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Grace always thought that Alice Little was an improbable name, even for a children's book author. Now Alice is standing in her living room clear-eyed and smiling, and holding a gun, which is even more improbable in the sunlight coming through the windows: it's small and snubby and awkward-looking. "Really my name is Root," Alice says. "I'm sorry to have to spring all this on you, but the thing is, we're kind of on a clock here, and I'm going to need you to come with me."
"Oh," Grace says, a little blankly. "No, I — I'm sorry, I don't think so."
Alice — Root? — pauses and raises the gun and waves it back and forth a little. "I could shoot something if you need me to prove it's real. And — well, this isn't something I brag about or anything, but I have killed people before, in case you were thinking I wouldn't shoot you."
"Oh, no, I believe you," Grace says. She waits, but Root only frowns, so Grace tries to put it into words; this seems really completely obvious to her, but other people don't always get things that seem obvious to her. "It's just that I can't really imagine anything that you would need to take me somewhere else to do to me that wouldn't be worse than dying in my own living room."
Root blinks at her. Grace blinks back. She supposes she should be afraid, but this whole situation really does just seem unreal, and she's never been that afraid of dying anyway. She's never really thought about it that much before. She thinks about her life. There's not really anything she regrets, other than she never made it to Kyoto. But she doesn't think Root is going to Kyoto. She hopes her mom won't be too upset when she hears, but Grace is pretty sure dead will be better for her than missing would be, even if her mom won't know that was the alternative. Then she thinks that over and asks, "Could I write my mom a note?" It can't hurt to ask.
Root stares at her a moment longer, then huffs out a laugh and lowers the gun. "You know, I should have realized," she says. "Of course Harold wouldn't have fallen in love with someone ordinary."
Now it's Grace's turn to be surprised. "You knew Harold?" She finds that almost impossible to believe. This strange, sick woman is so far removed from everything that made Harold him; he could never have been friends with her. Then she looks at Root and realizes, of course. "Oh," she says. "You didn't."
Root's mouth trembles slightly. "Actually," she says, and she wants this to hurt, Grace can see that in her eyes, "I'd say I know him better than you do."
Grace stares at her, and then there's a soft urgent beeping coming from Root's pocket. She digs out a phone and looks at it, her mouth narrowing; she looks up at Grace and Grace realizes that this is it; she's either going to live or die in the next moment.
And then Root smiles at her, brilliantly; she's really a beautiful woman, Grace thinks, and wonders what happened to her. It seems as though something must have happened, although perhaps that's just her own desire for things to make sense talking. "I think we'll see each other again soon," Root says.
"I hope not," Grace says, sincerely.
Root laughs. "Tell Harold I said hi," she says, and then she's gone, disappearing down the hallway to the kitchen. Grace abruptly finds she really really wants to sit down, so she does. She's still sitting when the front door is kicked in, so savagely half of it goes flying across the foyer, and a tall handsome man in a suit bursts inside, panting and wild-eyed, urgent; he's got a gun in his hand, too. He sees her, then looks around in what Grace realizes is some kind of systematic way, the gun following his eyes, and then his shoulders relax and he turns back to her.
"Are you all right?" he says, and Grace remembers him, the detective with that odd half-whispery voice, like he was worried what would happen if he let himself shout. But now she doesn't think he's really a detective.
"Yes," she says.
"Was there a woman — "
"Root," she says. "She's gone. I think — her phone beeped? I think she knew you were coming."
He stares at her and then he says, "How did — what did you do? Didn't she try to abduct you?"
"Yes," Grace says, "but I'm sorry, I don't really want to talk about that now. Please tell me, is Harold alive?" He goes very still and blank-faced, and she thinks that's enough of an answer. "Can you take me to him?"
He really doesn't want to for some reason, which seems strange. But he has a brief conversation over an earpiece, his hand cupped over his mouth, and then he takes her in a taxi about fifteen blocks away to an abandoned library with books strewn over the floor — Harold must hate leaving those there, she thinks — and when she climbs the stairs Harold is there, looking so utterly desperate and miserable that it makes her throat hurt. She goes to him and hugs him, and he wraps his arms around her and presses his face to her hair and whispers, "I'm so sorry. Grace, I'm so very, very sorry."
The tall handsome man disappears back down the stairs, and they sit down on a couch together. They don't really say anything at first. Grace feels a little bit fragile. It's been such a weird day, taking with one hand and giving with the other in giant scoops — like someone shoving all the dishes off a table to smash to pieces, and then setting it over again from scratch with the tinkling bits still on the floor. "I owe you a very long explanation," Harold says finally. "Grace, can you ever forgive me?"
"I'm not sure yet," she says. "Right now I want to just be happy you're alive. Harold, what did that woman want from you?"
"She — " Harold takes a deep breath; she can feel how afraid he is, and she thinks it's not just of what Root might have done to her, but of what he would have done to keep that from happening. "She wants to — she wants to get inside something I built," he says. "Something very important."
"Something that you love," she says, and feels him go still next to her; but it's obvious, after all. Harold loves her too, but whatever this thing is, he left her for it. But — it? And he built it? She looks at him and waits to understand.
He says, "I built a system — for the government, originally. A machine. It can — " He stops, and she has the sense that there's a story here, a story he's told before, often enough that it's the story his tongue wants to tell, but it's not the real story; and then he says abruptly, "It can think. It's — "
"Alive?" she says, wonderingly. He nods once, and now she does understand, of course. It's terrifying and a vast relief at the same time: she can forgive him. She leans her head on his shoulder.
"The only excuse I had for not telling you everything," he says, his voice breaking, "is that it would keep you safe. And now — "
"Well, Harold, that was a pretty stupid reason to begin with," she says. Although not quite as stupid as the other reason, the one he probably won't admit even now.
She doesn't know yet just how bad the injuries are, but if he could have taken the two steps to the couch without letting her see him limping, she knows he would have, and he can't seem to turn his head normally. She raises her head and kisses his cheek softly. It hurts to think of him lying alone in the dark somewhere, in pain, feeling broken and guilty at the same time, convincing himself that he was doing her a kindness by letting her think he was dead.
"And you could have thought better of it a month or two later," she adds, with some asperity; that part, she's not letting him off the hook for, because Harold's not stupid.
"I couldn't," he says. "They killed — they killed Nathan. They thought he built it. So they — " and he's shivering, and she doesn't know who Nathan was or who they are, but she can tell he was someone very important to Harold, so she wraps her arms around him and holds him close while he weeps quietly for a little while.
He blots his face and then he says, looking away, "Grace, I would — please let me send you somewhere safe."
"Do you think there is somewhere safe?" she says, dubiously. She certainly wouldn't mind; one meeting with Root was more than enough for her, but she doesn't think it's that hard to find a way to do bad things to other people if that's what you really want to do.
"I can — " He stops, and his head sags, defeated.
She sighs. "We'll figure something out," she says, and leans back against him.
She's holding his hand when the tall man comes back; he looks at them and looks quickly away. "She's gone," he says, his voice tight. "I tracked her as far as Port Authority, from there it's useless. A bus or a subway or on foot — " He shakes his head.
"Thank you, John," Harold says softly, and Grace looks down at his hand in hers and rubs her thumbs gently over the knuckles again. John. She's not jealous of John, she doesn't think. But it does hurt to think that he can be a part of Harold's life now more easily than she can, that this is Harold's life: violence and death and pain and threats.
"John?" she says, and he looks at her.
"Oh — I'm sorry. This is John Reese," Harold says. "My partner."
She nods. "John, do you mind if — I'd kind of like to have Harold to myself tonight. If that wouldn't bother you."
He stares at her as if she's said something really strange. Then he says, harshly, "He's yours," almost accusatory, like he thinks she's taunting him. That's when she finally figures out why he didn't really want to bring her to Harold, although it seems kind of absurd to her for John to be jealous: Harold hasn't talked to her in three years, he let her think he was dead!
She doesn't want to be mad right now, though, so she puts that thought firmly aside, saved for later. Meanwhile there's other things to deal with, because Harold is gawking at John and stammering, "John — " and John is staring back at him with equal confusion, so apparently he doesn't find Harold as obvious as she does, and vice versa. That does explain the jealousy, at least.
"Okay, then," she says. "So we'll share tonight, and see about tomorrow night, instead."
John jerks and stares at her again now, but what other solution is there? She's not sure if she's going to be able to stay with Harold, herself — she's going to be very angry when she does let herself get angry, and she doesn't understand why Harold's chosen to live this way, and she doesn't think she wants this kind of violence in her life day to day. But if she decides she can't stay, then she certainly doesn't want Harold to be surrounded by violence and alone; and if she decides she can, well, she can share.
She looks at Harold. He's still busy staring at John astonished, but then he blinks and looks back at her and says, "Yes, of course," with gratitude, and oh, maybe she will find a way to live with this, even once she does let herself get angry. Because that's just as wonderful as it ever was, the relief of just being able to look at Harold and see her understanding mirrored back. It's better than almost any pleasure: the sensation of not being alone in the world.
Harold looks back at John and holds out a hand, and slowly John comes over and takes it; he settles on his knees on the floor next to the couch, so tall he's almost on a level with them even so. He still looks so wary, so afraid. Grace impulsively leans over and kisses him on the cheek, and strokes his head: his hair is soft and cut close, nice and furry between her fingers; he shivers a little under her hand, startled, like he's not used to being touched and likes it almost against his own will. Harold's thumb is on John's wrist, stroking gently, and John stares down at it like it's a desperately needed reassurance.
"Let's go find somewhere more comfortable," Grace says, thinking of Harold's injuries, and how big John is: this couch isn't going to work, and the floor doesn't look more appealing.
John darts another look at Harold; she can practically read it: really? Harold squeezes his hand and says, "There's a mattress in the back room, or we could go to a hotel."
"Is it a big mattress?" Grace says.
"Not really," Harold says. "Hotel it is, then. A moment, I'll make arrangements."
He goes to the computer. John looks at her, still bewildered. "Are you — sure about this," he says.
She frowns at him, confused; he's been practically vibrating with desire under Harold's hand. "Why do you keep asking when you want it so much?"
He opens and shuts his mouth. He shrugs. "I guess — because I want it." He sounds hollow, unwillingly honest.
"Yes," she says. "I'm sure. I won't change my mind. You really can have this."
He flushes and looks away. Then abruptly he says, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," she says. "But you could have just told Harold, you know. He does like sex, he just forgets to think about it unless you remind him."
"I — really couldn't have," John says. Grace doesn't see why not, but she guesses it doesn't really matter anymore.
"I've arranged a suite at the Library Hotel," Harold says, coming back over to them. He takes his coat down off the rack.
"Perfect," she says, and stands up.
John trails a step behind them the entire way, as though he still thinks they're going to just shut the door in his face when they get there. She wonders what happened to him to make him so clearly believe that he's never going to have anything he wants, but by the time they get to the hotel room, she's just feeling painfully sorry for him. It isn't a put-on, he really doesn't believe it.
He still doesn't believe it even when they're all taking off their clothes and even once they're in bed. Grace wondered about the mechanics, but they aren't a problem at all, largely because of John, who seems somehow to always be in exactly the right position at the right time, and can maneuver the two of them into the right places, too; he's so strong he can support her entire weight with one hand. But at the same time, he's so clearly trying to make himself useful, and he takes kisses from Harold as desperately as if he's stealing every one. She's never seen anyone so completely wrapped up in another person.
Harold looks at her plaintively, clearly at a loss. Grace shakes her head at him mildly; he's going to have to get the three of them out of this. Harold swallows and asks her, half-uncertainly, "Would you enjoy — perhaps if John were to — " He's going pink.
Grace eyes John. She'd really wanted to fuck Harold, honestly; she's still not sure she completely believes in her body that he's really alive. But she does see the point of his suggestion; this really can't work without a bridge between her and John, somehow. And there's nothing unpleasant about the idea; it's certainly going to be a nice change from her vibrator at least. "Okay," she says, wondering how John is going to feel about it.
That turns out not to be a problem, because Harold just says, "John, if you'd please — " and John says in a far-away voice, "Sure," and promptly goes to work. And, well, wow. Grace misses whatever Harold is doing for the next ten minutes or so almost entirely. John is really very — very — athletic. Very.
She gives up trying to think and lets the mindless fun of it carry her away — which is a relief, really, after this too-intense day; she's abruptly glad she trusted Harold, because this is perfect. For both of them, actually; she can see John's own panic fading, given a clear job to do, something with his body. "Oh, that's really nice," she says, dreamily, and smiles up at John, who tries very hard to smile back but even then can't quite manage it.
Then Harold puts his hands on John, and that's it for the poor man. He's not having sex anymore; he's — having a religious experience, is her guess, although she's never had one herself. It makes her feel tender towards him, and she opens her arms for him and pulls his head down against her shoulder so he can groan into her throat, shuddering, possessed. He's stopped using his hands, but his hips work steadily, his weight on top of her is really fantastic, and Harold manages to slip a hand around John's hip; she catches it and puts his thumb in exactly the right place to stroke, and oh, it's wonderful. It's — she goes over in a rush as John sobs against her skin.
Improbably, after all of that, John still doesn't believe it, although at that point he's actually had the thing he wants: she realizes that now he doesn't believe he's going to get to have it ever again.
"Harold," she says, appalled, after John falls asleep between them, probably exhausted from being happy and miserable at the same time. "He's so sad."
"It never occurred to me he'd want this," Harold says defensively.
"No, I get it," she says; Harold always had a big blind spot where he thought of his body as something inconvenient, and she's sure that blind spot has only gotten bigger since he got hurt. Oh well; she's not going to complain about ending up with this. "It is a little strange, though," she says, looking down at John's face. "He's so — symmetrical."
"Is he?" Harold says, peering at him doubtfully. "He's just — John, you see."
"Okay," she says. "Well, clearly I'm not going to get you to myself anytime soon," because she can't even imagine lying in bed thinking about John being calmly and expectantly miserable somewhere else, "so I think this is as good a time as any for you to tell me exactly what it is you're doing, and then I'm going to go ahead and be mad at you. And Harold?"
"Yes?" he says softly, looking at her, and she's so glad, because it already doesn't feel true when she says, "I'm going to be mad for a really long time."
# End