Work Text:
It begins with a smell.
John is used to this: gunpowder, sweat, the sickeningly sweet stench of death. Even desperation has its own odor. Finch, on the other hand, is always clean. Always, somehow, fresh. Like green grass and a child's whoop of joy. John thinks he probably smells the way he feels most days, as if he's a gallon of milk a month past his expiration date. But his employer carries an innocence that coats him with the distinct scent of spring.
He'll sneak up on the other man at the library sometimes and inhale deeply. Finch will remain still for a second, causing John to wonder if he's aware of what he's doing, before moving away to put distance between them. Of course, his actions could be considered unseemly. He knows that. But he has no plans to jump the genius. No immediate ones anyway. He also knows sticking his nose in the crook of Finch's neck where the smell concentrates is especially tempting, and something he has to convince himself not to do on a daily basis.
John understands personal space. It's just that when it comes to Finch this particular concept no longer applies.