![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
the_ragnarokWhatever Nathan might have to say about the subject, there is nothing that Harold's life lacks.
Admittedly, he misses Grace. In hindsight, she was right to break up with him. She deserved better. Still, Harold has everything he needs: his work, Nathan’s friendship, and the love of the dog Nathan foisted on him.
Curse Nathan’s inability to leave well enough alone.
The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog. Harold wakes up one day to see a beautiful man kneeling beside his bed.
“Hello,” Harold says, at a loss for words. An assassin would probably have acted already, not to mention worn more clothes.
“My name is John,” the man says. He truly is extraordinary. Harold’s eyes helplessly trace the fluid grace he exudes even in complete stillness. “I’m a gift from a friend.”
At that, Harold sits up and snaps, “Don’t be absurd. Gifts are objects. You’re a human being.”
John’s eyes crinkle, so briefly that Harold almost misses it. “My services, then.”
“I hope you’re good at shelving books,” Harold says.
John rises. Agreeably, he says, “I can do that.” Of course he doesn't bother to put on so much as a stitch of clothing first, so that Harold is subjected to a morning of pointedly looking away from John’s form as he stretches to put books away.
~~
At the end of the first week, Harold decides to be the better man and graciously admit defeat. "Whatever Nathan is paying you," he tells John, "I'll double it if you go away."
It's not that John is vulgar or crass. Those traits, Harold would have had no difficulty ignoring. It's that John looms constantly on the edge of Harold's vision, somehow managing to convey without saying a single syllable that he'd be available for sexual gratification at the crook of a finger.
John raises his eyebrows. "That's a lot of money." His voice is mild.
Harold stares at him steadily and waits for John to get the point, which is that he doesn't care. John is becoming a distraction that Harold can't afford.
Finally, John names a sum. It's exorbitant.
Harold writes him a check. "There'll be another one next month."
John accepts it, examines it, and takes out his phone. He takes a picture and sends it. "Mr. Ingram said he'll double any counter-offer you make."
Harold stares at him.
Possibly John mistakes his outrage at Nathan for horror, because he adds, "I'm not going to take it. I don't need that much. I'm just curious how long it takes before you run out of place for all the zeros."
"I'll move to scientific notation first," Harold says automatically. Then he rubs the bridge of his nose. "You could simply tell me what compensation would satisfy you, since you have an upper limit. I promise you I'm more stubborn than Nathan. This will save time and effort for everyone involved."
The smile on John's face is like getting bitten by a mosquito somewhere impossible to scratch. "Now you're just challenging my professional etiquette, Harold, not to mention my skills. I can't let that lie."
Harold's outraged expression probably speaks for itself. "Go away," he tells John.
With another one of those smiles, John says, "Sure thing, Harold." He walks away with a swaying motion that leaves Harold with a terrible headache and an erection that won't subside.
~~
"Are you going to thank God for Ms. Carter again," Harold states rather than asks, wary. Nathan's got that enraptured look on his face again, the one that means his favorite asset has found him a new way to save lives and incidentally dump a metric tonne of work into Harold's lap.
"I'm the luckiest sonuvabitch in the whole world," Nathan says placidly. "First I get you, then I get Carter. Someone up there likes me."
"Your player cheated when he rolled your charisma stats, you mean," Harold mutters, sullen. "If you're so grateful, you might express it by removing your professional pest from my house."
"He was supposed to be a gift," Nathan says, frowning. Then his expression smooths out. "You work so hard, Harry. You deserve someone being nice to you."
Through gritted teeth, Harold says, "Perhaps you should try doing that, instead."
Nathan goes to his infuriating habit of pretending the last five minutes of the conversation never happened. "Anyway, we need a couple new features." He pushes a scribbled-on napkin toward Harold, who takes it.
For a very short time, he tried insisting that Nathan only give him finalized requirement documents. The end results, printed out, were heavier than his laptop and made less intuitive sense to Harold than Nathan's semi-random notes did.
"These aren't just a couple of new features," Harold says. He's not surprised: he was expecting something along the line of a service pack. This, though, is more like an entire version.
"We're reaching a brand new market!" Nathan says, beaming.
"Nathan. We've discussed this. They have to pay us to count as a market."
Nathan waves it off. "They're our customers, Harry. The customer's always right."
"That doesn't make any-- you know what, fine." Harold slaps Nathan's notes on the table. He won't need the paper. The important parts are all in his mind. "But if your hire interrupts me while I'm working, so help me God, Nathan, I'm putting your Google history on the internet."
"You mean it isn't there already?" Nathan says in perfect deadpan. Harold sometimes misses the days when his crush on the man distracted him from how impossible Nathan could be.
Before Harold's halfway back home, he has the new design ready and glittering in his mind. A beautiful thought pattern, as shining and fragile as glass. It's immersive enough that Harold thinks of nothing beside it.
Nathan's original idea had involved hacking the CIA. While the idea was irresistibly intoxicating at first, Harold came to his senses soon enough and persuaded Nathan to take another course. People signed away bits and pieces of their privacy every day without a second thought. You couldn't get away with literal murder in the terms of service, but some breaking and entering was certainly possible.
Of course, some are savvy, or paranoid, or uninterested in any of the services that IFT has to offer. Harold himself is all three. Others haven't been able to use IFT software up till now because they didn't have a US social security number, which is what Ms. Carter brought up to Nathan. Those additional users would be overlooked by most development companies, as many of them didn't have much spare cash to spend on cellphone apps.
Cash, however, wasn't Nathan or Harold's goal.
At some point while Harold was busy writing stub routines, a sandwich materialized at his side along with a glass of water. Harold drained the latter, ruefully surprised to realize that he was starving and his back hurt from a long span of time in the same position. He stretched, wincing at his own popping joints.
"I do a mean backrub," John says. He's sitting on a couch next to Harold who, after ten years of pretending to work in a cubicle, has gotten very good at ignoring other people in his vicinity. "If you're taking a break."
"No, thank you." The words lacked Harold's usual venom. He did appreciate the sandwich.
John shrugs. "I'm going on a run soon, actually, if you need to stretch your bones."
In fact, a run sounds wonderful, but Harold doesn't have time right now. "I'm afraid not," he says, eyes already back on his screen.
On his way out, John pauses. "The thing you're working on. It's trying to reach undocumented immigrants."
"Among others, yes." Harold doesn't bother looking to see whether John approves.
"You still require an actual address," John says. "If these guys are homeless, they can't fill out your forms. Maybe add an option for a PO box or something."
That hasn't occurred to Harold. It'd been admittedly many years since he'd last been on the run without an address, and he didn't have to fill many forms at the time. "Thank you for your input. I'll consider it."
John doesn't respond. A few moments later, a door closes, and after that Harold stops paying attention to noises. He has work to do.
~~
The familiar crick in Harold's back tells him he fell asleep at his keyboard again. The gentle hand on the back of his neck, though, that's new.
"Come on."
He's being pulled up, and it's easier to obey than it would be to resist. He's half dreaming, led to his bed, laid down in it. A series of steps, familiar enough to drown him.
Harold closes his eyes and whispers, "No." He's not sure why he sounds the way he does, high and helpless. His voice hasn't been like this in decades.
"It's okay," John whispers in return. He pulls the covers over Harold. "Just sleep," and Harold does.
~~
The next morning, he gets breakfast in bed.
"Really?" Harold says, staring at the laden tray in front of him. The eggs are unfairly fluffy and golden.
John shrugs. "Seems like the best shot to get actual food in you. I think I'd need a crowbar to pry you away from your keyboard."
"Hah," Harold mutters. He has to do it around a mouthful of buttered bread, though, which probably detracts from the strength of his point.
Sad to say, John isn't wrong. Harold is definitely feeling better for decent food and decent sleep. He's more focused, sharper. Sharp enough to realize that the house has been cleaned at some point since yesterday morning.
"You're a housekeeper, now?" Harold says, sniffing at the air. It smells pleasantly floral.
"Mr. Ingram pays me to take care of you," John says. "I do what I can."
"Modesty doesn't become you," Harold says as he sits in his chair. He becomes engrossed soon enough that John's amused, "I'll bear that in mind," barely registers.
When Harold next surfaces, John is sitting cross-legged on the floor, possibly meditating. Harold takes a moment too long to look at him, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheek, how genuinely calm he seems. Maybe he'll be content to feed Harold and clean up after him, and cease his distracting attempts at... other things.
Of course, just thinking this is tempting fate. Harold is poking around, checking his changes in and updating his stream before delivery, when he makes the mistake of looking again.
John is doing some kind of yoga, is Harold's best guess. Why he's doing it in Harold's work room and not anywhere else is a question probably best left unasked. Harold doesn't know the names of the poses. The one John is doing now displays him in an unfairly attractive way, his chest thrust out, spine and legs stretched out, showing off functional strength, and (Harold swallows) flexibility.
He tears his eyes away, hoping John hasn't noticed. Possibly he'll stop soon, or go for a run, or for food, or for anything that doesn't involve displaying himself a few yards away from where Harold is attempting to get some work done.
The next time Harold looks, John has his shoulders and feet on the ground, arms braced to support him as his front is perfectly arched, giving Harold a blatant view of a cock that's either half erect or showy even soft.
Harold fixes his eyes on the screen ahead of him until he hears John padding off to another room, refusing to acknowledge the persistent pressure against his button fly.
~~
Day fades into night and Harold's arousal turns sour on him, leaving him in one of those moods where he's sick of his own body. He tries to talk himself into getting some exercise: rationally, he knows it will help.
Irrationally, he doesn't want to be helped, would rather stay locked in his own self-loathing.
He's just nearly convinced himself to go anyway when John smirks and says, "Want to go running?"
Harold clams up tight. "No." He turns his chair back to his desk, resolute now.
Behind him, he hears John sigh and move closer. Harold flinches when he feels a light touch on his shoulder.
A moment later, when John retreats, he turns around. "What?" he snaps.
"I'm starting to see why Ingram hired me." John's voice is glib, but there's a small frown on his face. "No offense, but if you keep going like this, you'll have a nervous breakdown."
"That's my affair." Harold turns to his screen.
Or tries to: John has reached out and snagged his chair. "It's my job to keep you happy," John says, "but it seems like I'm doing the opposite, and I don't understand why. Do you just not find me attractive?"
Harold glares at him. "You know I do."
John gives him a minute shrug in return. "Then what's the problem?"
Harold really doesn't want to have this discussion. "I'm not interested in sleeping with somebody who is paid to do it." That is a gross understatement, but Harold isn't about to elaborate.
John tilts his head. "You know, I do find you attractive. No, really," he says, when Harold tenses. "You've got good hands, and that super-intense thing you do is pretty hot. Also, I can tell you're smart. That's hot, too."
Harold crosses his arms, unimpressed.
John carries on. "You're not paying me to fake attraction."
"I'm not paying you at all," Harold mutters.
John ignores this. "If I didn't like you, on some level, I wouldn't have stayed in this job. Do you know how Ingram hired me?" He doesn't wait for Harold to respond. "I had a long term contract with another guy before. A hotshot lawyer, a real shark. He'd come home and half the time he was cursing the day Nathan Ingram was born, because he couldn't figure out how somebody who valued people over money became CEO of this huge, successful company."
Having a secretive genius at his back probably helped. Harold remains silent, curious despite himself to see where this is going.
"Then the lawyer and I ended our contract - nothing bad, he got a boyfriend who wanted to be exclusive - and I got an offer from Ingram." John holds Harold's gaze. Evenly, he says, "When I came to meet him, he wrote me a check for twenty thousand dollars. Said that it was for coming to meet him, that it was mine, whatever happened next, and that he was going to get coffee and if I wanted we could discuss a job offer when he came back."
That was very like Nathan. Harold rubbed his eyes. "We're doing a global minimum income program," he says. "He probably would've written you into the pilot, if you looked unwilling."
"Yeah," John says. "Point being, I wasn't." He sits down on the sofa, across the room from Harold, letting his legs splay. "This job lets me take care of people," he softly says. "I like that. I could take care of you, if you'd let me."
The words are sincerely meant. Harold can tell that much. He wishes he knew why they make him want to huddle in a tight little ball and never come out.
As it is, all he can do is shake his head helplessly. "No," he says, "no." He just manages to stagger out of the chair, leave the room before he can fall apart while John looks on, bewildered.
~~
It's not a good night.
Thinking about sex makes Harold physically sick. He thinks about Grace instead, remembering the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her laughter. He misses her so much that the longing is like a physical presence.
On nights like these, Harold is tempted to pick up the phone. Tell her that he's sorry, that he shouldn't have chosen his work with Nathan over her.
He can't forget their last conversation. She didn't cry, although her eyes were suspiciously bright. "You love the work you do," she'd said, "and I love that about you. But it'll always come first for you, and I can only be second for so long."
Right now, he'd dump IFT, Nathan, and every project he's worked on gladly to have her with him. At the same time, he knows himself. He'd only pick up another project the second he felt secure, something else to get lost in.
Grace was always so forthright and certain about the things she wanted. Harold misses that about her, the way she developed a career in art when everybody told her she'd fail. The way she told him, right at the start, she didn't like sex and would rather be alone than in a relationship with someone who expected that of her. The way she took in the world with single minded delight and let beauty flow out of her in return.
Damn Nathan. Up until his stupid attempt to fix Harold up, he'd forgotten how lonely he'd become.
~~
The next morning, Harold emerges cautiously from his bedroom. There is a hearty breakfast set on the table, and John is nowhere to be seen.
John returns just as Harold's done eating, his shirt and hair damp with sweat. He goes showers and emerges fully clothes, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap.
Harold can appreciate an olive branch as well as anyone. "Thank you for cooking."
John looks up at him and smiles. It's a beautiful expression. Harold feels all right admiring it from across the room, safely distant. "Hey, I'm not going to live on hot pockets," John says. "Neither should you." He seems willing to let the other night go.
Perhaps Harold should as well, but he knows he'll just worry at it until he's made himself explicit. "I won't have sex with you." He says it with finality, bracing himself up for an argument.
John just says, "Okay," as easy as anything.
Harold blinks at him. "I admit, I was prepared for you to be much more difficult about this."
"Harold," John says, with exaggerated patience, "I get it. No means no. If you change your mind, or want something beside housekeeping, let me know. I'll leave you alone otherwise."
"Will you," Harold says, suspiciously.
John shrugs and goes back to his book.
Later that day, he sees John just as he's lacing up his running shoes, and finds himself saying, "Can I join you?"
John flashes him a genuine, if startled, smile. "Of course."
Running is not Harold's favorite activity, but he appreciate the way it clears his mind, leaves his body pleasantly sore. John could outrun him with ease, but he keeps his pace to one Harold has no trouble following. They don't talk.
~~
Once they settle into a routine, having John around is... nice. Harold can feel his own productivity going up due to improved sleeping, eating and exercise habits.
Nathan gives him a disgusted look when Harold says this. "I didn't hire him to make you more productive, Harold."
Harold raises an eyebrow. Nathan is a good man, but even with Harold at his back, IFT did not become a multibillion dollar international corporation solely because Nathan is nice.
"Well, all right, not just to make you more productive." Nathan smiles at him. "You look happy, Harry. Do you have any idea how long it's been?"
Harold shrugs. He could probably give an estimate. "The newest update is released."
Nathan beams at him and raises his water glass, which Harold clinks with a rueful smile. "Okay, so next up, I want you to give me a miracle."
"Must be Tuesday," Harold murmurs.
Nathan ignores this. "We have some sensitive projects, as you well know. I want a good indication of who might be a good - or terrible - to put in charge of them. As we don't have access to police records...." He spreads his hands.
Harold could hack into those, but that's not the issue. When Nathan says sensitive, he doesn't mean classified: he means that the projects deal with vulnerable people in positions of weakness. The very worst types for those wouldn't have a criminal record. A padded bank account can hide any number of sins. "I'll see what I can do."
"On another note," Nathan says, "you wouldn't mind if I gave our John an additional task, right?"
The our makes Harold bristle. "He's hardly mine. Do whatever you want."
It's only when he leaves the restaurant that he realizes Nathan may have done that on purpose, to distract Harold from asking what task, exactly, he had in mind.
~~
It's two AM, and Harold thinks he might be ready to admit defeat.
Perversely, the one thing that may be keeping him from doing so is John, who stands blinking in the doorway and asks, "Are you going to sleep?" while yawning.
"I think not," Harold says, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's a reprehensible pastime for weak minds."
John's laughter is quiet and brief, but it feels genuine. "You know, scratch nervous breakdown: I think Ingram hired me because he was worried about you becoming an evil overlord."
"The idea is growing on me," Harold says, swiveling in his chair. "Here, sit down. Be a duck."
John obeys, and, rather doubtfully, goes, "Quack?"
"Not--" Harold gestures broadly. "It's a, a term for a kind of debugging. I explain the problem to you in detail. You don't have to answer, or even respond. The idea is that the act of explaining the problem would clarify it to me, and help me come up with a solution."
John nods and gives him an expectant look.
"This isn't a software problem," Harold tells him. "I need to find a good man." He has a sudden mental image of himself carrying a broken lamp and wandering around the country wearing a barrel. God, he needs to sleep. "Or woman, or person -- someone who could be entrusted with the care of vulnerable individuals. No, worse," he interrupts himself. "I need a reliable method of finding such people. And given that I have, at best, a patchy background of any given person's history...." he trails off. "Well, that didn't help at all."
"Sorry?" John says.
Harold waves it off. "Not your fault. Nathan needs to understand I'm not actually superhuman. He'll live."
Mentioning Nathan's name put an intent expression on John's face. "Can I make a suggestion?" Harold mutely waves him on. "What about quizzes?"
"...Quizzes."
"Like ones in magazines," John says. "Or on Friendczar."
Perhaps John had a point about sleep. Harold suspects he might be hallucinating. "...Friendczar."
John waves his hand. "You know the type. Which kind of dog you'd be. What Hogwarts house." He pauses, then adds, "A German shepherd, and a Griffindor, respectively."
"John," Harold says with deliberation, "please go to sleep."
John shrugs and saunters away. The shoulder strap of his too-large undershirt falls as he does, drawing attention to the elegant line of his collarbone.
Harold turns sharply to his screen. He persists a few more moments before slinking to his own bed in shame.
~~
He wakes up at six in the morning brimming with ideas. John leaves him a sandwich and says something which Harold doesn't register, clicking away as he does.
When he finally looks up, it's evening, there is an empty plate beside his elbow, and John is nowhere to be seen.
Well. John is a grown man who can certainly mind his own affairs. Harold busies himself with administrative nonsense and the small backlog of bug fixes that have built up. Nothing absorbing enough to keep Harold from his bed.
Harold stays up anyway.
He jumps when he hears footsteps. Any hope that this might have passed unnoticed is shattered by John's amused, "It's just me."
Harold turns sharply in his chair. He just barely manages to quell the urge to ask John where he's been. Instead, he asks, "What's that?", nodding at the dry cleaning bag that John is holding.
"For my mission," John says with a straight face. "Apparently I'm to escort Ms. Zoe Morgan to the gala in two days."
Harold blinks. He knows Ms. Morgan, admittedly not well but he would have thought her capable of procuring her own dates. "I see."
"Nathan said you wouldn't mind," John says.
"I don't." Harold turns back to his computer.
A rustle of fabric gets him to look, however. This is a grave mistake, first because there is something fascinating about John in the process of donning a tuxedo, and then--
"Who on Earth picked that for you?" Harold exclaims. The suit nominally fits John, but it's too wide at the waist and too narrow at the shoulders. John looks likely to strain the seams: if the jacket doesn't rip, it will significantly constrain John's range of movement. "Take that off. I'll bring my measuring tape."
By the time it occurs to Harold that Nathan has played him like a fiddle, he's on his knees measuring John's inseam. John is standing very still, barely breathing. Harold purses his mouth and decides that he might as well finish taking John's measurements. At least John is wearing underwear, for once.
~~
The new suit arrives the next afternoon. John answers the door to receive it and saunters to Harold. "Want me to try it on?"
Harold rubs his eyes. He did not get much sleep last night. "You might as well." He is resolute not to be sorry that John goes to another room to change.
He doesn't even try to focus on his work, and just as well. When John arrives back in the room, fiddling with the bow tie he looks about twice as unfairly handsome as Harold expected him to be.
"Shall I help with the tie?" Harold says, resigning himself.
John gives him a sudden bright smile. "That would be nice of you."
Harold goes to stand behind John and fusses with his collar. Then he goes around to John's front to tie a proper bow. "Well," Harold says, retreating. "Let's look at you."
"If I'd known formalwear was your thing, I would've tried it ages ago." John's mouth turns up at the corners.
Harold beats a hasty retreat, putting most of the room between himself and that mouth. "I'm sure you'll do very well," he says.
~~
Harold gets himself a ticket to the gala. Nathan has been on his case to get out more, anyway.
He waits until John leaves to get dressed, choosing his outfit with deliberation. It's more fun than he'd like to admit: it's been a while since he had a good reason to dress up. He can't dress too nicely for most IFT functions, not without anyone asking where Sparrow from IT got the money for this sort of suit.
Bear whines at him, and Harold pets him, careful not to get fur on his suit. "You be good while I'm gone."
He takes a taxi to the gala, smiles at the woman who takes his ticket and his coat, and makes his way inside.
The reception is going on in full force. Harold gets himself a cup of sparkling water and watches society mill around him. The women's outfits are a tad repetitive for Harold's taste this season - everyone is trying to emulate, what's her name, some celebrity or other. The men are worse.
It's John that Harold spots first. Ms. Morgan dresses to blend in with the crowd - she's striking, certainly, but in a way that allows her to vanish behind the scenes when she wishes to.
Ms. Morgan is one of Nathan's elite team, along with Ms. Carter, the people whom Nathan dispatches to take care of the emergencies that Harold's software reports and in some cases, predicts. Ms. Morgan is very good at her job, and that's as much as Harold knows about her so far.
She's also beautiful. People who surround Nathan often are, with Harold as the exception that proves the rule. She and John make a very handsome couple: her leaning on his arm, the power in John's shoulders a beautiful contrast to Ms. Morgan's elegant hands.
Before he quite realizes he's doing it, Harold is close enough to John and Ms. Morgan that he can eavesdrop on their conversation.
"What about him?" John asks Ms. Morgan.
Ms. Morgan's gaze focuses on a man in a suit that's more tasteless than the room's average. "Without a question. Actually, that would be helpful." She smirks at John. "Do you want to seduce him, or shall I?"
"I can try, to begin with," John says easily. "You can step in if he needs extra persuasion."
They walk in tandem towards the man. The sudden nausea that Harold feels is the only thing that manages to break his horrified concentration.
"I think I need to go home," he mutters to absolutely no one, and makes his escape.
~~
Home is mercifully dark and empty, apart from Bear. Harold kneels shakily and presses his forehead into Bear's coarse fur. Bear whuffs and patiently endures Harold's fit of clinginess.
He tries to get up, but is overcome by a dizzy spell and the memory of John's confident voice offering unspeakable things. It's better to stay still; there is a real chance of him throwing up if he doesn't calm himself down.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters into Bear's fur. "This is bullshit."
For a little blessed while, the world is still and quiet. Then there is the sound of a glass settled on the coffee table.
Harold doesn't move and doesn't look up. "What," he says, too tired to even snap.
"There's some water over there for you," John says. His voice is soft, and Harold pathetically wants it draped over him like a blanket. "Do you need anything else?"
"Just privacy." Harold closes his eyes and prays that John will leave as silently as he came, that John will turn out to have been a bad dream after all. "Did you abandon Ms. Morgan at the party?"
"I had a sick friend to take care of," John says. "She understood."
Harold counts as he breathes: one, two, three, four, and out. If he concentrates on this, perhaps the nausea won't become worse. "I'm glad," he says, inanely. "But you might as well go back to her. I can see to myself perfectly well."
"You really don't look like you can," John says frankly. "I'm not explaining to Ingram why I let his star programmer hyperventilate to death." A moment later, something cool and smooth presses against Harold's cheek. "Drink," John says.
Harold takes the water. He drinks. To his surprise, it helps somewhat. "I think I'd like to go to sleep now." His voice shakes badly.
"Sounds like a plan." John takes the glass away from him and holds a hand. Harold allows himself to be helped to his feet. The ground feels like jello under him. "I want to help you get in bed. If I do, will I make this worse?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." But Harold lets John guide him to bed, lets him hold the blankets up so Harold can crawl underneath them.
For a long, unbroken moment John is just there, standing right next to him, and Harold knows if John asked to be let into Harold's bed, Harold could not refuse him right now.
"Good night," John says, and turns off the light. "Call me if you need anything."
Admittedly, he misses Grace. In hindsight, she was right to break up with him. She deserved better. Still, Harold has everything he needs: his work, Nathan’s friendship, and the love of the dog Nathan foisted on him.
Curse Nathan’s inability to leave well enough alone.
The… paid companion… is foisted on Harold much like the dog. Harold wakes up one day to see a beautiful man kneeling beside his bed.
“Hello,” Harold says, at a loss for words. An assassin would probably have acted already, not to mention worn more clothes.
“My name is John,” the man says. He truly is extraordinary. Harold’s eyes helplessly trace the fluid grace he exudes even in complete stillness. “I’m a gift from a friend.”
At that, Harold sits up and snaps, “Don’t be absurd. Gifts are objects. You’re a human being.”
John’s eyes crinkle, so briefly that Harold almost misses it. “My services, then.”
“I hope you’re good at shelving books,” Harold says.
John rises. Agreeably, he says, “I can do that.” Of course he doesn't bother to put on so much as a stitch of clothing first, so that Harold is subjected to a morning of pointedly looking away from John’s form as he stretches to put books away.
~~
At the end of the first week, Harold decides to be the better man and graciously admit defeat. "Whatever Nathan is paying you," he tells John, "I'll double it if you go away."
It's not that John is vulgar or crass. Those traits, Harold would have had no difficulty ignoring. It's that John looms constantly on the edge of Harold's vision, somehow managing to convey without saying a single syllable that he'd be available for sexual gratification at the crook of a finger.
John raises his eyebrows. "That's a lot of money." His voice is mild.
Harold stares at him steadily and waits for John to get the point, which is that he doesn't care. John is becoming a distraction that Harold can't afford.
Finally, John names a sum. It's exorbitant.
Harold writes him a check. "There'll be another one next month."
John accepts it, examines it, and takes out his phone. He takes a picture and sends it. "Mr. Ingram said he'll double any counter-offer you make."
Harold stares at him.
Possibly John mistakes his outrage at Nathan for horror, because he adds, "I'm not going to take it. I don't need that much. I'm just curious how long it takes before you run out of place for all the zeros."
"I'll move to scientific notation first," Harold says automatically. Then he rubs the bridge of his nose. "You could simply tell me what compensation would satisfy you, since you have an upper limit. I promise you I'm more stubborn than Nathan. This will save time and effort for everyone involved."
The smile on John's face is like getting bitten by a mosquito somewhere impossible to scratch. "Now you're just challenging my professional etiquette, Harold, not to mention my skills. I can't let that lie."
Harold's outraged expression probably speaks for itself. "Go away," he tells John.
With another one of those smiles, John says, "Sure thing, Harold." He walks away with a swaying motion that leaves Harold with a terrible headache and an erection that won't subside.
~~
"Are you going to thank God for Ms. Carter again," Harold states rather than asks, wary. Nathan's got that enraptured look on his face again, the one that means his favorite asset has found him a new way to save lives and incidentally dump a metric tonne of work into Harold's lap.
"I'm the luckiest sonuvabitch in the whole world," Nathan says placidly. "First I get you, then I get Carter. Someone up there likes me."
"Your player cheated when he rolled your charisma stats, you mean," Harold mutters, sullen. "If you're so grateful, you might express it by removing your professional pest from my house."
"He was supposed to be a gift," Nathan says, frowning. Then his expression smooths out. "You work so hard, Harry. You deserve someone being nice to you."
Through gritted teeth, Harold says, "Perhaps you should try doing that, instead."
Nathan goes to his infuriating habit of pretending the last five minutes of the conversation never happened. "Anyway, we need a couple new features." He pushes a scribbled-on napkin toward Harold, who takes it.
For a very short time, he tried insisting that Nathan only give him finalized requirement documents. The end results, printed out, were heavier than his laptop and made less intuitive sense to Harold than Nathan's semi-random notes did.
"These aren't just a couple of new features," Harold says. He's not surprised: he was expecting something along the line of a service pack. This, though, is more like an entire version.
"We're reaching a brand new market!" Nathan says, beaming.
"Nathan. We've discussed this. They have to pay us to count as a market."
Nathan waves it off. "They're our customers, Harry. The customer's always right."
"That doesn't make any-- you know what, fine." Harold slaps Nathan's notes on the table. He won't need the paper. The important parts are all in his mind. "But if your hire interrupts me while I'm working, so help me God, Nathan, I'm putting your Google history on the internet."
"You mean it isn't there already?" Nathan says in perfect deadpan. Harold sometimes misses the days when his crush on the man distracted him from how impossible Nathan could be.
Before Harold's halfway back home, he has the new design ready and glittering in his mind. A beautiful thought pattern, as shining and fragile as glass. It's immersive enough that Harold thinks of nothing beside it.
Nathan's original idea had involved hacking the CIA. While the idea was irresistibly intoxicating at first, Harold came to his senses soon enough and persuaded Nathan to take another course. People signed away bits and pieces of their privacy every day without a second thought. You couldn't get away with literal murder in the terms of service, but some breaking and entering was certainly possible.
Of course, some are savvy, or paranoid, or uninterested in any of the services that IFT has to offer. Harold himself is all three. Others haven't been able to use IFT software up till now because they didn't have a US social security number, which is what Ms. Carter brought up to Nathan. Those additional users would be overlooked by most development companies, as many of them didn't have much spare cash to spend on cellphone apps.
Cash, however, wasn't Nathan or Harold's goal.
At some point while Harold was busy writing stub routines, a sandwich materialized at his side along with a glass of water. Harold drained the latter, ruefully surprised to realize that he was starving and his back hurt from a long span of time in the same position. He stretched, wincing at his own popping joints.
"I do a mean backrub," John says. He's sitting on a couch next to Harold who, after ten years of pretending to work in a cubicle, has gotten very good at ignoring other people in his vicinity. "If you're taking a break."
"No, thank you." The words lacked Harold's usual venom. He did appreciate the sandwich.
John shrugs. "I'm going on a run soon, actually, if you need to stretch your bones."
In fact, a run sounds wonderful, but Harold doesn't have time right now. "I'm afraid not," he says, eyes already back on his screen.
On his way out, John pauses. "The thing you're working on. It's trying to reach undocumented immigrants."
"Among others, yes." Harold doesn't bother looking to see whether John approves.
"You still require an actual address," John says. "If these guys are homeless, they can't fill out your forms. Maybe add an option for a PO box or something."
That hasn't occurred to Harold. It'd been admittedly many years since he'd last been on the run without an address, and he didn't have to fill many forms at the time. "Thank you for your input. I'll consider it."
John doesn't respond. A few moments later, a door closes, and after that Harold stops paying attention to noises. He has work to do.
~~
The familiar crick in Harold's back tells him he fell asleep at his keyboard again. The gentle hand on the back of his neck, though, that's new.
"Come on."
He's being pulled up, and it's easier to obey than it would be to resist. He's half dreaming, led to his bed, laid down in it. A series of steps, familiar enough to drown him.
Harold closes his eyes and whispers, "No." He's not sure why he sounds the way he does, high and helpless. His voice hasn't been like this in decades.
"It's okay," John whispers in return. He pulls the covers over Harold. "Just sleep," and Harold does.
~~
The next morning, he gets breakfast in bed.
"Really?" Harold says, staring at the laden tray in front of him. The eggs are unfairly fluffy and golden.
John shrugs. "Seems like the best shot to get actual food in you. I think I'd need a crowbar to pry you away from your keyboard."
"Hah," Harold mutters. He has to do it around a mouthful of buttered bread, though, which probably detracts from the strength of his point.
Sad to say, John isn't wrong. Harold is definitely feeling better for decent food and decent sleep. He's more focused, sharper. Sharp enough to realize that the house has been cleaned at some point since yesterday morning.
"You're a housekeeper, now?" Harold says, sniffing at the air. It smells pleasantly floral.
"Mr. Ingram pays me to take care of you," John says. "I do what I can."
"Modesty doesn't become you," Harold says as he sits in his chair. He becomes engrossed soon enough that John's amused, "I'll bear that in mind," barely registers.
When Harold next surfaces, John is sitting cross-legged on the floor, possibly meditating. Harold takes a moment too long to look at him, the fan of his dark lashes against his cheek, how genuinely calm he seems. Maybe he'll be content to feed Harold and clean up after him, and cease his distracting attempts at... other things.
Of course, just thinking this is tempting fate. Harold is poking around, checking his changes in and updating his stream before delivery, when he makes the mistake of looking again.
John is doing some kind of yoga, is Harold's best guess. Why he's doing it in Harold's work room and not anywhere else is a question probably best left unasked. Harold doesn't know the names of the poses. The one John is doing now displays him in an unfairly attractive way, his chest thrust out, spine and legs stretched out, showing off functional strength, and (Harold swallows) flexibility.
He tears his eyes away, hoping John hasn't noticed. Possibly he'll stop soon, or go for a run, or for food, or for anything that doesn't involve displaying himself a few yards away from where Harold is attempting to get some work done.
The next time Harold looks, John has his shoulders and feet on the ground, arms braced to support him as his front is perfectly arched, giving Harold a blatant view of a cock that's either half erect or showy even soft.
Harold fixes his eyes on the screen ahead of him until he hears John padding off to another room, refusing to acknowledge the persistent pressure against his button fly.
~~
Day fades into night and Harold's arousal turns sour on him, leaving him in one of those moods where he's sick of his own body. He tries to talk himself into getting some exercise: rationally, he knows it will help.
Irrationally, he doesn't want to be helped, would rather stay locked in his own self-loathing.
He's just nearly convinced himself to go anyway when John smirks and says, "Want to go running?"
Harold clams up tight. "No." He turns his chair back to his desk, resolute now.
Behind him, he hears John sigh and move closer. Harold flinches when he feels a light touch on his shoulder.
A moment later, when John retreats, he turns around. "What?" he snaps.
"I'm starting to see why Ingram hired me." John's voice is glib, but there's a small frown on his face. "No offense, but if you keep going like this, you'll have a nervous breakdown."
"That's my affair." Harold turns to his screen.
Or tries to: John has reached out and snagged his chair. "It's my job to keep you happy," John says, "but it seems like I'm doing the opposite, and I don't understand why. Do you just not find me attractive?"
Harold glares at him. "You know I do."
John gives him a minute shrug in return. "Then what's the problem?"
Harold really doesn't want to have this discussion. "I'm not interested in sleeping with somebody who is paid to do it." That is a gross understatement, but Harold isn't about to elaborate.
John tilts his head. "You know, I do find you attractive. No, really," he says, when Harold tenses. "You've got good hands, and that super-intense thing you do is pretty hot. Also, I can tell you're smart. That's hot, too."
Harold crosses his arms, unimpressed.
John carries on. "You're not paying me to fake attraction."
"I'm not paying you at all," Harold mutters.
John ignores this. "If I didn't like you, on some level, I wouldn't have stayed in this job. Do you know how Ingram hired me?" He doesn't wait for Harold to respond. "I had a long term contract with another guy before. A hotshot lawyer, a real shark. He'd come home and half the time he was cursing the day Nathan Ingram was born, because he couldn't figure out how somebody who valued people over money became CEO of this huge, successful company."
Having a secretive genius at his back probably helped. Harold remains silent, curious despite himself to see where this is going.
"Then the lawyer and I ended our contract - nothing bad, he got a boyfriend who wanted to be exclusive - and I got an offer from Ingram." John holds Harold's gaze. Evenly, he says, "When I came to meet him, he wrote me a check for twenty thousand dollars. Said that it was for coming to meet him, that it was mine, whatever happened next, and that he was going to get coffee and if I wanted we could discuss a job offer when he came back."
That was very like Nathan. Harold rubbed his eyes. "We're doing a global minimum income program," he says. "He probably would've written you into the pilot, if you looked unwilling."
"Yeah," John says. "Point being, I wasn't." He sits down on the sofa, across the room from Harold, letting his legs splay. "This job lets me take care of people," he softly says. "I like that. I could take care of you, if you'd let me."
The words are sincerely meant. Harold can tell that much. He wishes he knew why they make him want to huddle in a tight little ball and never come out.
As it is, all he can do is shake his head helplessly. "No," he says, "no." He just manages to stagger out of the chair, leave the room before he can fall apart while John looks on, bewildered.
~~
It's not a good night.
Thinking about sex makes Harold physically sick. He thinks about Grace instead, remembering the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her laughter. He misses her so much that the longing is like a physical presence.
On nights like these, Harold is tempted to pick up the phone. Tell her that he's sorry, that he shouldn't have chosen his work with Nathan over her.
He can't forget their last conversation. She didn't cry, although her eyes were suspiciously bright. "You love the work you do," she'd said, "and I love that about you. But it'll always come first for you, and I can only be second for so long."
Right now, he'd dump IFT, Nathan, and every project he's worked on gladly to have her with him. At the same time, he knows himself. He'd only pick up another project the second he felt secure, something else to get lost in.
Grace was always so forthright and certain about the things she wanted. Harold misses that about her, the way she developed a career in art when everybody told her she'd fail. The way she told him, right at the start, she didn't like sex and would rather be alone than in a relationship with someone who expected that of her. The way she took in the world with single minded delight and let beauty flow out of her in return.
Damn Nathan. Up until his stupid attempt to fix Harold up, he'd forgotten how lonely he'd become.
~~
The next morning, Harold emerges cautiously from his bedroom. There is a hearty breakfast set on the table, and John is nowhere to be seen.
John returns just as Harold's done eating, his shirt and hair damp with sweat. He goes showers and emerges fully clothes, sitting on the couch with a book in his lap.
Harold can appreciate an olive branch as well as anyone. "Thank you for cooking."
John looks up at him and smiles. It's a beautiful expression. Harold feels all right admiring it from across the room, safely distant. "Hey, I'm not going to live on hot pockets," John says. "Neither should you." He seems willing to let the other night go.
Perhaps Harold should as well, but he knows he'll just worry at it until he's made himself explicit. "I won't have sex with you." He says it with finality, bracing himself up for an argument.
John just says, "Okay," as easy as anything.
Harold blinks at him. "I admit, I was prepared for you to be much more difficult about this."
"Harold," John says, with exaggerated patience, "I get it. No means no. If you change your mind, or want something beside housekeeping, let me know. I'll leave you alone otherwise."
"Will you," Harold says, suspiciously.
John shrugs and goes back to his book.
Later that day, he sees John just as he's lacing up his running shoes, and finds himself saying, "Can I join you?"
John flashes him a genuine, if startled, smile. "Of course."
Running is not Harold's favorite activity, but he appreciate the way it clears his mind, leaves his body pleasantly sore. John could outrun him with ease, but he keeps his pace to one Harold has no trouble following. They don't talk.
~~
Once they settle into a routine, having John around is... nice. Harold can feel his own productivity going up due to improved sleeping, eating and exercise habits.
Nathan gives him a disgusted look when Harold says this. "I didn't hire him to make you more productive, Harold."
Harold raises an eyebrow. Nathan is a good man, but even with Harold at his back, IFT did not become a multibillion dollar international corporation solely because Nathan is nice.
"Well, all right, not just to make you more productive." Nathan smiles at him. "You look happy, Harry. Do you have any idea how long it's been?"
Harold shrugs. He could probably give an estimate. "The newest update is released."
Nathan beams at him and raises his water glass, which Harold clinks with a rueful smile. "Okay, so next up, I want you to give me a miracle."
"Must be Tuesday," Harold murmurs.
Nathan ignores this. "We have some sensitive projects, as you well know. I want a good indication of who might be a good - or terrible - to put in charge of them. As we don't have access to police records...." He spreads his hands.
Harold could hack into those, but that's not the issue. When Nathan says sensitive, he doesn't mean classified: he means that the projects deal with vulnerable people in positions of weakness. The very worst types for those wouldn't have a criminal record. A padded bank account can hide any number of sins. "I'll see what I can do."
"On another note," Nathan says, "you wouldn't mind if I gave our John an additional task, right?"
The our makes Harold bristle. "He's hardly mine. Do whatever you want."
It's only when he leaves the restaurant that he realizes Nathan may have done that on purpose, to distract Harold from asking what task, exactly, he had in mind.
~~
It's two AM, and Harold thinks he might be ready to admit defeat.
Perversely, the one thing that may be keeping him from doing so is John, who stands blinking in the doorway and asks, "Are you going to sleep?" while yawning.
"I think not," Harold says, eyes fixed on the screen. "It's a reprehensible pastime for weak minds."
John's laughter is quiet and brief, but it feels genuine. "You know, scratch nervous breakdown: I think Ingram hired me because he was worried about you becoming an evil overlord."
"The idea is growing on me," Harold says, swiveling in his chair. "Here, sit down. Be a duck."
John obeys, and, rather doubtfully, goes, "Quack?"
"Not--" Harold gestures broadly. "It's a, a term for a kind of debugging. I explain the problem to you in detail. You don't have to answer, or even respond. The idea is that the act of explaining the problem would clarify it to me, and help me come up with a solution."
John nods and gives him an expectant look.
"This isn't a software problem," Harold tells him. "I need to find a good man." He has a sudden mental image of himself carrying a broken lamp and wandering around the country wearing a barrel. God, he needs to sleep. "Or woman, or person -- someone who could be entrusted with the care of vulnerable individuals. No, worse," he interrupts himself. "I need a reliable method of finding such people. And given that I have, at best, a patchy background of any given person's history...." he trails off. "Well, that didn't help at all."
"Sorry?" John says.
Harold waves it off. "Not your fault. Nathan needs to understand I'm not actually superhuman. He'll live."
Mentioning Nathan's name put an intent expression on John's face. "Can I make a suggestion?" Harold mutely waves him on. "What about quizzes?"
"...Quizzes."
"Like ones in magazines," John says. "Or on Friendczar."
Perhaps John had a point about sleep. Harold suspects he might be hallucinating. "...Friendczar."
John waves his hand. "You know the type. Which kind of dog you'd be. What Hogwarts house." He pauses, then adds, "A German shepherd, and a Griffindor, respectively."
"John," Harold says with deliberation, "please go to sleep."
John shrugs and saunters away. The shoulder strap of his too-large undershirt falls as he does, drawing attention to the elegant line of his collarbone.
Harold turns sharply to his screen. He persists a few more moments before slinking to his own bed in shame.
~~
He wakes up at six in the morning brimming with ideas. John leaves him a sandwich and says something which Harold doesn't register, clicking away as he does.
When he finally looks up, it's evening, there is an empty plate beside his elbow, and John is nowhere to be seen.
Well. John is a grown man who can certainly mind his own affairs. Harold busies himself with administrative nonsense and the small backlog of bug fixes that have built up. Nothing absorbing enough to keep Harold from his bed.
Harold stays up anyway.
He jumps when he hears footsteps. Any hope that this might have passed unnoticed is shattered by John's amused, "It's just me."
Harold turns sharply in his chair. He just barely manages to quell the urge to ask John where he's been. Instead, he asks, "What's that?", nodding at the dry cleaning bag that John is holding.
"For my mission," John says with a straight face. "Apparently I'm to escort Ms. Zoe Morgan to the gala in two days."
Harold blinks. He knows Ms. Morgan, admittedly not well but he would have thought her capable of procuring her own dates. "I see."
"Nathan said you wouldn't mind," John says.
"I don't." Harold turns back to his computer.
A rustle of fabric gets him to look, however. This is a grave mistake, first because there is something fascinating about John in the process of donning a tuxedo, and then--
"Who on Earth picked that for you?" Harold exclaims. The suit nominally fits John, but it's too wide at the waist and too narrow at the shoulders. John looks likely to strain the seams: if the jacket doesn't rip, it will significantly constrain John's range of movement. "Take that off. I'll bring my measuring tape."
By the time it occurs to Harold that Nathan has played him like a fiddle, he's on his knees measuring John's inseam. John is standing very still, barely breathing. Harold purses his mouth and decides that he might as well finish taking John's measurements. At least John is wearing underwear, for once.
~~
The new suit arrives the next afternoon. John answers the door to receive it and saunters to Harold. "Want me to try it on?"
Harold rubs his eyes. He did not get much sleep last night. "You might as well." He is resolute not to be sorry that John goes to another room to change.
He doesn't even try to focus on his work, and just as well. When John arrives back in the room, fiddling with the bow tie he looks about twice as unfairly handsome as Harold expected him to be.
"Shall I help with the tie?" Harold says, resigning himself.
John gives him a sudden bright smile. "That would be nice of you."
Harold goes to stand behind John and fusses with his collar. Then he goes around to John's front to tie a proper bow. "Well," Harold says, retreating. "Let's look at you."
"If I'd known formalwear was your thing, I would've tried it ages ago." John's mouth turns up at the corners.
Harold beats a hasty retreat, putting most of the room between himself and that mouth. "I'm sure you'll do very well," he says.
~~
Harold gets himself a ticket to the gala. Nathan has been on his case to get out more, anyway.
He waits until John leaves to get dressed, choosing his outfit with deliberation. It's more fun than he'd like to admit: it's been a while since he had a good reason to dress up. He can't dress too nicely for most IFT functions, not without anyone asking where Sparrow from IT got the money for this sort of suit.
Bear whines at him, and Harold pets him, careful not to get fur on his suit. "You be good while I'm gone."
He takes a taxi to the gala, smiles at the woman who takes his ticket and his coat, and makes his way inside.
The reception is going on in full force. Harold gets himself a cup of sparkling water and watches society mill around him. The women's outfits are a tad repetitive for Harold's taste this season - everyone is trying to emulate, what's her name, some celebrity or other. The men are worse.
It's John that Harold spots first. Ms. Morgan dresses to blend in with the crowd - she's striking, certainly, but in a way that allows her to vanish behind the scenes when she wishes to.
Ms. Morgan is one of Nathan's elite team, along with Ms. Carter, the people whom Nathan dispatches to take care of the emergencies that Harold's software reports and in some cases, predicts. Ms. Morgan is very good at her job, and that's as much as Harold knows about her so far.
She's also beautiful. People who surround Nathan often are, with Harold as the exception that proves the rule. She and John make a very handsome couple: her leaning on his arm, the power in John's shoulders a beautiful contrast to Ms. Morgan's elegant hands.
Before he quite realizes he's doing it, Harold is close enough to John and Ms. Morgan that he can eavesdrop on their conversation.
"What about him?" John asks Ms. Morgan.
Ms. Morgan's gaze focuses on a man in a suit that's more tasteless than the room's average. "Without a question. Actually, that would be helpful." She smirks at John. "Do you want to seduce him, or shall I?"
"I can try, to begin with," John says easily. "You can step in if he needs extra persuasion."
They walk in tandem towards the man. The sudden nausea that Harold feels is the only thing that manages to break his horrified concentration.
"I think I need to go home," he mutters to absolutely no one, and makes his escape.
~~
Home is mercifully dark and empty, apart from Bear. Harold kneels shakily and presses his forehead into Bear's coarse fur. Bear whuffs and patiently endures Harold's fit of clinginess.
He tries to get up, but is overcome by a dizzy spell and the memory of John's confident voice offering unspeakable things. It's better to stay still; there is a real chance of him throwing up if he doesn't calm himself down.
"This is ridiculous," he mutters into Bear's fur. "This is bullshit."
For a little blessed while, the world is still and quiet. Then there is the sound of a glass settled on the coffee table.
Harold doesn't move and doesn't look up. "What," he says, too tired to even snap.
"There's some water over there for you," John says. His voice is soft, and Harold pathetically wants it draped over him like a blanket. "Do you need anything else?"
"Just privacy." Harold closes his eyes and prays that John will leave as silently as he came, that John will turn out to have been a bad dream after all. "Did you abandon Ms. Morgan at the party?"
"I had a sick friend to take care of," John says. "She understood."
Harold counts as he breathes: one, two, three, four, and out. If he concentrates on this, perhaps the nausea won't become worse. "I'm glad," he says, inanely. "But you might as well go back to her. I can see to myself perfectly well."
"You really don't look like you can," John says frankly. "I'm not explaining to Ingram why I let his star programmer hyperventilate to death." A moment later, something cool and smooth presses against Harold's cheek. "Drink," John says.
Harold takes the water. He drinks. To his surprise, it helps somewhat. "I think I'd like to go to sleep now." His voice shakes badly.
"Sounds like a plan." John takes the glass away from him and holds a hand. Harold allows himself to be helped to his feet. The ground feels like jello under him. "I want to help you get in bed. If I do, will I make this worse?"
"Your guess is as good as mine." But Harold lets John guide him to bed, lets him hold the blankets up so Harold can crawl underneath them.
For a long, unbroken moment John is just there, standing right next to him, and Harold knows if John asked to be let into Harold's bed, Harold could not refuse him right now.
"Good night," John says, and turns off the light. "Call me if you need anything."
no subject
Date: 2018-12-24 03:49 am (UTC)Harold is so difficult to take care of! But I love that he and Nathan are working on a universal income program. That's very much a thing they'd be into.
no subject
Date: 2018-12-25 10:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-24 04:47 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-25 10:12 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-24 09:57 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-25 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-24 04:06 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-25 10:13 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-24 08:02 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-25 10:14 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-26 02:45 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-26 06:08 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2018-12-27 01:11 am (UTC)Aside from that, I really love how immersed this is in Harold's point of view, that when he's absorbed in coding we have absolutely no idea what John is doing. It's so incredibly tightly focused and I love it. Can't wait to see where you want to take this!
no subject
Date: 2018-12-27 01:53 pm (UTC)Thank you so much! Grace is definitely ace in this one.
The second part is up on AO3, here https://archiveofourown.org/works/17158760!