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John and Harold barely make it back to John's apartment intact after losing the government operative that had been tracking them through the city. The journey had been made more difficult by John having to lean on Harold, a bullet wound hidden under John's jacket. As they stumble through the door, Harold turns John back and holds him against it, then flips on the nearest switch, bathing the darkened room with light.
After getting John over to the bed while trying to ignore the grimace on John's face, Harold quickly makes himself busy by getting the medical kit out of the back of John's munitions closet. He grabs a couple of towels, and then a bottle of water, then sits gingerly at John's side.
First he strips the jacket from John, and then he begins worrying over the wound at John's side. "I'm going to have to get you out of this shirt," he says, nimble fingers already working the buttons and exposing John's light dusting of chest hair that spill over the top of his blood-soaked A-shirt. "This, too," he says, easing John into a sitting position so he can pull the red-tinged cloth away from John's skin.
"Are you trying to seduce me, Harold?" John whispers, a hint of humor added to his already gravelly voice.
"Oh, John," Harold says, though his smile is short-lived when he notices the amount of blood on John's side, pooling on the bedcover.
"'s just a flesh wound, Harold," John says. "You can patch me up; I trust you."
After gently cleaning it with some antiseptic and clean gauze, Harold agrees; it does appear to just be a graze. He's just unaccustomed to a flesh wound providing so much blood. He covers it with a bandage, then tapes over it. "Are you sure you shouldn't like Doctor Madan to help check you out?"
Shaking his head, John grimaces as he sits up. "I'll be fine," he protests, though his hands come to the side of the bed quickly, bracing himself. And that's when Harold realizes just how much blood John has lost.
"Are you okay?" Harold asks. Handing over the bottle of water, he says, "Here. Drink this," and watches as John empties the entire thing. He hopes the water replaces some of the fluids John has lost.
Standing, Harold goes to the closet and grabs the two suitcases that John made sure they had at all of their hideouts. He'd called them their "go bags". And though Harold tried to put them out of his mind in the past, he's glad they were there and ready. "What are you doing?" John weakly asks.
Harold looks at the bags. "We need to get out of town for a little while."
"Harold," John says, then tries to stand up. Harold is at his side in an instant, helping him stand. He studies John's face for a moment, knowing he was about to protest, but instead, John just says, "I... I think I'm about to pass out."
And with that, John is out. Harold is glad that they are so close to the bed, because he's able to move John's muscular bulk much easier, letting him glide into unconsciousness on the comfort of a down comforter.
"Don't worry, John," Harold promises. "I know what to do."
~*~*~
John wakes to a warmth that he's not used to. Yes, he was wrapped around Harold, who seemed to be sitting up, John's arms encircling Harold's waist as they both lay on an unfamiliar bed. But it wasn't just the unfamiliarity; the whole room seemed warmer, and there was light coming from an odd angle.
Quite unexpectedly there was an old, wrinkled hand pressing a mirror to his chin, which pulled back quickly when John opened his eyes. A second later, an elderly voice declared, "It lives!"
Awake in an instant, John clings a little bit closer to Harold, who was asleep until John's hand wrapped around his bicep. It wasn't the strange room that he was in that disturbed him. Rather, it was the four women, all ranging in ages from what looked like mid sixties to about eighty. "Can we...help you?" he asks. Then he realizes he's shirtless, and is suddenly attacked with a matronly case of bashfulness, so he pulls the sheet up to cover his chest.
"Oh, John-" Harold starts, but he's cut off by the most flamboyantly dressed of the women.
"Oh you don't have to cover us because of us," she says. And when John doesn't budge, she reaches down and pulls the sheet and blanket, ripping them from John's grasp and letting them tumble to the floor. "Oops," she says, raising a hand to her face.
"Christ, Blanche," the shortest and oldest looking one, wearing the thickest glasses John had ever seen, protests. "Keep it in your pants."
"But Sophia," another one of the women, who looked a bit simple, like she'd been the small town's beauty queen at a young age, adds, "Blanche isn't wearing pants. She's wearing a skirt."
"Thank you for that fashion update, Rose," the tallest one deadpans.
"I'm sorry. Ladies?" John manages, but instead of looking at the women, he focuses on Harold.
"You know this reminds me of that one time in Saint Olaf-" Rose starts, but is quickly cut off by Sophia.
"Seriously? Everything reminds you of Saint Olaf, Rose. Dirt. Lunar eclipses. Two half-naked men in our guest room." Sophia looks up at the tall one. "Actually, that last one makes Saint Olaf sound kind of fun." Waving her handbag, she asks, "Dorothy? What's say we fly up there for a visit and make fun of the locals?"
"Ma, behave. And remember, I still have Shady Pines on speed dial."
John still doesn't know what the hell is going on, but now at least he knows everyone's name. "Uh, Harold," Dorothy asks. "Can we get you and," she points to John, "your friend anything?"
"No, no, Miss Sbornak. We're fine." Harold stands up, and almost immediately John misses the warmth of his partner. He turns to John and says, "Miss Sbornak is a former teacher of mine. We've still managed to keep in touch through the years."
"It's Dorothy," the tall one corrects Harold, reaching out and touching his shoulder affectionately. "Well we'll just be-" And then suddenly Dorothy's attention is on John. Specifically John's side, that he knows is showing blood through the bandage. "Harold?" And then Dorothy is at John's side. "Are you okay, Mister Reese?"
"Harold?" John manages.
Harold looks a bit torn, like he isn't sure he should break the confidence.
But all discretion goes out the window when Sophia chimes in with, "So you got popped, huh?"
"Miss Sophia-" Harold interjects, but it's Dorothy's voice that thunders over his with, "Ma! What are you talking about?"
Sophia leans in considering first John, and then the wound. "Flesh wound. Probably ten millimeter Glock?"
"Sophia!" Blanche declares, clearly scandalized. "Now how would you even begin to know that."
"I lived through two world wars, and my daughter taught in public schools for decades. Of course I know what a gunshot looks like. Hell, under Mussolini, we'd just call that a Tuesday." And if to make her point further, Sophia pulls a tiny handgun from her purse and waves it in the air. "You think I'm not packing?"
Dorothy easily disarms her mother, rolling her eyes. "Harold, there's a first aid kit in the bathroom. We'll go and give you some privacy."
"You know, I helped birth almost all of our livestock back on the farm in Saint Olaf," Rose adds. "I can help if you'd like."
"And I've been a candy-striper at our local hospital for the past six months," Blanche offers. "Come on Rose. You take the bandage, and I'll take his boxers."
"Ladies, ladies," John says, wishing for there to be something to cover himself with.
"If you don't mind," Harold says, stepping between John and the helpers, "I can take care of this."
Rose nods, saying, "Okay, but if you need anything..."
"I'll just wait and watch. Maybe help you kind gentlemen into the shower..." Blanche offers. But in that instant Dorothy comes back into the room, grabs her arm, and drags her out.
The room is still for a moment, John knowing Harold is purposefully not meeting his eyes. But when he finally does, there's a bit of comical apology hidden in his gaze. "I'm sorry, John."
Sitting up and working on the bandage, John says, "It's okay, Harold. You have..." He pauses, then grins and finishes, "Interesting friends."
Harold comes to John's side, and they finally remove the bandage, Harold setting it on the bedside table. "Just one thing, Harold," John confides.
"What is that, John?"
Nodding towards the commotion coming from outside their room, John says, "I don't know why, but I'm kind of afraid of the little one."