Work Text:
Tugging his dress shirt on, Harold's gaze swept over the rosa peace tattoo that was on the inside of his right forearm. He didn't see it anymore. It was one of those things one just ignores after a while, like a mole or birthmark. It spanned the whole space that was between his wrist and the crook of his elbow, and he liked to hide it with his suits' sleeves. He didn't want to see it, not anymore, but it was too valuable to be able to remove it. It was his history, just like his scars that covered his entire left side and back. He had the funds to take all of it away, to make it much less noticeable, so, obviously, he chose to keep them and hide them instead.
There was another one, far down on his back that was slightly more faded. It touched the top of his slacks on his left side, and it was also scarred over in some parts. A small peyote, it was a little easier to hide with his shirts that he carefully tucked into his pants every day.
That was the reason he didn't want to take off his clothes until late at night when he was going to bed or when it was absolutely necessary to save a Number. He never let his partners see his marks, mainly because most of them would lead to the partner finding out about his past, which he would not, could not tolerate.
However, Harold paid special attention to a bud at his hip, more towards his stomach. It sprouted rather quickly, just after he had left Grace. He didn't understand how he could possibly love another person when Grace was clearly the love of his life, but he didn't get it surgically removed.
Letting it grow, after about a year, he was able to identify the kind of plant it was. It turned out to be an adromischus alstonii, a small succulent. It was only the size of his palm, and he completely resented it. Speckled with dark green, Harold had to admit it was a cute plant.
He hid this one like he did the one for his old friend at IFT, just tucking his shirt in over it, learning to ignore it like the others. Not entirely sure whether he wanted to act on this soulmate or not, he decided to just let the events take course. That was how he met John Reese.
Needing a new partner after the disastrous first associate, he hired Reese just like he had the one before, but, somehow, this one was different. Harold let him into the library sooner than he had his previous employee. He let the man take root in his heart, and he knew that when John died, as he was bound to do, sooner or later, Harold's entire soul would be taken out, as well. But, ironically, he didn't really mind that. Reese said that Finch saved him, and Finch knew that Reese saved him, too.
Harold fastened his sleeve cuffs after he slipped a vest on and went straight to the Library, no time to waste that day. He met Reese after a few minutes of being at his desk, responding to his greeting formally and professionally, getting up to explain the new Number.
A rather easy one, it required John to go find a businessman who wanted to get revenge for his brother from a gang. Despite there being only a few people with guns to take out, John had made a grave mistake by not noticing a door behind a stairwell. He was shot in the stomach, without a vest. Finch had to rush over to his location to help Reese into the car, taking him straight back to the Library.
"You need medical attention."
"I really think I can handle this one myself, Finch," Reese growled out with a small smile. Slouched over in the passenger seat and sweat pouring down John's temples, Harold looked over him and grit his teeth for a moment.
"That's not an acceptable answer, John," Finch replied, his voice cool and calm, though the situation was causing his cheeks to turn pink from the effort of getting John into the Library. John was hauled into Harold's usual chair, quite out of it.
Harold's cheeks stayed pink when John began to remove his shirt, though his voice and hands were steady as they helped the wounded man. He failed to notice the other scars as he managed to fix up John's injury as best he could. Retrieving a rag to help clean up the blood on John's torso and after cleaning the front of his stomach and pushing away John's shaking hand, he finally began to see the marks on John's body. There were countless slashes across his chest and fat dots of tissue showing where he had been shot in multiple places. However, Harold's eyes caught on something else.
An adromischus alstonii was snugly secure just above John's pants line. Harold's anxious eyes flicked up to John's, which were closed, his head lolled to one shoulder as he sagged in the chair. His inner voices began to shout at each other.
How dare the universe think this employee of Harold's - which was all he was, just an employee - was on the same level as Grace, the love of his life!
As he stood from kneeling in front of him, his head cleared a little. He was able to wipe the sheen of sweat from his forehead and clean his glasses as he calmed down.
Yes, Grace was amazing and maybe she is the love of his life, but isn't it time to move on? Has he even seen the way he had been behaving towards John the past few months? Letting him into the library so soon, giving John his own apartment, allowing John to actually touch him without a shove away and some harsh words were all things Harold couldn't explain logically. Of course, there was no logic that could possibly explain soulmates, no person on Earth could even dream of discovering why it happened. But it did, and it was tearing Harold apart. The part that still wanted Grace was shrinking as he watched the injured John sleep on the bed in the back room. He had redressed John's wound only once before he woke and was lucid.
"Har... Harold," John called faintly from the bed, the older man shooting up from his chair to go to his side.
"I'm here, John. What do you need?" Harold murmured to him, a hand subconsciously on his shoulder.
"You... You saw my soulmark, didn't you?" John asked very quietly, even quieter than his usual growl-whisper tone.
"I did."
There was a pause.
"Where is yours?"
Harold felt chilled to the bone.
"I'd rather not disclose that information, John," he admitted truthfully.
"I have another one, on my left shoulder. It's a tattoo, a desert rose. That was for-"
"John, you don't have to tell me."
"- for Jessica. I think you knew that."
There was another pause, longer this time. Jerking his hand upwards, John's hand landed deftly on Harold's hip, running up his side under his vest until he could feel the small succulent. Small curls came up from the corners of John's mouth.
"John..."
"What is it called? I looked it up, but I couldn't find what it is.."
Harold's hand moved from John's shoulder to cover the weak hand touching him.
"Adromischus alstonii. They're adorable little succulents, found usually in the shade in Arizona, and..."