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"Thank you so much," Jemma Daniels says, and throws her arms around John's neck. John bends down a little and hugs her back. Her silver bracelets are jingling against her wrists. When she moves back, she brushes strands of her hair back from her face, black with blue highlights.
"Don't let any criminals tell you about their business plans in the future," John says, and she laughs.
"I'm a barkeeper. People tell me everything." She grows a little more serious. "Really, thanks. Tell your friend --" She makes a vague gesture towards his earpiece, "Tell him I'm really grateful, yeah?”
John nods, smiling. She gives him a little wave and disappears behind the counter to start her shift.
“Did you get that, Harold?” John asks, sliding onto a bar stool.
“I am listening attentively, as I always do,” Harold's voice comes over the earpiece. He sounds amused, probably pleased that they wrapped up the number so quickly. The earpiece is expensive quality, there is almost no static to distort the sound of Harold's voice. John appreciates the little things.
He still has some evidence tucked away in his jacket, proof that the guys who were after Jemma are responsible for a dozen high-stake bank robberies all over the city, but he can bring that to Harold tomorrow, or drop it off at the precinct on his own. Right now, John is aware of a man in the back of the room who has his eyes on John, and is trying to figure out if maybe he missed one of the bad guys when he was taking down their operation.
“There is a gentleman in the back who --” Harold starts.
“Seen it,” John says. Then a beer materializes in front of him. John looks up. It's not Jemma.
“From the guy over there,” the barkeeper says, and points to the man in the back.
John frowns. People who plan on beating you up usually don't go to the trouble of buying you a drink first. The guy makes his way through the room: he's wearing a suit that would give away the bulge of a weapon immediately, and he doesn't keep his eyes on the perimeter like a trained professional would. In fact, he has his eyes fixed on John, smiling affably when he pats the bar stool next to him. “That seat taken?”
“Suit yourself,” John says.
The man gives him a brilliant smile and sits down. He has blue eyes and artfully tousled blonde hair. His shirt collar is crisp, the skin on his throat a little damp: he took a shower recently and dressed up in clean clothes. It's Friday night in a popular bar, he is on the prowl. John takes the beer. “I've got you to thank for this, I think?”
The man waves him off and accepts his own drink from the barkeeper, a glass of Scotch. “Don't mention it,” he says. “I'm Scott, by the way. Scott Reubens.”
“John Rooney.”
“Nice to meet you, John,” Scott says and holds out his hand for John to shake.
John takes it, and Scott lingers on the touch before letting go. He has nice hands, smooth and pale.
“Do you always buy drinks for guys you've never met before?” John asks, but it's mild. He takes a sip of his beer.
“Only if they're handsome,” Scott says, a private smile playing at the corner of his mouth, and gives John an appreciative look.
John is convinced that Reubens is not a threat or in any way related to their number, but John can't help but feel a small kick at the attention: it's been a while since a guy has been flirting with him like that. “So, what do you do for a living, Scott?”
John should probably leave. Scott is a little too polished to be his type: a smooth-talking Wall Street businessman, probably, who goes to the gym four days a week. He has nice hair, a pleasant face and a good body, but he knows it, too. John has made a rule for himself to not fuck strangers anymore: while it's nice while it lasts, it makes him feel worse after, when he gets home to his empty apartment. When the guy who kissed him was too tall, had the wrong hair color, didn't wear suits and waistcoats and didn't call him Mr. Reese –
“I'm a lawyer,” Scott says, and then “I know, I know. I'm not a shark, though, I just do small litigation cases.”
John nods. “What firm do you work for?”
The pause is a second too long. “Smith and Appleby,” Scott says. “So, uhm. What's your trade?”
“Asset manager,” John replies casually.
“Mr. Reese, I think you should leave,” Harold says primly in his earpiece. John takes a slow sip of his beer. “I am not sure what you're trying to accomplish here,” Harold continues, “but Mr. Reubens – which is not his real name, actually, there is no Scott Reubens employed at Smith and Appleby, they do not even specialize in litigation --”
John hides his smile behind his hand. Scott has moved closer, their thighs almost brushing. Scott has enough common sense to look around if someone is watching them before he clears his throat. “So, would you maybe like to have a coffee with me? I just bought this espresso machine and a mean dark roast --”
“Sorry,” John drawls, finishing his beer. “I gotta be somewhere. I have a really demanding boss.”
In his earpiece, Harold scoffs, annoyed. “We should go through the evidence you have collected anyway, wrap this case up,” he says. John can hear the sound of agitated typing in the background.
“Oh,” Scott says, disappointment clearly written on his face. “Well, if you should change your mind or have an evening off sometime.” He scribbles his cell number on a napkin. “Call me.”
“Sure,” John says. He throws the napkin into a trashcan outside on the street.
–
In the cab, John thinks about what Harold said to him. Harold had obviously done a background search on Scott, which is not unusual: Harold retrieves information about nearly everyone John interacts with on a daily basis. The thing is: Harold looked at the information after it had been obvious that Scott wasn't a threat, that he was only at the bar to get laid. “I am not sure what you're trying to accomplish here.”, Harold had said.
John looks out of the window, watches the city lights glittering in the darkness like stars.
–
When John gets to the library, Harold is sitting at his desk, typing away at his computer, a large pile of files and loose papers stacked up next to him.
“Mr. Reese,” he says, without looking up. His earlier good mood is gone, now he seems discontent, cranky. John wonders to himself when he learned how to read Harold's moods in just the way Harold says John's name.
John takes the papers out of his jacket and adds them to the pile. It's just tying up some loose strings – their number isn't in danger anymore, and usually Harold isn't in that much of a hurry once they've closed a case. Usually, Harold lets John have an evening off, relax a little, before he asks him to come in again.
“His name is Scott Benning,” Harold says triumphantly, swiveling around in his chair.
John blinks. Harold turns to his screen again and pulls up some windows: a driver's license, the website of a law firm, a Facebook page. “He is a lawyer, only in family law, not litigation.”
“Okay,” John says. There is a thought raising its hand at the back of his mind, eager to speak, but John ignores it.
Harold looks – no, not worried. He looks furious. “He could at least have made more of an effort,” Harold mutters.
“Wait,” John says, trying to catch up. “If that wasn't his real name, and he didn't work at the law firm he said he worked at, then how did you find him?”
Harold straightens in his chair. “People tend to use things that are familiar to them to embellish their made-up stories,” he says, like that is an adequate explanation.
“So?” John prompts.
“I assumed he probably came up with Smith and Appleby because he had connections to that law firm somehow, or maybe because he passes their offices every day on his way to work. So I searched for all law firms in a ten mile radius of Smith and Appleby and looked at their employee lists.”
John stares at him. Harold has often demonstrated how carefully and thoroughly he collects information, but this is --- this is –
“Which didn't offer any results,” Harold says, still explaining his steps, “So I looked into possible mergers. Smith and Appleby in fact consider to bring their business to a different firm, Nicholls, Wechsler and Kline. Which, in turn, have an employee called Scott Benning, family law, whose hobbies include rock climbing and who has six unpaid tickets for traffic violations.”
“Harold,” John says, very deliberately, “Why did you do an extensive background check on a guy who was hitting on me in a bar?”
Harold turns his chair around again. There is a blush high on his cheeks, and he rearranges his suit like a bird puffing out his feathers. “I was merely pointing out the facts,” he says. “I am actually surprised that you didn't realize that he was lying to you, with your extensive training in interrogation techniques.”
“Who says that I didn't notice?” John asks, lowering his voice to a gentler tone. He is moving closer, resting a hand on the back of Harold's chair.
Harold looks up at him in confusion. “You knew?” He asks, accusingly.
John lets a slow smile spread over his face, moving his hand so that it's almost touching Harold's neck. “A lot of people give you a fake name when they're looking for casual sex, Harold.”
Harold swallows visibly. “I'll have to take your word for it,” he says, his blush deepening.
John feels like he opened up a window, pushed the blinds away, like he can finally feel the sun on his face. “So why go to all the trouble?” He asks innocently. John slides his hand lower to rest lightly on Harold's shoulder. Harold, to John's amazement, doesn't flinch from the touch: he leans into it.
“I,” Harold says, searching John's face. “I was out of line,” he says, frowning, like his actions seem incomprehensible to him now that he thinks about them.
“I think you were jealous,” John says, leaning down to breathe the words against Harold's ear, and oh, Harold shivers beneath him, his hands tightening on the armrests.
“Jealousy implies possession,” Harold says faintly.
John feels his blood rushing in his ears, his lungs too small for all the breaths he wants to take, all the air that needs to get in. He slides to his knees in front of the chair, resting his palms on Harold's thighs.
Harold's eyes widen in surprise. “John,” he says, reaching for John's hands. John bows his head to nuzzle at the back of Harold's hand.
“Take me home,” John says, his voice unsteady on the words. He kisses Harold's wrist. He has already risked so much, he might as well risk everything: and he is sure, so sure, he has read it on Harold's face and in the tone of Harold's voice. Harold wants him. “Take me to bed,” John says.
Harold draws a shaky breath and then his hands are everywhere, petting John's hair and stroking his cheek and cupping his jaw, and John surges up to kiss him to find Harold's mouth soft and welcoming, Harold's hand a warm weight against the back of his neck.
When they part, Harold keeps his hand there, his thumb stroking small circles against John's skin. “I'm afraid that I'm not very good at casual,” Harold says, giving him an apologetic smile.
John takes Harold's other hand and kisses every single knuckle, then slides his hand into Harold's, entwining their fingers. “It's a good thing that I want everything, then,” John says.
Harold's smile is fragile, careful. “I'm grateful,” he says, and squeezes John's hand.
-- fin