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John is floating.
The steel cable to which his outspread arms have been handcuffed circles his throat, so that, unless he stands on the tips of his toes, he will make the cable slide through the two rings nailed to opposite walls of the basement, effectively strangling himself.
Not that he really cares.
He floats, drunken with lack of oxygen, head dangling forward, the cable compressing his trachea and aorta - at least, he guesses it is, because he isn't actually feeling it. He's not so sure about his eyes, either: are they open, are they shut? Then again, there's not really a point in debating the issue, seeing that his torturers have provided him with a thick rough hood which would prevent him from enojoying the view in any case. Darkness is less tiring, anyway, and he is so tired -
"Mr. Reese? Mr. Reese, are you there?"
A muffled clanking sound, the shuffling of a door. Then, more distinctly, "Oh my God."
Slightly shaky fingers fumble at the base of his neck, unlace his hood, take it off. He blinks as raw neon light floods his eyes - which, after all, are open.
Wavering hands grab his shoulders and straighten him up, palms on his chest. He can feel another heartbeat mirroring his own through the thin fabric of his shirt. This must somewhat loosen the grip of the cable on his throat, because his lungs suddenly expand, sucking in air. He hesitates, dazzled, unsure of what to do with it.
"John. For the love of God. Breathe."
He docilely complies, wincing as a bright violent pang goes through his head.
He opens his mouth, meaning to ask Finch where Carter and Fusco are, or possibly to make some pointed remark about his impeccable timing, but all he manages is a choked moan that scares the shit out of him.
"Help..."
Harold is scared, too. He clumsily strengthens his grip on John's shoulders, swaying under the taller man's abandoned body, shifting his weight to his good leg with a grimace, and even here, even now, John is dimly sorry for causing him pain.
He wonders when exactly is 'now', by the way. How long has he been staying there? Long enough, he thinks grimly, even if it hasn't been enough to extract a word from him - not even his name. It looks like weeks, anyway. Years, maybe. Smothering years of captivity, years since he's been really free, years since he's had a real name to tell anyone, for that matter.
"John, please, now focus", Harold says from somewhere in the darkness, shaking him from vague reveries. He's practically spelling the words. Is John really looking that bad?
"I need you to tell me where the keys to these handcuffs are", Harold goes on, then adds "I beg your pardon?" when John slurs something unintelligible.
"My boxers", John repeats.
A pause, then "All right, Mr. Reese. Keep breathing. Try to stand on your own, just for a little while. I'll get you out of here."
Hands sliding slowly to John's waist, undoing his belt. Once again, he can feel another pulse against his skin - a slightly accelerated one.
Harold's touch is gentle but resolute. Warm. Polite. John tries to concentrate on breathing, inhale-exhale-inhale, exhale-inhale-exhale, inhale-exhale-dammit.
"Sorry", he mutters hoarsely as another rush of blood pierces his sight.
"Not to worry" Harold says after a moment, extracting the keys from his boxers, his voice oddly detached. "I presume this indicates a, um, an improvement in the condition of your circulatory system."
#
The damp tarmac slides silenty beneath them as John shudders and coughs in the tartan blanket Harold has pulled over his shoulders.
The radio starts playing Killing Me Softly. Harold reaches out and turns it off with an annoyed hmpfing sound.
"Mr. Reese, they didn't - tell me they didn't - did they -"
Tonight Finch is uncharacteristically, painfully lost for words.
John closes his eyes. Did they rape you? Kara asks from an unfrequented part of his memory, her face blank, her tone as neutral as the form she's handing him.
"No", he replies, and Harold's knuckles stand a little less white against the steering wheel.
#
"Finch. Are you there? Rosenthal is leaving the club."
"Is he alone?"
"He seems to be - no, wait, he's talking to a woman, I think they're together. Blonde tall type. Twenty years and a facelift younger, by the looks of it... Here's her photo."
"Eveline Englefield, Mr. Rosenthal's foster-daughter, unlikely to be the threat - she practically owes him her life."
"Could it be the other way around? Is there any reason Rosenthal could want to take her life back?"
"I'm trying to ascertain precisely that possibility... Your assumption about her age was correct, by the way."
"Of course it was, Finch. It's called 'female intuition'. Do you want me to follow them?"
"That won't be necessary, thank you. I will trust Ms. Englefield and her foster-father to the capable hands of our friends at the NYPD."
"Fine. Thanks for the solitary drink, then. Always a pleasure."
"You're quite welcome, Ms Morgan."
"Oh, and Harold, talking about friends, any chance you'll tell me why John couldn't join me this evening?"
"As I told you, Mr. Reese is regrettably indisposed at the moment. I'm confident you will respect our agreements by keeping your involvement in this case to yourself. Our mutual friend might be, ah, a little upset were he to learn about it."
"Don't worry, Finch. I avoid trouble, as a rule."
"I appreciate that, Ms. Morgan. Enjoy the rest of your evening."
#
John wakes up to the heat of the sun on his arms. Bright light is filtering through the half-open shutters.
He rolls on his side and sits up, reaching out to stroke a gleeful Bear between his ears.
He checks the door and the windows, makes the bed, showers, shaves and fries eggs for breakfast, letting himself slide into the practised ease of daily life. He cherishes the discipline of his pseudo-civilian routine, trivial task after trivial task, without straying, without thinking.
John cleans his guns, cleans the kitchen, tidies up the bathroom shelves, takes Bear for a walk and buys beans and onions for lunch. His mind is impermeable. Empty. Certainly not in the least perturbed by the fact that he hasn't heard from Finch since the incident with the Mexican smugglers - which means for a whole week.
The Machine could be taking a break, John reflects, munching his sandwich in silence. It's happened before, if not very often. Even then, however, Harold would ring him up every two or three days, appointing him small errands, exchanging information about Carter and Fusco's movements, occasionally asking him to check on Leon, on Zoe or on another of their previous numbers.
It's been a tacit, insightful way to let John know that he was still needed, one of the many tactful kindnesses through which Harold's ultimate generosity seeped and could be grasped.
John could just call him, of course. Give him a ring, engage in some small talk, then tell him - what? 'Hey, Finch, I'm feeling a little bored at the moment, do you need anything from the grocery store?'
John makes coffee and does push-ups and wonders when exactly it is that he started missing errands. He leafs through a book about poisonous fish, takes Bear to the park again, and he's halfway through polishing the barrel of his AK-47 before remembering he's already done it.
He might give Finch a call, after all.
"You could've told me I had the week off", he drawls in a somewhat sheepish tease when the conversation clicks open. "I'd have planned some holiday. They say Montana is lovely this time of year."
"Ah, yes, Mr. Reese", Harold says, and John's heart thumps because he's almost whispering, his breathing hard, physical pain ringing ominously in his voice.
"I imagine you've been wondering why I haven't required your help in the last few days..." Harold goes on with evident effort. He's not in shock. Probably not a bullet wound, then. "... and I'll be happy to explain myself as soon as I get the chance..." a sharp intake of breath. Contusion? Broken rib? "... but, as a matter of fact, I could very much do with some of your assistance right now, if you're not -"
"Don't move, don't talk. I'm on my way now", John says, and hails a cab.
#
John strides along the narrow corridor, making his way past bookcases and unused furniture, Bear trotting warily at his side. Harold is silent - probably because he told him to, or maybe - what if -
John shakes blood and hollowness and despair from his mind with a jerk of his head and walks into the dimly-lit room.
Harold is on the sofa, hands pressed against his left side, eyes shut, cursing under his breath - which is unusual and unsettling and painful, but very much alive.
They don't talk for a while. John takes Harold's shirt off, quickly assessing the damage - knife wound right under the pectoral muscle, not very deep, probably aching as hell. He disinfects it and patches it up, wondering at Harold's virtually unflinching expression - permanent spinal injury, he reminds himself - then slides his hands across Harold's chest, searching for broken ribs, tapping and probing gently - yes, probing, that's what he's doing, and there's no reason whatsoever why such an impersonally clinical gesture should feel so damn good -
"Who did this to you?" he asks eventually, looking up.
"It was an accident", Harold mutters, not meeting his eyes.
"That's not what I asked", John insists gently, telling himself it's about time to help Finch put a shirt on again.
"A man with a knife did this to me, Mr. Reese", Harold says irritably. "A twenty-year-old drug dealer who was raised in foster-care, seeing that you're so interested in the details."
"And may I ask you", John attempts, a dark presentiment gathering in his chest, "why exactly you were stabbed by an orphaned drug-dealer?"
"There was, um, some hindrance to our agreement", Harold answers, watching Bear's wagging tail with mild interest.
"Your agree-" John begins, and then "Oh. Wait. The Machine hasn't been taking a break, has it?"
Harold lets out a ragged sigh and finally meets John's gaze. "I'm afraid it hasn’t."
"So you did get new numbers but you didn't contact me because...?" John wills himself not to shake Finch's shoulders.
"Well, as you conveniently put it, I felt you were in need of some time off, after your misfortune last Thursday night."
John somehow thinks better than commenting. "How many numbers were there?"
"Four", Harold admits, then hurriedly adds "but I benefited from considerable help from many of our friends. This was the only time I was actually, er, personally engaged in the proceedings. I hoped to avoid bloodshed, for a change. I was confident that an appropriate amount of money would suffice to settle the question, but this young man got somewhat carried away before I could introduce my offer."
"You. Met them. Alone. Unarmed." John is edging on panic at the foolishness of it.
"Not completely unarmed", Harold says, weakly nodding towards the coffee table.
John glances at it, focuses, gapes.
"Let me get this straight", he manages after a while, at last wholly distracted from the inspection of Harold's ribcage. "You confronted a gang of drug dealers with a pair of scissors because you didn't want people to get hurt?"
Harold glares at him. "I didn't want you to get hurt, Mr. Reese. Besides", he adds, wincing as John helps him put a clean shirt on, "it's not as if I didn't learn the lesson."
John opens his mouth to retort, but he suddenly finds he's disconcertingly moved by the idea of Finch walking alone into some criminal hideout clutching a pair of scissors - scissors, not even a box cutter, not even a goddamn kitchen-knife - to spare him harm. All his years of military training are screaming against the utter naivety of it, but in spite of that - maybe because of that - he feels stomach-clenchingly shaken by this one ingenuous act of kindness.
He picks up a brown folder from the coffee table.
"Are these them?"
Harold nods again, eyeing him cautiously.
John stands up and places a hand on Harold's shoulder. "Take some painkillers and go to sleep, Finch. Bear will watch over you. I'll see you in two hours."
#
"I can see the point of the whole 'authentic traditional food' thing, but I wish they provided forks and knives as well", John complains, sipping his wine. "Although you were probably right about this being the best Vietnamese take-away in the city."
"Eating these shrimp dumplings with normal cutlery would be about as approximate and gross as trimming your beard with a hatchet, Mr. Reese", Harold answers, barely raising his eyes from his shrimp dumplings. "Besides", he goes on, arching an eyebrow at John's smirk, "one would assume that somewhere in your past experience you had assimilated the not at all obscure art of using chopsticks."
"One would assume rightly", John concedes, dabbing at his knuckles with his napkin. Tiny spots of blood appear on the embroidered cotton. "Thing is, my hands need a bit of recovery, at the moment."
"Your hands would be perfectly fine", Harold retaliates with an horrified glance at the napkin, "if only you hadn't used them to beat five armed hooligans senseless earlier this afternoon, which feat, as I repeatedly attempted to get across to you, was not in the least necessary - however chivalrous."
"They hurt you", John states calmly, and Harold allows himself the tiniest of smiles before resuming his exasperated expression.
#
The light is low in the room and New York is buzzing below them, their glasses standing opaque against the shimmering skyline.
John likes wine. It's much more deliberate, much subtler than whisky; much more gentlemanly, as Finch once put it in the 'I'm-concerned-but-I'll-pretend-not-to-be' expression he takes on every time John's past drinking habits are mentioned.
Harold is animatedly telling him anecdotes about his travels - nothing serious or privacy-compromising, of course, just brief, carefully carved snapshots of his life, designed to entertain as much as to conceal. John can't bring himself to follow him, anyway, although he knows he should, because Finch is virtually never relaxed enough to willingly open up abot his past. It's precisely this slackening of defenses, however, this uncharacteristic ease around Harold's smiling eyes, that makes it hard for John to focus on what he's saying.
"... she told me he was one of the best Russian chess players of the time. I was about to introduce myself when an awful storm came up, and I was nearly swept overboard by a loose -"
John puts down his glass and casually brushes his fingers against the back of Harold's neck, wondering, trying.
Harold holds his breath and stiffens, bracing himself against the edge of the sofa, then lets out a trembling sigh and shuts his eyes, swallowing once.
John lets his hand slide down to the small of Harold's back, and then he tugs at him, delicate and confident, leaning closer.
Harold turns to face him, leaning closer in turn instead of pulling away, his cerulean eyes wide with longing, bewilderment and trust. John takes off his glasses and kisses him, softly at first, then with renewed urgency as Harold curls his fingers into John's hair and pulls him closer with another ragged gasp. John plants soft kisses on the side of Harold's neck, the bitter taste of Cabernet still in his mouth, and his heart leaps and shrinks at the whine that escapes Harold's mouth as he playfully teases his ear with his tongue.
After a while, he leans back with a contented smile, his knuckles tracing lazy lines across Harold's shoulder blades.
"What were you saying?"
"I - I was telling you about the storm" Harold stutters, shuddering at the touch. John wants to close his eyes and climb inside him, leaving buildings and eternity behind.
"A - a rope almost swept me overboard, and I admit I was really -"
"Scared", John concludes, unbuttoning his shirt.
Harold stares at his bare chest, transfixed. His Adam's apple goes up, goes down.
"Yes. They say it's going to rain tonight", he murmurs with adorable inconsequentiality. "It's a shame I didn't remember to bring my raincoat..."
"I forgot it too", John smiles as Harold's lips wander across his throat, over his collarbone, forsaken, scalding. "Looks like we'll have to stay here for the night."