Work Text:
Harold is not a tactile person. Touch has always been as mystifying to him as every other aspect of human interaction.
It wasn’t a problem at MIT. Computer engineers, as a rule, are solitary animals with only a small number of people they maintain strong connections with.
After graduation, after meeting Nathan and founding IFT and embarking on one of the greatest challenges in his life, he lived mostly as a ghost. Only a handful of people knew he actually existed and only one of them knew even a near approximation of who he was. Interpersonal contact continued to be a non-issue.
Then he meets Grace and his life undergoes a phase shift. Because of course casual touch is expected in a relationship as serious as theirs. In fact, socially he is expected to be the partner pushing for casual touch. It doesn’t take Grace long to notice that he doesn’t exactly conform to this social norm. She is understanding and gentle as she works with him to determine the kind and frequency of touch that he can tolerate. And he is, above all, a scientist. They experiment and he learns and it isn’t so bad. He manages to imagine a life of gentle, understanding touches and to not be repulsed by it.
After the accident, after Nathan’s death and pain and fear and blood and far too many stitches, touch goes from simply undesirable to downright shameful and sometimes painful.
He becomes a very private person.
Everything changes when he meets John. That is to say, when he meets John for real and isn’t just observing him like a sick voyeur through hijacked camera feeds and hacked databases.
John Reese is a tactile person. Cleaned up, in quality clothes and clean shaven, he is also an incredibly attractive person. Harold notes this and immediately buries the observation under a layer of propriety and paranoia. He doesn’t even know this man, he cannot afford to be attracted to him.
John appears entirely oblivious to Harold’s fleeting inner turmoil. Over the first weeks of their cooperation, John attempts to know Harold. With the tenacity of a bloodhound, he ferrets minute specs of information from Finch. His favorite tea. A love of books and donuts and eggs benedict. Nothing consequential by normal human standards, but for Finch it is the equivalent of handing over his personal diary.
John doesn’t take advantage. He is naturally curious, a trait that was only encouraged by the CIA. He can’t help himself from trying to get closer to Finch. And, with normal people, becoming closer emotionally is typically mirrored by becoming closer physically.
The first tentative touch to his elbow, ostensibly to assist Harold over a patch of ice, has Harold jumping nearly out of his skin. John doesn’t comment, but Harold can see him cataloging, analyzing. He makes a second attempt, a hand on Harold’s shoulder some days later after they don’t make it to a number in time. Harold leans away from the touch, every muscle in his body screaming ‘not wanted’ and ‘not welcome’.
John takes the hint.
But then John is wounded. He is betrayed and near death and Harold doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t even think about putting his arms securely around John’s torso and helping him into the car. It is equally inconsequential to manhandle a near-unconscious John, hands on waist and shoulders and calves, onto a gurney.
There is nothing to this touch other than concern for a friend. He rationalizes it, later, when he realizes what happened. He tells himself that John was dying and that John is his friend. He would have done the same, worked as hard, been as close to, any of his friends. If he actually had any friends.
This is how it starts, with Harold touching John out of necessity, because John is injured and any of John’s injuries are Harold’s responsibility.
Harold becomes familiar with John’s body. Placing stitches here, putting a bandage there. Distantly he is reminded of the beauty that John embodies, but his primary focus is on minimal blood loss.
John, in the way that he is quietly aware of so many things, knows that Harold shies from touch and so he tries to hide when he’s injured to spare Harold. Harold doesn’t notice right away. When he catches John in the men’s bathroom in the library, twisting awkwardly to sanitize an inflamed abrasion between his shoulder blades, Harold is furious. John doesn’t get away with it again.
John, for his part, is more casual with touch once he sees that the rules have changed. He will sometimes rest a hand on Harold’s shoulder after a particularly difficult case. He may offer Harold a discreet elbow when Harold experiences a particularly painful day – an elbow that, Harold now knows, he is completely free to accept or deny. John isn’t pitying him. He’s just trying to help. Once, John even gave him a brief neck rub which, to this day, Harold is shocked that he accepted.
They fall into a comfortable rhythm. A tidal ebb and flow. They come together to touch and then retreat, completely at Harold’s discretion.
They have now been together, partners in Harold’s private crusade, for the better part of three years. Their odd little family has expanded, first to include Bear (and Harold has never, not once regretted John’s loveable attack dog), then the disconcerting Miss Shaw (the addition of whom Harold second guesses once every second week), and finally and most disturbingly Root (something Harold worries over with almost every breath but she saved John’s life and so Harold owes her).
Oh yes, Detectives Fusco and Carter belong to them as well, but, for all that they have been there longer, it’s still more of a peripheral attachment. They’re not allowed inside the library, though their loyalty is unquestioned.
However, despite the fact that everything ought to be settled now, HR disbanded, the Russian and the Italian mob both a shadow of what they once were, and the dubiously reliable Elias with his strange criminal code now in power, despite all that, Harold has noticed a change in the last few weeks.
Specifically a change in John.
Detective Carter’s death hit them all hard. Harold can remember with photographic clarity those horrible moments, the phone screaming in the background and his dearest friend falling to pieces in front of him. But John, without doubt, took it the worst. Even though John says Harold gave him a purpose, Harold knows that he attributes no small part of his resurrection to the stubborn detective.
At first he appears to rebound, to return to New York, Harold and a new suit in tow. Harold watches closely for any signs of depression or uncharacteristic recklessness but John only throws himself back into the work, clearing the numbers from Harold’s board with ruthless efficiency. He appears, for all intents and purposes, to be his typical, efficient, slightly sardonic self.
Their touches decrease in frequency again, but Harold doesn’t mind. He needs time too. Time, and space. He is also mourning.
But some days, difficult, bloody days, John comes back to the library looking just a little broken. On those days he takes Bear for a long walk, even if it’s late at night and he should really be going home to get some rest.
The fifth time in two weeks that this happens, Harold searches security feeds until he finds John. When he does, his heart breaks a little bit because John, strong, protective, sarcastic, stoic John has taken Bear to a secluded corner of the park, curled up with his back against a wall, and wrapped his arms around their dog. His face is buried in Bear’s ruff and, if this particular camera were equipped with a microphone, Harold fears that he would hear John trying to stifle quiet tears.
It goes on for a long time. Bear bears it stoically, giving his pack-mate what he needs.
Finch doesn’t handle it so well. In fact, he is inordinately distressed by the tableau playing out in black and white on his monitors. He resolves that something must be done because Mr. Reese deserves more than cold comfort in a dark park.
He makes preparations as he always does, efficiently, discreetly, and with a clear plan in mind. Within three days, they are complete.
The objective: Comfort Mr. Reese
The first step: Provide a reason for both himself and John to return to Reese’s loft that evening.
“Mr. Reese.”
John looks up from his chair, strategically placed between Harold’s desk and the gate, with clear eyelines in both directions. Harold pretends not to know why John sits there. He is sprawled comfortably, one long leg stretched out in front of him and the other folded up in the chair to create a table for the book he has been pretending to read for the last hour.
“I’m all but finished here. Might I interest you in some takeout tonight?”
John doesn’t look suspicious. Nor should he. They’ve been doing this with increasing regularity for years now. He shrugs. “Sounds good Finch.”
Harold quietly congratulates himself. “Excellent. If you will make the call, I’ll quickly wrap up and we can be on our way.”
John is already pulling out his phone, dialing the familiar number for their favorite Vietnamese restaurant. Harold implements the last part of phase one. “Perhaps we can retire to your apartment. I don’t wish to go out, but eating at a table is certainly preferable to the alternative.”
John hums his acceptance.
Twenty minutes later they are walking down the sidewalk towards John’s apartment. John is holding the umbrella and the takeout bag both. Harold has Bear. Harold is completely dry, the umbrella canted in such a way as to ensure this, which likely means that John’s left arm is slowly becoming sodden with the light rain that has been coming down through the evening. Harold feels a rush of warmth at John’s quiet, constant consideration and is only more confident that what he is about to do is worth stepping outside of his comfort zone.
He would step outside of many comfort zones if it were in John’s best interests.
They reach the apartment. The moment they walk through the door Harold implements the second phase of his plan.
He quickly releases Bear from his leash, the dog free to sniff around the apartment and confirm that it was just as it was before. Then he takes the takeout bag from John and places it on the floor. John has already left the umbrella out in the hall to dry but, before he can remove his coat completely, Harold quickly slips behind him and helps him, making sure that both his palms smooth down John’s arms with the action.
Harold can feel John’s eyes on his back, always calculating, but he simply hangs the coat up. Then he presents his back to John and looks back over his shoulder, turning his neck as much as possible to raise a questioning brow.
“Will you help me?”
John’s face is expressionless, but Harold can see the question in his eyes. Nevertheless, Mr. Reese assists Harold out of his coat. It feels much better than expected to have John’s hands on his shoulders again.
Once they’re both divested of their damp outerwear, John silently retrieves the food and heads to the kitchen. They work in familiar harmony to prepare dinner. When John passes him the plates, Harold makes sure that their fingers brush together. When Harold reaches around for wine glasses, he allows his shoulder to drag, just a bit, across the space between John’s shoulder blades.
He’s intentionally being unsubtle. He wants John to know that something is different and John clearly does if the looks he’s casting Harold’s way after they sit are any indication. Of course, that could simply be because Harold has chosen to sit at the chair next to John’s right elbow rather than at the opposite end of the table as usual.
Harold continues the initial assault of his campaign over dinner.
“Can you pass the lo mein Mr. Reese?” Their hands brush again around the box.
“Oh Mr. Reese, did you see the article in the paper this morning regarding fracking?” Harold touches John’s forearm to get his attention. “It was actually quite well-researched.”
“Mr Reese, would you like more wine?” No touch there, but relaxing John is part of the objective for the evening, and a light buzz certainly won’t hurt.
John allows Harold to lead the conversation, which is normal, but he watches Harold like Harold watches his monitors when he is attempting to puzzle out a challenging bit of code.
Harold takes a sip of wine to hide his smirk.
John’s curiosity wins out over his patience after the dishes are cleared.
“What’s going on Harold?”
Harold turns to look at John, standing in the middle of the room in his shirtsleeves, his hair starting to break free from the heavy gel and his expression a little lost.
Harold gestures to the couch. “Sit down John. Please.”
John obeys without question, folding his long limbs onto the couch, his hands flat on his knees.
Harold limps forward until he stands above John, their knees brushing. John has to crane his neck a little bit to look up at Harold. “I’ve noticed that you’ve been – a little down in the dumps as of late Mr. Reese.”
John’s eyes flicker away, his head drops, trying to hide. Harold doesn’t let him, nudging with his knee until John looks up again. “I believe I’ve thought of a way to help you.”
John’s smile is harsh. “That’s kind of you Harold. But you don’t need to trouble yourself. I’ll get my head on straight.”
“I’m not being kind.” Harold snaps. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply through his nose to calm himself. When he opens them again, John is staring at him. “I care about you” Harold admits, for the first time in so many words, “and you deserve better comfort than hugging Bear where no one can see you.”
John flushes. “Of course you know about that.”
“You have nothing to be ashamed of Mr. Reese. However, though Bear is an exemplary companion,” the ‘companion’ perks his head up at the sound of his own name, “I think we can do a little better.”
John watches Harold with his typical steady patience. “What did you have in mind?”
“Do you trust me?”
“Yes.” John’s unhesitating answer is flattering in the extreme and further convinces Harold that this is right.
“Then please, just stay still.”
For the first time in their acquaintance Harold allows himself to truly look at John where John can see him watching. He lets his admiration and his affection show blatantly in his eyes. John breathes in sharply. When Harold’s eyes drag over that tantalizing dip at John’s throat, John shivers, like it was a physical touch.
Harold takes his time, savoring. When he’s done with his inspection, John’s eyes are blown wide and shine a little more brightly in the dim light of the apartment.
Harold makes his approach, pleased when John doesn’t flinch. He appears mesmerized by Harold and Harold savors the feeling.
For a split second, Harold’s fingers hover above John’s chest and Harold doubts. If John doesn’t react the way that Harold expects, this could ruin more than just their working relationship. One look at John, face tense, neck straining like he’s holding himself back, renews Harold’s resolve. He moves in.
At the first touch of Harold’s fingertips, John stiffens, his whole body taut. Harold doesn’t let it slow him, pressing his whole palm flat and wide on John’s chest, above his heart. For long moments Harold just stays in that position, waiting, watching John’s eyes, cataloguing the tension in his jaw and throat.
Suddenly, like a rubber band snapping, all that coiled tension bleeds out of John. Harold feels somewhat like a grounding strip for a lightning rod.
Harold smiles. “There, now.” He begins running his hands slowly, soothingly, over all the places on John that have tempted him for the last year. His fingertips trace the shell of John’s ear and John sighs, tilting his head into the contact. John’s pectorals and abdomen are uncharted territory that Harold eagerly explores. It isn’t a sexual touch, though Harold is distantly aware of his own mild arousal. A quick glance down confirms that John is in the same state. However, right in this moment, Harold is far more concerned with John’s emotional well-being. Sex – if needed – can come much later.
For now, Harold maps John’s hands and forearms, so strong and capable and beautiful. John is like a self-contained space heater, wonderfully warm against Harold’s skin. The coarse hair of his forearms rasps against Harold’s palm gently.
“You are so beautiful John. To me you are so beautiful. Not just your body, which is there for everyone to see, but your mind and your heart. You are a good man, a good protector.” John whimpers, his mouth a tight line. “No, don’t try to deny it. You’ll remember that I know absolutely everything about you and so you’ll trust me when I say this is true. You are good and very precious.” Harold runs his hands from John’s shoulders up behind his ears to massage the back of his neck. “And you’ve been ill-used by many people. Kara Stanton. Mark Snow. Agent Donnelly. But, most recently, by me.”
John attempts to make a small sound of protest, shifting. Harold presses him back into the couch by his chest. “It’s true. We all suffered a great loss and, though I feel some responsibility, none of us could truly have known what was going to happen.”
Harold’s hands trace the definition under John’s shirt. Harold lets the reverence he is feeling, the gratitude that such an amazing man allows Harold to be near him, bleed through in his touch. Harold leans forward, getting close.
John sighs when Harold cups his face, and then opens his strikingly blue eyes.
Harold pours all of the honesty he has into John. “No, my crime is that I have wanted this with you for many months now, but held myself back out of my own fear. I could have given you this comfort long before now. Can you forgive me?”
A tiny whimper escapes John and he presses up into Harold’s hand. “What do you need John?” In case it wasn’t already clear, Harold added, “Anything you need that’s mine to give is yours. All you have to do is ask.”
“Will you let me hold you?’
“Gladly.”
The word is barely out of Harold’s mouth before John is encasing Harold, arms and legs wrapped around the smaller man, head pressed into the crease of Harold’s neck. Harold’s legs are resting over one of John’s, John’s other leg supporting Harold’s back. It can’t be comfortable, but John clings to Harold with desperate strength. At the same time, Harold knows he is holding back, ever conscious of Harold’s limitations.
Harold rewards John by running his hands over John’s back and the nape of his neck, pressing kisses to his crown and the border where his hair meets his forehead.
“John. John.” Harold croons.
John’s body is vibrating under Harold’s hands, stress and fear and pain and so many other things finally working themselves out. Harold presses himself tighter into John’s embrace, nuzzling close when John’s breath catches in his chest.
Harold neither knows nor cares how long they stay like that. Until John’s tremors cease, until the whipcord muscles in his arms relax their desperate clinging and melt into a more natural embrace.
Harold ducks his head to press a kiss to John’s cheek.
“I thought you didn’t like to touch.” John’s voice is rough, but calm. Harold smiled.
“I believe Mr. Reese that, as usual, you are my exception.”