Work Text:
The goons this week's Number hired left right after announcing on the speaker that the contents of the metal box Finch and Reese are locked in would be incinerated in 10 minutes, and the warehouse itself blown to bits in under 30.
“I just heard,” Root’s voice sounds in their ears, tight, apologetic. John knows this tone immediately, “we’re 30 minutes out, we’re on a motorcycle, and Shaw is already breaking the speed limit, but…”
“I’m heading your way,” Carter jumps in. “Just leaving the 8th, text me the address, Root.”
“I’m on the perp at the other side of the city,” Fusco reports. “Hang tight.”
So, this is it, John thinks, and he sends a mental pat to Bear’s head, who they thankfully left back at the Library. That is everybody – even if the Machine texts the closest human outside and offers them a substantial reward to go in and try to turn the thing off, they wouldn’t get there in time, as they are in an abandoned garbage incinerator outside of the city.
Their luck has finally run out, and it is a bit anticlimactic, compared to their earlier adventures with plenty more shooting. John isn’t even bleeding this time, he is barely even winded, and that is from trying to kick their metal prison into releasing them (he already tried all the sides by touch and sight too in the dim light, and there is no other way out, the walls too high to even assist Harold over), right before the team called to check in. The workers took their phones off them, but forgot about the ear-pieces, which means now the team can listen to their last minutes and then their gruesome deaths. John doesn’t think so.
“Take care, friends,” he says, then turns the connection off with a tap.
Finch looks at him for the first time since Reese stopped kicking at their impenetrable final resting place. His expression is dismayed, but something on John’s face must change his mind, because he nods once, tightly.
“Thank you for your assistance, detectives, Miss Shaw, Root. I’m grateful to you all.” He takes the earpiece out and lets it fall from his hand. He doesn’t look away from John.
John smiles at him, internal clock calculating – they must have at least another five minutes, likely a little more. He could thank Harold for everything too, he could confess how much he’d come to mean to him, he could pull him close for their first and last kisses.
Except… if Harold doesn’t feel the same, that would make this a terrible last few minutes of his life to him, trying to gently let down a work friend. Awkward and embarrassing, and that’s the last thing he wants to put Finch through, when Finch gave him so much.
But nothing is wrong with fantasising a little, right?
Instead of painful refusal scenarios, of all the things that could go wrong, he finally lets himself think of something more affirming – Finch not saying no, but being his own personal brand of weird about it. Like trying to ask John why, between kisses. Or kissing him like he’s never heard of the concept before, breathy and twitchy and brushing him with his nose, licking at his teeth. Or thinking this a last ditch effort from Reese at finding out something personal about him, and telling him this action is non-representative of his actual sexuality, but that he appreciates John’s commitment to the bit.
“Why are you smiling like that, Mr Reese?” Finch, back in the real world, demands, and John blinks at him to see Harold rake through his own hair frantically, standing much closer to him now. “Why are you this calm?”
“It’s not the worst place to die,” Reese tells him, drinking down his dear figure with his eyes. Harold really is the bee's knees, isn’t he? So sad that John never really got to touch his stomach for more than fleeting moments. “And the company’s excellent.”
“How can you be so relaxed?” Finch complains, throwing his hands in the air. “We’re going to die!”
Perhaps it is warranted, to reach for his hands, to hold him close, John muses. It’s only for comfort, not out of inappropriate desires. Maybe now he could get away with it, for a few minutes before they’re burned to death.
“I told you before,” he says, and just like at the rooftop with the bomb, he doesn’t hold back the love shining from his eyes and voice. “I was already dead before you found me, this was just the lovely encore.”
Finch shoots him a look that’s pure annoyance mixed in with disappointment, and stops to stare at him, wide eyed, for an additional few seconds when John steps closer and takes his hand.
And then in a flurry of motions, like a group of birds disturbed and taking frantic flight, Harold is pulling at his neck with his other hand, pushing against him with his whole body, kissing him, groaning into his mouth.
It is so sudden and overwhelming that it takes longer than Reese would like to curl his own arm around Harold, to keep them steady despite his whole body’s attempt to evaporate through his flaming cheeks. Harold is trying to devour him with his lips alone, and the noises he’s making are on a direct train line traveling down to John’s dick. They definitely don’t have time left for quick orgasms, but damn him if Reese will not squeeze as many kisses into their last minutes as humanly possible, and since he’s great at multitasking, he can press his right hand under Finch’s suit, feel his tailored clothing soft, warm, the skin sweaty under his fingers, and Harold is gasping into their kiss —
“SURPRISE!” Shaw shouts. The side to their metal cage springs up the very next second, letting in blinding light and making them jump apart. Not far enough, John still got Harold’s lapel between his fingers, ready to haul him out of harm's way behind his back, if necessary.
But there’s no danger. Only three women grinning at them from a few steps away.
“We stopped the perpetrators, got here and disabled this beauty, all in under seven minutes,” Root boasts.
“You can come out now, gentlemen,” Carter adds, and shoots a look at Shaw who sniggers at her word choice. “You’re safe.”
Stepping out of the cage behind Harold feels like being resurrected. Like he was given new life with this rescue, with new air from Harold’s lungs. John, quietly, lets the universe rearrange around him, and he knows with absolute certainty that whatever happens now he’ll be sustained for a while, because now he knows how Harold Finch tastes and kisses and clutches at him, and nobody on Earth can take that away from him, not even Shaw who’s making crude gestures at John behind Carter’s back.
He even catches Root giving Finch a wink before putting her helmet back on, and he tries not to grin.
Carter gives them a ride to the Library, bringing news of Fusco’s arrest going down without complications. She glances at them in the mirror, tries to communicate something to John with little head nods and looks, but it’s not like John will say or do anything to Harold in her presence, as much as they both like and trust her. She’s gotten way too chummy recently with the other women, comparing guns and giggling about who knows what. John’s equally weary and happy about it, but it makes him question if he’s still Joss’ only confidant.
Once he and Harold are alone again and both lean down to pay the dog pet tax and Bear is happily trotting back to his place, Finch smoothes down his vest, taking a deep breath.
“I lost control for a second there,” he says in his typical matter of fact tone. “I’d appreciate it if we’d never mentioned it again.”
It’s not what John expected. He stamps over his first instinct of hurt, telling himself firmly that he was the one who recently decided what happened would be enough for his happiness. He still can’t help his eyebrows flying all the way up. “Okaaay…”
Harold nods primly, but as he looks up and catches John’s eyes, John can see it’s far from over.
“Actually, Mr Reese, I’d like to formally request that the next time we get into one of these life threatening situations –” He takes a shuddering breath, tries to move his neck despite the injury, not succeeding and breaking off into a stuttering: “This thing with your eyes. Stop, I – you can’t just act like you are the happiest to die with me, yes, this same expression, pack it away, it's incredibly distracting.”
John has been writing a list of things they could do together that would be much more distracting, actually, in his mind on the car ride over, flushes after just imagining himself gently taking out Harold’s cuff links.
“Dying with me shouldn’t be the highest honor you can think of, that’s… unacceptable.” Finch trails off completely at the end, whispering the last word.
Harold looks sad, therefore John tries his best to bite back his argument about how actually dying for Harold is much better than any other death he can think of. Even dying for the work with their numbers doesn’t come close. He probably shouldn't say that.
He settles on: “But it turns you on?” Making his voice lower than usual, trying for horny, not dismissive.
“That’s not the point!” Finch snaps, and he catches John by his arms, voice turning desperate, “John, I thought we were over your suicidal phase.”
John hangs his head in shame. He is. He regularly feels happy now, and most of the time, content, and even cautiously optimistic about the future too. But old habits are easy to fall back on in a moment of need and vulnerability.
Harold is touching his face. “I’ll always prefer you alive. I can’t stand to even think of an alternative.”
John nods, shuffling closer to Harold, ending up embraced softly in his arms.
“And the kissing?” he asks, hopeful. “Are you sure we should never mention it again?”
Harold, temple resting on John’s shoulder, makes a sound into his suit that’s halfway between mad and embarrassed. “Miss Shaw will likely never let us live it down,” he sighs. “Or Root.”
Or Carter, John adds mentally. He doesn’t say it aloud, because their lips are finding each other’s again, soft and warm.
About two years later, John is having a conversation with the Machine about updating their contingencies, and he remembers Harold’s face when he said I want you alive.
“So, if possible, we all make it out alive. You know that Harold doesn’t want me sacrificing myself. He prefers me alive.”
John thinks he does that too. Alive means staying with Harold, loving him. He needs more time for that. The red light on the camera blinks reassuringly. She knows that too.