Work Text:
"Mr. Reese."
John winces. The sound through the communication device is too loud, tinny.
That isn't the real problem, not the reason he says, "What," low and snappish. He's alone in his hotel room. He's gotten used to being alone, even surrounded by other warm, stinking bodies: people were even more careful with each other's privacy in a homeless shelter than they were in a barracks, which is saying something.
Finch hesitates, and John says, "Is there something you need me to do?"
John can admit, if he has to, that he really did miss having something to do. He really did not miss this feeling that at any moment, someone could say "Jump," and John would have to figure out how high and bear the consequences if he got it wrong.
"There's no number yet, though I doubt it'll be long," Finch says. "If you want to be in good working order, I suggest you have a drink right now."
John closes his eyes and grits his teeth. "Did I ask you for advice?" he says, as sweetly as he can.
If Finch is daunted, his voice shows no hint. He parries with, "Were you aware that you are in pain because of withdrawal?"
Well, as it happens, no. Usually some part or other of John is aching. On better days, it's strained muscles, well-earned soreness. Other days, he just feels awful and doesn't know why; at some point it seemed useless to keep track.
Abruptly, John's too tired to argue. He goes to the minibar and takes out a nine dollar bottle of vodka. He empties it in a gulp, fast enough not to taste it.
Finch calls twenty minutes later with a number. While tailing her, John realizes his headache is gone. It's an effort not to grit his teeth until he gets a new one.
~~
Finch keeps giving him these small reminders. "I could program them into your phone, if you'd prefer," he says, which is almost considerate for Finch, who micromanages everything.
On the other side, John didn't find decision making very rewarding when he last had to do it. It's a change.
Sometimes, if he's honest, it's a relief. At the end of a long day, Finch's voice telling John there's a prepared meal and how long to put it in the microwave means John is that much less likely to find himself a liquid dinner or go to sleep without.
Tonight, Finch catches John before he makes it to the hotel. "Turn left," Finch says into his headphones. "Left again. There is a restaurant named Blueprint a few yards ahead."
"I see it," John says, tensing.
"There's a reservation under the name Hearning. Go in and take a seat."
The table Finch got him seats one and has John's back against the wall, with an excellent view of entrances and exits, which John appreciates. "I'm in," he murmurs. "What now?"
Finch exhales. "Now, Mr. Reese, you eat."
When the server arrives, he has a tray in hand already, placing an empty plate in front of John and covering the rest of the table in a fantastic array of dishes. The smell is making John's mouth water.
It makes him snappish. "I can't eat while I'm working." He thought Harold got that already.
"You aren't working," Finch says, sounding genuinely surprised. When he continues, his voice sounds thoughtful. "I'm monitoring the restaurant and its environment. All seems quiet, and I will inform you promptly if it becomes otherwise."
John shakes his head. The way Finch talks, the rhythm of his odd pauses and word choices, takes getting used to: but John has, a little, and there's a weird charm to it. It's certainly unique.
Whatever else Finch is, he's reliable about letting John know there's danger around. John spears a few green beans on his fork, pops them in his mouth.
He makes a surprised noise. It's been a while since flavor was a concern for anything he put in his mouth. The beans are crisp and juicy, redolent of sesame oil. John enjoys the bite while it lasts.
John's not picky, and everything on the table is delicious. Every time he empties a small plate, a new one takes its place, bearing yet more kinds of food. He's full before any dish repeats.
Instead of a check, the meal ends with a single bite of meringue: it's all John has room for at this point anyway, and he carries the sweetness in his mouth when he heads out.
Usually, Finch is the one to start conversations, but John can't just let this go. He taps his earwig. "What was the point of this, Finch?"
After a short delay, Finch says, "Food should be more than filling, Mr. Reese. It should nourish."
John has no idea what this means or how it answers his question, but he's full and warm and sleepy. He figures he can wait and ask on another day.
~~
Finch's hand shows itself in increasingly odd places. John's soap is replaced by something expensive looking in a discreet bottle. "Are you saying I stink?" John says under his breath; he's in the shower, though, his earpiece out of range.
The new soap lathers nicely. It leaves John's skin so soft it feels like an alien thing, strange enough that John can like it in an abstract sort of way.
As the weather grows colder, John's bed sprouts new duvets. John, who runs hot, leaves them folded on the side of the bed and waits for Finch to disapprove.
Finch doesn't say anything, but John's linen closet has three different kinds of blankets in it the next day. The thinnest one keeps a perfect temperature to sleep in.
It's a problem. John's a field agent, and getting himself accustomed to small luxuries will do him no good in the long run.
On the other hand, just thinking about where to buy blankets makes John tired. He has enough things to do. If Finch has a hobby in buying John stuff, fine. When it stops, John will manage, like he always has before.
~~
Finch looks pale and terrified and determined, his hair sticking up even more than usual. "Please turn a little to the left." His voice trembles, just a bit.
John does what Finch says, giving Finch a good view of the gash in John's side. "Yes, this is better," Finch says, and John grits his teeth and waits for Finch to clean and dress the wound.
Even if Finch's voice shakes, his hands are steady and competent. They move in a rhythm that John finds easy to fall into, time his breaths to exhale whenever Finch puts antiseptic to a new area of skin.
He can tell when Finch is about to be done, gets himself ready to withdraw and get up and go back in the field. He's not expecting Finch to say, "And now, your hand, please."
John blinks. "I can handle that one myself, thanks." It doesn't even need handling: it's a shallow cut on the back of John's hand, one that John already washed with water and soap. It'll scab over by morning.
"So you can," Finch says, but his hand is outstretched, and John obeys, bewildered.
The cut is small enough that John barely feels the sting of the antiseptic, and then Finch is putting an honest-to-God Band-Aid on it. John laughs without meaning to, or thinking about it, a small heh, heh that might as easily be left over nerves from today's work as genuine humor.
He's expecting Finch to bristle, maybe even counting on it. Instead Finch looks up, sheepish, and say, "I realize it's a bit silly, but it eases my mind. Thank you for letting me." He squeezes John's palm before stepping away.
Falling asleep is hard that night. The wound in his side isn't anything serious, really, but it hurts enough to keep John up. It's nothing that will keep him from working: John has run jobs with multiple untreated bullet wounds and not having slept for 48 hours.
John's hand, the one Finch treated, tingles. Maybe Finch put some sort of hacker spell on him: that's the only reason that can explain his hand crawling up to the earpiece and turning it on.
On the flip side, saying, "Hey, Finch, think I should take a painkiller to help me sleep?" - that's all John.
"Of course," Finch says, readily. Like it isn't the middle of the night after a long day for them. "The side effects are negligible compared to the effect loss of sleep and long-term pain would have on your health." He comes to the end of the sentence a little too abruptly, like he has more he wants to say but doesn't.
"Go ahead, Finch," John says softly, coaxing. "Say what you were gonna say."
Finch breathes out. "And, of course," he says, "less pain right now is a sufficient reason all by itself. Suffering gains us nothing."
There's nothing in that statement John wants to argue with, although he feels Finch expects him to. He gets up, gets two pills out of the cabinet in his bathroom. He's about to swallow them dry when he stops and reaches for the small water glass next to the tap.
He can hear Finch in his mind as he does: Hydration is important, self-righteous in a way that makes John want to smile, as is not choking, Mr. Reese.
~~
By the time Harold buys him an actual apartment, John is well enough that he could do his own furniture and linen shopping if he needed to.
He doesn't. He likes the choices Harold makes, for themselves and for what they say: tiny glimpses of how Harold sees John, all the insane details Harold remembers.
Does he? John wonders, one afternoon. He's waiting for the number to come out of her office, slouching in a nearby cafe. He touches his earpiece and asks Harold, "Do you have my preferred blanket thickness on file somewhere, or have you memorized it?"
By this point, wanting to know something and asking Harold has become ingrained habit, like scanning the exits when he enters a room.
It doesn't hurt that Harold always answers, even silly questions. "On file and encrypted," Harold says, "along with your measurements and a color profile."
"A color profile," John repeats, his eyes crinkling.
Harold is ten sentences into a lecture on color psychology when the number finally leaves, and John has to go.
~~
It's John's day off. He gets up the time he usually does, but gets started on breakfast, flapping himself a small pile of golden pancakes. He hesitates with his hand on the refrigerator door, and then opens it to extract a container of heavy cream instead of the maple syrup and butter he normally eats.
He holds the hand mixer and watches the cream ripple, thickening, thinking: Harold got this for me. Harold wants me to enjoy it. The thought is a warm, sweet thrill.
The cream is whipped soon enough, and John dips a finger into it and puts it in his mouth. He closes his eyes, lets himself savor the taste, makes a happy little humming sound.
At the same time, his comm crackles, and Harold says, "Mr. Reese, I'm afraid I must-- oh dear, I apologize, am I interrupting anything?"
John's eyes fly open. It sounds like Harold is blushing, and John is fiercely sorry he isn't there in person to see Harold's expression. "Just breakfast," he says. On a whim, he adds, "Come join me. There's plenty of pancakes to share."
He's sure Harold will say no, right up to the part where Harold swallows and says, "All right."
When Harold arrives, he still looks somewhat shell-shocked. "Good morning," he tells John as he lets himself be seated. John piles some pancakes on Harold's plate and hands him a knife and fork. "Should I have given you more warning?"
It takes John a moment to understand what Harold means, then he shrugs, aware of his bare shoulders. He's wearing only an undershirt. It was his day off, after all, and the weather is warm. "I'm comfortable," John says.
"Well," Harold says. He doesn't look quite comfortable himself. If anything, he looks a little sweaty. "I'm glad that you are." He sounds honest, though, and his delighted "Mm!" when he bites into the pancakes is completely unfeigned.
As well it should be. John's pancakes are amazing, if he says so himself, and there's not a lot that can rival fresh whipped cream on top of them. John lets himself enjoy the meal thoroughly: not just the flavors, but Harold's company.
The amazing thing is, now that John is paying attention, those pleasures stack. His joy in the food is compounded by the knowledge that Harold bought him this food, not only to fill but to nourish. John thinks he gets what Harold meant by that, now.
And that is improved by knowing Harold is seeing him, that Harold knows how much John appreciates what Harold does for him.
Or-- wait. Did Harold know? John opens his eyes and sees Harold look away too fast. It's not enough to hide the flush on Harold's cheeks.
Harold sees John is about to speak, and forestalls him. "I don't want you to feel obligated," he says, miserably.
Harold's misery is the opposite of what John wants. "I'm not feeling any obligation," John says, honestly. He leans back in his chair, swipes a dollop of whipped cream off his plate and licks it off his fingers. "Right now, I just feel good. Thanks for that, Harold."
"Is this display necessary?" Harold sounds pained, but it's the fun kind of pained.
John grins at him, shrugging, enjoys the helpless way Harold's eyes linger on his shoulders. "I feel good," he repeats. "And you want me to feel good, and that makes it better."
Harold swallows. "I do want that," he says. "That's true."
There's no strategy to John's next decision. If he were thinking at all, he'd know that dropping his pants right there in his sunny kitchen, with Harold staring like he's about to have an apoplexy, was a terrible idea.
But John's not thinking, so he does, and then sits back down and spreads his legs. He's a little hard already, aimless arousal that's a combination of morning wood and a response to Harold's staring. "I can make myself feel better," John says, hand already on his cock.
"Please--" Harold's voice cracks. He swallows, and says, "Please do," in something more like his normal tones.
John rubs himself, not thinking of anything in particular, content to feel Harold's hot gaze on him, the pleasant goosebumps that come from being watched.
Of course, trust Harold to come up with a way to make it better. "I do want you to enjoy yourself," he says, hesitant. Then his voice picks up confidence, gets smoother. "Are you making yourself feel good, John?"
"I am," John groans. He wants to nod, but his head's tipped back. His spine feels too liquid to hold it up.
"That's excellent." The warmth in Harold's voice outstrips the sun. He just sounds so genuinely pleased, like John jerking off for him is the best and most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given him. "You're so good, I love to see you feel good."
John comes with a choked moan, spilling into his hand.
The kitchen is silent except for John's panting.
"Thank you," Harold says, a moment later, awkward but sincere. "If you'll give me a minute to, ah, rid myself of the distraction--"
John realizes he doesn't want that. This realization is slightly belated, coming to him when he's already on Harold, unbuttoning Harold's many layers. Harold's hands come to rest on his, gentle, and John stills.
"Are you going to let me?" he asks, before Harold can make this about guilt and obligation and debts. "I want to make you feel good." He pushes Harold's shirt up and kisses Harold's stomach. "Let me."
Harold's hands fall away. "All right," he says, sounding dazed.
Harold's cock is good in John's mouth, smooth and red and wet for him already. John smiles at Harold with his eyes and sucks Harold's cock, one long uninterrupted draw until Harold groans and spills. Harold's skin smells like the fancy soap he still buys for John.
John closes his eyes once more. There's a number, and they need to talk about it; but first John wants to let himself enjoy this, Harold's closeness and his hands on top of John's head.
Then Harold sighs, grips John's hair and shakes him gently, making John shiver with unexpected pleasure. "This is going to be a vicious cycle, isn't it," Harold says.
John would protest, say he has no intention of using this newfound revelation to fluster Harold, but it's too obvious a lie to be worth telling. He's already starting to get hard again, thinking of desire and enjoyment echoing back and forth between him and Harold like a shout in a canyon. "Consider it turn about," he tells Harold instead. "No good deed goes unpunished."