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John found it in the triple discount section of Neimann Marcus. He grinned, holding it up to the light.
“Perfect.”
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Harold was busily typing away as usual when John walked into the library the next morning.
Harold had developed a ritual for mornings since Mr. Reese entered his life. First, he would listen. Mr. Reese walked like a jungle cat, his footsteps measured, rhythmic, and making barely a sound on the tiled floor. Harold kept from looking up as long as he could until John would say, in that husky murmur, “Good Morning Finch.”
Second, in the moment before looking up, Harold would smell. Often it was the scent of warm pastry and steaming tea, but also the undercurrent of Reese, musky and slightly tangy. If only Finch could bottle that scent, he would have enough to keep Reese in guns for eternity.
Finally he indulged the third of his five senses that he allowed to appreciate Reese. He looked.
After Harold recruited John, Reese had gone through something of a metamorphosis, trying different looks and clothing and colors like he was reminding himself how to dress. It had all been incredibly flattering on him, Harold couldn’t think of much that wouldn’t look delicious on Reese, but John had never seemed satisfied. Then, one morning he had come into work in a jet-black suit with a crisp, starched, angelically white shirt. Harold had been unable to entirely hide his stunned look of appreciation and, though they never said anything about it, Harold was fairly certain Reese had noticed because since then he rarely wore anything else. The only supplement was a long, deep gray coat that only flattered his lean figure more.
Each morning, the final part of his ritual, Harold would let his eyes drag upwards, leave the glow of his monitors to look from Reese’s polished shoes, over the powerful legs encased in tailored pants that Harold himself had taken the measurements for, to the fitted shirt that both hid and displayed John’s torso, to the jacket that hugged Reese’s broad shoulders. Thirty seconds is what Harold allowed himself each morning, counting down in his head and wishing he could slow time. He made sure to keep an appraising expression in place, hoping that John would attribute Harold’s perusal to his own finicky sartorial tastes, but Harold failed to keep himself from indulging.
This morning, pleasure warming through him in anticipation, Harold turned his head and shoulders to look at John for the first time that day.
“Good morning Mr. Ree – “
Words failed him. There stood John, calm as you please, as if nothing at all were out of the ordinary. However something was out of the ordinary. Something was very wrong indeed and that something was currently embracing John’s upper body in a riot of brown, orange, magenta, and paisley.
“What in the devil – “ Harold cursed.
“Something wrong Finch?”
“Where on God’s green earth did you find that – article?” Harold swallowed heavily, disgust coloring every word.
John smirked, plucking at the shirt he was wearing. “What this? Got it on sale. Seemed like a good buy.”
“You got it on – “ Finch huffed in outrage. “Mr. Reese, if this is your way of asking for a raise, I promise you, you needn’t have gone to such lengths.”
Reese pouted, eyes shining with comic sincerity. “I thought you’d like it Finch.”
“You’re wearing that, that monstrosity for my benefit?”
John nodded.
“Why?” Harold was baffled and in danger of tossing his nonexistent cookies.
John shrugged, his shoulders rolling beneath the garish fabric, but his eyes said Harold was missing something. Harold narrowed his eyes. “If you wore this for me, what did you expect me to do with it?”
Another shrug. “Whatever you wanted Harold.”
“So if I told you to leave and change into something less offensive – ?”
“I would.” John didn’t sound pleased with the idea, but Harold could tell that he meant it.
Harold hummed, considering. He perused John’s form while the man in question waited, patiently accepting Harold’s gaze. An almost forgotten impulse for mischief made itself known. This could either be a monumental mistake or incredibly satisfactory and, oddly, Harold felt like rolling the dice for once in his life.
“Mr. Reese. That is without doubt the most horrendous excuse for a shirt I have ever seen. I have to remind you that we have certain standards to maintain. As your employer I must ask you to remove it.” Harold’s eyes flashed. “Immediately.”
John’s grin was wide and bright. “Whatever you say Harold.” Slowly, teasing, he brought his hands to the third button below his throat. Even in this eyesore he still left the first two gaping and that glimpse of smooth throat almost made up for the garish assault on Harold’s senses. With the same dexterity that John brought to everything, he pushed the button through its eye, repeating the process down the length of the shirt, revealing tantalizing glimpses of his torso inch by inch.
Finch was entirely riveted, feeding his sense of sight with images of John like a starving man placed in front of a smorgasbord.
When he was done the shirt gaped open, an uninterrupted stripe of skin revealed from John’s throat all the way down to his belt buckle where that tantalizing stripe of hair disappeared beneath.
John paused, letting his arms hang at his sides, preening slightly and letting Harold look his fill. Harold frowned slightly. “I believe I told you to take that sartorial joke off Mr. Reese. That means all the way.”
John grinned again. With a roll of his shoulders he divested himself of his suit jacket, letting it fall to the floor. Then, much slower, John contorted to remove the shirt, his abdomen flexing as he slipped the cuffs over his wrists. When the shirt hung from John’s fingers, Harold pushed himself to his feet, extending a hand. “Give it here.”
John proffered the offense and Harold, with great personal satisfaction, balled it up and threw it in the garbage. Never again would it mar the perfection of John Reese’s body.
Harold turned back to John. “Now come here.”
John, with a saunter worthy of a bond girl, obeyed until he stood directly in front of Harold, Harold’s eyes on a level with the dip in John’s throat.
For the first time, Harold indulged his sense of touch where John was concerned. He drew fingers that had brought down companies with a single keystroke over the defined ridges of John’s chest and abdomen. He was the very picture of male perfection yet juxtaposed with such beautiful imperfections that it made Harold dizzy. His scars, both those that adorned his skin and those that resided on his precious, tortured soul, were now Harold’s to sooth and salve.
Harold fully intended to do just that, running his hands greedily over John’s torso, shamelessly brave now. John stood unmoving and accepting, his eyes heavy lidded, his arms loose at his sides. His head had fallen back slightly, exposing his throat and Harold ran an open palm down that line that had been teasing him for years now.
“That’s four senses.” Harold murmured to himself.
“What?”
Harold blushed, realizing he had spoken aloud. “Four senses. Sound, smell, sight, touch. I’ve had them all today. The only one I’m missing is – ‘
“Taste.” John finished huskily. Harold shivered. “Yes.”
“Four out of five senses for yourself though Harold. That seems a little greedy. I think it’s my turn.”
Harold blinked up at John. “Wha – oh.”
John ducked his head and burrowed his lips into the spot where Harold’s neck met the collar of his shirt. John’s mouth drifted over the sensitive skin there, while deft fingers loosened his tie and opened the top button of his shirt to allow John more room to work. John traveled from Harold’s neck, up over his cheek and nose and eyelids, back down, exploring and mapping.
When John found his neck again, rather than kissing, his lips parted around Harold’s skin and pressed some into his mouth so that John could taste and tease and suck, marking Harold just under his collar, where no one but he would know to look.
With a strangled moan, Harold grabbed John’s head and pulled him up to press their lips together in a hungry, needy kiss. With a force that John matched, Harold thrust his tongue into John’s mouth, finally getting his first taste.
John tasted fresh, like mint toothpaste, unmarred by the coffee that sat cooling on Harold’s desk. Harold couldn’t get enough, licking over John’s tongue and lips. John groaned into Harold, his arms wrapping like steel girders around Harold’s torso.
It was – everything Harold had dreamed of and yet more. As usual, Mr. Reese managed to surpass all reasonable expectations.
They parted reluctantly, panting. Harold was wrapped securely in John’s arms and pressed against his naked chest.
“Finally.” John’s voice was ragged and Harold shuddered to feel the vibrations. “I thought you’d never figure it out.”
“Don’t tell me you planned this Mr. Reese.”
“An operative has to use every tool at his disposal Finch. I thought you liked my skills.” John trailed a long finger down Harold’s spine. Harold shivered in pleasure, pressing his lips into John’s throat and murmuring promises into his skin.
‘We’re burning that damn shirt.”