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he was beautiful and his cursing was ridiculous
Heâs like an Opposite Day Kevin Chapman, who swears constantly in the movies that heâs in and it sounds so incredibly natural I canât believe Fusco isnât telling people to fuck off more often. JC says âfuckerâ so weirdly. Itâs kind of adorable.
But yes, gorgeous gray and black suits and ties and waistcoats and gazing creepily at butterflies. 10/10. Possibly 11/10 because Sam Neill is also in this movie for no reason and itâs p. great.
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charmanth right? I agree. I mean she has a theoretically good starting idea here but it needs work and is a MAJOR implementation and?? to not even discuss it a LITTLE BIT with her top staff members?? I have no idea what to even say to the users at this point
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âBelieve it or not, Mr. Reese, I do respect your privacy. I try to make a point of letting you know when I'm listening in.â
âWhich implies there are time you don't notify me.â
âIt's not always practical. Or possible. Anyway, forget I asked. You're right, of course. What you do on your off days is your business.â Harold turned back to his keyboard. âNow, lunch â Indian?â
âWhat do you mean, not possible?â John asked quietly.
Harold paused a moment before answering. âI mean, there have been... a few occasions when I've tried to contact you and you have been... otherwise engaged.â Harold held still as he listened to the low creak of the window nook, John shifting position.
âTell me more.â John whispered and Harold jumped because the words came out in warm puffs along the back of his ear and neck.
âThere's nothing to tell, Mr. Reese. I call, you don't answer, I keep the line open long enough to determine that you're not in a life threatening situation then I hang up.â
âHarold?â
Sweat and soap and gunpowder and heat against his back, Harold answered, âYes, Mr. Reese?â
âHow long does it take to identify a life threatening situation?â
âThat depends. It's easier to identify non-life threatening situations.â Harold straightened up in his chair then swiveled around to meet Reese's face. Two can play this game. âI recognize the other voices, John; Ms. Morgan...â The corner of Harold's lip tightened and he cocked a brow as he continued, âAdam Saunders.â
John offered a wry smile, his palms upturned. âThis is a high stress job, what can I say? Running only burns off so much tension.â
âApparently.â Harold snorted. âGo shower and change. I'll order the food.â
John caught the arm of the ergonomic office chair before Harold could retreat. âNot yet. You didn't answer my question â How long do you stay on the line?â
âThat depends.â Tread lightly, Harold.
âOn?â John sprawled out on the wooden bench, his hands resting high on his thighs.
âThere are innumerable stresses on the tech support end as well, Mr. Reese. Primarily, getting you home each night. I listen as long as needed to ascertain your safety and well being. Hopefully that answers your question.â Harold said waspishly.
âI could help with the stress -â
âThis is hardly professional, Mr. Reese -â
âYou could help me with mine.â John continued on. âAnd professionalism went out the window a long time ago. I've never had someone buy me so many breakfast, lunches, and dinners and not want something in return. So let me ask you again, what do you want, Harold?â
âJust getting some water. Go back to sleep.â John swung his legs  over the side of the bed.  Daybreak was still at least an hour away and the cityscape that cut dark and angular against the sky was twinkling to life on the other side of the loft's high windows. He stood, bed sheet falling away, padding through the loft towards the kitchen. John pulled two glasses from the cupboard, focusing his mind on the simple action of filling them and getting them back to the bedroom without spilling. Because if he let his mind veer off that simple task, to the bigger picture why he'd woken up warm and thirsty, why he was taking two glasses back to his bed, how he'd discovered the exact set and range of throaty noises Harold was capable of producing when he came undone, if John let him think of that...
Harold was sitting up, a thick pillow tucked between his back and the head board. âI'd hoped you bring me one,â he said as John handed him a glass.
âI knew you wouldn't follow orders and go back to sleep.â John crossed back to the opposite side of the bed, aware of Harold watching him over the rim of his water glass.
âFollowing orders is not really one of my strong suits.â Â Harold set the glass down on the night stand, now unabashedly interested as John folded back down onto the bed and pushed over to sit next to him, long, bare leg resting against Harold's. Harold covered John's thigh with his hand. John covered Harold's hand with his own. They sat quietly like that for a a good long time. Long enough for the sky to lighten and the building of the distant traffic rumble.
âHarold?â John whispered, squeezing his hand over Harold's.
âYes?â Harold turned his hand up and into John's, palm to palm, clasped together.
âWe don't go back from here, okay? I may not have made my peace with The Machine yet, but I'm still on this mission with you, I won't run away again. And I won't let The Machine take you from me.â
âOh.â Harold dropped his chin. âThere may come a time when... your two missions come into conflict. Which will you choose then, John?â