Blacklist [h.s]

eleven

Grace

I haven't seen Harry in three months since I told him all he does is hurt me. I've been at the black sight since I returned to work a couple of weeks after the incident, but when Harry is there I avoid him and he tends to avoid me. He writes me letters and sticks them on my desk, letters of apologies, usually, and sticky notes with stupid quotes on them. Sometimes, I keep the Walt Whitman ones in my desk drawer. I like Walt Whitman. I have a pile of the longer ones in my desk drawer. I have yet to open most of them.

We exchange awkward glances in the hallway as we pass each other, sometimes. Other times he lets his hand brisk against my shoulder in the conference room. Things have been quiet since Kirby's, well, death. I chose not to hear the details, so I'll spare them. Harry has been quietly bringing me names. The letters always come in purple envelopes with old stickers on them. For a moment I think about opening the metal drawer and reading the hand-written folded up letters, but the thought escapes my mind as quickly as Harry slips into the room without me noticing.

My head is in my hand, staring at the case profile on my desk in front of me when there's a knock on the door. I've been reading over the lines for so long that I have a headache now and I'm almost relieved that someone has interrupted me.

I've been working on a profile of Alejandro Rosales Castillo trying to piece together his possible location. He's a part of the Ten Top Most wanted criminals for the alleged murder of his co-worker in 2016. I wish I could say that I've come up with something, but I can't.

Harry is leaning against the wooden door of my small office space, tall and lanky per usual. His hair has grown almost to his shoulders since the last time I saw him outside of the cabin that I was kidnapped in. It's something that I haven't noticed through small glimpses I catch of him at the black sight. Only now as he is standing in front of me do I realize how well it suits him. I don't know how long he has been standing there.

"What are you working on?" Harry said.

He looks me in the eyes, bouncing up and down on his toes. He's fidgeting with his fingers in front of him, glancing around my office at the decor. I tap the pen between my fingers on the desk, watching his usual casual and collective demeanor fall apart.

"You can sit down, you know." I mumble quietly.

He grabs at the chair, nearly knocking it over as he pulled it out to sit in it. "I'm looking for Alejandro Rosales Castillo. He murdered his coworker in South Carolina in 2016. I suppose you wouldn't know where he is?"

Harry laughs quietly and shakes his head.

"No idea who the man is," he pauses for a moment. I raise an eyebrow to make sure he's not kidding.

"You'll figure it out, you always do Gracey," he said.

I smile at him with tight lips and look down at the manilla folder in front of me. Obviously sneaking into my office to leave me notes. I imagine him standing at the bookshelf behind me, eyes scanning all of the books. That's where he has been getting the quotes from, I realize. The sound of his pant leg brushing against the metal desk as he bounces it up and down fills the room.

I stare at my work, pretending to be anywhere but this office space right now. I feel so confined in here. It feels so much smaller with Harry staring sheepishly at me. 

"I saved your life that day, Grace," Harry said suddenly. I snap my head up to look him in the eyed, I furrow my eyebrows in confusion both at the statement and the suddenness of it. "So you can be mad at me and avoid me all you want, but I came here to protect you Grace. And I-" his voices grows a little louder as he speaks. "was the only one who saw you in the car that day. It's what I was hir- it's what I came here to do."