AN: This was inspired by a reviewer of Swan Song who wanted more of John's point of view. It was a real challenge to write from John's perspective given events of the finale, but here's my attempt.

John arrived just as she was taking the stage. Without the ability to teleport, he would not have been there in time. Then again, without the ability to teleport, and the other abilities he possessed, he wouldn't have been away in the first place. Still, he was here now. Even though he'd made her no promises, he was here in fulfillment of her hope and expectation.

He took a place at the far end of the bar, and ordered a scotch—neat. He watched as she went through what he now understood to be her process of readying herself for a performance. There was a nervous energy—an excitement—to her movements. It reminded him of the process he used each time he embarked on a mission. But hers would result in something beautiful and melodic—his, frankly, the opposite.

He thought of himself now like a samurai, or a gunslinger in a western movie—blowing into town, doing what needed to be done, and then disappearing again. He didn't delude himself into thinking these things were always heroic, but they were always necessary. And so he did them. He did them so that men like the senator who funded their work didn't have to … so that they didn't have to dirty their hands with messy, difficult things. He did them because the world continued to be a dangerous place. In fact, it was more dangerous than ever. The tools and technology developed by the so-called "Founder" were no longer centrally held, but dispersed into the hands of many—some well intentioned, others with evil intent. And then too, there were paranormals flocking to the side of an emerging leader—it was still unclear to what end. These were dark days, and sometimes, dark deeds were necessary.

He took a mouthful of the amber liquid, just as she took the mic and began.

Long ago and oh so far away

I fell in love with you before the second show

He found it odd when Jedikiah first told him of the assignment to find out what Astrid Finch knew about Stephen Jameson. It seemed beneath his skills and abilities, and there were dozens of other ways to get the intel they needed. But Jedikiah had told him to start with the most straightforward approach. Astrid was Stephen's closest friend, and if he stayed in touch with anyone, it would be her. If anyone outside of his inner circle were privy to his plans, it would be her. Even if Stephen had not shared his plans with her, there might be useful information to be gleaned nonetheless. In this case, it would be easy to find out, because Astrid would trust John, so he would have no difficulty accessing her thoughts and memories—especially with his enhanced capabilities.

Jedikiah had been right about that at least. From the moment she appeared behind the counter at the café and said his name, he knew she'd be easy to read. "It me, Astrid." She was so open. This will be over and done in no time, he thought. And when she turned away to pour his coffee, he looked into her mind. There was no need to force his way in; she was an open book—unguarded, unsuspecting. And as Jedikiah predicted, seeing him would trigger memories of their paranormal of interest.

The last time she saw Stephen was in this very café. Astrid was sitting with him and Cara. She looked crushed and devastated by the news they'd come to tell her—that they'd seen John—that he was no longer the John Young they knew and cared about—Cara's face was impassive—Stephen was comforting Astrid, squeezing her hand. She knew nothing current, nothing of value—that much was clear. And then … she sang? … It was a fleeting memory but she was singing. And there was this indefinable warmth to her voice and her demeanor. What did it mean? He looked away, breaking contact. He noticed a postcard on the counter; "featuring Astrid Finch" was written on the corner. He stole another glance at her, as he slipped the postcard into his pocket.

Later that day, when he debriefed with Jedikiah, he would tell him simply, "She hasn't seen them for months; she doesn't know anything useful."

Jedikiah responded, "It was worth a shot though. That's something you need to learn—use all the powers at your disposal, not just the flashy ones." He was grateful when Jedikiah added, "Why don't you take off the rest of the day. Tomorrow we'll start fresh with a new approach."

He knew the moment he glimpsed inside her that he wanted to hear her sing; he wanted to know more about the distraught young woman he saw in her memories, as well as the one in the present who was so crestfallen that he did not remember her face, name, or voice.

Perhaps it began as early as the first time he heard her sing. He had done so many hard things, and seen so much ugliness of late that he was surprised to find that such beauty coexisted in the world. It was not just her physical qualities, it was the beauty of her voice, the expressiveness of her face when she sang, and the way she imbued every song with real emotion—whether it was the joy of a lighter piece, or the pathos and longing of her final song—it was real and immediate, and it kindled a kind of longing in him as well.

And so he sought her out again and again. In the process, without intending to do so, he connected with her in way that caught him off-guard. Being with her was like a day in the sunshine after an interminable winter of gray. For all the control and precision he cultivated in his work, he'd been undone by her—by her smile, and the sound of her voice, and in a very different sense, by knowing that he was not man she longed for. The man she longed for no longer existed, and he was just an imposter who made it impossible for her to forget and move on.

He didn't know exactly when or how it happened, he only knew that one day he realized that he'd fallen in love with her. He told himself that it didn't matter that each time she looked at him, she hoped it was a different version of him looking back. Yet over the course of the weeks they spent together, if he were honest, he would acknowledge that it mattered more and more. And each time he teleported back to the furnished apartment with the city-view that Jedikiah had picked for him, he felt that his life, like his apartment, was vacant in the ways that mattered most.

And what if she had the power to look into his mind—to read his thoughts and memories. He told her that he wasn't a hero, but he didn't tell her of the ugly things he'd seen and done. He didn't tell her about the capture and neutralize missions that he did for Jedikiah—capture and neutralize, or eliminate the threat. What would she think of him if she could see the faces of the rogue paranormals he led to the chamber to have their powers stripped, or hear the shocked cries of the Bathory worshippers that he had just stalked, and eliminated? How would she feel about him then? Would she continue trying to reach the hero he'd once been, or recoil from the ugliness inside of the man he'd become?

… I want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)

No, I want to fall in love (This world is only gonna break your heart)

With you.

And now, listening to the final strain of her final song, he felt almost afraid to face her. He took a final drink of scotch, draining the glass. Perhaps he'd be showing her greater kindness by walking away now and never seeing her again—before she realized that the John Young she knew was never coming back—and before she realized that he was more of a precision instrument—a weapon—than the man she once knew. But if he meant to show her this particular brand of kindness, why come to hear her sing again? Why declare his love for her as he had? There were no answers, except perhaps that the selfishness of love made it impossible to do otherwise.

AN: Thanks for reading. Here are the credits for the lyrics used in the fic:

Superstar … Bonnie Bramlett, Delaney Bramlett, and Leon Russell

Wicked Game … Chris Isaak