Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

I love you

as one loves certain dark things,   

in secret, 

between the shadow and the soul.

“Bonsoir. Bienvenue à l’Hôtel Lutetia, Monsieur… Wren.” Reese offered a practiced, warm smile as he took the passport from the tall, slender young man.

“I trust Paris has been kind to you, despite the weather?”

Wren looked to be barely out of his early 20s. A faint mist still clung to the gold-rimmed round glasses perched on his nose. His chestnut hair, damp from the drizzle, fell in soft strands against his forehead. 

“Paris is cool. I don’t mind the rain.”

He accepted the crisp tissues Reese offered, removing his glasses to dab the moisture from the lenses and his face. “It’s definitely better than the fog in London. That was nasty.”

Wren raised his face. Reese was immediately struck by his eyes.  A deep blue holding a gentleness so open it was almost disarming. His features were fine, carrying a delicate, almost feminine beauté.

“Ah yes, the famous, or perhaps infamous, London fog!” Reese said in a dry, amused lilt, “I must confess, as a Londoner myself, winter there has never been my favorite season. Hence my escape to Paris.” 

Wren offered a small, polite smile.

“Paris handles winter rather better.” Reese continued. “There is always a touch of enchantement in it. You really mustn’t miss the Christmas market in the Jardin des Tuileries, or the lights along the Champs-Élysées. And of course, le vin chaud and les marrons grillés…”

“I’d actually like to see the Degas collection at the Orsay.” Wren said softly with a shy enthusiasm in his voice. “He’s my favorite.”

“Quel goût exquis!” Reese’s eyes lit up.

He slid the passport back across the sleek marble counter accompanied by a key card. “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Wren. May your dreams be as charming as a Parisian night.”

Watching Wren disappear into the lift, Reese slipped his hand into his pocket and thumbed out a message on his phone:

“Target in play.”

The reply flickered back almost at once:

“Stick to the plan. Watch your step.”

The plan was to secure Wren’s laptop.

Reese had shadowed Wren from New York to London, then across the Channel. When the intel confirmed that the young man had booked at the Lutetia, Reese had moved ahead, insinuating himself behind the reception desk as the night manager, and waited.

Those night shifts stretched on, leaving him alone with the slow erosion of his own thoughts.

It had been a long road from the Regiment to the Circus. What had begun as a young man’s call to serve Her Majesty had turned, over the years, into something more personal. It wasn’t the Union Jack that drove him now. It was the game itself. The addiction to the edge, the way danger perfected him, brought the world into sharp focus.

Reese wore his effortless English poise like a well-tailored suit. Measured, polished, courteous to a fault, especially in the company of those he intended to disarm. But beneath that grace lay a colder precision, a man who had navigated the midnight alleys in old town Budapest or the rubbled buildings in Beirut without a quickening of the pulse. 

His record was impeccable, a string of successes as tidy as a public school report card. A month earlier, when they hauled him back from the narco-wars deep in the Colombian jungle, the brief from the river house was succinct but flattering:

“Because you’re our top man.”

But Reese knew the truth of it, as sure as Carter did. It wasn’t the clean slate or the unwavering devotion that marked him out. No, they chose him because he held steady when better men cracked. Because he was ruthless. And above all, he was unattached. No loose ends to snag on the wire.

In a war like this, that was the sharpest weapon of all.

Chapter Text

It wasn’t until noon the next day when Reese saw Wren again. The lift doors slid open and Wren stepped out, eyes darting nervously around the lobby before he made a beeline for the street.

Reese fell in behind, keeping just enough distance to be invisible.

Wren had barely hit the sidewalk when a black SUV shot out of the alley, tires screeching to a halt, inches from him.

Wren staggered backward, pale as chalk.

Reese closed the distance in three strides, slammed the car door shut as it cracked open, grabbed Wren by the arm, and hauled him back through the revolving doors into the hotel lobby.

“Ça va? Vous n’avez pas mal?” Reese settled him into a sofa, eyes scanning the street through the glass for signs of a second attempt.

Wren was shaking, his face drained of color.

Reese pressed a cup of coffee into his hands, “Drink. Before it gets cold. It will make you feel better.”

“Thank you. Uh… John.” Wren’s eyes flicked from Reese’s name tag to his face, “You’re…”

“The night manager.” Reese replied, voice softening. “We spoke last night, M. Wren.”

“Right, you hated London winters.” Wren let out a thin breath, “Call me Harold.”

He clutched the coffee cup, staring into it. Then, the dam broke.

“These last few weeks have been… insane.” Harold wasn’t telling Reese so much as confessing to the empty air.

Reese lowered himself into the opposite chair, taking him in without a word.

Harold carried a quiet fragility. Yet beneath it was a turbulence he couldn’t hide. The exhaustion bruising his eyes, the slight tremor in his lips. It stirred something Reese had buried under layers of tradecraft years ago.

“I keep thinking someone’s been in my room,” Harold murmured. “That I’m being followed. And now that car… Everything’s gone… dangerous.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Or maybe I’m losing it. Maybe it’s all in my head.”

“The world is dangerous.” Reese said softly. “Better paranoid than careless, isn’t it.”

“But I don’t know what’s real anymore. Or safe. Or who the hell to trust.” Harold’s gaze drifted, unfocused.

“Sometimes,“ Reese let out a softly sigh, “fear isn’t a bad thing. It tells you where you should go. Or shouldn’t go.”

“So I should run? Away from what scares me?” Harold glanced up.

“What’s worth pushing through for?” Reese leaned forward a little.

Harold looked away. “The truth.” He whispered.

“Truth gets people killed.” Reese narrowed his eyes.

“I know.” Harold swallowed hard. “But I can’t pretend I don’t know it anymore. I have to do something.”

“Then trust your gut.” Reese replied. “Do what feels right. That’s real courage. It outlasts fear.”

Harold went quiet. “So it means something. It’s… worth it.” It came out half-question, half-prayer.

Then suddenly he snapped out of it. “Oh, look at me. Dumping all this on a stranger. I… I should go.”

Reese put on a bright smile. “Paris at New Year’s. Not a bad place to forget the world for a moment. Stay and enjoy it.”

Harold managed a weak smile in return. “Thank you, John. For the coffee. And for… what you said. I do feel better now.”

Reese arched an eyebrow, a glint of mischief in his eyes. “Don’t thank me yet. I might ask for something in return.”

Reese pushed through the door onto the hotel’s rooftop, the December wind slicing at him like a blade. He took out his phone and dialed a secure line.

“Carter, we’ve got company.”

“Who?” Carter’s voice came back cold and clipped, sending a shiver down Reese’s spine that had nothing to do with the freezing air.

“Pros. Coordinated. The American cousins, I’d reckon.”

“Hmm, if we could track Wren, they were bound to pick up the trail.”’ Carter murmured. “Did they get what they came for?”

“Not the laptop.” Reese said. “But they managed to spook the boy proper.”

“Let me get this straight.” Carter’s tone iced even more. “You haven’t made any progress in all this time and now the Americans are ahead of us?”

Reese felt his jaw tightened. “I had a dozen chances to lift that laptop. You were the one insisting on caution.”

“And I’m insisting again.” Carter snapped. “That machine holds sensitive material. One slip and both our careers end in a parliamentary inquiry. Do not make me read your name in the morning papers.”

“I’m working on it.” Reese said. “We aren’t without progress. You’ll need patience.”

“Then work faster.” Carter hissed. “The river house lost their patience yesterday.”

Reese hung up, gazing out at the leaden Paris skyline. The CIA’s interference had muddied the waters. If he didn’t act soon, the whole operation would slip out of his hands.

Chapter Text

Reese stopped outside Harold’s room, composing himself. He knocked politely. “M. Wren? Harold? Just checking that everything is satisfactory?”

Silence. Then muffled thuds of crashing and banging.

Reese knew the sounds. He stepped back and kicked the door in with his full weight. 

A loaded gun stared him down. 

Reese twisted aside, and pushed the attacker’s wrist away with his right hand, the bullet screaming past. He then drove a sharp blow into the short man’s temple. The man dropped with a dull grunt.

Inside, a woman had Harold pinned from behind, a syringe poised at his neck. Reese snatched up the desk lamp and hurled it at her head. She flinched and released Harold to dodge.

“Move!” Reese seized Harold by the arm, and yanked him into the corridor.

They had only made it a few steps when the short man staggered back up, gun raised again. Reese shoved Harold toward the stairwell and stepped into the line of fire.

The shot hit. A brutal shock punched through Reese’s shoulder, pain exploding down his entire left side. He clamped a hand over the wound and forced his legs to move.

They ran up the stairs until Reese spotted a storeroom. He pushed Harold inside and barred the door behind them.

Footsteps came closer.

Reese flung the window open, feeling the icing wind slapping his face. Now his senses came back. They were facing the rooftop of the adjacent building, only separated by a narrow alley. 

“It’s the only way.” Reese said, voice straining to remain steady. “We have to jump. Harold, I need you to trust me.”

Before Harold could react, Reese hauled himself onto the windowsill. With a crisp leap, he landed on the opposite rooftop, then turned around.

“Like this!”

Harold climbed up after him. He peered down into the void and shut his eyes immediately. 

“Harold, look at me!” Reese’s voice cut through the wind. “I won’t let you fall.”

Harold opened his eyes. Drew a long, trembling breath. It was a terrifying amount of trust to place in a man he barely knew.

He lifted one leg, unsteady, then pushed off with a desperate force.

Reese surged forward, catching him with his arms.

The impact slammed them both onto the roof. Reese’s wounded shoulder hit the gravel hard, the burst of pain so sharp it made his stomach twist. Reese didn’t allow himself a second to process it. He pushed himself upright and helped Harold back to his feet.

“It’s ok.” He breathed against Harold’s ear. “You’re safe now.”

They slipped out a service exit, just as the police cars roaring toward the block. Without a word, they ducked their heads, melting into the shadows. They might have shaken off their pursuers for now, but both had reasons to stay far away from the french law enforcement.

“You’re shot! We need to get you to a hospital.” Harold’s eyes were fixed on Reese’s shoulder.

“No. We need to get you somewhere safe.” Reese said. “And I’m fine.”

“It seems nowhere is safe now. They will find me.”

Reese studied him, weighing. Then he exhaled softly. 

“Come with me.”

They walked down the alley until they slipped onto a rain-washed boulevard lined with dripping winter trees. It was only late afternoon, and Paris was already surrendering to twilight. The gray sky gradually warmed with streetlights and holiday decorations, casting shimmering reflections in the puddles along the sidewalks.

Reese led Harold into a metro station, letting themselves  swallowed by the rush hour crowds. The screech of moving trains blended with garbled announcements.

“The best place to hide,” Reese murmured, “is in the chaos.”

Harold turned to respond, but froze. Blood was streaming through Reese’s fingers, soaking his dark suit.

Without hesitation, Harold took off his jacket and draped it gently over Reese’s shoulder. “Put this on.”

Reese didn’t argue. He pulled the jacket a little tighter. His taut, pale face softened.

A train thundered in, the rush of air whipping up a few strands of Harold’s hair across his forehead. Reese felt a sudden ridiculous urge to brush them aside with his hand.

He didn’t. He only gave a small nod toward the opening doors.

The carriage was packaged. Reese backed Harold into a corner, using his body as a shield, scanning every passenger, every movement, every bag.

Teenagers laughed, shoving each other; a toddler made faces at her mother’s phone; an elderly couple murmured to each other, smiling. Passengers shuffled on and off with hands full of shopping bags. Tourists buzzed with excitement. It felt like a scene from a Christmas movie.

“Relax, John.” Harold said quietly. “They all look harmless.”

“I thought you were the paranoid one.” A faint smile tugged at Reese’s lips.

“Look at them,” Harold said, “Everyone here is full of cheer, like they are living in another world. A world I can’t go back to.” Harold’s voice carried the wistfulness of a kid peering into a candy shop.

“Of course.” Reese smirked. “They’re not being chased and shot at.”

“No. They’re just ordinary people living ordinary lives. I used to be one of them. Thought I’d stay that way forever. Then one day, everything changed.”

Reese fell silent. He knew that world. And he knew exactly what it felt to lose it. He, too, had once had his shot at a normal life. Someone to grow old with.

Yes, things change. They had changed.

“Prochaine arrêt: Châtelet.” the announcement chimed.

Reese scanned the car and the platform ahead. “We get off here. Now.”

They flowed out with the crowds into the transfer tunnel. A girl was playing Merry Christmas, Mr. Lawrence on her violin, the melody echoing with a haunting sadness.

Harold walked passed her, then halted. He hesitated, looking back. It was as if the music had stirred something deep inside him. Finally he turned, stepped back toward her, and quietly placed a few euros in her case. She looked up, giving him a warm smile.

“What? Sakamoto is my favorite composer.” Harold muttered, looking almost embarrassed.

“Good to know.” Reese teased. “Now I know your favorite composer, your favorite painter… What’s next, Harold, favorite movie? Favorite color?”

They reached the platform but didn’t board the waiting train. Instead, they wove through the crowd, up a level, and slipped into a different train just as the doors were closing behind them.

“So where are we going?” Harold asked at last.

“Somewhere safe.”

They transferred 3 more times across different lines, ducking passageways and stairwells. Bt the time they emerged from the metro station, the sky was ink black. Harold recognized the narrow winding streets of le Marais.

Reese led him down a quiet alley and they stopped in front of a small pizza takeout joint. Harold looked undeniably hungry.

“Is this where we… have dinner?”

Reese signaled for him to follow. They cut through the shop and the kitchen, out into a back alley, then climbed an exterior staircase to the second floor. Reese unlocked a door with a key from his pocket.

“This is where I live. And yes, we can order a pizza.”.

Chapter Text

Harold looked around the tiny room. If felt less like an flat and more like a little refuge. A single bed stood against the wall next to a plain desk and a lone wooden chair. Across the room, a small dresser sat beside an open closet, everything arranged with almost military precision. The kitchenette was immaculate. The few pieces of tableware laid out, spotless and untouched. 

“I work nights. Hardly sleep here.” Reese said quietly, answering the unspoken question. He leaned against the doorframe, finally letting a flicker of pain surface in his eyes.

“It looks…” Harold began.

“Spartan.” Reese said, his tone resigned.

“No, no,” Harold corrected gently, “I meant … cozy.”

Outside, the streetlamp cast a golden glow into the room, and smell of pizza drifted up from downstairs. To Harold, it felt unexpectedly warm. And safe. 

“Except…” Harold hesitated, glancing at the narrow bed. “Um, there’s only one bed.”

“That’s yours for tonight.” Reese said instantly.

Reese eased off the jacket. “Sorry,” He murmured, noticing the stains. “got blood on your jacket.”

“You saved my life!” Harold said, stepping closer as he took the jacket from him.

Something slipped from the pocket and hit the floor with a light clink. Reese bent down and picked it up.

It was an old-fashioned fountain pen. Slender, black, unbranded. The edges had softened with age rather than use. A few marks circled the seam between the barrel and the cap. It felt like something preserved from someone’s memory rather than for everyday writing.

“This pen looks older than you.” Reese said, handing it back.

“It is.” Harold replied, “Been passed down in the family for generations. It holds… more than just ink.” He quickly tucked it into his own pocket.

His eyes went to Reese’s shoulder. “You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

Reese slipped off his suit jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, revealing his tanned scarred torso.

Harold looked away quickly, suddenly unsure where to rest his eyes. So he busied himself searching for towels and the firstaid kit instead.

Reese examined his wound in the mirror, “Bullet went straight through. Clean exit. No bone damage. I’ve had worse. I’ll just need to clean it.”

Harold glanced back at him. “Where did you learn all this?”

“I wasn’t always a night manager, you know.” Reese said calmly, as though recounting someone else’s life.

“I served two tours in Iraq. Once, my squad got pinned down in a residential block in Mosul. We were hit hard. Men badly wounded. Ammo and food gone. Five of us for two days. No backup.” He let memory pass like a shadow. “That’s when you really learn to survive. Some figured out how to make every bullet count. Some learned to treat wounds with whatever we had. And some, never walked out of that block.”

A heavy silence hung between them.

“I’m glad you did.” Harold said softly.

Reese gave a faint wry smile. “I thought working nights at a hotel would finally mean a quiet safe job. Seems I just can’t outrun bullets.”

“It was all my fault.” Harold lowered his head.

“It wasn’t your fault, Harold” Reese offered an warm disarming smile, almost too kind.

Harold helped Reese get his shirt off and guided him into the only chair in the room.

“You keep saving me.” Harold murmured. “I don’t know why… but I’m grateful.” Harold began gently wiping the blood from around the wound.

“That’s because you keep needing to be saved.” Reese replied with a soft smile, realizing a trace of affection slipping into his own tone.

Reese felt Harold’s fingers trailing down his bare arm, cool against his own heated skin. The touch sent a jolt through Reese and his muscles tightened. They were too close. Closer than they should have been. Reese found it more overwhelming than the pain in his shoulder.

The air felt heavy. Reese could feel Harold’s breath brushed along his ear. He tilted his head, his gaze drifting from Harold’s focused eyes to the soft curve of his lips.

“Harold…” Reese’s voice was unsteady, the restraint in it stretched thin. Desire pressed at the edges of his composure. Harold was so close. And still, not nearly close enough, for a kiss.

A sudden sharp sting shot through Reese’s shoulder.

Harold was pressing an alcohol soaked pad to the wound.

Reese inhaled sharply as his body trembled before he could control it.

Harold flinched. “Oh, sorry!”

“No, you’re doing… great, Harold.” Reese managed to say through a tight smile.

Harold cleaned the wound, then bandaged it with shaking hands and extreme care.

“This will do for now.” He said as last. “But you still need a doctor.”

Harold tried hard not to stare at Reese’s bare chest, forcing himself to look him in the eye. But that only made things worse. The look he gave Reese was so tender it made Reese’s heart skip.

“Thank you, Harold.” Reese said softly, covering Harold’s hand with his own. “I’m not usually this lucky, having someone patch me up every time I got shot.”.

Harold pulled his hand back like being burnt. When his eyes met Reese’s again, the tenderness on his face was replace by a grave sorrow. 

“John, I think I owe you an explanation.”

“Harold?”

“At the very least you deserve to know who shot you today.” Harold stepped back from him, moving toward the window. He stared at the empty street below, then drew a deep breath.

“John, you never asked who I am, or why I’m here in Paris.”

“None of that is my business.” Reese weighed each word like a chess move.

“But I want to tell you.” Harold turned back. He seemed to have come to a decision.

“I’m… or I was, an

engineer working at the US government data center. Until… last month.” A wistfully smile flickered across his lips then vanished. “I stole… I, took a computer program from the US government.” He corrected, “Actually, I discovered a secret program. And now I have the key, the pass code, to this program.”

The key.

“So they sent agents after me.” Harold continued. “They want that key.”

And that, is exactly what I want too. And I will get it. Reese reminded himself.

“What are you planning to do with this key？”Reese asked in a tone of a polite curiosity.

Sell it to Iran? Russia? China? It must be. That’s what traitors do. He had seen enough of them in the field. Yet the thought of Harold being just another traitor sent a sharp unexpected ache through his chest.

“I need someone I can trust to help me expose it.” Harold said, “I want the world to know the truth, what this program really does. That’s why I’m here. To meet a contact.”

Reese blinked. This answer wasn't what he had calculated.

“And what do you get out of it?”

“Me?” Harold exhaled. “I get a clean conscience. I believe I’m doing the right thing.”

“The right thing?” Reese studied him, unable to hide the disappointment from his eyes. He had actually liked this young man. 

“How does stealing government secrets align with your conscience? Harold, what you’re doing is…” Then he stopped abruptly, realizing too late that his reaction was far too revealing.

“Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Reese corrected quickly, softening his tone. “You look exhausted. Why don’t you finish the pizza and get some rest?”

Harold already looked drained after everything that had happened, but he hesitated, eyeing the narrow bed as if the idea of going to bed was unsettling .

Reese dragged the chair to the window and settled into it, angling the blinds. “Don’t worry.” he said, scanning the street below. “Nothing gets past me. You’re safe here. I promise you’ll feel better in the morning.”

Harold lay down on the bed. But he wasn’t done.

“John,” he said softly, “I know you’ve served your country. I know loyalty means a great deal to you.”

“That’s a rather heavy subject for a night like this, don’t you think?” Reese replied quietly as if half-dreaming.

“I just want you to know I didn’t betray my country.”

“It doesn’t matter, Harold.”

“Of course it matters.” Harold insisted. “I didn’t steal government secrets. The only reason that program was a secret is because it never should’ve existed.” His voice was soft but clear in the quiet room.

“You don’t know what it is.”

Reese didn’t reply right away. Then his curiosity flared. 

“So what is it,” he asked at last, “this program?”

No response.

“Harold?”

Only the soft steady rhythm of slow even breathing.

Reese turned from the window and found Harold fast asleep, his face finally peaceful in the faint glow of the streetlights.

Chapter Text

Reese stumbled along a narrow trail in the woods, one hand clamped over his wounded shoulder. Heavy fog pressed in from all directions, swallowing the path, him, everything. He couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead. He didn’t remember why he was here. Or how.

The pain in his shoulder was excruciating, pulsing with every step. Someone was after him. He tried to pick up the pace, but his legs refused to cooperate. His breath turned into heavy gasps, burning in his chest.

The chaser was getting closer. Reese couldn’t see a face, only hear a voice, drifting through the fog.

“I’m not going to hurt you. I only want to help.”

Reese staggered.

“Let me save you, John.”

A hand reached out and closed around his shoulder.

“John. John!”

Reese jolted upright from the chair in a instinctive violent motion. His fingers snapped around the wrist on his shoulder, twisting it away as he drove his knee up, ready to strike. 

Then he froze.

The fog vanished. The man before him was Harold.

Reese released Harold’s wrist at once, catching him by the shoulders to steady him before he could stumble back. 

“I’m sorry. Harold. Did I hurt you?”

“I…” Harold swallowed, trying to keep his voice even. “You were having a nightmare. I just wanted to wake you up.” He didn’t dare to move, eyes wide, breath shallow, as if afraid a sudden gesture might trigger the soldier in Reese again.

“I’m sorry. I know. I’m sorry.” 

Reese pulled Harold into his arms, holding him close to feel the uneven rhythm of his heart against his own. After a moment he loosened his grip, searching Harold’s face. Terror still lingered in his eyes, mingled with a wounded fragility. 

Reese leaned in and kissed him.

Harold tasted faintly of peppermint.

The realization hit Reese all at once. He drew back sharply. The walls suddenly felt too close, the silence too loud. Everything became unbearable. He needed to disappear. To hide. From what, he did not know.

He turned abruptly and fled into the bathroom, twisting the shower on and stepped beneath it, letting the shock of the cold water crash over him. 

Seconds passed. Or minutes. He couldn’t tell.

The bathroom door opened. 

“Harold, I was… I didn’t mean to…”

Harold didn’t answer. He crossed the shower floor. Cold water streamed down his hair. His eyes burned with fire.

He lifted a hand and cupped Reese’s face, silencing him with a kiss.

He pressed Reese back against the shower stall. His solid weight pinned Reese there, feeling the heat of his body through the layers of wet clothes soaked in cold water. Harold’s kiss deepened, no longer tentative or gentle, turning urgent, desperate, as if stealing every breath Reese had left, daring him not to pull away. 

His hand didn’t linger on Reese’s chest. It slipped between Reese’s back and the wall, tracking a slow path down the curve of his spine until it reached the swell of his hips. Harold pressed firmly against the taut muscle, drawing Reese even closer into his embrace.

Reese pulled away abruptly, gently shoving Harold aside.

Harold was disconcerted but he offered no protest.

With trembling hands, Reese reached up and began fumbling with the buttons of Harold’s shirt. The drenched fabric clung stubbornly, refusing to yield.

“Are you going to help or just stand there watching?” Reese murmured.

Harold hesitated for a brief instant, a spark returning to his eyes. He swiftly undid the rest of his clothing.

Reese eased the shirt from Harold’s shoulders, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the bare skin. His lips trailed upward, brushing along the line of Harold’s neck until they paused at his ear.

“And mine.”

Harold’s mouth felt warm and it drove Reese crazy. He began by brushing the sensitive tip with his tongue, then slowly circling the contours, before taking the full length deep into his throat. This mere teasing had left Reese with glazed eyes and ragged breaths.

Harold knelt at Reese’s feet, gazing up with eyes full of mischief. He moved with deliberate care. His tongue lightly lapped at the emerging salty pre-cum, his lips grazing the edges. His hand gently encircled and glided up and down.

Reese parted his lips slightly and a silent sigh escaped. He braced himself against the wall, as if his trembling legs could no longer bear the overwhelming surge of pleasure and the torturous anticipation through his body. His breathing grew increasingly erratic. He laced his fingers into Harold’s soft damp hair, yet fought desperately against the urge to grip his head and thrust forward. He knew he couldn’t hold out much longer. He didn’t want to lose control and humiliate himself so soon. But he was even less willing to pull away now. 

Sensing Reese’s inner battle, Harold trailed his lips gently back to the base, then rose to kiss his way upward across the taut abdomen and chest, finally nipping at his earlobe.

“Relax, John. This is just the start. I have every intention of enjoying what follows.”

The sight of Harold preparing himself nearly undid Reese. He traced his fingers along the graceful lines of Harold’s back, steadying himself as he slowly entered Harold’s body.

The warm, enveloping tightness drew an involuntary quivering sigh from Reese.

The shower turned warm, filling the bathroom with steam. Through the misted mirror, Reese caught a glimpse of their silhouettes.

They resembled the statues awakening from marble in Bernini’s hands. Shoulders and backs curved in flawless arcs, the dim light casting shadows across their fiercely colliding forms. Their bodies intertwined and clashed. One moment seeming to flee from one another, the next poised to consume each other entirely. In this moment, entangled in desire and instinct, every movement exuded a raw, classical elegance.

Harold tilted his head, capturing Reese’s gaze in the mirror. He reached back, clasping Reese’s hand and guiding it towards his own hard yearning.

Reese’s resolve shattered. He thrusted deeper into Harold, a low rumble escaping his throat. The world narrowed down to sensation. The friction. The steam. The blinding white light before his eyes as he emptied himself inside Harold’s body, each eruption feeling like an exorcism of his own soul.

Harold sensed it right away, not allowing Reese to retreat into himself. He turned to face him, urging his hands to gently wrap around his hardness. Harold gazed into Reese’s blue-gray eyes, reaching his own climax after only a few strokes. He buried his face deeply into Reese’s neck, teeth sinking into the skin. Reese was certain that he had been marked by Harold.

“I’ve liked your hair ever since we first met, that salt and pepper style.” Harold made no effort to hide the admiration in his voice. “It’s sexy.”

“So you’re saying I’m old.” Reese sat on the edge of the bed, letting Harold dry his hair with a towel. 

“I’m just…” Reese murmured, a flush of embarrassment in his tone “I’m a little out of practice.”

“Clearly! You live like a 15 century monk, John. Utterly detached from the sensual world.” Harold traced his fingers along Reese’s chiseled jawline, gazing at his face with fondness. “A criminal waste of such a face.” He teased gently, before leaning down to press a kiss to Reese’s lips.

“Even your apartment lacks any trace of humanity.” Harold glanced around the room. “No plants, no decorations, no photos. Not even a book… Wait, there is a book.”

Harold spotted the corner of a book peeking from beneath the pillow. He reached over to pull it out.

Letters to A Young Poet. By Rainer Maria Rilke.

“Interesting choice for bedtime reading. I wouldn’t have pegged you for the Rilke type.”

“I’m not.” Reese reached out to stop him, but it was too late.

A postcard slipped out from the pages.

It was titled Zürichsee. The front depicted Lake Zurich at dawn, with Alps rising in the pale silhouette across the water. Along the shoreline, an old promenade lined with linden trees and warm yellow street lamps curved gently toward the city. 

Harold flipped it over. It was addressed to a John Reese at a London address. There was no signature, only a single line of handwriting:

“Am Ende sind wir alle allein.”

(In the end, we are all alone.)

 “This was a present. From… a friend.” Reese shifted uncomfortable. “Could you put it back? Please.”

“Sorry, John. I didn’t mean to…” Harold was about to apologize when Reese’s phone buzzed.

It was Carter. Reese had missed her calls several times already. He knew he’d be in real trouble if he ignored her again.

“I’ve got to take this.” Reese said, stepping toward the door. “Lock the door behind me. And stay inside.”

“Don’t worry.” Harold replied. “I can take care of myself.”

Chapter Text

“Where the hell are you and why weren’t you answering your phone?” Carter’s voice crackled in Reese’s ear. “Has this become too much like actual work for you?”

“En route to the Lutetia. And… I’m answering now.” Reese replied evenly.

“Oh marvelous.” She clipped out. “Now tell me you had absolutely nothing to do with the bloody shootout there yesterday. Because I don’t recall authorizing you to start a fucking war in a 5-star hotel in the middle of Paris!”

“I didn’t fire a shot.” Reese said. “I was the one being shot at.”

“Bloody hell.” Carter muttered.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Appreciate the concern.” Reese snapped.

“Did you at least secure the laptop. Or were you too busy bleeding?”

“Not yet. But neither did the CIA. If they had it, they would have wanted Wren dead, not bagged.”

“And where is Wren?” Carter demanded.

“He’s with me.”

“Of course he is. So you bagged him.” Her tone sharpened.  “Brilliant. Shall I google the top body-dumping spots in Paris for you, or will you improvise?”

“No, I didn’t kidnap him. I… extracted him.” Reese took a breath. “He is at my place.”

A long pause. “John… you used to be cautious.”

“I’m still cautious. ” Reese cut in. A beat. “Carter, do you know what’s on that laptop?”

“No, and I don’t need to. I follow orders. I don’t poke my nose into classified files. Neither should you.”

Reese said nothing.

“Now, get that bloody laptop before the CIA do.” Carter continued. “And try not to get shot again. I’m not in the mood to fill out a death report.”

Reese headed straight for the Lutetia. Harold had been empty-handed when Reese pulled him out, so the laptop had to be somewhere in the room.

Police vehicles crowded the entrance. The investigation was clearly still ongoing. Reese avoided the gathering and slipped through the service corridor, taking the staff lift to Harold’s floor.

The room was sealed with police tape. A young uniformed officer stood guard.

Reese took in the scene, then swiped into the neighboring room with his staff key. He crossed the balcony in silence and slipped inside Harold’s room.

It was a wreck.

He worked fast with surgical precision. Luggage, bed frame , closets, cabinets, cistern, vents.

Nothing.

Reese crouched to inspect the floorboards when he heard the click of a gun behind him.

“Hands. Up.” A shaky voice. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

Reese rose slowly, hands raised, and turned.

“John Warren. Night manager. I’m here.” He said, his voice calm. “Because this is my job.”

The young officer hesitated, lowering her weapon slightly.

“M, Monsieur Warren… We couldn’t reach you yesterday. You need to come with us.”

“I have nothing to do with…”

It didn’t matter.

Reese sat in the interrogation room, alone. His posture was perfect, his mind elsewhere.

Being detained didn’t concern him. The laptop did. He replayed the previous day in his head. Harolds’ movements, CIA’s timing, every decision made under pressure. He had searched every logical hiding place. Unless…

The door burst open. A heavyset detective barged in, juggling a half-eaten sandwich and a devastating lack of sleep. He dropped into the opposite chair without even looking at Reese.

“I’m drowning in homicide cases.” The detective said irritably. “And now I’ve got you. Let’s make this quick so I can get back to real work.”

Reese looked up, and said nothing.

He had already mapped the building. Exits, response times, blind spots in the corridor, and that black Peugeot sedan parked outside that he could borrow. French police carried firearms, which was an advantage for him. Reese was certain that he could snatch that SIG from the detective’s hip, break his windpipe, and reach the hallway in 5 seconds. Maybe less.

“Witnesses say you were injured yesterday.” The detective said, flipping through his notebook. “What’s your connection to the shooter? Why didn’t you respond to police calls? And what were you doing in a sealed crime scene today?”

Reese stared at him in silence.

The detective slapped the notebook onto the table. “I asked you a question. You answer it.”

“You asked three.” Reese said with a thin cold smile, “Which one do you want first? Or are you just guessing at this point?”

That did it.

The detective slammed his palm and lunged across the table, reaching for Reese’s collar.

Reese’s eyes locked onto the gun. His muscles coiled, ready to snap.

The door flew open.

A woman stepped in. Low pony tail, razor sharp eyes, a tailored suit barely concealing a firearm.

“Interpol.” She announced, flashing her badge. “Manchester bureau.” She crossed the room without hesitation. “I’ll take custody from here.” She said. “Merci beaucoup, Monsieur l’inspecteur.”

“I wasn’t notified by Interpol.” The detective protested.

“Then I suggest you clarify with your superiors.” She gripped Reese’s arm as she steered him toward the door. “He is a British national. Contact the embassy if you have complaints. Now, with all due respect, monsieur… get out of my way.”

“I don’t think Interpol works like that. But it’s a convincing badge.” Reese murmured once they were clear. “Carter… what are you doing here?”

“Saving your arse. As usual.” Carter replied coldly, her gaze swept over him. “Your injury?”

“I’ll live.”

“And I don’t need a babysitter.” He added.

“No?” Carter arched a brow.

They got into her car. Finally she could study him properly, inspecting him like a weapon that had just misfired.

“Then why do I keep cleaning up after you, John?” Her voice sounded cool, dangerous. “I knew something had gone sideways the moment you went dark. I took the first train to Paris. By the time I got to the Lutetia, you were already in custody.” Carter paused , her eyes narrowing, “If I hadn’t walked into that interrogation room, were you planning to shoot your way out of a police station?”

Reese said nothing.

Carter’s eyes flicked to the fresh marks on Reese’s neck and she knew immediately.

“I don’t give a toss who you’re shagging.” She said, her tone dry and flat. “But I can’t have a fucking Zurich all over again.”

For the first time, a spark flared in Reese's eyes. Something beyond indifference. Something volatile. He held his breath for a split second, his jaw clenching so tightly the muscle rippled beneath his skin.

But he buried it just as quickly.

“There’s progress.” He said instead. “The bad news is the laptop isn’t in the hotel. And it isn’t with Wren.”

Carter’s expression softened a little. “And the good news?”

“Wren is meeting his contact. That’s our window.”

“And the CIA?” Carter’s attention sharpened.

“One step behind.”

“Get everything you can out of Wren about this meeting.” She ordered. “We need to be ready.”

“Wait for my signal.” Reese nodded. “We’ll move together.”

Carter studied him, her face grave.

“John.” She said quietly. “You sure you can still do this?”

Reese didn’t answer. He simply checked his phone, and nodded.

Chapter Text

Reese returned to the flat and immediately registered what was wrong. The door was ajar. The room was empty. Harold wasn’t there.

His blood went cold. He crossed the kitchen and retrieved the pistol taped beneath the sink.

The mistake hit him hard and fast. How could he have left Harold alone here, even briefly? Yesterday they had moved with extreme caution, layered routes, wiped trails. And still, it hadn’t been enough. The CIA had found them.

What unsettled him most was not a missing target. It was Harold himself. He could accept a failed mission. He could not, would not, accept Harold being hurt.

Reese swept the flat with his eyes. No sign of a struggle. But that meant nothing. He forced his mind to focus.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor.

He ghosted behind the door and waited.

The door opened a fraction. Someone stepped inside.

Reese brought the gun up, pointing it at the back of the intruder’s skull.

“…Harold.”

The pistol lowered instantly.

Harold froze. The grocery bags slipped from his hands and hit the floor with a dull thud. He turned, taking in the sight of Reese. And the gun. He let out a long breath.

“This morning you beat me up.” Harold said dryly. “Now you’re pointing a gun at my head.” He shook his head. “If you keep doing this, you will be the greater threat to my life than anyone else.”

“Didn’t I tell you to stay inside and lock the door?” Reese said. There was no accusation in his voice, only controlled urgency. He had to physically restrain himself from pulling Harold into his arms.

“And you also said you were stepping out to answer a phone call.” Harold shot back. “Then you disappeared for an entire day.”

Reese dipped his head. “That’s on me.” He murmured. “I was… delayed.”

He pulled out his phone. “I need your number. If we’re separated again, I need to know you’re safe.”

They exchanged numbers. 

Reese stepped closer to the phone Harold had left on the kitchen counter. In the instant Harold turned away, an implant was seated with a brief vibration. 

Harold had been cautious, almost paranoid, with all wireless functions and networks. This was the first, and possibly only chance Reese would ever get to bug his phone.

“You don’t need to worry too much.”Harold said moving briskly around the small kitchenette. “I just did a bit of grocery shopping nearby.”

“It is New Year’s Eve.” He added, setting plates on the little makeshift dining table. “I thought maybe we could elevate dinner from pizza and canned soup to some real food.”

He laid everything out with care.

A fresh baguette, crackling and warm.

Lentilles du puy with spinach.

Roasted salmon, fragrant with rosemary.

Charcuterie with slices of comté.

From the bag he produced two cloth napkins and placed them neatly in front of Reese and himself. 

The room, bare and cold, seemed to soften, warmed by Harold’s efforts alone.

“You were right.” Harold said at last, looking up with a gentle smile. “We should forget the world for a moment. So tonight, let’s enjoy Paris at New Year’s.”

Reese glanced around, an apologetic curve touching his lips. 

“Harold… if it were up to me, I’d take you somewhere worthy of the occasion. The Jules Verne, perhaps. Or a dinner cruise on the Seine.” He gestured faintly. “Not this… unfortunate flat.”

“This unfortunate flat,” Harold said, taking Reese’s hand, “is the best luck I’ve ever had. It’s far more real than any Michelin restaurant, or glittering party.”

He held Reese’s gaze, gratitude and tenderness in his eyes. 

“If not for you, John, I’d be a dead body in some forgotten alley by now.” A pause. “And…”

He turned back to the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, emerging with a bottle.

“We have champagne.”

Reese fetched the only two coffee mugs from the cupboard. Harold popped the cork and poured. Bubbles climbed eagerly up the porcelain sides.

“Then we should toast.”Reese lifted his mug.

“To being alive.” Harold clinked his own against it.

Reese took in the scene. Harold sitting opposite him. The food laid out between them. Fireworks flaring beyond the window, accompanied by the distant echoes of celebration. It was a fragile memory of happiness. A peace he hadn’t known for a long time.

This was the life of ordinary people.

A life he had once wanted.

A life he had chosen to abandon.

And now, for this one night, it was back…

Reese forced the thoughts aside. Tonight, he had to work.

“Harold, this contact you’re meeting.” He said, walking behind Harold and resting a hand on his shoulder. “Can you trust them?”

He added at once, “I don’t want you in any danger.”

Harold shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t really know who he is. Or she is.” A shrug. “He calls himself Sparrow.”

Reese frowned.

“Yes, I know.” Harold said quickly, as if sensing it. “I’ve tried everyone, the Post, Times, The Guardian…”He let out a breath that was half a laugh. “No reputable journalist would listen to me. Unless I provide credentials. I suppose they get too many pranks.”

He smiled, ruefully and tired. “But if I had told them who I really was, I’d have been taken before I even left the data center. And then…”He hesitated. “Well, disappeared, I imagine?”

 Reese’s hand tightened on Harold’s shoulder.

“Then one day, this Sparrow contacted me.” Harold went on. “He claimed to have helped WikiLeaks. He showed me proof and it… looked genuine.”

Or it was a bait, Reese thought. CIA, or worse.

“He didn’t ask for credentials,” Harold continued. “Only a laptop containing the key.”

Of course. Two birds, one stone. Reese calculated. Secure the intel and remove the man who stole it.

“Harold,” He said quietly, uncontrollable concern darkening his eyes. “You have no idea what kind of danger you’ve stepped into.”

 Harold lowered his gaze. “I can’t know whether Sparrow is a friend or a fiend. But he is the only chance I have left.” He paused. “I have asked myself over and over if this is right.”

Then he looked up again, resolution hardening his features. “This is my choice. If the truth can come out, I’m willing to pay any price. Even my own life.” 

“But before that.” He added. “I can’t let the secret die with me.”

Reese embraced him from behind, kissing his hair, terrified and desperate to protect him from the world.

“And the laptop?” He finally asked gently against Harold’s ear.

“Hidden somewhere safe.” Harold replied in confidence. “It’s more important than my life. I’ve been careful. And I always have contingencies.” 

He hesitated, then: “I’m meeting Sparrow tomorrow. I’ll hand it over myself.”

Time closed in around Reese like a vice.

His priority was clear. It always had been. He needed to know where the laptop was.

This wasn’t his first assignment. Interrogation was a well practiced craft to him. Pain measured, illusional hope rationed, fear applied with surgical precision. He had once broken a German intelligence officer in an abandoned barn, calculating every reaction until the information spilled out. 

We’re on the same side. The man choked on his last breath.

Reese buried him without a second thought.

There was no such thing as the same side. Not American cousins. Not NATO allies. In his world, everyone betrayed everyone. Sooner or later.

There was only the mission. The means to the objective.

But this is Harold. 

Reese searched his face and found only sincerity, and those disarming blue eyes that trusted him without reservation.

Tonight, calculation failed him.

There has to be another way. He thought.

He knew he was only a single step from success. All he needed was patience. Once the laptop was secured, once the mission was completed, then, perhaps, there would be a way for them…

Harold sensed Reese’s silence. He rose to face him, capturing his mouth with a tender kiss.

Lost in his thoughts, Reese hesitated for a split second. Then he parted his lips with a soft sigh, letting Harold’s tongue slip inside and entwine with his.

Harold’s kiss tasted like… Harold. And champagne.

His body pressed closer, his kisses growing fervent, his hands wandering over Reese’s body.

Reese responded with equal eagerness and passion.

He slid his hand downward, pressing firmly against Harold’s arousal, tracing its shape and heat.

Harold moaned, his hot breath grazing Reese’s ear, stirring Reese’s own desire.

Reese sank to one knee, easing down Harold’s jeans to free him, watching him swell and throb in his grasp. He spread the glistening precum along the length with his fingers. Then his hand began to move, gently yet firmly, building the tension. He felt Harold’s body tense, and he resolved to guide him to the brink. He took the hardness into his mouth, lavishing it with long, languid strokes with teasing flicks of his tongue, until it pulsed at its peak.

Reese lifted his gaze, meeting the surging desire in Harold’s deep blue eyes.

He tightened his lips and quickened his rhythm. Harold withdrew abruptly, releasing ropes of white hot essence across Reese’s face and hair.

Reese remained still, never breaking his gaze, as Harold’s fingers dug into his shoulders and his trembling body leaned against him. He waited patiently until the tempête subsided. Then, with gentle care, he cleaned Harold with his tongue. 

In that moment, Reese embraced Harold’s body, surrendered to him without reservation, along with his trust, his heart nearly overflowing with gratitude.

Harold rested his head against Reese’s chest, his gaze slipping past Reese’s shoulder to the fireworks blooming and fading beyond the window, wave after wave.

“I’m in a safe haven,” he said softly, “with you.” A pause, then a faint, wry smile. “Considering I was being chased and shot at yesterday, this isn’t the worst New Year’s I’ve ever had. What more could I ask for?” 

“So,” Reese murmured, lowering his chin. The rough edge of his stubble brushed lightly through Harold’s hair, a smile threading his tone. “Is this what you asked Father Christmas for?”

“If I had asked.” Harold replied, “I would’ve known better than to include the being chased and shot at.” He huffed quietly. “Just Paris on New Year’s Eve. This room. And you.”

“And,” Harold added. “We call him Santa Clause.”

“Sure.” Reese rolled his eyes. “Overweight. Dressed in red. Crossing borders illegally and breaking into private homes without permission. Passing moral judgement once a year.” He paused. “Yeah, that does sound very American.”

“Ha!” Harold laughed outright. “Sometimes I almost forget how hypocritical you British can be.”

He twisted suddenly, feigning indignation and lunging at Reese, only to stop short and press a gentle, unhurried kiss to his lips.

“And you?” He asked, settling back against him, his face tucked into the hollow of Reese’s neck. “What would you ask for?”

Reese tightened his arms around him, kissed his hair again, as if the words were meant more for himself than anyone else.

“I suppose,” he said quietly, “I’ve already received everything I could have asked for.” 

Chapter Text

“I’ve been thinking, Harold…” Reese said at last, after a long pause. “When you… when the laptop is no longer in your hands. When all of it is behind us. I’d like to take you to the Degas collection at the Orsay.”

He spoke deliberately, as though promising a future probably neither of them would believe in.

Harold looked at him with a tender, resigned smile. “What are you talking about?” He said softly. “You really think we could date, live like ordinary people?” He shook his head. “John, this will never end. Not for me. I’ll be looking over my shoulder for the rest of my life. I’m a fugitive. Wanted by my own government.”

“If…” Reese stopped, recalibrating. “I could make Harold Wren disappear. Give you a new name, a clean history. A life no one’s ever touched.”

He reached for Harold’s hand, pressing a kiss to the center of his palm. “You could start over. Be safe. Then could you promise me…”

He looked up, his eyes pleading “Leave the program behind. Forget the secret. Don’t put yourself back in danger. ”

“Fake death, new identity?” Harold let out a quiet dry laugh. “You make it sound like a spy story. What are you, John, MI6?”

 Then his expression sobered. “And even if you could pull it off… why would I?”

He met Reese’s gaze. “Why would I come this far, risk everything, risk you, only to walk away now?”

“John, I chose this,” he said, his voice calm. “I knew where the line was. And I crossed it with my eyes open.”

Reese exhaled sharply, the restraint in his voice beginning to fray. “But why, Harold?” The question came out harsher than he intended. “Why risk everything for information the law says you have no right to disclose?”

“And the law also says the government has no right to place its entire population under constant surveillance.” Harold replied at once. “Yet here we are.”

Reese arched a brow. “You’re saying…”

Harold stepped out of Reese’s arms and walked to the window. Then he spoke again in a softer tone.

“After MIT, I took a job at an NSA data center in the Utah desert, Bluffdale.” He glanced back. “You may not recognize the name, but you’ll know the history. Mormon pioneers built churches there.” A faint rueful smile.

“What I worked in was no church. No bibles, no prophets, no congregation. Just servers. Engineers. Analysts. Armed guards.” He paused. “A concrete bunker consuming enough electricity to power a city.”

He turned to Reese. “Can you imagine what kind of data requires infrastructure on that scale?”

Reese could. But he said nothing.

“The machine was built to ingest and process information in yottabytes.” Harold continued. “To intercept trillions of communications. And every single one of them comes from the digital exhaust of ordinary lives. Our lives.”

“So the US government has done it.” Reese said after a moment. “I knew the British had been trying for years. I never thought you’d actually made it work.”

Harold’s smile held no warmth. “Most people don’t even realize how quickly democracy can erode. In the 70’s, wiretapping a political rival ended a presidency. Today, mass surveillance is treated as administrative routine.”

“Harold,” Reese said softly. “What if that machine stopped another 9/11?”

“At the cost of everyone else’s freedom?” Harold shot back.

“When national security is at stake, nothing is ever considered too intrusive.” Reese replied, his voice haunted. “Because if we miss something, the price is paid in blood. Innocent people. Their families.” He closed his eyes briefly, still images he had spent a lifetime trying to bury pressing back in.

“But they are collecting everything. Not targeted. Not constrained.” Harold insisted. “Any NSA analyst, at any time, can tap the US President. Your Prime Minister. Anyone who uses a modern device, or simply exists in modern society.”

His voice grew colder. “That machine is a living archive of the planet’s pattern of life. Everyone is being watched, filed into a permanent record.”

Reese said nothing. It hit him like a delayed impact.

“The worst part,” Harold went on, “is that the pubic has no idea. Do you really think the law exists to protect them? It doesn’t. The law arrives afterward, to legitimize what’s already been done. We’re facing a system with its power exceeding any human restraint.”

Harold met Reese’s eyes. “The only way to limit it is to expose it. To force the world to see it for what it is.”

 “So,” Reese said, stepping to his side, “you’re willing to give up your life to do that.”

The pain in his chest sharpened. He understood now. And understanding made it worse. In this moment, he would have preferred Harold to be corrupt, greedy, self-serving. Anything but this. He didn’t know how to confront a man so certain, with a conscience so clean. He didn’t know how to finish his mission standing across from a soul so unburdened by compromise.

“I have proof.” Harold said. “That the machine exists.”

Then for the first time, something like pride flickered in this eyes. 

“The machine was designed as a sealed loop. Collection, analysis, output, all inside a black box. They believed it was perfect. Invulnerable. But I broke it.” He spoke with a brief boyish satisfaction. “I found a backdoor that led me straight to the system. Now I have the key.” Harold sounded alive, like a child explaining an elegant solution to his maths teacher.

Reese understood barely half of the technical detail. But he understood the implications all too well.

This was why the mission had been classified beyond reason.

Because the British government wanted the same thing. The key. Control of the global surveillance data.

Intercepting American intelligence at this level wasn’t espionage. It was war. One misstep, and the consequences would be catastrophic. Diplomatically. Politically. Militarily.

And it all had to be done in the dark. No press. No public. Because no government survives admitting it has stolen the private lives of its own people.

Which only meant one thing.

He had to secure Harold’s laptop.

The truth lay bare between them.

For the first time in years, Reese didn’t know how to survive his mission. No matter how he calculated, this was a game he could not win.

Reese stood still, his jaw tightening as he swallowed. He could not look at Harold. Couldn’t trust his face not to give him away.

Harold turned toward him, and slipped his arms around his waist.

“Where did you go just now? You keep doing this tonight, like your mind is drifting somewhere else.” He said gently, an apologetic smile on his lips. “Did I ruin the mood? Machine, data, surveillance and all. Not exactly fun conversation for New Year’s Eve. You probably think I’m a bore.”

“No, Harold.” Reese pulled Harold closer, holding him tighter. The ache in his chest was so sharp and immediate he almost choked. “I think you… I think you shouldn’t have come to Paris.”

“You shouldn’t have walked into that hotel lobby. Not on that rainy night.”

Perhaps it had all been a mistake. Fate tightening its net the moment they met, the outcome already written, every variable accounted for. Reese had spent his life accepting consequences, executing conclusions. But this. This wasn’t the conclusion he chose to accept. He didn’t need one. He didn’t want one.

He moved suddenly, pinning Harold against the wall, holding him as though holding onto the last hope. His kisses came urgent and reckless, scattered across Harold’s brow, his cheek, his lips, trying desperately to memorize the man he knew he was about to lose.

There was nothing left in Reese now but fire, fierce enough to burn the world to the ground. If reckoning was inevitable, if tomorrow meant ashes and ruin, he would face it then. Tonight, Harold was still his.

Harold moaned into Reese’s mouth, pressing his body fully against Reese’s. The contrast between the cool air and their shared body heat was electric. 

 His hand roamed hungrily over Reese’s back and waist, trailing downward until it paused between his cheeks. A finger circled the entrance, teasing, testing, before pushing in with slow deliberation.

Reese flinched, his body tensing sharply. He almost cried out.

“Harold…” He drew a ragged breath. “It’s been a while.”

Harold hesitated, searching Reese’s face.

Reese’s chest heaved, his mouth slightly parted, his gray blue eyes blazing with raw desire.

“But I want you.” Reese whispered.

“You… sure about this?” Harold murmured, gently adding pressure, drawing a low moan from Reese.

“Every. Last. Inch.”

The words landed like a command wrapped in an invitation.

Harold eased in another finger, exploring the velvet warmth slowly. Until he brushed that sensitive spot, making Reese’s groan sharpen into something more desperate.

“I think you’re ready.” He breathed against Reese’s lips.

Reese was impossibly tight. 

Harold squeezed his eyes shut the moment he entered him, an involuntary groan escaping as he drew a steadying breath, recalibrating his senses.

“You’re…so warm.” Harold murmured into Reese’s ear.

Reese inhaled sharply, willing himself to relax, feeling every inch, every ridge and vein, every subtle twitch. Each thrust sent his heart slamming against his ribs, a violent rhythm between surrender and craving.

Then with one firm thrust, Harold buried himself completely.

The fullness was overwhelming. Not just physically. It felt like a profound invasion into the soul, stretching Reese to his limits. His head fell back, arms and knees sinking into the mattress, mouth open in a silent cry as waves of sensation crashed over him.

Harold leaned closer, his breath hot against Reese’s ear. “Relax, John. I’ve got you.”

Before Reese could answer, Harold shifted, his thrusts precise and targeted, striking that inner spark again and again. Each motion kindled a fire deep within, awakening a familiar craving, a forgotten hunger. 

The narrow bed creaked in harmony with their ragged breaths, the slick friction of skin on skin. The air thickened with the scent of sweat and lust, laced with something sweeter. The unbreakable trust between them, the profound bond of two souls entwined. It felt like destiny, inevitable, inescapable.

“Harold…”Reese felt the tension coiling, rising toward the peak. His arousal throbbed, demanding release. Reese rocked back to meet the thrusts, fingers clawing at the sheets.

Harold’s movements grew unrestrained, his moans raw and primal. Reese gasped as he felt Harold swell, then pulse, flooding him with wave after wave of heat that radiated through his core.

The sensation shattered Reeses’ restraint. Without a single touch, he erupted, his body convulsing in ecstasy, pleasure exploding from his depths and tearing him apart. 

Beyond the window, a thousand brilliant stars burst into the sky. Reese squeezed his eyes shut, praying that tomorrow would never come.

Chapter Text

Reese opened his eyes to find himself on the floor.

New Year’s dawn had already seeped in, filled the room with pale, indifferent gray of a winter morning.

His body felt heavy, hollowed out by exhaustion. The dull ache from his wounded shoulder was still there, but muted. It was strange, almost unsettling, for a man trained to endure far worse. And yet, beneath the soreness, his body rested in a rare saturated calm, a contentment he hadn’t permitted himself in a long time.

If he were honest, he couldn’t recall the last time he had been fucked so utterly, completely.

He couldn’t remember how many times they lost themselves to each other through the night. 

It all had dissolved into a blur of intertwined limps, fervent kisses, countless moments he tipped over the edge, when his soul splintered into a thousand of pieces only to be gathered back together. 

There were unrestrained groans, names whispered like secrets. There was warmth of skin and breath, sweat blended with their shared release.

There were quiet words they murmured in the spaces between. 

Harold told him about helping his father fix the truck, how he dismantling the engine and reassembling it by instinct and memory on his own. Harold spoke of birds with genuine awe. He could close his eyes and name them by sound alone.

Reese told Harold about growing up in the East End of London. That neighborhood stitched together by long working hours and short tempers. Those market stalls shouting in half a dozen languages. The narrow staircase in his grandparents’ cramped house. The back alley behind the school, where he had learned when to raise his fists to defend his mates.

And all it took was a lingering touch, a tender look. Their desire would flare again, bright and consuming. As if the night itself refused to let them go just yet.

But like everything good in Reese’s life, it had come to an end.

The bathroom door opened. Reality snapped back into place.

Harold stepped out, fully dressed.

“Morning, sleeping beauty.” His smile held a trace of warmth and brightness. It hurt Reese more than if he hadn’t smiled at all.

“So,” Reese said, pushing himself up, placing his body in Harold’s path, “you’re going to sneak out like this?”

Harold’s gaze lingered on him, taking in the bare skin, the perfect form of a body that resembled the masterpiece of a Greek god. The raw beauty. The vulnerability Reese rarely offered the world.

“And you’re going to stop me… like this?” he asked softly.

He reached out, brushed his fingers over Reese’s naked shoulder, then pressed his palm between Reese’s shoulder blades, drawing him close.

“Because if you are,” Harold murmured, tilting his head, “you almost succeeded.”

He kissed Reese. The tenderness tore through him like wreckage.

Reese melted into it despite himself, his body struggling not to betray what his mind had concluded.

“You could at least tell me where you’re going.” He breathed against Harold’s lips, feeling Harold’s hands wander over his body.

Harold stilled.

He gently pushed Reese aside.

“The Canal,” Harold said quietly. “I’m meeting Sparrow there at noon.”

“What if…” Reese began.

Harold lifted a finger and pressed it lightly to Reese’s lips.

“Shhh.” He looked at Reese. “Listen to me, John. Whatever comes next, I need you to know…”

A faint smile curved his mouth.

“That you are the only person I trust now.”

He kissed Reese one last time. Then he reached for the bag on the table and turned for the door.

“Harold, don’t go.”

Reese caught his arm, the words tearing free as though he had finally lost the battle with himself.

“You don’t have to do this.”

“Don’t be scared, John.” Harold said, turning back, his voice soft. “Because I’m not.”

He held Reese’s gaze.

“A few days ago,” Harold went on, “when I was terrified and lost and had no idea where to go… someone found me and saved me.”

His fingers brushed Reese’s wrist.

“He pressed a cup of coffee into my hand and told me to trust my gut. To do what felt right. He said that was real courage. That it outlasted fear.”

“John, you know I have to do this.” Harold reached up and cupped Reese’s face.

“Because it’s the only right thing.”

Carter and Reese parked the car by the narrow strip of lawn beside the canal and waited.

Moments later, Harold appeared at the corner. 

Carter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Is the laptop in that bag?”

Reese shook his head. He couldn’t tell. He only knew that Harold hadn’t had the laptop when he left Reese’s place that morning.

Reese’s phone chimed. The surveillance app Reese planted on Harold’s phone. A new message had just landed.

Walk south along the canal. Second drawbridge. Behind the staircase.

“That’s it. Let’s move.” Carter said. She started the engine and eased the car onto the canal bank, falling in behind Harold at a careful distance.

Another message flashed on Harold’s screen.

You are being followed. We can’t meet. Leave your laptop under the first bench south of the bridge.

Harold slowed, his shoulders tightening as he glanced around.

Carter shot Reese a sharp look. “How could Sparrow know we’re trailing Wren?”

“Wait, Carter.” Reese said, his eyes fixing on the screen.

Harold: I don’t have the laptop with me.

Sparrow: Tell me where it is.

Harold: I need to hand it to you in person.

Sparrow: Your life is in danger. If you don’t want the secret buried, this may be your last chance.

A few seconds of silence. 

Then Harold typed: Please remember what you promised.

Another message followed. 

Gare du Nord. Storage unit 410. Combination 3141.

“Gare du Nord. Go!” Reese urged.

Carter wrenched the wheel and slammed on the accelerator, the car surging toward the station.

“We get the laptop before Sparrow. I’ll drop you at the east entrance, then we meet…” Carter said as they blew through a light just turning yellow. Reese caught a flash of motion at the intersection. A dull white construction lorry.

The lorry didn’t slow.

The impact came from the left side, brutal and deafening. They were t-boned and shoved up onto the curb. The world spun, glass, pavement, sky, before the car slammed back onto its wheels.

Reese felt his body lift, then crash. The roof clipped his wounded shoulder. The door crushed in on his side. Then the airbag exploded against his face, snapping his head back. For a moment, everything grayed out, distant and muffled, as if he were underwater.

Then pain followed.

Reese flexed his fingers. His legs. Still there.

He forced the seat belt loose, fumbled his gun free.

A strained voice came next to him. “The CIA,” Carter said, breath ragged. “It has to be. They’re tracking Wren through us.”

“Carter, you all right?” Reese smashed the window with the butt of his gun and dragged himself out on the pavement.

“I’ll… live.” She sucked in a sharp breath. “Long enough, at least, to see Taylor graduate from Oxford.”

“Hold on.” Reese yanked at the driver’s door. “I’ll get you out.” But it was jammed solid. 

“My legs,” Carter said, jaw tight. “They’re pinned. I can’t move.” She looked at him, pain in her eyes. “You go. I’ll slow them down.”

Reese halted.

“What are you waiting for?” Carter snapped. She drew her gun with shaking hands and racked the slide. “Go. Now!”

Their eyes met. “Get that bloody laptop before anyone else. Swear it, Reese.”

Reese searched Carter’s face for a shattered second.

Then he turned and ran.

Behind him, shots cracked. A woman’s voice followed, cold, distant.

“I’ve always hated fighting allies.” The CIA agent said. “But you’ve left me no choice.”

Reese didn’t look back.

Rain began to fall again.

Reese ran along Rue La Fayette. His phone buzzed inside his suit jacket. He answered through the earpiece without breaking stride.

“John, I…” Harold’s voice trembled. “I think I’m being followed.”

“Harold. Stay where you are. I’m coming to get you.”

Reese passed walls layered with graffitis in multiple languages.

“Sparrow said my life might be in danger.” Harold said, breath hitching. “I didn’t think it’d be so soon…”

Reese crossed R. du Château Landon without waiting for the lights, cars braking, horning behind him.

“Listen to me, Harold.” Reese said, forcing calm into his voice over labored breaths. “This will soon be over. You are safe.”

“John, there is something I need to tell you…” 

A sudden rustle. Then footsteps.

“Harold?” Reese said. “What’s happened?” 

He reached the sky bridge. Below him, the railway tracks split and rejoined.

“Those two agents,” Harold gasped. “From the hotel the other day…”

The line jolted. Harold started running. Then a sharp clatter, his phone hitting the ground.

Reese’s blood turned to ice. How could the CIA find Harold.

His mind raced. If he turned back, ran along Rue du Château-Landon, cut through the park, he could reach the canal in 5 minutes.

Or through Rue Louis Blanc. Then onto the bridge. A clean sightline over both banks. CIA agents would be within his shots. He could be there in 2. 

He could still save Harold.

There was time.

There were options.

Then, there was the laptop.

The rain slid down his face, into his eyes, blurring the world. Or perhaps it wasn’t the rain.

Reese didn’t turn back.

He didn’t slow.

“Harold!” he shouted.

No response.

The line stayed open. And Reese heard everything.

“Do you know the penalty for traitors?” The woman said, cold and almost bored.

Harold edged toward the water.

Ahead, the façade of Gare du Nord rose out of the rain. Pale stones, looming statues, the slick square with puddles that reflected nothing clearly.

“Hand over the bag.” The man ordered. Then metal clicked.

“You’ll never have it.” Harold said.

Then a splash. The bag vanished into the canal.

Reese burst into the open square, weaving through travelers, rolling suitcases, police vans idling at the entrance. He now moved on instinct. His mind drifted onto that bridge he chose not to take.

“Kill him,” the woman commanded. Then the sound of her plunging into the water after the bag.

Inside the station, Reese cut through the main hall and down the escalators to the lower concourse. 

“I’m not a traitor.” Harold said, his voice cut through the rain.

The storage room. Locker 410.

Reese punched in the code 3141.

Two gunshots cracked through the earpiece.

He opened the locker. Inside was a large manila bag. Inside that, the laptop.

Wren’s laptop.

His mission.

Completed. Just like all the others. Clean, precise. Impeccable.

Because that was the man Reese had made himself. Ruthless. Unattached. 

A man with nothing to lose.

He walked back out into the rain, and found the world dissolved into a watercolor painting.

Chapter Text

The hospital corridor felt like a tunnel carved from ice. Reese moved through it with a heavy rhythmic stride. His bloodshot eyes were sunken into shadowed hollows. Fresh strands of gray had crept into his temples, spreading through the stubble of his jaw.

He passed the nurses’ station without so much as a glance at the one on duty.

“Attendez, monsieur!” another nurse called, hurrying after him, “Vous ne pouvez pas…”

Reese didn’t slow. He shoved the door open.

Carter was propped up against the pillows, drifting in and out in a haze of painkillers. Her legs were encased in plaster, an IV line running into her arm. She looked diminished.

The disturbance stirred her. Carter opened her eyes.

“It’s all right,” she said quietly. “Give us a moment. Please.”

The nurse hesitated, then retreated, closing the door with care.

Reese’s face was rigid. Without a word, he pulled a manila bag from inside his coat and hurled it onto the bed.

Carter opened it and saw the laptop.

“I knew you’d get it done.” She murmured.

Reese said nothing. He turned toward the door.

Then he halted, as if whatever restraint he had left finally gave way.

“How did the CIA find Wren?”

“John…” Carter began.

“You and I were the only ones who knew the meeting place.” Reese said, turning back. His voice was tight and shaking. “Sparrow knew too, but he wouldn’t sell Wren out and then warn him. That makes no s…”

“John.” Carter raised her voice, cutting through his accusation. “It was me.”

“Why?” Reese forced the word out, jaw clenched, eyes burning.

“I told the CIA Wren would be at the canal with the laptop.” Carter said evenly. “That drew them away from you. It bought you time.”

“And you sent him to die.” Reese said, rage finally breaking through. “He could have lived. The mission was the laptop. It was never about killing Wren.”

“Wren wasn’t your mission.” Carter replied without flinching. “He was mine. Your job was to secure the laptop. Mine was to ensure your success, at any cost. Wren was simply collateral damage.”

“Collateral damage?” Reese echoed, incredulous. “He wasn’t a statistic. He was… a man. Flesh and blood.”

“It was for a greater cause.” Carter said. She forced herself upright against the headboard, one hand resting on the manila bag.  “This laptop unlocks a pathway to information vital to our country’s survival. Nothing ranks above that. Not my life. And certainly not his.”

“So you knew what was on it.” Reese said, his breath coming in shallow.

“I knew it was a war Britain cannot afford to lose.” Carter answered, holding his stare.

“What greater cause is that, Carter?” Reese said hoarsely, the muscles in his face twitching. “I let a good man die. For what? So our government can spy on its own people?”

“Orders are orders.” Carter said. “This wasn’t your first necessary casualty. And it won’t be your last. We are at war. Now, pull yourself together and be the soldier I recruited. Your country needs you.”

Reese said nothing.

He turned and walked out.

London in January was dark and wet. The sky hung low and colorless. The air smelled of damp wool and exhaust. One might think such weather would draw out the worst in people, but it didn’t. It bred indifference, profound, muffled, as though the city had stopped caring. Or perhaps it never had. London did not share Reese’s rage or his grief. And yet, it was still home.

This corner of the East End had been polished into something almost respectable after gentrification set in, with quiet tree-lined streets and polite middle-class veneer. The house stood in a narrow row of iron colored brick. Inside, the air was full of old memories. The echo of his grandmother’s kettle to a boil. The stale sweetness of his grandfather’s cigarettes embedded in the wallpaper. Reese sat in the silence, letting the cold seep into his bones until he felt as numb as the walls.

Then on the fifth day, he finally stepped out of the front door, with a bag of pizza boxes and empty beer bottles in one hand, the other raised to shield his eyes from the pale yet still piercing glare of the winter sun. He reached the bottom of the steps when his foot struck a small package.

It was addressed to John Reese. No return address. Postmarked Paris a few days earlier.

He turned the package over in his hands and gave it a cautious shake, listening. He needed to be sure. Very few people knew the name John Reese. Fewer knew where he lived. And yet, by instinct alone, he knew this wasn’t a bomb, or anything dangerous. He carried it back inside the house and opened it carefully.

Inside the box was a smaller case. Nestled within it lay an old fashioned fountain pen. Black, unbranded, worn slightly at the seam between the barrel and the cap.

Harold’s pen.

Reese twisted the barrel. It came apart, revealing a high capacity flash drive hidden in its core.

Inside the case lay a note, written in neat handwriting.

John,

I wish I were there with you when you opened this. I can picture your hands, the way they pause before touching anything that matters. If I’m not there… then I suppose the world is exactly as cruel as I feared.

You’ll remember the key I told you about. The one I would protect with my life. Now I need you to know: the key on my laptop was never the only one. A second copy is in the fountain pen you’re holding.

I told you the pen carried more than ink. I didn’t tell you that it held my hope that something of me might survive this. Now I want it in your pocket. Close to your heart.

I always had contingencies and I hope you can forgive me for making you the final one. I didn’t give it to you in Paris. Not because I doubted you. God, John, you saved me more times than you know. You caught me when I was falling apart. You gave me shelter when I had nowhere to go. You took a bullet for me and smiled like it was nothing. If I can’t trust you, then the word trust has no meaning at all.

You probably don’t understand why I did this. There are so many things I wish I could tell you. But now I need you to know this much: I did it because I couldn’t live with myself if I stayed silent.

The things I want the world to see. They are proof of a system that watches people, that shrinks and silences the human soul, that edits thoughts before they’re even whispered.

I can’t live in that world. I can’t bear the thought of you living in it.

They say our generation is defined by apathy, that we are late to every fight. They are wrong. We understand tyranny perfectly. We recognize it when it’s in new forms. Now it’s time we stop pretending it is acceptable.

If this costs me my freedom, or my life, I need you to understand that I didn’t throw it away. I gave it willingly.

I chose this. I knew what happens to people who do what I’ve done. Hong Kong, London, Paris. It wouldn’t matter where I ran. They’d find me.

But I’m glad it was Paris.

Because I met you.

That rainy night in the hotel lobby. The whole world was cold and indistinct. And then you smiled at me. It was absurd how bright it was. I don’t think I ever told you but in that moment, I thought, maybe this world is still worth believing in.

You are the proof of that.

Take care of the pen. Take care of yourself.

And if there are moments when the world feels unbearably heavy, when you wonder whether any of this was worth it, remember that, once, there was a man who trusted you with everything he had left.

That has to matter.

- Harold.

The paper slipped from Reese’s fingers. In the dead silence, his phone began to ring. He pulled it out.

Carter.

He hesitated for a second, then with a quiet fury, he hurled the phone to the ground and crushed it under his heel.

Chapter Text

I love you 

as the plant that never blooms but carries within itself 

the light of hidden flowers,

and thanks to your love, the solid aroma arose

from the earth 

lives dimly in my body.

The pub wasn’t crowded. Tuesday afternoons rarely were. A handful of regulars settled into their corners like furniture left behind from the previous century. Above the bar, a TV muttered the day’s disasters into the stale air.

"…with relations between the two allies at their lowest point in eighteen years… Washington has accused UK intelligence services of intercepting and withholding sensitive information…breach of NATO and bilateral agreements… The British government has responded by condemning the United States of operating a mass-surveillance network against its partners…"

Reese sat at his usual spot at the bar, a glass of whisky held loosely in his hand. He listened without really listening.

"…Foreign Secretary Austin Dennison has resigned. Downing Street says…"

He had done what they asked. He had finished the job. He had paid a price he couldn’t afford. And still, the world had tipped over its edge. Or perhaps it had always been falling, and he was the fool for thinking he could hold it up.

It was over now. For him. Whatever had happened before was no longer his sin. Whatever came next was no longer his concern. At least that was the lie he had decided to live by.

“They should have seen this coming,” said a voice beside him. “Political fallout was inevitable, once they took those rather idiotic liberties.”

A man had taken the stool to Reese’s left.

“Well,” Reese said, more to his glass than to the man. “Allies spying on one another isn’t exactly news. It’s practically tradition.”

“Quite.” The man agreed. “But this time they’re being forced to say the quiet part out loud. Embarrassing, isn't it?”

“This time the Americans built the network first,” Reese said, “Britain merely responded.”

“A curious defense,” the man replied mildly, “considering Britain perfected the art of asking forgiveness rather than permission. A habit dating back, I believe, to the age of sail.”

Reese glanced at him. “You sound like you’ve picked a side.”

“I have,” the man said. “Just not a national one.”

“You’re not from around here” Reese said, studying him now. “That accent gives you away.”

“No,” the man said, meeting his eyes with a faint, knowing smile. “But you are.”

Reese took him in properly. Late 40s, perhaps. Black rectangular glasses. A dark navy 3-piece suit, the waistcoat buttoned high, a pale green patterned tie knotted with neat precision. A charcoal fedora sat easily on his head. An affectation that should have looked ridiculous, but somehow worked perfectly. In London, Reese thought, one could never be too overdressed.

“Let me buy you a drink.” The man offered.

“Whisky. Neat.” Reese didn’t refuse.

The barmaid set the glass down. Reese drained it, set it back on the counter, and spoke without looking over.

“What are you selling? Insurance? Risk consultancy? Whatever it is, I’m not interested. Thank you for the drink.”

“I’m not selling anything,” the man said. “In fact, you’re the one with something I want.”

Reese gave a short hard laugh. “From an unemployed drunk? Oh that’s ambitious.”

He patted his pockets. “Unless you mean I owe you money. Which I’m afraid you’re out of luck.”

“Let’s take a walk, shall we?” The man said gently, his eyes flicking briefly toward the CCTV camera above the counter. “Some fresh air might do us both good.”

Outside, May had softened the city. Sunlight glinted off the glass towers. The spring breeze carried a trace of blossoms. They moved through narrow streets, past stalls of fresh produce and cheap scarves, weaving around cyclists and tourists.

Reese noted the man’s gait, a careful stiffness of a body that had once been badly injured. He had a distinct impression that this stranger didn’t belong to any intelligence service he had ever known. There was something academic about him. A professor, perhaps. Or a librarian. The thought made no sense, of course. Because the suit told a different story. It was the sort of discreet luxury that could bankrupt a small country. 

They didn’t speak again until they reached an open stretch near the Thames. The Tower of London rose behind them. The gardens were in full bloom, families scattered across the lawns, tourists arranging themselves into photographs.

“What I want from you,” the man said at last, “is a key.”

Reese hesitated for a couple of seconds, then recovered.

“If you’re talking about a laptop,” he said evenly, “you’re about four months too late.”

“Oh, but we both know that isn’t true,” the man said softly. “Is it, Mr Warren?”

Reese froze.

“Or perhaps you prefer Mr Reese.” the man added, his voice lowered, his gaze suddenly sharp.

“Who the hell are you?” Reese asked.

“I imagine this is rather difficult to process,” the man looked out over the river for a moment. “Take all the time you need. Goodbye, Mr Reese. I’ll be in touch.”

He turned toward the bridge, then paused.

“You may call me Mr Finch.”

Reese had taken to the tunnel that ran along the river, a habit as old as the drinking. He walked it after the pubs emptied, moving without aim, as though motion itself were a sedative. It wasn’t that he had nowhere to go. He had a home. But he couldn’t bear the silence there, the static stillness of walls waiting for someone who would never return.

This tunnel was his favorite. Ancient, half-forgotten, spared by the recent urban redevelopment. Here he could pretend the mind might quiet itself if the body just kept moving.

Footsteps echoed behind him. They had been there for some time. Reese tightened his grip on the whiskey bottle he’d carried out, calculating the angles. Then he stopped and turned.

Carter stood a few feet away. 

“I thought you’d quit drinking two years ago.” Her eyes dropped to the bottle.

“I thought I’d quit seeing you.” Reese replied flatly.

“You’ve had a 4-month holiday. I hope it was restful.” Carter said, tilting her head. “Time to come back to work.”

“I resigned.” Reese said. “If that wasn’t clear, I can submit it in writing.”

“You don’t resign from this job.” She said briskly. “That decision isn’t yours.”

Reese turned and started walking again.

“The situation’s bad.” Carter said, falling into step beside him.

“Dennison’s out.” Reese said. “So I hear.”

“It’s worse than that.” She hesitated. “The River House handed the laptop back to the Americans.”

Reese stopped.

For a moment he said nothing. Blood. Innocent blood. Harold’s blood. All for nothing, then.

He managed a bitter laugh. “So what do you want from me?”

“We need…”

Footsteps clicked from the far end of the tunnel.

Reese glanced at Carter. She had already drawn her gun.

Two silhouettes emerged into the dim light. CIA. Reese recognized them with the ease of muscle memory. He wasn’t armed. He hadn’t imagined running into them tonight. Or ever again. He turned toward Carter, expecting her to fire.

She lowered her weapon.

“What the hell?” Reese asked.

“I suppose if we’re going to work together, we’ll have to learn to trust each other.” Carter said, holstering her gun.

“Work together?” Reese stared at her. “With them? Have you lost your mind?”

“Trust me, John. I wouldn’t have agreed if there were another way.” Her gaze flicked toward the Americans, laced with open contempt.

“You look almost recovered from your leg injuries, Agent Carter.” The woman’s voice was cold, sending a shiver through Carter.

Then her gaze settled on Reese. “And if it isn’t Monsieur le Directeur from the Lutetia. At last, we meet properly. I suspect that under different circumstances, we might have got on rather well.”

Her eyes moved over him with predatory appreciation, cataloguing the sharp cheekbones, the jawline hardened by shadowed stubble and raw neglect, the body that still carried its discipline beneath fatigue. A body that would have made a model half his age look unfinished.

“Under different circumstances, I’d put two bullets in your head.” Reese hissed.

“Let’s not get sentimental.” The man said, stepping in. “We are all just following orders.”

“This is Agent Stanton and Agent Snow.” Carter said drily. As if introductions were necessary.

“We’re here for one reason.” Snow said. “To clean up the mess created by recent… turbulence. We’re acting in good faith, and we expect full cooperation.”

“And why would we give you that?” Reese asked.

Stanton smiled. “Because you stole from us, remember? And because we killed Harold Wren for you. You’re welcome.”

Reese froze.

“Oh,” Stanton continued. “Agent Carter omitted that little detail?” She laughed. “MI6 ordered Wren’s death from the very beginning. We did your dirty work. And in the end? You took the intelligence while we took the blame. Neatly played!”

“You’ve got the laptop.” Carter shot back.

“We believe there are others connected to the machine.” Snow went on, ignoring them. “People beyond Wren. The loose ends we need to tie up. And we need your help, Agent Reese.”

“Why me?”

“We know you were approached this afternoon in a pub near Whitechapel.” Carter said. “Don’t look so surprised. You think we’d let our strays wander unwatched?”

“I don’t know the man.” Reese said. It was the truth, or near enough.

“He is who we’re after.” Snow said. “American. Tech billionaire swimming in AI money. Reclusive. Well insulated. We need to know how he ties to the machine.”

“So arrest him.”

Snow shook his head. “We don’t grab men like that without knowing exactly what leverage they have on Capitol Hill.”

“I’m not doing it.” Reese said.

Stanton chuckled. “Well then. We’ll leave you two to discuss it.” She turned away. “Until next time.”

Carter watched them go, then turned on Reese.

“John, we need to fix this.” She said as he walked off.  “Dennison’s taken the fall for now. But if this unravels, the next man out will be the PM. And that would be a catastrophe for the country.”

“For the greater good, is it? Is this what you signed up for?” Reese asked bitterly. “Tell me, Carter. Has anything good ever come from this business? Do you wake up proud?”

“This isn’t about pride. It’s about duty.”

“It’s about lies.” Reese said. “And you still believe them.”

“No.” Carter said quietly. “But I swore allegiance to the Crown. Those words weren’t poetry. They were a commitment. I am defending my country.”

“You are delusional.” Reese turned to leave.

“I know this means nothing to you now.” Carter called out to his back. “But don’t you want to know who Sparrow is? For Wren’s sake. He was lured to Paris by him, after all.”

Reese stopped.

“You think this billionaire is connected?”

“His trail overlapped with Wren’s. Too closely to be coincidence. And I need you to find out the rest.”

Silence.

“Think of it as your last job.” Carter said. “After this, you’re free.”

“Take the offer, John. This is as generous as the River House ever gets. Men in your position usually end up face down in the Thames.” Carter held out a phone.

Reese stared at the phone. Then without a word, he took it.

Chapter Text

Reese woke to the relentless glare of early summer light slanting through the ill-fitting curtains. He reached for the beside table without turning his head. The bottle was where he had left it. He lifted it once, tested its weight, then set it back down.

He did not drink in the mornings. Not out of principle. Simply because it turned his stomach. Some humiliations, he preferred to postpone.

He stepped from the cold shower and stood before the mirror, as if expecting a stranger to stare back. Bloodshot eyes. Thread of gray at his temples and along his jaw. A fresh scar near the collarbone. He ran his fingers over it and the memory returned. The hotel corridor. The leap to the rooftop. The man he had tried to save. Then left to die.

He still couldn’t say his name aloud.

He set the French press on the small kitchen table and poured in boiled water, watching the grounds unfurl and settle. 

The phone rang. He closed his eyes briefly. Carter, he thought. What now? Why can’t she…

No. Wrong tone. Not the phone she had issued him.

Reese fished his private phone from his pocket. Unknown number.

He let it rang once more before pressing answer.

“Mr Reese. I trust I’m not interrupting anything vital.”

The voice was almost courteous.

“Who is this?”

“I imagine you already know.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m certain you know that as well. But I’d prefer not to conduct this conversation over unsecured lines.”

Reese’s grip tightened on the phone. “Then don’t.”

His mind was already working. Stations, parks, cafés, somewhere he could meet Finch. Public.

“Very well. As it happens, I am in the neighborhood. I shall stop by, if you don’t mind.”

The doorbell chimed.

Reese crossed the kitchen and opened the front door.

Finch stood a few steps back from the threshold, phone still in hand, as though he had come for tea and biscuits. Impeccable suit. Remarkable tie.

“And if I do mind?” Reese said into the phone, his eyes cold.

“Well,” Finch replied mildly, “A cup of tea wouldn’t be too much to ask, I’d imagine.” There was something almost earnest in the insistence.

Reese said nothing. He stepped aside, barely. An invitation without welcome.

Finch accepted it. He entered with his careful stiff gait, his gaze sweeping the interior in one economical pass.

Reese shut the door. There was no point asking how Finch had obtained his private number, or his address. The man knew his name. At least two of them. He’d come to make a point. 

And the point was made.

He led Finch into the kitchen.

“I only have coffee.” Reese said. “Black.”

“I’ll take whatever you offer. Mr Reese.”

Reese poured without looking at him.

“You shouldn’t have come here.”

Finch smiled faintly.

“Of course, I have considered the possibility that your house is bugged. That your employer may be listening.”

His eyes drifted briefly toward the smoke detector on the celling, as though that were the most sensible place for an eavesdropper.

Reese remained silent. It was entirely possible that the River House had indeed wired the place. But that wasn’t what he meant.

“I know you work for MI6, Mr Reese.” Finch took a measured sip of the coffee and winced. He set the mug down with delicacy.

“Not anymore. I quit.”

“And have since devoted yourself to whisky and self-reproach.” Finch studied him with unsettling gentleness. “I assume it relates to what happened in Paris.”

Reese’s face remained impassive. “What do you know about Paris?”

“I know it was brutal.” Finch’s gaze settled on the coffee mug.

“So you were there.”

“Yes. I’d arranged a rendezvous with someone we both knew.” Finch paused. “Mr Harold Wren.” 

The name struck like a blow. Reese felt it, but let nothing show.

Finch waited. When no reaction came, he continued.

“I knew you had followed Mr Wren from the States. MI6 had taken an interest in him, which is why I moved our meeting from London to Paris.” his voice was honest.

“So you are Sparrow.” Reese’s tone stayed flat, though a muscle twitched faintly in his jaw.

“Mr Wren seemed to have confided in you.” Finch said without denial. “Then you must also be aware of the key. And what it is capable of.”

“I know enough.” Reese replied with controlled calm, “But it’s no longer in my possession. I told you that already.”

“That’s not why I came today.” 

Reese’s gaze fixed on him.

“I know you’re a soldier, Mr Reese.” Finch’s voice softened with genuine sympathy. “You’ve spent your life carrying out decisions made by others. But now, the choice is yours.” 

He held Reese’s gaze.

 “And I’m afraid the key is less leverage than it is a liability. There will be consequences, regardless of what you decide. Or if you choose not to decide at all.”

“You’re threatening me.” Reese’s voice dropped to ice.

Finch shook his head gently. “Let’s call it inevitability.”

“You think you know me?” The restraint in Reese’s voice began to crack. “You barge into my home, rattle off some file from an archive, and presume to lecture me on choices?”

“I know a great deal about you, Mr Reese.” Finch said calmly. “Your father served in the Regiment. Northern Ireland. A hero by all accounts. You were born in Belfast but raised by your grandparents. Here, in this house.” His gaze drifted over the small kitchen. “You joined the Paras young. Two tours in Iraq and an exceptional record made you one of the youngest candidates for the special forces. You followed your father’s path.”

Reese’s breathing shifted.

“MI6 came later,” Finch continued. “But it was never your calling. You valued honor… loyalty… far more than deception and shadows.” 

He paused.

“So this isn’t about whether I know you. It is about whether you still recognize the man you used to be. I came here to see which version of you would answer the door.”

Reese said nothing, something dark flickering in his eyes.

“You had a choice in Paris.”  Finch went on. “And you chose to follow orders.”

Reese leaned in, fists clenched. “Careful.”

Finch didn’t move.

“Mr Wren trusted you.”

That was all it took.

Reese moved before the thought completed itself. He seized Finch by the jacket, hauled him from the chair, and slammed him against the cupboard.

“He wouldn’t have gone to Paris if not for you.” Reese’s voice trembled. “You pushed him into it. You fed him whatever lies suited your game…”

“So you believe I got him killed.” Finch didn’t struggle. He simply looked at Reese with a profound sadness. “I suppose…”

Reese released him abruptly, staggering back. 

“We’re done. Get out.”

“Mr Reese…” 

“Now.”

Finch straightened his suit and tie with dignity. 

He reached the door, then turned back one last time.

“You can’t bring him back. But you can make the right choice this time.”

Reese sat there. Minutes, maybe hours. At last, he retrieved the half empty bottle from his bedside. He poured a glass. Drained it. Poured another. Then another.

He pressed a hand to his inner pocket, feeling the pen there. Harold had wanted it kept close to his heart. 

This key meant nothing to him. Nothing practical. It was a relic. A reminder of failure. Of guilt. 

What difference did it make who possessed it now? His world was already in ruins. What could possibly make it worse?

And what was the right choice anyway, when the only options were a compromised state and a manipulative tech mogul?

Revenge, at least, filled the hollow.

Someone had to pay.

He picked up the phone Carter had given him and dialed.

“His name is Finch. He is Sparrow. We’ve got him.”

A pause. 

“Why is he after the key?” Carter asked.

“I’ll find out. Will you inform the Americans?”

A longer pause.

“Not yet.”

“Carter? You were the one who wanted to ease the tension. To do the greater good…”

“This man could be leverage.” Carter replied. “I can’t afford to waste him. I know what I’m doing. How do you plan to proceed?”

“Wait for my signal. We move together.” 

Reese ended the call. Then, without hesitation, he took out his private phone and pressed the unknown number.

It was answered almost at once.

“Mr Reese?”

“I owe you an apology for this morning,” Reese said. “I was… less composed than I should have been. Let’s make a deal.”

“I’m listening.”

“You answer my questions. I give you what you want.”

A slight pause. 

“I assume this meeting will not take place at your residence then?”

“We can meet somewhere else.”

Another pause.

“Very good. Tomorrow evening. The west steps of St Paul’s.”

“Agreed.”

“And, don’t call me, Mr Reese. I’ll call you.”

Chapter Text

The sun still hung stubbornly high at half past five. Light bounced off the glass façades of the surrounding buildings, turning the air into harsh metallic glare. In the passenger seat, Reese felt it needling at his eyes, boring through his skull. The brightness, the sheer exposure of it set his nerves on edge.

Carter eased the car into a narrow service alley behind Paternoster Square, tucking it well out of the sight of the meeting place. From here, the cathedral was a short walk. 

She kept the engine running. “Stay on comms.” She held out an earpiece, small enough to be invisible once seated. “Our people will approach from your nine and six. They’ll funnel the target up the west steps. You keep him close until he’s cornered.”

Reese took the earpiece.

“All you have to do,” Carter went on, “is give me the word. Keep it quiet. No theatrics.”

“Don’t rush it,” Reese fitted the earpiece into place. “He needs to talk. About the key and this machine. If we move too soon, he shuts down. Then we lose everything.”

Carter studied her partner, as though recalling an old memory. “Good to have you back, John.”

Reese said nothing.

He opened the door and stepped out into the alley.

Evening commuters drifted by, clutching paper cups and loosening their ties. Reese moved among them, crossing Paternoster Square like just another unremarkable face. Yet beneath that serenity, something darker stirred.

The pen rested in his inner pocket. It was always there, the note folded behind it, its creases softened from too much handling. He had read the lines so often he no longer needed the page now. He carried the words intact in his memory, reciting them sometimes in the dark, like a prayer.

Harold had believed in inconvenient things. Decency. Obligation. Doing the right thing even when it came at a cost. Worst of all, he had believed in Reese. He had placed what remained of his life, his faith, his final bet into Reese’s keeping.

And Reese was about to use it as bait.

To draw another man into the net of MI6 and the CIA. Into the very machinery Harold had spent his life evading, resisting, and outthinking, until it finally ground him down. 

Reese squeezed his eyes shut against the glare.

Revenge, then. That was the word he’d call it. But revenge for whom. For Harold? Or for the part of himself that could not carry the weight of betrayal? Would Harold have wanted blood answered with blood? Another life weighed against a key and a state secret? Another name added to a ledger no one could ever balance?

He knew all the answers. But they were not the answers he was seeking. They were too rational. Too righteous. And utterly cruel. They did nothing for the ache in his chest. They only made Harold’s trust seem so unguarded, so complete, that the memory of it felt like an accusation. 

And it was already too late to turn back. The team was moving into position. And somewhere ahead, Finch would be waiting, still willing to talk.

Reese paused at the statue of Queen Anne, the cathedral looming behind him. He waited, scanning the surroundings.

His phone vibrated.

“You’re early, Mr Reese.”

The voice might have been carried on the stone itself. Reese lifted his gaze and found Finch at the top of the west steps, half sheltered by a column, as if pausing to contemplate the architecture.

“So are you.” Reese replied.

He ended the call and mounted the steps.

Finch descended a few to meet him, eyes moving past Reese’s shoulder to the square below, tracking the streets and the passersby drifting through.

“I appreciate that you came alone.” Finch said. “I assume that’s still the case.”

“You shouldn’t have agreed to meet if you don’t trust me.”

“I trust my precautions,” Finch replied evenly. “And my own judgement. Though you have the look of a man who’s already decided how this ends.”

“I prefer to arrive with a solution,” Reese said, “before the situation requires one.”

Finch looked at him over the rim of his glasses. “Which makes me wonder what you’ve come to resolve. The situation… or me.” A pause. “Perhaps you should give me a reason not to walk away now.”

 “Steady, John.” Carter’s voice settled in his ear.

Reese kept his face and tone neutral. “We each have something the other needs. Information for the key. That aligns us, for the moment. And you chose this place, open ground, witnesses, respectable architecture. I’m sure we can manage civility.”

“Civility wasn’t especially evident during our last encounter.” Finch noted.

“Then I apologise, again.” Reese offered a faint smile,  a brief  flicker of sincerity in his eyes.

Finch considered it for a moment, then gave a small nod, as if accepting it. 

“I hope this doesn’t sound presumptuous,” he said, his voice careful, “but we are not enemies, Mr Reese. And if I may be candid, I’d far rather conclude this deal with you than with your former employer.”

“Ask him about his connection,” Carter ordered.

“What’s your interest in the key?” Reese asked.

Finch didn’t answer at once. He lifted his chin toward the cameras fixed to the corners of the surrounding buildings.

“We’re being watched,” he said quietly. “ Continuously. Did you know that London is the most surveilled city in the Western world? Seven cameras for every 10 people.”

Reese said nothing.

“Whoever controls those feeds possesses a kind of godhood.” Finch continued, turning to walk slowly along the cathedral steps, “Now imagine extending that beyond a single city, beyond a country. Beyond mere cameras.”

Reese fell into step beside him. “Isn’t that precisely what the machine does? Watch people. Collect their data.”

“Oh, it does rather more.” Finch glanced at him. “But the only fact that matters to you is that the machine has been…adjacent to a number of deaths. I’d prefer not to add to the total.”

“So you think you’re protecting me?” Reese’s voice was flat, edged with contempt. “Is that what you told Wren? That you were trying to protect him? He still ended up dead.”

Something crossed Finch’s face, briefly. Remorse perhaps, or grief.

“I cautioned him as best I could without exposing myself.” Finch said quietly. “I saw the danger he was in when I spotted you and your colleague on the camera at our last meeting. I warned him.” A pause. “But I misjudged the reach from the other agency…”

“You had eyes on the cameras.”

“I know my way around the surveillance infrastructure.” Finch replied.

“Units in position.” Carter said. “John, stand by.”

Reese stopped walking. He had arrived expecting answers. Instead, he had only more questions. And against his better judgment, he needed them answered.

“I still don’t understand what any of this has to do with you.” He said. “Why involve yourself at all? A wealthy man with a conscience is still a man with a great deal to lose.”

“Because I…” Finch hesitated, as if the words themselves carried a cost. “Because I understand how the machine functions. Better than anyone else. Anyone still alive, that is.”

“Let’s bag him.” Carter ordered.

Reese did not move. “Why do you want the key?”

“Because it opens a Pandora’s box. A kind of power that no individual, no institution can responsibly contain. Mr Wren glimpsed the surface and it terrified him. But what lies beneath is far more dangerous.” Finch’s composure thinned, his voice tightening. “I cannot allow it to fall into the wrong hands.”

“You’re desperate enough to trust a British spy.” Reese settled a cold gaze on Finch. “To bargain with one.”

“I don’t trust you.” Finch answered. “But Mr Wren did and there must have been a reason.”

He held Reese’s gaze.

“The day before Mr Wren was killed. New Year’s Eve. He mailed a parcel from le Marais to London, addressed to you. Postal records are clear and honest.” Finch’s voice lowered. “He mush have sensed what was coming. And he sent it to the only person he believed would keep it safe. One does not send trivialities across borders in circumstances like those.”

A stillness settled between them.

“So I came to find you.” Finch continued. “I concluded the parcel contained either a copy of the key or some component of it. Am I right, Mr Reese?”

“What parcel? John?” Carter’s tone sharpened. “What did Wren give you?”

Reese barely heard her.

It wasn’t the answer he had expected. Yet it aligned with Harold’s logic. Contingency. Trust, carefully placed. Finch understood it. He might not know everything, but he had grasped what Harold had entrusted to him. 

The key shifted in Reese’s mind. From a relic to a mandate. For the first time, he felt something other than guilt attached to it. Curiosity, yes. But something deeper. An obligation. To understand what Harold had seen. To honor what he had been given.

“You said the machine does more than watch.” Reese said.

“What it is capable of is beyond what you have been told.” Finch replied.

“John, report!” Carter’s voice rose urgently.

“I want to see it.” Reese said.

Silence from Finch.

“Give me the key,” he then said softly, “and I will show you.”

Reese looked at Finch. 

For a moment the cathedral receded, he saw instead the canal, the route to the station in the cold winter rain. He heard Harold’s voice on a phone line that cracked with distance. And the gunshots.

Finch was right. The key was not leverage. It was another choice.

“Bring him in.” Carter’s voice cut through. “That’s an order.”

“No, Carter,” Reese said aloud. “Not this time.”

Chapter Text

“Mr Reese? What is…” Finch raised an eyebrow.

“Leave.” Reese’s voice came low, edged with gravel. “Go, Finch. Now.”

Finch read it at once. Without another word, he turned and descended the steps, pushing his stiff gait it could barely manage.

“All units, hold your fire.” Carter’s voice crackled louder. “I repeat, do not fire.”

“Not that way, Finch.” Reese called after him, his gaze moving across the square. A man studying his phone. Another loitering by a statue. An unmarked gray van eased around the corner with careful deliberation.

“Don’t do this, John.” Carter pressed. “Listen to me…”

Reese cut the comms. Silence.

He caught Finch in two strides and seized his arm just as he reached the pavement.

“They are closing in from the west and south,” Reese said quietly, steering him back toward the shelter of the colonnade. “Stay out of the open.”

“Who are they?” Finch attempted to free his arm, with limited success.

“MI6.”

Finch drew a slow breath. “So you are still with them.”

Reese avoided his eyes. “I lied. And I’m sorry.”

Finch studied him in silence.

“They’ve sealed the perimeters. Tube entrances. The bridges.” Reese kept his eyes moving across the square below.

“My car is parked just beyond the gardens.” Finch said. “Though I suspect under present circumstances, I should not expect to reach it.”

“Not without a clear route we don’t currently have,” Reese agreed.

An agent mounted the steps at speed, reaching for Finch’s shoulder. Reese moved without hesitation. One sharp shove sent the man staggering sideways against the stone balustrade. Another came in. Reese stepped forward and put him down with a hard, efficient blow.

“We'll be cornered if we stay here.” Reese grabbed Finch by the arm and propelled him along the colonnade toward the north churchyard, “Come on.”

“Where are you taking me?” Finch demanded, his breath short. “That’s a dead end, Mr Reese.”

He wrenched himself free and stopped.

Reese turned, his voice taut and subdued. “I’m helping you get out.”

“I don’t need your help.” Finch replied, adjusting his glasses with habitual composure.

“I know.” Reese took hold of him again. “You don’t trust me.”

“Trust is something one builds, Mr Reese.” Finch fell into step despite himself. “Your recent actions haven’t contributed to the foundation.”

“Fair point.” Reese kept his eyes ahead, probing the churchyard. “But you don’t have a choice right now. I need you alive.”

They reached the north transept. A narrow service passage ran off from the nave, marked by a discreet sign: 

PRIVATE. NO ADMITTANCE.

Reese tried the handle. Locked. He reached into his jacket and produced a small set of tools. Kneeling slightly, he slid two thin picks into the keyway with practiced ease.

“You carry those routinely?” Finch observed.

“I told you,” Reese replied, feeling for the pins. “I prefer to have a solution before the problem arrives.”

A subtle shift of pressure. A pause. Then a soft click.

Reese stood, pocketed his tools, and opened the door.

“After you.”

Finch paused briefly, then stepped inside without a word.

Reese followed, closing the door carefully behind them.

For a moment there was only dimness and the muffled resonance of the organ rolling through the stonework. They moved along an empty service corridor lined with closed office doors.

At the far end stood another door. Reese opened it and they stepped out into the north transept. 

The cathedral revealed itself gradually. The Crossing opened beneath the great dome, massive piers climbing upward in alternating bands of pale stone and shadow.

Choral evensong drifted on. Treble voices rose through the vastness, fading toward the lanterns high above.

“…our shelter from the stormy blast,

and our eternal home…”

The Nave held a full congregation, some seated, others standing with hymn sheets lifted. A verger moved along the aisle, maintaining the stillness of the service.

Reese scanned the space. “Blend,” he murmured.

Finch adjusted his jacket, composing his features into an expression of modest devotion as he hurried forward.

They wove into the body of the Nave, threading through the worshipers. A sharp scrape echoed as Reese’s knee caught the corner of a chair. A few heads turned. A woman hissed when Finch’s shoulder brushed hers. An elderly man muttered something about manners.

“Apologies,” Finch whispered, dipping his head with genuine contrition, recovering what dignity remained.

At last, they reached a row near the middle. Reese lowered himself, only to stand up abruptly as the congregation rose for the next verse.

“How mortifying,” Finch breathed, opening a hymn sheet, upside down at first. “The last time I felt this conspicuous in a church, I was twelve and struck a wrong note at precisely the wrong moment.” He paused. “I simply never imagined my return to ecclesiastical life would involve sheltering from the attentions of a foreign intelligence service”

“A thank you would suffice.” Reese replied, his eyes half-lidded, as he swept the space.

Finch’s lips barely moved. “For what exactly?”

“For keeping you out of a van.”

A disturbance rippled from the main entrance. The door swung open. Two men entered. Then a third. A member of the cathedral staff moved to stop them but was quickly brushed aside. 

The agents spread across the Crossing and began to advance up the Nave, careful not to cause a spectacle. One drifted along the north aisle. Another reached the midpoint of the Nave, his gaze traversing the congregation.

“They will flush us out row by row” Reese murmured. “We have to move.” 

He stepped sideways across the pew. Finch followed, lips shaping silent excuses. Someone gasped. Another protested, “Really!” A verger stepped into Reese’s path. “Sir, you can’t…”

Reese went around him with a quiet “Sorry,” one hand at Finch’s elbow, steering him south through the rows.

The agent in the central aisle turned his head.

“Quick, Finch!”

They turned at a colonnade along the south aisle and pressed into shadows.

“Down.” Reese grabbed Finch’s sleeve and drew him behind a towering statue. It was a naval monument, marble drapery, carved cannon, a figure in Romanized armor gazing toward eternity. 

“Nelson.” Finch murmured.

“Beg your pardon?” Reese tilted his head.

“Admiral Lord Nelson.” Finch’s gaze settled on the inscription.

“Ah, yes. His sarcophagus is down in the crypt.” Reese glanced at the agent who had stepped out to the transept. “Battle of Trafalgar.”

“Died at the moment of victory. You Brits do adore a martyr who wins.”

“England expects that every man will do his duty.” Reese relied. “We admire his devotion. His loyalty.”

“Yes,” Finch said softly, “loyalty to one’s country. It moves men through hardship, through blind obedience, even death. All in service of an abstraction.”

“That’s… not why they do it.”

“No?” Finch adjusted his glasses. “What then?”

“They do it because… it matters,” Reese said. “Because someone has to hold the line.”

“Holding the line,” Finch said. “Precisely what you have done, Mr Reese. And how did that serve you?”

“It didn’t. And here I am,” Reese murmured, keeping his eyes on the agents. “But I don’t suppose you’d understand.”

“Quite the contrary,” Finch said without inflection. “I understand loyalty perfectly well.”

“You don’t strike me as the patriotic type.”

“Perhaps not. But I place mine where it belongs.” Finch paused. “In people. Always.”

Reese’s eyes swept the Nave.

“See, that’s the different between us.” Reese said, his voice dropping to a rasp. “You’ve decided governments are abstractions, unworthy of the faith they ask for. In my trade, it’s people who falter. People who betray. Orders, at least, are certain.”

“And yet,” Finch said quietly, “you defied your orders. To help me.”

Reese said nothing.

“Thank you, Mr Reese.” Finch added. The warmth in it was unguarded, perhaps more than Finch had intended.

The organ faded into silence. A beat of held stillness and then evensong was over. The congregation rose, flooding the aisles, surging toward the exits. Chaos became a perfect cover.

“Now,” Reese murmured. 

They moved into a parallel aisle and went quickly toward the south end.

“Door,” Reese said.

At the far corner of the south transept stood a plain wooden door, the kind reserved for vergers and clergy. Reese seized the handle and pulled. It gave way, swinging open to a passage along the outer wall. 

They went through. The churchyard gardens opened before them, gravel shifting underfoot. The evening air burst in, mild, damp, carrying the sounds of the city.

“My car’s just beyond. If we can reach the…” Finch said, edging toward the garden’s fringe.

Reese followed a step behind, scanning the street past the trees.

“John.”

He turned. 

Carter emerged from the far side of the churchyard, walking steadily toward them.

“Run,” Reese said sharply, shoving Finch onto the pavement. Then he stepped forward, placing himself between them.

Finch hesitated for a briefest instant, then harried along the path, keeping to the shelter of the trees.

“Stop.” Carter raised her gun. “Don’t make me do this.”

Reese planted himself firmly in her line of fire.

“What are you going to do, Carter?” Reese asked calmly. “You shoot him and you will never learn the truth about the machine. Or what the Americans are hiding.”

He glance over his shoulder. The corner was empty. Finch was gone.

Carter’s gun stayed up. But she didn’t fire.

“Or are you going to shoot me?”

“No, I’m not gonna shoot you. ” Carter lower her gun. “But I am bringing you in. You and I are going to have a proper talk about that key you pocketed without a word.”

She stepped closer, her eyes never leaving his.

“I gave you a chance. I even offered you a way out. You should’ve taken it.”

Reese didn’t move.

“You’ve let me down, John.” Carter said, the weariness in her voice palpable. “Whatever you think you’re doing, it’s finished. You’re not walking away from this one.”

Reese offered no resistance. There was nothing left to resist. 

Carter was right. It was finished the moment he chose to let Finch go. In doing so, he had said goodbye to the life he once knew, though he had never imagined it would end like this.

He had become the very thing he despised. The kind of man he had spent years hunting, eliminating. He had disobeyed a direct order. Now he was the traitor.

Agents converged. Two seized Reese’s arms, forcing them behind his back. Carter turned to the others. “He went that way.” They broke into a run.

They reached the hedgerow at the garden’s edge. Then, a sharp screech of tires split the evening air. A sedan braked hard alongside them. The passenger window slid down.

“Mr Reese, John!” The driver urged. “Get in!” 

Reese stood frozen for a fraction of a second. Then he twisted sharply, broke the gripe of both men with a violent rotation of his shoulders. He pulled the passenger door open and dropped inside.

The car shot forward before the door had fully slammed.

“Buckle up,” Finch said, his eyes fixed the road. “And ditch your phone.”

Reese pulled the earpiece free and tossed it out of the window followed by the phone Carter had given him.

“Both of them.”

Reese hesitated only a moment before throwing his own phone out into the street behind them.

“Where are we going?” He asked.

“Somewhere safe,” Finch replied, pressing harder on the accelerator.