Chapter Text
When he’d left the library, he’d felt like he’d dodged a bullet. It didn’t seem that Finch really remembered much of the night before.
If Finch asked him outright what had happened, and he was certain Finch eventually would, he’d confine his answer to how he’d avoided letting Finch talk while in the thrall of the MK-ULTRA. Whether Finch believed him or not, and he suspected that Finch being Finch he wouldn’t, they would still be in territory that would allow them to continue to work together and he really needed this job.
And Harold, he really needed Harold. That thought played over and over again in his mind as he bought coffee and started walking the streets looking for trouble. There was never anything quite like a physical altercation – damn, how much influence was Finch having on him? – for getting his head back in the game.
For once, he had no luck at all in finding trouble to get into and that left him sitting in a diner, picking at a cheeseburger and fries, going over and over it. He tried to be honest with himself. Had there been an alternative course of action available or had he just used the situation as an excuse to do what he’d wanted to do? He couldn’t be an objective witness but he felt guilty as hell and in the end that was damning enough. He had to tell Finch and let the chips fall where they might. He paid the tab and headed back to the library.
Finch was at his desk, too intensely focused on his monitors to have even noticed him come in.
“Finch.”
Finch’s face reddened like he’d caught him doing something embarrassing.
He resisted the temptation to step around the desk so he could see the monitors, but only just.
“There’s still no new number, Mr. Reese.”
“I came here to apologize.” All right, it was a good start. He could do this.
“Apologize for what?”
A puzzled look suited Finch more than it should have. He really had it bad.
He had harbored some small hope that Finch had been faking his memory loss and that explaining wouldn’t actually be this hard but Finch really couldn’t remember.
“I took advantage of you.” He felt like cringing as he blurted that out. It sounded like a plot device in a romance novel (he’d read some of Snow’s secret stash when desperate for something to read) and this was anything but a romance.
“No, you didn’t.”
Did he remember?
“Detective Carter told me that you didn’t interrogate me and wouldn’t let her do it either.”
Apparently not. “That’s not why I’m apologizing.” He was staring at his own feet but forced himself to meet Finch’s eyes. “After Carter dropped us off, I took you to my apartment. You couldn’t settle, wouldn’t go to sleep.”
Finch stared at him with nothing but curiosity.
“The drug— you had an erection that lasted over an hour.”
Finch adjusted his glasses. “Priapism. I believe it’s a relatively common side effect.”
“So I fixed it for you.”
Finch raised one eyebrow. “You fixed it for me?”
“I tried to get you to take care of yourself, but you were out of it.” He gripped the edge of the desk. “You were turning purple, Finch.”
“Purple?”
“So I tried a hand job.” He realized he was blushing, couldn’t remember the last time that it had happened. “Thought it was the least— personal option, but it didn’t work.”
“Oh?”
“So I used my mouth on you.”
“And?”
And? “That worked. I’m sorry, Finch.”
“Why?”
“Because you were drugged and you wouldn’t have wanted it if you weren’t.”
Finch leaned back in his chair, obviously deep in thought. Reese thought about begging for forgiveness but was pretty sure Finch would just think it a ruse so he stood and waited for judgment.
“You administered what amounted to first aid and now you’re feeling guilty about it. There’s nothing to feel guilty about. Unless there’s something else?”
“No, nothing else.” Honesty might just kill him but he couldn’t stop now. “I enjoyed it, Finch.”
“Then we both got something out of it.” Finch’s phone started to ring. “Let it go, Mr. Reese, I believe we may have a new number to worry about.”
The relief was so immense he folded into the chair next to the desk to wait for the details.
It had been an ugly case, a wife working with her husband’s mistress to kill him and split his assets. They’d both obviously been besotted with him until they’d found out about each other and, unluckily for him, a confrontation between the women had resulted in an unlikely partnership.
He’d turned them over to Carter and had started to make his way back to his car, amazed, for once, to be walking away totally unscathed.
Finch had been listening in on his conversation with Carter, he knew the particular resonance of a Finch-laden silence, so he wasn’t surprised when Finch spoke up as he crossed the street.
"Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point."
“It doesn’t have to, Finch, not when it’s right.”
He shouldn’t have snapped. Finch was silent as Reese walked the next two blocks.
“I’ve been in love before.”
He stopped dead in the middle of the sidewalk. He hadn’t expected any response from Finch beyond a terse ‘I’ll call you when we have another number, Mr. Reese.’ Perhaps Finch was ready to open up of his own volition, no truth drugs necessary. He continued walking, smirking at the thought of a gabby Finch. Next thing he knew they’d be having slumber parties and painting each other’s toenails. He stopped walking again, hit by the visceral memory of Finch spread out under him on the hotel bed. He had to admit that the slumber party idea held a certain allure.
“Mr. Reese? Are you still there?”
What did people say in response to personal revelations like this? Normal people, people used to having normal conversations, not used to conducting interrogations with a pair of pliers and a heat lamp.
“How’d that go?” He was definitely better with a heat lamp.
The sounds of Finch walking around the library stopped and Reese held his breath.
“The first time? They loved each other more. I feel they made the right choice and their son is like a nephew to me. The second time? Well… It's no use going back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.”
“What?”
“Wisdom from Lewis Carroll. I’ll be in touch when we have another number.”
“Wait!” Instinct was niggling at the back of his mind, something Finch had said, the way he’d said it. “Before?”
“Pardon?”
“You said, you’d been in love before.’”
“A mere slip of the tongue. Goodnight, Mr. Reese.”
“Finch. Finch?”
Finch had broken the connection.
He wasn’t going home. He was going to the library to lay his cards on the table. Not an easy thing to do for a man who’d always been taught to have three aces up his sleeve, just in case.
He couldn’t find any trace of Finch in the computer room or in any of the nearby spaces they’d adapted for their use. It had taken him almost forty-five minutes to get back to the library so perhaps Finch had gone home already. A quick glance at the monitors showed programs running.
Finch had mentioned, in passing, converting a space on the upper floor. He took the stairs slowly at first, strangely reluctant to bring this thing to a head. He was so ambivalent halfway up that he turned around and started back down the stairs again.
Honesty was the problem. How the hell was he supposed to fake it?
He started up the stairs again, two at a time, thinking he’d wing it, like he did everything else.
The next floor was divided into small rooms that had been offices and study carrels when the library had been open. He’d worked his way halfway around the floor before his progress was stopped by a locked fire door. He stepped back and looked up towards the ceiling. He couldn’t actually see a camera but knew that it would be there, so he raised one hand in a casual salute and waited for a response. When none came, he gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and backed up to lean against the opposite wall, making it clear from his relaxed posture that he was settling in for the long haul.
He stood there for another twenty minutes before he heard the door’s lock click open and he walked through, hearing the lock click back behind him. Now he knew he was in the right place. He went through another fire door that clicked open as he walked towards it that then opened into a small room still lined with its original bookshelves, groaning under the weight of books. The room was sparsely but comfortably furnished with a large couch, a reading chair and old rugs spread across the wooden floor and a small basic galley kitchen on one end. There were three doors leading off the room and he was tempted to keep searching for Finch – he shook off the memory of his sisters playing the Mystery Date game – but now he’d made it this far he wasn’t sure exactly what he wanted to say, or even if it should be said at all.
Better to just leave. Decision made, he turned and was actually gripping the fire door handle when Finch spoke.
“Leaving so soon, and after you went to such a great deal of effort to get in here?”
All he had to do was turn around and say it was just another case of curiosity killed the spy and then he could be on his way. Perhaps he’d just keep moving right out of New York, perhaps even out of the country. He still knew ways to cross borders but he’d never run away from anything in his life – he ruthlessly stifled the small voice whispering ‘except from relationships’ – and turned to face Finch, so busy with his own thoughts he was totally unprepared.
Finch was barefoot, dressed only in a paint spattered deep blue v-neck t-shirt and jeans.
“What do you want?” Finch was standing in an open doorway, the one all the way to the right. “Mr. Reese?” Finch moved across the floor towards him, a worried frown wrinkling his brow.
He could do this. He’d faced down assassins and, much more terrifyingly, amorous ambassadors’ wives before. He could do this.
“Did you get hit on the head?” Finch rested one hand on Reese’s arm as he looked him over. “John, can you speak?”
He had Finch backed up against the bookshelves and was kissing him before he’d even finished thinking that it was the worst idea he’d ever had. As Finch wasn’t kissing back, he was right. He let Finch go, stepping away.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that.”
Finch ran a finger across his lips. “What brought this on?”
“Why are you dressed like that?”
Finch looked confused even though Reese had answered his question truthfully, if not straightforwardly.
“Can’t a man relax in the privacy of his own library?”
“You’re totally relaxed in formal wear. What’s going on?”
“Nothing.”
He was really, really tired. “If you’re going to be evasive, I’m going to be forced to investigate and I don’t think either one of us wants that. Just tell me.”
“I was painting.”
“I would have helped, all you had to do was ask.”
“Not that sort of painting, come on, I’ll show you.”
Frankly, he would have followed Finch’s denim encased ass anywhere.
Finch walked back into the small room he’d emerged from which turned out to be a small office combined with an art studio. On the easel was a half-finished painting of the city skyline.
“I haven’t painted in years but this room gets such good light I couldn’t resist.”
He stepped closer to the painting. He didn’t know much about art but it was emotive, not just a well executed copy of the skyline. “It’s good, Finch.”
“Thank you. Now, if your curiosity is quite satisfied, I’d like to get back to it.”
He was turning to leave when he spotted the row of canvases propped up in a rack in the corner. He moved over to them, admiring the painting at the front of the rack, a cabin bathed in tree dappled light.
Finch stepped up behind him. “My grandfather’s lake house. I often paint from memory.”
He would have stepped away then, but something in the feel of Finch’s hand on his arm urging him away triggered his instincts, the sure and certain knowledge that he needed to see more of the paintings. He reached for the corner of the canvas.
“Please, Mr. Reese, I must insist you leave now.”
Reese flipped the painting carefully forward, not sure what he’d find, perhaps just another clue to Finch’s background.
He was looking at a painting of himself. Naked, glistening with sweat, arm and chest muscles flexed with effort, looking downwards, biting his lip in concentration, his eyes hazy. The painting stopped just above his hips but he knew it was how he would have looked to Harold while he was riding his cock. He looked— even given the subject matter, it was so much more than sexual, it was a declaration.
He turned to Finch, who looked miserable. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have painted it.”
This time when he kissed Harold, after a slight hesitation Harold kissed back leaning in closer, hands on Reese’s chest. He slid a hand to Harold’s denim covered ass, squeezing, his other hand starting on Harold’s zipper. He would have preferred to go slower but was worried that at any moment Harold would come to his senses and end it. He wasn’t surprised therefore when Finch stepped back and he didn’t attempt to hold on. So he’d misread the painting, creating beauty had never been his gift.
“I’m not up to rolling around on the floor anymore, but there’s a futon in the next room.” Harold took his hand. “If you want, John.”
“I want.”
He woke up sore and aching in a small dark windowless room that reeked of sex and sweat. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so happy. He stretched, feeling the sting of the bite on his collarbone, before reaching out. The other side of the futon was cold and empty.
He sat up, fumbling to turn on the small bedside light. If Finch had bolted again he was going to hunt him down and—
The door swung open as Harold entered, carrying a tray with mugs and a couple of plates of toast and scrambled eggs on it. Harold put it down on the bedside table and leaned over carefully to kiss him. He started to snake a hand into Harold’s dressing gown but Harold stood back up.
“Eat first, John.”
He liked the sound of first and watched from hooded eyes as Harold took one of the mugs and a plate and walked around to prop himself up on the other side. He shifted slightly, to bring his shoulder in to closer contact with Harold’s, before reaching for his own plate.
They ate in companionable silence until the text alert sounded on Harold’s phone. Harold put his plate down and pulled his phone out of his dressing gown pocket.
He wasn’t sure he liked the little amused smile on Harold’s face as he tucked his phone back into his pocket.
He put his own plate down. “Something I should know?”
Harold frowned, but then said “It was Denham. He wanted to know if I’m available for dinner.”
“You’re not. I don’t share, Harold.”
“I fear you’re a little presumptuous, Mr. Reese.”
Finch was right, he was. They hadn’t discussed this thing between them at all, not while he’d been totally focused on how to get Harold to fuck him harder without damaging Harold in the process. He’d wanted to remember it for days, every time he sat down, and he would. Just as well, as he wasn’t sure now it would ever be repeated.
“This is an equal partnership.”
He jerked his head up to turn and stare at Harold who was unconsciously plucking at the sheets.
“What about your… friends at the Moonlight bar or McDougalls?”
He should have known Finch would know all about his casual hookups. “Done. And you?”
“Denham and I— well, he has something more in mind than I do.”
He shouldn’t say anything more, didn’t have the right to ask. “But you stayed the night with him.” And you don’t do casual. He hoped to god he was right about that but then where did that leave him? Did Harold want both of them? He thought about Denham’s hands on Harold and felt his own hands tighten in to fists. Just for once, he wanted something all his own.
“It’s embarrassing. I fell asleep on his couch watching the late news. He threw a blanket over me and left me to it. It was stupid of me and I paid for it the next day.”
“Your limp was worse.”
“You noticed?”
“I was looking for any clue, Harold.” He took a deep breath. “So, do we have a deal?”
“Done, John.”
Understanding reached, he rolled to hover over Harold. He was sore, too sore really for what he had in mind, but if Harold were willing he wanted him again. Harold pushed against his chest, apparently unwilling. Reese rolled back slightly, wincing with the change of position.
“Just as I thought.” Finch’s hand rose to cup Reese’s jaw.
Apparently Harold was going to look out for him whether he wanted him to or not.
“Harold.”
“John… Is it your preference, to bottom?”
He carefully considered Harold’s intonation. He’d initially thought it wasn’t physically an option for Harold, but now he wasn’t so sure. Did Harold want him to beg for it? Was Harold looking for a promise of his submission? It wasn’t particularly his thing but he really didn’t have a preference and, if that was what Harold wanted, he could accommodate him.
He stared at Harold’s face for so long, trying to read him, that Harold was moved to speak again. “I asked you a simple question.”
And in the end, that was exactly what it was, a simple question. “No preference. You?”
“None. Like you, I never take anything I’m not prepared to give. I have my limitations but we can work around them.”
Harold’s face reddened and Reese thought briefly about offering reassurances only to realize it might well offend more than comfort. Instead, he kissed Harold, working the belt of his dressing gown loose to caress his chest and sides, enjoying Harold’s breathless laugh as he accidentally tickled him. He slid down the bed taking Harold’s cock into his mouth, holding his hips firmly to stop him bucking up and possibly hurting himself. After just a few minutes Harold touched his hair, drawing him back up. “I want you in me, John.”
Harold swung his legs around to sit before standing up, shedding his dressing gown in the process. He grabbed a couple of pillows and piled them on the carpet by the side of the futon. John could see immediately what he planned to do and grabbed the lube and a condom as he came around the futon to join Harold, taking him in his arms and kissing him, gasping as Harold caressed his cock.
Harold went slowly to his knees on the pillows, carefully lowering his upper body across the futon, supporting his face on his crossed arms. He slid in behind Harold, slicking up his fingers, but found he was hesitant to go further.
Something about all the maneuvering just seemed too clinical, almost like something at the doctor’s office and while he had no problem with playing doctor if Harold were so inclined, that feeling probably had a lot to do with Harold’s hesitation in mentioning his limitations.
He could fix it. He bent low over Harold’s back and started kissing and licking his way down Harold’s spine, careful not to apply too much pressure, pleased when a low moan escaped Harold. When he reached Harold’s ass he bit him, not hard enough to draw blood but hard enough to leave a mark. Harold’s moans grew louder, so it wasn’t just that he liked to bite, good to know. He bit the other cheek, just for good measure, before spreading Harold with his thumbs and licking him. Harold gasped and pushed back against him as far as he could, an unmistakable signal to continue.
He was happy to oblige, having always loved using his mouth on his lovers, loving the feeling of them coming slowly apart beneath him. He licked and prodded, varying speed, listening to the messages Harold’s body was returning, settling in finally to long, slow licks and firm pressure against the ring of muscle. When Harold started panting, John rolled the condom on to his cock, slicked up his fingers again and started opening Harold up while licking and biting his lower back and ass.
“Now, John.”
He entered Harold slowly, anxious to give him time to adjust as Harold had been really tight around his fingers. That same tightness around the head of his cock had him fighting the instinctive urge to thrust, to take, not sure just how much Harold could really handle and unwilling to ask him. He withdrew a little and eased further back in, slowly, inch by inch until he was all the way in. Now they were both panting as he rocked slowly into Harold, biting his lip as he concentrated on keeping that easy pace, Harold’s body drawing him back in again and again.
“If you don’t start— fucking me— soon— John— I’ll tell— Fusco— about you— being a Rockette,” Harold panted out.
If that’s what Harold wanted, that’s what he’d get and with pleasure. He braced Harold’s hips with his hands and drew almost all of the way out before slamming home again and again, his thrusts accompanied by a litany of encouraging beautiful filth from a gasping Harold, but even that died out as he snaked a hand around Harold to caress his cock, bringing him off in a few strokes, his own orgasm hitting him a couple of thrusts later.
He lowered himself carefully over Harold again, kissing his back and nuzzling his neck before withdrawing carefully, dealing with the condom and leaning back against the futon, reaching out a hand to caress the side of Harold’s face.
Harold slowly levered himself up from the bed, using Reese’s arm as a brace, before turning around to lie down on the futon again. Reese followed him, moving closer to share the corner of Harold’s pillows, throwing one arm across Harold’s chest.
Most people understood how to live but knew nothing of dying. He’d always known he was going to die violently before he made old bones but apart from a few golden moments along the way, his early childhood, Jessica, he’d known little about living. Now, he was in love for the last time.
He should tell Harold. “Are you comfortable? Can I get you anything?”
Harold murmured a sleepy ‘fine, I’m fine,’ patting his arm.
Harold didn’t know any more about living than he did, but together they’d figure out whatever life was left to them. He went to sleep.