Wait and Hope: Chapter Six
A New Beginning
“What are we going to do John?” Harold repeated anxiously.
Reese leaned over and kissed Harold's forehead, before caressing the older man's face gently, “For now I am going to shimmy my butt back out of this bed and clean up the floor. You are going to take a shower while I get dressed.”
Finch peered into John's loving blue eyes, momentarily content, feeling safe and secure enveloped in the aura of Reese's protectiveness that was surrounding him now. It was John's inclination to safeguard Harold, even at the risk of the former operative's life, which wrenched that peace from him and back into reality.
Harold frowned at his dilemma. He hadn't fared well with Reese gone from his life these past six months; that Finch couldn't deny, he needed John back in it. Yet, how could he allow the other man into Furnham's? Harrington's problems were small so far and certainly out the purview of Samaritan, but could Harold take even the slightest risk that the situation might not be the case. What if the surveillance system had already deemed those acts deviant behavior not within its parameters therefore to be ignored and the issues escalated making it take a harder look? Finch was ready to accept the consequences if their cover identities were blown; but what about John?
Of course Reese would be ready and willing to die along with Harold if it came to that. Only the last love of Finch's lifetime wasn't known as John Reese anymore; John was Gianni Rafael Rissole now. Rafe had a seemingly ordinary happy life with friends and a girlfriend. Harold really didn't want to live what might be left of the rest of his days alone and miserable, but could he deny John a chance of normality with the possibility of having the family Finch knew Reese had always wanted?
Reese watched distress replacing the contentment on his partner's face. As if reading Harold's thoughts, John gripped the other man's chin forcing troubled pale blue eyes to look into his own unyielding serious ones, “I am not leaving you again, not ever! We'll work something out. Now...” Reese let go of the grip he had and smiled, chuckling a bit before slapping Finch cheerily on the cheek, “how about that shower and some breakfast?”
John crawled his way to the end of the bed not waiting for an answer. Standing, turning and then tugging off the boxers Harold still wore bunched around his knees, Reese hurled them playfully at the other man's head deliberately missing so they landed inoffensively on the bed next to him. John literally skipped out of the room laughing playfully at Harold's feeble effort to fling the offending undergarment back at him and hilariously at Finch's affronted, “Mr. Reese, please!”
Finch watched his lame effort of a throw land awry on the bureau missing John by a good three feet and he couldn't keep from laughing too, until the headache hit him.
He had been imbibing for months; drinking-to just dull the pain-Harold had told himself over and over. Only last night Finch had realized as he poured that first drink it never was to ease the ache of his old injuries or the throbbing in his wounded shoulder, it was to get through the strain of loneliness until he could be with John again.
Through an act of hate directed at Furnham they had been reunited, met as the people they were pretending to be now. The name was different, his outward appearance had changed but underneath Rafe was still John and that man would protect Harold Finch or Harrington Furnham no matter what. One of them had a chance to live an ordinary existence so Furnham had said goodbye and walked away. Believing John Reese was gone from his life forever; Harold having tried to make sure of that; Finch had crawled into the bottle of scotch not caring if he ever escaped.
Except Reese had returned, determined to find out why Finch had shut him out of his new life. John blamed himself after seeing the depths his friend had sunk to and tried to leave. Harold remembered begging with hungry demanding kisses for John to stay before falling onto the bed with his younger, stronger and equally desperate partner… Then the nightmares had come; Finch had awakened alone and terrified. Reese had rushed to him calming Harold's fears with touches and warmth, first from John's hands then the long strong length his body. Both men needed to finish what they had started last night, desperately rutting against one another, the evidence of their completion dried on the skin and hair of Harold's abdomen.
Now here he was lying naked on a sweat stiffened wrinkled sheet, dried semen on his stomach and not able to get up because of the shambles his room was in. Finch was loathe to move his head for fear it would split right open and the thought of food was making his insides roil. Yet at this moment Harold was the most content he had been in months. John was here with him. The man wasn't going to walk away now, no matter how much Finch tried to force him, not that Harold even wanted that anymore, apprehensions aside. They would work something out, together.
John returned minutes later, wearing jeans and shoes, carrying a broom and pulling Harrington's large kitchen trash can behind him.
Harold tried to sit up, but let his head fall back on the pillow stifling a groan and closing his eyes. Reese grimaced with understanding, before stooping to pick up the larger pieces of the broken lamp and dumping them into the trash. John tried to clean up the mess as quietly as he could, but Harold winced at every sound. “Been there. Done that,” Reese sympathized with his miserable friend, squeezing his shoulder. “Trust me, a shower and one of Rafe's specialty breakfasts will fix you up in no time.”
Finch clenched his eyes tightly shut while listening to Reese sweeping up splinters of glass from the broken lamp and its bulb while mentally willing his churning stomach to keep its contents down.
“Come on, up you go. Let's get you in that shower,” John tugged at Harold's right hand with his left pulling him to sit, while using his right to pull the prone man's legs across and over the edge of the bed. When Finch whined in complaint, trying to fall sideways back on the pillow, John grabbed both of the other man's hands and pulled him to standing.
Harold felt himself swaying on unsteady feet as he tried to stagger in the bathroom’s direction, when John picked up his left arm, hoisting it across the taller man's broad shoulders.
With the left arm of the reeling man held firmly over the back of his neck, left hand gripped tightly in John's right; his left across Finch's back, he managed to get both of them in the small bath. Reese had Harold grab the sink counter’s edges with both hands to hold him up while John turned the walk-in shower's faucets on.
The water wasn't ice cold, closer to lukewarm actually, but Harold still sputtered a few explicit words in Reese's direction when he helped the wobbly man into the shower. Still the other man nodded an affirmative when John asked him if he could do the rest on his own before Reese quickly shut the plastic curtain.
Reese wiped the condensation that was building up on the mirror regardless of the shower's water temperature and looked at his reflection, while shaking his head. Harold was suffering a hangover that probably rivaled some that Reese had after binges during his early drinking days. Finch wasn't clear-headed right now and despite John's declaration he wasn't leaving him ever again, a sobered Harold might decide now was not the time for them to be together, if ever. John wouldn't agree; hell, he would fight it tooth and nail. Nevertheless, when all was said and done he would respect Finch's decision; Rafe would forget the stranded limping man he had helped one night. Any more intimacies between them now would only make another separation that much harder to bear.
Yet all Reese longed to do right now was to shed his clothes, join his partner in the shower and show Finch physically how much he still wanted him. Even though John had tried to avert his eyes and clinically touch the other's nude body while helping him up, Reese was having a hard time suppressing his libido. He needed Harold and despite telling his self mentally how much this was such a bad idea, John’s body wasn’t listening.
Harold leaned against the cool tiling of the shower wall. He tilted his head up, eyes closed, to let the tepid water coming from the shower nozzle splash his face. Once the initial shock of the cooler water hitting his heated skin had worn off, the spray running over his head, then down his chest and back actually did start to make him feel better. The hammering in his head reduced itself to a dull, tolerable thrum. Finch could open his eyes without everything spinning and stand without the tile floor seeming to rock underneath his feet.
As the cascading water flowed over him and Harold sobered up some, he knew it was crazy to want Reese this badly still. They had to work their situation out, take things slow, find a way to be together and not draw unwanted attention. Only now as he used the bath sponge filled with Harrington’s body wash to scrub the dried remnants of this morning’s frantic love making off his stomach Harold imagined it was John’s hand washing him. Finch moved his free hand down to circle himself and stroked his hardening shaft with soapy fingers, a sobbed, “John…” escaping his lips.
Reese turned his head away from the mirror’s reflection hearing his name called. It wasn’t a cry of distress or for assistance but one of need; John recognized that having heard it in his partner’s voice just this morning. Instead of giving in to his own urges he grabbed the edges of the sink’s wooden cabinet tightly, calling out as if Finch was merely asking Reese if he was still there in the bath, “You okay? I’m still out here if you want anything.”
Finch dropped his hand and started vigorously scrubbing himself, snapped out of his daydream by John’s question. “I’m fine…I’m almost done. If you wouldn’t mind, there are clean towels in the closet.” This is good he thought, John understands we need to discuss our situation first. Only why am I disappointed?
When Harold turned the faucets off, ready to step out of the shower, John excused himself from the room, “There’s a towel next to the sink. If you’re sure you will be good on your own now, I’m going to finish fixing our breakfast.”
Finch was all alone in the tiny room when he stepped from the shower. Using the towel from the sink’s counter top, he briskly dried himself off and pulled on Harry’s worn terry cloth robe. Not wanting to forestall what needed to be done any longer, Harold forwent any Finch or Furnham etiquette of dressing before eating, slipped on his house shoes and gingerly walked through Harrington’s living room into the kitchen.
John was fully dressed now and standing at the small apartment stove attentively preparing something, the smell of which surprisingly enough made Finch feel hungry instead of nauseous. The scraping of the wooden dining chair across the kitchen floor as Harold pulled it out to sit alerted the cook to his presence in the small kitchen. Reese only lifted an eyebrow for a moment noticing Finch’s state of dress before he moved the short distance from stove to table. John slid the chair out further before helping Harold to sit down; he then pushed chair and occupant closer to the table, Reese trying to be the perfect gentleman.
John returned to the stove checking the contents of an omelet pan Finch hadn’t even known Harrington owned. Apparently satisfied the pan’s contents were done Rafe slid the omelet onto a plate left warming on the stove. Once he’d emptied the remaining contents of a mixing bowl into the pan, the fixings for another omelet, John opened the fridge and pulled out a pitcher.
Pouring what appeared to be tomato juice into a tall glass, he urged Finch to drink up. Harold took an unsuspecting sip and then glared up at Reese who was obviously trying to hold in his laughter, when Finch spluttered out, “What in hell is this?”
“It’s just some ‘hair of the dog’ minus the hair,” John chuckled a bit before finishing more seriously, “Trust me, drink it down. It tastes terrible but it will help.” Of course Finch did trust him and sip by god-awful sip he had downed the full glass by the time Rafe the cook had prepared the rest of his breakfast creation. Harold didn’t know if it was the secret ingredients in the hangover cure or if he was actually hungry but when Reese placed a plate of omelet and wheat toast in front of him, Finch was ravenous.
As Reese watched Harold eating and drinking refill after refill of water John poured from another pitcher, he couldn’t help feeling relieved. John had been there once in that deep dark place Harold had went last night when all hope has been lost. John strengthened his resolve to not walk out of Finch’s new life as Furnham no matter how much Harold tried to convince him otherwise. Just as Finch had once pulled him from that abyss, Reese would hold onto Harold with all his strength and never let go.
Mentally arming himself with counterarguments to anything Finch could bring up to convince him to walk out that door and never look back, John was totally unprepared for Harold pushing his empty plate to the side, looking at Reese clear eyed and sure, “I can’t let you disappear from this new life of mine and I will to do anything to keep you in it. I am not going to pretend any longer that I can survive without you. The only thing I ask in whatever we decide to do now is that you let me handle my, Furnham’s, trouble on my own. We can’t dare to risk even the slightest chance of drawing Samaritan’s attention to our new covers. And this goes without being said, we have to be these people, John Reese and Harold Finch can’t exist…for now.”
John believed he understood all the implications of what Finch meant by their old lives and that relationship couldn’t be for now. Gianni Rafael ‘Rafe’ Rissole nodded his head and offered his hand to Harrington ‘Harry’ Furnham, III. “I’m honored to meet you Mr. Furnham.”
Harold smiled broadly, realizing John interpreted what he had suggested, and took the proffered hand, and shook it, “Likewise Mr. Rissole.”
“Call me Rafe, please? All my friends do.” Rissole returned the smile.
“Rafe it is then. My friends call me Harry.”
Rafe Rissole laughingly declined to address the other man as Harry; John Reese had hated Root calling Finch that. “The name Harry brings back some rather unpleasant memories for me. Harrington or Furnham is too much, how about I just call you Trey?”
Maybe as Harold Finch he would have been offended to be addressed in such a way but he wasn’t Finch anymore and that name sounded perfect. “I’d like that…Rafe. Now I think I should get dressed and we can talk further.”
He was in the bedroom only having just put on clean boxers and was pulling up a pair of old Levi's when Furnham heard a knock at his door. Looking at the time Harry remembered that Martha’s grandson was due to take Jack for a run in the park. He started guiltily, with everything happening, he’d forgotten about the dog. Hastily finishing Harry tried to get to the door, only he was too late. Rafe had already answered.
“Um…hi. I’m here to take Jack for his run,” the confused teen looked at Rafe, then at Harry's half-dressed state.
Well here goes Harrington thought. "Sorry Jacob, it slipped my mind. My car broke down on my way home from work. This is Mr. Rissole, Rafe; he was kind enough to help last night and returned this morning to see how I was doing.
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Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five
Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Epilogue