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"You need to take a break, Finch," John says late one evening as he bandages some small cuts on his hands (damned chain link fences and climbing over them) and watches the way Finch keeps adjusting, oh-so-slightly in his chair in a way that tells John he's clearly feeling some pain.
"I assure you I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch replies, and his typing speeds up as though he's proving a point.
"I am aware you have the world's most ergonomic chair, but hours on end with a bad hip and a fused spine is bad no matter," John says. He sees the way Harold doesn't quite flinch. His elbow shifts a tiny bit, but that's it. Harold hasn't told him about the injury, but John knows scars.
"I'm fine," Finch says, and the fact that he doesn't deny it or brush it off tells John he's absolutely right.
"The guys I know who had it done," John says as he places the last bandage, "they got hit with shrapnel."
Harold doesn't reply. John hadn't expected him, too. Harold's a king at avoiding leading statements. John appreciates that. John looks up from inspecting his hands, and he stares at the thin white scar on the back of Harold's neck. He stands and walks up behind Harold, not touching, but very close.
"Do you have a heating pad?" John asks. "Or would an ice pack be better?"
Harold types deliberately, keyboard clacking loudly in the quiet between them. He's considering if he'll let John have this sliver of information, John knows.
"There are microwavable heating pads in the bottom drawer of this desk," Harold says. He doesn't claim them as his, John notices, but he does add, "Three would be appreciated."
John opens the bottom desk drawer. Bear, who's been resting quietly, perks up in hope of treats. There are a small pile of heating pads, a bag of dog treats, and a bottle of pills. He wants to read what's on the label, see exactly what Harold takes when the pain is too much, find out if the way his voice lilts is natural or if it's a side effect of the drugs making him just a tiny bit loopy.
He takes out three heating pads and tosses a treat to Bear, who catches it mid-air and lays his head back on his paws. John heats the pads. He brings them back to Harold. Harold has removed his vest and undone his tie and opened the first few buttons of his shirt. He's rubbing something sharp-smelling into the side of his neck. It comes from a tube with no label, and John can't help but smile.
"Afraid I'll find out you prefer Icy/Hot over Bengay?"
"Given what you're capable of doing with the smallest hints, it seems prudent," Harold replies, and there's a smile on the edges of his own mouth.
"I like your hints," John says as he holds out the heating pads. Harold tucks one against his hip. The second he places in front of his keyboard where his wrists usually rest. The third he places on his neck, taking a moment to settle it just so. He doesn't sigh with relief or anything so obvious, but John watches the way his whole face softens."Better?"
"Yes."
Harold turns back to his computer, and John walks away, meandering through the stacks and pulling out books that look interesting. Sometimes he chooses books he thinks Harold may have read, reads them where Harold can see him and hopes Harold talks about whether he liked them or not. So far, he's ready twenty-six books he thinks Harold has read, and Harold has informed him of his opinions on three.
Tonight, though, John wants to read something for the sake of reading something, and he arrives back at the couch with a biography of Helen Thomas, a book about home canning, and a collection of poems. When he lays on the couch, Bear walks over and jumps up next to him, curling up by his knees. John scratches him behind the ears and opens the book of poems, flipping through and reading first lines, only stopping when the first line hits him in the gut hard enough he wants to see what follows it. Harold types away, silent, and the keyboard mixes with the hum of the computers and Bear's breathing into a white noise John is finding more and more pleasant as their partnership goes on.
He's pulled from the quiet peace when Harold shifts, and his chair squeaks. John glances up from his book, and Bear's raised his head again. Harold is piling the heating pads off to one side, rubbing lightly at his neck and clearly testing the pain in his hip. John's whole body itches to help, and he puts down his book and stands and walks towards Harold with deliberate slowness, so Harold can see him coming and decide what to do.
"Mr. Reese--"
"I want to rub your neck, Harold," John says because if he makes it a request, Harold will turn him down. But if he states it, maybe Harold will allow it.
Harold looks at him, weighing every option, John is certain. Is this a friendly bit of assistance? Is it John feeling he should be helping? Is it, perhaps, something...else? John meets his eyes, keeps himself loose and relaxed, let's Harold see whatever Harold wants to see.
"Why?" he asks finally. It's quiet, curious, a little flat.
"Because you're in pain," John says.
"And you want to help."
"Yes."
Harold watches him some more. John watches back. Harold shifts in his chair again, and he doesn't hold back the grimace. "Massages tend to make me more tense," he says.
John's not surprised to hear that. Massages require vulnerability, allowing someone else access to where you ache to make it work.
"But," Harold continues before John can say that it's all right and leave it alone, "Perhaps something else."
John doesn't ask what it is. He watches Harold stand, and he holds out Harold's vest so Harold can slip into it without having to move much. When Harold begins to do up the buttons, his fingers slip, and John steps around him. "I could--" He cuts himself off when Harold turns to him, hands at his sides, giving John a nod of permission.
John does up the buttons, working from the bottom up, He pauses just before the top one, and says, "You have full motor control over your hand, but it fatigues if you've been doing a lot of fine motor work."
"I was creating a new motherboard," Harold says, and John can picture it, Harold placing circuits and wires for hours, losing himself in his work, coming back to himself and finding that his left hand has lost its function and the rest of himself knotted up badly.
"It's recent," John says as he buttons the last button, chances spanning his hands across Harold's ribs. "Your injuries."
"Relatively speaking, yes," Harold agrees. He leans into John's hands just an inch or so, just enough that John feels the fabric slide across his palms.
"Harold?"
"Yes?"
"I'd like to kiss you."
"No." Harold doesn't move away.
"If I ask again later, will the answer be different?" John asks.
"Perhaps," Harold says. "Get Bear's leash, will you?"
"Voruit?" John asks Bear, and Bear jumps off the couch and sits in front of John's feet while John clips his leash onto his collar.
*
Harold leads the way out of the library, John half a step behind with his right hand holding Bear's leash, and his left hand in his pocket so he doesn't reach out and touch the small of Harold's back or run his fingers up Harold's spine. "I can feel you trying not to invade my space," Harold says, amused and dry as he and John and Bear step onto the sidewalk.
"Do you mind?" John asks.
"You wouldn't be coming with me if I minded, John."
Hearing Harold say his name, John has to clench his hands. "I want to kiss you," he says.
"No," Harold replies. He presses a few buttons on his phone, and a black town car comes rolling to a stop at the curb. John opens the door. Bear jumps in without hesitation, but Harold pauses as he steps in, touches his fingertips to the side of John's neck. "I don't want to be in this kind of pain the first time I kiss you," he says.
"Okay," John says. He steps into the car after Harold, shuts the door, and makes sure Bear is lying down on the floor before he nods at Harold to give the driver the go-ahead through the speaker. He puts on his seatbelt and stays by his door, and he feels like his whole body uncurls when Harold reaches across the seat and places his hand over John's.
They ride that way through the city, then out to the suburbs to an overlarge house in a gated community of overlarge houses. "Bit gauche," John says.
"It is entirely gauche," Harold replies, clearly displeased to even be in the presence of such a thing as tacky tract housing. "But I am a well-off insurance adjuster who feels the city can be unsafe, and it's so much nicer in these little communities."
"Burglary numbers in gated communities are noticeably higher than in non-gated communities of the same income level," John says as he opens the door and steps out. Harold doesn't keep hold of his hand as he goes, but he gives John an exasperated smile and says, "Really, John, why do you think I got the dog?" as he leads the way up the walk.
The inside of the house is exactly as tacky as outside. "Did you just throw darts at a Pier 1 catalog?" John asks as Harold hangs up his keys. He unhooks Bear's leash and watches the way Bear sniffs around. It's cursory, and then Bear curls up next to the couch, and John knows he's been here before.
"Don't be foolish," Harold says, allowing John to help him remove his coat. "The kitchen is from Ikea."
"Of course," John replies. Harold winces when his coat is off. "What are we doing?" John asks.
"We're going to the basement," Harold says.
John hangs up Harold's coat and his own and follows Harold to the basement. Bear follows to the top of the stairs and curls up there again. "Bewaken," John says. The basement is fully finished, tiled in a questionable pattern John thinks might be knock-off Moroccan, and near the far wall, there's an in-ground pool, seven feet long, only four feet across, with a water spigot on one end--the kind of pool a vain insurance adjuster might have in his basement so he can swim fake laps against a current.
"Did you buy it off an infomercial?" John asks.
Harold chuckles but says nothing. He's concentrating on unknotting his tie one-handed. He's bad at it, John sees. Probably because he prefers to keep his clothes in good standing and isn't the type to just yank at a tie.
"I could help," John offers. Harold pauses, right hand still on his tie. He gives John a considering look. John feels it all the way into the marrow of his bones. He wonders, sometimes, what Harold sees when he looks at him.
"Everything needs to be removed," Harold says and drops his hand, giving John permission with his stance.
"Tell me if I hurt you," John says, and he steps forward. He leaves the tie to start. Lifts Harold's left arm instead and cradles his wrist as he undoes the cuff buttons.He runs his thumb along the inside of Harold's wrist, and when Harold doesn't pull away, John leans down and kisses him between his tendons.
"John," Harold says, a little breathy.
"You're not kissing me," John says. "I'm kissing you." He looks at Harold's face as he lowers Harold's left arm and lifts his right. Harold is smiling, soft and warm, looking equal parts fond and exasperated. John takes it as a good sign, unbuttons Harold's right cuff, and places a kiss between the tendons of that wrist, too.
He undoes Harold's vest and carefully pulls it over Harold's shoulders, jostling him as little as possible. He folds the vest and puts it on a bench next to the pool, then he comes back and starts on Harold's belt, then his tie, then his shirt, then his shoes, then his slacks. Harold is down to his socks (dark gray), his boxers (dark blue), and his undershirt (cream colored, not stark white).
John places his hand on Harold's right side, feels the fine weave of his undershirt with his thumb. "You said all the way," he says to warn Harold he'll be stripping him fully naked.
"I remember what I said," Harold says, and he reaches out his right hand, curls two fingers just under John's waistband. "And then you," he says.
"And then?" John asks as he slides both hands under Harold's undershirt. Harold's skin is warm against his palms. Harold doesn't look away when John pauses, hands high up on Harold's chest.
"We'll see," Harold says.
John gets Harold's undershirt off, then his boxers, then his socks. He looks Harold over as he strips himself down, and he sees a surgical scar on his left leg surrounded by white flecks of small, jagged scars. "It was shrapnel," he says.
"Yes," Harold agrees. He limps to the pool and sits stiffly, putting his feet in the water before sliding in his whole body. John follows, slipping in next to him and watching as Harold floats, arms and legs open slightly, pain still evident on his face and the way he's not quite relaxing.
"What do I do?" John asks as he circles around so Harold can see him without having to move.
"If you could support my weight, it would help," Harold says. "Two inches lower than the middle of my back, and your other arm under my thighs would be ideal."
His pain is partially gravity based, John thinks. Floating in water takes the pressure off and lets him hurt less. John holding him will help even more. John positions himself, waits for Harold to give him a smile of encouragement, and then he lifts just a little, letting the water take most of Harold's weight and his arms take the rest.
Harold closes his eyes, and after a few seconds, he sighs, deep and relaxed, and John feels him go slack against his arms, and everything he's feeling for Harold, everything that's built up since Harold found him and gave him purpose and gave him work, it all reaches the absolute top, and it runs over.
"Harold?"
"Yes, John?"
"I'm in love with you."
"Hmm," Harold says, and his eyes are open, and he's looking at John, and John moves backwards slowly, hauling Harold with him until they're at the edge of the pool, and John is pressed against the tiles, Harold bumping against him a little, and John lets his knees relax, lets himself sink a little under Harold's weight, and Harold smiles and reaches up a hand and touches John's shoulder, and it feels like home.
*
They stay in the water and don't say a word for nearly an hour. Harold watches John the whole time, and John watches back, occasionally breaking eye contact to check the perimeter.
"I do have a state-of-the-art, self-designed alarm system, John," Harold says when John sweeps the third time. "And Bear." From the top of the stairs, Bear lets out a small whoof of curiosity and settles again.
"And you've got me," John replies. He shifts when Harold rolls to the side and floats away. "Better?"
"Much," Harold says, and he stands up, waist-deep in the water, and moves his body in the careful, controlled way of someone checking an injury.
John watches him move, sees in the way he very carefully stretches his back, the Harold who existed before whatever caused his injuries. Not a superior athlete, John thinks, but someone who knew his body well enough, knew how to move in it and was confident with it. He steps over to Harold. Before he can reach out, Harold reaches for him, fingers sliding down the outside edge of his abs, tracing the top of his hipbone.
"You're a painting come to life," Harold says. "A king's warrior stepping out of the canvas."
"My liege," John murmurs, and he ducks in close, tucks his nose under Harold's right ear. "Harold, will you kiss me?"
"Not just yet," Harold says. John presses his lips to Harold's shoulder and Harold chuckles close to his ear. "A shower first, I was thinking."
"Okay."
Harold leads the way back up the stairs and to the bathroom. "Blijf," he says as they pass Bear at the basement door. The shower has two heads set to massage and a handicapped bar. Harold grips the bar with his right hand and shifts his weight to relieve pressure on his left side when they both step under the spray.
"No," John says as he uncurls Harold's fingers from the bar. "Lean back," he says. "I've got you."
"John--" Harold starts to argue, but he stops when John winds their fingers together and shifts his weight to accommodate what Harold needs. "Good?" he asks.
"I can stand on my own," Harold replies.
"But do you want to?" John asks. Harold doesn't answer, but he also doesn't pull away. John mouths his shoulder and his upper back and closes his eyes when he tucks in to kiss at the nape of Harold's neck, an inch to the right of his scar.
"I feel we've fallen into an extended metaphor," Harold says when John shifts to kiss the other side of his neck.
"Hmm?" John hums as he noses at Harold's left ear.
"You holding me up," Harold explains.
"Harold," John says, moving around Harold so he blocks the spray of water on Harold's front. "You say things like that, I'm going to kiss you."
"In bed," Harold replies, his eyes soft, his voice softer, the touch he lays on John's elbows softer than that. "If you can hold yourself together a few more minutes."
John's tempted to say he can't. He's tempted to lean down and kiss Harold and keep kissing him until Harold is pliant and relaxed against him, smiling against John's mouth and returning every kiss with enthusiasm.
But Harold needs to be certain John will respect his boundaries, and so John nods and holds himself still when Harold reaches around him and turns off the water, the front of him pressed warm and close to John's chest.
"You're teasing me," John murmurs into Harold's ear.
"A bit," Harold replies. "Consider it payback for the number of times you've absolutely had to change your shirt in front of me."
"Consider that payback for you absolutely needing to hem my suits," John replies. "On your knees. Measuring my inseam."
"Did you think about it, John?" Harold asks, voice hot, the lilt dropping to a rough edge on his words.
"Yes."
"Did you like thinking about it?"
"Yes."
Harold licks his lips. "I liked thinking about it, too."
"Harold, either you step out of this shower, or I'm going to blow you right here."
Harold steps out of the shower. John groans as he follows, misses Harold's toss and takes a towel straight to the face.
"I'm not so easy," Harold says. And he's teasing, but there's truth there, letting John know he'll be working for every flirt, every tease. John thinks he's never had a better job in his life.
"Come on, Harold," John says, rubbing himself dry and throwing the towel into the hamper in the corner. "Let's put you to bed."
*
Harold's bed is massive, a California King piled high with pillows and a duvet, everything done in dark green and burnished gold and black. Harold settles himself under the covers, naked except for his glasses. John crawls in on the other side, scoots over until they're pressed up against each other on one side of the bed. Harold lays down and looks up at John as John hovers over him, one arm sliding around Harold's ribcage, the other resting near his head.
"Okay?" John asks.
"Yes," Harold says. He cocks his head, and he smiles, and then the smile is gone, and he looks very serious.
"Harold?" John asks.
"Before..." Harold shakes his head a tiny bit. He stares at John for a long moment. "There are things you need to know," he says. "Before anything else happens."
"You were at the hospital that night," John says, and Harold's eyes widen in surprise. John raises the hand by Harold's head and traces his eyebrow. "You hit me with your wheelchair."
"Yes," Harold says.
"Was it intentional?"
"No." Harold glances at his left side. "I still wasn't fully comfortable working with the limits of my left hand, and it gave out on me a little."
"You were trying to stop me," John says.
"Yes," Harold agrees. He reaches up and runs his fingers through John's hair, does it again when John smiles and leans in closer. "All I knew then was what your files said."
"You thought I was going to kill him."
Harold nods. "And then you didn't," he says, and he curls his hand around John's neck, pulls him down closer so their noses are bumping. "You sent him to that prison instead, and that's when I knew, John. That's when I chose you as my knight."
They kiss, Harold tipping his chin up to invite John to instigate. John kisses him carefully, pressing down just enough that Harold relaxes back into the pillow and doesn't put strain on his neck. Harold's mouth is soft, and he strokes John's hair as they kiss, murmuring approval when John shifts so he's draped over Harold's right side, arm curled protectively around Harold's head.
"John" Harold breathes against his mouth. John pulls away to look at him and smiles when Harold makes sure he stays close by wrapping an arm around his bicep. "I'm sorry," he says. "About Jessica. That I couldn't save her."
John waits to feel angry or indignant. Waits for the swell of how dare you to build in his belly, but it's not there. The sadness is there, the anger at his own inability, but to be angry at Harold for that? When Harold's given him purpose and a mission, and this here in his bed? "I still miss her," John says, "but Harold you've--you've given me back everything you possibly can. I..." the words get caught in his throat, but John pushes them out. Harold's given him so much tonight, and John is determined to reciprocate. "I lost her that day at the airport," he says. "When I couldn't ask her to wait. I never deserved to be with her in the first place."
"You did," Harold says. "She chose you, and she wanted to keep you, John. Don't devalue that."
John knows without asking that Harold is thinking of Grace. He traces Harold's eyebrow with his thumb and asks, "Why don't you tell Grace the truth? We could protect her."
"We could," Harold agrees, "but I won't make her second in my life, and the numbers--you--all of it, it comes first." There's no sadness in his face, no disappointment, just the determination of a man who has made his decision and knows it's the one he has to stand by. "I considered it," he says, "when I first brought you in, but then you..." Harold shakes his head and tightens his grip on John's bicep. "Grace would respect what we do," he says, "but there's too much romance in her soul for her to understand why it sometimes has to be what it is."
Why it sometimes has to be violent and messy, John thinks. Why sometimes they must save terrible people. "We could do it differently," he offers.
"That's a lie," Harold replies. He pulls on John's arm until John is leaning in close enough that they're breathing into each others' mouths. "If I wanted to do it differently, John, I would. I want to do it with you. I want to do it right."
"Now who's throwing around metaphors?" John asks, and Harold smiles when John kisses him.
They kiss, and they kiss, and they kiss, lazy and warm in Harold's bed. John pulls away finally, just far enough so he can slide down and kiss across Harold's collarbone. "I want to see where you really live," John says into the hollow.
"Right this second?" Harold asks, and he chuckles when John bites lightly at his shoulder. The chuckle turns into an indrawn breath when John dives down and kisses low on Harold's belly. "John, I--the medications I'm on--"
"It's okay, Harold," John says. He kisses the spot again, then moves up, kissing Harold under the ribs, then down again to kiss him on his hip. He kisses Harold's thighs, and his kneecaps, and his wrists and his elbows and the top of his feet, and Harold's dick stays soft against his leg, even when John brushes his mouth against it once, then twice, then three times.
"John," Harold says, and his voice is wavery, right hand clenched around John's shoulder, tugging him upwards until John is draped over him, arms on either side of Harold's head, his erection pressed tight against Harold's stomach. Harold reaches down and grips John's erection and slides his left hand into John's hair. "Move for me," Harold says.
John does, forearms braced on either side of Harold's head, Harold's grip tight and warm around his dick, his thumb circling the head every few strokes. John presses his forehead into Harold's right shoulder, pants against his skin, bites down just a little as he starts to crest.
"Come on, John," Harold says, and John speeds up, thrusts harder, moans when Harold's grip gets deliciously tighter. "I want to see you like this," Harold says, panting against John's ear as John picks up speed. "I want you to come apart for me."
"But you're not--"
"I'm exactly where I want to be," Harold says, and his grip loosens only to tighten again as he cards his other hand through John's hair and tugs, making John bare his throat. John drops down so Harold can kiss his Adam's apple, then his collarbone, then under his chin.
"I'm--" is as far as John gets before he comes, just managing to move his head so he doesn't crack Harold in the mouth as he drops down. Harold nuzzles into the side of his neck, his right hand stroking John through the aftershocks, his left now loose and cupping the back of John's head. Against John's thigh, Harold is still soft. "I wanted to win you over," John says, nudging at Harold's lax dick and smiling into Harold's shoulder.
"Another time," Harold replies, and it sounds like a promise. "You've already taken care of me plenty tonight."
John rolls to the side, left arm slung around Harold. He looks at Harold close-up, and Harold looks back as he always has: clear-eyed and unflinching. "I wouldn't be here without you," John says.
"Nor would I," Harold replies, and he kisses John, slow and warm and sweet, and John kisses him back just the same.
When they part, Harold's eyes stay half-lidded, and John traces the shape of him from his neck to his shoulder to his waist to his hip. "Do you need anything?" he asks. "Another dose of something?"
"No, I'm quite all right." Harold blinks slowly. His eyes are at quarter-mast when he opens them again. "Hier," he calls out, mostly asleep, and John listens to Bear come down the hallway.
"Where do you live?" John asks, smiling when Harold still manages to give him a withering look through his half-sleep state. The withering look gets aimed at Bear when Bear takes a flying leap onto the bed and settles at the foot without waiting for an invitation.
Harold looks back at John, and he smiles, sleepy and clearly content. "I live where you are," he says, and John can't even joke about metaphors because something uncurls inside of him, and all he can do is hold Harold carefully tight as they drift off to sleep.