Work Text:
It begins with a dream.
Some men would call it a nightmare. But John's had those before. He's too old and has lived too long to be afraid of his subconscious anymore. Besides, when he thinks about it, it's a harmless thing. Even if he does seem to like repeating it every single night. Maybe because he's sleeping in his new loft now. A flat Finch bought, and decorated, and gave to him. Or maybe it's because the idea of the recluse wanting him to have a home to go to makes him feel...
...Either explanation works. Both...
They sit at the kitchen table. Eggs Benedict on one square white plate between them. Two forks, two napkins, two mugs. John's full of coffee while Finch drinks his customary Sencha green tea. Finch has just said something that makes him smile. It doesn't matter what the words are. What matters is that the smile is tender, that John feels tender toward the other man. It's an exquisite moment to be in. When Finch reaches over to cover his hand with his own John thinks warmth safety love and happiness suddenly becomes more than just a theory.
It doesn't surprise him when he stands to bend over the table. Nor is he surprised by the soft, slow, close-mouthed kiss he plants on his breakfast companion seconds later. What does surprise him, though, is not having the desire to stop. Every time he wakes up he finds himself wondering what the other man tastes like. Is he spicy from the hot tea, or buttery smooth from the Hollandaise sauce? It's a question he figures he'll learn the answer to sooner or later. All his flirting, his curiosity, his need has been leading up to it. Hopefully, if he's lucky, it'll be sooner.