men,” Harold said with a tired sigh.  “I create more every day, it seems like.”  He sat up and reached for the bedside light, giving John a warning before turning it on.  He got out of bed and grabbed the bottle of scotch from the coffee table and the two glasses they’d used earlier.  He returned to bed and poured for them both.  John sat up and accepted the glass, letting the sheet pool over his lap while Harold pulled on a pair of sleep pants.  

“One of the advantages of our current relationship is that there’s no expectation to share our secrets.  You’d want that to change, I assume?”  

“Not the classified stuff,” John responded to make Harold comfortable.  “That’s off-limits.  But other stuff, yeah, I’d want to know.”  

Harold settled back against the headboard with John, propped up by pillows.  

“And there’s the conundrum.  You shouldn’t even know that I have access to classified information.”  

“I know how to keep secrets, Harold.  I’m an escort.  I read the NDAs I sign.  I even have a lawyer!  I may not have had the highest clearances when I was deployed overseas, but I learned when to press for more information and when not to.  I know what classified means.  I know what Top Secret and Secure Compartmentalized Information means. I just said that stuff is off the table between us,” John reiterated, thinking quickly.  “But what about things like what you had for lunch, which tv shows or sports you’re into, who your friends are?  Small details about your day we’ve never talked about.”  

Harold shook his head, smiling.  “You want to know the minutia of my daily life?”  

“If we were dating I’d want to.”  John paused.  “I’d tell you about mine, too.  If we were dating, we could meet each other’s friends.  Us being together wouldn’t be a secret.  That’s one less, right there.  And we could vent about our days, complain about coworkers, something like that.”  

“Talk about our work?  Would you tell me about your clients, then?  Tonight is the insurance executive, tomorrow the diplomat’s daughter and Tuesday the lonely housewife?” Harold asked in a biting voice.  “I’m sure that’s supposed to be a secret, too,” he added.  

John felt suddenly uncomfortable.  He’d had a session with the diplomat’s daughter earlier in the week— good intel, his handler had been pleased.  And he had a woman on the books for Tuesday, a new client to the agency who could very well be a housewife.  

“Too close to home?” Harold asked, gentler.  “Perhaps we’re not suited to dating, given how things began with us,” he concluded.  “My bank account is more than sufficient to keep this up, as I’ve said.” 

John swirled the liquid in his glass.  He’d tried to push for information and ended up on the wrong side of the inquiry feeling overmatched.  Harold was good at twisting conversations, and even as smart as he was, John kept losing the verbal altercations.  Harold outclassed him with words and discussions and logic, just as he outclassed Harold in all things physical.  

They certainly complemented each other, he thought to himself.  What a team they would be, if Harold were his handler! 

He pushed that idea firmly out of his head.  Harold might have secrets — did have secrets, many of them — but he wouldn’t be able to lead John on a wild goose chase around Europe catching criminals or enemy spies. He was an insurance exec and probably a hacker on the side, no familiarity with violence or death of the kind John dealt whenever he was out of town with the CIA. 

Aside from that, Harold was settled in New York and John’s other job took him all over the world.  Harold would hardly follow him wherever he was sent. 

“I want to keep seeing you,” he whispered towards the glass, as sadness washed over him.   He picked his next words carefully, thinking about the recorder across the room listening to everything they said.  “My week was all out of sorts without seeing you.  I didn’t know what to do with myself.” 

Harold ran his fingers through John’s hair comfortingly.  

“So we’ll keep things as they are,” Harold answered, putting an arm around John’s back.  “We’ll have our Friday nights, we’ll have our morning runs.” 

John nodded silently, leaning against Harold’s side.  

“You said last time that I made you feel safe,” Harold said after a moment.  “Was that also part of your hesitation?” 

“Of course.  I haven’t felt safe most of my life.  I’m not used to it, like you and being out of control.”  John sighed.  He glanced at Harold briefly before turning his face back to the glass of scotch.  “I spend more time with you than any other client.  I want that time.”  John downed the scotch in one swallow.  “I was content with my life before you showed up in it,” he admitted.  “I had this job, the other one, and everything was working out.  

“Now everything is in flux.” 

“Change can be… difficult,” Harold suggested.  His hand on John’s shoulder squeezed him.  “I don’t know how I’d go on if you left me,” Harold whispered.  “So much of my life revolves around you, planning to see you, thinking of gifts for you, imagining how we could be, if things were different and we allowed ourselves to truly feel what we’re feeling.” Harold tossed his glasses to the nightstand and rubbed his eyes — they were wet.  

John put down his empty glass and pulled Harold close, hugging him, kissing his hair, his ear, his cheek.  His stomach felt aflame.  He couldn’t promise he’d stay — he didn’t control that, Langley did — but he wanted to.  

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said anyway, knowing it for a lie.  Was there something he could say to get Harold to give up some vital clue that would convince Langley to keep John here? If there was, he couldn’t think of it. Even all the new information about Harold’s past might not be enough, if Langley was hesitating because they suspected John’s feelings.  

“What about your other job?” Harold asked.  “Couldn’t they call you up?  Send you away?” 

John shook his head.  

“You were shot last time!” Harold exclaimed.  “What if —“ 

John turned and took Harold’s face in his hands.  “I promise you, Harold, I have no plans to leave.  I — “ John broke off.  He’d been about to say he loved Harold.  He couldn’t say that yet.  Not yet.  He needed the go-ahead from Langley to take that step, no matter that it was how he really felt.  

Harold reached up and clutched John’s wrists.  They locked gazes.  Harold pulled him forward for a kiss so tender John thought he’d cry. 

His days in New York felt numbered.  

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Chapter Text

John yawned as he left the elevator of the midlevel hotel where he’d just finished meeting with a middle-aged female client — not one of the CIA’s.  It had been so vanilla — she just wanted him to go down on her, not even fuck her, though by the end she’d changed her tune and he left her a sodden mess on the sheets.  Not a housewife, thank God, he thought, remembering the conversation with Harold.  

He wanted a shower and a meal, preferably in that order, followed by some sleep.  He wanted to be able to think about Harold. He wanted to kiss him again, for Harold to fill him again.  He wanted to be inside Harold again — so new for them to switch and it already felt necessary.  And Harold gave good blow jobs, John thought with a snicker.  He knew why they hadn’t done it before, but damn, he was sorry he’d missed out! 

They’d gone for a run yesterday, despite the drizzle.  Harold took them straight to a hotel afterwards, demanding that John help him start the week on the right side of the bed — with John pounding into him hard and fast.  Shorter than most of their morning assignations because of a morning meeting, Harold hadn’t had time to bask in the afterglow, leaving John to have breakfast alone.  

Looking up as he passed through the lobby, John noticed his handler sitting in one of the small groupings of furniture — not a good sign.  They’d just spoken, going over yesterday’s interaction with Harold.  This was bad news.  He was sure of it.  The man had a glass of red wine on the end table next to him as he read the newspaper.  

Red wine — do not engage.  

Taking a more careful look at the lobby, John saw a coffee station in the far corner and veered in that direction.  The only furniture other than the chair groupings, John knew his new orders would be there somewhere.  He made himself a coffee.  The corner of a white envelope stood out amidst the fliers on the rack next to the table, advertising local sights, attractions and businesses.  He plucked the envelope and the two fliers on either side of it and put them all in his inner coat pocket to look at later.  He sipped the bad coffee and turned to the door.  

John didn’t bother looking in the envelope.  He knew it would be a plane ticket and nothing else.  If he was going to return to New York his handler would have called him.  This way he’d receive orders either en route or once he arrived.  A new handler, too.  

John didn’t panic.  He’d prepared for this.  As soon as he’d realized that he was compromised where Harold was concerned, he set up a plan and a backup plan to assure himself that Harold would be as safe as he could make him and that he’d be able to find him again when he next cycled back to New York.  Having feelings for Harold was a vulnerability, he knew that as well as anyone, but he couldn’t just turn them off once he admitted to himself they were there.  

Back at his apartment, John dropped his bag and went immediately to his desk.  He picked up the second cell phone from the right in the line of seven and flipped it open.  No messages, not that he’d expected any.  They already had a plan to meet tomorrow morning, John’s day off from the escort agency this week.  Harold was taking a personal day, so they could spend nearly 24 hours together and do daytime activities — birdwatching being one of Harold’s passions he wanted to share.  He wanted John to fuck him again, this time with sunlight streaming in the windows.  It made John’s mouth water just thinking about it. 

Are you awake? John typed, sending the text.  

He set the phone on the bathroom counter and stripped down, getting into the shower.  By the time he turned off the water Harold had responded, despite the late hour.  

I am.  Is everything ok? 

I have to leave town in the morning.  Not sure if I’ll be back. Can I see you before I go? 

John waited.  One minute.  Three.  Five.  He got dressed in one of his regular suits — he wasn’t about to soil one of the ones from Harold with a CIA mission overseas.  He fingered the last of the suits from Harold — the rest were safely in a storage unit under one of John’s many aliases that he’d paid a ten-year advance for in cash.  Did he take the time to get this final suit to the storage unit, or did he leave it for the CIA to dissect?  

Fuck if he was going to leave a piece of Harold for them to analyze!  They were sending him away, probably because of his feelings for Harold, and he didn’t want to make their lives easier by providing a new clue — he should be the one seducing the secrets out of Harold, not some newbie fresh from the Farm.  He quickly wrapped it in a dry-cleaning bag and folded it carefully into a duffle bag, along with the shirt, tie, shoes and all the accessories that went with it.  

He took only what he’d need while he traveled — passport, wallet, keys.  He wouldn’t need the keys again — the CIA would turn over the apartment for another agent — but people carried their keys around with them and not having them would look strange to airport security.  He grabbed a small carry on bag for a change of clothes and his dummy laptop.  The CIA would expect him to leave the real one and confiscate it once he was gone —  if there were a keystroke tracker on it, they’d find out about his feelings for Harold soon enough, if they didn’t already know, which was, frankly, unlikely.  

There was nothing for it.  He had to leave the damned computer.  

Eight minutes.  Nine.  

An address popped up on the phone screen.  The doorman will give you a key for the elevator.  

John sent an acknowledgment and turned off the phone.  He put it and the iPod Harold gave him in a padded envelope and put that in the duffle bag.  On the way to Harold’s place he’d stop off at a particular all-night diner and give the cook a hefty bribe to send it to an address where one of John’s non-agency contacts would retrieve it and put into storage for him.  

Harold answered the door in deep blue silk pajamas with matching moccasins, a well-loved black terrycloth bathrobe casually thrown over the top.  He motioned John inside.  The air between them felt tense.  They didn’t kiss.  

“Shall we have a drink?” Harold asked.  His voice was carefully neutral, as was his expression.  John didn’t trust his own voice and nodded.  His throat was dry and tight, clear signs of stress.  

They sat on a plush leather sofa in a room surrounded by bookshelves and a stunning view of Midtown.  Harold poured generously.  Neither took a sip.  

After a few seconds of silence John reached into his jacket and removed the white envelope with his traveling orders.  He offered it to Harold, who didn’t ask if he was sure and simply opened it and pulled out the tickets.  

“Kyiv, Ukraine,” Harold stated.  “No return flight.”  He looked up at John.  “This is a goodbye visit, then?”  

John cleared his throat.  “My other job,” he croaked.  He didn’t recognize his own voice.  

Harold’s face softened into a look of profound sadness.  He put the tickets on the coffee table next to their glasses and scooted closer to John.  He cupped John’s cheek, stroking it with his thumb.  

“Is there any chance that I could convince you to —“ 

“Don’t, Harold.  Please don’t say it.  I can’t.”  

“You don’t even know what I’m asking.”  

“It doesn’t matter.  I’ll want to do it.  But I can’t.  I have to go and serve our country.  Protect people.  That duty comes before any feelings I might have.”  

“Feelings you might have,” Harold repeated.  “What about my feelings?  Our feelings?  Just a few days ago we promised to keep seeing each other!  You said you weren’t going to leave! Do you want more money?”  Harold’s voice rose as he spoke, becoming more upset, more distressed, more frantic.  “All you have to do is ask!  Double?  Triple?  An apartment?  An apartment building?” 

John looked away, not willing to allow himself to listen to Harold’s offers or admit how tempting it was to abandon his other life for a chance to be Harold’s.  

“You don’t understand,” he growled, waving aside Harold’s hand on his face.  “I took an oath to uphold the constitution and protect the country from harm, foreign and domestic.  That’s above everything else.  It’s who I am.”  

“The government doesn’t own you,” Harold barked.  “It’s not all you are.  It’s not your whole identity!”  

“I have to leave,” John said firmly, trying to convince himself as well as Harold, meeting Harold’s eyes and holding his gaze.  For a moment, seeing the fire in Harold’s eyes, seeing the sadness behind it, the desperate plea for John to change his mind, John almost relented.  He wanted what Harold offered.  He wanted Harold.  

“They’re just going to use you until you’re dead,” Harold spat.  “Chew you up and spit you out.  What about something here?  Something safer?  You’ve already given them the best years of your life.  You’re so smart, John.  You could protect people with your mind instead of your body!  Even if you went overseas, you could be in command instead of on the ground, couldn’t you?”  

“Harold…” 

“Ukraine is a corrupt puppet of Russia!  What can you do there you can’t do here?  I could get you a job at the Pentagon!” Harold exclaimed.  “Aide to the Joint Chiefs of Staff?  Three phone calls, and it’s yours!” 

They stared at each other as Harold’s words sunk into John’s mind.  The mere idea that Harold could get him a job like that… it felt intoxicating to contemplate.  Three phone calls to get him one of the jobs with the highest level of security clearance and reach of anyone in the military?  Just three?  Did this have to do with his government connections?  The secret project he was working on?  Did he have access to that level of the government?  What else did he know?  What else could he influence?  

Would the CIA want him in the Pentagon to spy from there?  Search out double agents? Could he use that angle to get them to keep him here?  New York to DC wasn’t a long commute.  He could spend his weekends with Harold… maybe even some weeknights… 

No, John acknowledged to himself.  That was just a fantasy.  There was no way it would work.  It was too late.  He already had his orders and he knew they wouldn’t be rescinded, no matter how much clout Harold could leverage with John’s superiors or how much he shared about himself — unless he told John about his classified project, and John wasn’t about to break his trust by asking directly.  

“Is there nothing I can offer that would keep you here?” 

When John didn’t answer, Harold looked down, all the energy of his bargaining and begging gone.  Silence stretched between them again, more awkward than before.  John didn’t know what to say.  He didn’t know what to do.  He didn’t know what he was even doing there, other than  breaking both their hearts.  

“You’ll probably need something to read on the plane,” Harold murmured, standing.  He shuffled slowly to one of the bookshelves and pulled out a book.  “It’s not a first edition, I’m afraid, but it should suit the situation, I think.”  He stood in front of John and held it out.  

The Count of Monte Cristo, the exact book he’d lent John all those months ago the night they met.  John stared up at him in shock that he’d have it so accessible and be willing to part with it.  

“I do hope you’ll be safe,” Harold said, his voice growing increasingly dull. “If you’re ever in New York again…” His eyes flitted away as he trailed off.  He sighed tiredly, sadly.  He sounded resigned to a fate he didn’t like.  “No, maybe it’s better if you didn’t.  I doubt I could let you walk away from me a second time.  This is hard enough as it is.”  

John watched Harold pull his bathrobe tighter around himself and turn away.  He felt a pain in his chest, like acid reflux only ten times worse.  Was this heartbreak?  He felt like he was dying. 

John surged to his feet, tossing aside the book, grabbed Harold’s shoulder to maneuver him to face him again and kissed him hard.  Once Harold started responding to the kiss, once he let John draw him close, once he put his arms around John’s neck, John whimpered into his mouth.  

“Take me,” he begged.  “Please, before I go.  Make me yours.  Make me yours,” he repeated.  He heard the roughness of his voice, the tears behind his eyes.  “Even if it’s just tonight.  Give me something to remember.  Please.”  

“Oh, John,” Harold gasped.  “Come.”  He lead John farther into the apartment.  

Harold undressed John himself, slowly, savoring every inch of skin revealed and planting kisses across as much of it as possible.  John stood still, reveling in the care.  He felt at peace — Harold would take care of him.  He didn’t have to worry about anything for the next few hours.  Not the CIA, not the scars on his skin, not the traumas heaped upon traumas throughout his life.  

Finally, Harold stood before him, still in his pajamas while John stood naked, erect, shivering.  Harold reached forward and took the dog tags in his hand.  

“I won’t have you in my bed while you wear another man’s collar,” Harold said, hefting the metal lightly.  “Even if it is the President.”  John closed his eyes and lowered his head, giving Harold permission to take them off.  Was it risky?  Of course.  But he trusted Harold.  He trusted him more than he expected, because he hadn’t thought he’d allow something like this.  And yet he hadn’t hesitated to allow Harold to take them.  

Instead of dropping them on the nightstand or tossing them aside, Harold hung them from the bedpost, wrapping the chain around it so that they hung halfway down — at eye level if John were on his hands and knees.  

“I suspect seeing them will help you relax, given that I’ve never seen you without them,” Harold said.  “Now, let’s start with you on your back.”  

Harold stretched him more thoroughly than usual, drawing out the pleasure, heaping praise on John as he did so.  John felt himself detaching from his body, floating, staring at the dog tags and wondering what the future held for him.  Was Harold right?  Was the CIA sending him to be killed?  He wouldn’t put it past them — he’d seen it before.  

Harold pinched him on the thigh, waking him from the dissociation.  

“You’re mine, John,” Harold growled in his ear as he thrust into him.  “You’re mine and no one else can have you,” he continued.  “The government might lease your loyalty and body, but you, your heart, that belongs to me.”  

John stared up at the dog tags and wished it were true.  

This is the last time, he thought, blinking back tears.  

“Get rid of them,” he whispered and shut his eyes.  

Harold stopped thrusting, startled.  “Are you sure?”  

“I can’t focus on you when they’re there.”  

“Ok,” Harold said, gently disengaging.  He got out of bed, removing the condom and tossing it into the bin next to the bed that he’d brought over.  John listened as Harold took the dog tags from the bedpost and left the room, returning a few minutes later with empty hands.  

“I put them in the front hall, if you want them on your way out.  If not, I’ll dispose of them later.”  

John breathed out, feeling lighter.  “Thank you.”  

“Anything, John.  Anything of mine I can give you, I will.  I only wish it were more.”  

I only wish you would accept more, Harold’s silence said.  

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Chapter Text

John stood by Harold’s front door looking down at the dog tags where they rested on top of the envelope with his plane tickets and The Count of Monte Cristo.  He knew he should leave the tags with Harold — let his handler know that he’d found where Harold lived in his last moments in New York, completed his mission within the parameters he’d been given.  He also knew he wouldn’t do it.  

He was being sent away — they’d decided he was compromised.  

For good reason, he thought.  I am. 

He took the envelope and pushed aside the tags to open the book.  

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Dear John, 

When you escape your prisons of obligation and duty, know that you have a home to return to — you need not wear a mask of riches and revenge for me to accept you as you are.  

Je t’aime,

Harold

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John ran his fingers over Harold’s words.  Je t’aime — I love you. 

“Would it help if I said it out loud?” Harold asked from behind him.  John turned, seeing Harold in his black robe, with naked feet and red, puffy eyes.  Had he been crying during the few minutes John took to shower and get dressed?  Probably.  

“It wouldn’t change my mind,” John answered, feeling sick again.  “I still have to go.” 

“I realize it’s inappropriate to assume you feel the same —“ 

“The fact that I do means I failed.”  John said harshly.  His throat closed as he squeezed his eyes shut.  “I failed, Harold.  That’s why they’re sending me away.”  He let that sit for a moment.  “It’s a punishment.”  

“And you’re still going?  Having feelings isn’t a punishable offense!”  

“It is in my job.  My other job, too.”  

“So quit!” 

“I can’t!”  

“Why?” Harold demanded, rushing up to him. “What’s so important that you can’t change your mind and do something different?”  

“I swore an oath,” John barked.  “Maybe you don’t understand honor —“ 

“How dare you?  You know nothing about me or my dedication to honor!  You —“ 

“So tell me!”  

Harold’s eyes flashed angrily.  “The government you swore an oath to is just as corrupt as any other.  When I was growing up, a sitting president authorized assassination squads in Laos and the head of the FBI ordered his men to conduct illegal surveillance on his political rivals.  I knew I couldn’t live by the rules of society because they changed with every administration, every crisis, every time they became inconvenient.  So I made my own rules.  Rules I have lived by my entire adult life, despite the personal costs.  

“I’ve contemplated breaking them for you,” Harold added.  “But I doubt either of us would like who I’d become if I did that.  I’m watching you leave because my rules won’t let me stop it, even though I could do it, even though you leaving is making us both miserable.  I won’t coerce you into staying, unlike your employers who are coercing you to leave.  So don’t get high and mighty about honor, Mr. Tallis.”  

“You don’t get it, Harold,” John replied, matching Harold’s heat.  “This, this job,” he waved his hands between them, “being an escort has always been my side-gig, the thing I do for fun between real work assignments.  Us, we’re just a fantasy.  Like you said once, you pay me to be who you want me to be, not who I am.  You don’t know the real me any more than I know the real you.  And don’t tell me you’ve been your real self with me.  I’ll laugh in your face if you try.”  

John let the cover of the book close on Harold’s words.  

“You’re trying to tell me these feelings we’ve both admitted to having are a lie?” 

John’s lip curled as he evaluated his next words.  Did he deny their feelings and hurt Harold even more but convince him that John wasn’t worth pining over, or did he stick to what he’d been saying, allow them the illusion of love and break Harold’s heart by leaving anyway?  

“I’ll wait for you,” Harold said suddenly, cutting off anything John would have said.  

“I’m not asking you to,” John answered, relieved he hadn’t had to lie directly to Harold’s face in this last moment.  

“I know.”  

“You shouldn’t.”  

“I will anyway.”  

John lowered his head.  He hated goodbyes.  Harold stepped closer and put a hand on his back.  John shivered, though he was completely dressed.  Harold reached for John’s hand, raising it so he could kiss his knuckles.  

“A year, two at the most,” Harold whispered, his entire affect changing and becoming solemn.  John tilted his head to listen.  “I’ll make it work, somehow — I’ll sleep less, work more, quit my other job if I have to.  Can you give me that much time?”  He squeezed John’s fingers.  “Come back when I’m free?”  

“Free?”  

“You’re not the only one with obligations,” Harold said.  “Duties.  Promises.”  He let go of John’s hand.  “My classified project.  Give me time to finish it.  Promise you’ll come back in a year — I’ll have the prototype done by then if I put all my focus on it.”  

“You know I can’t,” John said with a hitch in his breath.  How could Harold decide to share this information the very moment he was leaving?  He was leaving!  Why couldn’t it have been two two ago before he’d suggested dating?  John was sure that was the catalyst for his new orders.  If he’d known this then… 

It might not have mattered.  They might have already made the decision, or were waiting for John to slip up to make the decision official.  

And if he betrayed Harold now… he’d never be able to live with himself.  He loved Harold, no matter what he might have said to push Harold away.  He loved him, and he had to leave to protect him, to keep him out of danger.  If he left, Harold would be able to have a life without him, maybe find someone else to love who’d appreciate him the way John couldn’t.  He’d be able to live, full stop.  

Staying with Harold meant Harold’s death.  He didn’t have a choice.  

“Don’t wait for me.”  He snatched up the dog tags and fled.  

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Sitting in the airport waiting for his plane, John forced himself to keep a calm expression.  He wouldn’t allow himself to cry, not for Harold.  Not for anyone.  Opening up about his real feelings had been a mistake, and though he hadn’t included much of that in his transcripts, somehow his feelings had been obvious to the CIA.  He couldn’t make that kind of mistake again.  He couldn’t allow himself feelings.  

He reached into his pocket to find the dog tags he’d taken off to go through security and touched paper.  There hadn’t been paper in the pocket when he’d put the suit on in his apartment.  Slowly, carefully, he pulled out a yellow sticky note, folded so that the glue kept it closed.  Already in a CCTV deadzone by unconscious habit, he didn’t need to worry about digital surveillance.  Shifting so no one nearby would be able to see the note, he unfolded it.  

He found an account number for a Swiss bank, along with an authorization code in Harold’s precise handwriting.  

John waited until the layover between flights to check the account from a European payphone.  

$5 million.  Harold left him $5 million in a secure, secret Swiss bank account.  $5 million that the CIA didn’t know about.  

He’s giving me an out, John thought, hanging up.  He’s giving me enough to get out. He won’t break his own rules, but he’s giving me a choice to break mine with fewer consequences… He’s giving us a way to be together… 

He closed his eyes, feeling sadness and pain rush through his body.  Longing followed quickly on their heels, and he picked up the handset again.  He knew Harold’s number by heart.  

Movement beside him made him turn.  A man in a security uniform held out a plain white envelope.  

“I was told to give this to you,” the man said in accented English.  

“Thank you.” John hung up again without dialing and accepted the envelope.  

John watched him walk away, feeling iron encase his chest.  They were watching him.  They wanted him to know they were doing it.  Would they get a record of where he called, find out about the account?  They wouldn’t be able to access it, might not even be able to find out the account number unless they’d recorded his conversation with the teller somehow, but they’d know he had it and would monitor the bank in case he tried to access it.  

In the end, Harold’s gift was worthless.  He was stuck with the CIA. 

He opened the envelope.  

A plane ticket to Moscow, boarding in twenty minutes.  

New orders.  

They paired him up with a partner, took him off escort duties and gave him a singular mission — protect the United States from terrorists and traitors.  John kept to his work, torturing for information, killing.  He didn’t like it, but he was good at it and it kept his mind mostly off Harold, so he did it.  He had an oath to uphold.  They sent him to Moscow, Buenos Aires, Kabul.  They sent him around the world and back again, leaving a trail of bodies.  He couldn’t settle and they knew it.  

The IFT job remained unfinished.  

He couldn’t get Harold out of his mind.  

In 2006 they assigned him to work with Kara Stanton and he no longer had room for thoughts or feelings or questions, especially after Kara showed him pictures of him and Harold from 2004 to keep him in line.  He unearthed his escort skills to keep her happy, though it made his stomach turn.  

Just like the old days, he thought, remembering all the dissociation he used to do to get through interactions with clients.  

Would it feel like this with Harold? he wondered as he washed up from fucking Kara when they were supposed to be cleaning up a killing.  Doesn’t matter.  I’ll never see him again. I can’t see him again.   

This is the only way to keep him safe.  

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Chapter Text

“…State Department Officials have determined that the ferry bombing that killed tech billionaire Nathan Ingram was, indeed, a terrorist plot…” 

John’s attention narrowed to the quiet sound of a news announcer on a neighbor’s phone.  He closed his eyes and willed his hearing to sharpen so he could concentrate over the usual hubbub of airport noises.  He was in New York again, the first time since 2008 when he’d briefly run into Ingram at a bar before Kara accused him of stalking his ex and dragged him away.  He’d already been a killer and a whore when Harold knew him, but by then he was just a killer, and one who occasionally questioned his orders but killed anyway, at that.  He knew Kara was right and left with her, though he’d desperately wanted to see Harold and be assured that he was ok.  

Ingram hadn’t recognized him.  

Finding reporting on the ferry bombing wasn’t difficult, nor was information on Nathan Ingram.  Finding Harold, on the other hand… He’d left the insurance agency in 2004, a few weeks after John left New York.  There was no record of him ever working at IFT, and the apartment John saw on his last night with Harold had been sold three times since then, so that wasn’t a lead.  He couldn’t find Harold Wren anywhere.  

Searching every obituary since the ferry bombing eventually paid off and he found an entry for Harold Martin, a freelance software engineer, survived by his fiancé — 

John shut his eyes in pain when he read that word.  Logically he knew Harold would move on from him, even though he said he’d wait, but to see it in black and white felt like a kick in the chest.  Six years, and Harold still filled John’s mind as he fell asleep.  

He had eighteen hours before he had to meet Kara for their next assignment —a civilian named Daniel Casey they’d been told was a traitor.  He had time to do what needed to be done.  

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A pretty redhead answered the door, surprise taking over her expression from casual curiosity when she saw the flower arrangement in his hands.  The florist had assured him that it was appropriate for the situation, but he had a moment of doubt that she’d think he was hitting on her.  Women worried about that kind of thing when there were strange men around, he reminded himself.  It was also over two months since Harold’s death.  He doubted she’d be expecting a condolence call after that long.  

“Are you Grace Hendricks?” he asked.  

“Yes…” 

“I’m John,” he started.  “I knew Harold.  I just heard and wanted to express my condolences.”  

Grace paused, eyeing him and the flowers and the sidewalk and the area outside her building in a quick assessment that made him think that Harold must have trained her or his caution rubbed off on her.  He’d always had the air of someone who was very careful about his surroundings — even in the hotel rooms and restaurants where he met John.  

“Come in,” she said.  She held open the door and waved him into the apartment.  “I was just about to put on a pot of coffee, if you’d like some?”  

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The picture was overexposed — whomever had taken it used a flash in a dark room — and Harold’s face wouldn’t have been picked up by any but the most advanced facial recognition programs, John noted.  Harold smiled as Grace kissed his temple, her engagement ring sparkling on her finger.  He looked relaxed, happy.  John felt his stomach clench.  

“He hated having his picture taken,” Grace said, coming up behind him.  Guiltily he put the picture frame back on the shelf and turned to her.  “That’s the only one I have, actually,” she continued.  “Do you believe it?  We were together four years and only the one picture?”  

“How did you meet?” John asked, taking the seat she offered and picking up a mug of coffee.  

“It was a mild January day,” she said, taking her own seat.  “I was painting in the park and suddenly there was this man, eating an ice cream cone.  He asked if I wanted one.  It was pretty traditional after that.  Harold liked big romantic gestures.  He sent me on a scavenger hunt all around the city for my birthday, just a few months later.  I ended up at the Guggenheim, looking at my favorite painting, on loan from Italy.  He made some comment about being a docent, but I didn’t believe him, you know?  He didn’t like to talk about how much money he had.  He got us this place when we got engaged.  Almost like he’d had it waiting.”  She sipped her coffee.  “How did you know him?”  

“Work,” John answered.  “I was consulting in New York and had to collaborate with him.  We became friendly.  I thought I’d look him up when work brought me back here, but…”  He looked away, feeling his throat tighten.  He tried clearing it.  “When I saw the news about Nathan Ingram being killed in the ferry bombing, I went looking and found Harold’s obituary,” he added.  

“Nathan Ingram?  The tech billionaire?  Why would his death make you think of Harold?”  

John paused, realizing that Harold must have compartmentalized Grace away from the rest of his life, just like he did everything else.  If she didn’t know about Harold’s best friend… she must not know about him, or anything else real about Harold.  Not that he knew much that was real about the man, he admitted.  He’d met a persona, a single part of Harold.  Grace knew a different part.  He probably only knew about Ingram because he introduced them in the first place.  

“He freelanced for IFT when I knew him,” he ad-libbed.  “I evaluate government contractors to make sure they’re using tax payers’ funds appropriately.  Harold was my IFT contact.  We lost touch when I was reassigned overseas.”  

They sat in silence for a moment.  John glanced around, seeing Grace’s feminine touch everywhere, with only a few indications that Harold had ever lived here.  Books, piled on the shelf willy-nilly.  A Japanese tea set.  A model of an old computer — no, it was an old computer, one of the first desktop models, modified for Harold’s needs, no doubt.  

“He hated having his picture taken,” Grace said softly, repeating what she’d said earlier.  “But he didn’t mind posing for a painting.”  She got up and walked to a side table near the door, opened the drawer and took something out.  She returned and handed John a postcard-sized print of an oil painting of Harold.  Harold wearing a sweater vest.  

John knew that sweater vest.  He felt suddenly lightheaded with emotion as adrenaline rushed through his body at the visceral memory of Harold petting his hair as he snuggled up to Harold’s crotch, the sweater vest all he could see.  

“You can keep that.”  

John blinked, coming out of the memory abruptly.  

“I mean it,” she said when he offered it back to her.  “It’d be nice for you to have something to remember him by, I would think.”  

John didn’t know what to say, so he set the card on the table.  He felt suddenly vulnerable.  She saw deeper into who he was than he expected and didn’t like it one bit.  “I should go.”  

“I always knew that I wasn’t his first love.”  John’s attention skittered to a halt and attached itself to her again.  “He didn’t talk about it often, but I know he loved someone who had to leave him, that neither of them wanted it, but it happened anyway.  It made him very cautious with me.  I said he was traditional about dating, and he was, but he used it as a cover, I think, a kind of brake, a way to slow down.  He didn’t want to get hurt again. 

“He grew up in a tiny town in Minnesota.  From what I could gather, there wasn’t much diversity, of any kind.”  She leaned forward and put a hand on John’s shoulder, gave a small squeeze.  “Take the card.  He’d want you to have it.”  

John closed his eyes and tried to center himself.  He took a deep breath.  “When I was in the army,” he began, opening his eyes to meet hers.  “When I was in the army, many of the guys had pictures of their wives, their girlfriends.  They were so scared of dying and leaving them alone.  I thought — I thought that if I didn’t have a picture, I wouldn’t mind dying.  No one would miss me.  I could do my job better, not worrying about someone back home.”  He took another deep breath.  “That’s what you learn over there.  You always die alone.  And no one’s coming to save you.  Having that picture, having that someone waiting, that’s a liability.”  

“But you don’t work for them anymore.  Having his picture —“ 

“Would be even more of a liability,” he interrupted.  “I’m sorry for your loss.”  He got to his feet and started moving towards the door.  She rushed after him and slipped in between him and the door.  

“He never stopped loving you,” she said, standing tall and meeting his eyes.  “You need to know that.”  She paused.  “I saw how you were looking at that photo.  You miss him.  Of course you do.  If you can’t take the picture now, promise you’ll come back for it if you need it.  I’m not going anywhere.”  

John mumbled something and fled.  He couldn’t handle her sympathy.  Her pity.  

It was only later, after he’d handed Daniel Casey a pair of pliers to pull out his own teeth so he could escape John and the CIA, that John recognized that he’d run from Grace in almost the same way he’d left Harold — confused, scared and desperate to escape the pain that he knew he’d never be able to outrun, no matter how far he went. 

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Chapter Text

From the outside, Grace Hendricks’s apartment hadn’t changed, John noted from across the street.  He, himself, on the other hand, was a completely new person.  Bereft of everyone he’d ever loved, betrayed by his government and his partner, dead in all the ways that mattered but one.  

He knew he looked a mess with a beard he hadn’t bothered with in weeks and a suit that had seen better days.  Would she even recognize him?  He glanced at his reflection in the mirror.  His eyes were sunken in his face and he had a hunted air about him.  Would that come across, or would he be able to hide it?  Oh, and he’d bled on his shirt.  He buttoned the jacket closed, not wanting the bloodstain visible when he approached her.  He’d been in such shock since Ordos that it hadn’t even occurred to him until just this moment that a civilian seeing it would call an ambulance — just the kind of attention he didn’t need.  

His plan was simple: Get the promised postcard of Harold and disappear onto the streets where no one would ever find him.  Drinking himself to death didn’t seem like too bad of an option, and he always had the bullet he kept in his pocket if the pain got too bad.  He wanted to see Harold’s face before he died, though.  No, he wanted to die looking at it, even if it was just on a postcard.  

Grace paled visibly at the sight of him.  She looked him over quickly, then glanced into the living room where four other women sat with books, wine and cheese.  She grabbed his arm and tugged him upstairs.  

“I don’t need to come in —“ he protested, trying gently to free himself from her grasp.  

“Nonsense,” she said, letting go of his arm so she could push him into a room in front of her.  He found himself in a classic guest room: bed, nightstand, lamp, bookshelf full of books, sky blue walls.  “Sit,” she ordered, pointing at the bed.  He sat, unconsciously unbuttoning his jacket as he did so, the habit so ingrained.  

He watched as she noticed the blood on his shirt, her eyes widening in concern and fear.  

“It’s old,” he said to forestall any questions.  “The wound’s healed, just haven’t been able to get new clothes.” Hadn’t thought it was necessary, his mind whispered.  

She swallowed and shook herself, then seemed to make the decision not to ask him about it.  “Bookclub only just started, so it’ll be a few hours before I can come see you.  Will you be ok?  The bathroom’s down the hall and there’s a bunch of towels, if you want to shower.  I can see if there’s anything…” She trailed off, looking around the room as if she’d never seen it before.  “I might have something… stay here.”  

John waited patiently, feeling fatigue weigh him down.  He hadn’t spent more than a few hours at a time inside buildings in the last month and he felt the strangeness of his disconnection from humanity.  

He startled awake when she reentered the room with a small pile of clothes.  

“I doubt any of it will fit,” she admitted, offering the stack.  The gray t-shirt had MIT printed in classic maroon across the chest.  

“These are his —“  John choked.  He pulled the clothes to his chest, squeezing them tightly.  He bend his head and inhaled, finding mostly detergent and the smallest hint of Harold.  He felt tears at the corners of his eyes.  Grace sat next to him and gave him a sideways hug.  She patted his shoulder.  

“I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.  You’ll be able to hear the girls, if they’re still here.”  

John cleared his throat.  He did it again, feeling raw.  “Thank you.”  

Grace nodded, a sad smile on her lips.  

As soon as he heard her on the stairs through the bedroom door, he dashed to the hall for a quick bit of eavesdropping to make sure the women weren’t government plants.  He wouldn’t put it past them to insert sleeper agents into the life of the finance of his dead lover.  

“So, who was that?” said a voice warm with innuendo.  

“And old friend of Harold’s.  Seems like he needs a place to spend the night.”  

Several of the women made comforting noises.  Grace’s voice sounded like she was trying to hold back a big emotion of some kind — which made sense, given the circumstances.  He shook his head, feeling silly.  The CIA wouldn’t watch Grace.  Why would they bother?  He’d had hundreds of clients over the years he lived in New York, and while they’d put a lot of money and time into him, John had other clients he’d seen for longer, like the diplomat’s daughter.  They couldn’t stalk every single one.  Besides that, Harold was dead.  No reason to watch Grace.  

It didn’t take long to search the guest room, the small office or Grace’s bedroom.  She seemed to be just who she said she was — a single woman still grieving a loss.  The office was dusty, unused, though there was evidence she’d been moving things around from the trails in the dust.  The room held a vintage record player that wasn’t a modern remake and a selection of vinyl, mostly 60’s and 70’s rock in their original sleeves.  He recognized several from the playlist Harold gave him with the black iPod years ago.  

He cocked an ear to the stairs and heard the women laughing and gossiping, nothing that made him tense up or feel on edge more than usual.  He went to find the towels.  

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John woke to sun in his eyes and the blended mix of birds, traffic and people he expected in an apartment next to one of New York’s many parks.  He sat up and stretched.  The MIT t-shirt slid off his chest to pool on his lap.  He hadn’t had the heart to wear it, instead falling asleep with it pressed against his face.  He glanced at his watch.  3:07pm.  Had he slept an entire day?  

He needed it.  

He fumbled around the unfamiliar layout and took care of bathroom needs before finally putting on the shirt.  He looked at himself in the mirror and frowned — he looked ridiculous in sweatpants that were inches too short.  The t-shirt was tight — John had always been more broad-shouldered than Harold.   

Huh, he thought, rubbing at his beard, I guess I still have some vanity after all.   

He considered shaving but decided that rummaging through her cabinets for a spare razor she might not even have felt like more of a violation than his quick search had been.  At least his beard was clean again.  

He returned to the guest room to get his own pants, not wanting to look too strange.    

Grace offered food and coffee as soon as she saw him, then sat with him while he ate.  He could see the questions behind her eyes, but she made a strong effort to hold them back, and he appreciated the care.  He wasn’t sure he’d be in a place to answer anything difficult.  His skills for regular conversation were rusty, and he still felt raw and angry about what happened in China.  

“I’m sorry to show up like this,” he finally said.  

“You’re always welcome,” she replied.  “I found something for you,” she added, reaching under her newspaper to bring out a book.  The Count of Monte Cristo.  Of course.  

“After you came the last time, I went digging around his things.  I hadn’t had the heart before, but meeting you gave me a bit more perspective.  He’d never told me he was bi or interested in men.  It could be just you, for all I know.  I was curious.  I wanted to know the man I loved better.”  

She put the book down in front of him.  

“These must be yours, too?” she asked, resting a familiar set of dog tags on top of the book.  

John swallowed around the lump in his throat.  “I lost these in Budapest, five years ago,” he whispered, picking them up to examine them.  They were bent and blackened from fire and the toe tag had a notch on one side he didn’t remember.  He rubbed his finger against it.  Maybe it happened in the aftermath of the explosion where he left them?  That had been before he was assigned to work with Kara, a step towards creating his new identity — the one that didn’t pass muster so she named him herself.  

How he loathed John Reese!  He’d be John Tallis again any day; if only it were possible.  

“I found these things in a lockbox in a hidden drawer in his desk.  He had a hidden drawer in his desk!  I didn’t have the key, of course, so I had someone open it for me.”  

“Was there anything else?”  

“An old phone, but I wasn’t able to unlock it and couldn’t find a charger.  I could go get it if you want?”  He shook his head silently.  He knew what would be on it — the texts they’d exchanged, the arrangements for dinners and gifts and morning runs.  He also knew what he wouldn’t find — anything else.  It would have been a single-use phone, just for him.  He didn’t want those memories, not now, at any rate.  

Grace paused.  “There was also a picture of the two of you.  I put it in the book.”  

John opened the cover and found a black and white security camera photo of him and Harold holding champagne flutes and looking at art, their heads bent close together.  They had their arms around each other’s waists and Harold was gesturing with his glass.  He picked up the photo to study it, seeing the timestamp in the corner — the night at the Met when they’d run into Harold’s ex and John saved him by pretending to be his boyfriend — the night when they started kissing for the first time.  Though their faces were blurred, they were more than clear enough for him to tell that it was them.  

The title page of the book held the inscription he still remembered.  Je t’aime.  I love you. 

“How long were you together?” Grace asked.  

“Almost a year,” he said after clearing his throat.  She got him fresh coffee, which he sipped gratefully.  It felt cathartic — he wouldn’t call it good, but it wasn’t horrible — to admit they’d been in a relationship, however unconventional. He didn’t need to tell her that part. “My job called me away.  I told him not to wait for me.”  

“You said you lost these five years ago?  Was it December of ’05, by any chance?”  

“January 10th, ’06,” he corrected.  

She gasped.  “He introduced himself to me the next week.”  

They stared at each other in shock for a moment.  John felt a rush of anger that Harold would choose someone else so quickly after telling John he’d wait.  Not even the two years he’d begged of John… 

But if Harold had the tags now, had somehow gotten them from Budapest, presumably in the immediate aftermath of the explosion where John faked the death of his identity of the time… He felt the notch on the toe tag again, suspicions rising to the front of his mind that he’d never allowed himself to acknowledge before.  

“Do you have any of his computer repair equipment?”  

“I’ll get it.”  

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The tracker in the toe tag wasn’t a CIA chip.  He compared it to the genuine CIA chip from the other tag and was able to see small differences through the magnifying glass, even with the fire damage.  Somehow, Harold had replaced the original toe tag with one of his own, and made the new one so cleverly that John hadn’t noticed the swap for the year and a half he had them.  It had to have been when he’d gone to Harold’s apartment that last night in New York.  It was the only time he’d taken them off around Harold, and Harold had taken a few minutes to put them in the front hall.  More than enough time to switch one tag for another.  

He closed his eyes as he considered the possibilities.  

Harold had spent a lot of time playing with the tags and fiddling with them when they cuddled after sex.  He had the replacement tag ready at his apartment for when John came to say goodbye.  There were frequently times when the CIA iPod didn’t record anything, often when they had the most emotionally vulnerable conversations.  He’d taken John’s iPod on the one morning when their conversations would have been the most revealing to John’s superiors, though they’d figured out John’s feelings anyway.   

Harold let drop that he worked on classified projects very quickly, but only mentioned it one other time before the end — when they’d been talking about the NSA.  It had been a hook at just the right time — when John was being hounded for progress — and his bosses had jumped all over it.     

He’d done things for John that lovers did.  He made sure that he took care of John after that awful BDSM scene, and kept doing it for every scene afterwards, no matter how intense or easy.  He took pride in being out with John and seemed happy or smug when people assumed they were a couple. He wanted John to stop doing sex work and be his exclusively, or had heavily implied that desire.  He said he loved him — at least on paper.  

John thought about how Harold reformatted his two laptops that first night, and how any other times John had access to a laptop, they were so spotless that the analyst teams couldn’t find anything personal on them at all.  In retrospect, it was suspicious as hell.  

Had Harold known the whole time that John worked for the CIA?  From the very beginning?  Had it all been a manipulation of John and his handler and team as a distraction from what he was really doing?  No credit cards?  No ID?  God, they’d been fools!  

  The laptop in Ordos, was that connected to Harold in some way?  Was Harold the mastermind behind John’s mission in China and the missiles that should have killed him?  Did Harold order his death?  

No.  He couldn’t believe that.  Harold was genuinely upset that John had to leave New York.  He’d burned his apartment’s location to be able to see him one last time.  He’d begged John to stay, offering tantalizing job opportunities and financial support.  He’d left $5 million in a secret Swiss account to give John a way to bribe his way out of the CIA, even if John hadn’t been able to access it.  He held on to the book he’d tried to give John all these years, even after finding someone else to love.  He’d found the dog tags and kept them, too, even though they’d been halfway around the world.  

Harold loved him.  The laptop might be connected to him, but he wouldn’t order John’s death.  He already thought John was dead.  

“I guess neither of us knew him as well as we thought,” Grace murmured.  

“He told me he was from Ohio, not Minnesota.”  

“Probably wasn’t from either, huh?”  

“Probably not.”  

Grace sighed.  “I bet he’s alive, somewhere.  Witness protection, maybe.  Or he faked his death for some reason, like people do on TV.”  

“If he did, we’ll never be able to find him.”  

“Even you, with all of this?” she asked, indicating the table full of tools and deconstructed dog tags.  “You seem to know a lot about that kind of thing.” Her voice balanced the line between serious and casual, telling him she’d be willing to play the whole thing off as a joke if he didn’t say anything further.  

He wanted to tell her more, he realized.  She deserved to know more about Harold.  More than that, he wanted her to like him, to approve of him as a past lover of her fiancee. He thought they could be friends, in a different world where Harold was alive and loved them both. 

“I don’t think he did it to be cruel,” John mused, beginning to clear up the mess.  “He was at the ferry bombing.  Nathan’s death spooked him.  He’s running from something, and he must think he’s doing it to protect you.”  

“That sounds like a load of crap.”  

“It’s not,” John said.  “There are dangerous people out there who wouldn’t pause for a moment when ordered to hurt a loved one to get the primary target to talk.  If he’s running from those types of people, you’re in danger if he’s near you.”  He shoved the dog tag pieces in his pocket to destroy later.  “I would be, too, but I can protect myself and he thinks I’m dead.” He paused. 

“It’s the same reason I left him,” John admitted.  “I wanted him to be safe.  Me being near him put a target on his back.  I wanted him to have a normal life.” 

“Did he know?”  

“Probably.  I didn’t explain it like that, but he’s more than smart enough to read between the lines of what I did say.  It’s looking like he knew a lot more about me than I thought he did.” John stroked the book cover, trying to picture his last moments with Harold — the feeling of Harold holding his hand in both of his, begging him to come back in a year when his “prototype” was finished.  

“He wanted me to come back, and instead I faked my death…” He closed his eyes, pain washing through him.  “Of course he was going to find someone else,” he whispered.  He looked at her.  “You said before that you knew he loved me?” 

She nodded.  “He would get sad whenever we talked about past relationships.  He said, ‘there was someone, once.’  He never went into details, never said that the person died after they parted, though he implied it.  But the look on his face…” She paused.  “Yes, he loved you.” 

John nodded, accepting her word.  Harold loved him.  He knew it, and apparently she did, too.  Had it been that obvious?  

If he hadn’t been a spy sent to manipulate and deceive, maybe he’d have seen it sooner.  Maybe he’d have admitted his own feelings sooner… maybe he’d have felt them long enough to be willing to leave the CIA for Harold…  with Harold’s help… 

“You said you met through work.  I’m guessing that ‘government contractor’ is a euphemism.  I’m not judging,” she rushed to add, touching his hand.  John felt himself tense as she drew another breath to ask something he could tell he wouldn’t want or be able to answer honestly.  “Was he — did he —” She waved at the table again.  “Was he your — handler?  Is that the word?”  

John let out the breath in relief and met her eyes.  He didn’t have to lie outright about this, just omit major facts.  “No,” he said simply.  “I was sent to get close to Nathan Ingram.  He introduced me to Harold.  We had an instant connection.  When the work with Ingram finished, they sent me away.  I wasn’t allowed to maintain contact.  I could’ve quit, he wanted me to quit, but I had a duty to the country.  I swore an oath.” 

They sat quietly for a few minutes.  

“It doesn’t feel as important now, with him gone,” John said. 

“Would you have come here if he hadn’t died?”  

“No,” John said.  “I wouldn’t have risked his safety like that.  Even if I’d looking him up and he were alive, seeing him with you… I never would have approached.” 

“So that’s it?  We’ll never see him again?”  

“Not unless he wants us to.”  

They sat in silence for a long while.  John got up to put his dishes in the sink. 

“You’re going to disappear, too, aren’t you?” Grace asked. 

“Yeah,” John answered, not looking at her.  

“You could visit,” she suggested.  “When you’re in the area.  We could be friends.”  

“That wouldn’t be a good idea.”  He looked up.  “I’ve said too much as it is.”  

“I won’t —”  

“I know,” he interrupted.  “You wouldn’t do it on purpose, but you have no idea what they’re like when they want information, and I’m not going to tell you.  I’m not going to risk your safety.”  

“Like him.”  

“For him,” John corrected.  “He loves you enough to leave you to keep you safe.  I won’t do any less.”  

“But surely there would be a way we could —” 

“I’m sorry.  It’s too dangerous.”  

“You’re sure?”  

“You saw the blood on my shirt,” he insisted.  “That was my pink slip.  It was supposed to kill me.  If they find out I’m alive, they’ll try again until they get it right.  I won’t let that happen in your kitchen,” he continued.  Grace paled like she had when she’d first seen him at the door.  “I have to disappear.” 

“I understand,” she said softly.  “I wish it could be different.” 

“Me, too.” 

They hugged.  John kissed the top of her head.  He picked up his book and photograph and together they walked to the front door where she got one of the postcards for him.  It was a death announcement, with a little blurb on the back about Harold Martin’s life.  He hadn’t realized that last time.  

“Will you look for him?”  

John shook his head.  “No.  I had my chance with him back in ’04 and I blew it.  I shouldn’t have left, no matter what my job said, but I did.  Now he wants to disappear.  I’m sure he has good reasons.”  

“Thank you.  For this.  For everything.  For helping me find some closure.”  

He nodded, squeezed her hand and left her sunny apartment for a park bench and a fifth of cheap whiskey.  

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Chapter Text

John felt safe living on the streets.  No one wanted his name and he could blend into the background of city life easily.  People actively avoided looking at him, especially once he grew out his beard, wore layers of dirty clothes and routinely drank himself into a stupor.  

Camouflage, the drinking was camouflage.  Nothing to do with grief.  Not at all.  

He made sure the book, postcard and photograph were protected from the elements, stored in a waterproof pouch he nicked from an upscale sports and athletics store that he could imagine Harold looking down on.  Only the pretentious shop here, the Harold in his mind said.  They want to look like they do sports or are athletic.  At least I have the decency to admit that all I do is go running occasionally.  I don’t have to pretend to be an alpine hiker.  

John chuckled to himself.  Harold-in-his-mind often provided commentary on his surroundings or activities these days.  

I’m not sure that eating garbage is the healthiest option, Mr. Tallis.  

“There’s only one bite taken out,” John protested.  “And it’s free.”  

You know as well as I that you have access to sufficient funds to provide for yourself.

“This is easier.”  

Easier than getting money from one of your buried stashes?  Easier than accessing the account I gave you?  Easier than pickpocketing Wall Street executives? I know how you love doing that, especially with the added skill required looking and smelling like you do. 

“Maybe I’ll do that tomorrow.” 

John shuffled along the street, not paying attention to where he was.  He didn’t care that he smelled.  It helped him avoid notice.  He continued walking. Walking.  Eventually, he sat down.  

Is there a reason you’re stalking my fiancé? Harold-in-his-mind asked.  

John looked around, confused.  It was nighttime, and the streetlights were on.  Across the way he could see a red-haired woman walking around her living room, talking on the phone.  Grace.  

This is the fifth time you’ve been to Washington Square Park this month, Harold-in-his-mind continued.  Are you hoping she’ll see under the dirt and recognize you? 

“No, it’s not like that.”  

What’s it like? 

“I need to protect her, make sure she’s ok.” 

The way you are now, I doubt you could do much, Harold-in-his-mind admonished.  I don’t think you’ve been sober in weeks.  And let’s not talk about the body odor. She’d probably run from you if you tried approaching her. 

John cursed the voice and left the area.  

I do wish you’d take better care of yourself, Harold-in-his-mind said a few days later. 

“Why?” 

Because I care about you.  

“Tell me another lie, why don’t you?” John finished gathering cans and tied off the garbage bag to bring to Joan.  Every little bit helped, after all, and she looked after him and many of the others at the homeless camp.  Maybe he could scrounge some more newspaper?  He remembered her saying something about running low.  

I really do think you’re doing yourself a disservice.  You have so much potential. 

“Not this again,” John grumbled.  “You’re not going to convince me.” 

No? I think a part of you is desperate to be convinced.  Why else haven’t you let thoughts of me go? I was one of the few people in your life who appreciated you for who you are. 

“You didn’t know who I was.  You knew who you paid me to be.” 

I saw deeper into your soul than anyone else.  You felt comfortable telling me about Jessica.  You cried in my arms.  You allowed yourself to fall in love with me. 

“I fought that tooth and nail!” 

And yet you did, heart and soul. Why else would you be so broken by my death, years after we saw each other?  You pride yourself on not breaking, and yet here you are, living on the street, talking to an imaginary me in your head. 

John didn’t have a response to that. 

As February turned to March, John started catching glimpses of Harold out of the corner of his eye.  Harold, in the window of a taxi.  Harold, with a cane, limping down the street following a young couple.  By the time John made it to where he’d seen Harold, both he and the couple were gone.  Harold, dressed in brown tweed, laboriously climbing the steps to a courthouse.  John, disheveled and dirty as he was, didn’t even try to get into the building, and though he watched the front doors for the rest of the day, he never saw Harold emerge.  

You could look for me, you know, Harold-in-his-mind said for the umpteenth time in early April.  Perhaps I stayed in New York?  It’s a big enough city that I could avoid Grace for the rest of our lives, if I put a little effort into it. 

“I don’t know how to find you.”  

You found Harold Martin and his connection to Grace in just a few hours!  I may be a genius, but even geniuses can make mistakes. 

“You haven’t made many.”  

I fell in love with you.  Some would consider that a mistake. 

“Did you, though?  It could’ve been another act.  You found Grace as soon as you thought I died.  Didn’t mourn me at all.”  

You don’t believe that.  

John sighed, scratching his head.  The lice were getting bad again.  “No, I don’t.  It would be easier if it were an act.”  

Do you really think I didn’t mourn? That I didn’t spend years grieving our relationship?  Maybe finding out that you died was simply the catalyst to move on.  Maybe I continued mourning you as I dated Grace.  She seems to think I did. 

John didn’t reply to that comment.  It felt too painful to even consider.  

What if I gave you clues to find me? Harold-in-his-mind said the next day.  

“Why would you do that?  You disappeared!  You faked your death!”  

One could argue that you faked your death for me by leaving the dog tags in Budapest.  

“I didn’t know you were tracking me.”  

What if I were tracking you now?  What if seeing me so often is on purpose and not just a drunken mirage?  What if I want to be found by you?

“That doesn’t make sense.  How could you possibly —“ 

John broke off, blinking out of the haze of alcohol in a sudden rush of clarity.  He got out his book and began examining it.  He hadn’t spent much time actually looking at or reading it, preferring to keep it safe in its pouch, but now he saw that Harold had written notes in the margins of the book.  Mostly translation commentary, there were occasional nonsensical numbers and letters.  A code of some kind?  

Excited, John leaned forward in the hard subway seat to focus.  He felt the cover and spine, checked for a raised bump of some kind.  There!  A tiny imperfection in the leather that could be where a chip had been inserted and covered over.  Had Harold made sure there’d be two ways to keep track of John when he left the States, one in the dog tags, one in the book, so if John took either one, there’d be an option?  

A shadow fell over the book.  

“That’s too good for the likes of you,” a sneering voice declared.  Someone grabbed for the book.  John raised his face to glare at the young man, entering into a brief tug-of-war.  As the pressure of the challenge increased, John released the book, making the man stagger back.  

“Just trash anyway, Anton, leave him,” said one of his companions.  John struggled to his feet.  

Anton waved the book in John’s face, taunting him.  “You want this, bum?  You think this’ll help you where you’re going?”  He shoved John hard in the chest.  

John erupted into motion, punching and kicking the youths.  Once all four were laid out on the floor of the subway car, he looked around.  A woman was filming the incident on her phone.  A man was talking into his.  John heard the words “fight” and “police.”  

Adrenaline drained away and he felt lightheaded.  He fell to his knees.  He reached for the book.  

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“You coulda done me a favor, let those guys land a few more punches,” an attractive black woman said, walking into the room where John sat.  He raised his head.  It was pounding, but he retained enough of his senses to notice that she held his book in a plastic evidence bag.  She wore a detective’s shield on her belt and had the no-nonsense air of someone who’d risen to that rank by defying the odds of a racist and sexist institution by being better than anyone else three times over.  She probably had a rock-solid ethical compass, he thought.  

“Question for you.  Looking at that tape, I’d say you spent some time in the service.  But you don’t learn how to fight like that in the regular army.  So what were you, Special Forces?  Delta?” 

She paused, giving him an opportunity to volunteer information.  He stayed quiet, considering his options.  Harold-in-his-mind didn’t utter a peep.  

“I’m Carter.  You didn’t give us a name.” 

“John,” he answered softly.  He needed his book and she was the way to get it.  He had to make her trust him enough to return it to him.  It was his link to Harold, and now that he had the idea that Harold left it as a clue to finding him, he needed it back.  “John Tallis,” he added, giving her the escort identity he’d used so long ago.  He’d never been picked up for prostitution, but it was possible the cops knew about him, and an escort falling on hard times and becoming homeless wouldn’t raise many alarm bells.  

“Making that transition back can be tough.  Some guys I knew got a little lost, needed a little help adjusting.  You need some help?”  

He decided to take her at face value.  No need to bring trouble on his head by antagonizing her and encouraging her to run his fingerprints through the system.  That would be a true death sentence. 

“Yeah,” he said, looking away, pretending to being ashamed of his condition.  He fingered his beard.  “I could do with a shave.”  

In the mirrored surface of a TV, he saw her smile slightly, clearly pleased he wasn’t going to be difficult, pleased that he was asking for help when it was so difficult for most people in his situation.  She held up the book in its plastic bag.  

“My uni says this is yours.  That the fight started because of it.”  

He nodded.  “It’s very important to me.”  

Carter opened the bag and pulled out the book.  She opened the cover as if she had every right to, read the inscription from Harold and sighed in understanding.  “Can you go to him?  Can he help you out?” she asked, closing the book and handing it to John.  

“He died.”  John caressed the cover.  “Last year.”  

“About the time you ended up on the streets?”  He didn’t answer.  Carter examined him for a moment, then seemed to come to a decision.  “Look, I can get you a place to stay for the night, some clean clothes.  Would that help?”  

He nodded again, eyes still on the book.  

Carter left the room and retuned a few minutes later with a voucher for a particular barbershop and a no-frills motel, a stack of clothes and a $20 bill from her CI budget.  John accepted everything and thanked her.  He took her card when she offered it.  

“You run into trouble, ask for me, ok?  Us vets have to look after each other, you know?”  

“Thank you, detective,” John reiterated, hoping he’d find Harold and never have to take her up on her offer. 

Find me and you won’t have to, Harold-in-his-mind told him.  You have the clues.  Do what you do best, Mr. Reese.  Find me. 

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Chapter Text

Once he’d sobered up, cleaned up and fed himself, John sat on the flimsy motel bed and opened the book to decode Harold’s clues.  It was difficult, but not overly-so.  He had a day, a time and a location where Harold would be, once every other month for an hour.  He wasn’t sure if April was an on-month or an off-month, but in three days he’d be able to find out.  

He also found a declaration of love in between the words of the translation commentary.  Had Harold written that back in ’04, or was it somehow a new addition?  Either way, it felt good to find, John decided, catching himself touching his chest over his heart in a gesture he’d only ever seen in movies that he couldn’t remember making in his entire life.  It felt good to do it.  

What about Grace? he wondered.  Am I betraying her by wanting him?  By being his choice? Should I tell her I found him? 

He didn’t know how Harold felt about her, or him, since he couldn’t be sure when Harold wrote those notes.  Was Harold committed to keeping Grace in the dark to protect her from whatever he was running from?  Could he convince Harold to go to her?  Should he try?  

It was too complicated for him to sort out on his own.  

He went for one of his stashes so he’d be able to get a suit and be presentable when they met.  He didn’t bother with a tie, thinking of the heat in Harold’s eyes years ago when ogling his throat and how Harold would probably understand his aversion to them, given what John suspected he knew about John’s real history.  

What would he say to Harold? he asked himself as he waited for the suit to be altered.  He didn’t go to one of Harold’s tailors, though he picked one of the suits from Harold that hadn’t been damaged over the years sitting in storage.  He worried that a familiar tailor would ask too many questions he wouldn’t be able to answer.  Fancy bespoke tailoring seemed like a thing their creator would remember making, after all, and he didn’t want to tip his hand. 

At the very least, he needed to know if anything Harold said to him back then was the truth.  Did he have feelings for John, or was it all just acting?  Would Harold listen to his version, that he’d fallen in love and that’s why the CIA sent him away?  He’d finally figured it out, but they hadn’t been that far behind.   

Would Harold believe him?  Harold-in-his-mind certainly did.  John knew that even without the voice telling him so — it disappeared along with his hangover the second day without alcohol.  

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John recognized Harold standing by a bench as he walked up the path to the rendezvous spot overlooking the river and bridge.  There was a black car sitting nearby with two men lurking, clearly security.  They compared him to a photograph before waving him on and he approached Harold slowly, cautiously.  Harold hadn’t moved to look at him yet.  

“Harold,” he said, pitching his voice low, intimate.  Harold had aged in the intervening years.  There was more gray in his hair and his expression was severe, closed-off.  John felt his chest tighten.  He had gray in his hair, too.  He felt his heart swell at being in his presence after so long.  

“John.  Or should I say, Mr. Ree—“ 

John threw caution to the wind and embraced Harold, putting his arms around him and squeezing him tightly.  Harold stood stiffly, unmoving, tense.  John held on more tightly as his confidence waned.  

He’d made a fool of himself, shown his emotions when none were returned.  The message encoded in Harold’s translation notes wasn’t real after all — just his own wishful thinking that Harold missed him and still loved him.  He’d messed up when he thought those notes were more recent than the other code, and Harold had in fact left them both at the same time, when John left New York, not come back and added to the book somehow after John visited Grace the first time and he learned John hadn’t died in Budapest.  

At least I didn’t try to kiss him, he thought, still refusing to allow himself to let go.  He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to catch a whiff of Harold’s cologne — the expensive, woodsy one he wore when he went to the insurance agency, not the spicy orange of his freelance days.   He felt a wave of arousal course through him and tamped it down.  Harold still hadn’t responded to his embrace.  A few more seconds, he begged silently.  Just let me hold you a few more seconds.  

Harold made a soft sobbing sound and hugged John back, just as tightly.  Harold shook in his arms, breathing in huge gasps, his face pressed to John’s coat’s lapel.  They stood embracing for a full minute once Harold calmed down before John moved to kiss him, now confident in his welcome.  Harold responded eagerly.  He tasted salt on Harold’s lips. 

“I’m done lying to you, John,” Harold said when he broke the kiss.  “I’m done pretending with you.  I can’t tell you everything about my past, but what I can, I will.  I promise you that.”  

“Did you mean it?” John said, asking the most important question.  “The things you said back then?  What you wrote in the book?”  Do you love me? he meant.  Do you still love me?  Harold seemed to understand.  

“I realized that I was in love with you when you came to the hotel with a bullet wound and my first instinct was to destroy the CIA down to its very core for putting you in such danger.”  

“You knew that early?”  

“I learned of your association with them two minutes after I handed you The Count of Monte Cristo for the first time.”  

John froze, stunned.  He’d wondered, of course, but to have it confirmed that Harold knew the whole time?  From the very beginning?  

He should be used to Harold turning his world on its head, he thought.  

“My project,” Harold said.  “The one you were sent to search out, it —“ He broke off, eyes flitting away briefly.  “It told me who you were, your objectives, your plans.  I was able to use that information to modify how I interacted with you and to spoon-feed you false information and keep you from learning the truth.”  

John closed his eyes, reassessing everything he thought he knew.  Harold had known the whole time.  What could he extrapolate from that?  How far was Harold’s reach?  He met Harold’s eyes and held his gaze, determined to get the answers he needed. “Were you behind the mission to Ordos?” 

Harold’s face crumpled, telling John all he needed to —

“My project,” Harold said, squeezing John’s forearms to keep him in place, making John realize he’d taken a step back.  “Once we handed it over to the government, once they made sure it worked as it was supposed to, they started systematically eliminating anyone who knew about it.   Car accidents, heart attacks, aneurysms, the usual kinds of cover-ups.  They went after everyone.  The contractors who built the facilities to house it, the railroad workers who loaded it onto the train, the technicians who set it up, Nathan —“  

“The ferry bombing,” John whispered.  

“He was going to go public, talk to a reporter.  Obviously, they couldn’t let that happen, so they found a terrorist and manipulated the situation so that he’d kill Nathan and the reporter and be done with the whole affair.”  

“You were there,” John said.  “Weren’t you?  That’s what Grace thought.”  

“Nathan begged me to join him.  We’d argued about the project, about what it meant, the repercussions of building it, about what the government would really do with it, about our own safety and culpability… We stopped talking to each other for a while.  He quit IFT without telling me… Eventually, he convinced me to join him.”  

Harold let go of John and went to sit.  John noticed a limp, difficulty turning his head.  He settled on the bench next to him to keep him from having to look up at John and risk strain to his neck.  “He was closer to the blast than I was.  They didn’t know I existed.  He died instantly, thank God.  It was a wake-up call for me.  I’d known, in theory, what the government was capable of doing, what they’d done in the past, but… I had to disappear, even more thoroughly than I had to before. 

“The government hired Daniel Casey to try to infiltrate the project, hack the program, and when he realized what he was looking at, they sent you and Ms. Stanton to eliminate him.  Then they sent you to Ordos to finish the matter, intending to kill you because you had contact, however peripherally.  I was stunned when I saw you in New York chasing Mr. Casey.  There you were, alive!  Before I could do anything, they sent you to China and I thought I’d lost you again, right after I’d learned you hadn’t died in Budapest.  I lost you again, because of me, because of my project.  All because of me.”  

“Alicia Corwin?”  

“One of the six government people who knew about the project.  She was Nathan’s government contact.  After the ferry bombing, I —“  Harold took a breath to fortify himself.  “I placed a bomb in her car and trapped her there.  I was determined to destroy the person I held responsible for Nathan’s death. 

“In the end, I didn’t go through with it,” Harold continued.  “I realized that if I did, I’d be completing their work.  Deliberately choosing to take a life rather than willing myself to deny that lives would be lost because of me felt like a line I couldn’t cross and stay myself.”  

“Your rules,” John murmured. 

“I’ve been on the run from the government since I was seventeen,” Harold added.  “So you see, my need to protect myself from them predated your presence in my life.  If I hadn’t had my project to finish, I could’ve kept you and the CIA at bay indefinitely.  I didn’t account for feelings to develop.  Yours or mine.  I thought I could keep it as just sex, that even though you were trying to undermine that resolution, I’d be able to hold out.  I knew what you were doing, so I could counter it.  When I realized I was falling in love with you, I had to alter how we interacted, how careful I was with my words and actions.  But then all my planning fell apart when you were sent away.  That final night, when you came to my house… I would’ve given you anything.”  

John covered Harold’s hand with his and interlocked their fingers.  Harold’s lips twitched into a half-smile before falling again.  

“Once I learned you’d escaped the blast in Ordos, I tried to find you, but you avoided every way I could track you, so I snuck into Grace’s apartment and planted the book for her to find to give to you.”  

“How did you know I’d go see her again?”  

“I didn’t.  But I hoped that the allure of someone who knew me would be enough to get you there.  Knowing her as I do, I expected her to return it to you, which is exactly what happened.”  

John considered this for a moment.  

“I wanted to be your lover by the end,” John said, looking down at his lap.  “My loyalties were shifting and they could tell.  It was tearing me apart.”  

“I know,” Harold replied.  “Me, too.”  He squeezed John’s hand.  “The orders to send you away were being drafted when we saw each other the final Friday.  I knew you were likely to follow them.”  

“That’s really why you were thinking about losing me,” John intuited.  “You knew they were sending me away because of my feelings.” 

“Yes, and since mine were interfering with my ability to keep to my plans, I let you go.  I didn’t fight the way I could have.” 

“You offered me quite a bit,” John mused.  

“I was desperate.  And back then I could have followed through on my offers.  It would take more than a few phone calls now, though,” Harold admitted. “But DC feels too far away.  I want you here, with me, if you’ll have me after everything I’ve done.”   

“How does Grace fit into the picture?”  

Harold paused, surprised.  He clearly hadn’t expected John to ask about their relationship. He shook himself and started talking again.  

“I didn’t know how to go on without you.  It was bad enough knowing you were risking your life every day where I couldn’t help, but when I saw that you died in Budapest… and scouring the CIA didn’t turn up any link between you and John Reese.  Ms. Stanton hadn’t given you that name yet.  As far as they put in writing, you were dead.  So I stopped keeping track.  I didn’t look for you again, beyond getting the tags.  

“I couldn’t live with the emptiness.  Nathan and I were fighting about the project.  I was as alone as could be and my father had been dead nearly 25 years.  Grace was suggested as a substitute, your polar opposite, someone to distract me from the pain.  I was weak, I know.  I should’ve looked harder, found out you’d escaped the blast…”  

Harold sighed.  “I do love her, and I’m concerned for her safety, but she’s too innocent to understand and accept the world in which I now live.”  

“I’m not so sure about that,” John said.  “She —“ 

“I’ve listened to your conversations,” Harold interrupted.  “Whether or not she understands is irrelevant.  I’ve hurt her, badly.  I started the relationship under false pretenses, used her for my own selfish reasons and spent fours years lying to her.  At least with you, we were both lying and manipulating each other.”  

“Not any more,” John promised. 

“Not any more,” Harold agreed.  

“It seems like you know everything that’s happened to me,” John began.  He took a deep breath, let it out slowly.  “They killed Nathan for your project,” he said calmly.  “They tried to kill me.  They’ve killed others.”  Out of the corner of his eye he saw Harold’s expression shift, becoming colder.  He tried to free his hand from John’s, but he held on, not letting him.  “I need to know what I’ll be protecting,” he finished.  

Harold gasped, startled.  John rushed to fill the silence and get his entire point across.  

“This thing was important enough to you that you let me go without much of a fight because you couldn’t predict how I’d respond. It was your duty, your promise.  I’m as free from the CIA as I can be.  I want to help you.  I want to make up for being brainwashed into leaving.”  

Harold’s eyes moved rapidly as he thought.  His hand relaxed in John’s.  

“My project, I call it the Machine, went online on February 24, 2005, approximately eight months after you left New York.  I spent the next four years debugging and perfecting it before handing it over to the government in 2009.  You know I met Grace in 2006.”  

“Right after Budapest.”  

“Yes.  I realize it may seem callous or unfeeling that I introduced myself to her directly after hearing that you died, but I’d been mourning you and our relationship since you walked out my front door.  I needed to move on.  The Machine had been pointing her out to me since 2004, but you were still in my life when it started doing that.  Once you left, it kept up the pressure.  Looking back, I suspect it knew you’d be sent away months before it happened and was trying to prime the pump, so to speak, by giving me Grace’s name.”  

“You’re going to have to back up and tell me what the Machine is,” John interjected.  “Big computer program?  Figures out an escort’s preferred client list while it looks for terrorists on the side?” he joked, remembering conversations from several lifetimes ago.  

“Initially, the Machine had access to the NSA feeds, but as the internet grew, so did it.  So did its reach, its knowledge, its ability to sort through information and predict human behavior.”  Harold pulled his hand free to pat John’s knee.  “If I still had access, I’m sure it would have an opinion on what you should do with your life.”  

“Don’t need a machine to tell me that,” John said.  “I’m yours.  I’ll do whatever you want or need me to do.” 

“You may come to regret that offer,” Harold muttered.  “I built the Machine to avert mass casualty events, terrorism, traitors to the United States, but finding the threshold for a mass casualty event meant that it would predict other premeditated deaths that were irrelevant to national security.”  

John knew that tone of Harold’s voice.  He shifted, settling back for one of Harold’s lectures.  He’d loved Harold’s lectures back in the day, and now… just hearing his voice again was waking him up in ways he hadn’t thought about in ages.  He felt excitement again, hope.  

“I have a list of people who are about to be involved in violent crimes.  Some are victims, some are perpetrators.  I rarely know which until the end.  As you can imagine, I don’t have the physical capabilities to intervene, especially when things turn violent.  I’ve tried hiring people, mercenaries, former soldiers or spies like yourself, but no one has worked out.  When their motives are money, sometimes they’ve disobeyed my orders and allowed innocents to die for a bigger profit.  I can’t continue like that.  I need someone I can trust.  

“When I saw that you were alive in December, when I saw that you allowed Mr. Casey to live and gave him a way to escape, I knew you were the person I needed for my mission.  Not only were you you, the man I still loved, but you had compassion, principles.  You weren’t willing to kill someone you knew was innocent, and that confirmed for me that I’d have to reveal myself and bring you on board.  They hadn’t completely burned the humanity out of you.  

“Unfortunately, the CIA had the advantage and I didn’t have access to the Machine and its information the way I did in ’03 and ’04.  I was playing catch up, and losing.  They sent you to China before I could contact you.”  

“You’ve been tracking me for a while though,” John said.  “Was it the book?  The tags were pretty melted.” 

“Yes.  I’d already put the tracker and the code for where to meet me in the book in 2004, but once I realized you’d escaped Ordos I added the rest.  When you didn’t show up for the February rendezvous, I looked into your whereabouts, saw what had become of you.”  

“So I was seeing you around town,” John murmured.  “It wasn’t just the alcohol.”  

“Yes.”  

A thought occurred to John.  “Did you hire those kids on the subway?”  

Harold chuckled, confirming John’s suspicion.  “There wasn’t much time before today’s meeting, and I was feeling increasingly desperate.”  

“You could have just come up to me,” John said.  “That would’ve been a lot simpler.”  

Harold rolled his eyes.  “And since when have I been a simple man?  Since when have I chosen the easy path?”  

“Not since you were seventeen, I’d guess,” John answered.  “Maybe even earlier.  So, what’s the plan?  We’re going to stop some bad guys?”  

Harold blinked rapidly a few times, surprised.  “That’s it?” he asked.  “You’re on board?  I haven’t explained —“ 

“I love you,” John interrupted, kissing the back of Harold’s hands.  “I’ve loved you for years.  I’ve never forgotten you, never let you go.  And if you still love me… Please, give us a chance.  Let me help you.  Teach me to use my skills for good, for a change.”  

Harold stared at their clasped hands.  

“I fantasized about having you as my handler, you know,” John added.  “As the voice in my ear directing me. I think we’ll be a great team.”  

“We will,” Harold agreed, squeezing John’s fingers.  “Shall we go somewhere more private?  I have the urge to reacquaint myself with you in ways that are decidedly inappropriate for public viewing.”  

John felt his heart unfurl in his chest as he smiled.  Harold leaned forward to kiss him.  

“Let me show you all the ways I love you,” Harold said against his lips.  

.

.

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Chapter Text

Harold spent the car ride going into more detail about his multiple aliases, the Machine, Nathan’s desire to help the Irrelevant Numbers, their argument that Harold believed lead to Nathan’s decision to go public and his subsequent murder by the government and Harold’s decision to take up his friend’s pursuit upon his death.  More than a mission, to John it sounded like a purpose, a reason for being, an act of penance for not helping Nathan when he could have done so.  John understood that kind of mission. 

Following Harold into a fancy hotel brought back dozens of memories for John.  He felt tense, unsure, yet also excited.  Harold had agreed to give them a chance.  Harold had kissed him, quite deeply.  

Harold hesitated, his hand resting lightly on the door handle to his room — not a suite, based on its location in the middle of the hall and the distance between the other doors.  Much more anonymous. “I thought about bringing you somewhere else,” he admitted.  “Somewhere more to my usual standards… but I promised not to lie to you, and this is how I’ve been living recently, so…” 

“I’ve been on the streets until a few days ago, I’m in no position to judge,” John reassured him.  “But if sharing this is too much, we can go somewhere else.”  

Harold nodded, flicked his keycard at the reader and opened the door.  

John took in and evaluated the room immediately, as he’d been trained.  It looked lived-in, messier than he remembered Harold being.  There were three laptops, one on the desk, one on the coffee table and one in the middle of the bed.  A room service tray sat on the sofa, piled high and not yet taken outside.  Takeout containers vied with books and papers for space on the coffee table next to the laptop.  Stacks of books teetered on the nightstand, next to the desk and on the floor.  Paper cups instead of Harold’s usual teacups, but only the scent of Harold’s tea — no coffee.  No scotch, either, nor any whiff of alcohol.  He noted several orthopedic pillows and an array of orange prescription bottles next to the alarm clock.  He squinted, seeing four different names on the bottles.  All were pain medications or muscle relaxants.  There were some duplicates.  

Fuck it, he’ll tell me if I need to stop, John thought, kicking the door closed and whirling Harold to press him against the wall, shoving a thigh between his legs.  He kissed him, hard.  

“John!” Harold gasped.  He returned the kiss, then made clear that he wanted to move.  When John let up on the pressure, Harold pushed him against the wall.  John laughed, kissed him again and flipped them back.  

“We doing it here?” John asked after a few hot minutes of kissing and grinding against each other as they danced in the small entryway by the door.  He reached for Harold’s belt.  

“Depends what you want,” Harold replied, already breathless.  He shoved the coat and jacket off John’s shoulders and started on the buttons of his shirt.  

“Everything,” John said, freeing Harold’s cock.  “But I’ll settle on this to start,” he added, dropping to his knees and taking Harold’s erection in his mouth.  He heard Harold’s head hit the wall with a soft thump and a breathy moan.  He glanced up, looking past Harold’s cloth-covered body to see his expression as he sucked.  

“Oh, dear Lord,” Harold groaned.  His eyes were closed, his knees locked.  He clutched at John’s hair.  His fingers curled even tighter into his hair as his face went slack and semen filled John’s mouth.  John grabbed his own cock and squeezed, keeping himself from coming.  He was ready — had been ready — but coming in his trousers wasn’t his idea of hot reunion sex, no matter that he’d given Harold an orgasm so quickly.  

He knew Harold, though, and Harold wouldn’t have allowed himself to come if he didn’t think he could do it again within a reasonable amount of time.  

“Get the bed ready,” Harold ordered, pulling at the knot of his tie, telling John that was probably correct in his assumption.  

John moved, getting to his feet in a rush and gathering the laptop to put on the sofa.  He threw back the top sheet and cover.  Harold, meanwhile, deposited his tie on the nightstand and casually dropped his coat and jacket on the floor next to it. He sat on the bed. By that time John had finished stripping and knelt in front of Harold a second time so he could help with his shoes and socks while Harold continued with his shirt.  

Harold lay on his back, neck supported by an orthopedic pillow.  He reached for another for his lower back.  John took a moment to admire his naked body — yes, he had some scars, messy, ugly shrapnel as well as precise surgical lines, and his midsection was rounder, his hair more gray, but he was still Harold.  Still attractive, still able to take John’s breath away.  He felt his erection bob in response to his arousal.  

“I know I’m not much to look at,” Harold muttered, though he didn’t look away from John’s scrutiny.  Maybe he couldn’t, with his hurt neck, John mused.  Didn’t matter.  He slotted himself between Harold’s legs.  

He kissed Harold tenderly.  “You are to me,” he said.  He stroked Harold’s cheek.  “Everything to me.”  

Harold ran his fingers down John’s chest, noting the scars he knew from before, murmuring over the new ones.  He paused at the pink skin of the most recent bullet wound.  “Ms. Stanton?” he asked.  John nodded.  “Does it still hurt?”  

“No.”  

“Good.”  

“I want to fuck you,” John said, meeting Harold’s eyes.  

“Condoms are there,” Harold said, indicating the nightstand.  “But if we’re exclusive, I don’t need them.”  

John paused, startled.  

“Grace has been my only sexual partner since I was last with you,” Harold explained.  “It’s been months since I was intimate with her.  I have negative tests.”  He paused.  “I know you do, too.”  

John made an awkward questioning sound in his throat.  

“I’d been tracking the youth from the subway after hiring them, then you, once you encountered them.  I followed your every movement, every action.  I hacked the clinic to get your results.”  

“You knew I was coming this morning,” John stated.  He felt himself losing some of his arousal.  

“I suspected, once I saw your evasive pattern when leaving your motel.  I wasn’t certain until I heard your footfalls on the path, though.”  Harold ran his fingers through John’s hair.  “I built a Machine that watches everyone, listens to everyone, monitors everyone.  I’ve lived a life in the shadows, more comfortable behind a computer than with people.  I’ve studied human behavior and psychology, read all the CIA and FBI handbooks.  It’s become my nature to keep track of those I love, in minute detail, though Grace was never aware of that fact.  If that level of surveillance by your partner is uncomfortable or unacceptable…” 

“I can get used to a lot of things,” John said. “I haven’t had a private life since I was nineteen.”  

“I don’t want things to be the same as they were,” Harold said.  “I don’t want to have all the knowledge, all the power.  I don’t want you doing things you don’t want to do just because I want it.”  

“The things I wanted then, the things I want now, you would’ve given me if I’d asked.  I wanted the kissing and cuddling and affection.  It was my other job that kept me from them, not anything you did or said.”  

“How much of your hesitance to be a kept man was about the other job?” 

“Most of it,” John answered candidly.  He lowered himself so he could rest on his side next to Harold while they talked, though he kept one leg thrown over Harold’s thigh.  “If I’d been my own man, I would’ve given up escorting to date you.  I had enough money.  I had more than enough money.  But I’d made promises and commitments and the CIA had me.”  

John shifted again, leaning up on one elbow so Harold wouldn’t have to struggle to see his face.  “Back then, my pride wouldn’t have let me be fully kept, though.  I thought it was giving up, giving away control.”  He took one of Harold’s hands.  “Turns out I don’t need as much control as I thought, when I trust the person I’m giving it to.”  

“You trust me that much already?” 

“No, but I think I will soon.  We’ll have to see how we do on your crusade.  If we work together as well as I suspect we will, it won’t be long.  I fantasized about having you as my handler.”  

“You said that earlier.  Would you care to elaborate?”  Harold sounded intrigued.  

“Having your voice always in my ear, telling me where to go, what to do, but trusting me to make decisions in the moment.  I thought we’d be able to catch a lot of bad guys.”  John rolled to his back, though he kept Harold’s hand in his.  “I like the idea of you doing things for me.  Buying me clothes, that kind of thing.  That was fun, watching you and your tailors whisper about me.”  He chuckled and Harold joined him.  

“I want to give you an apartment,” Harold declared.  “I have to maintain my aliases, and you’ll have yours to keep up, but I want to spend most nights with you, sharing food, sharing a bed.  But no matter where we sleep, I want you to have that home, someplace for you, something permanent.”  

John squeezed his hand.  “Ok.”  

“How do you feel about sexual exclusivity?” Harold asked. 

“Back in the day, I’d have sex at least once a day, often more than that, with many people.  I enjoyed it.  But the thing is, for me, sex with the people I love is totally different from sex for recreation or sex for work.  It means something.  I don’t need variety in my partners.  I need love.  I’ve always been happiest when I could devote myself to someone.  I had that with Jessie, I’m hoping to have that with you.”  

“I would like that very much,” Harold answered.  

“I want us to switch more than we used to.”  

“Agreed.”  

“I don’t like vibrators,” John continued softly.  “They’re too intense for me.  I did it before because it was work, but they don’t feel good.”  

“Then we won’t use them,” Harold said.  “I have to be in a particular mood to enjoy them, myself.  What about restraints?  I assume things around your neck remains unacceptable?”  

“Hard no to both.”  Harold squeezed his hand.  “I don’t like — well, most aspects of submitting in BDSM, if I’m being honest.  Not any more.”  

“You used to, but the work changed things for you?”  

“Yeah.”  

“I understand. Would you —”  

“I don’t think I’d like the other way, either.  I do like the cuddling we used to do, the quiet moments.  I want to kiss you.  I want to kiss you a lot.”  

“So you said.  I’m happy to oblige.”  

“What about you?” John asked.  

“You brought out the kink in me,” Harold answered.  “I’m usually rather vanilla, though I enjoy edging quite a bit.  Sitting at my desk while you hold my cock in your mouth is a particular experience I’d like to repeat, though I realize that might be too close to BDSM that may no longer feel comfortable.” 

John felt his lips curling into a smile.  “We can try it.  If it doesn’t work, I’ll tell you.”  

“Excellent.”  

They lay in silence for a few minutes.  John found himself remembering other times with Harold, other hotel rooms and beds and the quiet before the passion took over.  He thought about the future.  He pictured himself on his knees, under a desk, zoned out as Harold worked, the occasional caress in his hair keeping him grounded.  He pictured himself bent over the desk, Harold fucking him hard and fast.  He pictured himself lovingly stretching Harold open for his cock.  

His dick swelled.  

“John? It’s past time you fucked me,” Harold said.  

John reached for the lube. 

Chapter Text

“John?”  

John turned towards the familiar voice with a warm smile.  

“Grace,” he replied, accepting the hug she offered and kissing her cheek.  In his ear, Harold choked on his tea.  

John wasn’t surprised to see her.  He’d planned this visit to this particular bakery at this specific day and time to increase the odds that he and Grace would cross paths.  Harold’s insistence that he not seek her out grated on him.  He wanted to tell her Harold was really, truly alive.  He wanted to be her friend, if that was possible.  

His morals and ethics had been changing for the better, between helping the numbers and his budding friendship with Jos Carter.  She wasn’t thrilled about his vigilantism, but she was willing to cover for him on occasion, which was more than he’d initially hoped for.  If he could only convince Harold to tell her about the Machine, he knew she’d be more on board with helping them.  She had that kind of heart.  

“Sir?” the clerk asked, making him turn back to the counter.  He accepted a box of strawberry-glazed donuts with rainbow sprinkles.  Grace eyed the box meaningfully, noting the contents through the clear plastic window.  

“He found you,” she stated, resigned, a little sadness creeping into her voice.  

“Let’s catch up over coffee,” he said.   

“John!” Harold exclaimed.  “I don’t —” 

John hung up on him.  He handed Grace the box and pulled out his phone, removing the battery and shoving it back into his pocket before taking back the box.  He and Harold were rarely out of contact these days, as hearing each other breathe when away from each other helped Harold’s anxiety when John worked in the field.  They both appreciated the ability to talk into the air and have the other answer immediately.  Harold had turned out to be an excellent handler, and they did, in fact, make the great team John predicted.  They were saving lives. 

Grace took the hint and did the same thing with her own phone.  

They didn’t talk as John took a meandering route through the city to a cafe in a relatively low-surveillance area.  Harold would find them, but not immediately.  Whether Harold chose to join them when he did was another question.  John couldn’t predict that with certainty.  

“You look good,” Grace said.  “I like the cleaned-up look.”  

He gave a small smile.  “We reconnected in April,” he told her, getting right to the point.  

“April,” she repeated, her expression falling.  “Two months…” 

“He made me promise not to seek you out,” he added.  “He didn’t say anything about running into you.”  He touched the box of donuts.  

She brightened, immediately understanding that he’d found a way to circumvent Harold’s unreasonable request.  He’d wanted to bring his lover’s favorite donuts to him on National Donut Day, and she’d wanted to get her fiancé’s favorite donuts for nostalgia.  The bakery was open for twelve hours — there was a greater likelihood that they’d miss each other.  That John shaved that likelihood down by monitoring Grace’s whereabouts didn’t seem relevant.  

“I tried to convince him to talk to you, but he’s been too ashamed.”  

“Harold?  Ashamed?  That doesn’t sound like the man I knew.”  

“No, I’m sure it doesn’t.  He’s —” John broke off, trying to find the right words to convey his impressions of Harold.  He’d scripted out what he wanted to say, but all that planning left his head when confronted with her in real life.  “He has a lot of survivor’s guilt.  He’s made a lot of mistakes.  Dealing with them and the feelings isn’t an easy task.”  

Grace nodded, holding her coffee cup in two hands, looking at the dark surface of the liquid.  

“Are you with him?” she asked after a moment, raising her head to meet his eyes.  

“Yes.  It’s different than it was before.  We’re both different people.”   John scanned the cafe, not seeing threats or Harold.  “It’s not complicated, though.  It’s love.  I can finally say it out loud.  I’m in love with him.”  

She nodded again, a brief smile flitting across her face.  “Tell me about him?”  

“He’s driven.  He’s struggling.  He’s trying to be kind, but it’s not always easy or genuine.  He’s hurting.”  

“From the ferry bombing?”  

“Yeah.  And from other things.  Psychological stuff.”  

“How is he with you?”  

“Exacting, frustrating, loving.  He’s trying to make up for his part in how things ended between us.  We were both lying to each other.  You’ve probably figured out why I was doing it.”  She nodded.  “He had his own reasons.  We’ve been building trust, trying to be open.  It’s not easy for either of us.  Talking to you helped me know how to do it a little better.  I suggested that talking to you and being honest would likely help him let go of some of the guilt, but he’s refused so far.  He thinks you’ll hate him.”  

“I could never hate him.  I’m sad, of course.  I wish he could trust me, but I understand, I think.  I’ve been thinking about it a lot since you left my place.  What does it mean that he’s alive but won’t tell me so himself?  What must he be afraid of?  Were you right that he’s running from big, nasty organizations?”  

“What would you do if he were?” John asked, understanding that the last question was for him and not rhetorical.  

“I’d — If he needs me to stay away, I would.  I don’t want to, but I’d do whatever he needed me to do.  I love him.  I still love him.  Of course I’d do what he asked me to do.”  

John examined her closely, watching her mouth, her eyes, her breathing.  “You mean that.”  

She nodded.  “I do.”  

He extended a hand to her across the table and she took it, squeezing his fingers.  “You’re an amazing woman, Grace,” John said.  “In another life…” 

“In another life?” she asked when he trailed off.  

He thought about watching her through a drunken haze with a misguided idea that he was protecting her.  He thought of the hours he’d spent listening to her conversations with others through the connection to her phone he’d created a scant two weeks after he and Harold started working the numbers together, how that prompted Harold’s edict about not contacting her.  He thought about the surveillance pictures he’d taken of her in his spare time, the research he’d done into her background.  He thought about her beauty and gentleness and kindness, all out there for the world to see and how he sometimes felt jealous of Harold that he’d gotten to bask in it close up.  She’d been kind to him when they’d met before, and she’d been gentle with his fragile mental state, but the idea of being a true focus of her attention… 

He covered their hands with his other one, deciding to trust her with another of his secrets.  One he hadn’t even shared with Harold out of fear of his response, especially since they’d agreed to be exclusive.  

“In another life, I could see us as friends, lovers.  All of us.”  

He let go of her hand and picked up his coffee.  “I was a sex worker when I met him,” he added, deliberately shifting the tone of the conversation, relieved that he felt comfortable enough to admit this, as well.  He’d spent a lot of time debating with himself on whether or not to do it.  “That’s how I met him.  Nathan Ingram hired me for Harold.”  

Grace sat frozen, staring in shock.  She blinked rapidly.  

“Ohhh,” she breathed.  “Oh, that makes sense.”  

“It does?”  

“Well, you were probably CIA, right?  Don’t answer, I know you can’t tell me.  But if you were, and you needed to get close to people, that’s a good cover.  I mean, the things people say after sex!  It’s like a goldmine for a spy.  Why else would there be so many movies about spies seducing people for information?  It’d be an added bonus to get paid, because that’s like getting two paychecks!”  

She giggled.  “He’d take you to the tailor, wouldn’t he?  To dress you up?  I bet you loved that!  All his attention, focused on you?  I remember those days…” She shook herself, returning to the main topic.   

“You told me Nathan introduced you two, that you’d been sent to spy on him… but if Harold’s the kind of man who’d pay for sex, which, given what I know of his dating history, isn’t actually all that shocking, and you’re gorgeous, of course, and kind, so… yeah, that makes total sense.  You fell in love with each other, because, of course, and then the CIA sent you away because you couldn’t be objective any more, which is why you left.  But you couldn’t tell him that, which broke his heart, leaving all kinds of complicated feelings on both your parts, and he likes to think he’s fine all by himself, but he’s always had at least one person, right?  First Nathan, then you, then Nathan again, but something must have happened between them for him to seek me out.  Did they have a big fight of some kind?  Is that why I never heard about him?  Or was it because he was already running from someone and wanted to keep parts of his life separate from one another?”  

“That’s… very astute,” John mumbled, feeling a flush on his cheeks at her casual compliment.  

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it, like I said.”  

They sat quietly, sipping coffee as John processed for himself how outstandingly smart and brave she truly was.  

“Hypothetically,” she blurted.  “Hypothetically, would there be a way to protect me from nearby?  To keep me safe but in your lives?  Maybe I could help with whatever you’re doing.  Or support you somehow.  Make sure you get a home-cooked meal every so often.”  She hesitated.  “Maybe we could be friends.  Lovers.”  She met and held his gaze.  She stroked the back of his hand.  “I think I’d like that.”  

He tilted his head, unconsciously imitating the younger Harold when he was considering a large, complex concept.  Current Harold couldn’t do that any longer, though if he relented and got that surgery…  Grace’s idea was intoxicating.  He felt as he did that final night in New York, when Harold had offered the world.  Here was Grace, offering a different, similarly seductive one… 

He wanted it.  Full stop.  

Was there any possibility that Harold would agree?  

“Hypothetically… yes.  I think so.  He and I have managed to stay off the grid for months together, I’m sure there’d be a way to do that for you.  You might have to give up most of your way of life, most of your routines.  Friends, family.  We’re living in the dark, me and Harold.  You’d have to join us there, because we can’t join you in the light and be safe.”  

“I understand.”  

Over Grace’s shoulder, the door to the cafe opened, revealing Harold, wearing one of his nicest suits — not the one he’d been wearing earlier.  He looked stricken, sick to his stomach.  

John wondered how much of their conversation he’d overheard.  Had he planted a bug in his phone so he’d be able to hear what was going on even if John removed the battery? Probably.  He’d probably heard every word — even John’s confession. 

“You’re the Man in the Suit that’s all over the news, aren’t you?” Grace asked suddenly.  Harold froze.  “You and Harold.  You’re helping people.  You’re saving people’s lives.”  

“Yes,” John said, looking meaningfully over her shoulder.  Grace turned to look.  

“We’re risking our lives every day,” Harold said softly.  “We’re on the run.  We’re doing this even though we’re being hunted by the government and less savory entities.  That’s why I stayed away, Grace,” Harold said softly.  “Part of why.”  

She jumped to her feet, her eyes wide, her smile huge.  

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, lowering his head.  

She knocked over her chair in her haste to hug him.  He stood stiffly, like he had when he and John reunited, but it didn’t take long for him to embrace her.  Without moving away from Harold, she reached out for John, motioning him over.  John put an arm around each of them, holding them close.  

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Harold repeated, over and over again into her hair.  She trembled in their arms, crying in relief and pain and anger.  Mostly relief, John suspected, from the way she squeezed his hand in thanks. 

“We’ll make it work,” Grace said.  “All of us, together.”