“That was fast work, Mr. Reese?” he offered, unsure whether Baxter unconscious in his chair and John busily rifling the contents of his desk meant their case had reached an abrupt conclusion.
Still, if Baxter was up to no good and John was uninjured, it would also be a satisfactory one.
“I’d like to think at least some of them will be this easy,” John said. He came around the desk, held out a handful of glossy photos. “We need to talk about you staying out of the line of fire.”
Harold took the pictures, glancing briefly at the unconscious man. “I’m sure the only one with a gun here is you, Mr. Reese.”
He didn’t need to be watching Reese to know the look he was getting could have stripped paint. “You step into a situation, Finch, you become the weapon.”
The pictures showed a shirtless man being held down on the desk John had been going through. There were three other men crowded around him, Baxter being one, and the attention they were bestowing did not appear welcome or appreciated. Harold glanced over the first six or seven images, like a slow motion flicker show. The story they told was not a pleasant one, and Baxter featured on every page as a man who clearly thrived on power. And its abuse.
Finch could not miss the similarity between the dark haired male in the photos and Reese. He turned a caustic look at Baxter.
“A talk?”
Reese shrugged. “I guess we were lucky he has a type. There’s a name on the back of the photos.”
“Yes, I will celebrate our good fortune later that you attracted the attentions of this....” He trailed off, turning over the first picture. ‘Peter’ was written in neat block lettering.
That explained the unanswered and increasingly angry texts.
“The only thing we need to know now,” John said, “is who was taking the photos.”
“Yes,” Harold said, because of course Baxter’s hands were busy. There was always the possibility he had used a timer, but some of the shots captured too well the height of emotion in the scenes. Lindstrom’s vulnerability. The thrill of power in every taut muscle as Baxter pressed on his abdomen to hold him down. “And have a discussion about you not keeping me advised when you are venturing into the lair of a sadist.”
John bristled. “You hired me to do a job, Harold. This is me doing my job.”
Of course, he knew Reese was right. But it was one thing to have predicted for John their prospects of survival when he was trying to recruit him and quite another to contemplate Baxter’s plans when he had summoned John to the office. To begin to groom him.
“You doing your job isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s how you keep me informed when are you doing it.”
But he supposed he was going to have to get used it. This wasn’t the type of work they could do at a safe distance and there would be occasions when John wouldn’t have time to brief him before acting.
Without warning, John leapt at him.
Harold startled, wondering in a brief second if he’d seriously misjudged Reese; perhaps it was PTSD, perhaps he was simply a psychopath, and the price for that misjudgement would be grievously high.
Then Reese’s hand closed on the back of Harold’s neck and he moved him – spun him aside.
Harold had time to be astonished that Reese had done it without hurting him before a hiss of pain snapped his attention back to the operative.
Reese stepped back, keeping himself between Harold and the red haired waitress who’d served the salad. She had a kitchen knife in her hand, and was waving it at John in huge scything arcs.
“I always knew he’d push too far one day, attract the wrong kind of attention. You cops?”
Reese was moving - always keeping himself between the woman and Harold. “You need to put down the knife.”
The woman laughed. “Of course, not a problem. Fuck, this is all his fault. I just...all I did was nudge people at him and then take the pictures.” She waved the weapon at Baxter before pointing it at Reese again. “I can’t walk away and leave any of you standing.”
She lunged forward suddenly, and Harold had to act. The chair was right there, and even though it cost him his balance, he was able to put his foot against it and kick it at her.
She tumbled over it, and John took the opportunity to kick the knife from her hand. He slammed a punch into her face, sending her unconscious to the floor, where she landed a few feet from Finch.
Harold pushed himself awkwardly upright. His back hadn’t hurt this much since a certain person had slammed him against a wall, but to be fair John had woken to find himself ostensibly kidnapped and half tied to a bed so Harold knew allowances there were appropriate.
Getting to his feet, on the other hand, would require assistance.
John was at his side before Harold even knew he’d approached. “This is why we need to talk about you stepping into things,” he said.
Harold held out his hands and Reese took them. “We need to get me on my feet, first. Yes, I think perhaps now. And if there’s to be any remonstrating, Mr. Reese....”
The pain twisted around his spine then, and any desire to discuss it further was swallowed up by the desire to keep breathing.
“Okay, hang on.” John’s grip was strong, his support sure. He didn’t try to pull Harold up, had the sense enough to just be something secure for him to hang on to as he inched his way to his feet. After all, Harold knew himself best, knew which way his body would work now and which way it certainly wouldn’t.
He was finally standing up when he felt something slick beneath his fingers. He looked down, saw the dark smudge across the back of John’s hand, and followed it up until it vanished beneath his cuff, until he saw the source – a gaping slice in the white sleeve at his elbow and a gash of at least four inches.
“Harold,” John said, voice tight.
“I think perhaps I should sit down again,” Harold gasped. His hold on John, on consciousness, became frail and almost too much of an effort to fight for. The room sloped away from him, and he fell against something strong and firm; whatever it was it didn’t yield.
And apparently it had arms because they were wrapped around him now, holding him up.
“It’s ok, I’ve got you,” John said. “It’s ok.”
I’m sure, Harold wanted to say, but then he remembered that John’s arm was hurt and there was blood, and that was enough to push him under all the way.
Re: Fill: Breadcrumbs, Adult, offscreen non/con and D/s (2/3) Injury in this part
Still, if Baxter was up to no good and John was uninjured, it would also be a satisfactory one.
“I’d like to think at least some of them will be this easy,” John said. He came around the desk, held out a handful of glossy photos. “We need to talk about you staying out of the line of fire.”
Harold took the pictures, glancing briefly at the unconscious man. “I’m sure the only one with a gun here is you, Mr. Reese.”
He didn’t need to be watching Reese to know the look he was getting could have stripped paint. “You step into a situation, Finch, you become the weapon.”
The pictures showed a shirtless man being held down on the desk John had been going through. There were three other men crowded around him, Baxter being one, and the attention they were bestowing did not appear welcome or appreciated. Harold glanced over the first six or seven images, like a slow motion flicker show. The story they told was not a pleasant one, and Baxter featured on every page as a man who clearly thrived on power. And its abuse.
Finch could not miss the similarity between the dark haired male in the photos and Reese. He turned a caustic look at Baxter.
“A talk?”
Reese shrugged. “I guess we were lucky he has a type. There’s a name on the back of the photos.”
“Yes, I will celebrate our good fortune later that you attracted the attentions of this....” He trailed off, turning over the first picture. ‘Peter’ was written in neat block lettering.
That explained the unanswered and increasingly angry texts.
“The only thing we need to know now,” John said, “is who was taking the photos.”
“Yes,” Harold said, because of course Baxter’s hands were busy. There was always the possibility he had used a timer, but some of the shots captured too well the height of emotion in the scenes. Lindstrom’s vulnerability. The thrill of power in every taut muscle as Baxter pressed on his abdomen to hold him down. “And have a discussion about you not keeping me advised when you are venturing into the lair of a sadist.”
John bristled. “You hired me to do a job, Harold. This is me doing my job.”
Of course, he knew Reese was right. But it was one thing to have predicted for John their prospects of survival when he was trying to recruit him and quite another to contemplate Baxter’s plans when he had summoned John to the office. To begin to groom him.
“You doing your job isn’t the problem,” he said. “It’s how you keep me informed when are you doing it.”
But he supposed he was going to have to get used it. This wasn’t the type of work they could do at a safe distance and there would be occasions when John wouldn’t have time to brief him before acting.
Without warning, John leapt at him.
Harold startled, wondering in a brief second if he’d seriously misjudged Reese; perhaps it was PTSD, perhaps he was simply a psychopath, and the price for that misjudgement would be grievously high.
Then Reese’s hand closed on the back of Harold’s neck and he moved him – spun him aside.
Harold had time to be astonished that Reese had done it without hurting him before a hiss of pain snapped his attention back to the operative.
Reese stepped back, keeping himself between Harold and the red haired waitress who’d served the salad. She had a kitchen knife in her hand, and was waving it at John in huge scything arcs.
“I always knew he’d push too far one day, attract the wrong kind of attention. You cops?”
Reese was moving - always keeping himself between the woman and Harold. “You need to put down the knife.”
The woman laughed. “Of course, not a problem. Fuck, this is all his fault. I just...all I did was nudge people at him and then take the pictures.” She waved the weapon at Baxter before pointing it at Reese again. “I can’t walk away and leave any of you standing.”
She lunged forward suddenly, and Harold had to act. The chair was right there, and even though it cost him his balance, he was able to put his foot against it and kick it at her.
She tumbled over it, and John took the opportunity to kick the knife from her hand. He slammed a punch into her face, sending her unconscious to the floor, where she landed a few feet from Finch.
Harold pushed himself awkwardly upright. His back hadn’t hurt this much since a certain person had slammed him against a wall, but to be fair John had woken to find himself ostensibly kidnapped and half tied to a bed so Harold knew allowances there were appropriate.
Getting to his feet, on the other hand, would require assistance.
John was at his side before Harold even knew he’d approached. “This is why we need to talk about you stepping into things,” he said.
Harold held out his hands and Reese took them. “We need to get me on my feet, first. Yes, I think perhaps now. And if there’s to be any remonstrating, Mr. Reese....”
The pain twisted around his spine then, and any desire to discuss it further was swallowed up by the desire to keep breathing.
“Okay, hang on.” John’s grip was strong, his support sure. He didn’t try to pull Harold up, had the sense enough to just be something secure for him to hang on to as he inched his way to his feet. After all, Harold knew himself best, knew which way his body would work now and which way it certainly wouldn’t.
He was finally standing up when he felt something slick beneath his fingers. He looked down, saw the dark smudge across the back of John’s hand, and followed it up until it vanished beneath his cuff, until he saw the source – a gaping slice in the white sleeve at his elbow and a gash of at least four inches.
“Harold,” John said, voice tight.
“I think perhaps I should sit down again,” Harold gasped. His hold on John, on consciousness, became frail and almost too much of an effort to fight for. The room sloped away from him, and he fell against something strong and firm; whatever it was it didn’t yield.
And apparently it had arms because they were wrapped around him now, holding him up.
“It’s ok, I’ve got you,” John said. “It’s ok.”
I’m sure, Harold wanted to say, but then he remembered that John’s arm was hurt and there was blood, and that was enough to push him under all the way.