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They found a hiding spot in a mausoleum - a little morbid, but there was enough room for the two of them and no video surveillance to give away their position. John was willing to be grateful for small mercies.
With a little care, they had enough food and water to last them a week. Hopefully by then Shaw will manage to somehow take the heat off him and Harold.
Harold paced around the raised dais in the center of the room. John glanced at him: he wouldn't have expected Harold to turn claustrophobic this soon, or restless. Harold caught his gaze and shrugged. "Nerves," he said, with a rueful downturn of his mouth. "I confess I'll be much happier once I know when we can leave."
So would John be, but saying that wouldn't do any good. "We have supplies," he offered.
Harold's mouth pursed, like he bit into something bitter, but he said nothing. Just as well. This was no time to be finicky.
~~
By the second day, Harold had stopped pacing. John would have felt better about this if it weren't accompanied by general listlessness. "It's nothing," Harold said when he felt John's eyes on him, voice just a tad sharp. He took a deep breath, and more moderately said, "I don't do well without something to do."
John could sympathize, but that was all he could do. He let the subject drop.
~~
On the third day, Harold tried to leave.
"We're still hiding for our lives," John said, just in case Harold had somehow forgotten.
Harold's eyes momentarily lost their wild look to narrow at John. "I'm aware." He still tried to force his way past John. "This is a calculated risk. Please trust that I know what I'm doing, Mr. Reese."
Right now, John wouldn't trust him to tie his own shoelaces. Harold's hands were trembling: he looked like a junkie hurting for a fix. John actually had a moment's wild thought - could Harold be hiding some addiction? Meth, maybe, or some other kind of stimulant to keep him going through all-nighters.
But that made no sense, not with Harold's personality, and certainly John would have stumbled across some hint of it by now. Whatever was wrong, it wasn't drugs. "Just tell me what you need," John said, pitching his voice low, spreading his hands in the universal mute signal for I'm trustworthy, talk to me.
Harold's mouth straightened into a thin line. "I'll be much better for a bit of fresh air, Mr. Reese." Then he tried to bodily shove John away from the entrance.
It was so unlike Harold that John was caught off-guard. That alone still couldn't have explained how Harold succeeded at moving him, even accounting for possible hidden strength.
Especially since Harold then picked John up bodily, without any apparent effort, and set him down beside the door.
Even surprised as he was, John could move fast enough to get in Harold's way again. Harold snarled below his breath and shoved, throwing John against the marble wall as though he were a rag doll.
In the blink of an eye Harold was beside him, frantic. "John? I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?" He swallowed with an audible click.
John raised a sluggish hand to his temple, fingers coming away wet. Harold's pupils blew wide, and that was when John put it together. When Harold opened his mouth to reveal needle-sharp teeth, it was merely confirmation.
The two top buttons of John's shirt were already undone. John tilted his head, exposing his neck. "Go ahead," he said, hoarse.
"I shouldn't," Harold said, but he was already drawing closer. His voice had a distant, dreamlike quality. Those teeth hurt, sinking into John’s skin, but not very much. What made John gasp was the sudden flow of pleasure following soon afterwards, like sinking into warm water. He relaxed into Harold's grip, eyes falling half-shut. He could feel Harold lapping up his blood, hear him swallow. That was good. Harold was eating. Harold would be better soon.
The only contact between them was Harold's teeth in John's neck and Harold's hands on his shoulders, keeping him from keeling over. At the same time it felt deeper than mere intimacy, like Harold was learning him from the inside out. Privileged access to private networks, John thought, perhaps a little hysterical.
Harold broke away, and John moaned in protest, his hands rising to put Harold back in his previous position. They fell away, nerveless, before reaching their goal.
"That's quite enough," Harold said, grim. "You should be better in a few moments. I haven't taken enough to cause lasting damage." After a while, he quietly added, "I really am sorry, for all the good that does."
Dizzy and wanting, John had to agree: it didn't do much. He was hard in his pants, and it was telling that this was the least of his worries.
~~
On the fourth day, Shaw came waltzing in, pleased with herself. "You're good to go."
"Thank you," Harold told her, heartfelt. John echoed him, maybe a little less sincerely.
He shadowed Harold on the way out, mostly expecting Harold to evade him. Instead, he matched John's step.
"I hope you know you needn't fear for your safety," Harold said in a low voice after they had walked a block in silence. "The circumstances--"
"I'm not afraid." The idea of Harold - Harold, of all people, doing any real damage to John was ludicrous. John had comfortably known for months that Harold could destroy him with a few well-chosen words. Him sprouting fangs hardly made a difference.
After some hesitation, Harold said, "Good. But just in case, you should be made aware of my-- weaknesses."
If John weren't going to trust that Harold won't kill him, he wouldn't have believed anything Harold had to say about his own vulnerabilities; since he did trust Harold, there was little point to the discussion.
At the same time, Harold was spontaneously volunteering private information. John listened, if only for novelty's sake.
"As you may have surmised, I can deal with sunlight," Harold said. "People in my situation are nocturnal by nature, and being awake during daytime is unpleasant but bearable. Crosses, silver and garlic are all in themselves useless: however, they can repel us if they signify strong faith. Be it in God, wealth, or," Harold's mouth crooked briefly, "the food one's mother used to make. I am stronger than I look, as you have seen, and heal quickly given access to blood, but can be killed using most of the usual methods."
"I'll bear that in mind," John said. One thing nagged at him. "What about needing to be invited in? Is that a myth, too?"
A smile ghosted across Harold's face. "Most households and workplaces in the US use at least one IFT product. You'd be surprised what can be snuck into the user's terms of service."
"You know, I don't think I would be," John said, grinning back at Harold.
Some tension went out of Harold's shoulders. "Perhaps you won't. Good night, Mr. Reese." He turned and walked away.
John tracked him for two blocks before losing him. On a whim, he looked up. A cloud of small dark bodies flew past the moon, disappearing back into the darkness as they passed.
~~
Following Harold around was an easy habit to get back into, especially now that John understood exactly how Harold had been evading him. Comfortable routine, hanging back near the library and waiting for Harold to come out.
John wasn't sure what he was looking for. Some kind of clandestine meeting, maybe. He followed Harold to a hotel and watched every face near them, waiting for one to greet Harold like an old friend.
Harold walked through the crowd unnoticed, untouched. He walked directly to the elevator, never speaking with the hotel clerk.
John could put on a cleaner's uniform and maybe get by unobserved, but it probably wasn't worth it. Not for the meager risk that... he didn't even know what he was worried about.
He admitted to himself the lie of that later that night, remembering Harold's hands -- Harold's teeth on him, the demanding pull of his mouth. Harold obviously had no problem finding... partners... left to his devices, since John had never seen evidence of bloodlust before their confinement.
But he had seen Harold shot and bleeding: all it would take was one careless move, one man with a gun while Harold was feeding, maybe paying less attention than he should have been.
Or... a new, disturbing thought struck. Could Harold get sick, feeding off the wrong person? Could vampires catch blood-borne diseases?
It was ridiculous. It was stupid. John was healthy, Harold ordered his regular checkups himself. He'd never pose a risk. What the hell was Harold doing?
The next night, he followed Harold to a cafe, watched with his heart pounding as Harold ordered for two.
Then Harold tapped his own earpiece, and said to John, "You may as well join me for dinner."
John came out of hiding with his shoulders stiff, unrepentant.
"I believe," Harold said dryly, "that according to tradition, I'm the one who's supposed to be skulking in the shadows."
John sat down and stabbed at his food with a fork. Steak. The meat would be good for his iron levels. "Is that supposed to be funny?"
Harold shrugged. When he spoke again, his voice was soft. "I thought we were past all this. I assure you that the virgins of the city have nothing to fear from me."
John methodically chewed his food before he swallowed and answered Harold. "Not virgins, no. I figured you'd want someone a little closer to your own age."
Harold's mouth twisted into a faint smile. "This may be a good time to mention I'm considerably older than I seem."
John wasn't as surprised by this as he should have been, even aside from recent revelations. "Closer to your apparent age, then."
"John." Harold shook his head. "My additional nutrition needs are met, and nobody is hurt." When he saw the stubborn set of John's shoulders, he sighed and added, "Blood banks exist. Are you satisfied?"
"Are you?" John asked. "Blood from a bag, probably all cold. It can't be as good as it is fresh from the source."
Harold's eyes narrowed. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin. "Thank you for your concern, John."
That wasn't an answer, but John wasn't really expecting one in any case.
~~
He didn't keep tracking Harold after that. Being called out on the stalking took all the fun out of it. He did try to subtly stick closer to Harold, loitering in the library after he was done with the day's number.
That meant John went home pretty late, but that wasn't an issue. He wasn't expecting the dark to hide anything scarier than him.
There was someone following him, and John slowed down, considering options. He wasn't particularly interested in starting a fight right now, though he wouldn't mind finishing one. If it was just a random drunk, John would send him on his way. If it was someone with a more specific grudge... well. John was reasonably certain he could deal with that as well.
When he passed by a streetlight, John stopped and turned around. The guy following him was about as tall as John, but skinny: he looked like someone John could break in half without even trying. Everything about him looked harmless, from the ridiculous handkerchief around his thigh to his large, brown doe's eyes to the black nail polish.
Even his teeth looked ridiculous when he opened his mouth, like something out of a cheap Halloween shop. John had no doubt they were real, though, and he felt for his gun.
The guy raised his hands. He was blinking in the light. "Hey, no," he said. "I come in peace, okay?"
"Do you," John said. He kept his hand where it was.
"I'm glad you gave up chasing that other guy," the vampire told him. "I mean, no accounting for taste, but he's kind of...." he scrunched his nose. "Yeah, never mind. Anyway, he never goes for live action, you know? But I do." On the last few words, his tone dropped. He licked his lips.
"Not interested," John said shortly. Did vampires have social security numbers? He'll have to check with Harold. If vampires were killing people in their city, they needed to be on their toes.
The guy frowned. "Aw, c'mon. What does he have that I don't?"
John wasn't even going to begin answering that. "Good night," he said, tightening his grip on his gun. If that guy took one step closer....
He didn't. Instead he looked at John. In a calm, even voice, he said, "You should come over here," and John's feet were taking him before he could think to resist.
Even once he did, it was futile. His body wasn't listening to him anymore.
The vampire walked backwards, John following him, until they were out of the light, hidden in an alley. There the guy fisted his hand in John's shirt, pulling him closer. If anyone looked from the outside, all they would see is two guys making out.
"Don't worry," the vampire told John. He had a pleasant enough voice. "I'll make it good. I won't even kill you: you look like you're worth a second visit. Hell, probably a fifth visit." His teeth seemed to be getting longer; a trick of John's perception, or actual reality? If John survived, he'll have to ask Harold that, too.
As if summoned by the thought, static prickled in John's ear, followed by Harold's voice. "Mr. Reese? Is everything alright?"
The vampire's hands dropped away from John as though he'd been burned. He backed away with a hiss. John grabbed for his pistol and clocked the guy, dropping him to the floor. "I am now," he told Harold, holstering his weapon. "Any idea what we should do with a rogue vampire? I don't think I like the idea of leaving him for Carter."
It took a moment for Harold to respond. When he did, his tone was icy. "Certainly not. Could you... no, nevermind, Mr. Reese. Please make your way home as quickly as possible. I will collect your new acquaintance."
"Sure," John said, comfortably leaning against the wall.
Harold sighed. "I can see that you're not moving, you know."
John looked around. "I could throw my phone into a moving car if it would make you feel better," he offered. "Or down into the sewer."
"Please refrain." Harold sounded like John was giving him a headache. Good: that made them about even.
~~
The vampire woke up twice before Harold got there. Each time, John clocked him again before he could do anything more than twitch. He didn't know what knocked the vampire's grip off his body, and he wasn't taking any risks.
When the vampire woke for the third time, John could hear Harold's footsteps approaching, so he left it alone. He figured between the two of them they should be able to take out one vampire.
"You," Harold told the vampire, "are in breach of several laws I could name, not to mention risking the ire of some very powerful people."
The vampire staggered until he was sitting upright. "Yeah? Like who?"
"Me, to begin with." Harold stayed perfectly still, as far as John could see, but the vampire still flinched and yelled as though struck. "And if you don't count me as a concern - and you should - then you might think about the attention this sort of stunt would get you from the council."
That made the vampire cringe. "There's no need to bring them into this."
"Indeed not, provided I never have to run into you again." Harold stared at him.
Slowly, sullenly, the vampire got to his feet. "This is ridiculous," he told Harold. "You aren't even using him. What do you care if I have a taste?" He gave Harold a plaintive look.
Harold glared and said nothing until the vampire slunk out of sight. Then Harold let out a breath, somehow seeming smaller. "I wish you'd gone home, Mr. Reese."
"I don't know about that." The wall was getting warm behind John's back, almost comfortable. "I mean, I was trying to go home when a vampire showed out of nowhere. You wouldn't know why he was interested in me, would you, Finch?"
Harold's annoyed look was almost worth having his body hijacked. "I'm glad you find this funny, Mr. Reese," he said. "I believe you wouldn't be nearly so entertained if he had managed to glamour you into compliance."
John gave Harold a slow blink. "What makes you think he didn't?"
Harold’s eyebrows rose slowly. "The fact that you're upright and talking to me.”
"What," John said, his mouth drying up, "you don't think I could break through a glamour? You're hurting my feelings, Harold."
Harold turned and started angrily limping away.
"It's not a testament on your skills, Mr. Reese," he said once John caught up with him. "Barring means I have mentioned earlier, glamours can't be broken." He glanced at John, as though wondering whether John had managed to hide a head of garlic somewhere on his person.
It wouldn't have helped. Growing up, John had eaten mostly Kraft dinners: they hadn't made him believe in anything beside the durability of his own digestive system. "I'll be more careful," he said, an olive branch.
Harold stopped, looking at John over the top of his glasses. He hesitated for a moment, then told John, "You do that."
This time, he didn't bother moving away before pulling his transformation trick. It was like looking at an optical illusion, seeing a fish become a bird. Only now he was seeing a man turn into a host of birds. Owls, for the most part, small tawny ones whose feathers seemed to emulate the pattern of Harold's pocket square and large white ones with black spots like buttons down their front; and some that looked like hawks with short beaks and glen check wings. They all hung in the air for a moment, suspended, before abruptly taking flight. John watched them until they disappeared.
~~
He shed his clothes as soon as he was back in his apartment and walked to bed naked, feeling the night air on his skin. He was sick and tired of lying to himself.
When he got in bed he closed his hand around his cock and shut his eyes, imagining the weight of Harold's body on his, the sharpness of teeth. He would kiss Harold afterward, and Harold's mouth would taste of John's own blood, familiar. And maybe if John asked nicely, Harold would touch him, stroke him, give him release....
A sharp rap on the window startled John. He looked and there was an entire parliament of owls watching him.
Before John could process this, the owls flew away. Soon there was a knock on the door. John considered the odds and went to open it naked. It would almost certainly be Harold, who should have learned by now that prying could get him glimpses of things he didn't want to see.
It was indeed Harold, and while he seemed worried, John's still-erect dick was not the cause of his concern. At least not in the way John expected.
"Good, you haven't dressed," Harold said, shedding his jacket and folding back his sleeves, "this will be much faster." His fangs were out. John found himself wondering whether the obvious phallic comparison held, if the fangs were completely subject to Harold's will or if they came out on their own accord.
The evidence was leaning toward the former, since the fangs retreated after Harold pricked his right index finger on one of them. A red bead welled at the finger's tip. Harold approached him, laying his left hand on John's shoulder to steady him as he ran his right hand over John's midsection.
John watched, fixed to the spot, as Harold used his own blood to paint some sort of pattern over John's chest. "I do apologize," Harold said, absent-minded, as he worked. "But if tonight's incident left you feeling amorous, there's a chance he may have used some sort of glamour on you after all. I don't believe he's capable of anything that subtle, but..." Harold's voice trailed off as the pattern began to glow. "Oh dear."
"What?" John said, wary.
Harold frowned. "It appears that he did lay one on you, although it's gone now. Have you felt anything unusual? Vertigo, perhaps, or numbness?"
John tilted his head. "Well, there was the part where he hijacked my body."
Harold froze. Slowly he said, "This is no joking matter, Mr. Reese."
"No joke." John regarded him steadily. "Is there anything else?"
"He laid a glamour on you." Harold's voice sounded more like the way he talked to his computers when he'd stopped registering John's presence, a murmured soundtrack to his thoughts. "And you dispelled it. Did you identify the direct trigger?"
He might as well say it. "You called me on the earpiece."
"Oh." Harold blinked at him, his face briefly shifting between a score of microexpressions. It settled on something like the look Harold gave Leila when she fell asleep in his arms, or when a number showed an unexpected capacity for kindness. "I'm very glad," he said finally, voice soft.
John managed a smile of sorts and shrugged. "So am I."
Harold hesitated. Now he wore an expression John knew: Harold's quid pro quo face, the one he got when John did something that warranted a reward in the form of information. "You asked before," he said, "about drinking from the source. You weren't wrong... and you were, in a way."
John kept quiet, listening.
"Drinking directly from a living person is almost unspeakably intimate." There was color in Harold's cheeks now. He carried on. "You can understand why I normally avoid it."
That was more of an explanation than John had expected to receive, really, and it made a lot of sense. Harold was being kinder about turning John down than he had to be.
But apparently Harold wasn't finished. "For this exact reason, others pursue it exclusively. Some people are distasteful to drink from, to say the least; others are hard to resist. Individual preference plays a part, of course, but in general a strong willed, caring, intelligent individual will be in high demand, especially one who is willing." His mouth briefly compressed. "I inadvertently put you under excess risk. I am truly sorry for it."
"I was willing to do it with you," John said, mouth suddenly dry. He had a gut feeling that he was missing something crucial. "Not with him."
"I'm afraid some of those in my situation are unable to make that distinction." Harold looked distinctly pissed. "For that matter, I am extremely grateful for your aid when I needed it, but I realize you wouldn't make it under less dire circumstances."
And there it was. "Yes," John said, simply. "I would."
That got Harold's attention: his eyes zoomed in on John. In a low, controlled voice, Harold said, "I understand that you enjoy flirting, but teasing me on this matter would be exceptionally cruel in a way I doubt you intend. Please don't say that unless you mean it."
The couch was right there for John to sink into. He let himself sprawl, presenting his body, smug about the way Harold's eyes darted to different parts of him. "I do mean it," he said, once he was settled to his own satisfaction. "Any time you want."
He was expecting at least five more minutes of hemming and hawing. Instead, Harold moved faster than the blink of an eye, ending up seated on the couch beside John. "You really do mean that," he said, wondering. His finger, the one he'd bled earlier, traced a line down John's throat.
John swallowed. His heartbeat kicked up a notch, as though his blood was rushing to Harold's command.
Harold must have noticed as well. He said, crossly, "This is just overkill," before-- leaning back?
John didn't have time to really feel dismay, though. Harold urged John's leg up, until his inner thigh was exposed and he really felt the stretch in his muscles. Then Harold traced another line over his skin and half-lay on the couch, easing John's leg over his shoulder.
The first touch of teeth was barely a pinprick. Then they sunk in.
Brief pain bloomed. It faded quickly into the swell of pleasure John remembered. Intimate, Harold called this, and it was. More than before, not simply because of the position, or because of John's nakedness.
Now, Harold had a choice. They both did. Harold was drinking from him because they both wanted it.
John's cock was stirring again, but he couldn't really pay attention to it. Harold was lapping at his skin, each touch bright and urgent, sending lightning up John's spine. He wanted, though he couldn't exactly say what. All he had was a vague impression of Harold and more.
"Soon." Harold let go of him to say the word, and blood trickled down John's thigh. Harold's tongue caught it before could drip to the floor. He sucked at the bite for a few moments more and said, "Patience. You'll have everything you want in a moment."
John was mentally coherent enough that he managed to gasp, "Can I have a nuke?"
Harold nipped him, and John yelped. "Everything within reason," Harold said sternly. "I'll be perfectly glad to make you come if you wait another moment."
That, John could do, no problem. "Nukes are reasonable," he murmured, just to rile Harold up. Harold pretended not to hear him.
Too soon Harold withdrew from him, pricking his finger again. He smeared the blood over the bite. John was about to say something about territorial behavior when he saw the puncture wounds heal. "Handy," he said.
"It has its uses." Harold shuffled up the couch.
Kissing him felt better than John had thought. He wasn't accounting for the way the residual heat of the bite would linger, the sweet rub of his dick against Harold's shirt. "Am I ever going to see you naked?"
Harold buried his face in John's neck. John could feel him smile. "If you play your cards right."
John pushed his hips upwards, needy and unashamed. If Harold was hard, John couldn't feel it, but Harold was obviously happy to be here so John didn't care. "I know some tricks."
"I'm sure you do," Harold said, and kissed him again. His hand found John's cock and wrapped around him securely, finding an easy rhythm that made John thrust instinctively into his grip. He stopped thinking then, let Harold do the rest of the work.
Just as John was on the verge of coming, Harold ducked down and took the head of John's cock into his mouth. His left arm pinned John securely to the couch, and John shuddered helplessly, letting Harold swallow, drink from him again in a different way.
"Not quite as filling," Harold said once he was done, smacking his lips, "but very nice nevertheless." He made his way upward again, sprawling over John's body, content.
John considered leaving the matter alone; then he decided asking would be worth it. "Want me to repay the favor?"
Harold reared back and gave him a confused look. "Which... oh. Hm." He seemed thoughtful.
"Usually, that isn't considered a difficult question."
Harold bit him - with blunt human teeth, but an interesting development all the same. "While I can perform sexually, it requires a fair bit of effort, and means I'll have to drink earlier than I would otherwise. It's still quite worth it," he hastened to reassure John. "But I thought, under the circumstances, we might postpone it for a time when you're feeling up to full participation?"
"Mmm." That worked for John. He stretched and nodded. "That means waiting for tomorrow, though. I'm not a teenager anymore."
"I'll somehow manage." Harold's voice was dry, but he punctuated the sentence with a peck to John's cheek, sweet and unexpected. "Another thing to bear in mind: I can't feed on you exclusively."
John felt like his heart stopped.
Harold bit him again. Apparently this was going to become a habit. "The least you could do," he said, sharply, "is let me finish speaking before racing to the worst possible conclusion. I assure you I have no plan on feeding directly off anyone but you. However, the amount of blood I need to function exceeds the amount I can safely drink from you. This would be the point where I reiterate the existence of blood banks."
John relaxed, feeling a bit silly. "Okay," he said, wondering why Harold felt he needed to bring it up at all in that case.
"Which brings up the question of how often we do this," Harold said. "Safety prohibits more than once a week; I would prefer to bring it up to two weeks at least, given your predisposition to blood loss on the job." He stared at John like he suspected him of getting shot on purpose. "The sex, of course, can be more frequent, though I prefer no more than once a day at most."
At that, John had to laugh and kiss him. "Is this where I reiterate I'm not a teenager anymore?"
Harold's smile was small and sincere, making wrinkles show in the corners of his eyes. "Just as well. Our age difference is discomfiting enough as is."
John batted his eyelashes. "You're a veritable cradle robber, Harold."
"And you're incorrigible," Harold muttered, punctuating the words with yet another bite. John wondered if it was a kink or some vampire inclination or just something Harold liked, and then decided it didn't matter.
At this rate, John will probably wake up wearing a necklace of teeth-shaped bruises tomorrow: he thought that might be nice, actually.