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Day 46 started the same way all the other days had, at 5:00am, with an 8 mile run followed by calisthenics, weightlifting and yoga stretches. A hot shower, plenty of coffee, a couple of bottles of water and a protein bar and he was ready to go to work.
John reluctantly donned his suit, a tenth as expensive and five times as garish as he’d become accustomed to – camouflage was important – and checked the schedule on his phone to make sure Dave hadn’t changed it again. He was still due to meet the Lawsons at the Grand at noon, Greg, Ken and Brent were on the way to the Convention Center and Michelle was working the Riviera with Brian. It was only 8:30 am. He could take his jacket off again and read for a couple of hours or he could kill some time by swinging past JJ's Boulangerie at the Paris for some of the croissants Michelle loved. He'd deliver them to her at the Riviera and win some brownie points. Maybe she'd even relent and say yes this time.
The walk from his apartment to the Paris took fifteen minutes. He'd been offered a company car, no one walked in 115°F weather if they could help it, but then very few people in Vegas shared his particular desert experiences.
From the boulangerie, a bag of chocolate croissants and a large cup of French roast coffee for himself in hand, he hopped the monorail rather than walk all the way down the Strip in the heat as he still needed to make a good impression on the Lawsons.
Grossly inefficient as it was he liked to ride the monorail, people watching another distraction from his own thoughts. It was still early for Vegas, but most of the cars were filled with people wearing nametags probably headed for the Convention Center, mixed in with a liberal assortment of drunks finally making their way back to their hotels. Alcohol was cheap and freely available in the city at any time of the day or night and given his history there were really good reasons for keeping himself on a tight schedule and not dwelling too much on his current circumstances. He stared fixedly out of the window, concentrating on the rhythm of his breathing.
Most of the passengers got off at the Convention Center. Hundreds of people were streaming from the monorail stop, the parking lots and nearby hotels towards the convention center's doors 500 yards away. He'd been taught to profile an individual or group at a glance but this group didn’t look like the usual convention crowd. They were too casually dressed, an odd looking mixture of practically dressed suburbanites, thrift store aficionados and tattooed art students. He'd have to ask Greg about the convention. As the train pulled away from the station, a young woman with flamingo pink hair caught his eye as she hurried past an older, limping man— Finch!
His hand slammed up against the window hard enough to attract the attention of everyone in the car.
"Sorry." He worked on looking sheepish while quickly trying to calculate the odds of surviving intact if he forced the door open with the train speeding up and a 60 feet drop below it. When he found him, Finch could help him do the math. "I was meant to get off at that stop."
Everyone went back to minding their own business.
The odds were astronomical against his really having seen Finch under such circumstances, but he knew in his gut that it had been Finch and his instincts had kept him alive against steep odds. The next stop was the Hilton. If he moved quickly he'd still have some time to search for Finch before he had to be at the Grand. He couldn't let Michelle down.
When the train stopped he crossed the platform to wait for the next train southbound.
"Hey, John!" It was Greg.
Behind him Ken was not happy with Dave, their dispatcher. "Fucking librarians? Are you kidding me?"
The Convention. "Want to swap, Ken? I've got the Lawsons at the Grand. Dave?"
"It's all right with me." Dave looked happy at the prospect of not having to listen to Ken complain anymore.
"Thanks, man, I owe you one." Ken was bouncing on his heels at getting to play bodyguard to big tipping high rollers.
"I'm on my way to the Riviera to check in with Michelle." Dave started to cross the platform towards the exit steps. "I'll let her know what's going on."
John stopped him by handing over the bag of croissants. "Make sure they get to Michelle."
On the short ride back Greg confirmed the Convention center was being used by the American Library Association.
"And they need a security team?" John couldn't keep the disbelief out of his voice.
"They're expecting 20,000 attendees. We've been hired mainly to do crowd control and to chaperone the guest writers."
Finch undercover as a librarian seemed like a solid bet and John would find his genius in a haystack. Greg needed to meet with the convention managers to confirm their assignment list but they weren't going to start working for a few hours, causing Greg to dawdle as they walked across the parking lot.
"I'll go on, I've got to use the head."
Greg yelled after him "keep your phone turned on!"
Like it was ever turned off.
Inside the conference center, it took him an hour to start losing hope. There were too many exhibits, too many meeting rooms, too many slow moving people, too many hallways, too many conversations in the middle of hallways, just too much everything. At that moment, he'd have killed for Finch to be a six and half feet tall redhead just so he'd have been clearly visible over the crowd. There were too many exits to the convention center to just be able to wait at the doors for him. When his phone started ringing he knew his time had ran out.
"John? I need you to go to the North Hall, second floor, room N249 to run crowd control for the session starting at noon."
"I'll be there in thirty, Greg." He could still look a little longer.
"Now, John. There's a line and they're already opening up an overflow room with a video screen."
"10-4."
Upstairs, the line stretched a third of the way down the corridor and more people were joining it even as he walked past. He found Greg at the closed room doors where a second line was snaking off down a side corridor.
"What's got the librarians so worked up?"
"Stan Lee."
"The Stan Lee?" John was feeling lucky again, a strong chance that Finch would come to him if he just stayed right there.
"Yeah, got his autograph for my kid." Greg was smiling. "Ten minutes before start time we'll open these two sets of doors at the front of the hall. You'll be manning one, Brent the other. Stop anyone without a nametag like this" he pointed to the two men standing at the front of the line who happily brandished the IDs hanging around their necks "and don't let anyone in if they can't produce one. Try to encourage them to move down front to allow the hall to fill up quicker. Once they're inside, Brent will stay by the doors and I want you to work crowd control. Mr. Lee says cameras and phones are fine but people standing up and blocking the aisles or the view screens isn't allowed. And easy does it, John, these are librarians not enemy combatants, use your words unless they give you no choice."
The two guys at the head of the line were now striking boxing poses. John stared them down until they looked away. "I'll bear that in mind."
Once the doors opened, the lines moved swiftly and he was busy checking for IDs. Luckily most people had them on and the few who didn't when asked produced them from their bags pretty swiftly. No Finch in his line or in Brent's either from what he could see of it.
Perhaps seeing Finch had just been wishful thinking? More likely, Finch was at the convention on a job for the Machine, not as part of a cover identity, and he'd already left or was taking advantage of this event as a diversion. John was on the verge of leaving to sweep the building again but the convention center put a lot of business Michelle's way.
He'd been listening to Stan Lee from the back of the auditorium, only moving forward a couple of times to shepherd people out of the aisles and back in to their seats and he'd still seen no sign of Finch when the talk finished.
He moved forward to make sure no one made for the stage and that's when he saw him, Finch, getting to his feet at the far end of the third row from the stage. John stifled the urge to yell his name and hurried forward just as the entire audience surged to its feet to applaud. By the time he'd dodged slow moving audience members to make it to the cross aisle and out to the side exit doors, Finch was gone. He was looking up and down the corridor, trying to decide which way to go when Greg grabbed his arm. "I need you to do crowd control at Mr. Lee's book signing."
He'd had some slight hope that Finch might show up book in hand but he hadn't and two hours later when the last book had been signed all he wanted to do was go home and crawl in to a bottle, probably would have if it wasn't for his promise to Michelle.
Greg put away his phone and came over to talk to him. "We'll finish up here. Michelle needs you at the Riviera."
He took the monorail north to the Hilton again, riding with yet more librarians easily identifiable by their name tags. As he walked across Paradise road to get to the Riviera, dodging the traffic, he remembered Finch had been wearing one of them too. That was it, he'd find out what Michelle needed and then tell her he needed some personal time, go back to the convention halls and work outwards from there. He couldn't give up.
He was waiting on the Riviera's casino floor near a bank of elevators when one of the doors opened and Finch stepped out, his attention temporarily focused on the contents of his messenger bag. Finch looked thinner, his short sleeve dark blue shirt, black jeans and sneakers clearly bought off a chain store rack.
Finch looked up and spotted him and he'd never seen that big a smile on Finch's face before.
And then Michelle jumped John, wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the lips.
Behind her, he saw Finch's face fall as he stepped back in to the elevator and the doors closed behind him.
"Thanks for the croissants, honey." Michelle squeezed him tighter. "You made a bad morning better."
John glanced up above the elevator but there was no floor indicator, only an up and down light. "I need a list of the Riviera's guests, Michelle."
"No can do. The casinos only give out that sort of information to a Fed with a subpoena. What's up?"
"That old friend I told you about? He just got on the elevator." He gently eased her back. "I've got to find him."
"Of course you do. We'll go to the security office, get them to pull up the security tape for the elevators." She was already turning away.
He really did love Michelle. He was sorely tempted but the last thing he should be doing was drawing unwarranted attention to Finch. "Thanks, but he's a very private person." Finch had left without saying a word to him and if that was the way Finch wanted it— "I know you said you needed me here, Michelle, but I'd like to go look for my friend."
"I was just going to ask you drive me back to the office and perhaps get an early dinner with me. I'll get Dave to run me back." She patted his arm. "Take all the time you need, honey."
Vegas hotels were mazes and the Riviera had over 2,000 rooms with access spread to different elevator banks across the casino. Without taking the fire stairs, Finch would have to take the same elevators back down so he'd wait there for a while before he tried something else.
There was heavy traffic at the elevators, Reese trying not to get his hopes up every time the doors slid open, but then finally, almost an hour later, there was Finch peering through the doorway. He looked straight at John and lifted his hand, fingers spread, before forming a circle with his finger and thumb and then holding up three fingers right before the door closed again. John waited ten minutes before riding the elevator up to room 503.
Finch must have been watching for him through the peephole as he opened the door before John could knock, locking it quickly again behind him.
"Harold!"
He reached for him but Finch stepped quickly backwards so instead of the hug he'd been trying for his hands ended up coming to rest on Finch's shoulders.
"Mr. Reese." Finch stepped further back and John had to let him go.
"So you're a librarian now, Finch?" He'd never been a great conversationalist.
"Yes." Finch looked him slowly up and down and John tried not to squirm. "And you're a... Strip magician?"
John smirked.
Finch looked flustered. No one else would have noticed it but then who had studied Finch's tells as much as he had?
"...You know what I mean." Finch's distaste was palpable. "That suit must be visible from space."
"And you look like you shopped at Sears." He watched Finch redden. "I'm working for a private security firm."
"Wouldn't it be better in that case to blend in?"
Why they were discussing his wardrobe when they hadn't seen each other since Root had sent them their separate ways was beyond him but as long as Finch was with him again he'd go with it. "In Vegas it's a status symbol to have bodyguards. The last thing the client wants is for us to blend in."
Finch ran a self-conscious hand across his shirtfront and John tracked the movement, hungry but restrained. "It was Macy's, not Sears."
"Noted." It was almost like old times.
"It was good to see you, Mr. Reese." Finch turned to pick up his messenger bag off the end of the bed.
"What?"
"I have to be at a meeting with my sub-committee in thirty minutes."
Did Finch really think he was going to walk away again that easily? "Ditch it."
"I can't. This meeting is the principle reason why I'm at this conference. My library—
"No." He crowded forward into Finch's space. Seeing Finch flinch away from him stopped him in his tracks. "...Dinner? You've got to eat, right?" If Finch said no he would trail him wherever he went.
"All right, dinner. Where? I'm going back to the convention center but I should be free by 7:30pm."
"My place."
Finch's hand tightened on the shoulder strap of his bag. "Wouldn't it be better to go somewhere public?"
"No surveillance cameras at my place." He took one of his business cards out of his wallet and wrote his address on the back of it. "I'll cook."
Finch rang the doorbell at 8:00pm. John ushered him in, taking his bag from him, before handing Finch a glass of wine and putting the garlic bread in the oven.
"I'm sorry I'm late, Mr. Reese. My meeting ran long."
"Another thirty minutes and I'd have come looking for you."
Finch leaned against the kitchen counter while John stirred his pasta sauce. "Librarians aren't that dangerous."
"So people keep telling me."
"Pardon?"
"I worked crowd control at the convention. Spotted you at Stan Lee's talk."
"Ah, I see."
John started to grate parmesan. "A happy coincidence."
"I think not." Finch drank some of his wine. "The first I knew of this committee meeting was when I received an email thanking me for volunteering to serve on it."
"The Machine?"
"Apparently. I thought it best to accept. I'd expected Root to be here."
"And you got me instead." Finch's assumption bothered him.
Over dinner, John asked about Harold's cover story.
"I'm a rare books archivist at a small private college."
Finch talked about the type of work he did but didn't say where the college was located and John didn't ask. It rankled that Finch didn't ask any questions at all about his life in Las Vegas. Instead, they talked about baseball, current events and how those events might connect to Samaritan. He did a good job of faking interest in the conversation given that all he really wanted to do was touch Finch, to verify that he was really there, safely sat at the table in John's apartment.
After they'd cleaned up the dishes, Finch started making noises about having to be up early.
"Stay. You can take the bed."
"I have to meet the Assistant Dean at 9:00am for the drive back to the college and—"
"I'm an early riser."
"John, I—"
"Please. I'll make you breakfast."
"All right." Finch put his bag down again, not quite meeting John's eyes. "It's been a long day."
So Finch wanted to avoid talking anymore. At least he still had breakfast to look forward to. He showed Finch through to the bedroom, digging in to his chest of drawers to find a clean t-shirt and shorts for Finch to sleep in. When he turned around, Finch was already unbuttoning his shirt. He moved towards Finch, holding the clothing like a shield between them although who he was protecting was too difficult to call.
"You didn't bring Bear with you." Not what he'd meant to say at all but it would do.
"No. I didn't know that you'd be here and I thought he'd hate the crowds."
"So you left him behind?" He sounded too angry but then he was feeling too much empathy for his dog. "In a kennel?"
"Of course not, with a friend."
Finch had friends now? Of course he did. "How much do you know about this friend?"
"Enough." Finch took the clothing from John's reluctant hands. "Bear loves Ms. Shaw."
"Shaw?" John grabbed Finch's arm. "Shaw knows where you live and I don't?"
"She's the physician's assistant at the doctor's office in town. I ran in to her when I was getting my prescriptions refilled."
"So what's Root? Your dentist? Be careful, Finch, The Marathon Man is probably one of her favorite movies." He'd tried for humor but wasn't even fooling himself.
"You're hurting my arm."
He looked down at where his fingers were digging in to Finch's arm. He should have let go. Instead, he used his grip to pull Finch in close and kiss him. For all the response he got he might as well have kissed a statue. He leaned back, knocked the clothing loose from Finch's hand and pulled him back in again, closer, attempting to deepen the kiss.
He jerked back, raising his hand to his bleeding lip. Finch had bit him.
Finch started to re-button his shirt. "I really should be going."
John nodded, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible as Finch finished doing up his buttons.
He'd never meant to do anything so stupid. He knew about Grace, knew the place he had in Harold's life and should have been content with it. What if he never saw Finch again? "I'm sorry."
Finch stopped briefly in the bedroom doorway without turning around. "ab imo pectore I'm glad you have someone in your life, John. I wish you well."
It made no sense. Finch was the one who had Bear and Shaw and he had no one... Michelle. He remembered how Finch's face had fallen when he'd seen Michelle. He was an idiot. Finch had put two and two together and made five.
Finch was picking up his bag again when he made it back out in to the living room.
"Michelle is my boss and my friend."
Finch stared at him, clutching his bag. He stepped closer and Finch didn't move away. He chose to see it as a good sign.
"When I first got to Vegas my cover was being a washed up boxer."
"Root's sense of humor leaves a lot to be desired."
"I added 'drunk' to my cover legend all by myself. Michelle found me getting the shit kicked out of me by three guys in a back alley. She stopped them." John had to tell him everything. "I wasn't fighting back."
"Oh, John." Finch moved closer to him.
"She got me cleaned up, offered me a job and I was glad to take it. I think you'd like her, Harold."
"I know I would." Harold raised his hand to touch John's face and he leaned in to it.
"She owes a lot of money to the wrong people thanks to her worthless Ex but she won't let me take care of it, says she's worried about me."
"She doesn't anymore, I'll see to it."
"Thank you." He slid his arm around Harold's waist drawing him in closer. "But she's not my lover, Harold."
"...It's not any of my business."
"But I want it to be."
"You're confused, John."
"No, I'm not. I've wanted it for a long time."
And there was that smile again, right before Harold kissed him.
John woke up to the sound of his shower running.
They'd barely made it to the bed the night before. John had dropped to his knees in the living room, Harold's pants undone and his cock down John's throat before he'd had time to protest although the sounds Harold had made hadn't sounded like he was protesting. Nose buried in Harold's short hairs, lips stretched thin around Harold's cock, he'd swallowed over and over again, delighted to find out Harold's speech wasn't always so correct. If it hadn't been for the fine trembling in Harold's bad leg John would have happily stayed right there but he'd got back to his feet and led Harold to his bed where Harold had surprised him by taking over, sucking John off to a toe-curling orgasm.
He knew he had to, knew that Harold would be leaving soon for parts unknown, but how was he supposed to give this up now he finally had it, now that it seemed like Harold might want it too?
He rolled out of bed and headed for the bathroom. When he opened the shower door Harold turned to face him.
"I'm sorry if I woke you, John."
"I'm not." He crowded Harold back against the shower wall, bending to kiss him, relishing the feel of Harold pushing greedily back against him.
Don't go. He slid his hands to grasp Harold's ass, bending his knees to line up their cocks as he pushed carefully against him.
Harold worked his soapy hand between them, wrapping it around them both.
Take me with you. He groaned and wrapped his hand around Harold's, increasing the friction for both of them until they both were raggedly panting.
Harold scraped his teeth across John's chest.
Remember me. He bit down on Harold's shoulder hard enough to leave a bruise as Harold's heat splashed his stomach before his clever fingers wrung John's orgasm from him.
He kissed Harold until the water ran cold.
I love you. "I promised you breakfast." John got out of the shower.
He'd argued to at least see Harold back to the Riviera, to get at least a little more of his company but Harold had refused.
"I want to part here, John, where I can kiss you goodbye."
And how could John deny such a request? As it was it had taken Harold another fifteen minutes to make it out of the apartment.
"Promise me you won't follow me, John."
John has spent the next two hours sat on his couch staring at the wall, knowing if he moved at all he'd be out the door on Harold's heels. When his phone rang he scrambled to answer it even though he knew it wouldn't be Harold.
"If you've done something stupid or got yourself into trouble on my account I'll—"
"Slow down, Michelle."
"Miller called me, told me you'd paid my debt in full. What did you do?"
Thank you, Harold. "A friend owed me a favor."
He sat on the couch for another hour after Michelle's call, a call he'd only managed to end by agreeing to let her take him out to dinner to celebrate, the walls closing in on him alone with his thoughts.
If only Harold had asked him to go with him... or at least seemed like not asking him had been a struggle.
He should have asked Harold to wait for him but John never learned... and why would Harold want to?
Enough. So Harold didn't feel the same way, he had to have faith that he'd see Harold again the Machine willing, and then he'd press his case.
He got up and went to get dressed for a run.
On his pillow was a brochure for a library conference in San Francisco the following month with a hotel, a room number and "only if you want to" scrawled on a post-it note. He ran his thumb slowly across the handwriting, a smile on his face. Harold wasn't any better at this than he was but together they'd figure it out.