Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Reese woke to a quiet knock on his door. His eyes snapped open and he located his gun on the bedside table before he remembered where he was. Then he relaxed.

"Yeah?"

"Good morning, Mr. Reese," Finch called through the door. "I'm heading downstairs to do my physio in the gym; you're welcome to join me if you like. If not, there's coffee fixings in the kitchen."

"Thanks, Finch."

'Inviting me to work out with him. Well, I guess that's one way to start letting me into his life. Not exactly what I expected.'

Reese got up, stretched, and then headed down to the home gym Harold had shown him the night before.

Harold was on his back on a leg press bench, working hard to move a fifty-pound plate, his face pink and a thin sheen of sweat on his brow. Reese realized he was staring at the incongruous scene in front of him and turned to survey the room instead. It was a basic, but complete home gym setup that included weight machines, a treadmill, an elliptical machine, a bench-press bench, and a rack of free weights.

"Do you use all of this?" Reese asked, doubtful that Harold would be able to manage the larger of the free weights or the bench press.

"God no! Nine....Ten." Harold finished his set and lay gasping for a minute, then looked over at Reese. "I moved here shortly after I was released from hospital, so I just ordered 'Home Gym Number 4' from a catalogue. At the time I had no idea what I would eventually be able to use, so it was just easiest. I've never used the bench press, and my bad leg doesn't like the elliptical, but I've logged over five hundred miles on that treadmill, and this particular machine and I are old and dear enemies. Anyway, help yourself - I've got two more sets to do here."

"Don't let me distract you from your workout."

"You won't."

There was something slightly odd in Harold's tone, and Reese gave him a glance, but he was starting his next set, so Reese sat down on the seat of a lat pull-down machine, set the weight at 120 pounds and gave it an experimental pull. On the occasion that he felt the need to exercise, he generally put himself through a standard military callisthenic routine of push-ups, crunches and squats. He couldn't remember the last time he'd worked out in a gym.

'Hmm. I guess I'm in better shape that I thought. Must be all that punching bad guys I've been doing lately.'

He re-set the machine for 150 pounds, and started to do sets of twelve reps. The first set went smoothly, though he was breathing heavily by the end of it. The second set was more work and he broke a sweat on the fifth rep, and could feel the burn starting to set in by the tenth.

Taking a break and stretching his neck and swinging his arms, he caught Finch covertly glancing at him.

'Maybe he likes what he sees? Or maybe I'm just damned over-sensitive because of that dream I had.'

Reese did his third set and it was hard work: he was sweating freely and blowing his breath out with each pull half-way through, and the last two reps came with loud grunts.

Releasing the handle of the machine, he sagged on the seat and sucked in air for a minute before getting up to stretch his over-worked muscles.

Harold had finished his leg-presses and was sitting on a bench curling a 25-pound dumbbell in one hand. Reese watched the man's small bicep bulge with each rep and smiled. Harold caught him looking, and he spoke quickly but gently, not wanting his friend to think he was laughing at him,

"You've got some really nice tone there."

Finch gave him a very small pleased smile, then looked away, embarrassed.

"Nothing compared to you, of course. I used to just do a basic physio routine every morning, to keep from stiffening up, but when it became clear that I was going to be working with you in the field regularly, I added a few more exercises, thinking that perhaps I could eventually become less of a liability."

"You've never been a liability, Harold."

"Yes, well, our recent experience says otherwise. I suppose I should have asked for your advice on a training program."

"Looks like you're doing just fine on your own." To give himself something to do, Reese climbed onto an inclined bench and started doing crunches. "Though I still think it would be a good idea for me to teach you some basic self-defense." Reese was speaking easily as he effortlessly curled his body upwards over and over again in a steady rhythm. "You could move that elliptical machine out of the way and put in a couple of mats."

"Mats?"

"The first lesson is always learning how to fall without hurting yourself." Reese uncrossed his arms from where they were folded across his chest and laced his fingers behind his head instead, then started to add a twist to the crunches, first to the right then to the left, so that he was facing Finch on every second crunch.

"Well, I can see the logic in that, at least. I'll think about it, Mr. Reese, and I may well take you up on that offer."

"Anytime, Finch, anytime."

And Reese suddenly realized that they were flirting with each other. Not in any conventional sense, of course, but by inviting him down here this morning, Finch had offered a tiny bit of his privacy, of himself. And Reese admitted to himself that he was actually showing off a little bit, and hoping that Finch liked what he saw.

'Now all we need is some cheesy music and a sauna, and this would make a great porno film,' Reese thought. 'I've got to get things sorted out in my head before I'm ready for the sauna scene though.'

Finch had finished his curls and was picking up a towel, so Reese quit doing crunches and swung himself up off the bench.

"How much can you bench press, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked suddenly.

"I have no idea. It's been years since I did any serious weightlifting."

"Oh, when was that?"

"Iraq, when my unit was in Tikrit. We had a pretty good weight room set up in the Rec Center and it was something to do between patrols."

"Want to give it a go? I know how to spot."

'OK, this is starting to get a little weird,' Reese thought. 'But what the hell.'

"Sure, why not?"

Reese loaded a couple of 50 pound plates onto either end of the bar and lay back on the bench.

Harold put his hands under the bar in perfect spotting form, though Reese knew that Finch wouldn't be able to actually do much if he dropped the weight. He was pretty sure Finch knew it too.

John gripped the bar, blew out his breath a couple of times, and lifted it off the rests. He lowered it to his chest and pushed back up in one smooth motion.

"You made that look easy."

"It was."

"Shall I put another couple of plates on then? Ten pounds? Twenty?"

Reese smiled a very small smile, wondering if Harold knew that he was humoring him, and said, "Put another ten pounds on each side."

Harold did, wearing a small pleased grin. Once he had the new plates secured, Reese gripped the bar again and lifted it. Finch put his palms under the bar again and followed it down. Reese blew out a breath, then heaved. The weight rose slowly, and a little less smoothly than last time, but he pushed it up until his arms were fully extended and then dropped the bar onto its rests.

"Well done Mr. Reese! I knew you could do it." Finch grinned at him, and then looked away embarrassed.

"I guess I'll go start breakfast," he said, heading for the door. "Do you want to shower first?"

"Actually, I was planning to go out and do some more shoveling first, to keep the front walkway clear. Bear is going to need to go out, too, so I'll take him with me."

"Of course. In that case, I'll just make coffee and wait for you to come back in."

"You don't have to do that, Finch."

"No trouble," Harold called back over his shoulder as he headed up the stairs.

~~~

Sifting through large amounts of data, deciding what was relevant and important, deciding on a course of action, planning a strategy and reviewing the plan for flaws or defects, and then putting the plan into action - these were all things that John Reese was very, very good at. He'd just never done it before when the data was his own feelings and emotions, and the decision so personal. As he shoveled the front walk, pausing every so often to throw snowballs into the air for Bear, he started to break it down in his mind:

Question: Do I want to have sex with Harold? Not the right question. Not the big picture.

Question: Is Harold actually attracted to me, or am I just imagining things? Not enough data, cannot be answered reliably, and besides, it's still not the real question. Not the big picture.

Question: Am I in love with Harold? Pause. Evaluate. Right question. Answer? I love him. But am I in love with him?

Data: He saved my life. More than once. That's gratitude, not love. He gave me a job, a purpose. Again, gratitude. I want to protect him. That's friendship. Being with him makes me happy - he makes me happy. Aha. I want to make him happy. Aha again.

Reese thought about how he felt when he walked into the Library in the morning, carrying his coffee and Finch's tea, and a box of donuts for the three of them. How he'd sometimes stop silently, and just watch Finch's face as he stared at the computer screen and typed.

'Yeah, I'm in love with him all right. Have been for a while, I guess. I just didn't realize it because I didn't think it was possible that I'd ever feel that way again.'

Risk assessment.

Risk: Having an emotional attachment to Harold could compromise the effectiveness of our work.

Reese nearly laughed out loud at himself as he remembered a parking garage, a train station, a rooftop. It seemed impossible to get any more emotionally attached to Harold Finch than he already was - both of them would risk everything for the other they already had, more than once - their effectiveness was already compromised, as if that made any difference to anything.

Risk: If I'm wrong about this - if Harold doesn't feel the same way, then I risk screwing up our friendship. I can minimize that risk by being as sure as possible before I make a move, and also by giving Harold a very easy out when I do. When I do... what, exactly? The situation is fluid; advance planning might not be possible, I'll just need to be prepared to take whatever opportunity arises.

Question: What do I want from him? Answer: As much as he's willing to give me.

Question: Including sex? Answer: More research required.

Reese had run out of walk to shovel, and his shoulders ached pleasantly from the hour of exercise. He needed a hot shower... or possibly a cold one.

~~~

Reese stripped out of his clothes in Finch's guest bedroom and walked naked into the ensuite bathroom. He closed the door and turned the lock. 'Just in case,' he thought, not that he expected Finch to disturb him while he was showering. Reese adjusted the water temperature, very grateful that Finch's emergency generator was up to the task of running the water heater, and stepped under the spray. He held his head under for a long time, leaning against the back wall of the shower and trying to decide... He picked up the soap, lathered quickly and thoroughly, running his hands over his own body and letting his mind drift back to the dream he had had last night.

He thought about Finch touching him. Running his long, thin fingers along the line of his jaw, down his chest, up his thighs. The images weren't doing a whole lot for him, and he began to wonder if he had been wrong, if he wasn't physically attracted to Harold after all, if what he was feeling was just an over-reaction to friendship and gratitude. He kept his eyes closed, and an image of Finch's face swam into focus. Not the face he was used to seeing, framed by his glasses and shirt collar and knotted tie, but a more intimate face, without glasses, big blue eyes looking into his, open, vulnerable, needy.

In his mind, Reese moved closer, cupped a cheek in one hand and touched his lips to Harold's. In his mind, Harold's lips were pliant, open, responsive and wanting. Reese imagined the taste of Harold's mouth and the feel of his tongue slipping over and around his own. He imagined moving his hand back to cradle to back of Harold's head, and sliding the other hand around the fragile body, drawing to him.

Imagining holding Harold in his arms and kissing him, Reese started to get hard. In his mind, he heard the small sounds Harold would make as he ran his hands down the thin, bare back. As he cupped the small, round buttocks and squeezed. As he swiped his tongue across a taut pink nipple. In his mind, Harold reached for his chin, lifting his head and claiming his lips again, leaning into Reese's body and into the hot, wet kiss, giving John everything.

Then as the fantasy unfurled, Harold moved a step back and started to go down on his knees. John reached out to stop him, 'No.' In the shower stall, John mouthed the word silently. In his fantasy Harold answered, 'Let me, please. I want to.' Reese watched as Harold knelt awkwardly before him, and then reverently rubbed his face into John's damp pubic hair, nuzzling a hard cock and taut balls with his nose. He reached down and gently stroked the side of Harold's face, and Harold leaned into the touch for a moment before swiping John's cock with his tongue.

Reese took himself in a soap-slicked hand and imagined watching Harold sucking him as he stroked himself, gently at first and then fast and furious as the images in his mind fueled his need. In his mind, Harold looked up and met John's eyes. John came.

So. Thinking about sticking his tongue down Harold's throat was enough to get him rock hard, and the image of Harold sucking him got him off like a rocket - just reviewing these in his head made his groin ache all over again. That was a big checkmark next to the question of physical attraction.

'I love him as a dear friend. I know he loves me the same way. I trust him with my life. And apparently, I want him. I think he wants me, too. So how, exactly, do we do this?'

~~~

It was mid-afternoon. Finch was online using his laptop computer and a cell phone connection, tracking the progress of the storm. Reese had spent a couple of hours cleaning and oiling the two guns he had brought with him, and was thinking about what to make for supper when the doorbell rang. Reese picked his handgun up off the table and threw a dishtowel over the rifle. He took up a position just inside the kitchen where he could see down the hallway to the front door. Bear was already pounding down the hallway, and Reese nodded to Finch.

Finch squared his shoulders and limped down the hall. He put a hand on Bear's collar, and opened the door to reveal a man and a woman in US Army combat fatigues standing on the doorstep.

"Good afternoon, Sir. We're going door to door to offer to transport people to the emergency shelters that have been set up for the duration of the power outages due to the storm.

"I see, well, er... I won't be needed to go to a shelter, I'm perfectly fine here."

"Are you sure, sir? The power outage could last for up to a week, which means you would need to have supplies for..."

Reese came up behind Finch, a dishtowel thrown over one shoulder in a picture of domestic bliss. Reese watched the Sergeant threat assess him as he walked up the hallway behind Finch, and as he got to the door, he gave the Sergeant his very best heavy-lidded 'Don't Fuck With Me' stare. The Sergeant, to his credit, managed to keep control of his sphincters, 'Must have some combat experience,' thought Reese. Reese put one hand up high on the doorframe, and then leaned against it with his elbow, giving the Sergeant an excellent view of his bicep, and incidentally positioning his armpit about three inches from Harold's nose. He stepped up right behind Harold, until his chest was just barely touching the back of Harold's shoulder.

"We're fine here, Sergeant," said Reese, and noted the soldier's eyes widening a little with surprise. But he was paying more attention to Harold's response to the intrusion on his personal space. At first, his body stiffened just a little, but then relaxed almost immediately, and after Reese spoke, Harold let himself lean back the tiniest bit, increasing the physical contact between them. Reese leaned forward a little himself, in return, and then concentrated on the Sergeant to keep himself from losing himself in the feeling of Harold almost, but not quite, leaning into him.

"I'll say," muttered the young female Corporal, who was standing behind the Sergeant in a tone of admiration.

"That will be all, Corporal," said the Sergeant, then,

"I'm sorry, sir, sirs, we just need to check that everyone's OK, and make sure that they know about the shelters. Here's an information sheet with emergency numbers to call, but please use them only if you have to, resources are stretched to the limits. Oh, and the information about the curfew is there, too."

"We'll be sure to abide by the curfew, thank you Sergeant," said Finch.

"Right, well, have a good day sir, sirs," said the Sergeant, as he turned to head off the step but found his way blocked by the Corporal, who was still staring at Reese in wide-eyed admiration.

"Corporal!"

"Yes Sarge, sorry Sarge," she said as they both headed up the walk.

Reese couldn't help grinning widely as they both moved out of the doorway so that Finch could close and re-lock the door.

"Was that absolutely necessary?" Finch asked, his tone annoyed.

"Was what necessary, Finch?" said Reese, playing innocent to see where this was going.

"You know what I'm talking about, Mr. Reese."

"I made the Sergeant mildly uncomfortable, which makes him much more likely to leave us alone."

"What makes you so sure of that?"

"Simple psychology, Finch - if he pays too much attention to us because he thinks we are a gay couple, he's a homophobe, which makes him a bad person. So instead he pays less attention to us that he does to the couple next door, absolving himself of guilt."

"Well, I hope you're right."

"I am."

~~~

After they had eaten another excellent meal prepared by Reese and washed the dishes standing companionably next to each other at the kitchen sink, Finch proposed another game of chess.

"Same stakes as last night?" Reese asked.

Harold paused for a second before answering, and Reese said, "We don't have to, Finch, if you - "

"No... certainly, if you'd like, we'll play for the same stakes again. It will just give me more incentive to win this time."

And win he did. Reese played as well as he could, but was a tiny bit distracted by watching Finch's slim fingers on the wood of the chess pieces as he made each move, and it affected his concentration.

"I believe this means you get to ask me a question, Finch."

Harold nodded, and then looked down at his lap for a minute. Reese couldn't tell if he was thinking or gathering his courage. Finch's head came back up and there was something Reese didn't recognize in his eyes.

"When you were working for the CIA, what was the worst thing they ordered you to do?"

"You've read my file. You already know everything they had me do."

"Yes. I've read your files, all of them. I know the tactical details of your missions. I know what looks horrible in black and white on paper. What I don't know is what haunts you. What it is you hate yourself for."

"And that's what you want to know?"

"Yes."

Reese got angry. Who did Finch think he was to ask this of him? Poking into the parts of Reese that he couldn't access from the files. Paying amateur psychologist now, was he? Probably thought it was for Reese's own good, that he was helping, somehow. Reese sighed inwardly. 'That's probably exactly what he thinks he's doing. Well, he's in over his head this time.'

Keeping his gaze perfectly steady on Harold, Reese began to talk in a flat voice, narrating the scenes that played in his nightmares. Reese described the village, the crumbling houses, the dilapidated mosque. He described the taste of the desert dust in his mouth, the feel of the wind-whipped sand on his face. He described the search, the shoves, the blows. He described the crippled old men and the cowering women. The shouted questions, the frantic, sobbing answers. He described the boys.

There were no tears. Reese had cried himself dry years ago. There was nothing left but the tired monotone. He described what they did to the few who dared to fight back. He described the bullets tearing apart the small broken bodies. The blood. The screams. The fire. The stench.

"Man's inhumanity to man is acceptable, somehow, in war. What truly brands us as monsters is what we are willing to do to the children." And Reese's voice broke on that final word.

Harold sat listening, his eyes never leaving Reese's, his mouth set in a thin hard line. Harold didn't speak or move after Reese had finished his narrative. He didn't speak or move for many minutes, then slowly got up out of his chair. Reese half expected him to walk out of the room, and he could have dealt with that. What he couldn't have dealt with was any gesture of support or compassion from Finch. As Finch stood, and took a step towards him, Reese screamed in his mind.

'Don't touch me. Whatever you do don't touch me. I can't do this. I can't accept your forgiveness, your absolution, your comfort - whatever you'll try to give me. Not now. Not yet. Not for this. Just don't. Please, please, don't.'

Finch turned and went to the sideboard and poured himself another drink. He brought the bottle over and put it down next to Reese's glass on the side table by his chair. Then he sat back down in silence in the chair opposite.

Reese's panic passed. His breathing slowed. He regained control of himself.

Finch spoke.

"You're a good man, John."

"How can you say that?" Reese asked bitterly.

"Because if you weren't, it wouldn't hurt so much."

Reese sat, absorbing Finch's words. He had never thought of it in those terms, but of course it was true. If he had truly become the monster he sometimes believes himself to be, then he wouldn't feel this pain.

"One more game?" Finch asked.

Reese thought about it, and considered declining, but didn't want to go to bed on the thoughts he was currently having. Concentrating on a game of chess would give his mind a chance to clear, to come back from the dark place.

"Why not. Same stakes?"

"If you like."

"Yes." Reese planned to win this one. And he did.

Reese sat for a long time, sipping his cognac occasionally, pretending to be deciding on the question he wanted Finch to answer. He already had his question, he had had it since this morning in the shower; he was just waiting for the tactically optimal moment to ask it. His anger at Finch had passed completely during the first few moves of the chess game.

After five more minutes of sitting in silence, Finch got uncharacteristically antsy and stood up.

"I hope you don't mind, Mr. Reese, I'm just going to stretch my legs while you think."

"No problem, Finch, go right ahead."

He waited while Finch poured himself a little more cognac, and offered him another slug, which he declined. He noted that Finch had had more to drink this evening that he had the previous one - more, in fact, that Reese had ever seen him drink before, which, to be fair, wasn't saying all that much. He waited while Finch took a small sip and then put the glass down on a side table. He waited while Finch went to stand near the window and stare out at the snow, falling more gently now, but still falling. Reese watched and waited until he saw Finch's body relax slightly, and then he got silently up from his chair, and went over to stand behind Finch without making a sound.

"So, have you thought of your question yet, Mr. Reese?" Finch asked, turning, and starting and stepping back when he found Reese standing right behind him.

Reese waited a beat before answering,

"Yes."

"Well, what is it?"

Reese didn't speak; instead he put his arms up and planted both hands on the window frame, one on either side of Finch's head, trapping his friend between his outstretched arms with the window at his back. Reese took a half-step closer, leaving just a couple of inches of space between their bodies, close enough to make very sure that Finch was acutely aware of him.

He looked into Finch's eyes and saw a mixture of nervousness and hope. He held the pose for a second more and then asked, his voice low and steady,

"What do you want from me, Harold?"

Harold Finch gave him a complete and honest answer in a single word:

"Everything."

Reese wondered what Finch was seeing in his own eyes, and hoped that it was the trust, and love, and need that he was feeling. Leaning forward slowly, he lowered his head and gently touched Harold's lips with his own.

It was soft and sweet and oh, so very good. Harold kissed him back, just as gently, barely moving, not daring to breathe. John kissed him again, again very lightly, a brush of lips against his own.

John's heart was pounding but he still didn't do anything more than kiss Harold softly and gently, wanting - needing - slow and sweet and sensual. He would let Harold lead, let Harold guide them through this new territory. He felt Harold's lips part slightly and trap his bottom lip for an instant, holding him, silently asking him for more. He parted his own lips just a little, kissing with a fraction more pressure, each touch lasting a little longer.

Harold had always known, somehow, that when - if - this moment ever came, that John would be this gentle, this caring, but the reality of it was far better than anything he had ever been able to imagine. Harold brought up his right hand and rested it lightly on John's side, just above his hip.

John took that as a cue to wrap his arms around Harold, one across his back and the other cradling the back of his head, the same position that John had used to comfort him the night before. The kisses they exchanged were still gentle, each carefully exploring the other, reveling in the sensation.

Harold could feel John's heart beating fast and hard against his chest, and that physiological proof that John wanted this was much as he did made his head spin. He put his other arm around John, resting his hand at the small of his back, and pulled him closer, wanting more contact. Their bodies were touching from chest to knee, and Harold relished it, in holding and being held, being gently held in John's strong arms.

The first, tentative touch of the tip of Harold's tongue to his lips sent a shiver down John's spine that settled in his groin. He parted lips and teeth and tasted cognac and the sweet new taste that was Harold. His arousal was a warm slow burn without urgency. Harold's left hand was rubbing long slow strokes up and down his spine from waistband to hairline and back again. On the next stroke the hem of John's t-shirt rode up, and Harold's fingers met the skin at the small of his back. Reese moaned softly, deep in his chest.

The sound went straight to Harold's groin. The slow, gentle caresses, the deep exploring kisses had been wonderful, but now Harold was starting to feel raw desire. He slipped his hand under the shirt and trailed light fingers up John's spine. John moaned again and the sound of John moaning with pleasure, pleasure that he was causing, was one of the most exciting, erotic things Harold had ever heard. Harold tugged at the t-shirt to free it from the waistband of John's pants, and slid both of his arms under it, up the broad muscular back.

John moved his lips away from Harold's mouth to caress his jaw and trail towards his ear.

"If you're going to undress me, Harold," he said softly, "maybe we should move upstairs."

Harold pulled back a little to see John smiling into his eyes. For a minute he just looked back at the warm, open smile, drinking in the sight of John relaxed and happy and, he realized with a jolt, in love. With him. The idea of crashing to the study floor in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothes had a certain appeal, but the thought of John Reese stretched out naked in his bed - that made him catch his breath and his dick gave a strong twitch of agreement.

Pressed up against each other as they were, John felt the movement at Finch's groin and cocked an eyebrow at him.

"That was an image of you naked in my bed, so yes. Upstairs."

Reese claimed one more kiss as Harold slid his arms down and stepped back out of the embrace. They looked at each other for a moment. 'I can't quite believe this is actually happening, can you?' seemed to be what both small smiles said.

"You go ahead...I'll lock up," Reese said, having a little trouble keeping his voice steady.

Harold gave one of his small nods, picked up the electric lantern they had been using for light, and headed for the stairs.

John made quick, but careful and thorough work of blowing out the candles that they had lit in the study and checking that the front door was properly locked. He was on the stairs before Harold had gotten to the top, and followed quickly behind, but then paused at his own room.

Harold heard him stop, and turned.

"Go ahead," he said with a note of resignation.

"You don't mind?"

"I do, but I know you'll be more comfortable, and I want... I don't want there to be any distractions."

"Thanks." Reese retrieved his handgun from the bedside table where he had left it after the afternoon's visit from the New York National Guard, and followed Finch to his bedroom door, where Bear sat, panting and looking expectantly up at them.

"Sorry buddy, not this time," Reese said, and then gave him the "Guard" command in Dutch. Bear flopped down outside the door and Harold and John went in and closed it behind them.

Reese crossed over to the bedside table and put his gun down, then pulled his Zippo out of his pocket to light the candles that Finch had set there earlier.

"Now then, where were we?" Harold asked when John turned around, as he reached for the hem of his t-shirt.

"Here, let me." Reese pulled his shirt over his head with a smooth motion and dropped it to the floor beside him.

Harold made a small noise of appreciation.

"It's nothing you haven't seen before," Reese said, a little embarrassed at the frankly appraising look Harold was giving him, and taking refuge in his usual dismissive tone.

"Yes," Harold said, stepping closer. "But this time I get to touch." Harold laid both hands on Reese's wide, solid chest, then splayed his fingers and ran them slowly down over broad pecs and tight abs.

Reese closed his eyes and gave in to the sensation. 'This. This is what I wanted. This is what I needed. This is what I knew I could have with him.' Finch's feather light touches made him ache with desire, but it was a wonderful, welcome ache, knowing that for once, for tonight at least, there was time to go slow, time to explore, time to discover and relax and enjoy. Reese felt Harold move closer, and lips joined fingertips in the dance across his skin.

Harold dropped a light kiss at the base of Reese's throat and then trailed his lips across his collarbone and back again. A roving fingertip brushed a sensitive nipple and John gasped. Harold smiled, and headed for the other nipple with lips and tongue.

"Oh, God. Harold. God." Reese was profoundly glad that self-control had always been one of his strong points, because it was taking just about all of his to stand there and let Harold do these things to him.

Harold didn't completely understand why John was letting him, but knew his friend well enough to know that this was the way John wanted it - for now, anyway. Harold was quite sure John wasn't going to stay passive for very long, but while it lasted, he was determined to make the most of it. Harold dropped his hands to the button of John's pants, and then had a thought, and stopped dead.

"What's wrong?" Reese asked almost immediately.

"I didn't plan this."

"I know - it just... happened."

"That's not what I mean, I didn't plan this, and so I've just realized that there's a significant gap in our supplies."

Reese figured out what Finch was saying, and pulled a short strip of foil packets out of his back pocket, then dropped them on the bedside table. "When I got my gun," he said, "just in case..." he trailed off as he saw Harold's expression darken, and then look away from him for a moment, and then back.

"I have no right to ask..."

"Since we've known each other, Zoe Morgan. Twice. No one else."

"I... like I said, I have no right..."

"You have every right. From now on you have the right to ask anything you want to or need to know. I can't promise that I'll always be able to answer you."

"Thank you John."

"You're welcome. Harold?"

"Yes?"

"There is something I need to ask you."

"Go ahead."

"Have you done this before?"

"I take it you mean with a male partner. Yes. It was a long time ago, but yes, I've done this before."

"Experimenting in college?" guessed Reese.

"You could call it that, I suppose. It didn't take me very long to determine that it was what was in a person's mind and heart that mattered to me, rather than their anatomy."

Reese grinned widely at the fact that both the phrasing and the sentiment were so very Finch-like.

"You?"

"What?"

"Have you done this before?"

"You mean you don't know?" Reese purposely used the same tone he would have used if they were standing in the library, and Finch had asked some detail about his background that was sure to be in some file that he very well knew Finch had hacked, and read.

"While your psycho-sexual profile indicates you are not adverse to the possibility of engaging in homosexual behavior, neither your military record nor your CIA file list any specific same-sex liaisons. So no, I do not know if you have previously explored that aspect of your sexuality."

"Well, I wouldn't call them explorations. More like commando raids. But yes, I've done this before."

"Good, now that we've determined that neither of us are virgins, could we please go back to getting you naked in my bed?"

Reese laughed out loud, then he put his arms around Finch and hugged him close.

"God, I love you, Harold!"

Since John had Harold in his arms, he decided to kiss him for a while, and did. Then he backed off. He put his hands to the top button on Harold's shirt.

"May I?"

"Yes." Harold dropped his arms and undid the buttons on his cuffs while John undid the shirt buttons and eased the shirt off his shoulders. Reese lay one hand on Harold's cheek and touched the frame of his glasses with a finger.

"Can you see well enough to be comfortable without them?"

"Yes."

"May I?"

"Yes."

Reese gently took Harold's glasses from his face, folded them, and put them on the bedside table next to his gun. He looked at the table for a second, wondering how many times he would see that particular juxtaposition, Harold's glasses next to his gun, and his own words from the night before echoed in his ears, 'The day will come, next week or next month or next year, when I'm a fraction of a second too slow...' He turned back to Harold.

"Come here."

He gathered Harold into his arms and held him tightly, wanting to capture the moment, willing himself to forget, just for a few minutes, everything in the world except for the feel of Harold's skin against his own, the smell of Harold's hair in his nose, the beat of Harold's heart against his chest.

"I love you too, John," Harold whispered, and Reese kissed the top of his head, then his neck, then his cheek, then his mouth. This time, there was less gentleness, and more passion.

Reese was letting his hands roam across Harold's back when he felt the slight wince. He remembered how badly Harold had been limping yesterday, and cursed himself for not realizing sooner that standing on his bad leg was probably hurting him like hell right now. Reese gently pivoted them and guided them towards the bed. When the backs of Harold's legs were touching the mattress, Reese broke off the kiss and put his hands on Harold's shoulders, urging him to sit.

"Get comfortable," Reese said, then walked around to the other side of the bed, and lit the candles that were on the nightstand there. He climbed onto the bed and moved over to sit by Harold, who was lying on his back, looking up at him. Reese didn't move.

"What is it?"

"I'm afraid of hurting you."

"I'm not going to break."

"I know. But you're in pain."

"As a general rule, yes. Let me tell you, if I was in a little less pain right now I'd be climbing all over you, believe me. I'll be fine, John."

"If you told me exactly where it hurts, it would bother me less."

"Why don't I just show you, instead?" said Finch, his hands reaching for his trouser button.

"OK. And I'll just..." Reese rolled onto his back and quickly shucked off his own pants and underwear, then rolled back onto his side to see Finch struggling a little to kick his pants off his ankles. Reese reached down to help and dropped the clothing off the side of the bed, then turned back to look.

"I know it's not very pretty to look at." Harold said, quietly.

John laid his hand gently on the mangled leg. There was a rough, scarred cavity the size of a baseball in the thigh muscle, and a network of scars from hip to knee, the evidence of long rough gashes intersected by neat surgical lines.

"How did you survive?"

"I don't know. Neither do the doctors who put me back together. That gouge is from a piece of two-by-four. It took the surgeon four hours to pick out all the splinters. I should have died of blood loss, or ended up paralyzed - two shattered vertebrae, by the way, resulting in a c3 to c5 spinal fusion, which I'm sure you figured out from the way I move - or rather - the way I don't." Harold sighed and continued the litany, "My pelvis was crushed on that side. There's a plate in the hip socket and the head of the femur is steel and Teflon. My femur was broken in two places, I was in traction for a month. My knee is half plastic. The tibia and fibula got off lightly, only one break each, but the ankle and foot were crushed. They are a mass of wires and pins. I have very limited mobility of the ankle joint, which is in large part what causes the limp. I don't have any feeling in the heel of my foot, but the toes do move. Sort of."

John looked down at the mass of discolored scar tissue that covered Harold's foot to see him wiggling his toes slowly.

"The hip and the ankle are the worst. The hip aches when I've stressed it by walking to much or too fast, and the ankle is always... uncomfortable."

"Ankles are a bitch."

"Indeed. Look, now that I finally have you naked in my bed, could we please stop discussing my medical history and..." Harold paused as John moved in closer, supporting himself on one strong arm and looking down at him with a smile.

"And what, Harold?" John asked, his eyes twinkling and he trailed his fingers lightly up Harold's rapidly stiffening cock.

"Make love to me, John."

John looked down into Harold's eyes and saw a reflection of the love and trust and need that he himself felt. He dipped his head to kiss Harold softly on the lips, and watched Harold's eyes slide closed. John slid his fingertips up Harold's chest and both felt and heard the sigh of contentment. Happy for the moment just to be looking down at Harold's peacefully relaxed face and gently stroking his skin, John let himself explore and enjoy.

Powerful fingers that had taken life by crushing tissue now danced across sensitive nipples. Strong hands that had been bathed in spurts of warm blood now gently caressed, giving only pleasure. A man who had terrorized, tortured, killed, now cared, needed, loved. A heart that been shattered found the strength to start to heal.

John dipped his head to Harold's chest and planted tiny light kisses where his fingers had already blazed tingling trails.

"This is how I will know you, Harold," John whispered as his lips trailed across Harold's shoulder. "I will learn every inch of your skin, every spot that makes you shiver and tremble." John kissed along his jaw, gently nibbled an earlobe, continuing to explore with deft, sure fingers. "I will find all the special places that make you sigh and moan. I will follow each scar as a map to your secrets."

The sensuality of the whispered words went through Harold like fire. "John," he whispered, reaching for the man above him and pulling him down, needing skin on skin, needing to feel, to rub, to hold, to thrust. John carefully gave him the contact he craved, but kept most of his weight on his knees and elbows. This would have bothered Harold if he didn't know that John was doing it unconsciously, without thought.

Harold ran his hands across every inch of John's skin that he could reach, stroking and kneading and rubbing, fingers tracing old scars and new ones, searching for the places that made John respond with his own gasps and moans. Eventually he slid one hand down between John's thighs, taking the thick, heavy cock in his hand and rubbing in long, slow strokes, down to the base to tease at John's balls with agile fingertips, and then back up to the tip, gentling his touch to a soft feathering.

John lowered his head and kissed Harold's mouth, his jaw, his throat, his shoulder. Finally he rested his forehead against Harold's looking into his eyes, and trying to keep his breathing even enough to speak clearly.

"What do you want?"

"I want you to take me, John."

John closed his eyes, unable to face the depths of longing and desire on Harold's face. Harold, who had given him a job and a purpose and a home and love and acceptance, was now offering himself as well.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. I want this. I want you, all of you. I want to feel you inside me, John. I want you to take me, to make me yours. And I want you to give yourself to me. I want everything that you are, everything that you have to give."

Was it possible for two people who, apart, were mere empty shells, two people with no hope and no future, driven only by purpose, was it possible that together, two such people could fill each other up?

"We'll need..."

"Nightstand."

"How?"

"I thought that if I lay on my bad side, with you behind me?"

"Yeah, OK." John's voice was low and rough.

John rolled over and slid open the nightstand drawer. He found a bottle that seemed to be the right shape and size and held it up. Harold nodded. He was slowly hitching himself onto his side, stacking two pillows to support his neck and drawing up the knee of his good leg to give John access. John swallowed, the fragility and vulnerability of Harold's body overwhelming him for a moment. 'Slow and gentle, no matter what, slow and gentle,' he told himself. John lay behind him, spooning close to ward off the chill of the air and drawing the blankets back over both of them. He flipped the cap on the bottle and squeezed some of the cream onto his fingers. While he waited for his body heat to warm it, he kissed Harold's shoulder, neck, ear, temple.

"I love you," he whispered, conscious of having only said it jokingly, earlier, wanting Harold to have no doubt that he meant it with all his heart and soul. He heard Harold sigh as he eased his fingers to rub gently over Harold's entrance, massaging the soft sensitive skin behind his balls and pressing very lightly at the puckered opening with the tip of one finger. He felt Harold relax and lean back into his chest, and he slid the arm he was resting on under Harold's neck so that he could wrap it around his chest and hold him close.

"Is that OK?" he asked, needing to be sure he wasn't causing any pain or discomfort.

"It's wonderful. It's what I imagined this would be like."

"Been thinking about it for a while, have you?" The words were teasing, but gentle, as John reached for the tube of cream again and squeezed more onto his fingers before resuming their gentle probing. John kissed Harold's shoulder again, and dragged the pad of his thumb across a taut nipple as he eased one finger in.

"I wish I could turn my head to kiss you, John, to show you how good that feels."

"Shhh... just relax and let me, let me give you everything I can," John said, brushing the nipple again and licking a stripe along Harold's collarbone to the hollow of his throat.

Harold closed his eyes. He let himself sink back into John's warmth, his scent, his touch, his love. Harold let himself feel. The slick fingers were setting his nerves on fire and the warm lips and wet tongue were doing nothing to douse the flames. Harold heard a noise and realized it was himself moaning as he rocked his hips back, chasing more pleasure.

John encouraged him with a low rumbling growl. He had two thick fingers deep inside Harold and was working them, twisting and pressing, getting him ready for a third. John's own cock was painfully hard, trapped against the back of Harold's thigh. His responsiveness was testing John's resolve for 'slow and gentle.'

"John, please." Harold rocked his hips back again.

"Shh... relax. We have all night."

"How am I supposed to relax when you're making me feel... ohhhh." Harold's voice turned into a breathy sigh as John gently pressed a third finger in, working with exquisite care. Now there was a faint sighing 'oh' with each exhale, as John rocked his fingers in little by little, now crooking them forward and searching for the smooth roundness of Harold's prostate, and stroking it very gently.

"John, oh my God John." Harold reached back, finding his hip and gripping, needing to anchor himself against the wave of sensation. Harold's grip rocked John forward slightly, rubbing his hard cock along the back of Harold's thigh, and another low rumble escaped.

"Can you feel how much I want you, Harold? How much I need you?"

"Yes John, please, yes. Take me John, I'm ready, please."

John twisted the three fingers that were buried deep in Harold's tight heat and brushed his knuckles across his prostrate once more before withdrawing them. He shifted up and reached for the condoms on the bedside table.

"I'll get tested again, just to be sure, and then we can dispense with these, but for now..." It wasn't the most erotic pillow-talk, but John needed the distraction while he tore open the packet and rolled the condom on.

"Are you ready, Harold?" John asked, positioning himself on elbows and knees to keep his weight off Harold’s body.

"Yes."

John pressed in slowly, just a little at first, giving Harold plenty of time to adjust.

"God, John. So good. So good. More please, John. I want you, I want all of you, please John. God so very, very good." The words spilled out of Harold's mouth half gasps and half sobs as John pushed in inch by inch until he was buried deep inside. Harold hitched his knee up further, encouraging John to go deeper, press harder.

John rested his forehead against Harold's shoulder for a minute, gaining control of himself.

"I don't want to hurt you," he said, brushing Harold's cheek and the corner of his mouth with his lips.

"You won't. Please John, give me everything. I need you. I want everything you have to give me."

"Harold." It was a desperate plea as John drew partway out and plunged back in.

"Yes, John. Yes. More please, John. More."

John couldn't deny him this. Couldn't deny him anything. Knew he would never be able to deny Harold anything, ever again, for as long as he lived. Harold wanted all that he was, all that he had to give, and John could deny him nothing.

Harold gasped and sighed and moaned as John fucked him with long, slow, deep, powerful strokes, each one building on the pleasure of the last until Harold's body sang, each nerve ending sparking with electricity and he heard himself sobbing out John's name over and over. John's cock slid smoothly and powerfully inside him, reaching places he had never known were empty and filling them.

John heard Harold gasping his name over and over like a plea or a prayer. There was... It was.... He was... He was holding onto the shreds of his control, but wouldn't be able to much longer. His need was too great, Harold's gasps and moans under him too much to bear. He moved one hand, found Harold's thigh, his hip. Slipped his hand into the crease of his groin and wrapped his fingers around Harold's hard straining cock.

Harold gasped. John's fingers around him were warm and smooth, gentle and sure. How could there be more? How could John possibly tease another drop of pleasure out of his body... out of his soul. And yet he did. With light sweeps and strokes of his fingers, in perfect time to the long slow strokes of his cock, John brought Harold even higher.

"So close. I'm so close John. Take what you need, please. Come for me."

And John could deny him nothing, not even his own pleasure. He plunged in once, twice more, stroking Harold's cock at the same time and felt Harold tense under him. Stroked once more with cock and hand and heard the high keening wail as Harold jerked and spasmed, tightening impossibly for a long moment before achieving complete release. That was the pinnacle for John: having Harold in the throes of orgasm beneath him sent him spiraling into his own sparking whiteness of pleasure and release.

He came back to himself slowly, first hearing the harsh rasp of Harold's breathing then feeling the warm body beneath him. Instinctively he moved, lifting his weight off Harold, and withdrawing carefully.

Harold made a small sound of dismay and John kissed his shoulder.

"Be right back." John quickly cleaned up, wrapping the condom in a tissue and tossing it into a wastepaper bin, then crawled back under the covers.

"Can you roll over, do you want me to help?"

"I'm OK." Harold rolled onto his back and smiled up at John.

"Much better than OK. Was that... what you wanted?"

"It was wonderful. Better than anything I could have imagined. Thank you, John."

"I love you," John said simply, as if it explained everything, which in a way, it now did.

"Come here?"

Harold moved into John's open arms, pillowing his head on John's chest and wrapping an arm around him possessively.

"I love you too. This is... something I've wanted for a long time."

"You should have said something."

"Like what? By the way, John, I've fallen in love with you?"

"It wouldn't have hurt."

"I don't have your courage."

"You have my courage. You have everything I am. Now and always."

"And you have everything I can give you, and always will."

John slept very little, dozing occasionally, but he spent most of the night lying with Harold in his arms, watching him sleep. He basked in the feeling of lying entwined, Harold hugging one strong arm to him like a security blanket.

~~~

When Harold woke and made to get up, John said, "Stay there, no need to get up yet. I'll go put water on for my coffee, and your tea."

"The storm..." Harold asked sleepily.

"I'll check."

Harold dozed, and woke to John putting a fragrant steaming mug on the bedside table and then climbing back into bed. Harold looked up, worried for a moment that there would be some small awkwardness, but John simply coaxed him close, and wrapped strong arms around him. Something settled inside Harold, knowing that he would always have this, now.

"Where do we go from here?" he asked, his analytical brain needing to know, if not exactly where he stood, at least in which direction he was facing.

"I don't know. I've never done this before."

"Done what?"

"Had a... relationship. That... that is what this is?"

"Yes, John, it is. I guess we'll just have to figure it out as we go along. That seems to be what people do, mostly. From what I understand, anyway."

"Sounds like a plan."