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Ill-timed erections had never been much of an issue for John in his prior lives. The rangers, though filled with singularly excellent specimens, had been more like brothers than anything else. There was no getting turned on by a man after you saw him eat and then subsequently throw up fourteen hamburgers. Not even if he had the abs of a greek god.
The CIA (Kara, Mark) had been a study in hiding how much he absolutely wasn’t turned on by either of them. He did his best to love his job. Kara made jokes about how ‘hard’ it was for him.
The newly resurrected John Reese, vigilante, is stunned when, in the first weeks of his new job, his new purpose, something suddenly, unhelpfully springs to attention in the middle of a perfectly mundane morning in the library.
It is entirely the fault of his new employer.
Harold Finch is exactly John’s type.
John didn’t notice it immediately because, up until meeting Finch, he had thought his type was tall, beautiful, vulnerable women. He thought Jessica was the be-all, end-all for him, the most singularly perfect individual in the world. How was he to know differently?
Then of course, the culture shock of suddenly having enough food, shelter, clothing, a safe place to sleep, was a pretty significant distraction. Starvation and alcoholism – then withdrawal – will pretty much kill your sex drive.
But once he had enough food in his body, enough rest that was actually restful, forgotten desires began to make themselves known.
It was a morning like any other.
They were both sitting in the library, Harold typing away at his computer and John curled in a chair perpendicular to Harold, no longer reading the book in his lap. Sun streamed in through the gaps in the newspaper that covered the windows. A half-empty box of donuts was sitting on the desk, dust motes danced under a sunbeam, and John was considering leaving to get fresh refills of coffee and tea.
It was entirely unremarkable but between one moment and the next John’s drifting eyes fell on Harold’s fingers and he was captivated.
They moved with grace and assurance over the keyboard, such incredible power contained within ten easily broken digits. John knew half a dozen ways that would keep Harold from typing on a keyboard ever again and he shuddered to think that one day, when Harold was too reckless or John too slow, some deranged perpetrator would realize the worst way to hurt Harold would be to take away his hands.
Harold’s hands were his freedom. John knew that Harold sometimes felt trapped in his own body, the constant frustration of a previously able-bodied person adjusting around limitations. His hands were his portal to the outside world.
Then, in an image so sharp that John stopped breathing for a moment, he saw another use for those hands.
John abruptly and involuntarily imagined himself in place of the keyboard, laid out languorously while Harold’s fingers worked over him.
Just as abruptly, he was fully and achingly turned on.
He was completely unprepared for this situation and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to spread his legs to give himself space at the same time as he maneuvered the book to mask his reaction.
Finch noticed his uncharacteristic fidgeting. He turned and pinned him with a stare. “Is everything alright Mr. Reese?”
Harold’s eyes on him and the sound of his voice were not helping John’s condition. John nodded sharply, managed to say something about getting refills, and high-tailed it out the door.
In the days and weeks that followed that first incident, John felt himself examining Harold Finch in a completely different light.
At the beginning of their acquaintance, John made a study of Finch in order to suss out the truth and even the balance of power between them. Now John studied Harold’s body and found himself wanting.
Harold’s size was an unexpected turn on. The man was perhaps five inches shorter than Reese and relatively compact, without the broad shoulders and bulky arms and chest that characterized most of the men Reese had worked with. Harold was the perfect size for John to wrap him up like a present and curl around. It spoke to John’s protective instincts, even though he knew that in many ways Harold was far more suited to the task of keeping them safe than John was.
In the mornings John brought Harold donuts, casting pleased glances at the little roundness to Harold’s belly every time Harold accepted the offerings. John wanted to bury his face in that softness, rub his cheeks and drag his lips across Harold’s skin until Harold was squirming with impatience.
Harold’s eyes were bright, avian in their intelligence. John found amusement when he noticed that, thinking of all of Harold’s bird-names. Harold’s lips were – distracting.
John shook his head and went to clean his guns when he caught himself thinking about Harold’s lips.
The more he looked, the more there was to appreciate. John realized what a physically beautiful man Harold was. The inner beauty, the intelligence, the compassion, the deep guilt, was obvious at first glance, even if he didn’t know the source. But Harold’s looks, unlike the entire rest of the world, were a hidden gem that John had managed to unearth.
Harold, as usual, was a walking anomaly.
Reese kept it like a treasure, close to his chest, this warm regard for Harold. It was something he only took out late at night, when he was alone. Then he could allow the yearning, the want, to wash over him without shame.
Then he could indulge.
The fantasies were explicit and often left John breathless, but just as delicious was the images of after – of Harold holding him, petting him, soothing him. John wanted – oh how he wanted. But he never touched himself. That would be disrespectful of Harold, when John didn’t have Harold’s permission.
Then Root happened and things changed. John was, in retrospect, off the chain with the frantic need to find Harold. That didn’t matter. What did matter was that, once they returned to the city, Harold seemed to trust him a lot more.
Things began to shift.
In February, Harold took him to the park, Bear in tow, for ice cream cones. If John had thought Harold’s hands were distracting, the sight of his pink tongue slowly swirling around a vanilla cone, collecting the sprinkles before they fell, was the single most erotic thing John had ever seen.
That was the first night that he came to thoughts of Harold. Harold and ice cream. Harold and ice cream and John. One moment he was asleep and the next he was jarringly awake, laying in wet pants and whited out with pleasure.
Still, John was confident that Harold remained completely oblivious. John had every intention of keeping things that way. There was no reason to destroy a perfectly good friendship, to ruin a happiness that John didn’t even think existed.
Then came the day that Harold changed in the library.
It was raining that day and they had been walking back from the movie theater to the library when a cabbie in a rush drenched them in a deluge of muddy water.
As soon as they entered the library, Harold had declared that he couldn’t stay in these ‘despoiled’ clothes any longer. Before John could take a moment to prepare himself, Harold was bare from the waist up, his belt and the top button of his trousers undone, completely unashamed to be so undone in front of John. His face was flushed and frustrated, the sinewy strength of his arms and chest on display.
John gaped, so taken aback that he couldn’t even collect himself to look away. He knew he needed to do something, anything, knew his reaction would be more than apparent if Harold only looked up, but John was completely captivated by this picture of Harold.
“There are spare clothes for you as well Mr. Reese. You really ought to get out of those wet things.”
John groped for some kind of coherent response, anything to indicate that he wasn’t helplessly ogling his boss, but he had nothing. The silence was going on too long. Any moment now –
Harold looked up, brow furrowed. “Mr. Reese?”
John was devastated. His cheeks were red, his arousal was more than apparent. Now was the moment where it all fell apart. Any second now Harold would stiffen, that whip sharp tongue of his lashing out and telling John to go and never return.
Or maybe Harold would be kind, kind enough to tell John that this behavior was inappropriate, but if John could get ahold of himself, they could continue to work together. For the sake of the numbers. Yes, that’s what John would ask, would beg for. Harold would see the sense in that. For the sake of the numbers, John could –
“Oh.” Harold’s voice was – pleased? “Well. Why didn’t you just say so?”
John gulped. “Didn’t realize I could.”
Harold shook his head. “Oh Mr. Reese.” He took three steps across the room until he stood before John. Then, with one hand, Harold yanked John down into a devouring kiss.
For one second John was completely at loose ends, unsure what to do with his – everything. Harold sharp tug on his hair jogged his brain back into place.
With a groan like he’d been shot, John gave himself over to Harold’s kiss. Where Harold’s hands moved him, John went. When Harold’s tongue probed his lips, John opened like a flower for the sun. When Harold pressed closer, John took it as permission to rest his hands on Harold’s back, the feel of his bare skin like a brand on John’s cold fingers. Harold arched into John at the touch.
John’s brain was quickly whiting out with pleasure. He made little noises, attempting to pull away. There was something he needed to say.
Harold finally let him go, though only as far as a hands-width.
“Yes?”
“I just – needed to tell you. You’re the most beautiful man I’ve ever seen.”
“I could say the same thing about you Mr. Reese.”
John grinned. “Well that’s one thing we agree on.”
Harold’s smirk was decadence itself. “Let’s see if we can’t find a few more.”