Work Text:
The knock at the door was short but insistent.
Harold Finch sighed loudly, spinning in place to glare in the direction of the front door, flour filling the air like a blizzard. Grabbing the nearest cloth to hand, Harold moved towards the rapping sound as it echoed again, attempting in vain to wipe clean his dusted fingers. Reaching the door, he peered through the peephole and let out an annoyed sigh. The chain clanked against the painted wood as Finch removed the security and opened the door wide. The tall, muscular figure of John Reese stood on the other side, casually leaning on the frame, a wide grin plastered on his handsome features.
“Mr Reese.” Harold intoned smoothly. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“Just coming to see how things were progressing, Harold.”
Finch quirked an eyebrow at his partner, pursing his lips in what he hoped was a disapproving look.
“Things were progressing quite nicely until your untimely interruption.”
John chuckled, not looking the least bit dismayed.
“I recall you were to leave me undisturbed until I had finished, Mr Reese” Harold continued. “I remind you I asked for no distraction during the process.”
“I thought you’d be done by now, Finch. As I’m here, can I come in anyway?”
Finch sighed defeatedly and stepped back from the door, gesturing for John to enter, before turning and making his way back to the kitchen. Reese’s amused laughter followed him, lifting Harold’s annoyance just a little. The ex-CIA agent appeared in the doorway and, after helping himself to a glass of water, sat down on a stool behind the breakfast bar.
Faint music floated in from the front room as Harold returned to his ministrations, giving John a sideways glance as he pulled a carton of milk from the well-stocked fridge.
“I assume you have completed your tasks, Mr Reese?”
John nodded as he swallowed his drink.
“Yeah, got the balloons, banners and party hats. The ice will be delivered by 6 and the DJ will arrive at half past to set up ready for 7.”
Harold wrinkled his nose, bending to measure the milk in a jug, before adding it to the bowl before him.
“I don’t know why Ms Groves insists on gathering all this… frippery” he huffed gesturing in frustration at nothing, puffing up more flour into the already dusty air.
“Because its Shaw’s birthday, and Root wants to do something nice for her. Something normal.” John replied, stifling a grin at the sight of Harold, sleeves rolled to his elbow, waistcoat dusted in flour.
Finch turned and fixed John with an exasperated look, while John attempted to smooth his face into a neutral demeanour.
“There are other ways to celebrate such occasions, Mr Reese. What, pray tell, is wrong with a delightful dinner party?”
John chuckled again.
“It’s not really Shaw’s scene, Finch. Come on, it’ll be fun!”
Finch huffed and reached for a wooden spoon. He began stirring the mixture in the bowl with small, fluid movements. John watched with quiet contentment, enjoying the way Harold’s strong arms flexed with the effort. He hopped off his stool, rounding the bar in a few strides. The reclusive man stopped his movements as John’s hands came to rest on his hips. The voice was smooth and sultry in his ear.
“Can I help?”
Finch closed his eyes briefly, willing himself to keep his focus on task. After a moment he extended the spoon towards the tall man and stepped away to wash his hands. John began beating the bowl with vigour, spattering the gloopy mix across the marble work surface, and up the door of the cupboard.
“Mr Reese! Must you make such a mess?!”
Harold half-lunged at John, flinging the towel he had been using to dry his hands over his shoulder. Attempting to remove the spoon from John’s grip, he made to reach around Reese’s broad frame, unintentionally encircling his waist. John chuckled his throaty laugh, and Harold felt it vibrate through his chest. Trying his best to ignore the shiver it caused, he reached again for the bowl, tipping it and causing more of the contents to dribble out onto the side. Harold groaned, dropping his arms and letting his forehead fall against his partner’s back in defeat. The rumbling laugh came again, eliciting more sensitivity in the shorter man.
“Relax, Harold. It can all be cleaned up afterwards.” he paused to stripe a finger through a glob and brought it to his mouth “Look, we don’t even need a cloth!”
Finch cringed.
“Mr Reese” he admonished “that contains raw eggs, you will make yourself sick.” He grimaced again as John repeated the action.
“I’ve eaten worse” John snickered.
Harold rolled his eyes and stepped away, while John used the moment to gather more cake mix onto his finger. However, instead of putting it into his mouth, he turned towards Finch, and carefully slid his goo-covered finger down Harold’s cheek. The expression of indignance that washed over Finch’s face was too much for John to handle, and he dropped the bowl on the side with a clatter, spilling yet more mess while John clutched at his sides, erupting in choking giggles.
Finch stalked over to the sink, retrieved a cloth and wiped roughly at his face, eyeing the mess with distaste and his partner with displeasure. John struggled to compose himself, eventually regaining his feet and wiping the tears from his eyes. He glanced at his boss, and immediately lifted his hands into an apologetic motion, half cowering in mock fright from the glare, grin still ghosting his lips.
“I’m sorry Harold, I just couldn’t resist.”
“I will finish the job myself, thank you Mr Reese.”
Finch moved to sweep Reese aside, picking up the fallen spoon, and replacing it in the bowl. John retreated to the sink, amusement still playing on his mouth. Harold opened the cupboard by his knee and bent slightly to retrieve a cake tin. He emptied the contents of the bowl into the tin and scraped the sides methodically. Satisfied with the result, Harold moved to put the cake in the oven and began to clean up the apocalypse that had occurred on his counter. Reaching for the spoon, he noted the globs of cake mix that clung to it.
“Mr Reese, would you mind helping with this?”
As John turned, absently wiping dry his hands, something cold and sticky connected with his face, rendering him temporarily blind. Midway to wiping himself clean, John stopped as a deep chuckle reached his ears. Removing cake mix from his eyes, the tall man was amazed to find the smaller man leant against the counter, tears streaming from his eyes, and laughter shaking his whole body. Unable to feel resentment towards the adorable scene unfolding before him, Reese crossed the kitchen to the billionaire and very deliberately took Harold’s face in his cake-coated fingers and kissed him lovingly.
The laughter died as Finch pulled away, shocked that he was once again covered in the gloopy mixture. Then, realising he didn’t care, he stepped back into John’s space and returned the kiss, spreading the cake mix over both their faces and hair. When oxygen became necessary, the pair pulled apart again, relapsing into giggles when they surveyed the damage.
“You make a tasty cake, Harold”
Finch’s eyebrows raised at the double meaning behind the words and grinned his shy smile.
“You don’t taste to bad yourself, John”
Reese grinned and grabbed a cloth, moving to wipe the debris from his lover’s face, before turning the cloth on himself. They worked together in companionable silence, music still drifting soothingly in the background, and cleared the kitchen in a short time.
Afterwards, as they shared a lingering look, Harold’s face morphed from lust to horror, and moved as quickly as he was able to the oven. Yanking open the door, smoke quickly filled the kitchen, and Reese leapt to the window to draw in fresh air. Coughing harshly, Harold retrieved the remains of the cake from the smoky heat and dropped it on the counter in disgust. He turned to regard John, who promptly put down the towel he had been flapping at the smoke and left the kitchen. As he heard the front door open, Finch called after him.
“Where are you going, Mr Reese?”
“To buy a cake.”