#anurbanlcgend 01

[theyxlived]

Not Just Another Number...

Closed starter for @anurbanlcgend​

Light travels faster than sound. Everyone knows that. But what most people don’t know? A bullet travels fastest. Sometimes hits its mark before the sound of it can even consider becoming an echo. That echo that reverberates in her skull. Wet heat on her skin. On her hands as pure shock has her looking down. Seeing what should be on the inside of her on the outside. Oddly it reminds her of properly made and blended marinara sauce. A slightly weird, if not disgusting thing to think of in the aftermath of a bullet ripping through her chest--but there it was.

The world streaking into colors. Buildings melding with sky. Brick with side walk. And the collison of her hitting gritty concrete. And maybe she notices the sky for the first time in a what feels like her whole life. Blue sky and whisps of clouds that so often go unappriciated because most everyone in this city lives in a bubble. Never thinking to look up let alone doing it. And the beauty of it is only interupted now by the fact she can’t breathe. By the instinct to cough as the dark closes in. By the fact she’s going t--

A half step back from crossing the street. No. No not that way. Worn converse on the sidewalk. A one eighty turn and weaving against the current of cross walkers until she can make it into the other lane of pedestrians. Feet hurrying her back to the corner, a breath. Two. A step towards the other crossing. 

Eyes. Green like the living room used to be on Sunday mornings. The sun washing in from the windows. Lighting up her mother’s small jungle of creeping vines and elephant eared plants. Color that got reflected into the rest of the room. Warmed it up. Made if feel like a home as much as look like one. They alone make her want to trust. Believe in the person they belong to. Even if she knows nothing at all about him. Not yet. Doesn’t know the story set into the edges of a five o’clock shadow. The history written into the laugh lines. What little tales lie painted in thin strips of grey through black. But it feels safe. That face.

Hands on her arms. Ones that catch not restrain. Shattered glass, water splattered on her shirt not blood. Ear piercing sound that drowns out his voice. Soft wool gripped in her hands. Fingers in her hair that do their best to shelter amid more peels of thunder and then it all goes quiet like the New York City sidewalk she’s standing on isn’t. 

A sharp intake. This way. This is the way she needs to go. And tired feet that have been traversing this city all night--she wills them to move from the dead stop the vision caused. The hood of her jacket pulled down further as she crosses the street and moves onward with the flow of other human beings trapped in their own bubbles.

---

That was hours ago. Now she stands at another street corner in a forgotten bit of concrete jungle. Staring up at the building that one day will be something else. A pity given the what it is. What she guesses it once was. It won’t ever see the glory days it once had. But so goes life right? Everything and everyone dies...eventually. 

A morbid thought all things considered. A deep breath drawn in. Shoulders drawn square with it and then allowed to sag with its escape. Hands in the pockets of her hoodie balled into nervous fists. Feet shuffling near balding soles on the concrete. She has to get every facet of this right. One tiny flaw and the future she sees that is best won’t happen. She’s got to be brave. She’s got--

Movement. A sky blue gaze that fixates on the silhouette coming clear of the building. Lips that she wets. Hands that fist all the harder, before one hand is pulled out. Set to her hood, that’s pushed back. Lips that are already dry again drawn into a thin line with the hard swallow she takes as one foot is put forward. Then another and another and so on until she comes to a stop a dozen feet from the man she’s only ever seen in clipped imagery. Another breath as she pushes out what she needs to say. No matter how much she wishes she sounded bigger than she does.

           “My name is Sasha Petrov...I think you’ve been looking for me?”

[fatherofmachine-a]

@anurbanlcgend​ CONT.

The steady beep of the heart monitor had become little more than a drone in the back of John’s mind, a tiny little message from Harold saying I’m still alive, Mr. Reese. At least that was how he imagined it in the hours he spent sitting in the chair, alternating between watching Harold, watching the door, and watching out the window for any approaching operatives. Occasionally he spared a glance upwards to the patient camera the nurses used.

Are you still up there? he thought once. He opened his mouth to say it, hesitated as the sound caught in his throat, and closed his mouth again, returning to watching the window.

Reese spent hours that way. He needed medical care too, and at least one of the nurses coming and going tried to talk him into it, but he couldn’t explain to them the life altering fight that had just went down, that he didn’t know if they were still safe, that he had to keep an eye on Harold, that he had to make sure he was safe above all else.

At some point, exhaustion won out and he nodded off in his seat, leaning his head against the windowsill. Everything hurt, a full body ache that made it hard to pinpoint the major injuries—a consequence of having a missile bring a building down on your head, he supposed—with the exception of his left leg. It was… it wasn’t doing good, crushed under rubble and then some. He’d have to have it checked out, eventually, but now wasn’t the time. First he had to make sure Harold was fine, and then he had to make contact with Shaw. Then he’d worry about his leg.

“…John?”

The voice brought him out of his sleep and dreams of fire and gunpowder with a shocking abruptness, sitting up sharply, sending pain corkscrewing around bones, fractured and otherwise, and badly bruised muscles. A soft grunt escaped him, bringing a hand to his stomach, bruised from the multiple gunshots his vest had caught, but he was already looking over at Harold.

“I’m here,” he said, a little hoarse, and cleared his throat as he stood up unsteadily on his good leg, before limping over to the bed with a little assistance from leaning on the end of the hospital bed for support. He slid onto the bed next to him, even now as he was wracked with pain being mindful of Harold’s injuries. He reached up to rest a hand on his chest, but his other hand came up to take Harold’s hand nearest to him. “You’re awake.”

They talked a little, John filled him in on what he knew so far, that they were safe for now, that he hadn’t made contact with Shaw or Fusco yet [ I wanted to focus on you went unspoken. ], and an emphasis on I’m okay when Harold turned his attention to it, even though he’d just watched John limp, heavily, from the chair to the side of Harold’s bed. Still, a smile settled onto his features. Tired, world worn and exhausted into the bones, but a smile all the same.

But for the moment, Harold seemed okay to let it go, at least, instead disentangling his hand and reaching up for John. John, who put up no resistance at all, leaning down gladly to capture Harold’s lips with his own. One hand came up, an instinct at this point, to slide beneath Harold’s neck, calloused fingers brushing across old scars with as much tenderness as an ex-assassin could possible muster… which turned out to be quite a lot, as he braced Harold’s neck, ensuring it didn’t bend any as they kissed.

The sweeping relief the kiss started with drained into a kind of desperation as his other hand, the one that had previously been clutching Harold’s hand, slid up to cup the side of his face, fingers curled gently around the warm skin of his cheek and the side of his neck, his thumb resting lower down on his chin as they sat there.

Some of Harold’s scent, the smell of tea and incense that hung so heavily around him, had mostly been replaced by something more sterile, iodine and alcohol or some other disinfectants, along with the stony-cement smell that hung around John, still clinging to his suit despite his best attempts to brush off.

When they parted, he still leaned in, even as his joints and his bones and his muscles ached at the position, so he could rest his forehead against, the end of his nose brushing Harold’s.

“I think we’re okay,” he said, eventually, in a low rasp so quiet it was almost impossible to hear beyond them. “I think we won.”

   The ONLY THING Harold remembered about reaching the hospital was that he'd somehow made it there on foot. Everything else was either entirely blank or a blur. He'd lost a lot of blood, been in far more pain than he'd EVER experienced all at once—which, for someone with chronic pain, that was saying something. And yet, somehow he'd made the trek down from the top of the building, through the streets of New York, where he remained unconscious in a hospital bed, for the moment.

   Harold hadn't known then if he'd ever see John again; in fact, despite his desperate hope, he practically BET on it being incredibly unlikely. When he began to stir, all of his senses gradually coming back to him as consciousness encompassed him once more, he'd expected to be alone. Those who would have stayed until he awoke were gone, he'd thought, and truly, he didn't blame the others for not being here. They had their own lives to rebuild, their own wounds to heal.

   As blue eyes fluttered open, however, Harold turned head and shoulders stiffly, glancing around—and it felt like his heart had practically leapt into his throat at the sight of John’s sleeping form. He was perched on a chair, his head resting against the windowsill ... and he looked like hell, even if the sight of him at all, STILL ALIVE, was the most incredible thing he could've asked for. Harold felt an overwhelming surge of emotion swell in his chest, curl in his throat enough to make his eyes burn. He cleared his throat softly before finding his voice.

"... John?"

   John awoke with a start at the MERE SOUND of Harold’s voice and he couldn’t help but wince at the clear pain the movement caused; but the sound of John’s voice caused another twinge of emotion, so much desperate love and relief. 'I'm here,' he'd said, sounding absolutely as pained as he looked. Of course Harold noticed the way he moved, the CLEAR INDICATORS that he was in worse shape than Harold was now. He resolved himself to convince John to get the help he needed.

   At first, however, they discussed the situation at hand; all the while, Harold easily twined their fingers together when John took his hand, rested his other atop the wrist of the hand resting against his chest. They needed to touch bases with Miss Shaw and Fusco, Harold found out what exactly had happened to John—which was when he did try to bring attention to his injuries, but ... he emphasized how fine he was. Harold let out a quiet sigh ... before disentangling one of his hands to reach for him, coaxing him to lean in so that he could capture John's lips with his own.

   A sweeping, bone deep relief encompassed him, as if kissing John was like a long drink of water after having been SEVERELY dehydrated. Things intensified quickly, however, and Harold's other hand came up to curl into the lapels of his ruined suit jacket. A soft, wavering sigh escaped him as they parted and Harold could FEEL the way the answering pain made him wince—he tried to stifle it, but ... he knew John too well for that.

   "Yes," he agreed, speaking just as softly between them, briefly allowing blue eyes to flutter shut. "I believe so." They lingered there like that for a few minutes, Harold allowing himself to simply BASK in John's presence, knowing that he was here and he was alive. Now, he had to try and CONVINCE the most selfless man alive to get his injuries taken care of. He glanced up to regard John’s features, breathing in a scent that was DISTINCTLY John underneath ( a smoky musk scent, very frequently with a hint of gunpowder ), but partially shrouded by the dusty cement smell that clung to him. Harold slid his hands up to hold John's face between them, gently urging him to look up.

  "You've gotta get yourself checked out now, John. I can handle contacting Miss Shaw and Fusco—my phone's in reach, I won't exert myself. YOU, on the other hand, nearly got crushed to death by a collapsing building," Harold affectionately smoothed his thumbs over John's cheeks and his eyes closed again, albeit TIGHTLY this time as dark brows tensed. "Please, John. I ... suspected you might not be here when I woke up. I need you to let them take care of you."

[fatherofmachine-a]

👀!!!

@anurbanlcgend​ | Send 👀 for a drabble of the first time my muse saw yours - MUTUALS ONLY.

NOVEMBER, 2010 - AFTER FINCH FIRST UPGRADED NATHAN’S CONTINGENCY FUNCTION.01 : FIRST SIGHTING VIA SURVEILLANCE. 

Once JOHN REESE was finally  located  &  Harold could see  him,  through any surveillance camera he could hack into,  his gaze was locked  onto the monitor.  LOCKED onto the incredibly tall  &  DANGEROUS looking man who was nearly always  accompanied by a similarly dangerous looking woman ( KARA STANTON,  was the name she went by ).  Mr. Reese sat at a small table,  just a few feet behind the door to Paul Duncan’s military quarters ;  with the way the camera was placed,  from a window opposite the door,  Harold couldn’t see Reese’s face.  Stanton was off camera,  somewhere in the corner ( the sound of her movements muffled in the background ),  but Reese sat completely still.  He seemed to be STARING at the back of the door,  waiting. 

When Mr. Duncan finally  stepped inside,  CONFUSION flickered across his features before he greeted them with a quiet,  UNCERTAIN  ❛ Hello … ?  ❜ Miss Stanton’s voice rose from off camera,  the sound of her moving items  &  setting them back down again distantly  joining her words.

❛ Oh,  hi.  You have any sugar ?  ❜

She sounded casual,  as if there was NOTHING at all  strange about her being there.  Mr. Duncan answered her question without  giving it a moments thought,  as if it were an AUTOMATIC response ( in the bottom shelf  )—–but then,

❛ —–Sorry,  WHO are you ?   How’d you get in here ? ❜

Stanton provided names,  albeit they were ALIASES for the both  of them ( Gina  &  Mike )  &  she then greeted Duncan by his FIRST name,  bidding he sit.

[ The CIA suspected that Duncan was stealing  from a co-operative project between them  &  the Pentagon ( "Desert Rain" ),  which supplied light  arms to the Afghan National Police  &  Army.  The operation was being conducted WITHOUT congressional approval. ]

Stanton searched through EVERYTHING  ( much to Duncan’s disapproval,  but he was IGNORED ),  eventually reaching his suitcase.  As he REFUSED to open it,  Stanton turned her firearm on him—–it was at that moment  that Harold recognized that his fingers,  which hovered FROZEN over his keys,  were trembling with unease—–After Stanton BRIEFLY searched the briefcase,  Duncan communicated his frustration  once they seemed RELUCTANT to admit defeat.  Reese turned away for a moment  &  his expression was now visible—–but he simply seemed THOUGHTFUL,  perhaps a touch uneasy himself … but if the latter were true,  John Reese was EXCELLENT at masking it.

Anxious tension  was building within Harold,  with every OUTRAGED WORD from Paul Duncan  &  it reached a PEAK as Reese finally turned back to face him,  the man’s voice growing LOUDER by the second …

Words were cut short by the muffled shot  of Reese’s gun  &  Harold inhaled sharply,  SHOCK  &  fear  searing throughout his damaged body at the sight of Paul Duncan,  slouched within his chair,  his head down … UNQUESTIONABLY dead.   Harold had just witnessed a MURDER.

After a few seconds of pause,  John Reese’s voice rose from the silence,  quiet  &  EMOTIONLESS.

 ❛ … Now we’re done. ❜

Harold’s hand shot out  abruptly  &  closed the lid of the laptop,  his pulse HAMMERING with anxiety—–but,  as the anxiety dissipated,  anger arose instead,  ANGER because of how emotionless  Reese’s voice had sounded after he’d simply taken someone’s life.  At that moment,  he’d decided against  ever reaching out to John Reese.  The man was HIGHLY CAPABLE,  efficient … but Harold needed more  than that.  SO MUCH MORE.

—–—–

JANUARY 2011 FOLLOWED BY FEBRUARY 2011 -02 : FIRST INDIRECT SIGHTING.

AFTER witnessing the events that had unfolded with John Reese,  Kara Stanton  &  Paul Duncan,  if anyone  had ever suggested Harold would eventually change his mind,  the LEAST he would’ve done would’ve been expressing his sincere doubts.  That was BEFORE Daniel Casey,  before  seeing Reese risk his life  for someone he didn’t even KNOW …  &,  after that,  Harold had quickly  realized his original judgement had been very,  very wrong. 

❛ I’ve looked into the eyes of  TRAITORS before,  Casey.  You’re  no traitor.  You just look like a man who’s  TRAPPED.  You’re gonna take the next bus headed to Maine.  When you arrive in Caribou,  a man will be waiting to drive you into Canada.  If he tells me you didn’t show up,  I’m gonna come  LOOKING  for you.  &  when I  find you,  I’m gonna be in a  VERY bad mood,  do you understand me ? ❜

Harold had been very confused,  but his HEART had leapt  with relief ( albeit,  a WARINESS still lingered,  as if he were waiting for the trick  ).  It was STRANGE to think that Reese would be the one to teach Harold a very important  lesson,  one that had STARTED with him questioning his orders.  The world WASN’T black  &  white,  everything  was always far more complex than one would assume at first glance …  &,  as Harold listened to John  speak to the nurse at that moment,  that once-emotionless,  quiet voice carrying throughout the hospital walls …. the LAST THING his voice sounded like was emotionless.  There was a strange tension to his words,  but it was MASKED by a casual friendliness—–albeit,  the question John was asking,  Harold already knew the answer  &  it left his heart aching,  his features TENSING somewhat against the feeling.

The nurse’s words were difficult  to hear,  even for HAROLD,  who was on the outside looking in.  But,  her voice trailed off eventually  &  the sound of John’s approaching footsteps alerted him to turn blue eyes downward as he pushed along his wheelchair.  John seemed to have DIFFICULTY in seeing where he was going  &,  as he stepped in the way of Harold’s wheel chair  &  collided with it briefly,  John barely acknowledged him,  OR the apology that had sprung from Harold’s throat without having thought  about it prior.

Slowly,  he TURNED,  gaze lifting to stare after John Reese’s retreating back  &  he found himself repeating  the apology uselessly,

 ❝ Sorry, ❞

Fingers absentmindedly flipped open the file that he’d long-since settled upon his lap  &  Harold glanced downward to look over John’s information again  (  a part of him WISHED that his information about Jessica’s fate,  the woman John had loved once,  was WRONG.  Alas,  it wasn’t.  &  no amount of wishing  would change that ).  Strangely,  he felt a need  to look into the man’s face,  even if it were only a PICTURE.  A picture of him appearing happy.  HEARTACHE twinged anew within his chest  &  his gaze again lifted,  as if SEARCHING for him,  but the only glimpse he caught was of John Reese disappearing behind hospital doors. 

 ❝ … I’m so sorry. ❞