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It becomes a tradition mostly by accident. Whenever Hurley is in town, the two of them hit the links. Sometimes Eliot will come with them, but usually it’s just Harry and Hurley. It happens more often lately. Apparently, Hardison requested that Hurley stay a relatively short plane ride away in case the team needed anything, which wasn’t a particularly subtle way to say that he wanted the team to be able to help if Hurley needed it. No matter the real reason, Harry’s happy to have a buddy on the green.
They decide at the start if they’re going to talk about work stuff, meaning Leverage International, not the cases Harry helps out with. Most days it’s fine. Leverage International is both of their lives at this point. But sometimes it’s nice to leave it aside and not think about corrupt CEOs milking people’s wallets dry with overpriced insulin or cancer-causing chemicals contaminating a local school’s soil, and just talk about Becky’s college prospects and the cats Hurley keeps taking in off the streets.
Today, though, Hurley’s been pretty quiet. He updated Harry on how Clay and Denise are doing, since they just sent him a postcard back from the vacation they’re taking to Spain. Harry told him Becky finally managed to get an internship to bulk up her résumé and almost started telling him about how introducing Sophie to his mom went. But Hurley seems distracted the whole time, glancing anxiously at the other players, even the ones so far away on the green there’s no chance they can hear a word they’re saying. It’s enough to make conversation peter out, and Harry feels more and more awkward every time he tries to fill the silence with one.
“Are you up for the next hole?” Harry finally asks after noticing that Hurley’s sweating more than normal and missing swings he’d normally hit across the green.
“I think I’ve gotta get out of here, man,” Hurley says at the exact same time.
“Sure,” Harry says, relieved he wasn’t imagining how off he seems. “Do you think you’re coming down with something?’
“No, it’s—I’m fine.” Hurley twists his hat in his hands. “Just stress, you know? Today’s three months, and I just—I probably should’ve stayed at the hotel.”
Harry winces. He didn’t realize… He knew Hurley relapsed after what happened in Rio, but they didn’t talk about it or anything. Partially because the rest of the team—minus Breanna, of course—has known Hurley for more than a decade longer than him, and partially because he doesn’t want to totally fuck everything up. He tried reassuring Hurley right after the Rio incident that it’s not like it was some great loss for the world for a scammer preying on cancer patients to pitch himself into traffic, and that’s kind of the best thing he can do. He knew Hurley was probably trying to get sober again, but not the specifics.
“You can stay and keep playing,” Hurley says, evidently mistaking the expression on his face for annoyance at having to leave early since Harry is the one who gave him a ride out here. “Just because I’m tapping out doesn’t mean you have to.”
Harry shakes his head. “No, that’s okay,” he says. “It’s not as fun when I’m by myself. Do you want a ride back to my place?”
The offer comes out without him even thinking about it. His brain has evidently categorized all the potential problems with taking Hurley back to the hotel or to their headquarters, both of which have built-in bars and the former of which probably has someone willing to give him a nudge on where to find heavier stuff. Not that there’s not alcohol at Harry’s house, but it wouldn’t be as easy to drink since he pretty much only breaks it out when he’s feeling particularly depressed (probably a bad sign) or on a special occasion when there’s somebody he needs to impress. He can also guarantee that there won’t be any way to get cocaine there unless there’s something Becky hasn’t told him, which is a plus.
He expects Hurley to shrug off the offer. He said he should’ve stayed in his hotel room, that’s probably where he wants to go back to. Maybe he has a sponsor he can call. But instead Hurley just looks at him with relief. “That’d be great.”
They don’t talk on the drive, but the further they get from other people sipping drinks and making bets the more relaxed Hurley becomes. Harry doesn’t comment on what an idiot he was for taking him there multiple times since Rio. Hurley never said anything about it being particularly triggering, so he just assumed it was fine…
“Nice place,” Hurley comments when they park. “I know Parker sleeps in the vents above the new HQ. I always thought of the rest of you as living up there, too.”
“Parker doesn’t sleep in the vents,” Harry dismisses. Sure, she crawls around up there, but she’s got that big hammock strung up way in the corner by the ceiling over the stage for a reason. The vents are way too cramped.
Hurley blinks at him. “Yes, she does. She’s got blankets up there and everything. Hardison showed me pictures.”
Harry gapes at him, disbelieving, but Hurley doesn’t crack a smile or make any indication that he’s messing with him. Instead he just shrugs and walks toward Harry’s front door, leaving Harry to imagine Parker cuddling some of the giant spiders she’s said she finds up in the ceiling sometimes with a particularly pronounced shudder.
Hurley’s not the first friend of his Harry’s brought back to his place since starting his… new career. But only Breanna and Sophie have been inside with his knowledge—although Eliot’s been on his porch when he was dropping off homemade soup for Becky last time she caught the flu and he’s pretty sure Parker has been in his walls or something. It’s not much to write home about, really. The house he shared with Grace was bigger, with light fixtures that cost them a fortune and a 75-inch TV. But he likes it. He’s got a cozy home office that’s split between helping Sarah with her cases and Leverage team stuff, reasonably priced light fixtures, and a more than adequate TV for gaming and movie nights. He’s doing better than a lot of people.
He still probably would’ve liked a chance to clean up before letting Hurley in, but you can’t win every battle.
“Is that Becky?” Hurley asks, immediately zeroing in on the pictures on the mantel and wandering over to inspect them. Harry nods. Basically her whole life is up there, something she says is embarrassing on the rare occasions she brings a boy over. Her as a toddler, some of her first school photos, the time she won a spelling bee in elementary school, her bat mitzvah, her winning middle school science fair project, her high school graduation. “She looks like you.”
“People say that,” Harry says, unable to keep the pride out of his voice as he goes to the kitchen and calls, “Can I, uh, get you anything? Something to drink?” He opens the fridge and then hastily tries to rectify his mistake. “Something non-alcoholic! I’ve got water, and… I think there’s some of that organic soda Eliot got me to like, or… Oh, there’s some ginger ale…”
“Ginger ale’s fine,” Hurley says. Even though his anxiety visibly lowered while he was in the car, he seems even more relaxed now, which Harry takes as a good sign. He’s got his phone out, and Harry briefly catches a glimpse of the fact that he’s texting Parker when he hands him the ginger ale.
“I can put a game on or something,” Harry offers. “I should have something recorded.”
Hurley rubs the back of his neck. Sheepishly, he says, “They have a lot of sports betting advertisements now.”
Harry’s stomach sinks. He’s such a terrible friend. That’s not even something he thinks about. Whether it’s a commercial or a perimeter advertisement, he just tunes it out. That’s not something Hurley can do.
“Oh,” he says blandly, fishing for something else to suggest. Maybe Typhoon 7? Harry’s not particularly embarrassed by his enjoyment of the game, but something still makes him feel a little reluctant to offer up playing a MOBA as a viable alternative to watching a game. Then again, Hurley has been friends with Hardison for years. Maybe he’s into it. Or maybe he’d think it was condescending? Harry doesn’t know.
Hurley rescues him by gesturing to one of the photos stuck to the fridge. “Sarah from the salon? How’s she doing?”
Harry smiles almost despite himself. He forgot that Hurley actually met Sarah—he and Eliot are the only ones who properly have, although Breanna has seen her in court with him. That particular photo shows her looking somewhat startled, Elton’s hand on her shoulder as he grins at her. Harry’s there, too, slightly blurry where he’s standing on Sarah’s other side. “Good. That was after she got her first wrongfully accused client off the hook.”
“A good lawyer’s hard to find,” Hurley comments. He nudges Harry with his elbow. “So’s a good mentor.”
Harry’s chest warms, but—“She was a good lawyer way before I came along and threatened to kamikaze one of her boss’ clients.”
“Yeah, but without passion?” Hurley says, clapping him on the shoulder with his free hand. “It doesn’t mean anything and you know it, brother.”
It’s hard to fight off the smile. Harry pretends to be absorbed in the rest of the pictures on the fridge. They used to put Becky’s report cards up when he and Grace were still together. Now it’s almost all photos. Becky, Breanna, himself, and the one of Sarah. He’d put up pictures of the rest of the team if he thought it was safe. Breanna, at least, passes as just another one of Becky’s friends, especially in the handful of pictures he has of the two of them together. Having the Eliot Spencer pinned to his fridge with a gopher frog magnet courtesy of Maureen wouldn’t be a very good idea.
“Is that real, or did Breanna make it for you?” Hurley points to another photo, a printed version of the one that used to be his dating profile picture.
“Hey,” Harry says defensively. “I have hobbies outside of work. I can enjoy fishing.”
Anyone else on the team would say no, you can’t. As a joke, of course. Harry wouldn’t be offended by it. He might pretend to be, because that’s one of the things he and Breanna do for fun. But it doesn’t really matter to him. Hurley’s not like that. He just smiles amiably and moves on to the next thing.
That’s one of the things Harry likes about him, and equally one of the things that confused him for a long time. Hurley wears his heart on his sleeve. He’s utterly open and honest. And in order to be a good grifter, he had to be lying about that. He just had to be.
No one good enough to be crushing marks into dust and helping crews around the world could be so… unguarded. The way Hurley had greeted him so enthusiastically he fully picked him up off the ground? The way he immediately supported Harry’s gut instinct that there was something wrong with how Bao was being treated? Hell, that Hurley had gotten Bao to go along with their plan to help his mom in the first place? All an act. Hurley gets his marks to lay their guard down, just like Sophie does, only by being a big teddy bear instead of whatever Sophie settled on that day.
At the time, Harry thought he was just being smart, thinking about Hurley like that. Now he knows he was being naïve.
Sometimes people are just… good. The kind of good Harry isn’t. That’s not even him being self-deprecating; he knows Hurley’s got his own demons, and he knows an abridged version of how he got involved with the original iteration of the Leverage team in the first place. He’s got his flaws. But objectively speaking, he’s a better man than Harry.
Hell. A mark peddling snake oil to cancer patients did the world a favor and killed himself and Hurley was consumed by guilt. Harry would’ve called that a happy ending.
The front door bangs shut uncomfortably loudly, cutting off Hurley’s question about the magnet holding a different photo up.
“Sorry!” Becky calls. He hears her toss her keys down, and there’s no time to think of a good cover story before she’s walking into the kitchen. “I didn’t mean to slam—”
She stops and blinks at Hurley. He beams at her with the same brightness Harry’s seen him use on marks and friends alike, holding out his hand for her to shake. “You must be Becky!”
“Yeah,” Becky says, marginally dazed by the full force of Hurley’s charm.
“This is Jack Hurley,” Harry introduces as Hurley pumps Becky’s hand with great enthusiasm. “He’s, uh, a friend of mine. We were out golfing and the weather got bad so we came back here.”
Only one part of that is a lie, and Becky seems to believe it despite the fact that it’s very sunny outside. Where she just was. Harry is totally nailing this alibi.
“I’m friends with the whole crew,” Hurley says easily, and Harry’s blood pressure abruptly spikes. Maybe Hurley notices, because he keeps moving the conversation along. “But Eliot and I are the only ones brave enough to face him on the green. I’ve heard a lot about you while he’s playing circles around me.”
Harry shakes his head. “Hurley’s a scratch golfer. You’d be amazed at what he can do if I knew telling you wouldn’t make your eyes glaze over.”
“Thank you for sparing me,” Becky says, pressing her palms together in a fake praying gesture. She grins at Hurley. “Well, I’ll just leave you two to it!”
She grabs some chips from the cabinet and then leaves with what Harry would consider to be an… uncharacteristic amount of scampering. Harry would be suspicious of that if he wasn’t still calming down from his heart attack when he thought Hurley was going to let their day job slip out. At least Becky didn’t push. She’s a smart kid who doesn’t normally fall for his shit. Maybe she has something else on her mind?
Hurley is, of course, a mind reader in his own right. “She doesn’t know yet?”
“I’m still figuring out a way to tell her.” Harry braces himself on the counter. “It’s… hard, you know? First I blew up her life with the divorce, then by not being there for her until I got my act together, and now with this.”
“Aw, she’ll be proud of you,” Hurley says, squeezing his shoulder. “She’s a good kid. She’ll understand why you didn’t want to tell her.”
The floor creaks on the other side of the wall, but Harry knows his brain’s attempt at a distraction from an unwanted topic when he hears one. It’s probably just the house settling. “I hope so,” he sighs. Homemade distraction it is, then. “Do you want to stay for dinner? I just decided we’re ordering in tonight since we’re out of Eliot leftovers.”
Hurley bumps him with the bottom of his can of ginger ale. “Hey, I’ll stay if you have me. Have you tried that Chinese spot that’s just up the road? We went past it on the way here…”
It… snowballs from there, a little bit. Harry’s not complaining. Hurley’s a good friend, and Harry fully expected to enjoy their time together when he gave him a standing invitation to come over for dinner whenever he wanted. But suddenly Hurley’s as much a part of his life as any of the other members of their criminal conspiracy minus Hardison. Again, he’s not complaining about that. It just has the downside that Harry starts dreading when he’s going to go back traveling the world and helping the international teams.
He likes the guy. He really likes him. Sophie’s still his best friend—and Breanna, which he has to remember to say because she got really offended he introduced Sophie to his mom before her. He still sees the two of them and Eliot and Parker more than him, because generally they only know if they’ll need Hurley once the con is already in motion. But “everyone could use a Hurley in their lives” is the new thing Harry finds himself thinking at random, sometimes inopportune moments.
It helps that Becky gets along with him. She even point-blank told Harry after the second time he had dinner with them that she really liked him, which was a relief because she’s the most important person in his life and it would have been super awkward otherwise. She’s always been a good judge of character; she never liked Ethan, and she and Breanna got along like a house on fire from minute one. Hurley passing the Becky Test is an essential friendship step.
Hurley still carefully skates around the truth about what they do, although he shoots Harry meaningful looks when Becky isn’t paying attention that clearly mean “dude, you’ve really gotta tell her.” Which he knows, he’s just… still figuring out how.
“Are you still sticking with journalism?” Hurley asks Becky, passing her the container of broccoli. Harry actually cooked for once tonight. Really cooked, not just threw some pasta in boiling water and called it a day. It’s not that he’s bad at it, he’s been told his meals are resoundingly adequate, he just never seems to have the patience to pull off anything complicated. Cooking for guests is just about the only thing that can get him to follow one of Eliot’s simple recipes. So he did throw pasta in boiling water, but he also crisped up some broccoli with olive oil and salt and a lemon sauce that didn’t turn out half bad.
Becky nods. “If USC was closer I’d go there,” she says. “We visited Syracuse over the summer, and UMCP and GWU. Dad’s still hoping for Tulane—”
“I want whatever you want,” Harry says, pointing his fork at her. “I just would prefer it if you weren’t all the way on the other side of the country, that’s all.”
“You know, Breanna said she liked MIT and he was so happy he almost started kissing the ground,” Becky stage whispers to Hurley. That’s something else Harry isn’t taking for granted; Becky just accepts that Hurley also knows Breanna. Why, he’s not sure. But Breanna being the connective tissue of her dad’s entire friend group, the vast majority of which is twice her age, seems to be a fact of life in Becky’s mind.
Hurley laughs at him. It’s a very infectious laugh. People probably tell him that all the time. Harry finds himself grinning even as Hurley says, “For some reason, he left that out when he told me the three of you went on a college tour.”
One of these days Harry will actually invite Breanna over at the same time as Hurley. He’s not deliberately keeping them apart, he just worries for the stability of his household if they all decide to gang up on him. Two at once is bad enough. Then again, maybe with Hurley there the two of them could present a united adult front…
For now, though, he’ll be content with this, regardless of the looks Hurley gives him. The way Becky smiles is good enough to keep things steady.
“Can I ask you something?” Harry asks, shading his eyes from the sun. It’s not too hot out, but the Louisiana humidity is thick enough he feels like he’s swimming every time he takes a step on the golf course.
“Shoot,” Hurley says. It’s still just the two of them today. They needed to relax a little after a particularly stressful con that ended up with Harry pretending to be a corpse for about three hours longer than he was supposed to, and Eliot rejected their invitation because he was taking advantage of Hardison being in town to spend time with him and Parker. So Branchbriar it was.
“When we met, you already knew who I was,” Harry says. He keeps his gaze on the horizon. “Who I had been before. What did they tell you about me?”
Hurley thinks for a second. “It was Parker who called me,” he says finally. “I don’t know if all the crews got the word or just me and a few other people. She said Sophie was back in the field, Hardison’s little sister was with them, and that if we ran into anyone whose lawyer had been Harry Wilson to leave him out of it for now.”
“Oh,” Harry says. He expects that to be the end of the answer, but Hurley keeps going.
“At first I thought that meant they were playing a long game on you,” he says. “Sometimes when that goes out, it’s because they’re building up to something big. But Parker said you were part of the crew. So you couldn’t be all bad.” He beams at Harry and it’s like the sun actually gets brighter. “You were just lost like I was.”
Harry knows he shouldn’t ruin such a nice day by starting an argument, but—“I wasn’t like you.”
“Sure you were,” Hurley says, brow furrowing.
“I wasn’t,” Harry says. “You… You were trying to help people. All I ever did was help myself.”
“Maybe,” Hurley says. He gives up on lining up a shot and comes over to hug Harry’s shoulders from the side. “But one thing the group therapist in the rehab where I met Nate told me that I wasn’t helping people for the sake of helping them, I was just doing it so that… so I could be worth something.”
“You were still helping people,” Harry says. He tries not to sound bitter. “You had goals beyond lining your pockets. I didn’t.”
Hurley pushes his hat up on his head, mulling that over. He’s still hugging Harry. He’s a great hugger, even when he’s only using a fraction of his true hugging power. Thoughtfully, he says, “You and Nate would’ve had some interesting conversations.”
“Were you and Nate…” Harry trails off. Close? He doesn’t think so. Friends? They must have been. But… Sophie doesn’t talk much about Nate. He gets it. Parker, Eliot, and Hardison don’t talk about him when Sophie’s not around, and very rarely is she not around when Harry is. Breanna, like him, never met the man. Looking up his accomplishments isn’t the same thing as actually knowing him.
“He’s the smartest man I’ve ever met,” Hurley says. “I wasn’t his friend, but he was mine. I think he would’ve strangled you.”
Harry cracks a smile. “I get that a lot.”
“Ah, but never from me,” Hurley says cheerfully. “Even when Parker texted everyone that you were working with RIZ. I was sure it was just a misunderstanding.”
Harry’s not sure why he looks at his hands, or why he thinks “I’d probably trust you to strangle me.” It’s a thought he could easily rationalize away if it was directed toward Eliot—who will probably end up having to do so for a con at some point—or even Parker, but is somewhat inexplicable when it comes to Hurley. He clears his throat and steps away from the hug.
“That’s… thanks,” he says.
“Don’t mention it, brother.” Hurley elbows him lightly. “Come on. Make your swing.”
Harry rolls his shoulders and steps up. He does feel a little lighter, though. Something about talking to Hurley can just do that to a person. He’s seen it tons of times on cons. It’s like being on this side of one of Sophie’s grifts, or a soft, kind version of a punch from Eliot. He doesn’t say that, though, because that would be weird. “I’m making it, I’m making it.”
When the opportunity to tell Becky presents itself, Harry wishes it hadn’t.
He’s with the team, not at home, when Becky calls him from work. She’s been really putting a lot of extra hours into her internship lately, which makes Harry glad on her behalf that it’s a paid one. It’s maybe not the most intellectually stimulating—it’s for a satire website that still does physical papers, “like the Onion but not as good” is how he’d described it when he’d first found it for her—but she likes the majority of her coworkers and it’s good experience, so it seems like a win. At least, that’s what Harry thought.
He knows as soon as he picks up the phone that something is wrong. “Dad?” Becky’s voice is a little wobbly. “Um, are you at home?”
“No, but I can leave,” he says, standing up. Breanna’s in the courtyard wrapping things up with their client. The rest of them, Hurley included, are mostly just hanging around decompressing. They don’t need him for anything else. “Did you lose your key? Are you okay?”
“No, I’m, uh, I’m at work,” Becky says, not answering the important question of if she’s alright. “Mindy is here.”
“...Okay,” Harry says when she goes quiet again. He doesn’t personally know Mindy, but he knows she’s Becky’s work nemesis and therefore also his work nemesis by extension, on the occasions where he forgets that he maybe shouldn’t be feuding with a seventeen-year-old girl he’s never met. “Did your car break down? Do you need me to come get you? All my emergency supplies should still be in the trunk—”
“The car’s okay,” Becky says. “I’m okay, too. I promise. Nothing happened to me. But, um.”
“Mr. Wilson?” A voice Harry’s never heard before says. Mindy sounds a lot more timid than he was imagining. “Becky said you’re a lawyer. She said you’d know how to press charges against my—our boss? Mr. Armstrong? If I wanted to?”
Harry’s body goes completely cold with rage. He’s pretty sure he just told Becky and Mindy to come here now, but everything feels very fuzzy and far away. He doesn’t need to know the rest of the story to put the pieces together. They need to get here so they’ll have an alibi when he breaks their boss’ neck.
Their boss. Trevor Armstrong. Who Harry knew, because he was friends with a client who was getting screwed over by her landlord and came with her as emotional support. Who is the reason he recommended the job to Becky in the first place. And who is officially a dead man walking.
“What’s going on?” Parker asks, hopping off the bar counter. “Is Becky okay?”
“Just get here,” Harry hears himself saying, trampling over her and Becky on the other end of the line. The whole team’s looking at him. “Not home, or Sarah’s office. I’m at the taproom. We’ll figure it out. We’ll fix it. I’m gonna kill him, but we’ll fix it.”
“Parker, get his phone and give it to Sophie,” Eliot says, probably only to give Harry some warning that he’s about to lose custody of it. Parker’s gotten it out of his white-knuckled grip before he even realizes she’s on top of him, tossing it to Sophie so she can talk to Becky and Mindy instead.
“I got him,” Hurley says. Apparently by that he means he has Harry, because he grabs his arm and hauls him back away from the—not currently stocked, for Hurley’s benefit—bar. “C’mon, let’s take a breather.”
“I’m going to ruin him,” Harry says, seething.
“Sure you are, killer,” Hurley says. “Is Becky okay?”
“Yes,” Harry has to admit. Unless she was lying when she said she was. Which she could be. But she probably isn’t. Right? She wouldn’t lie about something that important, except if she would. His head’s spinning.
“That’s great,” Hurley says. “Sophie’s getting the full story off her. Whatever’s going on, we’ll figure it out. Let’s get some fresh air.” He keeps Harry moving despite a few stumbles until they’re out of earshot of the questions Sophie’s asking.
“I suggested her internship,” Harry says. The rest of him is still cold but his face feels somewhere between “blisteringly hot” and “totally numb.” There’s an annoying whistling sound that it takes him a second to realize is his own breathing through his teeth. “I know the guy. He knew one of our clients. I thought he was safe.”
He only realizes his gaze is being dragged back to where Sophie would be if he could see her when Hurley firmly puts his hands on either side of Harry’s head and physically turns it so he has to look at him. “Did you know?”
“No,” Harry says vehemently.
“Then it’s not your fault,” Hurley says. Harry’s not entirely sure when he started gripping onto his arms for physical support. He’s not exactly small, but Hurley is the only person he regularly interacts with who’s taller than him, and right now that extra inch feels like a big difference. “I know it’s bad. But Becky’s okay. That’s what matters.”
Harry’s accusing him before his brain even catches up to his mouth’s realization. “You’re trying to cool me off.”
“Eh, a little bit. But mostly I’m returning a favor,” Hurley corrects. If Harry’s hold on his biceps is hurting him, he doesn’t show it. “Two months ago, I started losing it at Branchbriar. This disgraced lawyer took me back to his house. Figured I owed him one.”
Harry closes his eyes. He wants to shred Armstrong. Like he wanted to shred Maxwell and Keyes. Like Hurley didn’t want to shred his mark who ended up dead. “Becky’s okay.”
“That’s what you said,” Hurley agrees.
“I know great lawyers.”
Hurley nods. “So I’ve heard.”
“It’s going to be fine.” Harry pushes as much determination into that statement as he feels like he can. “And I’m going to have to tell her.”
“Looks like it.” Hurley lightly squeezes his face. His hands pretty much encompass Harry’s cheeks from jaw to hairline. The same hands that hauled him over, the same hands that could scruff him like a kitten, the same hands Harry once thought he’d be okay having around his throat. “She’s a good kid. Like I told you, she’ll understand why you felt like you had to keep this from her, but she’ll be happier you’re finally telling her the truth.”
“And if she did know, it wouldn’t have kept her safe,” Sophie says, stepping out. “Your phone, Mr. Wilson.” She slips it back into his pocket herself when he realizes he can’t unlock his hands from Hurley’s arms. “I’m not quite sure how bad it was, Ms. Mindy was rather incoherent, but Becky is alright. Concerned for her friend, of course, but alright.”
“They aren’t even friends,” Harry feels the need to say. “Becky couldn’t stand her. Trevor was always picking Mindy over her…” He feels bile rising up in his throat at the sound of it. “We need to destroy him. Make sure he never goes near anyone ever again.”
“Blood under your fingernails?” Sophie raises her eyebrows. She puts her hand on Harry’s shoulder. He’s suddenly awkwardly aware of how Hurley’s pinning him up against the wall. “Do you want any of us to be there when you tell her?”
Yes, Harry wants to say, but he shakes his head. “No. I… It’s between us. She deserves the truth directly from me.”
Sophie nods. “You have us if you need us, Mr. Wilson.”
Harry’s face still feels numb. He thinks about that, and the first days when he knew them when they took him to task for trying to use them as a machine to make himself feel better, and how Hurley is still holding him up, until Becky pulls up in what she calls his “creepy prepper car” with Mindy in tow.
Mindy gets swept away by Sophie and Breanna. Becky finds Harry. And Hurley, technically. Well, not even technically. She waves to him first.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” Harry says, finally forcing himself to let go of Hurley. He even manages to not fall over afterward, which was a serious concern of his.
Becky hugs him. On cue, Hurley melts into the background, taking several steps back and offering Harry an encouraging smile. “I just found her crying in the bathroom,” Becky says. “I just asked her if she was okay, and she said… So I told her we could call you.”
Harry hugs her back. “We’ll figure this out,” he promises. “We’ll make sure no one ever gets hurt by him again.”
“Did you call Sarah and Elton?” Becky asks, wiping her eyes.
“This is a little out of their wheelhouse,” Harry admits. “Taking Trevor to court’s going to be out of mine, too. Trust me, we’ll find someone for Mindy. What I’m talking about is… different. After we’ve figured out what’s going to happen with Mindy, I’ll explain everything. I promise.”
He can’t tell her now. He realizes that. She’s still too shaken up from however she found out about what happened to Mindy, which is perfectly reasonable. But he will.
Harry glances at Hurley, who gives him a thumbs-up, and hugs Becky even tighter.
Things are… calmer, when they go home. Physically, Mindy isn’t too badly hurt, and Sophie calls her mother and helps her explain the situation. They don’t talk about exactly what con they want to run on Trevor, but it seems like there’s going to be one after all—Mindy’s lack of physical injuries means charges are unlikely to stick. But Becky hugs her when they leave, and even though Mindy still looks like a strong breeze could blow her over, Becky has long since stopped trembling.
Harry takes a deep breath. Now or never, huh. At least he’s at home and Becky can hide in her room if she decides to call her mom or the police and tell them everything. “Do you want to sit down?”
Becky sits. She looks more confused than apprehensive, which is… good. “What is it?”
“There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” Harry says carefully as he sits next to her on the couch. “A big thing that’s been happening in my life I should have told you about sooner.”
“Oh,” Becky blinks. “And this is… related to what happened today?”
“Yes,” Harry says.
Becky chews her lip. “You know I know, right?”
Harry’s vision of this conversation drives directly off a cliff and into the Gulf of Mexico. “You do?”
“It wasn’t that hard to figure out,” Becky says. “I’ve kind of known since the start. You made up a lie about the weather being bad. It was seventy-three with, like, barely any humidity.”
Harry’s vision of this conversation starts doing barrel rolls underwater in the Gulf. He’s so confused he actually starts regaining some feeling in his face. “I… What?”
“I was also listening afterward when you were talking about how you didn’t know how to tell me without blowing up my life,” Becky says earnestly. “But trust me, I can handle it! I mean, I’ve known you’re dating, I’m not going to start freaking out just because it’s getting serious.”
Harry knows he’s probably gaping at her. “What do you think this conversation is about?”
“How you’re dating Jack?” Becky says. “Um. I think it’s kind of a weird time for you to bring it up, but—”
Harry’s vision of this conversation rockets out of the water and explodes into a million tiny pieces. “Becky, this is about how we’re—how I’m a criminal who breaks the law every day.”
“Oh, yeah. The stuff you do for the mob,” she says, leaning back against a cushion. She blushes. “I guess it makes more sense that you’d be talking about that…”
Harry is starting to wish he’d accepted Sophie’s offer to stay with them for this conversation, which she made for a second time right before they left. She’d have all of this untangled in a matter of seconds. “What makes you think I work for the mob?”
“That’s what Ms. Devereaux is, right?” Becky says. “A mob boss? And your friend Eliot is a mob enforcer. I thought… Maybe, if you couldn’t press charges against Trevor, he could…” She mouths the words kill him. Which is crazy. Not an unfair assessment of Eliot’s abilities, because Harry’s sure he could actually kill Trevor and make it look like an accident, but still crazy.
Although… reflecting on it, Harry can see how she’d come to that conclusion. Sophie’s demeanor, Eliot’s everything, Breanna’s skillset, Parker being Parker, all of that. Plus how he must have sounded when he vaguely referenced having friends that could take care of problems. That must have been wildly suspicious. How he would sometimes have to make calls “in-character” on different cons with her in the house, even if he tried to make sure she was out of earshot. The sudden midlife crisis where he lost his extremely well paying job and saw no dip in finances once he realized the team had set up a fund for him without his knowledge.
A new life as a corporate fixer for the mob wasn’t even that far off-base.
“We’re not those kinds of criminals,” Harry says. “Everything we do, we do to help people. People who get hurt in ways the system doesn’t care about fixing. I should have told you a long time ago. But it started after the divorce, after I realized how many people I’d hurt. It’s how I’m making things right.”
He knew when he eventually told her that he’d spend the whole time wishing he’d said something sooner. But he still feels relief that her first question isn’t anything about how long he kept this from her.
“Does that mean Eliot hasn’t killed anyone?”
Harry does still wish it was an easier one to answer.
Four hours later, Harry sits up in his bed. “She thought I was dating Hurley?”
Everything suddenly makes way too much sense.
“How did it go?” Breanna asks when he walks in the next day. She can pretend to sound bored and unconcerned all she wants—Harry knows she was texting Becky all night, because one of Becky’s next follow-up questions after they sorted through the tangled issue of Eliot potentially being a murderer was about Breanna.
“The best it could’ve,” Harry says. Trying to sound casual, he asks, “Do you know if Hurley’s around?”
“Someone might’ve called him when your car left the house,” Breanna says.
Harry nods and then turns on his heel. “You have a tracker in my car?”
“No,” Breanna says. “Hardison has a tracker in both of your cars. I just get text alerts when you leave your house, because I’m a good friend and I care about your safety.”
Harry almost launches into their usual routine. But… “When did Becky tell you she thought Hurley and I were, uh, involved?”
“Pretty early on,” Breanna admits. “He must have said something about knowing me, because she texted to ask if I thought he was a nice guy and said he was making you really happy. Which is true, so I didn’t really bother pushing back.”
“And the mob thing?” Harry asks.
“Last night,” she says. “She said, um—” She opens Becky’s contact to read it out loud. “‘Dad says you’re not in the mob’ with a frowny face emoji.”
Harry was not expecting Becky to be apparently disappointed the mob thing wasn’t true. “Thanks, Breanna. I’m going to go find Hurley.”
Breanna wordlessly points at the doorway Harry turned away from at the start of the conversation. Harry looks back and there’s Hurley, looking at him with a slightly startled expression. For a moment Harry’s stomach drops, but all Hurley says is, “Did you just say Becky thought Breanna was in the mob?”
“She thought all of us were in the mob,” Harry corrects. Breanna scurries away out of the corner of his eye, taking her computer and water bottle—which is newly adorned with a homemade label reading “Thief Juice,” he now notices—with her. “I told her the truth. She took it better than I was expecting, and she’s not going to tell Grace.”
“That’s great!” Hurley says. “Not the mob thing. That’s—” He makes a so-so gesture with his hand. “But the rest of it is great!”
“Yeah,” Harry says. He coughs. Fidgets. Coughs again and turns it into an attempt at clearing his throat. He practiced what he would say in his head on the drive over, but there’s still a hurdle he has to jump, if he can make himself ask. “Did you know?”
“Know what?” Hurley asks. And Harry believes him, even though he’s seen Hurley lie through a smile and confusion feigned so perfectly even the most suspicious marks wouldn’t see past it.
Sophie is Harry’s truest thing about his new insane life, even more so than Breanna. But Hurley doesn’t try to run cons on his friends, and to Harry, that makes him the closest thing he knows to a properly honest man in this whole line of work.
He sits down heavily in the seat Breanna vacated. “Becky thought the two of us were together.”
“Hmm,” Hurley says thoughtfully. Harry’s not sure if he’s imagining a slightly forced nature to his voice. “Well, that does explain some things she was saying to me about hurting you. She’s a good kid. Just got a few facts mixed up.”
Harry looks down at the floor. The team spent a small fortune making this place workable as a headquarters and a veritable shapeshifting grifter in its own right for cons, only by “the team” he means that he did, with money he noticed quickly found itself replaced as soon as it left his account. Parker’s work, although he only found that out when he and Hardison were talking during the RIZ stuff. (He’d thought it was Breanna.) That’s a nice interesting topic to think about, isn’t it? Harry loves interesting topics. He should have put that on his dating profile—
“Harry?” Hurley says, coming a little closer. “Are you okay? Things with Becky are all good, right?”
Harry rubs his face. “Yeah. Yeah, they’re great. That’s… I just…”
Hurley sits down across from him. “You don’t want to hang out anymore,” he interprets. “Because it’s too awkward with Becky.”
“No, no,” Harry says quickly, a little startled that that’s where Hurley thinks he’s going with this. It’s enough to get him to stop looking at the floor. “It’s not that.”
Hurley exhales slowly through his teeth. After a full minute, he says, “I’m not going to say it for you.”
Smart, Harry thinks. “Are you going to stay in New Orleans?”
“Maybe,” Hurley says honestly. “It’s nice to be out here with you guys. But there’s a lot of people around the world who need help. A lot of teams that need pinch grifters.”
Harry shouldn’t do this. Either take Hurley—Jack. Becky calls him Jack. Harry doesn’t know anyone else who does, not even the crew that’s known him for a decade—away from the other teams that need him, or set himself up for a kind rejection. And it would be kind, because Hurley doesn’t do things any other way.
But Hurley’s sitting with his hands folded, waiting for him to ask.
Harry tries very hard to feel like the grown adult man he is and not like a teenager asking their crush to the prom. “Do you want to get dinner sometime?”
“At Chez Wilson?” Jack asks. Not a no. But a way for Harry to back out.
“No,” he says. The name of the restaurant where Becky walked in on his “date” with Neal pops into his head. “Somewhere nicer. Eliot-level if I can swing it.”
Jack’s eyes sparkle. “We do know an Eliot level chef. If we make him think it’s his idea…”
There it is. The thrill of the con. “Maybe for the second date,” Harry offers, which he almost immediately regrets. He hasn’t even verbally established that this would be a first date and not two guys hanging out. But he pushes on, remembering what he said to Neal. “I’ve got somewhere else in mind. The full NOLA experience.”
“Can I get that with a side of the full Harry Wilson experience?” Jack raises his eyebrows.
“Gross!” Breanna’s voice yells from the other room.
“Yeah,” Harry grins back. “I think we can make that happen.”