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Chapter Text

All John can think about is getting Harold back to his apartment. It had been a particularly long day, long enough to render them both agitated and on edge. The number was especially tiresome, the weather hot and irritable. Once the number was confirmed safe, Harold and John exchanged a look – a look only shared between the two of them. A look that said make love to me when I get home before I lose my mind.

He drives just a little bit faster than he should. Just a little bit. Once inside, he has Harold pressed gently against the wall, his tongue in his mouth, kissing him like he never wants to do anything else ever again. If he had it his way, he’d be kissing Harold all the time. But of course, life doesn’t always allow for that.

Luckily for them both, it does now.

He cradles Harold’s neck and jaw, upturning his face to kiss him better, and the minute Harold’s hands twist through his clothes, he begins to doubt if they’ll actually make it into the bedroom. When Harold’s knee slips between his thighs at just the perfect height for him to grind against, John knows they won’t be making it upstairs anytime soon.

“Mmh, Harold,” he murmurs against his mouth, then bows his head to nuzzle against his cheek and jaw. He breathes in his scent, trailing fingers down Harold’s chest as he fumbles to undo his tie.

“You seem very needy today,” Harold comments quietly, not without a measure of fondness in his voice. “Can I help you with that?”

John smiles and kisses down his throat. “You can hold still,” he murmurs. “And help me get this damn vest off of you.”

With expert fingers, John pops open each vest button one by one until Harold is just in his undershirt. With his vest discarded on the floor, he slides the undershirt easily off his torso, dropping it beside the vest on the ground. He’s surprised when Harold doesn’t make a comment about wrinkled clothes and doesn’t give so much as a passing glance in their direction. His bright, blue eyes are only for John as John lowers himself to his knees.

He wants Harold’s cock in his mouth. But as he’s learned over the years, patience is a virtue. He nuzzles against his belly instead, sliding his hands over the warm skin. From there, he places soft kisses down past his navel, down to his waist, and realizes that he’s never taken the time to explore Harold’s body like this before. He reaches back up to spread out his hands across his stomach, caressing the skin with his thumbs before following the invisible path of his fingers with his lips.

“You feel exquisite,” Harold breathes and cradles John’s face. “My sweet boy.”

John smiles, feeling his eyes flutter shut. Praise makes him drift – makes him feel safe in a way only Harold could ever make him feel. His voice always has, whether it’s in his earpiece when running a number or murmured right into his ear when they’re alone.

He places a soft, lingering kiss on his navel, licking around the hairy skin before giving him a gentle bite there. He trails more bites across his waist, sucking red marks into the skin before moving his mouth down.

He can tell Harold’s grown hard in his pants from John’s gentle touch. Moving his head down, he mouths at his clothed cock for a moment, relishing the way Harold gasps above him. He makes careful work of undoing his pants, pulling them down along with his boxers just far enough to free his cock. From there, he doesn’t wait any longer; he takes it into his mouth willingly as Harold moans above him and begins to tremble where he stands.

“Oh, John,” he groans softly. “That’s wonderful. Very, very good.”

John begins to bob his head. He flattens out his tongue just the way he knows Harold likes. Above him, Harold’s soft moans spur him on and he begins bobbing his head faster than before. John relishes the taste of him, using his lips, tongue, and throat to completely envelop him in his mouth. He doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here, with Harold deep down his throat, making him tremble and moan and make all sorts of beautiful sounds.

“John,” he gasps. “I’m not going to last much longer.”

There was one point in time where John avoided the taste of Harold’s semen, but not anymore. He looks up at Harold’s blissed-out face willing him to spill down his throat. Harold begins thrusting into his mouth, and with three quick pumps of his hips, his orgasm comes hard and quick. He spills into John’s mouth and John swallows him down, bobbing his head frantically until Harold has to pull him off his spent cock.

“Oh, sweetheart. That was beautiful.” Harold drags John into a needy kiss, pleased beyond words. He nearly forgets that his pants are gathered at his ankles and stumbles into John’s arms, making them both laugh breathlessly. John helps get Harold situated; judging by the mischievous look in Harold’s eye, he’s far from done with John just yet. “Perfect,” Harold breathes. “Absolutely perfect.” Taking John’s hand, he tugs him toward the bedroom upstairs.

“I want you on your hands and knees once we reach the bedroom,” he orders in that voice that makes John absolutely weak in the knees. “Undressed. I’m going to show you just how much I enjoyed that.”

With a wide grin across his face, John complies and nearly stumbles over his feet in a rush to get up the steps.

Chapter Text

Not every Number deserves a celebration; if they had a fancy dinner every time they successfully closed a case, they’d spend almost as much time in restaurants as they do in mortal danger. But sometimes the misses are too near, the clock too close to midnight, and the silence at the other end of the comm too prolonged for this to be just another Number, and the relief they share when they are reunited is too palpable not to be commemorated.

Were Harold a bit more inclined towards culinary arts, he’d gladly spend a couple of hours preparing all of John’s favorite dishes; in spite of his refined palate, however, he never quite mastered the skills necessary to be a true chef, and John deserves nothing short of the best. So a late night reservation or, in some cases, a discrete cashing in of a favor to get top-quality steak or salmon or sushi delivered within half an hour even though the restaurant in question closed two hours ago, is just what is needed to revive their spirits.

On this particular night, John is nursing a dislocated shoulder as well as a glass of top-shelf brandy to go along with his sirloin steak and what amounts to a high-end jacket potato. Harold is picking at his own meal, trying to be circumspect about watching how John moves, gauging his pain level by how he cuts his steak or lifts his glass to his lips. He’s not quite as subtle as he hopes, however, if John’s smirk is anything to go by.

John finishes off his last bite of steak and sits back, the smirk broadening. “Yes, Dr. Finch?”

Harold rolls his eyes and sets down his knife and fork, meal not even half finished; he doesn’t have the same appetite after a difficult case that John does, but that’s no issue when he knows the food will be a late breakfast indulgement for both of them tomorrow. “How’s your pain level?”

John shrugs, and Harold notes that the left shoulder rises half as high as the right one does. “About a three.”

Which really means five or six. Harold doesn’t call him out on the underestimation, however. He nods as if that’s a perfectly reasonable number for a dislocated shoulder that had to be set to rights in the middle of a shootout. “Good. Do you want something a bit stronger than ibuprofen?”

John shakes his head, swirling the last remains of his alcohol in his glass. “Not after having drunk this, no.”

“Very well.” Harold rises, picking up his half-full plate and John’s empty one. John starts to stand as well, but Harold makes a noise of refusal. “If you wish to be helpful, take our glasses to the couch.”

John scoffs at the prospect of Harold daring to do more physical labor than he, as if wrapping a plate in plastic film is some sort of hardship, yet still doesn’t argue or attempt to circumvent Harold’s instructions. It only takes Harold a few minutes to set everything to rights in the kitchen before coming out to the living area to join John on the couch.

Except John isn’t there.

“Mr. Reese?” Harold inquires, perplexed. He thinks briefly that John may have gone to the bathroom while waiting for Harold, but the glasses are not in evidence either. There are only so many places he may have gone inside the apartment; the thought that he left altogether only flashes swiftly across Harold’s mind before he dismisses it.

He follows instead the only other logical course, and heads towards the bedroom; sure enough, there is John, sitting on the foot of the bed, watching Harold carefully, eyes guarded. Harold inhales sharply, surprised yet not. They have only done this a few times before, and it has always been almost accidental – a caress on the couch ending with them tangled in the sheets, desperate fear on a case turning into a tight embrace in a dark alley. Never planned like this, with John swallowing apprehensively, glasses of brandy already set safely on the bedside table.

“Finch?” John asks, the question lingering in the air. He won’t ask directly, but the implications are there.

“John,” Harold responds, loading that one word with as much emotion, acceptance, and anticipation as he can. He limps slowly but eagerly into the room, approaching the end of the bed to insinuate himself between John’s legs. John’s hands come automatically up to his waist, pulling him close so that his belly is pressed against John’s nose. It should be embarrassing, the way his middle-aged paunch encroaches into John’s space before any other part of him, but he can’t feel anything but beloved when held in John’s arms like this.

It’s almost too much to bear.

His pulse quickens, and his body begins to respond as John presses little open-mouthed kisses to Harold’s clothed stomach. He draws in a shuddering breath. “John,” he gasps, threading his fingers in John’s hair. “Oh, my sweet boy.” He knows better than to ask if John is up to this, as that will make his contrary partner push himself well beyond his physical limitations. For someone who is constantly mindful of Harold’s disability, the man has no sense of his own pain. So instead, when his hands trail down to caress John’s neck, shoulders, arms, he is mindful of the left one, keeping his touches there lighter, gentler.

John pulls his head back and looks up at Harold, a small smile gracing his lips. “Want to lie down?”

Harold can’t duck his head the way he wants to, to capture John’s lips in his, so he settles instead for rubbing his thumb along them, pleased with the way John sucks the digit into his mouth. “I was rather thinking of laying you down instead.”

John’s eyes light up and he scoots back onto the bed, kicking his shoes off as he goes. He doesn’t go for his shirt buttons yet, not until Harold tells him to do so. Which Harold might or might not do; sometimes he likes to undress John himself, peeling the layers off as John burns with anticipation. This feels like one of those nights, as Harold gets himself onto the bed and straddles John’s lap, slowly running his hands up John’s torso. John grasps his knees, digging his fingers into the soft flesh. “Is this okay on your hip?”

Harold nods. “It’s fine, darling.” It won’t be fine if this takes too long, but he has a sneaking suspicion neither of them will take much to come. “I may need your help, though.”

“Anything you need, it’s yours,” John answers immediately. Zero hesitation, ready and willing to offer up anything and everything to Harold. He doesn’t deserve such dedication, but he doesn’t say as much out loud; he knows John would only disagree.

Instead, he sets about unbuttoning John’s shirt, which has the benefit of already being halfway undone. At first it had driven Harold crazy that the man couldn’t seem to keep his shirt buttoned, but now it’s a boon. He hungrily takes in every inch of skin revealed, splaying his fingers out to touch, caress, scratch lightly. One of these days he’s intent on counting each and every scar that mars the beautiful skin, but tonight is not that night. He wants too much and is too tired to make it linger.

John sits up to help Harold push the shirt off his shoulders, both of them careful with the injured one, and to start in on Harold’s clothes as well. Their movements grow more hurried, more lustful; they exchange biting kisses between removal of clothing. Harold grabs John a little too hard, causing a mewling moan to escape into Harold’s teeth. He tries to let go, to apologize, but John shakes his head, panting, and begs him to do it again. Harold does, mindful not to let John go too far and cause himself serious damage.

Within minutes, they’re both naked and panting against each other, bodies slick with sweat, hard and needy. John rolls on his side to grab the lube out of the bedside drawer, and Harold deftly plucks it out of his hand. John smiles. “Want me to turn over?”

Harold shakes his head, licks his lips. “I thought we might change things up a little bit.”

He pours a little bit of the lube onto his fingers and spreads it around before reaching behind himself to press a finger inside. John’s mouth falls open in awe, eyes shining with an emotion that Harold doesn’t want to put a name to. This is new, at least between them, perhaps something John hadn’t realized Harold might want. Tonight, he does.

“I may need your help, though,” Harold admits. “More than one finger for a prolonged amount of time gets… uncomfortable at this angle.”

John doesn’t need telling twice. He scoops up the lube and pours a generous amount on his fingers, warming it before sliding his hand under Harold to his entrance. Harold pulls his finger out and it is immediately replaced with John’s thick, warm finger. He starts with one, even though Harold already did that, but John – careful, methodical John – has to make sure for himself. Harold closes his eyes, breathing into the sensations as he is stretched open, a pleasant, aching burn. Another finger, and Harold is moaning. John crooks his finger, and he sees stars.

They take their time, John propping himself up on a pile of pillows so that Harold doesn’t have to bend over for them to kiss. Harold tries to subtly make sure John isn’t putting too much weight on his shoulder. They’re a mess, but they’re messy together, and that’s all that he cares about right now.

Before long, Harold is clutching John tightly and demanding More, Mr. Reese, I need you inside me NOW and John chuckles as he withdraws his fingers to oblige. His cock fills Harold up in a way that has him gasping, rocking back and forth as well as his hip will allow. John moans, eyes fighting between the disparate urges to close or to stare up at him, drinking in the sight. Harold caresses his cheek, thumb lingering against John’s lips, and John takes the hint, sucking the digit into his mouth. Harold rocks faster.

They move in perfect synchrony, John holding Harold’s hips for support as well as to encourage him along. He runs his tongue along Harold’s thumb in a way that has Harold shuddering and eager for more. Beautiful promises rain from Harold’s lips, more than sweet nothings, but something just short of saying how he really feels. The truth scares him to his core; words that he can’t say for fear that he wouldn’t be able to take them back. Words that could tear him to shreds if – when – the worst should happen.

Instead, he settles for an approximation of what he wishes he could say and hopes that John will never read between the lines. He shifts slightly, and John angles his hips just right, and then his cock is rubbing right against Harold’s prostate, and this must be what heaven is, on this Godless plane of existence because nothing has ever felt so good, even as his hip begins to make its discomfort known. Harold’s breath hitches, stars spark in front of his vision, and he wishes he could come just from this.

But John – beautiful, perfect, John who can read his every signal – understands, and releases Harold’s good hip to wrap his hand around Harold’s cock instead. It’s not even his dominant hand, but years of training to use either hand for any number of activities has left John ambidextrous in a way that benefits Harold superbly right now. The combined stimulation of his cock and prostate have him whimpering in a needy way far, far too quickly.

John smiles up at him, that beautifully crooked smile that makes Harold want to lock him in a box, safe from the horrors of reality. “Feel good, Finch?”

“Yes!” Harold chokes out, clenching his muscles around John’s cock, causing him to shudder and gasp as well, eyes fluttering shut briefly. “I’m close.”

It doesn’t always work out this well; Harold’s body is too old and too broken to work properly every time they try this, but it has relented tonight. He is quickly approaching orgasm, and not a moment too soon, if his neck and hip have anything to say about it. He knows ice will be in his near future, but for now he lets the twin stimulations carry him along on a current of pleasure. Shivers wrack his body, feeding into John’s eagerness, which in turn increases his rhythm on Harold’s cock. It’s a perfect feedback loop of eroticism, and he wonders in the back of his mind if artificial intelligence can ever truly understand the sensations of the human body, how two people in tandem can build into a glorious crescendo of pleasure.

He comes, then, without warning, his seed shooting across John’s hand and stomach. John groans and stills inside of Harold, his own orgasm taking over until they are both spent and boneless, Harold collapsing on top of John.

It’s several long moments before he has the wherewithal to roll off of John, feeling empty when John’s cock slips out of him. They lay tangled together, the silence threatening to become awkward in the aftermath. He wishes it weren’t like this, but he doesn’t know how to make it easy.

John, apparently, doesn’t either. He clears his throat, not quite meeting Harold’s eye. “Stay there,” he says, as if Harold will have the energy to move for hours yet. He disappears for a few minutes, then comes back with a couple of damp washcloths and an ice pack. He passes one of the cloths to Harold, who cleans himself up while John does the same. The ice pack gets wrapped into a dry cloth and given to Harold, who takes it gratefully. The pain hasn’t set in quite yet, but it will soon.

He scoots over slightly, a silent indication for John to rejoin him on the bed; John does so after just a moment of hesitation. They don’t cuddle, even though Harold is fairly sure it’s something neither of them would object to. It’s just that neither of them can seem to make the offer first.

They do, however, get settled under the covers, still naked, at least comfortable enough for this. Harold’s hand seeks John’s arm under the duvet and gives it a squeeze.

I’m glad you’re still here, remains unspoken. “Here” as in the bed, the apartment, alive – all of the above.

John lays his free hand on top of Harold’s and squeezes back. Me too.

They don’t say anything else, drifting into deep sleep that will soon be plagued by nightmares. At some point in the night, John will slip out and they will act like this never happened. Until then, Harold holds tight to an alternate reality where this is their life: safe, normal, loved.

Together.

Chapter Text

Long after the war took hold of their friends’ lives, Harold said he wanted to see the Grand Canyon.

They’d survived the suffering and come out battered and tired. Root was gone, Shaw was working the numbers, and Grace was still in the wind, a remnant of love felt long ago. Harold had given up working the numbers for good, and when it turned out that John Reese was actually alive, he wept with joy, falling into his arms with so much relief he felt he would surely collapse from it.

They were left with a lot of guilt, weariness, and uncertainty about where to go next. When Harold mentioned how he’d always wanted to see the Grand Canyon, John felt that it was only acceptable to take him there. They needed to leave New York and it’s oppressive, cramped quarters. They needed to go somewhere they could finally breathe and be free of Samaritan’s hold once and for all (because it didn’t matter that Samaritan was gone – they could still feel its eyes watching them even then.) And so, one chilly, Tuesday morning, they packed their things, loaded Bear up in the car with them, and off they went with little more than a passing mention. Neither of them had to say it; they had to leave New York behind, just for a little while.

They stop overnight in Philadelphia, with John taking the first leg of the drive. John convinces Harold to try a Philadelphia cheesesteak, a luxury, he claims, few can experience in earnest. Harold, who makes a face the entire time he chews it, finishes it all quickly and only gives a small piece to Bear once he is done.

“I think you’re trying to give me a heart attack, John,” Harold says with wary eyes. John’s fond smile stretches wide across his face.

“That means it was good, though, wasn’t it?”

Harold only hums. They’re looking over Rittenhouse Square in the dark, the lights of the city twinkling like systems of stars in the night. Philadelphia is so much like New York, and yet it's not. It’s a home away from home, and Harold is grateful that, even in a place so much like the one they left behind, they’re someplace else.

They spend the night in a cheap hotel on the outskirts of the city, and by the time the sun peeks its head over the horizon the next day, they’re gone.

They spend the day driving through Pennsylvania and into Ohio, stopping to explore Cleaveland briefly before getting back into the car. They drive almost through the night until John is too tired to continue and stop just outside of St. Louis, Missouri. They spend some time at Johnson’s Shut-In State Park, and the wonder of the natural beauty awes Harold beyond anything he’s ever seen. It’s been so long since he’s seen a place so full of life, and the waterfalls at their backs sound so different from the roars of the city. 

“Thank you for taking me here,” Harold tells him. Bear, loose off his leash, splashes amidst the rocks and playfully bites at the smaller waterfall coming down across the ridge. “It’s been so long since I’ve seen something this beautiful.”

John, unable to take his eyes off Harold’s awed expression, wholeheartedly agrees.

Harold drives for a little while, though with his hip, he can’t drive for very long. John doesn’t mind – once they reach the Great Plains, it’s miles and miles of open road. They listen to music – John puts on all the classic rock he can find, and even Harold seems to warm up to it after a little while. They find themselves singing along to Bon Jovi by the time they reach Nebraska, and the open highway is far more vast than anything Harold has ever seen in his life. He wants to reach out and touch the forever on the horizon, the way the road is so open and clear, nearly lifeless at night. He feels their troubles melt away when it’s just the two of them like this – the two of them and Bear, anyway.

He never would have wanted to do this on his own.

After another day on the road, of rest stops and hotels and stops to stretch their tired legs, they reach the Grand Canyon on an early Thursday morning. It takes some walking to reach the trail, and by the time they reach the top, Harold is winded. John takes him by the shoulder and lets him lean his weight on him for a long while. It feels nice, and after a while, they continue to walk. 

Finally, they reach the top of the trail overlooking the canyon, and Harold is rendered speechless. Miles upon miles of golden-brown rock bathed in early morning sunlight gives the scenery a rustic glow. “It’s…” Harold begins, but he doesn’t know what to say. “I haven’t seen this much open space since I was a boy.”

John smiles at Harold fondly. “It’s really something,” he says fondly. But even he can’t fully appreciate the canyon’s endless beauty – he’s too busy watching Harold’s face light up like a young boy. Bear, eager to continue walking, whimpers beside John.

“Thank you John, I…this is incredible. I don’t know what to say.” 

“You don’t have to thank me. I wanted to –”

But John’s words are cut off by Harold’s mouth on his. It’s a gentle, lingering sort of kiss, one that makes John weak-limbed and utterly lost for words. He gently takes Harold’s hips in his hands and pulls him close, kissing him right back. How could he not? He loves him. Of course, he loves him. It took fighting a war to understand that, but he always did.

After what must have been at least several minutes, they pull away. 

“Should we get walking?” Harold asks shyly.

John looks at him in awe. “Only if you promise we can do that again.”

Harold doesn’t need to say anything else. Hand-in-hand, they begin to walk together, facing the rising sun and the new day it would bring.

Chapter Text

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like it at all but for some reason Harold overrides any objection he can come up with because of course he has to play the gentleman, of course he can’t deny a “beautiful woman the pleasure of” his company. And of course it has to be the woman they’re investigating who asks Harold to dance, which makes John’s objections all the more ridiculous.

It’s not jealousy that is driving his desire to step between them and shoo the woman away, naturally. It’s not envy of the way she leans in close to Harold, one hand on his shoulder, the other firmly clasped in his as he leads her through the steps. It’s not yearning to be the one who laughs at his charm, blushes at his compliments, looks down bashfully at his flirtations. John has never felt bashful in Harold’s presence, even in the middle of their banter that, at least for John, borders on flirtation. So it definitely can’t be that which is making his gut churn and his heart pound in his chest.

It’s just that she doesn’t know Harold the way John does. She can’t tell that he’s pushing himself too fast to keep up with the music. She doesn’t see the way he winces on every fourth step, even as he keeps up the facade of the diligent suitor. She has no idea that Harold will collapse on his bed later, too pained to even get himself an ice pack from the freezer and his heating pad from the bathroom. She won’t be there to get those things for him.

But John will.

He’s moving before he even registers his intention to do so. Striding across the dance floor, single-minded, intent. Taps her on the shoulder with a charming smile and asks, “Mind if I cut in?”

The woman is surprised; she is older than Finch, and while she is still very striking, it’s clear she is a little suspicious of what such a young man might want from her. “I don’t mind,” she says, glancing at Harold to gauge his reaction. “If you don’t?”

“Not at all,” Harold says swiftly, dropping her hands and taking a half step back. The woman raises her hands towards John, but he’s already turning away, stepping into Harold’s space and taking his hands. He automatically goes for the lead positions, which causes Harold to fumble briefly as he reorients himself to follow.

“Thanks,” John says over his shoulder, a clear dismissal that leaves the woman looking rather miffed.

“Mr. Reese, what are you doing?” Harold hisses as John starts them into an easy sway that by no means matches the tempo of the music. He doesn’t care. It’s a pace he knows perfectly well from all of the times they’ve taken a walk together. “I was getting potentially important information.”

“We don’t know yet if she’s a victim or a perpetrator,” John reminds him, ignoring the fact they’re almost certain she’s a victim. “You could have been putting yourself in danger.”

“I would have been fine,” Harold insists, eyes on the crowd. “We could lose her.”

“Lionel and Shaw are both watching exits. She can’t leave without one of them seeing. We won’t lose her.”

“Yes, but –”

“I don’t like seeing you in pain.”

The words tumble out without him meaning to say them out loud, but it has at least one desired effect: Harold’s eyes snap to his, searching for…something. John doesn’t look away, doesn’t blink. Wants Harold to see the sincerity in his gaze, and the subtle warning: I won’t let you hurt yourself.

Harold looks away first. “I know my own limits, Mr. Reese.”

“I know you do,” John agrees readily. “And I know you’ll push yourself past them in the name of the mission.”

Harold raises his eyebrows and gives John an icy look. “As if you don’t?”

“That’s different.”

“Bullshit.”

The swear catches John off-guard; it’s not that Harold never swears, but he does so with such infrequency that it renders the times he does all that much more powerful. The song ends right at that moment, however, and they step apart automatically. John feels the loss of Harold’s warmth keenly.

“I don’t see her,” Harold says, scanning the crowd. John places a hand on the small of his back to lead him off the dance floor, also looking around subtly, trying to spot her among the patrons.

“You two make a lovely couple,” someone nearby says, and John looks around to see another older socialite beaming at them with adoration.

Harold shoots John a sharp look before a wicked smile curls the corners of his lips. “Thank you,” he croons, linking his elbow with John’s and gazing up at him, a challenge in his eyes. “I rather think so, too.”

The socialite titters and moves on, leaving Harold smirking and John raising his eyebrows. “You’ll lose,” he tells Harold casually.

“What?”

“If you play gay chicken with me. You’ll lose.”

“What on Earth is –”

John spots the photographer out of the corner of his eye, and without hesitation, ducks down to press his lips to Harold’s, shielding both of their faces from the flash. Harold can always go through the footage of the evening and erase any pictures that show too much of their faces, but it’s the perfect excuse to feel Harold’s lips on his, their breaths mingling, Harold’s tongue swiping against John’s mouth, begging for entrance, which John allows. His whole world narrows to just this: his fingers reaching up to grip the back of Harold’s neck, Harold’s hand on his elbow to steady the both of them, eyes closed, heart pounding, thrills racing up and down his spine and along every nerve, until –

“Hey, lovebirds,” Fusco growls into the comms. “You got eyes on our prize?”

John breaks away reluctantly. “Not currently,” he admits. “Do you?”

“Yeah. And she ain’t lookin’ too happy.”

John whips his head around, and sure enough their mark is watching them with a look of murderous fury on her face. Her lips sneer with distaste and she is gripping a glass of wine hard enough that John’s surprised it hasn’t shattered yet. Their eyes meet and he sees her soundlessly mouth one single, vile word that he hopes Harold can’t read.

“Huh,” Harold murmurs, and John looks back at him. He is frowning. “Isn’t, um… Isn’t her son gay?”

John’s brain races back through all of the information they’d found out about their mark and her family. “Yeah. And she wasn’t too happy about it, based on phone recordings and some of her internet searches.”

“Unhappy enough to…do something about it?”

It takes only half a second for the implications to sink in. “Lionel –”

“Already heading out to find him. You guys stay on her; could be that she wasn’t serious about hurtin’ her precious baby, but now that you just about made out in front of her….”

“She might take out her anger on the closest gay man in her life,” Harold sighs. “Thank you, Detective.”

“No need to thank me,” Fusco says grimly. “She was lookin’ into those conversion camps. The man’s in his mid-twenties and she thinks she’s gonna ship him off to gay boot camp. Well she’s got another think comin’.”

Fusco’s line goes dead, and John turns to Harold, keeping the mark in the corner of his sight. “Guess we’ll have to grin and bear it out here a while longer. At least until she tries to make her move.”

“Oh, dear,” Harold says, somehow not sounding sorry at all. He slips his hand into John’s and gives it a squeeze. “It occurs to me that the more we act like the disgraceful men she thinks we are, the more likely she is to show her hand.”

“That’s a good point,” John agrees, lifting his hand to caress Harold’s cheek. It’s not his imagination that Harold leans into the touch and his eyes flutter slightly. “But I already told you, don’t try to play gay chicken with me. You’ll lose.”

Harold licks his lips and looks John up and down, making his intentions very clear indeed. “John, I think tonight… Neither of us are going to lose.”

John’s heart skips a beat; he’s suddenly certain that Harold is correct. “May I have this dance?”

“Oh, yes. But John?” Harold yanks John closer sharply, hands sure and steady. “This time I lead.”

John finds himself perfectly okay with that.

Chapter Text

All told, John has been in worse situations than this. When he was in the CIA, he had to sleep in all sorts of disgusting places; when he was homeless, it wasn’t much better. At least this hotel has clean sheets and no signs of bed bugs, no weird stains on the comforter, and the AC works. The water in the shower even gets hotter than lukewarm after it runs for a couple of minutes. It’s far from the paradise of his apartment, but it’s nothing to sneeze at, either.

Unfortunately, the look on Harold’s face says that he is inclined to disagree.

John has to bite his lip to stop from smiling at the wrinkle in Harold’s nose, the slight upcurl of his lip, the way his eyes dart, birdlike, from one detail to the next. His attention keeps returning, seemingly in spite of his best intentions, to the most notable object in the room: the singular, queen-sized bed. Harold clears his throat delicately. “Perhaps if we venture a little further –” he starts.

Any inclination to smile disappears. “Finch, no,” John interrupts, pretending that the odd note in his voice is simply determination, and not a whine of exhaustion. “We need sleep, my shoulder is killing me, your head can’t possibly be much better, and this place is clean. It’s not the Ritz, but it’s better than sleeping in the back of the car.”

Harold makes a disgruntled little huff. “I could call ahead to ensure –”

“No. It’s all going to be the same: no vacancy for miles in any direction. Neither of us are in any condition to drive much further without getting a little bit of sleep, so please. Just for tonight. Pretend that it won’t kill you to lower yourself to my level.”

Harold blinks at him, an odd look of hurt furrowing his brow. “Mr. Reese, I hardly believe that the unpretentious amenities will lead to my demise, but we could at least find a room that will accommodate both of us.”

John shrugs out of his coat and balls it up into something resembling a pillow before dropping it to the floor on an expanse of carpet that will suit his tall frame and also places himself between the door and the bed. “This does accommodate both of us,” he says patiently, undoing his cuffs and taking off his belt. He should look at his shoulder, too, while he’s at it, but that can wait until later. “I’ll call down to the front desk while you shower and see if they have an extra blanket.” They’d already been informed there were no extra cots, but maybe there was a blanket to be spared. If not, he could sleep under a couple of towels. Again, he’d been in worse situations than this.

Harold stares at John’s coat, the frown deepening. John watches him carefully; there hadn’t been any signs of concussion earlier, but the way he’s looking at the coat suggests he isn’t understanding why it’s down there. “Extra blanket? Do you sleep cold?”

John can’t help but chuckle a little. “What, did my sleeping preferences not come up during your extensive research? I’ve made do without a blanket on the floor before, but I’ll admit I’d prefer not to have to if the desk has an extra one available.”

Harold’s eyes snap up to his face, adorably scandalized. “Mr. Reese, you are not sleeping on the floor!”

“Alright,” John agrees readily. “But I can guarantee the tub is a worse idea.”

Harold’s mouth actually falls open at that, then snaps shut and he gives John a sour look. “Very funny.”

“I wasn’t joking.”

“Don’t be obtuse, John,” Harold says, shrugging out of his suit jacket with a wince. “It doesn’t become you. There is a perfectly serviceable bed right here.” He sits down in one of the chairs to begin the painful task of getting his shoes untied.

John is on his knees instantly, easing one foot into his lap to undo the laces and slip the shoe off. “And where will you be sleeping?” he asks softly, not looking up.

Even not looking at him, he can feel Harold shift as if he hadn’t really considered that yet. He can imagine the way Harold’s eyes pan around. “I have some work to do that I can –”

“No computer screens,” John interjects before he can finish the thought. “Just because we ruled out a concussion doesn’t mean you don’t need to rest. No cell phone, no tablet, no work.” He takes off Harold’s other shoe and sets them neatly to the side. When he stands, he can’t stop the groan that is wrenched from his throat. Fuck, his shoulder hurts, and now his back is acting up, too.

Harold looks up at him sharply, and the movement catches John’s eye, causing him to follow the source reflexively, and now they’re staring at each other like their eyes are magnetized. “Fine,” Harold allows steadily. “And in return, no floor, no tub, no chair for you. The bed will suffice for both of us.”

John looks away, hoping the heat he feels creeping into his cheeks isn’t visible in the dim hotel lighting. “Harold…” he starts softly, unsure how he will finish.

“I promise I don’t kick in my sleep,” Harold says, a ghost of a smile playing at the corners of his lips.

John doesn’t return it. “I can’t promise the same.”

Harold acknowledges this with a serious nod, the smile disappearing. “Very well,” he says solemnly. “If it comes down to it, I can always tie you to the bed. I’ve done it before, and I can do it again.”

This time, John is certain that the blush is visible, and he looks away quickly before he gives away how much he really, really likes that idea.

Of course, Harold is too smart for both of their own good, and John can all but hear him putting the puzzle pieces together. “On second thought… perhaps we will save that for when both of us are feeling a little less sore.”

John blinks at him, wondering if he really means… But there is no mistaking the way Harold’s eyes travel from his feet all the way up his body, in a way that makes John feel naked, exposed – and yet, not vulnerable. Not in danger. Not from Harold. Never from Harold.

His heart pounds in his chest.

This time, when Harold smiles, it is more than just a ghost, and so kind that John wants to throw himself at his feet and beg for mercy. “Get undressed, John. I think we’re both long overdue for at least five hours of peaceful sleep. More if we can get it.” He stands and moves around John, shucking his own clothes as he moves towards the far side of the bed.

“That’s my side,” John blurts out.

Harold pauses and eyes him peculiarly, but readily moves to the side further from the door. “I didn’t know you had such a strong preference.”

John glances at the door, then at Harold. “I do.”

Harold follows his gaze, comprehension dawning. “Ah.” He looks like he wants to argue the point, maybe try to say that the case is over and he won’t need protection, but he very smartly chooses not to. “Thank you, Mr. Reese. I appreciate the thoughtfulness.”

It’s not thoughtfulness that makes John vow each and every day to put himself between the world and Harold Finch, but he also wisely keeps his mouth shut. “You’re welcome, Harold,” he says, lightening the poignancy with a wry smirk.

Harold is down to his undershirt and boxers when he slips under the covers. John sheds his shirt, shoes, socks, and belt, but leaves his pants and boxers on. More layers between himself and Harold – for now, until they’re ready to go further – and also a sense of not being completely exposed, should anyone actually bust into the room. When he gets into bed on his side, he tries to maintain a respectful distance. He pretends Bear is there between them, forcing them to stay chaste.

Still, neither of them are small people, and when Harold shifts into a more comfortable position for his hip, his hand brushes against John’s arm. And stays there. John breathes evenly in the dark, counting slowly to keep his heartbeat even.

“Good night, John.”

The hand still doesn’t move.

John slides ever so slightly closer, until their sides are pressed together from shoulder to wrist, feeling the way Harold’s breath pushes them closer, then pulls them apart. “Good night, Harold,” he whispers.

They fall asleep and stay that way for far longer than five hours, comfortable in the knowledge that together, they are safe.

Chapter Text

The storm knocked out the whole eastern side of the city. The howling of the wind outside sends Harold shivering in the dark, passing uneasy glances outside as lightning dances across the sky. The storm lasts days upon days, leaving the apartment dark and chilly. Bear, especially, isn’t fond of the storm, whimpering as he nuzzles up close to Harold’s leg whenever an especially loud crack of thunder echoes through the city.

It’s why he doesn’t expect John to show up when he does, soaking wet and holding arm fulls of extra candles and other items. Harold gawks at him in the doorway for a moment too long before quickly ushering him inside, struggling to shut the door against the howling wind.

“I’d like to think you insane,” Harold comments dryly, hurrying into the living room with a towel to dry John off the best he can. “This storm is dangerous.”

“Which is why I couldn’t leave you here by yourself,” John points out. 

Harold sighs fondly, fussing over John’s sopping wet hair. “I have Bear.”

John eyes Bear, now cowering in the corner of the room. “He doesn’t seem like very good company.”

Harold tosses the towel aside and ushers for John to sit down. In the dark, it’s hard to see his face, even with the candles lit around the apartment. “I have a gas stove,” Harold says, “if you would like some tea.”

John nods. Hot tea sounds wonderful right about now. Harold gets the kettle started and brings him some clean clothes to change into that aren’t his sopping-wet suit. John takes them, and with no shame, begins changing right in front of Harold.

The sight of John changing under the glow of candlelight stirs something in Harold. He would be lying to himself if he tried to say he didn’t have feelings for John, feelings that go beyond the affectionate friendship the two of them have developed over the years. Harold has seen John in various states of undress, usually when wounded, but this time feels so…natural. He actually blushes, and for the first time in two days, he’s grateful that the power is out to hide the red creeping across his cheeks. John’s body is a work of art, with all his toned muscles and scars that cover his torso and back. It’s hard to see in the dark, but Harold knows if he were to run his fingers over John’s skin, he’d feel all the bumps and raised blemishes there.

Harold swallows and hurries back to the kitchen to check on the tea. Once it's ready, he pours a hot mug of chamomile for himself and a mug for John, setting them both down carefully on the table. The candlelight dances in the sudden quiet of the room. It's John who clears his throat first, breaking the silence. "Thank you," he says at last.

"Thank you for keeping me company," Harold replies. "I still think you're insane for coming all this way in the storm."

"I was worried about you," John points out. "And Bear. He's just a baby. Couldn't have my two boys suffering here all alone."

As if to emphasize his point, Bear lets out a lingering sigh and nuzzles against John's leg. “I suppose I do appreciate the company,” Harold admits, and John gives him a warm smile Harold can just barely make out in the dark. Together, they sit in comfortable silence. Mostly comfortable, that is – it’s their proximity that prevents Harold from being able to completely relax. The couch is spacious enough, but the two of them are sitting so close together that John’s leg brushes up against Harold’s every time one of them shifts their weight.

Another crack of thunder rattles the apartment, louder than anything Harold’s heard from the storm yet. It makes Bear whine and jump onto the couch, right into John’s lap, nearly causing him to spill his tea all over them both. Startled, John’s hand flies instinctively to Harold’s thigh as Bear digs right into the spot where John does not want dog paws anywhere near.

“ Ugh, ” John grunts, and nearly doubles over, fumbling to set down his mug of tea to frantically push at Bear’s weight. 

Harold sputters. “Bear, liggen, liggen,” he croaks out, his voice strained from the sudden contact. Bear whines again and concedes to crawl pathetically off of John’s lap and onto his bed. 

“Are you alright?” Harold asks gingerly. That was bound to have hurt. Bear is no small dog, and John had little to no time to prepare himself. Luckily, John huffs out a strained laugh, all the while, his hand still remaining on Harold’s thigh.

“I’m fine,” he assures him. “Not the hardest I’ve been hit there, unfortunately. Are you alright? Bear didn’t splash tea on you, did he?”

Oh, Harold’s fine. He’s more than fine. It’s simply his heart beating in his throat at the feeling of John’s hand still lingering on his thigh. Harold swallows, tries to speak, and then starts again. “I’m quite alright,” he says softly and wills himself to relax. Just a little bit. 

In the dark, he can tell John’s body is angled towards his ever so slightly, his fingers squeezing his thigh gently, just enough to generate some pressure without hurting him or keeping him locked in place. And, much to Harold’s amazement, it’s not his imagination that’s picturing John gently caressing his leg, ever so gently, like he’s holding back a much more intimate touch.

John really is touching him.

“You sure you’re okay?” John asks softly, his voice almost disembodied in the dark. Harold nods, forgetting for a brief moment that John can’t see him.

“Harold?”

“Yes,” he sputters. “Yes, I’m fine. I...that actually feels quite nice.”

John's silent oh hangs between them, suspended in the air and just out of reach. It's an admission if nothing else. And now, in the dark, Harold can tell John is watching him with quiet regard.

John’s hand creeps up Harold’s thigh, moving in soft circles, just barely ghosting over his groin. Before he can steady himself, Harold’s breath catches in his throat, his cock twitching in his pants. All at once, he’s eager for John to touch him again. He leans closer to him, amazed at his own bravery, and slowly begins moving his hands down John’s chest.

John, much to Harold’s surprise, is quick to respond. He takes Harold’s hand in his and pushes it against him firmly, moving it up to his chest so that Harold can feel the pulsing heartbeat beneath the t-shirt. My t-shirt, Harold thinks wildly, that he knows John looks so good in despite not being able to see in the darkl. Harold wishes crawling into John’s lap wouldn’t cause him so much pain, so instead, he unbuttons John’s pants instead and runs a hand over his cock, still clothed behind a pair of Harold’s boxers. He marvels at how hard he already is, clearly wanting Harold as much as Harold wants him.

In the dark, all they can do is grope at one another, carefully exploring one another’s bodies in the silence of the room. They forget all about Bear, dutifully laying in his bed and drifting off to sleep as the thunder rumbles in the distance. Shivering, Harold fumbles to reach John’s neck and pulls him in for a kiss. It doesn’t quite reach his lips at first, but with some fumbling, their lips finally meet in a burst of desire. John pushes his fingers through Harold’s hair, drawing them closer with a grunt, and Harold all but melts into the feeling of John’s mouth.

He’s grateful when John takes the initiative and carefully crawls into Harold’s lap. With a soft moan, Harold gropes for his shoulders, his chest, anywhere he can reach as John dutifully rocks his hips. The friction is wonderful, but not enough, and all Harold can do is fumble to pull down his pants enough to free his cock. He quickly does the same for John, leaving John free to rock against him with sweet, hot thrusts that leave Harold dizzy.

It’s messy, hardly coordinated, but it feels so good . Harold leans back against the couch, desperately kissing John anywhere he can reach and murmuring sweet praise against his skin. 

“Harold,” John gasps. “ God. ” John’s thrusts grow harder, more erratic, and Harold can only encourage him not to stop under his breath. He grabs hold of John’s hips and helps him along, his breathing harsh and quick against John’s warmed skin. Finally, he feels John’s orgasm flood across Harold’s waist, listens to the sweet whimper in John’s voice as he finishes. Harold is close behind, coming with a soft cry against John’s shoulder as he adds to the mess made in their laps.

The thunder rumbles again, and a brief streak of lightning illuminates John’s face, awed and content on top of Harold. He finally slides off his lap and sinks against Harold’s shoulder, breathing heavily as Harold wraps a gentle around around his neck. They’re both a mess and would need to wipe themselves down, but for now, they enjoy the feeling of simply existing together.

“That was lovely, John,” Harold whispers, as if afraid somebody might here. 

John breathes a silent laugh. “I liked it. It wasn’t…it wasn’t too fast, was it?”

Harold smiles against his skin. “Not at all.”

“Okay. Good. You know, I didn’t want to assume anything, but…”

The strain in John’s voice makes Harold wince. “John?”

“Yeah?”

Harold pauses for a moment. “I’m quite fond of you.”

Harold feels the tension slowly ebb from John’s shoulders.

“Well…I’m fond of you, too.”

Harold smiles. That’s more than enough for him. Wherever they go from here…Harold’s excited to find out. Outside, the rain’s stopped, and he swears he sees a little bit of moonlight peek through the clouds.

They’ve weathered far worse than storms, afterall.

Chapter Text

JOHN:

Taking a date to a charity event can mean just about anything -- right?

John keeps telling himself that as they enter the ballroom. It's a beautiful venue, not so unlike many other parties for the ultra-wealthy. He can at least appreciate the artwork, even when on a case. With a touch to Harold's hand (to sell their cover, of course) he leads them to their table. 

"Oh, he's gorgeous!" one of the patrons croons, and John can't help but grimace. He's not in the mood to entertain older women tonight -- though he swears he catches Harold smirking as they find their table.

"I've about had it with the older crowd already," he grumbles. "I've got eyes on our mark -- nothing threatening in the area just yet."

HAROLD:

"Shall I leave you to fend for yourself, then, Mr. Reese?" Harold can't help but tease. He's still riding high on the woman's observation of John's physique, and it makes him just a tad giddy. "After all, I do believe I fit into that category."

He discreetly follows John's gaze, and sure enough, there's their mark.

JOHN:

John huffs. "I'd prefer you didn't." He passes a glance to her before looking back at Harold. "You're at least...you," he says finally. "You're handsome enough to almost pass in the silver fox category if your hair was a little grayer." He smiles. "You'll get there, I'm sure of it."

HAROLD:

Harold raises his eyebrows. "Is a silver fox somehow better than being part of the older crowd?" He shifts his body slightly so that John can keep his eyes on the mark but under the pretense that he's watching Harold as they banter. "If so, you're not that far behind me."

JOHN:

"It's much better," he assures him, and takes a long sip of his drink. "Let me go talk to her. Don't miss me too much." He stands and quickly leaves before Harold can say anything else. It's too easy to flirt with Harold like this, and he needs some space before he starts getting too giddy -- he's simply too easy. He's handsome, caring, kind, and his very, very best friend.

After making contact with the mark, he slides back in his seat. "She's definitely not our perp," he says lowly. Glad for it, too. "Hopefully you didn't miss me too much, Mr. Finch."

HAROLD:

Harold watches him; on the surface, most people would call John charming, but Harold can see the distinct discomfort that lies beneath John's smooth calm. He is good at talking to people, schmoozing, but he doesn't like it.

When John returns, Harold smiles at him. "Not too much, Mr. Reese," he says quietly. "Although I think I did notice some of your 'older crowd' keeping rather close eyes on you. Sure you're not looking to find a date for the evening? You could have your pick of the ladies."

And that definitely wouldn't set a spike of jealousy flaring through Harold's gut.

JOHN:

John tilts his head, a knowing grin stretching across his face. Harold is enjoying this too, it would seem. "I thought you were supposed to be my date."

HAROLD:

"I don't think some of the guests got the idea," Harold says. He gives a subtle nod to a woman who is eyeballing John quite blatantly. "It may be time to up the pretense."

He slips his free hand into John's, taking a sip of his drink with the other.

JOHN:

"I suppose it is." He squeezes Harold's hand and does the same, taking the time to rub his thumb over the back of his hand. This is easy -- too easy. John's always found it easy to go undercover, so much so that he loses himself in it. It was a particular strength of his in the CIA; deep cover

This is startlingly no different, and Harold makes it so easy.

"If this doesn't scare them off, I'm not sure what will."

HAROLD:

Harold raises his eyebrows but says nothing; he can imagine a thing or two that would make their supposed relationship quite clear to the bystanders, but he has a feeling John wouldn't be open to them.

Although, he hasn't pulled his hand away, yet, as Harold half-expected him to.

The woman is still staring, although she has a rather miffed expression on her face now. Harold shifts his stance ever so slightly, putting himself between John and the woman. He leans in quite close to whisper in John's ear, "I suppose we'd have to get creative."

JOHN:

John smirks, just a little bit, and silently agrees. Cupping Harold's face, he presses a gentle kiss to his cheek, letting his lips linger for a long moment, and finally pulls away. He could go further. He could. But he doesn't. No need for that just yet. Maybe not at all

Maybe, at the very least, it'll get the woman to stop staring.

HAROLD:

Harold's heart skips a beat and his breath catches in his throat. Oh. He didn't expect that.

He swallows, not daring to look behind him. "Did it work?" He wonders if John can hear the way his heart is pounding in his ribs.

JOHN:

He turns over his shoulder. "I think she's gone," he confirms. "Looks like she got the memo that I'm not up for auction tonight." He snickers softly. Now, at least, they can focus on their number. Never mind the way John can't seem to still his racing heart, or the brief tremor in his hand that isn't still holding Harold's.

HAROLD:

Harold relaxes slightly but doesn't let go of John's hand. Just in case.

Taking a sip of his drink, he glances around, taking stock of the attendees. A woman in a beautiful red dress approaches them, beaming. Harold stiffens once more, but there is something in her smile that doesn't suggest competition, but rather admiration. 

"Well, aren't you two just the sweetest couple in the room!" she exclaims.

JOHN:

John huffs around a smile. "What can I say?" he says mildly. "He keeps me young." John presses another small kiss to Harold's cheek.

Luckily for them, their number stays relatively put. He watches her, reminding himself why they're here -- it's not just to convince the whole room he's sickeningly in love with his date, though, he could curse the tell-tale feeling in his gut all night. A part of him, perhaps, is being forced to come to terms with the fact that this is more than just a cover.

"How long have you two been together?"

John blinks. "Fifteen years," he replies smoothly. He doesn't comment on their absence of wedding rings -- it's really none of her business.

HAROLD:

Harold smiles into his drink and hopes he doesn't blush noticeably. He squeezes John's hand and beams at the woman.

"Sometimes it seems like the time has just flown by," he quips, giving John a private look of amusement. "Like it's our first date all over again."

JOHN:

"Well, I think you two are wonderful," she croons, and finally, finally leaves them be. Leave it to younger women to be endlessly fascinating by aging gay men. He squeezes Harold's hand idly. "I'd say we're selling it fairly well," he muses. "And I didn't even have to kiss you on the mouth yet."

He eyes Harold's mouth with envy of all those before who got to feel the press of his lips. No use denying he has feelings any longer -- feelings that are helping sell this cover that much better.

HAROLD:

Harold wishes he could read if John finds the idea of kissing him on the mouth repugnant or enticing. 'Have to' implies unwillingness but the way he's staring at Harold's lips is anything but unwilling. He tells himself not to get too hopeful... although part of him very much wants to subtly steer John closer to someone who might force them to get more intimate.

"Let's just hope we don't have to go onto the dance floor. I'm afraid I have two left feet," he jokes to cover up his uncertainty.

JOHN:

"Our number did head that way," he points out, cooking one eyebrow. He feels a sudden rush of bravery, a giddiness he hasn't felt since he met Jessica all those years ago. "You might have two left feet, but I don't," he says calmly. He offers his hand. "I wouldn't let you fall."

HAROLD:

A shiver races down Harold's spine. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you're flirting with me, Mr. Reese," he says, cheeks reddening. Still, he takes John's proffered hand and allows him to direct them towards the dance floor. Stepping in close, he automatically goes to take the lead position before thinking better of it.

JOHN:

"Of course I'm flirting with you," he responds idly. "We've been together for fifteen years, haven't we?" With a fond smile, he takes Harold to the dance floor, glad he's not insisting on taking the lead. John's not a dancer per se, and can't say he's ever been good at it, but he knows how to keep time. And he knows how to move in ways that tactically make sense in a given space. He wraps one hand around Harold's waist and takes his right hand, leading them into an easy sway.

"I still think Kelli might be plotting to steal that Gutenberg Bible," he murmurs under his breath, leaning close so Harold can hear over thr crowd. "I've got eyes on her -- if she makes a move, I might have to bolt. It would be terribly ungentlemanly of me to just leave you here, but I'm sure you understand." He smiles a little.

HAROLD:

"Don't worry, Mr. Reese, I believe I'll have plenty of indignant women to keep me company should the need arise. You, however, may find yourself with more than a few cold shoulders to contend with." Harold lets himself lean into John's hands, trying to convince himself it's for support, so he won't put too much strain on his hip.

JOHN:

John takes Harold's weight easily and with great fondness. He likes this a lot more than he should, he knows, and can't help but wonder if he's taking advantage of the situation. But then again, Harold isn't complaining...and this is part of their cover after all. 

"I was under the impression I was getting all the stares," he quips. Over the floor, a photographer is making his way through the crowd, snapping pictures of couples with a broad smile. Before he can warn Harold they have company, he reaches them, looking like Harold and John are the best thing that's happened to him all night -- diversity points for his portfolio, no doubt

"Could you two give me a kiss for the camera?" he asks, and John immediately looks at Harold, trying not to feel too panicked.

HAROLD:

Harold can see the panic deep in John's eyes and tries to give him a reassuring smile. "Sorry," he murmurs, too quiet for the photographer to hear, before cupping the back of John's neck and drawing him down for a chaste but heartfelt press of his lips against John's. Immediately, his breath surges sharply and his heart beats rapidly in his chest. He's soaring and falling all at once, wanting more, wanting John, and he has to remind himself this is just an act, it means nothing, lest he get carried away. 

JOHN:

John closes his eyes. "You have nothing --" he starts, but Finch is already kissing him, and his world falls away. He stiffens where he stands and tries not to forget himself -- this is a cover, nothing more. Nothing more, and he knows it. It doesn't matter that he feels he could fly, or that he's pressing back into the kiss with the faintest amount of pressure. This means nothing. Harold is his boss for crying out loud --

"Thank you, gentlemen!" the photographer says, and leaves, leaving John inches from Harold's face.

"You didn't have to apologize, you know," he murmurs, bringing Harold back into a gently side step to the music.

HAROLD:

Harold clears his throat, trying to forget how good John's lips felt against his, but the ghost of them is still there and he can't seem to think of anything else.

"I know. You always play whatever role I ask of you perfectly. Still, it can't be easy for a straight man like yourself to have a male partner for the evening, let alone have to kiss and dance and all that romantic stuff."

JOHN:

John laughs. "Harold, if you think kissing you is even close to the worst thing I've ever had to do for a cover..." His voice trails off. "You make this too easy. It's barely even a challenge anymore." He eyes their number -- still nothing. Good.

"And anyway...I never made claims to my sexuality."

HAROLD:

Harold swallows. He thought he knew everything about John Reese, including his preference in romantic partners. There had never been any indication....

Experimentally, Harold lets his hand drift back up to the back of John's neck. He massages the muscles there, keeping his touch light, non-threatening. Watches John's face carefully, assessing his responses.

JOHN:

John swallows. The touch feels wonderful, soothing, even. He leans into it, moving easily to the music.

"You two lovebirds doing alright over there?" Sameens voice sounds in their earpieces. John freezes -- he had forgotten all about her. 

"Fine, Sameen," he murmurs and looks back at Harold apologetically. "That felt good," he says softly.

HAROLD:

Harold hasn't seen any indication of disgust or discomfort from John -- quite the opposite, in fact. He moves his hand to John's cheek and caresses him there instead. He should stop, he knows.... but he can't. 

"Ms. Shaw, are there any more photographers coming for us?"

JOHN:

Sameen chuckles over the earpiece. "Not on my end, Finch. Why, you need another excuse to kiss him again?"

John flushes where he stands, rolling his eyes. He's at least snapped out of the trance Harold's seem to put him under, though the hand on his cheek is hard not to nuzzle into. He offers Harold an apologetic smile and places his own hand over his

"Maybe after I could...I could get you a drink," he offers quietly after flicking off his earpiece, trying his hardest to be a gentleman when all he wants is to climb under Harold's clothing. He wants to protect him forever, wants to get down on his knees and ask to be his. He'd been clueless about his own devotion until now, and he can't help but curse himself for being so blind about it for so long.

They aren't as young as he wishes they were, and in this line of work, they don't have as much time as he wishes they did.

HAROLD:

Harold stares up at John, fearing he's misunderstanding, hardly daring to breathe in case this is a dream. "I'd love that," he says softly.

Feeling emboldened, he steps into John's space and rests his head against his shoulder. For the con, he tells himself, and will tell Ms. Shaw later when she teases them about it. For now, he breathes in the scent of John, his soap and aftershave and just a hint of metal and gunpowder. He wants to close his lips over John's pulse point, to feel his heartbeat against his tongue.

JOHN:

For a long moment, John closes his eyes. Breathes Harold in, let's himself just be. He doesn't care whose eyes are on them, doesn't care about the damn number -- he cares about what's right in front of him. He slips his hand up his back to cup the back of Harold's neck, rubbing it gently and giving it a careful squeeze.

"Earth to lovebirds," Sameen's voice comes in. "I just intercepted out gal and her sticky fingers for this Bible. Something tells me I should be sending you two home."

There's a pause. "I've got this under control."

HAROLD:

Harold lifts his head off John's shoulder. "Are you sure?" he asks into his earpiece. He can't quite look John in the eye.

JOHN:

Sameen groans. "Very. I might just puke on our number if you two don't get out of here in the next five minutes."

John flushes a deep red. Way to be made official -- or something. He hadn't expected to be called out by Sameen, though in hindsight, he should've known better. Taking Harold's hand, he leads them off the dance floor and out into the night air. It's quiet in the parking lot with everyone back inside.

"I'm sorry if I was too...forward," he says finally. "I didn't mean to push you. We don't have to listen to her if you don't want to."

HAROLD:

"Too forward?" Harold chuckles. "Mr. Reese, I don’t think you could be too forward if you tried."

If there is just a hint of challenge in his voice, well, he always suspected John had something of a competitive streak.

JOHN:

That's invitation enough. He can be too forward, dammit, and the challenge stirs something hungry in his gut. Awed, he steps into Harold's space and cups the back of his neck, pulling him in for a deep kiss, very unlike the chaste brush of the lips Harold gave him back inside. The kiss makes his blood sing and race in his veins and all at once, John doesn't want to stop.

HAROLD:

Harold steps into the kiss, hands clutching at John's suit, wrinkling it distastefully. He opens his mouth hungrily, wanting desperately to swallow John whole. His heart pounds, his head swims, and he suddenly feels like this can't possibly be real. But it is.

He breaks the kiss, breathing hard. "I... might need to bid you goodnight, John," he admits. "Before I commit some very ungentlemanly conduct."

JOHN:

"Ungentlemanly?" he repeats with a faint smirk. "Well, we can't have that, can we?" John takes Harold by the waist (gently, avoiding his bad hip) and pulls him in for another hungry kiss. There's no cover, now. Nobody's seeing them. No one can hear the way John moans softly into the kiss this time (not even Sameen, he hopes) or watch the way his hands wander up and down Harold's back

"I suppose you'll just have to come home with me tonight."

HAROLD:

Harold can barely seem to hold on for dear life. He clutches at John's (ridiculously strong) arms, dizzy with desire and something akin to shock. "If I come home with you," he murmurs against John's lips, then kisses him again, "I certainly won't be a gentleman."

JOHN:

"I would certainly hope not," he murmurs. It takes all his willpower not to lay him down and make love to him in the parking lot. The very hard, very public, very cold parking lot.

Instead, he takes Harold's hand without another word and drags him into the car, kissing him furiously the second he gets the door shut. "Are we going to make it home?" he gasps around a weak laugh. He can't stop touching him.

HAROLD:

"I would appreciate it if we can," Harold says, a bit light-headed. "My days of making out in cars are long past, I'm afraid."

JOHN:

John laughs. "You have a point." Who is he kidding? His days are, too. He cradles Harold's cheek for a moment and puts the car in drive. It's the longest short drive he's ever had, even after checking in one last time with Sameen. He can't believe this is happening -- it almost doesn't feel real.

Once inside, he gently tugs Harold in through the front door and puts his hand back on his cheek again. "Are you sure this is alright?" he asks softly, careful not to get ahead of himself -- or Harold. The last thing he wants is to fuck this up by moving too fast.

HAROLD:

Harold looks up at John, feeling... a lot of emotions all at once. Awe, fear, hope, terror, confusion, positivity, desire, and yearning are only a few. He thinks about all the times he allowed himself to entertain the fantasy of bringing John to his bed, certain it would only ever be that: a fantasy. This almost doesn't feel real.

But it is real. This is really John, and more than anything else, Harold doesn't want to do anything that could compromise their relationship.

He doesn't have the words to explain all of this. For all he may be a genius, his brain fails him in this moment. Instead, all that comes out is, "I'm afraid..." He means to complete the sentence with something to the effect of I'm afraid I'm not sure how far I'll be able to go tonight, but before he can finish the thought, he realizes it's already complete. I'm afraid.

JOHN:

Joohn smiles at him softly. Very gently, he moves his other hand up to cradle both of his cheeks, rubbing his thumbs over his skin in what he hopes will soothe him. "I'm afraid, too," he admits, and it couldn't be closer to the truth. "I'm afraid of losing you. Of moving too fast and ruining what we have now. I'm afraid that I'll mess this up. I've always been afraid of being vulnerable...just wasn't me, not after Jess died. But you always had a knack of making that easier for me."

He leans down to press a very soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. 

"I have no expectations, Harold. Whatever you're afraid of...let's work through it together."

HAROLD:

Harold closes his eyes and leans into John. "Losing you would destroy me," he admits. It's a little easier when he can't see John looking at him. "I never imagined... Actually, yes, I did. But I thought it was an impossible dream. Unattainable. But here you are." He opens his eyes. "Attained."

JOHN:

He smiles. "Well, luckily for you, you don't need to worry about that. I'm not going anywhere, Harold." He rubs his thumbs over his cheeks again. Attained. Harold sure did attain him in every way imaginable.

"It'd take a lot more than a night of taking things too fast to chase me away."

HAROLD:

Harold blinks and licks his lips, nervous. "And if I am.... unable... to take things too fast? I don't wish to set you up for expectations I can't fulfill."

JOHN:

"Harold," he says, his voice gentle but firm, "I don't care how you can or want to take things. That's not important to me. You...you are incredibly important to me. I don't want to lose you or chase you into anything you can't or don't want to do."

He sighs. "I need you to understand that."

HAROLD:

Harold swallows and nods. He presses his lips against John's in a chaste kiss. Even something so simple as that is electric.

"I understand," he says, understanding that John believes it to be true. There's that old saying it's better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. Harold has done both; in all honesty, he's not sure which hurt more.

And one way or another, John will be lost to him eventually. One or both of them will die, probably sooner than later. Whatever the outcome, it will hurt. He can already imagine the pain; he's already had some practice.

But would it hurt any less if Harold walked away right now?

No. It would not.

"Is there somewhere we can sit or lie down?" Harold asks.

JOHN:

"There's the couch or my bed," he offers. He has no expectations of Harold, but he suspects going to the bedroom might only put him more on-edge. Instead, he gestures towards the couch and sits beside him, leaving just enough distance between them that they aren't touching, but close enough to touch should Harold want that.

"Do you want a drink?" he asks. "I have beer and tea."

HAROLD:

Harold stares at him, almost not comprehending. "What kind of tea?"

He doesn't like how much space is between them and carefully reaches across the divide to take John's hand in his own.

JOHN:

"I kept some of your favorite in my apartment," he admits. "Just incase you ever...came over. So I've got plenty of sencha green, if that's what you want." He smiles and squeezes Harold's hand, rubbing his thumb across his hand.

HAROLD:

Harold smiles and brings John's hand to his mouth to kiss his knuckles. "I'd love some, thank you. I'm not sure what possessed you to think I'd like some beer."

JOHN:

John shrugs. "You seemed on edge." He untangles his fingers from Harold's hand and goes to heat up the water. He feels his hands tremble as he waits for the kettle to boil, realizing he's just as nervous as Harold. Once it's boiled, he places the bag into the mug and brings it over to Harold.

"I let it boil at the temperature needed for green tea. I had no idea until I got this that teas needed different temperatures. Be careful -- it's hot."

He sits beside Harold again, closing the distance between them ever so slightly.

HAROLD:

"You learn something new every day, Mr. Reese," Harold quips. "I really must teach you more about the finer things in life. A nice suit, a perfectly brewed cup of tea, a nice vintage wine, high thread count sheets.... It's not a crime to let yourself enjoy things a little, you know."

Harold takes a sip of his tea and hums happily. He settles back in his seat, and in doing so shifts so that his side presses into John's. 

"This is perfect," he murmurs, turning his head. How badly he wants to kiss and nuzzle him, lick at his chin stubble or bite at his pulse point. To devour him whole, envelope him within Harold.

JOHN:

John smiles again. "I'm glad. Maybe...maybe you can teach me sometime," he says softly. "It's just not something they teach you to value in the army. Certainly not in the CIA." John lets himself lean into Harold's weight, appreciating the gentle touch. He feels so warm here, so safe next to Harold. He could stay like this forever.

HAROLD:

Harold huffs a sarcastic laugh. "I've been trying, John. Why do you think I buy you such nice suits? It's not for my benefit." He glances down at John's chest. "Well. Not entirely, anyway."

The urge to touch is too strong; Harold reaches out with his free hand to run a finger along the edge of John's collar, grazing softly against the skin of his neck.

JOHN:

John's breath catches. His eyes flicker down, watching Harold touch him with rapt attention. The simple, gentle touch sends his heart racing in his chest. He wonders if Harold can feel it.

"Harold..." he whispers. He cradles his jaw, moving his finger along his mouth to trace a gentle path across his lips. He wants to kiss him again, and when he leans into him, their lips very nearly brush.

"I didn't know you liked me in suits so much," he murmurs softly.

HAROLD:

"I do, very much," Harold admits. He brings his fingers to John's tie and gently undoes it, then unbuttons the top button. He swallows hard at the sight of John's collarbone and a sprinkling of chest hair. It's something he sees every damn day, since John refuses to wear a proper tie or do up his shirt, but it's suddenly the most erotic thing Harold has ever seen.

He gives into temptation and leans in to press a kiss to John's throat. "I think I'd like you out of your suit even more," he murmurs.

JOHN:

John swallows. The kiss makes him shiver all over, and his lips part. He wants Harold not to stop. His body betrays him at once -- his cock twitches slightly, and he finds his fingers fumbling for Harold's tie.

"Are you sure?" he asks softly, a slight tremble in his voice. "I told you, I don't expect anything from you tonight if you aren't ready."

HAROLD:

Harold draws in a shuddering breath. He had fully expected John to rib him for such a lame flirtation. He is desperately out of practice, afrer all. But no, John is taking him at face value, and it's still terrifying but also so very, very tempting.

"Start with the jacket and well see where we feel like going after that." In good faith, Harold also sheds his suit jacket and undoes his own tie and top button. His hands tremble so badly he almost can't get it undone.

JOHN:

John catches Harold's hands as soon as his buttons are undone. Carefully, he kisses his knuckles before placing his hands over John's chest. He kisses him after that, a real kiss this time, softly licking into his mouth with a sharp inhale of breath. Gently, he takes his waist in his hands. Kissing him is wonderful, better than John could have ever imagined.

"This okay?" he breathes.

HAROLD:

Harold nods wordlessly. He leans in for another kiss, nipping gently at John's lower lip.

He pulls away slightly, breathless and giddy. "I... would like to move to the bedroom," he says, heart pounding against his ribs. "And propose a... well, a game of sorts, I suppose." He doesn't think John will laugh at him, but there is something about being physically intimate with John that feels like emotional intimacy is warranted as well. He wants to take him apart both body and soul.

JOHN:

John shrugs out of his jacket, his interest suddenly piqued. "Game?" he asks curiously. "I like games. I like bedrooms almost as much." He gently takes Harold's hand and leads him upstairs, closing the door behind him. His heart is pounding as he begins to unbutton his shirt without slipping it off entirely.

"Tell me more about this game," he says with a smile. "You've got me curious."

HAROLD:

"Don't take off any more clothes yet," Harold says quickly and perhaps a bit sharply. He wants to savor this. He sits down on John's bed, making himself comfortable. He doesn't indicate if John should join him or stay standing

"We take turns saying something about ourselves and the other person has to say if we think it is true or false. If that person guesses correctly, he gets to say what article of clothing is removed next." Harold clears his throat. "For example, I would say I like coffee. And you say..."

JOHN:

"False," he replies smoothly. Harold likes tea; he knows that. A thrill creeps up his spine. He didn't realize Harold was so...experimental in the bedroom. "I like this side of you, Harold," he says evenly, and moves to kneel in front of him on the bed. He really likes this side of him. Forcing themselves to take their time? It's perfect.

"I was just as nervous as you were tonight," he says. This should be an easy one to guess -- he certainly was. 

HAROLD:

"You haven't told me what item to take off yet," Harold reminds him. "If you aren't going to play by the rules... Or perhaps you would prefer to tell me which article of clothing to take off you?"

JOHN:

John's eyes widen. "Yes. I-I'd like that. If you told me. You've always been good at that -- giving me direction. Instructions." Harold giving him instructions? Telling him what to do in a bedroom? God. That turns him on more than anything he can possibly imagine. 

"If you want that," he adds quickly.

HAROLD:

Harold studies him with barely-concealed desire. His cock seems to finally be waking up to what is happening and is taking an interest in the proceedings. That in itself is a minor miracle; between age, pain, and injuries, Harold's libido can be fairly temperamental. "I would like that very much, Mr. Reese. Please take off your shirt. Since it's already unbuttoned and all."

JOHN:

John nods hurriedly. He slips put of his shirt, leaving his torso bare. He wants to reach out and touch him so badly, but he refrains. "You still didn't decide if what I said was true or false, Harold," he muses

HAROLD:

"That's a difficult one to determine," Harold points out. "How would I know your feelings in comparison to mine? Admittedly, I did show my hand a bit and you could rightfully guess that I ranked around a seven or eight on a ten-point scale. However, perhaps my seven looks like a three to you, since you're far more used to nerve-wracking conditions from your previous jobs. I could guess that you believe you are telling the truth, but objectively speaking --"

JOHN:

"Harold," John interjects gently. "It's a very simple question." He smiles a little, fondness blossoming in his chest. Of course Harold would be overthinking this. He wouldn't expect anything different.

HAROLD:

Harold closes his mouth, takes a steadying breath. "True," he guesses at last.

JOHN:

John nods once. "Got that right." He manages a weak laugh. He's still nervous. But the playfulness of this helps. "Guess you should take off your shirt now...and take your turn."

HAROLD:

Harold sits up a little so that he can unbutton his shirt and slip it off. He has an undershirt on underneath, for which he's suddenly grateful. He is very aware that he doesn't have the same physique as John, and normally that doesn't bother him too much. But they've never been in this position before. He is almost certain John won't care.

He cares, though, just enough to want to hide for a little bit longer.

"My real name is Harold. My family name is not Finch, obviously, but it is a type of bird."

JOHN:

John chews on his lower lip for a second. "True?" he offers, though he'll admit that's a tricky one.

HAROLD:

"False," Harold tells him. "The birds come from somewhere else." He leans forward and rubs John's leg. "Your turn."

JOHN:

John sighs in defeat. "Got it. Alright, then..." He thinks for a moment. "My real last name is Reese."

HAROLD:

Harold rolls his eyes. "Don't make this too ease on me, Mr. Reese. False."

JOHN:

He purses his lips. "What? Don't blame me for wanting to see you naked. Undershirt off.

He laughs behind his hand, watching in rapt attention as Harold removes his clothes. "You look...really good, you know," he says earnestly. Not touching him is proving far more difficult than he would have imagined.

HAROLD:

Harold tugs his undershirt up over his head. He huffs a little, avoiding eye contact. "You flatter me."

He takes a deep breath, leaning back against the headboard so that John can see his whole, naked torso. Hair, scars, and a bigger belly than he cares to admit most days. Hardly anyone's dream body. "I enjoy kissing you."

JOHN:

God, he's beautiful. He wants to run his mouth over every scar and worship him. He has a beautiful belly, and he can only imagine how warm and soft it would be to touch and kiss. 

"Now you're just cheating," he laughs. "Given that you kissed me first...I'll say that's true?"

He hopes it is, anyway.

HAROLD:

"Very true," Harold says, leaning forward to press his lips to John's. He has to pull away soon, though, before his hip starts screaming at him. "Shoes off, John."

JOHN:

He kicks his shoes off, realizing he's much more comfortable now, and leans back for a moment. "I am good at taking orders," he says after a moment. "All kinds of orders. As long as I trust the person giving them."

HAROLD:

Harold swallows, considering the implications. He knows the answer for sure. "True. A very valuable attribute in our partnership, and.... one that I hope we might be able to explore in more intimate settings as we go along."

JOHN:

A tremble works its way up John's spine. "I like the sound of that," he says, looking Harold right in the eye to make sure he knows just how much he does.  Excitement burns in his stomach, but he tries not to get ahead of himself. "Your shoes off, now."

HAROLD:

Harold hesitates. "From this angle, it's not easy for me to bend over to reach my shoes. I'd have to move to the edge of the bed. Would you mind.... helping me?" It takes a lot to admit that, to ask for help. But he knows John. He knows he will be happy to help.

JOHN:

"Of course." He bends down and takes off his shoes, first his left, then his right. He likes the simple act of service -- it makes everything feel that much more intimate. Gently, he places his shoes on the floor beside the bed.

"That should be much more comfortable for you."

HAROLD:

"It is, thank you." He stretches his hip out a little, then resettles on the bed. He adjusts himself slightly, giving himself a teasing stroke through his pants. "My heart stops every time I hear gunshots over the earpieces and you don't respond to me right away."

Perhaps a little dark for a game that is meant to be sexy, but.... Well, Harold has to make sure John knows how much he means to him.

JOHN:

John's breath catches when Harold begins stroking himself. At once, all he can think about is getting him into his mouth as soon as possible. Still, he presses his lips together at the implications of Harold's words. He really does worry about him.

"True," he says quietly.

HAROLD:

Harold nods. "True," he agrees. "Take your trousers off, John, and come here."

JOHN:

He quickly gets out of his pants and crawls between Harold's legs. His eyes graze hungrily over Harold's body and he wants nothing more than to mouth him through his pants. He resists the urge, and instead, runs a hand down his chest.

"You're so beautiful," he murmurs. "Harold, I...." He doesn't know what he was going to say next.

HAROLD:

Harold cups his cheek and pulls him in for a lingering kiss. John's crotch brushes against his, sending electricity throughout his body. "I want you," he breathes into John's mouth. "So badly I ache for it."

JOHN:

"I want you, too," he gasps against his mouth. He presses his crotch down against his, groaning softly against his mouth. It feels so good, he's not sure he can wait anymore. He fumbles to unbutton Harold's pants, his hips rocking against his groin, and soon, he's hard enough to ache.

"Let me get these off of you."

HAROLD:

Harold nods, no longer caring about the game. There was only one more thing he wanted to admit to, but he doesn't need the pretense to say it. "I care about you very much, John. More than I have cared about anyone in a very long time."

He lifts his hips as well as he can for John to pull his pants down and off, then grabs him by the shoulders and pulls him in close, touching him everywhere he can reach.

"You're so beautiful, John. So incredibly good and wonderful and.... God." He laughs. "I can't believe I got this lucky."

JOHN:

John goes weak. He clings to him, fingers digging into his shoulders. He kisses his throat, his mouth trembling as he presses his tongue against his pulse. "You make me remember why I wanted to live again," he whispers. "I...I remembered how to love again. And that's because of you."

John cups the back of his neck and pulls him in for a fierce kiss. "I want you," he whimpers. "I want you so much." He rocks their hips together and moans softly when the contact sends shivers up his body.

HAROLD:

Harold's breath catches in his throat. "I love you," he whispers. His breath comes in short, staccato gasps; his head swims; his fingers clutch at whatever he can reach. He pushes at John's boxers, suddenly desperate to see him naked. "Take it all off, John. Show me how badly you want me."

JOHN:

John hurriedly crawls out of his boxers, rock-hard under Harold's tough. He pushes back hungrily against his hips with a shaky gasp.  Now that they're both naked, John grasps both of their cocks in his hand and gives them both a hard stroke, his fingers fumbling to find purchase. His heavy breathing mixes with Harold's, and soon, he's shaking with how much he wants him.

"I love you," he grunts back. "I love you so much."

HAROLD:

Harold mouths along John's neck, biting him on the pulse point that has been calling to him all evening. He moans into John's skin, every part of him on fire. "That's it," he encourages him, arching into his touch. "Yes! Oh, your hands are divine, John. That feels so.... so good."

He needs more. He needs every fiber of John's being wrapped up with his, merged together into one erotic creature. He sinks his teeth into John's shoulder, perhaps a bit harder than he intended, savoring how solid he feels between his teeth. He licks the dents he left behind, soothing the reddened skin.

JOHN:

John groans in delight, the bite making him thrust his hips on instinct. With heavy breath, he surges up against Harold's mouth, kissing him furiously as he picks up the pace with his hand. He licks into his mouth, bites his lower lip and sucks on the skin, hungry and desperate and eager to consume him in every way imaginable.

"Harold," he groans weakly when he finally pulls away from the kiss with a gasp. "I'm -- I'm not going to last very long."

HAROLD:

"That's perfectly alright, John," Harold assures him eagerly. "That's it. I want to see you come."

JOHN:

"Okay. Okay." He moans again, bowing his head so their foreheads are touching and pumps his hand at a frantic pace. It doesn't take long. Harold's name spills from his lips in desperate gasps as he spills all over them both in thick ropes. His eyes roll back, and he kisses Harold again until he feels his vision might go black. Even still, he doesn't slow the pace of his hand; his palm, slick with his own semen, drags up and down Harold's length, urging him along at a steady pace.

HAROLD:

"You're beautiful, John," Harold praises him. "So beautiful. Thank you -- oh, that feels so good!" He breathes out sharply. "I'm afraid it may... take me a moment to get there."

JOHN:

John grins, tired, but not too tired to keep going for Harold. He wants to make him feel as good as he can. "That's alright," he says, and soothes his free hand down the back of his neck. "I can use my mouth, too. If you want."

HAROLD:

"Oh!" Harold's hips stutter at the very thought. His body apparently quite likes that idea. "That would certainly do the trick," he admits. "Quite quickly, I should think."

JOHN:

"If you've never had a blow job before," he starts as he slides back, "they can be pretty intense." John drops down to his forearms, giving Harold another experimental stroke, before pulling his hand back. "But they feel so good, and I'm gonna make sure you feel really good by the time you're finished. And you can finish right in my mouth -- I don't mind."

He doesn't take him down his throat just yet -- he licks him first and purses his lips over the tip in a slow kiss to his cock.

HAROLD:

Harold stares at him. "I've had a blow job before, Mr. Reese," he huffs. "In fact, I hope the fact I've given a blow job before doesn't shock you out of -- oh! Doing more of that, please."

John’s mouth is so skilled and crafty, and his tongue is driving Harold to the heights of pleasure already.

JOHN:

John blinks. "You have?" That's got to be the most interesting thing he's ever learned about Harold. John's received plenty, but never given one. Clearly, he has to up his game. Trying to remember how Jessica did it, he sinks his head down over his cock, then moves back up again and laps slowly at his leaking head.

"Since you're clearly the expert," he begins with a smirk, "how did that feel?"

HAROLD:

"Not bad," Harold says. "But in my experience they last longer than two seconds at a time."

JOHN:

"In my experience, people who run their mouth usually end up with blue balls, dear." He huffs a laugh. He's glad to see Harold's nerves seemed to have mostly disappeared. Positioning himself over his cock again, he takes him down again, flattening out his tongue and breathing steadily through his nose. From here, he can take in his musky scent and focus on licking around his sensitive head as he begins to bob his head.

HAROLD:

Harold's heart flutters at the term of endearment, sarcastic though it is. Pleasure floods his body, causing him to moan loudly and close his eyes. "That's so good, John," he murmurs. His hands find their way to John's hair, alternately petting and tugging, restless movements to encourage him on. His hips meet John's rhythm easily, building to an ecstatic crescendo. Praise burbles from his lips, incoherent strings of words that lay bare every emotion Harold has ever felt in John's presence.

"I'm so close," he gasps at last. "John! Please!"

JOHN:

He's glad he's doing this right -- right enough to get Harold right to the edge, apparently. He pulls off only briefly to nuzzle his cock with his cheek and lick around the head, savoring the taste of him. Not wanting to torture him for too long, John takes him back down and begins bobbing his head at a more frantic pace than before.

HAROLD:

John's stubble against his cock is an incredible sensation, and then he's back inside the velvety wetness of his mouth, and the contrast is enough to push Harold right to the edge. When John increases his pace, Harold is lost. He tugs John's hair sharply.

"I'm going to come," he warns, knowing John said he was okay with Harold coming in his mouth, but also knowing that the reality is nothing like the expectation. He wants to give John enough warning he can pull off if he changed his mind.

JOHN:

John moans aroudn him, enjoying this like nothing else. He wants this to to last forever, with Harold's fingers pulling and stroking his hair, his whole body shaking with need. But he also wants to see Harold feel as good as possible. He continues his quick pace, licking and sucking and swirling his tongue to bring Harold to the best orgasm he (hopefully) has ever felt.

HAROLD:

John doesn't pull off, and Harold can't hold back anymore. His whole body shudders and he's coming in John's mouth, moaning his release. It feels beyond amazing, and the way John's mouth looks wrapped around his cock is heavenly. "Oh, John," he murmurs when he can't come anymore. "That was amazing." He caresses John's face with utmost love and care.

JOHN:

John swallows him down willingly before slowly pulling off his softening cock. He watches him with gentle eyes, smiling broadly and cupping Harold's face to pull him in for a kiss. "You were amazing," he murmurs. "And I loved doing that." He gingerly pulls himself up to curl up beside him. "I love you. So much. Having you here feels more right than anything I've ever done."

HAROLD:

Harold struggles to focus, lost in a sea of pleasure. He stares blearily at John. "I love you, too," he whispers, burrowing into John's wonderfully solid body. "I've been very infatuated with you for a long time, John."

JOHN:

John laughs. "Have you?" He supposes he never knew, though looking back, it does make sense; Harold doting over him, always concerned for his safety, the little quips John sees now as flirtations. He surely had done the same thing, hadn't he? Flirted with Harold on a job without realizing it. Loved him without acknowledging that that's what it really was -- love.

"I think I was, too," he admits. "I just...buried a lot of it the way I was taught. Feeling things for other people got you killed in my world. And maybe...maybe it's time to let that go."

Unlike what the CIA taught him, loving Harold made him want to live.

HAROLD:

Harold touches one of John's scars, one that he obtained while in Harold's employment. "There’s a very good chance we will both end up dead, regardless of our feelings for each other," he says quietly. "If that's the case, then I'd rather die with you knowing how I feel than not."

JOHN:

John sighs. He knows Harold is right, but there's no way in hell he's letting Harold die. "You know I can't let you do that," he says quietly. "I can't let you die. I won't. I'm not built that way."

HAROLD:

Harold pushes his face into John's shoulder. "Then I guess we'll just have to go out together. Because I don't think I can live without you."

JOHN:

John swallows thickly. "Harold..." he whispers. "Don't do this."

HAROLD:

Do what? he wants to ask, but he already knows. So instead he nods and kisses John softly. "You're right. Of course. I don't know what came over me." He smiles in what he hopes is a reassuring manner. "Perhaps we should attempt to sleep."

JOHN:

John nods. He's exhausted -- as fun as it was, his body isn't as built for this as it used to be. He's tired. A bit groggily, he reaches for his phone to check for any text messages from Sameen.

Number secure, it says. Thank me later.

He smiles. He'd find a way to, for sure. 

"I think sleep is an excellent idea," he yawns, and wriggles under the covers, making sure Harold is comfortable before laying his head down on the pillow. 

"This wasn't too fast, was it?" he asks softly.

HAROLD:

"In terms of going from finding out you're not straight to getting you into bed, two hours may be a little fast," Harold admits. "In terms of us meeting and developing our partnership and friendship to saying we love each other... a few years is a little less fast. Perhaps we managed to balance it out correctly."

Harold yawns. "How have you never given a blow job before?"

JOHN:

John nods in understanding. Maybe it was. It doesn't feel fast. And he doesn't regret anything -- at least not now. He can't see himself doing so tomorrow, either.

"It just never crossed my mind," he says truthfully. "In the military, I hardly had time for heterosexual relationships, let alone...anything else. I had Jessica, and I didn't have many others before her. I assumed I was straight, but didn't put much emphasis on it. I guess I never really saw it as who I was, rather, just a part of me."

He shrugs. "And then that part of me changed, I suppose. I've had much more drastic changes in my life than a shift in what was supposed to be my sexuality. Not sure if that was the answer you were looking for, but..." He trails off with a sheepish smile.

HAROLD:

Harold cups John's cheek and brushes his thumb against his soft lips. "If it's the truth, then it is the answer I'm looking for," he assures him. "You were remarkable for your first time. Honestly, I'm impressed you swallowed. I will admit, I have rather a dislike for the taste, myself. It won't stop me from giving oral, but I'm not inclined to have semen in my mouth."

JOHN:

John shrugs again. "I've had worse things in my mouth," he chuckles. "Other people's blood. I've had semen on my face before that wasn't mine. Wouldn't recommend that." He winces at that memory, not too keen on revisiting it. "Trust me, I can handle a little bit of an odd taste. But I don't blame you." He laughs again. "It's a little strange." He yawns again and curls up as close to Harold as he can get, his eyes slowly drifting shut. "We can talk more about the taste of my semen tomorrow. I think I need to sleep."

HAROLD:

Harold winces at the mental imagery, then nods his agreement. "Do you want me to leave?" he offers, just in case. They're both very private people, and sleeping is inherently vulnerable. "I tend to move around a bit, especially if the pain is bad."

JOHN:

Joohn blinks in surprise. "What? No. Stay." John wraps his arm around Harold protectively, as if physically preventing him from leaving. "I don't mind. Move all you need." He closes his eyes. "I like having you here."

HAROLD:

Harold breathes deeply in relief. He feels safer than he has in years, wrapped up in John's arms. "Alright," he concedes. "Goodnight, John." And then, just for the novelty of saying it, "I love you."

JOHN:

"Goodnight, Harold," he murmurs. "I love you so damn much." He yawns one, final time, and quickly -- almost alarmingly so -- falls asleep.