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Um. Someday I am going to say firmly that NO I AM NOT WRITING THIS and mean it. But today is not that day, apparently.
A sudden flurry of movement on the sofa to his left; he whirled, almost fell; adrenaline shot through him, and then he relaxed. He knew the silhouette with a revolver at the end of its arm, better than he would know his own reflection.
"John," he said; his first feeling was relief, immediately followed by indignation. "What are you doing here?" and it was too late to say "Mr. Reese" but he should have made the tone of the encounter clear. "Did you follow me? Really, that's quite unacceptable--"
"I know about most of your hidey-holes by now, Finch. And whatever boundaries we'd got left, I think we took care of earlier tonight." This was take care of in the sense of kill, maim or make vanish. They'd thrown the boundaries out a window; buried them in a shallow grave or a Mexican prison; crippled them for life.
"Fine," he said, as crisply as he could, "but you didn't answer me. What are you doing here?"
"Sleeping on your couch. Planning to make you breakfast, if you have any actual food here." He shrugged. "Being a concerned… second party."
"You think I'm going to… what? Off myself?" It was an interesting expression, akin somehow to the previously referenced getting off, the same sense of stepping away from the world for a time, or forever. The big death and the little one.
"Suicide watch? No. Not your style. Besides, we agreed you've got a big day tomorrow. Today, I mean."
"We have not--"
"You want to fight me on this, Harold?"
John's voice was particularly suited to threats; Harold had often noted it. This one was a gentle threat; it shouldn't have been possible, but John managed it.
I am not saying I will finish it or post it, mind; but I am writing it. (And if I do finish and post it, I am determined to do it before next Thursday.)
A sudden flurry of movement on the sofa to his left; he whirled, almost fell; adrenaline shot through him, and then he relaxed. He knew the silhouette with a revolver at the end of its arm, better than he would know his own reflection.
"John," he said; his first feeling was relief, immediately followed by indignation. "What are you doing here?" and it was too late to say "Mr. Reese" but he should have made the tone of the encounter clear. "Did you follow me? Really, that's quite unacceptable--"
"I know about most of your hidey-holes by now, Finch. And whatever boundaries we'd got left, I think we took care of earlier tonight." This was take care of in the sense of kill, maim or make vanish. They'd thrown the boundaries out a window; buried them in a shallow grave or a Mexican prison; crippled them for life.
"Fine," he said, as crisply as he could, "but you didn't answer me. What are you doing here?"
"Sleeping on your couch. Planning to make you breakfast, if you have any actual food here." He shrugged. "Being a concerned… second party."
"You think I'm going to… what? Off myself?" It was an interesting expression, akin somehow to the previously referenced getting off, the same sense of stepping away from the world for a time, or forever. The big death and the little one.
"Suicide watch? No. Not your style. Besides, we agreed you've got a big day tomorrow. Today, I mean."
"We have not--"
"You want to fight me on this, Harold?"
John's voice was particularly suited to threats; Harold had often noted it. This one was a gentle threat; it shouldn't have been possible, but John managed it.
I am not saying I will finish it or post it, mind; but I am writing it. (And if I do finish and post it, I am determined to do it before next Thursday.)
