(really late) gift exchange fill for kerry_louise
Apologies for the extreme lateness of this little fill! I realise it may not be what you were longing for, but I hope you like it anyway, kerry_louise!
Title: Proof of Purchase
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: Finch and John get a little close for comfort; but whose?
It isn't really that Harold practices self-delusion. He merely prefers to filter for practicalities. It is in no way practical to interpret John's actions and behaviour as anything other than what they are - a chameleon's habitual tendency to blend, a survivalist's ability to adapt. His flirting - because let's be honest, that's what it is; the cheeky, teasing smiles he throws Harold, the occasionally suggestive and leading comments, the way he casually touches Harold despite his obvious personal boundaries - is nothing Harold should pay attention to. They are John's instinctive responses to someone who he perceives as holding all the cards just as his attempts to uncover Harold secrets had been. When that line of enquiry had failed, he merely changed tactics. That's all it is. It's entirely nothing personal.
Of course, that theory doesn't particularly account for what Harold feels in the confines of the space they're crammed into together. It had happened so quickly. Harold had been patching a spybox into a Carlisle Industries communications array on the twentieth floor of the company's Manhattan offices when the location beacon for their current number, one Franklin Mondry, had lit up. This had been followed promptly by John’s calm, "Finch? You'd better be done, because our number's on his way up." Harold had hastily disconnected, scooped up his kit and-
Well, there had only been one place to hide on the entire, sparsely furnished floor - inside the cabinet housing the array itself. John could probably take Mondry in a fight, but they’d already discussed it. Until they knew exactly what he was up to, they couldn't show their hand. It would ruin everything.
And so, here they are, crammed inside the dark, too warm closet. Not the most ideal space, if space is even a word that applies. Harold is backed up against the wall, communications leads digging into his side, hugging his kit against his side. John is pressed even closer. The lack of space has forced John to brace an arm over Harold's shoulder and the other hand is resting on Harold's arm, and John is a tall, warm, solid wall of lean muscle pressed against him and holding preternaturally still as they listen to their number moving about the room outside.
It takes Harold some time to realise. In his defence, there are a number of hard objects digging into him, and besides, Harold has always been practical when it comes to John so being provocative is the last thing on his mind. He wriggles subtly against the minor discomfort of his position and feels more than hears John’s abrupt, uncharacteristic inhale. John's hand clenches briefly on his arm with the silent gasp and it's then that Harold realises that one of those objects he can feel digging into him is likely not a computer part.
His eyes dart up to John's face, which is almost too close to see, and possibly he's expecting embarrassment, or chagrin, but instead John's mouth pulls into a thin line. He's not looking at him, but instead is turned slightly away as he listens intently, as if the noises outside are utterly consuming his attention. This is not the truth, Harold thinks, and they've been working together long enough that he recognises this avoidance and John's expression as displeasure.
Considering the erection currently pressing against Harold's abdomen, it wouldn't be incorrect to say this is slightly contradictory in concept if not terms.
With Mondry still outside, however, Harold can do or say nothing about it. John is too well trained to try and move away when there's no room to be had for either of them and the slightest noise will give them away, but to labour the metaphor, the issue remains between them long minutes while Mondry does what he came to do. It seems an age before the lift doors chime again, and then Mondry is gone, clearly. John waits another three minutes before he carefully reaches for the internal latch of the cabinet.
Harold stumbles out in John’s wake. His whole body feels overly warm from being in close proximity to the array, and perhaps also to John.
“Looks like he logged in for something,” John observes, staring at the recently locked terminal screen. “Don’t suppose you caught what?”
Harold regards John’s profile for a moment, but he’s clearly pretending he doesn't know Harold is looking at him.
“It’ll be easy enough to unpack the records once we're in,” he says, and reconnects his spybox.
"You have three and a half more minutes before security do their rounds," John reminds.
Harold doesn't say he only needs two; instead he says, "Are you claustrophilliac, Mister Reese?"
John is silent for a remarkably long time, long enough that Harold thinks perhaps he isn't going to answer at all.
"No," he says eventually, his tone inflectionless.
"Some people are aroused by being restrained," Harold continues as he works. He won't insult John by mentioning the fact that it's perfectly normal.
This time John is faster to respond.
"Finch, I think I've been tied up enough to honestly say that's not it either." He sounds a little exasperated.
"I see," says Harold. "I'm done. We can go."
John is striding across the room almost before the words are out of Harold's mouth. Harold packs up his equipment, closes the cabinet and follows.
John doesn't talk to him the whole time in the ride back in the cab.
++++
Life has taught Harold many things, thus far. One of them is the futility of wilful ignorance. He'd thought he was being practical about John's behaviour, but as they step out of the cab three blocks from the library and begin the walk back, he becomes less sure.
"Is this going to be a problem?" he asks when they reach the last block. John stops for the lights and glances at him. He seems a little put out at the question.
"I thought I was the one that was supposed to be asking you that," he points out. "Considering."
Considering. Considering John has more or less confessed to an attraction of some sort? Considering his hand has been forced? Considering Harold is not kind enough to pretend the issue never existed? It could be all these things and likely more.
They walk the final block in silence, and together climb the three flights of stairs to the working floor. John goes immediately to where he keeps his gear stored and starts gathering together his camera gear. He'll go back out in a moment and pick up Mondry's trail. They still need the connection between Mondry and his company and the killing down in Gravesend. Harold knows it's there; they just have to find it. Harold leans across his desk for a moment and checks that the connection to the spybox is solid. The program he's designed will filter through communications both backed up as well as current, but it will take some time. There's nothing more he can do.
"I'd rather I didn't make you uncomfortable," Harold says to John's back, and then adds, "John," just to be sure John understands this conversation is on the personal level. John stops what he's doing, but he doesn't turn straight away.
"You don't make me uncomfortable, Harold," he says, sounding wry. "At least, not the way you mean."
Harold thinks about this. It's unsurprisingly a little hard not to. Again, considering.
"I wouldn't be adverse to intimacy with you," he says finally, and is pleased that there's no hint in his voice of the way his heart rate has increased to a brief one hundred and twenty beats per minute.
John does turn then. He's clutching his camera bag like some kind of unconscious shield, but his mouth has turned soft in a faintly skewed smile.
"You wouldn't," he repeats.
"I realise you may rather not act, given this information," Harold continues. "Our lives are dangerous. Neither of us can afford to get too atta-"
John moves quite abruptly, crossing the room before Harold is finished speaking. His camera bag is in one hand. The other is gripping Harold's arm again, not hard, but as he had been earlier, when they'd been pressed together. Harold takes a short breath mid-word, and blinks as John leans down and presses his mouth to Harold's, gently; not asking, not demanding, only offering, only speaking. His mouth is soft, mobile, lingering. Promising. All the things Harold had thought he'd heard but somehow gotten so obviously wrong.
"If there's one thing I've learned, Finch," John says as he leans away again. The smile on his face is no longer skewed and it could be the light, but Harold thinks perhaps he is blushing a little, which is, oh, quite amazingly sweet. "It's that sometimes you can't afford not to."
And if there's one thing Harold's learned, it's that John does love his subtly dramatic entrances and exits. He allows it, watching as John hefts his gear without another word and turns and walks away. He'll hear from him again soon enough, and if all goes well, it won't be much longer before they catch their killer. Then perhaps they will talk about what people can and cannot afford to have.
"Of course," he sighs to himself as he takes his seat at his work station, "it's a little too late for that conversation."
But then again, Harold's independently wealthy. He can afford whatever he pleases, now that he realises it's on the table.
Title: Proof of Purchase
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
Summary: Finch and John get a little close for comfort; but whose?
It isn't really that Harold practices self-delusion. He merely prefers to filter for practicalities. It is in no way practical to interpret John's actions and behaviour as anything other than what they are - a chameleon's habitual tendency to blend, a survivalist's ability to adapt. His flirting - because let's be honest, that's what it is; the cheeky, teasing smiles he throws Harold, the occasionally suggestive and leading comments, the way he casually touches Harold despite his obvious personal boundaries - is nothing Harold should pay attention to. They are John's instinctive responses to someone who he perceives as holding all the cards just as his attempts to uncover Harold secrets had been. When that line of enquiry had failed, he merely changed tactics. That's all it is. It's entirely nothing personal.
Of course, that theory doesn't particularly account for what Harold feels in the confines of the space they're crammed into together. It had happened so quickly. Harold had been patching a spybox into a Carlisle Industries communications array on the twentieth floor of the company's Manhattan offices when the location beacon for their current number, one Franklin Mondry, had lit up. This had been followed promptly by John’s calm, "Finch? You'd better be done, because our number's on his way up." Harold had hastily disconnected, scooped up his kit and-
Well, there had only been one place to hide on the entire, sparsely furnished floor - inside the cabinet housing the array itself. John could probably take Mondry in a fight, but they’d already discussed it. Until they knew exactly what he was up to, they couldn't show their hand. It would ruin everything.
And so, here they are, crammed inside the dark, too warm closet. Not the most ideal space, if space is even a word that applies. Harold is backed up against the wall, communications leads digging into his side, hugging his kit against his side. John is pressed even closer. The lack of space has forced John to brace an arm over Harold's shoulder and the other hand is resting on Harold's arm, and John is a tall, warm, solid wall of lean muscle pressed against him and holding preternaturally still as they listen to their number moving about the room outside.
It takes Harold some time to realise. In his defence, there are a number of hard objects digging into him, and besides, Harold has always been practical when it comes to John so being provocative is the last thing on his mind. He wriggles subtly against the minor discomfort of his position and feels more than hears John’s abrupt, uncharacteristic inhale. John's hand clenches briefly on his arm with the silent gasp and it's then that Harold realises that one of those objects he can feel digging into him is likely not a computer part.
His eyes dart up to John's face, which is almost too close to see, and possibly he's expecting embarrassment, or chagrin, but instead John's mouth pulls into a thin line. He's not looking at him, but instead is turned slightly away as he listens intently, as if the noises outside are utterly consuming his attention. This is not the truth, Harold thinks, and they've been working together long enough that he recognises this avoidance and John's expression as displeasure.
Considering the erection currently pressing against Harold's abdomen, it wouldn't be incorrect to say this is slightly contradictory in concept if not terms.
With Mondry still outside, however, Harold can do or say nothing about it. John is too well trained to try and move away when there's no room to be had for either of them and the slightest noise will give them away, but to labour the metaphor, the issue remains between them long minutes while Mondry does what he came to do. It seems an age before the lift doors chime again, and then Mondry is gone, clearly. John waits another three minutes before he carefully reaches for the internal latch of the cabinet.
Harold stumbles out in John’s wake. His whole body feels overly warm from being in close proximity to the array, and perhaps also to John.
“Looks like he logged in for something,” John observes, staring at the recently locked terminal screen. “Don’t suppose you caught what?”
Harold regards John’s profile for a moment, but he’s clearly pretending he doesn't know Harold is looking at him.
“It’ll be easy enough to unpack the records once we're in,” he says, and reconnects his spybox.
"You have three and a half more minutes before security do their rounds," John reminds.
Harold doesn't say he only needs two; instead he says, "Are you claustrophilliac, Mister Reese?"
John is silent for a remarkably long time, long enough that Harold thinks perhaps he isn't going to answer at all.
"No," he says eventually, his tone inflectionless.
"Some people are aroused by being restrained," Harold continues as he works. He won't insult John by mentioning the fact that it's perfectly normal.
This time John is faster to respond.
"Finch, I think I've been tied up enough to honestly say that's not it either." He sounds a little exasperated.
"I see," says Harold. "I'm done. We can go."
John is striding across the room almost before the words are out of Harold's mouth. Harold packs up his equipment, closes the cabinet and follows.
John doesn't talk to him the whole time in the ride back in the cab.
++++
Life has taught Harold many things, thus far. One of them is the futility of wilful ignorance. He'd thought he was being practical about John's behaviour, but as they step out of the cab three blocks from the library and begin the walk back, he becomes less sure.
"Is this going to be a problem?" he asks when they reach the last block. John stops for the lights and glances at him. He seems a little put out at the question.
"I thought I was the one that was supposed to be asking you that," he points out. "Considering."
Considering. Considering John has more or less confessed to an attraction of some sort? Considering his hand has been forced? Considering Harold is not kind enough to pretend the issue never existed? It could be all these things and likely more.
They walk the final block in silence, and together climb the three flights of stairs to the working floor. John goes immediately to where he keeps his gear stored and starts gathering together his camera gear. He'll go back out in a moment and pick up Mondry's trail. They still need the connection between Mondry and his company and the killing down in Gravesend. Harold knows it's there; they just have to find it. Harold leans across his desk for a moment and checks that the connection to the spybox is solid. The program he's designed will filter through communications both backed up as well as current, but it will take some time. There's nothing more he can do.
"I'd rather I didn't make you uncomfortable," Harold says to John's back, and then adds, "John," just to be sure John understands this conversation is on the personal level. John stops what he's doing, but he doesn't turn straight away.
"You don't make me uncomfortable, Harold," he says, sounding wry. "At least, not the way you mean."
Harold thinks about this. It's unsurprisingly a little hard not to. Again, considering.
"I wouldn't be adverse to intimacy with you," he says finally, and is pleased that there's no hint in his voice of the way his heart rate has increased to a brief one hundred and twenty beats per minute.
John does turn then. He's clutching his camera bag like some kind of unconscious shield, but his mouth has turned soft in a faintly skewed smile.
"You wouldn't," he repeats.
"I realise you may rather not act, given this information," Harold continues. "Our lives are dangerous. Neither of us can afford to get too atta-"
John moves quite abruptly, crossing the room before Harold is finished speaking. His camera bag is in one hand. The other is gripping Harold's arm again, not hard, but as he had been earlier, when they'd been pressed together. Harold takes a short breath mid-word, and blinks as John leans down and presses his mouth to Harold's, gently; not asking, not demanding, only offering, only speaking. His mouth is soft, mobile, lingering. Promising. All the things Harold had thought he'd heard but somehow gotten so obviously wrong.
"If there's one thing I've learned, Finch," John says as he leans away again. The smile on his face is no longer skewed and it could be the light, but Harold thinks perhaps he is blushing a little, which is, oh, quite amazingly sweet. "It's that sometimes you can't afford not to."
And if there's one thing Harold's learned, it's that John does love his subtly dramatic entrances and exits. He allows it, watching as John hefts his gear without another word and turns and walks away. He'll hear from him again soon enough, and if all goes well, it won't be much longer before they catch their killer. Then perhaps they will talk about what people can and cannot afford to have.
"Of course," he sighs to himself as he takes his seat at his work station, "it's a little too late for that conversation."
But then again, Harold's independently wealthy. He can afford whatever he pleases, now that he realises it's on the table.