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It begins with a date.
Although technically it's something else. Or maybe nothing at all. John sure feels like that's what this is. Because he'd made specific plans to come to the library at this time, bearing food and beverage and a request for no shop talk for an hour. Finch restrained himself admirably up until the last ten minutes, but a man like him can talk in generalities only so long before the conversation turns personal.
John can tell he's getting antsy now. They're already verging on friendship, more when John really lets himself think about it. He doesn't know which part is new territory for the older man and he hasn't experienced either since prior to going into the military. Even then those men were acquaintances. Finch is different. John trusts him. With his body, his mind. His heart, of course, is another matter. The obvious reason, Finch not trusting him, isn't the real one. No, that honor goes to the fact that John likes him. At night, when he can't sleep in the loft he doesn't own, he roams the streets trying to convince himself that what he feels is not desire. That what he shares with Finch is not precariously balanced on the edge of love. As of yet he's been unsuccessful.
“Thank you for the dinner, Mr. Reese, and the company. But I believe it's time to get back to work,” Finch says, breaking the spell John has unwittingly fallen under.
“So soon?” The words sound calm and casual in his head. He must be slipping though. They both catch the disappointment in his voice.
“We've run out of things to talk about.”
“Have we, Harold?”
The response is automatic. Flirty. Open to interpretation. John shouldn't have said it. He shouldn't have said anything. But now that he has he's unsure of his next step. Especially since the question was rhetorical. Finch will have to decide where to go from here.
A ghost of a smile flickers across Finch's face in acknowledgment. “At the moment, Mr. Reese.” John is unable to control his grin when it hits him. What they're doing is like foreplay.
He can live with that...