Archive of Our Own

Harry adjusts his hard hat, doing his best to keep pace with his most recent personal client. David McClintok points out every shoddy piece of work his hired contractors did on the renovation of his most recent commercial property. He paid good money for excellent work but received a building in worse condition before any work began.

It’s not the first time Harry’s seen this happen – people hiring contractors who give high price tag quotes only to turn around and hire subcontractors for a fraction of the price. The original contractor pockets the excess funds, blames the subcontractors, and everything ends up in court for months, if not years.

“I have four other properties that need renovation, but this place has been costing me the budget of all five locations.” David explains how the contractors keep finding problems, costing more money and time. “I think they are the ones causing the problems in the first place.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised.” Harry says as he snaps a few photos of David’s grievances that are identified to him. “I’m confident we’ll be able to take this to court, Mr. McClintok. With your meticulous records and the obviously poor work, I’m also confident we’ll be able to recover your money.”

David sighs, relieved. “Is there anything else you need?”

“I’m going to document some more evidence here. Do the contractors still have access to the building?”

“Yes, they have their keys. Should I collect them?”

Harry nods. “Yeah, don’t want them coming back and changing anything to hide their subpar work.”

“I’ll be sure to do that right away.” David checks his watch. “Will you be okay alone, Mr. Wilson? I have a meeting on the other side of town; I’d like to beat traffic to get there.”

“Of course, I’ll lock up and be in contact soon.”

They share a handshake, David thanking Harry again for his help before leaving. The building quiets, the only sounds are Harry’s footsteps and the occasional car that drives past the mostly deserted industrial park.

Harry takes several more photos, certain to not miss a single detail. He’s in the middle of documenting how water leaks from an outlet when the faucet turns on, when voice drift up from beneath him. Harry freezes, straining his ears to try and hear the conversation.

Only able to make out fragments, it becomes obvious that it’s a few of the contractors. Harry turns on his camera to record in the off chance the microphone can pick up what’s being said better than he can.

Thanks to their own handiwork, Harry’s able to catch a glimpse between the floorboards. There’s three men working below and it only takes about a minute of watching them to recognize the detonation cord in their hands. Harry’s blood runs cold, frozen in place, his mind races through options.

The only way out is down the stairs and that’ll take him right in front of the contractors, making it impossible to hide. At the same time, however, Harry knows he can’t stay put. Taking a step backwards, the floorboard groans under his weight. Harry winces, it sounds like a gunshot and immediately draws the attention of the men below.

Hurried conversation happens, Harry not listening to any of it as he frantically looks for an exit. Before he can decide anything, everything happens faster than Harry could’ve ever anticipated.

The floor beneath him gives way and suddenly he’s free falling. Harry hits the floor below, between the minor explosion and the impact of his weight, he breaks through with little resistance. His descent is stopped when he lands on the cement floor of the basement and everything goes dark.

It’s Harry’s own coughing that eventually wakes him up. His nose and mouth full of grit and dust, further irritating his lungs. A deep breath is impossible. The reason becoming obvious as more awareness returns. He’s buried under heavy debris, keeping him pinned in place. A large piece of flooring lays directly on his chest and he can’t get it to budge.

An initial wave of panic grips Harry – he’s unable to get himself free, he’s not sure where his phone ended up, it’s getting harder to breathe, and the only person that knows he’s here has zero reason to assume anything bad would’ve happened.

Unable to calm himself with deep breaths, Harry starts counting. Deliberately slow, he has no end point in mind, instead focusing on the next number until his panic lessens and his head clears.

Somewhat relaxed, Harry’s able to better take stock of his situation. The debris across his chest has his left arm awkwardly pinned, unable to tell if anything is broken because everything hurts. He squints as blood from somewhere in his hairline starts dripping into his eye. He wipes the blood away with his free hand, feeling far woozier when he catches sight of the crimson coating his fingers.

With the range he can reach without stretching, Harry searches for his phone, hoping there’s the off chance it landed somewhere he can easily grab it. His luck doesn’t extend that far. He stops searching, exhausting himself by blindly groping around.

Harry knows he needs to figure out some type of escape or a way to attract help. He’s hopeful that someone heard the interior collapse of the building and emergency services are headed this way. But in the several minutes he’s been awake, there’s been no sirens or signs of people.

The sounds of the destabilized building occupy his attention. It’s an upsetting orchestra of groans, creaks, popping, and snapping. There’s the occasional crash as something falls free, making Harry wince and involuntarily flinch at the uncertainty if a new object is going to fall on top of him.

Small pieces of glass, brick, and mortar tinkle down through the ruins, wood splinters and snaps, a metal support directly overhead screeches and shifts at ominous, unanticipated intervals.

The image of Jason Crawley swims to the forefront of Harry’s mind. Remembering how the random construction noises caused him to flinch. How deeply Harry understands that jumpiness now. That thought doesn’t last long, however. Jason had made it out before his building collapsed, unlike the members of his construction crew.

It’s the memory of Mateo Navarro that hits Harry with the same force of his fall. Mateo didn’t die on impact, the coroner report detailed a broken back, a shattered leg, and massive internal bleeding that would’ve taken thirty minutes to be lethal. When his body was recovered, there had been evidence that Mateo was conscious, well aware of what happened and that he was dying.

How long has it been since the floor disappeared beneath Harry’s feet? Was his own thirty minutes ticking away before succumbing to an injury he can’t see?

Isabella Navarro takes her father’s place. How devastated and heartbroken she had been at the death of her father. Only a child when he was taken from her and left for years to fight for the justice Mateo had deserved from the very beginning.

Would Becky react the same way? Would she be heartbroken at the loss of her own father who has only recently been trying to have a meaningful relationship with her?

Harry couldn’t blame her if she didn’t. It’s not as if she can lose something she never had the chance to have.

The feeling of something vibrating forces Harry back to his current predicament. The specific vibrating pattern is unmistakable as his phone ringing. It stops before he has the chance to pinpoint the location.

Harry groans, frustration spilling over. He stares up through the gaping holes in the two floors above him. Certainly, going to require a lot more renovation now, Harry muses. He also relishes in how the court case is going to play out – not only the civil case that Harry is nearly salivating at the idea of presenting, but now the criminal case that he’s all too happy to hand over to the justice department.

It’s the petty thoughts of getting personal justice that keep Harry going more than the thought for his own client.

Assuming he gets out of this forsaken place alive.

His cellphone rings again. He knows he had the sound on, but he can’t hear the ringtone, only able to feel the vibration. It’s a few seconds into ringing does Harry realize that his phone is beneath him. Harry can’t help but to laugh, not caring of the pain or how it dissolves into a wheezing cough.

Getting help is closer than it could ever be and yet it’s out of his reach. Harry tries to squirm his way free, or enough to slide his phone to a place he can reach. All he accomplishes is wearing himself out, his vision dimming.

Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzz-zzt. Bzzt. Bzzt. Bzz-zzt.

Someone is trying to contact him again; the increasing frequency is comforting. The only time Harry doesn’t answer is when he’s in court. Even in the middle of the night, if someone calls him more than once he’ll wake up for the call.

He can hear his voicemail greeting his repeat caller.

Hi, you’ve reached Harry Wilson, I’m currently unable to take your call. If you are a new client seeking representation, please leave your name, number, and a brief description of your case. I’ll return your call within one business day. Thank you for reaching out.

He’s curious who’s trying to call. Likely someone on the team, Becky wouldn’t call him so many times in a row. Unless something happened – a thought that Harry doesn’t let himself entertain.

How many times does he have to not answer before Breanna tracks his phone? The team is surprisingly good about giving him space outside of Leverage. When he left after they took down R.I.Z., he went months with only the occasional check in. Harry hopes this isn’t one of those times that they respect his personal life boundaries.

The effort to reach him increase in frequency, his phone ringing back-to-back. It almost makes him feel more frantic. Unable to reach his phone, his voice commands to Siri to answer the call unrecognizable, every attempt he tries to answer one of those calls fails. Harry’s breath comes in ragged wheezes, making himself lightheaded and on the edge of blacking out.

It isn’t until the calls stop does Harry truly begin to panic. Did they give up? Are they going to try again? Did his phone die? Can his location be tracked if his phone is off? How long will it take for his absence to be noticed?

Will he be rescued?

His breathing fully gets away from him, dovetailing into hyperventilating. His lungs ache and burn as oxygen is replaced with carbon dioxide and dust. His vision starts dimming at the edges, his hold onto consciousness starts to fray, Harry knows he needs to relax. Panic will get him nowhere, but the more he loses his hold on reality, the harder he fights against his body, compounding the problem. He gasps, in one last desperate attempt to stay awake.

As blackness fills his vision, his phone buzzes again, but it’s not enough to win the battle against the pull of oblivion.

When Harry wakes, it’s dark. What little light was filtering through the collapsed debris around him is now fully gone. Without his phone and his left arm pinned, he has no way of telling the time. He knows when he arrived and about when his client left, but all sense of time and self is disjointed since falling through to the basement.

Harry tries to keep his mind occupied, to keep his thoughts from drifting but he fails, over and over again. Unable to stop thinking about how cold he feels or how he can’t feel his arm. Unable to stop the unanswerable questions of what happens if blood flow to a limb is restricted for several hours? How long does it take to become hypothermic in a drafty basement?

Constantly flitting between lucid and aware to irrational and afraid leaves Harry exhausted. The oscillation making the fight to keep his sanity and wits about him a war he’s on the losing side. How easy it is to convince himself he’s never going to be found, that he’s sure he’s going to die here, than to force his thoughts into believing the opposite. Especially, with each passing minute that he goes undiscovered.

He begins to yell, to scream for help. Harry’s voice reverberates dully against the debris around him, not at all carrying far enough. There’s no way he’s being heard outside this building, let alone the basement. He yells until his voice is hoarse, not caring how it feels like his throat is being torn apart every time he hollers. His cries for attention for somebody – anybody – to hear him, to help him, weaken, becoming hardly audible past his own ears.

The tingling sensation that had set in when a body part falls asleep slowly morphs into something more monstrous. From the elbow down where Harry’s arm is pinned alights with pain. Tingling turns to a stabbing, burning, and tearing sensation that makes him wish he could pass out again.

It’s an all-consuming agony that grips Harry so entirely and swiftly that he doesn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Tears leave streaks through his dust coated cheeks, his eyes screwed shut, as if he can block out or hide from the pain.

“Look who we have here.”

The sudden voice makes Harry bodily flinch, causing his pinned arm to pull against the weight keeping it in place. It sends new electric shockwaves through his entire body. It takes minutes to come down from the height of the pain, and only then does Harry recognize the people above him.

It’s the three contractors from earlier. The man responsible for laying the detonation cord directly above him, his boots at the either side of Harry’s head.

“Please.” Harry croaks, not caring that it’s the people responsible for putting him in this situation. “Get this off me.” His voice is weak and gravelly from abuse and inhaling irritants for hours. His attention has since forgotten the discomfort in his throat, overtaken by the fire in his arm.

One of the three men move to do as requested but is stopped by the man standing above Harry. “Wait a second. Who are you?” He asks, using the opportunity and advantage in his favor.

Harry scoffs, it comes out more as a gasp. It’s nearly impossible to focus on anything else. “Harry Wilson.” There’s no point in lying or avoiding answering the question. “I’m a lawyer. D-David McClintok hired me.” Pain strains every syllable, requiring an enormous effort to get out even the shortest sentences. It doesn’t occur to Harry that he could be putting his client in danger by revealing his name.

The man hums, unamused. “Trying to take us to court? Well, as you can see Harry Wilson, it was the subcontractors’ shitty work that caused this building to collapse. Firsthand, you’ve seen it.”

It doesn’t take a genius to understand the point being made. Even through the unending agony, Harry catches on. “Yeah, I see that. I’ll let Mr. McCli – David know. Just, please,” He chokes back a sob, fighting to keep his voice strong to not sound like he’s begging. “please, get me out of here.”

“Russ, come on, we can’t leave him here.” Says the man who’s first instinct to help. He once again moves towards Harry, but once more is stopped.

“He’s a lawyer, Mitch. We blew this place up, with him inside. We let him go that’s attempted murder.”

“We don’t let him go then it’s murder!” The third man interjects, not siding with his self-imposed leader.  

An argument erupts between the three of them. It’s an out of body experience for Harry, listening to the trio bicker if they should allow him to live. He can’t follow what’s being said, the overlapping voices and differing opinions, and his focus on wanting to get free are conflicting.

It becomes obvious, however, that the consensus is to leave him behind. The arguing doesn’t cease but they begin to drift out of Harry’s line of sight. He cranes his neck, trying to see which way they’re headed. “Wait!” He shouts. “Please, don’t leave me here!” Harry tugs on his arm, shoving against the weight with his other. It’s like knives driving into his muscle, it makes his stomach roll, and his vision dim.

“Please! Please!” Harry pleads, frantic like a caged animal that knows it’s being led to slaughter. “I can’t die here.” He sobs, pushing against the beam across his chest, begging for it to shift, even a fraction. “Please, I can’t die here.” He tips into a frenzy, feet scrambling against the cement floor, desperately searching for purchase that isn’t there. His heart pounds, filling his chest with further pressure that seizes his breathing.

Harry gasps, “Please…” Unconsciousness is making a swift return. “I can’t... I can’t die here.” Harry whimpers, dizziness gripping and suffocating him. His scrambling slows, his fight ebbs, and his body gives up.

“I’m sorry.” Harry apologizes, to whom, he’ll never know.

When Harry opens his eyes next, it’s in confusion and disbelief. He’s no longer in that cold and dirty basement and he’s alive. He doesn’t move, simply lets his eyes flit around the hospital room, taking in the smallest details.

It’s a private room, with no one in here but himself. The curtains are halfway open, showing off a blue sky with idyllic white clouds. According to the digital clock above the door, it’s two-thirty in the afternoon. Harry tries to work out what that means for how long he was in that basement, but his mind is sluggish and the simple math required is out of his grasp.

Harry’s gaze shifts towards the other wall, there’s a small whiteboard displaying information about him, his caretakers, and his status. The date catches his attention first — it’s Thursday. His meeting with Mr. McClintok was Tuesday. Where did all of Wednesday go?

The section on pain management is blank, save for a note of the time of his last dose of medication. It makes Harry acutely aware of how little pain he’s in, especially when compared to the last time he was conscious. It’s not gone, but more controlled. He continues reading the board – activity: light, diet: normal – as tolerated, procedures: MRI, notes: NPO – potential follow up surgery.

His brow furrows. Follow up surgery? What was the first surgery? It’s the first time that Harry’s attention turns towards himself. His blanket covers his chest, he pushes it away in a motion that he’s done countless times. His hand rests in his lap.

With a drug addled mind, Harry stares at his hand. His one hand.

One hand.

A wave of panic greater than anything he felt while stuck in that basement – even when he was being left for dead – hits Harry with the force of a riptide dragging him under. His breathing hitches, the beeping of his heart monitor crescendos.

There’s nothing, from above the elbow down, there’s nothing.

His arm terminates into a bulky mass of gauze and bandages. A certain type of fear he’s never experienced overwhelms Harry when he tries to move that missing left hand.

An alert must’ve sounded somewhere because a nurse rushes into Harry’s room. Mara - according to her name on the whiteboard. “Harry, hey, hey, look at me.” Her tone is gentle and firm. She dips down over the rail of his bed, forcing Harry’s attention to shift towards her. She maintains her professional composure as Harry’s wide and fearful eyes turn towards her. “You’re okay. I know you have a lot of questions and I will make sure all of them are answered. But right now, let’s focus on calming down, getting your breathing under control.”

Harry’s mind simultaneously races and grinds to a halt, effectively shutting down. Mara is trying to get him to focus on taking slow breaths in and long exhales out but she’s not getting through. The only thing he can think about is how he passed out with his left arm and now it’s gone.

His arm is gone.

“Harry, I need you to try and relax, okay?” Mara says, glancing up at his stats, not liking the direction they’re heading. She prompts her Vocera badge to call for help, needing another set of hands and perhaps a doctor for a Versed order.

Everything passes in a blur of motion and noise. Harry feels his body relaxing but his mind is still a disjointed mess that refuses to rest. Nothing feels real, but the way pain begins to overtake him, it forces the reality of the situation.

It’s akin to noticing a cut for the first time. How long was it there without issue? Now, suddenly aware, it’s impossible to ignore. Harry isn’t sure what to do, he keeps reaching for his arm but stopping before touching it. Another attempt to refuse what’s happening. He does have a lot of questions, but there’s only one that he’s desperate for an answer.

“Is there…,” Harry wets his lips, surprise at how nonexistent his voice is. Clearing his throat, he tries again. “Is there anyone here for me?”

“Yes, a few people have been here. A woman, Sophie, she’s here now. I can go get her but let’s get you settled first, okay?” Mara says, appealing to Harry in an attempt to get him to relax.

It works, in the end, Harry does end up controlling his breathing, but his antsiness doesn’t subside. If anything, when the nurse leaves to get Sophie it increases. A restlessness at the thought of her seeing him like this – so obviously broken.

“Harry?”

The sound of Sophie’s voice instantly causes tears to spring forth. Harry looks away from the door, inexplicable shame fills his chest and he finds he can’t look at her. He was weak, unable to save himself, stuck in a basement because he was in the wrong place at the wrong time, and he lost his arm because of it. How can he ever look at Sophie the same way again? This incredibly fierce and resourceful woman who has stolen millions from mobsters, criminals, and bastards alike without flinching.

How can Sophie ever look at him the same way again? When there’s such obvious and glaring proof of his error.  

“Harry?” Sophie’s voice is quiet, uncertain. A quality that Harry hasn’t heard in it before. It’s enough to get him to look at her. He’s surprised at the sorrow he sees, especially when he was expecting pity, or worse – disgust.

Any semblance of composure Harry managed dissolves, his attempt at stoicism crumples. Sophie doesn’t hesitate in the way she goes to him, careful and cautious in the way she wraps her arms around him. Harry turns into her, burying himself into her neck, and when he slides his arm around her waist, he sobs in earnest.

So many different thoughts bombard Harry. How he won’t be able to hug his daughter the same way, won’t be able to play golf the same way, cook the same way, do anything he’s grown accustomed to in his fifty plus years on this planet. There’s a logical side of this that exists, that knows people thrive with one arm, having amazing advanced prosthetics that can nearly mimic natural movement. But that logical side is silent, unable to cut through the emotional tidal wave of grief that is this unexpected amputation.

Sophie holds Harry until she feels him slipping back, unable to keep himself upright from the exhaustion of crying and medications taking their toll. She helps him get comfortable and stays right at his side.

Silence settles between them, it’s nothing like the companionable lapses in conversation that they’ve grown so accustom. It’s awkward and charged, both unsure of what to say or how to say what they’re thinking. Finally, Sophie breaks the tension.

“I’m so sorry, Harry.” Sophie apologizes. It’s impossible for her to not glance to the bandaged end that remains of Harry’s left arm. It’s not in fascination, but in the same way that Harry can hardly accept it, neither can she. She doesn’t wait for Harry to ask what happened before she starts explaining.

Tuesday, they had tried contacting him, several times.

Harry’s taken back to that basement, remembering how his phone buzzed constantly right beneath him.

When Harry didn’t answer, it wasn’t something that they were overly concerned about. They knew he had meetings with a private client that day, something they remembered halfway through their back-to-back attempts to contact him. It’s why they stopped for a little while, realizing they might have been intruding and being a distraction.

It wasn’t until Eliot pointed out that Harry’s meeting wasn’t supposed to go past five that evening. They tried calling again, getting through a few times until suddenly, they couldn’t. Every call went straight to voicemail. Breanna attempted to track his phone, but there was no signal to be found. They deduced that Harry’s phone died. Something that didn’t happen very often and started sounding some alarm bells.

At this point it was late in the evening and they began retracing Harry’s last known steps. Eliot and Sophie went to his law offices downtown, getting ahold of his paper schedule. Never before had Breanna been so glad for Harry’s penchant for recording information analogue. Unfortunately, his planner for that day was vague, at least it was to them. Harry’s calendar written in a shorthand that he’s developed over the years that only he knows how to read.

It’s something Harry’s mentioned before but nothing anyone gave a second thought. The purpose to keep client information confidential, but when trying to use it to find where Harry might be proved useless.

Nearly all of Wednesday had passed without knowing of Harry’s whereabouts. It wasn’t until Breanna reached out to Becky to ask in a casual way if she’d talked to her father recently. They’d been crushed when she said no but became hopeful when she remembered the name of the client that Harry had been meeting the day before and was supposed to be seeing again. She couldn’t remember if it was today or the next day, but it didn’t matter. They had a lead.

After finding David McClintok it was easy to track down the building that they had been inspecting together. What no one was expecting was to find it in ruins on the inside. Emergency services was called while Eliot went in through the collapsed building, navigating the rubble to find Harry. When he was finally pulled from the wreckage, Eliot was close behind, the team hadn’t seen their hitter look so grim.

When asked what was wrong, everyone thought Eliot was exaggerating when he told them that he was pretty sure Harry was going to lose his arm. No one but Eliot had seen the damage, and when pressed to describe what he saw, he was reluctant.

It took Breanna turning to google, curious what happens if a limb goes twenty-four hours with no blood flow to get the answers. Irreversible nerve and muscle damage, paralysis, necrosis, dry gangrene. The pictures were more than enough to scar her, that Breanna couldn’t bring herself to ask if that’s what Eliot saw when he found Harry.

They didn’t get to the hospital until incredibly early Wednesday morning. At that point the effects of prolonged crush syndrome took hold. Even before he’d been pulled out of the basement, Harry had been given multiple IVs to introduce fluids to reduce the sudden influx of toxins that would occur when the weight was removed. At the hospital, the treatment continued, addressing the issue of cardiac arrhythmia that developed due to the intense disparity of electrolytes.

Antibiotics were started to prevent systemic infection, although already running a fever, the doctor’s concern that they’d need to be more aggressive in treatment became a reality. With the tissue of Harry’s arm long since dead, the options were slim. Try a fasciotomy now, in the hopes a miracle happens and blood flow returns. In which case, there will still be permanent muscle and nerve damage that can’t be repaired.

Or, the second option – amputation.

While sounding severe in concept, it was the best option. Removing the dead limb would prevent further infections, cause less complications, and overall, be an easier recovery.

The problem they faced is making that decision. With Harry unconscious, his health declining the longer his arm stayed connected to him, it became a choice of the doctors but supported by everyone on the team. They wanted Harry to live, even if that meant being down one arm. The time Harry spent in surgery was surprisingly short, only taking about three hours to remove the majority of his left arm. But, in terms of surgery, it was relatively simple.

Cut, clean up, close.

Not everything was able to be finished in the first surgery. There’s more specialized work that ideally will be done to redirect the now dead end nerve endings. However, given the fever Harry was running going into surgery, the potential complications of further arrhythmia, and needing to monitor for any signs of renal failure, the less time spent in surgery this round, the better.

It’s a lot to take in. When Sophie finishes explaining the last thirty-six hours, Harry feels like he’s run a marathon, and he’s not even moved. He’s not sure what to think or how to respond. What’s the acceptable reaction to having no say in losing a part of your body?

Just as when he noticed his arm, hearing everything else makes how terrible he feels all the more obvious. The aches and fatigue of a fever settle over him, sapping energy he doesn’t have to spare. Harry swallows against his dry throat, desperate for a drink of water. He doesn’t realize he’s crying again until his breathing hitches. Sophie’s hand is on his knee.

“What do you need?” She asks, desperate for some way to help.

Harry shakes his head. “I have no idea.” Truly, he doesn’t know. He needs someone to tell him what he needs, not the other way around. He shifts his hand to cover Sophie’s, hating the way such a simple movement reminds him that who he is has been fundamentally changed. “Can you stay?”

“Of course.” There’s no hesitation from Sophie. Since they found Harry and arrived at the hospital, she hasn’t left. The others of the team have been in and out but she’s stayed. Unwilling and unable to leave, not until she can leave with Harry.

The next few days are difficult, to say the least.

Harry undergoes his second surgery. It’s successful, completed without medical issue. Although, the reality hits Harry harder the second time around. He can hardly listen to the surgeon explain how redirecting the nerve endings back into muscle will reduce the incidence of phantom pain and allow for the use of a myoelectric prosthesis down the line. None of it feels real.

Outside of conversations with the medical professionals – of which, there are many – Harry doesn’t talk very much. About half the time he responds when spoken to, the other half is a mix of a nonverbal acknowledgement or simply silence.

Harry’s half asleep when there’s a knock at his door. He doesn’t answer, not that it matters. The nurses are only being polite before they walk in anyway. Returning to read vitals, make sure his fever isn’t returning, ask him how he is – again. He keeps his eyes closed, hoping that they’ll be less inclined to stick around if they think he’s getting some rest.

“Daddy?”

He’s awake in a heartbeat.

Harry’s surprised to find himself being happy to nearly the point of tears at seeing his daughter. He doesn’t remember if it was planned for Becky to visit today or if she came on her own accord, but he doesn’t care. It’s the first time in nearly a week that he smiles. “Hey, Bug.” Harry says, carefully shifting to sit upright.

Becky tentatively walks closer. Just as everyone else that’s visited in the last few days, she’s  uncertain how to react. But there’s no sign that she’s scared or uncomfortable. Her gaze is fixed on the bandages that swath his left arm, staring with the same disbelief that Harry’s had since he woke up. She finally looks at her father. “Sophie filled me in on what happened. Some of it. Why… why didn’t you call sooner? I’d have been here right away.”

That’s the absolute truth, Harry knows it. He’s seen just how selfless his daughter can be, wanting to help others and make sure everyone is cared for and loved. A trait she must’ve learned from her mother, as Harry knows she certainly didn’t learn it from him growing up.

“I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a lot to process. I wasn’t, I’m not…” Harry trails off, it’s still difficult to talk about, to acknowledge that this is really happening. “I wanted to feel better before I saw you.” He switches tactics, his answer no less true. Becky has been on his mind since he woke up stuck in that god forsaken basement. The relief he feels that now that she’s finally here is monumental.

“Do you?” Becky asks. She sits on the end of the bed, pulling her leg up to tuck beneath her. Just as comfortable with her father as she’s always been. “Feel better?”

Harry sighs. “Some ways, I do. Others… worse.” He swallows thickly against the sudden swell of emotion. Harry rubs his opposite shoulder, his eyebrows dent as he closes his eyes. “It just doesn’t feel real.” His hand slides down his bicep, stopping before reaching the top of the bandages.

When he opens his eyes, it’s to Becky looking at her father with compassion. “Did you know that Gabby’s mom had to have part of her leg amputated?” She asks, pulling her other leg up to sit crisscross, her back against the footboard. Becky continues when Harry shakes his head. “I guess she had bone cancer and the best way to stop it was to cut it off. Gabby was really scared for a long time after, worried about her mom, that she wouldn’t be able to do everything she used to do.

She was also scared that she’d lose her mom. Her mom got really depressed for a while after and it was hard for both of them. But, Gabby really loves her mom and her mom is a really cool person. It took a little while but she has this really neat prosthetic leg now and she’s running in marathons and doing more than she even did before.” Becky alternates looking at her hands, fidgeting with the edge of Harry’s blanket, and looking up at her Dad.

Becky relaxes when she sees Harry smiling.

“It’s not going to be easy, Dad. But, you’re still my Dad, no matter what. And just like Gabby did for her mom, I’ll be here to help you. I know… I know you were alone for the first part. But, you won’t be for this part.”

Pride and tenderness swell in Harry’s chest. For the first time in as many days, the tears that fall aren’t of self-pity or sorrow, but of love. “C’mere. I need a really good hug, and I’d like my first one to be from you.”

It’s all the staring that gets to Harry in the days after discharge. Call it human nature, call it curiosity, call it anything, it doesn’t change how much Harry detests the eyes that linger on him. His physical therapist warned him it was going to happen.

“ – it’s not a matter of if or when, but how many – ”

And despite the heads-up Harry still cannot believe just how many people look his way. For some it’s a quick and furtive glance – Harry can’t  say how many of those he’s missed, but they’re not the problem. It’s the other class of onlookers that create the air of unease. The people who don’t try to hide their stares. Whose eyes follow Harry as he passes, they’re the ones which he has trouble.

As if Harry couldn’t be any more aware of his missing left arm, their persistent gazes serve to remind him of what he’s lost and what he can never have back.

The worst part is that he hasn’t been able to escape those stares, not even when out of the public eye. Harry’s caught the way the crew will advert their gaze if they even think Harry is looking their direction. The only person who has managed to stay relatively normal about it all is Eliot.

Sophie and Breanna fall into the first category, their glances lasting seconds out of curiosity and likely concern. Parker, she’s a category unto herself. Not only does she not look away but she’s curious to the point of being impolite and a nuisance. Harry has overheard Eliot scold her a few times but his stern words have not deterred her from staring, watching, and asking questions. As if there’s nothing that can sate her morbid curiosity.

Self-conscious from the start, every time Harry’s around Parker that sense of dread increases. It makes him feel out of sorts, wanting to snap at and avoid her. Things he hates to feel, which in turn then make him feel guilty. Then that guilt turns back into anger when Harry realizes it’s misplaced and he shouldn’t have to feel this way about something that happened to him.

So engrossed in trying to keep his thoughts preoccupied and off Parker, Harry isn’t paying attention to where he’s going. He clips a barstool and stumbles. Reflexively, he tries to catch himself but he can’t get his right hand to break his fall quick enough. Colliding with the edge of the bar before landing in a heap on the ground.

“Harry!” Parker jumps to her feet and is crouching in front of Harry in a matter of seconds. “Are you okay?” She hovers, unsure of what she should do. Her question is useless, she knows this but she’s not sure what else to ask.

Blood trickles from Harry’s nose, taking the brunt of his stumble. “Is it broken?” Harry asks, his eyes closed, not wanting to probe the injury himself.

Parker shakes her head, even if Harry can’t see it. “No, I don’t think so.” She’s gone for a moment, returning with a clean rag to wipe up the blood that sluggishly drips from his chin.

When Harry opens his eyes he’s greeted by an expression of concern. The same that’s common to be seen on Sophie and Breanna, but looks foreign on Parker’s features. It’s unmistakable, however. “Thanks.” Harry says, taking over for Parker. She doesn’t go anywhere when Harry relieves her of her care.

Headquarters is quiet, it’s just the two of them here currently. The rest of the team off collecting details and information on the contractors that caused the building collapse. When Parker offered to stay behind, Harry had been annoyed. He didn’t want to stay behind in the first place, but with Parker put him on edge. That edge has softened and left him feeling vulnerable.

“Parker.” Harry says, for the first time in days wanting her attention. “Why won’t you quit staring at me? Eliot’s even told you to stop a few times but that clearly hasn’t worked.”

Shifting back and sitting with crossed legs, Parker shrugs. “I just want you to feel comfortable.”

Immediately, Harry’s hit with the backwards logic that drives Parker’s thoughts and actions. “People don’t feel comfortable when they’re stared at, Parker.”

“I know. Eliot’s explained it to me. But you aren’t people, you’re Harry. You’re family. Everyone’s always looking away when you look at them, even Sophie. And Sophie never looks away from you. I don’t want you to feel like you’re being shunned or outcast.”

In a moment of reflection, Harry realizes that Parker’s never been staring at his arm or there lack of – she’s always been looking at him. He finds himself at a loss of words, constantly reminded and impressed – albeit confused – by the depth of which Parker truly cares. “Thanks.” It’s all Harry  has to say, thankful for Parker’s lack of need for conversation.

“I’ll stop staring though, if you want.” Parker says as she moves to stand, helping Harry along the way. They take their time, making sure they’re both steady before she lets go of him.

“No, no. You don’t have to do that.” Harry says with a smile, showing off red stained teeth but it’s one of the most genuine smiles he’s had in days. “I don’t mind.”

Since being home from the hospital, Harry’s wardrobe has suffered. In his opinion. T-shirts and slip on pants have been the main staple with the newly bestowed inability to wrangle zippers, buttons, cuff links, and ties.

Standing in front of his mirror, Harry tugs on his shirt, hating how shapeless it makes him look. He shifts towards his right, concealing his amputated left arm. He can almost imagine himself as he was. Or, he can imagine himself as he was, but knows that he shouldn’t. The only thing that will bring his arm back is if Hardison and Breanna break the code to time travel.

Turning forward, Harry stares at the remainder of his limb. He’s seen a handful of therapists since his surgeries – physical, mental, occupational – and every single one has had the same sentiment. It’ll take time. It’ll take work. It’ll get better.

Harry wants to skip those first two and land on the third. There’s so much waiting to hurry up and do nothing. His stitches have been removed, the healing is going well, it’s been four weeks since being caught in that basement. Why does he feel like he’s still down there?

Carefully, Harry peels back the compression dressing around his residual limb. The scar tissue is still bright red and angry, although healthy. Swelling hasn’t been a concerning issue, everything pointing to a unremarkable recovery. Harry rolls his shoulder, still able to afford some movement of his humerus. The motions are stiff and sore, not from the surgery but from the already extensive work he’s been doing with his physical therapist.

Harry’s in the middle of fussing with the compression sleeve when a knock at his open door draws his attention. Eliot stands there, with his impassive and nonjudgemental air. “Need some help?” He asks easily, waiting for confirmation before moving.

The first impulse Harry has is to say no, instead he simply doesn’t answer as he messes with the sleeve. He’s able to get one side secure, but as soon as he tries the other side, all his work becomes undone. It’s another skill that will come to him in time, but currently, it’s only serving to frustrate him.

“Yes. If you don’t mind.” Harry finally relents.

Eliot crosses the room, taking the sleeve from Harry and with a practiced ease secures it to his arm. “How’s that feel?” Eliot asks as he makes sure the hem is straightened and not rolling over on itself.

Harry is inexplicably overcome with an emotion he can’t quite identify. Akin to relief but far more profound. “You’ve done this before.” It’s an observation that comes to Harry just as suddenly as he remembers Eliot’s military background.

“Not the first time. Honestly, hadn’t expected to do it again but, glad for the skill now.” Eliot says with that easy and warm smile of his.

“Yeah.” Harry says, his attention turning back to the mirror. “Thanks.”

“Anytime. Need anything else?”

It’s a loaded question, one that Harry could spend the next four hours answering if given the time. Uncertainty of what to ask for or how to ask for it keeps Harry silent. “You know how to tie a tie, yeah?”

Eliot raises a brow. “Yeah.”

The rest of the request feels utterly ridiculous. He could ask Sophie or Becky, hell, he could even ask his own mother. But Eliot is here and he’s offering. “I just… I can’t wear this –,” Harry motions to his incredibly casual attire. “again. It’s… I wear sweats and a t-shirt on my lazy days, when I’ve got nowhere to be on a football Sunday. And, and I’ve, it’s – it’s…”

“Depressing?” Eliot supplies, getting to the heart of the matter.

Harry sighs, relieved. “Yes. Deeply.”

“I can help you get dressed, Harry. It won’t be the weirdest thing I’ve ever done. Besides, I’ll show you how you can pin up your shirtsleeve to keep it from flapping around.” Eliot goes to Harry’s closet for him. “Anything particular you wanted to wear?”

“The light blue suit with the lavender tie?” Not sure why he’s phrasing it like a question when Eliot’s going as far as to pull out a complementary purple shirt as well.

Eliot drapes the suit jacket on the foot of Harry’s bed. “I know it’s hard to ask for help.” He says as he hands the matching pair of slacks over. “But you’re part of this family, Harry. You’d be hard pressed to find any of us who wouldn’t do anything for you. Trust me. I spent my fair share of time thinking – believing – that I didn’t deserve the help that I knew was at my fingertips. Don’t be like me. Now, let’s get you properly dressed.”

Sitting in front of the stage, Harry stares blankly at the darkened monitors. The team is off with a new client, helping to take down another bad guy that’s managed to skirt the law. His comm sits in front of him, he could listen in on the con, maybe provide support if the need arises. But the thought of listening to everyone work together, accomplish things that he would’ve been a part of – it only serves to deepen the depression that’s taking hold.

Harry mindlessly taps at his scar tissue with a pencil. One of the many tasks from his occupational therapist is to desensitize the area in order to help accommodate a prosthesis when the time comes. They’re light taps, not yet given clearance from the surgeon for deep massage or directly on the skin.

Engrossed in the small exercise, Harry doesn’t hear or notice Breanna return to base. She stands in the doorway behind him, watching as he works back and forth along the bandaged scar tissue. She bites her lip, considering backing out to let Harry have the space but she wants the monitors. Sent back to research, it’ll be much easier if she can multitask.

Breanna approaches Harry from the right side, unsure of how to make her presence known without startling him. She clears her throat, “Harry?” She’s unsuccessful as Harry still jumps.

“Breanna.” Harry exhales, setting the pencil down. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry, if I scared you.” She apologizes, taking a seat one away from Harry, leaving a gap between them.

“No, no. You’re okay.”

Silence settles over them, Harry resumes the tapping with his pencil and Breanna gets into her research. The longer Harry watches Breanna work, the more he feels like he wants to cry. He’s going to miss all this, doing this work, helping people, being a part of this team. These people are closer to him than most of his own family and now he has to walk away from it all.

“Harry?” Breanna asks again. It’s only when she gets his attention does Harry realize he is crying. “Are… what’s wrong?” She’s felt so awkward around Harry lately. Not by his own doing but her own. She can hardly look him in the eye, like she doesn’t deserve it. But he needs her help right now, her comfort, she can’t ignore this.

Trying to gather himself, Harry shakes his head. “It’s nothing. Just… a normal part of my life right now.” He grimaces, failing at shoring up the emotion that desperately wants out. Taking a shaky breath, he looks to Breanna as she moves to take the seat directly next to him. It’s such a simple gesture but all it takes for those tears to break the dam and flow free.

Breanna doesn’t say anything, doesn’t force Harry to talk any sooner than he’s ready. She still has her comm in, she hears Sophie ask if everything’s okay but Breanna doesn’t answer her. “I’m sorry, by the way.” She finally says.

The apology is entirely unexpected that it confounds Harry into stop crying. “For what?” His heart seizes in his chest for a beat. Worried that she’s going to shower him in a speech of pity, that she’s sorry things have gone this way and she’s sorry to see him go.

“For not finding you sooner.” Breanna’s voice wavers, she clears her throat. Just as desperate to hold herself together as Harry. “I should’ve, I should’ve tracked your phone sooner. It wasn’t like you to not answer our calls, but somehow we convinced ourselves you were okay and I stopped listening to my instincts and if I hadn’t done that, we could’ve found you sooner, and if we found you sooner we might’ve been able to save your arm too and – ,”

“Hey, hey, take a breath for me, Bree.” Harry says, interrupting the spiral that she’s currently going down. It’s more than obvious this is guilt that she’s been carrying for the last few weeks. While everything Breanna says is true, the last thing that he wants is for her to think that the outcome is her fault. “Yes, maybe my arm could’ve been saved had I been found sooner, but it’s all hypothetical. Every doctor and surgeon said that even within a few hours of being pinned the likelihood of amputation would’ve have been significant. And there was no reason for any of you to come looking for me in those first hours.”

Harry has gone over every ‘what if’ scenario possible since waking up in the hospital. There were the ones where he was found sooner, impossible to not cover that specific sequence of events. But even then, there are only two things that truly could have changed the outcome.

The first, the contractors not blowing up the building and the second, Harry not taking on David McClintok as a client. Both things that not a single thing on the crew could’ve done to prevent.

“It’s not your responsibility to keep me safe, Breanna, especially when we aren’t on a con and I’m just off doing my own thing. None of us could have predicted this happening or this result. You found me, at the perfect time, I think. Any longer… and I’d just be dead. And for that, I will forever be thankful.” Harry puts his hand on Breanna’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Okay?”

Breanna nods. “Okay. You’re welcome, then.” She says with a smile.

Watching how that smile lights up her face sends that pang of depression through Harry again. There’s no reason that he can’t stay in contact with the team after he leaves, but it won’t be the same. Knowing that they’ll all be running cons and doing jobs, and he’ll just be a tourist again.

“I’m going to miss you.” Harry says with a morose smile of his own.

Breanna’s brow furrows. “What do you mean?”

Harry laughs, a bitter sound. “I’m not going to be able to stay on the team. How obvious am I with one arm? Even whenever I finally do get my prosthesis, I’ll be easily identifiable, I won’t be able to do cons or be in the field. It’s not like I can run the computers from the van like you can. Sure, I can provide some legal support but… that’s just not the same.”

“Who said you were going anywhere?”

Harry and Breanna both turn in their seats at the sound of Sophie’s voice. She’s approaching them, Eliot and Parker behind her.

“Uhm, I… I just assumed.” Harry says.

“You know what they say when you assume, Harry.” Eliot quips, making a detour to go behind the bar for a bottle of bourbon (Harry’s favorite) and glasses for everyone.

“You’re far too valuable, Mr. Wilson.” Sophie says, rounding the table to stand between Harry and the stage. “It’s going to take more than losing an arm for us to kick you off the team, I’m afraid. Unless, you want to leave?”

“No!” He says quickly, probably a little too quickly but he doesn’t care. “No. I don’t want to leave. That’s the last thing I want.”

Parker takes the open seat on Harry’s other side, slinging her arm over his shoulders. “Good, because we want you to stay too.”

Eliot sets a glass in front of everyone. “Might be a bit until you’re fully back out in the field with us, but we’re patient, and we’ll make sure you’re ready when the time comes.”

Breanna brightens up. “Besides, think of all the cool gadgets I’ll be able to make for your arm once you get it.”

“Oh!” Parker beams. “Do you think you can make a laser gun arm? Or no! How about a taser? A taser arm would be sweet, then you’ll always have one with you.”

“Maybe I’ll just start with a normal arm and go from there.” Harry says, although not minding listening to everyone’s suggestions.

“I think a normal arm is a good place to start.” Sophie says, taking the glass that Eliot offers her. “I’m sorry we didn’t say sooner, Harry, but we don’t expect you to go anywhere. You’re still a valued and necessary part of this team and we couldn’t imagine doing this without you.”

Harry swirls the bourbon in his glass, watching the golden liquid for a few seconds before looking up. “Thank you. I don’t think I could do this alone and… and I’m,” Harry clears his throat, determined to keep strength to his voice. “I’m really thankful for you all.”

Parker squeezes Harry tighter around the shoulders, holding up her glass. “To Harry!”

“To Harry!” Everyone else chimes in, raising their glasses for an exchange for cheers before taking a collective drink.

Unable to fully stop his tears, Harry wipes them away after setting his glass down. “Thank you, truly.”

“Let’s have a movie night in, I can set up the projector in the courtyard.” Breanna says as she slips from the stool, bringing her laptop with her.

“I’ll make some popcorn, gourmet.” Eliot heads towards the kitchen.

“I think we should watch The Fugitive.” Parker suggests, earning herself a roll of the eyes from everyone. “No? Too soon?”

Harry grins. “What I want from each and every one of you is a hard-target search of every gas station, residence, warehouse –,” Parker joins in for the rest. “farmhouse, henhouse, outhouse and doghouse in that area!” They finish together, laughing. Parker gets up, going to get the movie.

“That looks good on you.” Sophie says, now that’s it’s the two of them.

“What’s that?”

“That smile.” Sophie makes Harry smile more, blushing a little bit. “Come on, let’s go get some blankets to set up with outside.” She moves around to his right side, taking is arm as she has done so many times before and will continue to do so many times to come.