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John wakes up in a bed, in a dimly lit space, with wires and tubes all over him and something lying on his thigh.
Bear, he thinks, categorizing his surroundings. Safehouse. Safe. He's got an IV stuck in his hand, some kind of drain sticking out of his gut, and one of those annoying breathing tubes in his nose. But why?
Taking down their last perp had been easy. The guy got a few good punches in but nothing that John couldn't handle. Sure, he came away sore as hell, but that was normal. The bastard had big fists. Of course he was sore.
That had to be it, though. Last thing he remembers, he was dozing off in the library while Harold wrapped up the number. Harold had waved his billions around and got them a table somewhere exclusive and, in Harold's words, "exquisite." They probably would've followed that up with some fun between the sheets, and John had been sure he'd be okay for it. He was looking forward to it, even.
He didn't even bother to tell Harold about getting punched, and he'd kept quiet about how much pain he was in. Harold would worry. Harold would fret. Harold would cancel their reservation and insist on cuddling all damn night, and John hadn't been in the mood for cuddling when he got back to HQ.
Now, he's tired as shit, sore, and clearly just had surgery. Harold's not going to be happy.
John decides it might be a good idea to sleep a little more.
When he stirs again, a soft, familiar hand is cradling his own like it's something precious, and the light sound of blunt nails running over a furry scalp reaches his ears. John slowly blinks awake and finds Harold watching him, his blue eyes wide and tired behind his glasses. Absently, Harold scratches Bear's head, not seeming to register that or John, until he suddenly jerks and says, "Mr. Reese! You're awake."
Mr. Reese. John tries not to take it personally. They've both got their defenses. Instead, he smiles and says, "Hey, Harold," and barely recognizes his own voice. His throat hurts—he didn't notice that before.
"Oh, you must be thirsty, hang on."
Soon, he's being treated to a glass of ice water, sipping the cold, refreshing liquid through a straw while Harold says, "Slowly, John. Slowly."
I have been wounded before, John wants to say, but that wouldn't end well. Really, he doesn't have the energy for another fight right now. So he obediently drinks as slowly as he can, giving Harold a pointed stare in the eye, until he's finished.
"I wouldn't remind you of how to drink if I actually thought you knew how to take care of yourself," Harold says, his voice clipped, as he sets the glass down hard on the nightstand. Then, he turns back to John and takes John's hand in his own again. "Do you know what happened?"
John shrugs a shoulder and cocks his head. "Got a bit of a hunch—and a punch." Harold flinches slightly. "Blunt force trauma, internal bleeding, I know the drill."
"And yet I found out you were injured by you collapsing on the floor."
The sharper Harold's enunciation gets, the more guilt starts to creep into John's stomach. Him passing out on the floor had to scare the shit out of Harold. "Sorry," John says, sheepish. "I just thought I got bruised. Didn't want to worry you."
Harold heaves a sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose, while Bear lets out a whine. "When have I ever given any indication that I don't want you to tell me when you've been hurt, John?" he asks. "Because if I have at some point, I would like to clarify that it was not my intention."
"Didn't want to worry you," John repeats. It's the best answer he's got. Harold has never made him think that he has to keep things like this secret. But old CIA habits die hard, and also the less Harold stresses, the better. "You've got a lot on your mind."
"Well, hiding when you're hurt is not nearly as helpful as you think it is, my love." He lifts John's hand to his lips for a kiss, then laces their fingers together. "I'd rather get your injuries treated, no matter how minor, than..." He looks down at their enjoined hands, and, more slowly, says, "Than experience a repeat of what happened today."
Fair enough. John nods, and says, simply, "Okay."
"Okay?"
"I'll tell you next time."
Harold's shoulders sag with relief. "See that you do," he says. "And John?"
"Yeah?"
"You might want to get some more sleep," Harold says. "Ms. Shaw was not pleased with you, either, and I shudder to think of what her definitions of 'post-operative care' and 'physical therapy' might be."
John chuckles weakly, and it hurts, but he doesn't care. "I'll keep that in mind."