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Afterwards, Reese realised, he had hope.
Finch never approached him about the night, as Reese never thought he would. No words, no awkward acknowledgement, no putting it in the open for all to see, but an understanding. A bodily manifestation of the trust that they now held, so perilously fragile; a look, a smile, a cup of warm tea; a soft murmur over the comm line, a hand on his shoulder, and hovering proximity as they stood close to each other. It was everything he had and more, everything he dared not to ask for and not enough, all at the same time. A new kind of hope burned in Reese's chest now, fierce and unrelenting, and it almost consumes him.
He hangs around in the library more. Long after he should have clocked out, Reese stays behind and wanders the halls, thumbing through the books that he started to read but never got to finish. He cleans his arsenal over and over again, and stores them away from Finch's mildly disapproving glance. He sits in the armchair opposite and watches Finch work, a constant sound that he had grown to like as music. He brings late night takeaways when Finch became jittery with hunger, and leaves just before Finch shows signs of leaving himself. But he is there more now, staring out the window onto the sleepless city, and turning at every sound with a strange hollowness in his chest that he does not know how to fill. He stays, the hope lodging somewhere between the tiny fragment of a dream and reality, it hisses and burns, and he wishes he knew how to make it stop.
Then, one day, Finch goes and sets his kindling hope on fire.
"Tell me what you want," Finch says, as if his desire had been naked and open from the moment he had set eyes on him. Reese freezes as he turns, the book he was pretending to read falling readily onto the floor with a hard thump, much like his missed heartbeat. He says nothing.
"Tell me what you want," Finch repeats, softer now. His voice was level and expression neutral, yet his eyes bear deep into the part of Reese's mind that Reese himself dared not to look. These simple words unleash something in Reese's chest with such momentous force that he almost reels over, unable to come up with an appropriate answer.
"John," Finch says, "You haven't been sleeping." Not disapproval, not worry, but stating a fact. "Sleep is a biological inevitability," he continues, a calm deliverance that is oddly comforting, "I'd rather it didn't happen when you are in the field. Tell me what you want."
Reese blinks. In the low light his eyes carried a strange haunting quality, a split second of naked fear that dissipates quickly into the controlled neutrality of his expression. He looks as if he's about to say something, and is tortured by it; Finch waits patiently as his jaw tenses into a hard line, then relaxes fractionally.
"I don't know," Reese says, finally. A rough, vague admission that reveals more than it ought to, because Finch nods. Something shifts in Finch's expression, almost imperceptible, and Reese suddenly realises that Finch, like himself, had been tense in waiting for a response. A dance of sorts: blind movement, tentaive feelings.
"Perhaps if you would allow me your trust," Finch says, quietly.
Reese smiles.
They end up at one of Finch's safe houses, a large studio apartment strangely reminiscent of Reese's own. Instead of wooden floors and bright airy windows, there are thick carpets and velvet curtains - a sense of complete privacy. A large bed sat in the middle of the room, unslept. An atomic clock hangs on the wall: 1:17am.
Reese turns at the sound of keys being clattered onto the table. Finch is standing near the doorway, looking at him with eyes that again waited - a chance for him to change his mind.
He doesn't.
It takes all his self control to rein the rising beast in his chest; he watches silently as Finch closed the door, turned on the thermostat, shook off his coat and took off his shoes, like he did. Finally Finch steps closer.
"Normally I would offer you a drink and some conversation," Finch says, halfway between a joke and an apology, "But perhaps we should leave that for later."
Reese feels the corner of his lips lift upwards. "Later is good," he says, and finds his voice smoky, tangled with the promise of the night. Finch smiles back, a flitting glimpse of the man that is used to the banter and quick fire exchange, and then it dissipates. Finch straightens: there is a subtle yet palpable change in his expression and body language, one that spoke of soft confidence and effortless command, and Reese has to fight to suppress a shiver.
"Find a comfortable position," Finch says softly.
Reese hesitates briefly, meeting his gaze; there is a strange equanimity in Finch's eyes, where he finds solace. Then, in one fluid, graceful motion, Reese kneels down.
Finch does not act surprised, his calm composure betraying nothing. When Reese looks up, Finch's face is impassive, non judgemental; he simply nods and proceeds to sit on the bed in front of him.
"Good," Finch says, when Reese has straightened his back to face him. He does not break eye contact. "I want you to rescind control to me, John." His voice is quiet yet emphatic, and something unravels at Reese's chest as the words drop one by one into the silence. "Just here. Just tonight."
Reese's eyes flutter close, and he exhales a long, absolving breath. "Yes," Reese says, not trusting himself to say more.
"At any time you want to stop," Finch begins, but does not finish the sentence. They both know and trust better than this now, and much goes unsaid. Reese nods firmly, once.
Reese's breath quickens as Finch produces two pieces of silk cloth from the nightstand. Finch unfolds each carefully, laying them out on Reese's lap, as if offering them for inspection. Reese looks up again, eyes beseeching.
"I'm going to blindfold you and bind your hands," Finch says, calmly. "So that you can better focus. I do not mean these as a restraint," he adds, "Only a reminder that I have asked for your trust and control."
Reese nods again.
"Take off your suit," Finch instructs. "Hands behind your back, please."
The binding is like everything he had grown accustomed to with Finch, gentle yet firm; symbolic in holding its place, yet never tight enough so that he cannot escape. A ghost of a smile linger on his lips as he meets Finch's gaze again, expectant this time.
"It's alright," Finch tells him, the soft promise and a faint smile being the last thing he sees before the blindfold engulfs him, "I have you."
He waits. Finch's hands smoothes over the fabric and slides into his hair, a firm, heartwarming caress, and Reese curves his lips upwards, just a little. For a moment it seems Finch is content just sitting there, running his hand through Reese's hair, and that is almost enough; for it has been a long, long time since anyone had done anything similar to Reese with such aching tenderness. Then Harold's voice permeates the softened touch, fresh and clear like the fine sun on a crisp winter day.
"I have trusted very few people in my life," Finch begins, abruptly, though it sounds less like a confession and more of a statement. "Trying to find someone to levy the secret of The Machine was a monumental task, one that on many occasions, I thought I would never accomplish." He paused. "Then I came upon your information."
Warm hards gently tug at the root of his hair, thoughtful, careful, a thorough exploration. Reese says nothing. Finch is silent for a few moments before continuing.
"First I read your file," Finch says, the tone slow and deliberate, "Then I watched you." Fingers trail down to the back of Reese's neck and up again, making tiny hairs stand on its end. "Then I followed you. Then I approached you," The touch linger over his forehead, down his cheek, where it rubs over a recent bruise. "Then..."
Reese angles his head upwards. Finch's voice has trailed off, but the thought hangs thick in the air. Finch's hands are barely touching his cheek now, though the thin warmth never breaks, it ghosts over his face with an itch that he can't quite get. Finch breathes deep, in and out again.
"Then I saw you," he says finally, soft. A confession, a revelation, a wonderment; the words cuts through Reese's remaining senses with palpable significance. Finch trails his hands downwards, over the tiny lines at the corner of his mouth, trying to smooth it out; finding it painful, remembered, mesmerising.
"There are very few choices in my life that I have made without regret," Finch continues, after a while. His voice is strangely level, betraying none of the emotion that bleeds from the light caress of his fingertips. "I want you to have the knowledge that you are among the few."
Reese's chest heaves; once, twice, out of sync, the lines of his lips thin; and Finch knows. He lowers his hand to the nape of Reese's neck, hovers over the collarbones, and with slow, deliberate confidence, unbuttons Reese's shirt.
A gust of chill breeze against Reese's skin, replaced momentarily by dotted, radiant warmth that sets fire everywhere it touches. Light, revering caresses, kisses made by fingertips. Reese lets out a shuddering breath he didn't know he was holding, and leans imperceptibly forward; more.
"May 2001," Finch begins suddenly, a strange softness in his voice, "March 2002. December 2005. February 2011..."
It takes Reese a full moment to realise that these were the dates of his major injuries, each time leaving a visible scar. Finch's fingers shadow over each bump and raise, hollow and jagged edge, slow and solemn, venerating. It takes him no time at all to realise that he is being worshipped, and each feathery touch burns, and each breath catches so hard it hurts.
"...June 2006, July 2003, March 2008," Finch continues, his voice growing softer, his touch contrite. Finally he stops. "I'm sorry I wasn't there to save you, John," and Reese abruptly realises his fingers are rested against his left chest, where the heart lies.
There should be a sound, but there isn't. Finch's breathing is even, his hands still, but a shadow of a warmth comes closer now, and wraps him whole. The smell of a particular brand of aftershave that Finch uses, shaken with the cool night air, and something else distinctive; something that reminds him of old books and dusty corridors, a glint of the lazy afternoon sun. In his mind's eye a man with no name turns, the edge of his glasses reflects a shattered piece of the golden ray, and he smiles; a small, genuine smile, haunted, but courageous, the most beautiful thing Reese has ever seen.
Something collapses inside Reese's chest; it takes all of his sanity to contain the visceral pain. Reese breathes, once, twice, scrambles for his voice, and finds it ragged, with an edge that bleeds.
"You did," he says, simply, into Finch's half embrace, the breath at the end of it drawn out into a shaking sigh. He feels Finch bending down towards him, in a position that might have imposed difficulty on his physical condition, but Finch betrays nothing. His hands never left Reese's body, smoothing out old tension and new strain, agile fingers working on every source of tightness with composed coolness, assured, unwavering.
"Yes," Finch murmurs, a spell that binds him, "I have you now."
Reese turns his head, just a little, and Finch does not back away; the tip of Reese's ear meets with Finch's lip, and there is a pause. Finch recants his sturdy stroke to a quiet caress, and kisses his ear.
The whole of Reese's body shakes uncontrollably, a violent seismic activity that rolls from the deep, yet when it reaches the surface, it is but a fine tremor, a hitch of a breath, and an indiscernible lean sidewards; and Finch knows. He shadows his kisses upwards, to Reese's temple, where it lingers, and onto the forehead, mapping every inch of skin with excruciating care.
"Finch," Reese breathes, the word caught between his teeth and struggles, "Please," though he doesn't know what he is pleading for. There is an aching hardness in his chest and his trousers, both threatening to burst free, with a life of its own. A carousing mix of desire and need, of uncertainty and fear, of hope against hope, a glimmer of sparks that finally rages into a storm of fire.
Finch's breath hovers somewhere close, lips drawing back, fingers light over the phantom burn marks they had left, and he closes in again.
"Let it go," Finch says, quiet and affirming. "I have you."
Finch presses a feathery light, yet blazing warm kiss to the blindfold, and Reese's eyes flutter rapidly under the caress. His chest heave uncontrollably, and when Finch draws back, a few dots of deeper colour seeped out of the black cloth, making it inconceivably darker. Where Reese cannot see, Finch's eyes grow softer, and with an almost inaudible sigh, he presses his palm to the strained outline of Reese's trousers.
Reese shudders, yet makes no sound. A single tear escapes from the constrain of the blindfold, down his cheek, though Reese does not pay heed to it. Finch wipes it away, firmly, and trails down his neck, where it dries.
"I have you," Finch repeats, with indulging patience and solemnity, as if waiting for him to finally see, the promise that he is offered over and over again. "Let go, John. I have you."
Reese inches imperceptibly forward; the fabric of Finch's shirt rub against his exposed skin, phantom warmth flowing between them. The hand on his trouser begins to move, slowly, maddeningly, and he is freed; Reese gasps.
"Please," he chokes. Every remaining sense crashes at him like a wave, and Reese has to fight with everything he has just to keep his head above water. "Just. Please."
Finch brushes a hand over his hair again, a token for comfort, and gently tugs. Reese stands up, obediently, and lets capable hands guide him onto the bed. Finch makes a point to never break contact, holding a sense of resoluteness in his hands, at times wiping away the pain, at times kindling the need. He lets Finch remove his trousers, easily and steadily, and lets those hands stroke his knees, where it had made contact with the carpet. He lets Finch catalogue the scars on his thigh, the same way Finch did with the injuries on his torso, though this time Finch is silent, with a quiet reverie and less guilty regret. An awareness now, of the dance that they both partake without knowledge, a to and fro with intricate movements, and one that culminates in a touch, a word, a promise, a connection to the world.
Scorching warmth engulfs him without warning, and Reese sucks in a sudden, staccato of breath. Finch's lips settle around his cock, slowly, poised, taking his time to find a comfortable position, at ease. Reese gives up; he is submerged underneath the water, the deep, deep sea of everything that came before and after, and every breath that is now, now, now. More than anything he wants to touch, to run his hands through Finch's hair and let the short strands bite at his fingertips, but he doesn't. His whole body goes rigid, the entirety of his senses focused on what he is being given, without reserve, without control, without the need to input, to observe, to find an appropriate response; nothing is expected of him and this is his, just his. Something unravels deep inside Reese, he relaxes against intuition, and let the waves carry him; Finch's caresses never stop, never breaks, and each touch adds to the fire that is raging beyond salvage. Finch takes him whole and again, runs his tongue under him and over the slit as he had once promised, in appreciation and naked want, and Reese nearly breaks. There is a dull ache in his mind that he can't remedy, an ever expanding pain that beats with his heart, an inconceivable surge of emotions that he can't put his fingers on - happiness, he finds, after a wondrous moment, happiness with wanton abandon - and he lets out a broken breath that is more of a sob.
Finch's lips nuzzle at the base of his cock, tender and affectionate; for a brief moment he thought Finch was going to say something, but he didn't. A slight shuffling of fabric, and warm fingers wrap around him again, patiently, enticingly, pushing him over the edge.
"Oh," Reese says, blinking rapidly underneath the blindfold, unable to contain the quiver any longer, "Oh."
A hand comes up behind his head and supports him here, ground him, holding him, while another works around his length with such intimate expertise that Reese wonders if this really is their first time. Every remaining thought he had dissipates into the rapid movement of Finch's fingers, and every breath he takes is awash with Finch's scent, indulging, overwhelming, safe. The flames burn free now, setting every inch of his skin ablaze, and he is close, so close -
"John," Finch whispers, a quiet flutter in his voice, "I will keep you."
Reese gasps; Finch's lips meet him halfway. Every nerve ending in his body is misfiring in every direction, and he almost forgets how to respond, but it comes naturally and without prompt. He leans into the kiss with desperation and abandon, sated and at the same time not enough, while Finch works him tirelessly and with cherished attention, and he thinks yes, no, no more, yes -
Finch undoes the blindfold in one, swift motion, and gentle light floods his sight. In the final moment before he spirals towards oblivion, he sees Finch's face, the expression naked and compelling, the eyes intent and beseeching, aching, aching with the exact pain he is feeling, and Reese shatters.
He is floating on the sea, with gleaming sunshine, warmth and a taste that is slightly salty, until someone calls his name. The voice he recognises, calm and gentle, commanding without domineering, trusting without doubt, and he snaps back into the present.
Finch is looking at him, a tiny smile upon his lips, with eyes bright and soft like the early dawn. "John," he says, the tone of his voice making clear that it isn't the first time he has called Reese's name. Fingers still caressed at Reese's back, and it takes Reese three seconds to realise that he has slumped unceremoniously forward, into Finch's bodily embrace.
He blinks. "Harold," he says, and makes an attempt to straighten, though Finch does not appear to mind. Light fingers dragged across his back and chest again, resting at the nape of his neck, where it gently massaged a sore spot. He looks at Finch, a thousand questions and a million answers, and Finch looks back.
"I mean what I say," he tells him, eyes dark with pledge and resolve,"If you'll allow me."
Reese says nothing, his expression set and resolute, his eyes burning. With one graceful tug Finch unties his hands; he grabs Finch's face before the binds could even fall away and kisses him again, fervent, beholden, defying the need for an answer. Finch kisses back; tender at first, adoring, reassuring, then the urgency catches up with him, and his hands curl amidst Reese's hair, and his lips bear the same shuddering desperation and yearning, and he doesn't stop. Ten seconds, one minute, an eternity. Finally something settles in Reese's chest, a final piece of the puzzle that falls into place, a gaping wound that has been remedied, and an emptiness that is now lived in. He tastes the slightly salty sea again and feels Finch's breathing finally breaking rhythm; the depth of his emotion reciprocated, multiplied, and climaxes; they push into each other, tighten their grip, skin against skin and bone against bone, injury against injury and heart against heart, finally, finally.
"John," Finch chokes out in between gasps of air, "I will... I will..." He looks like he's struggling for words, for once incompetent in his voice, and it is the most courageous and endearing thing Reese has seen in his life. Reese presses his forehead to Finch's, and feels the flutter of lashes against his.
"So will I," Reese says, smiling soft and fond, "So will I."
FIN