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It took eight blocks from the library for Bear’s ears to relax, meaning Harold’s grip on the leash had eased up. It took six more for Harold to start seeing the street again instead of just fixing on a distant point. Nine after that, Harold finally said, “Does it have to be beer?” and John grinned, because he was going to be fine.
“What did you have in mind?” he said, glad and feeling something lift off him, too, although he knew part of it would still be on his shoulders until he saw Root dead or in a maximum security prison — preferably dead, and he’d arrange to get his way if he had the chance.
He was expecting Harold to make for some wine bar or fancy restaurant, or possibly the opera or god help him the ballet, but it didn’t really matter: right now John could sit through people silently jumping around on stage waving their arms for three hours straight and still be glad. But what Harold actually said, completely calmly, was, “I’d really rather have sex.”
A lifetime of physical, military, and black ops training failed him: John twitched in surprise. He shot a look at Harold, who hadn’t noticed, at least not enough to turn his head. Harold didn’t look like he was kidding.
“Here I thought you were going to suggest the ballet,” John said, blankly. But it was slowly, inexorably taking hold of him. They were across the street from the Plaza, the entrance blazing with lights. Reception would give Bear the side-eye, but Harold would put down the pitch-black credit card and there’d be a giant suite upstairs, with an equally giant bed, and they could stay in it for hours — hell, for days, Machine permitting: people would wheel trays in and wheel them out again, the sheets could get changed while they were in the shower and the towels could get changed while they were in the bed.
He could learn secrets about Harold that even Harold didn’t know: could map out every part of his body and wring gasps out of him, watch his eyes flutter shut and spend the night by his side, confident that Root wasn’t going to get anywhere near him, that nothing was going to get anywhere near him without coming through John first.
“Well, if you’d prefer,” Harold said, “it’s true that the current production of Giselle has gotten remarkably good reviews.”
John laughed aloud, helplessly, and a tiny pleased smirk curled at the corner of Harold’s mouth, saying he knew just how badly he’d gotten John. So maybe John would be giving up some secrets of his own tonight, and learning how Harold used his hands on things other than keyboards, and that sounded pretty damn great too.
“When you put it that way,” John said, “let’s go have sex.”
(gifs from 2x03 Masquerade, feel free to use, no credit required)