Work Text:
The first time Reese wanted to kiss Finch was almost a year after they first met.
The last two days had been a blur. Moretti, the makeshift playpen in the library, Carter's face when he walked up wearing a baby björn, Harold getting clobbered, the bar fight, crashing through a window. Elias. He wasn't sure when the chill would fully leave his bones. He rubbed his wrists idly as he stood in the street.
Harold turned, holding the baby carrier out. Leila cooed at him. John wiggled his fingers, a soft smile spreading on his face.
"Bye, Leila."
He leaned against the car, watching as Finch carried her across the street to her grandparents. Harold held the carrier close, and Reese clocked his body movements, noticing his hesitancy as he gently passed Leila to them. Reese chuckled to himself.
The two of them had been playing the part of parents rather well, given the circumstances. They had some hiccups - Reese winced as he recalled prying a smoke grenade from Leila's grip - but Finch had taken to it like a natural. It'd been fun; playing with Leila, watching Harold dote on her, upgrading his usual teasing, the two of them arguing like a married couple.
Reese found himself suddenly in an entryway, watching Harold walk towards him, a child on one hip, another running down the hall past him, colliding with John's leg in a hug. He could hear faint laughter, and Harold smiled, leaning in towards John's cheek-
John blinked. Harold was walking back towards him across the street, childless, a bit disheveled. It was almost charming. John felt the urge to catch his chin and...
He cleared his throat. Harold looked up at him, questioning.
"Be nice to have a child," John said. The strange vision played in the back of his mind. "Children." He swallowed the 'with you' that threatened to come out. "Think that'll ever happen?"
Harold turned, stiffly, joining John as he supported his weight against the car's driver's side. They watched through the window across the street, seeing Sammy and Veda pick up Leila, all smiles and kisses. Harold had held Leila like that. Reese mentally gave himself a shake, trying to clear his thoughts, unsure how he'd even gotten here.
"Probably not," John said, almost more to himself than Harold. "Our line of work."
"The trouble with children - you never know how they're gonna turn out." Harold turned, walking to the car's passenger side door. John stayed a moment longer, staring as Leila was carried out of sight.
Reese spent the entire ride back to the library forcibly packing his thoughts back into Pandora's box. He couldn't afford attachments. Neither of them could.
Besides, Harold wasn’t into him.
(Harold usually opted to make his own way after missions instead of hitching a ride. He spent the drive back staring out the window, lost in thought. If he occasionally stole a glance at John, well. John pretended not to notice.)
-----
*Bang!*
The train station was in chaos in an instant. John was already moving, heart in his throat, vaulting over benches. He kept his gaze fixed on Harold as he pushed through the jostling crowd. He noted distantly that Root was getting away. He found he didn't really care. All that mattered was that there had been a gunshot and Harold was on the floor.
Another moment and he was kneeling next to Harold, hands flying to his torso.
"Don't move," Reese muttered, then, as Harold immediately began to lift his arm, he repeated. "Don't move." He felt the front of Harold's vest, lifted his blazer, scanning for any holes or blood. Nothing yet; he needed to be sure, he thought, lifting the bottom corner of the vest to check his shirt.
"Am I hit?" Harold sounded puzzled. Reese felt his muscles relax in a way they hadn't in days. He quickly scanned Harold one more time. A bandaged hand, but nothing else.
"I don't think so," John breathed. He straightened Harold's blazer before getting an arm under him. "Sorry I took so long," he grunted, lifting Harold to his feet. John paused as Harold steadied himself, breathing heavily.
"I really didn't intend for you to come and find me, Mr. Reese." Harold nodded, ready to move. They began walking towards the exit, Harold leaning on John for support. John noted his worsened limp. "There are other people that need your help."
No, John thought.
"Well, you saved my life once or twice Harold," he said instead. "Seemed only fair I return the favor."
They didn't stop moving until they'd reached the car John had 'borrowed'. Harold was flagging already, setting off alarm bells in John's head.
"Finch?" He steadied Harold against the passenger side.
Harold took a breath. "Sedative," he said. "To make me more amenable for our journey." He raised his eyebrows, an attempt at wry humor.
John nodded. Just a sedative. He scanned Harold again, looking for anything out of place. A missing cufflink - currently resting in John's pocket - and the bandaged hand. John decided to ask about that later. He was all there, all in one piece. Safe.
He raised his eyes and realized Harold was studying him as well. No doubt the two hours of sleep over the last 48 were visible on his face. No matter. Harold was safe. He repeated it over and over in his mind, a calming mantra. He's safe. Harold is safe. John realized he was gripping Harold's sleeve tightly, feeling the rough fabric under his fingers; evidence that his mind wasn't playing tricks on him, that Harold really was here, in front of him, furrowed eyebrows and all. He had leaned forward at some point, closing the gap, and he thought he could stay in this moment forever, drinking in Harold's presence, steadying himself with it. God, he could kiss him-
John started, immediately straightening up, shaking himself out of it. "Let's go," he said, opening the door and offering an arm to Finch, who took it gratefully as he lowered himself in.
He needed to get himself under control.
Once he was sure Harold was secure, he shut the door and walked around to the driver's side.
He...he was just glad Harold was back.
John slid into the driver's seat and started the car.
That's all there was to it. Simple relief. A natural reaction of adrenaline and hormones.
As Harold dozed off in the passenger seat, John fought himself to not steal glances at his sleeping form. He was losing.
It didn't mean anything. He was just reassuring himself that Harold was still there.
Safe.
-----
This wasn't part of the plan. But, John mused, as he stood atop a 21-story commercial building with about a minute to go before the numerous pounds of semtex strapped to his body would make him a smudge on the pavement, he looked at Harold and realized there was no one else he'd rather be with.
Imminent death can make your brain do some strange things.
Harold looked up from his phone, drawn by his gaze. "What?"
"Something you said once," John rasped. "About how sooner or later we'd probably both end up dead."
Harold squinted at the screens, speaking quickly. "I'd prefer later. After all, I'm the one that got you into this in the first place."
John smiled. He glanced upwards, suddenly finding it hard to look at Harold, instead taking in the stars for a moment. Possibly for the last time. "I'm pretty sure I'd be dead already if you hadn't found me."
"It's hard to say," Harold shrugged off.
John forced himself to look Harold dead in the eyes. "Not really."
Harold stopped, looked up at him. For once, John let his walls come down all the way, letting Harold see everything on his face. Gratitude, broken pieces being knitted back together, how much Harold had really saved him. Possibly, even, though buried deep, a glimmer of longing. John swallowed, his smile fading.
"Pick a winner, Harold."
The next thirty seconds seemed to last forever. Harold looked between the phone in his hand and the one strapped to John's chest, willing himself to choose the correct number. He punched in three digits, then hesitated. Backspaced. Finally, he settled on another. His hands shook. John tensed as Harold pushed the final digit.
There was a beep, and Harold paused for a moment before pushing another button. Then he exhaled, relaxing. Disarmed, John realized, and he noted he'd also been holding his breath. He let it out.
They made it. Harold was alive, he was alive. They both breathed heavily, relieved, staring at each other.
Then John registered how close they were. He could feel Harold's breath near his face. Only another small movement, a bend down, and John could have that breath flow through him, feel the life still beating in Harold's beautiful, wonderful form. This man that would go to any lengths for him. His rational brain, far off, quiet, told him to wait, hold on, there were things to consider first. He smothered it, preparing to lean in.
The ground shook, a massive explosion going off below, smoke and fire leaping up from the street. Harold turned towards it sharply, limping away from John to get a closer look. John closed his eyes, exhaled.
The window had passed.
"Guess Snow retired after all," he said, keeping his voice light. Harold turned back, meeting his eyes.
"We'd best get moving." Harold gestured to the stairs.
-----
"We have free will," Finch was saying, making his case. "And with that comes great responsibility...and sometimes great loss."
He knew this was coming. The real reason he'd been fighting with The Machine, with Harold. He looked away, struggling to hold Harold's gaze.
Finch's voice wavered as he added, "I miss her dearly too."
Why was it that Finch, of all people, was able to chip at his walls? John felt the grief he'd been running from for the last week seep in through the cracks - no, seep out might be a better descriptor. He realized his eyes were wet.
Carter.
He found himself absent-mindedly rubbing his hand across his mouth. He wasn't even sure of the nature of it, he realized, but he had loved her in some way, however complicated. He clutched at the memory, willing this piece of his best friend to remain with him forever, a ghost on his lips.
Looking anywhere but at Finch, he blinked a few tears away, clearing his throat as he adjusted his seat. Finally, he choked out, "When are you leaving?"
"Soon." Finch looked down, thumbing at a flyer. "I thought I would go see this exhibit at the Giorgio de Chirico House Museum." He paused, hesitating. "An artist that Grace was very fond of."
The statement hung in the air for a moment, a reminder. They had both lost people. John looked down at the papers on the table and then up at Harold, feeling a strange twinge.
Harold inhaled, looked up at him. "You're welcome to join me."
John shifted in his chair, taking in their surroundings, looking everywhere but at Finch. He was never good at being direct. Not with his emotions, anyways.
"I'm not sure I can, Finch."
Harold nodded in resignation, and that twinge deepened. John hated seeing him so downcast. He leaned forward.
"While I'm in Italy I thought I would get fitted for a new suit."
It took Harold a moment to absorb the words. Then he looked up at John, shocked, processing. After a moment, he opened his mouth, but it took a few more moments for any sound to come out. Finally, "Oh. Of course." The smile crept back onto his features as he continued, "We, we should call my atelier in the Via Palestro, see if Giani could fit you in after lunch - he's the best."
"I thought," John added, sheepish, "maybe I could...hitch a ride back with you? I'm...not quite ready to fly commercial yet, so..."
For a brief moment, Harold let the brightest smile spread on his face. John felt like he was staring into the sun, forgot how to breathe. Then Harold's face returned to normal, neutral but warm, and John exhaled, forcing the rest of his sentence out.
"But I need to get back to work."
He let the apology show on his face, the one he couldn't quite put into words. He hoped it was enough. He'd understand if Harold wouldn't take him back, after all that-
"Certainly, Mr. Reese." Harold's reply was almost immediate. Where John thought he would feel relief, something tightened instead, a tug at his heart, maybe. Unnoticing, Harold raised his eyebrows. "I know the pilot. I think we could delay that flight." And then he let that smile show again, just for a moment, brighter this time - and oh, John was in trouble. He wished he wasn't such a coward, wished he could grab Harold's hand and kiss it, pull him down and kiss him, whisper his apologies and endless gratitude into his mouth.
They stood up, John remembering how to breathe again. He let Harold lead the way. It was almost distracting how absolutely glowing the shorter man beside him was.
It wouldn't be fair to kiss him. Finch still loved Grace, for one.
But as he fussed over John's fitting, and even later as he rattled off artist's trivia while they walked around that museum, John let the warmth of the man next to him seep into the cracks and fill the ache in his heart. Even as just friends, John was incredibly grateful for the love Harold was willing to show him. If this was all he would get? It was enough.
-----
He'd made it, but only just. The Decima henchman managed to get his own shot out as Reese's made its mark, throwing his bullet shy of Harold's head and into his shoulder instead. Reese gritted his teeth, getting in-between Harold and the rest of Decima as quickly as possible, firing off round after round. He heard snarling, tearing noises, cries of pain - Bear doing some of his best work. He gestured for Harold to follow, shielding him from Decima's barrage while firing back his own.
They made their way down the fire escape, Harold clutching his shoulder, John providing cover fire, Bear taking out anyone who got too close. Their feet hit the pavement and they slipped away, Bear automatically finding the quickest path to the library. Nobody followed them.
It was almost too easy. John's stomach did flips as he glanced in every direction, unable to spot a threat.
"Samaritan," Harold wheezed, reading his expression. "They're expecting to bring it online, find us that way."
John nodded, tightening his grip on Harold's forearm as he matched his pace. "Hopefully Root and Shaw were successful."
"Doing what?" Harold raised an eyebrow.
"You first," John grunted. "What the hell happened back there, Finch?"
They had caught each other up by the time they stepped into the library. John gripped Harold's good shoulder, forcing him to sit before rushing for the medical kit. Usually this was used on him, a thought that brought a twinge of guilt. He quashed it before it could bubble up.
Hurrying back, he thrust painkillers and a bottle of water into Harold's hands. "Take these." Harold nodded, unscrewing the pill cap with some effort. He'd already taken off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt.
John's mouth hardened, forcing his eyes to fixate on the wound as he pulled on nitrile gloves, and forcing his mind not to think about how he'd never seen Harold's shirt unbuttoned. It got easier as he examined the wound, worry creasing his face as his training took over his movements.
It took a bit of work to dislodge the bullet. Luckily it hadn't hit any major arteries, but he had to fish a couple of pieces out of there. Damn hollow points. Occasionally Harold would hiss as he pulled at the tissue, and Reese would vow for the hundredth time to kill Greer's lackey.
"Last one," Reese said, and Harold sighed as the piece landed in the nearby dish with a soft *clink*.
Reese grabbed a bottle of disinfectant, upending it into some sterile gauze. "This is gonna sting." Harold inhaled sharply as he placed it on the wound, and John forced his body to not wince in sympathy.
Wrapping it up didn't take long after that. Reese nodded at his own handiwork as Harold buttoned his shirt.
"That's good enough for now. Have Shaw take a look at it when she gets back." Harold leaned forward as Reese slipped a fresh blazer over his shoulders. "First time's the worst, huh?"
"Why would you ever choose a career where this was an occupational hazard," Harold frowned.
"Well," Reese mused, "I tried to quit, but some jackass told me I needed a purpose." He raised his eyebrow. Harold looked at him incredulously, and John smirked.
A rising chime indicated the arrival of what at that point was the worst phone call of their life. Root's voice rang out from the speaker.
"Get out of the library, now."
Five minutes later, carrying all the arsenal he could hide on his person, John walked up to Harold. He was still typing at the computer; John put a hand on Harold's good shoulder, and Harold exhaled, hesitating only a fraction of a second before hitting the enter key with grim finality. John glanced at the text loading on the screen.
># system secure - system erase complete
># Good Night
The screen dimmed, turned black. Harold stood, grabbing his papers. John slung the bag he'd filled over his shoulder.
Bear was waiting by the stairs, leash in his mouth. John knelt and attached it as Harold closed the gate for what would be the last time.
John was halfway down the stairs before he realized there weren't footsteps following him. He stopped, turning to see Harold staring into the library. He swallowed hard.
"Harold?"
Bear nudged his hand, and Harold started, scratching Bear under the chin before grabbing his leash and letting Bear lead him down the stairs.
The three of them reached the landing, pausing for a moment, hesitant to step over this new threshold. John turned to Harold, looking him over. The thought that he might not even see Harold again flashed through his mind. He steeled his resolve.
"Harold, I..." he rasped.
Harold looked up at him. "We don't have time, John," he said, gentle yet firm. "We need to disappear."
John swallowed.
"Okay."
Harold gripped his hand for a moment before dropping it, stepping outside.
They crossed the street quickly, having left through one of the less-obvious entrances. As they continued down the block, John noted the sirens behind him, the screech of cars as they surrounded the building, the pounding of footsteps. He kept his gaze forward.
As they passed by a pedestrian square, they spared a quick glance at each other before separating, Harold going right with Bear, John continuing forward. A few steps down, and John, unable to help himself, turned to look back for another moment. His eyes met with Harold's. He swallowed, and they both turned away again.
He walked alone, and upon reaching the next corner glanced up at a nearby street camera almost reflexively. He noted, in the distant corners of his mind, that his lips felt cold and absent, and his face a bit wetter than expected.