As it is, early one hot New York summer morning, with the sun shining though the tarp and the dirty windows of the old library, twinkling in the dusty air, John Reese wakes his boss with a cup of tea and a biscuit.  Harold's fallen asleep in front of his monitors again, head pillowed on his arms as if finding a more comfortable place to rest had simply been beyond him.  Bear isn't sleeping, but he isn't restless.  His head rises but he knows John and it's too much effort to greet him this morning.  John wonders what time Harold took their dog out for a walk.  Last time it was around 4.30am when even the nastiest elements of those hunting them down are asleep.

John makes the tea then takes the cup and saucer over to the table and slides it silently down next to the keyboard, crouching down and sliding his hand over Harold's curved back.  He's going to be sore at best having slept like this.

"Harold."

When he opens his eyes, and blinks, the first thing John sees is pain.  He moves his hand to curve around the back of Harold's neck, hoping the brief warmth will help as he sits up slowly, mindful of what hurts and what doesn't.  Then something else flits across his expression, washing away the pain for a moment.  John follows his gaze as he reaches wordlessly for his glasses and pushes them onto his face.  He's staring at the cup and saucer.

"I bought you tea." 

It's nothing he hasn't done a hundred times before.  But when Harold looks at him, still crouching with his arm outstretched and his hand absently massaging Harold's neck, it's with something akin to amazement.  He turns his head slowly and still without a word he strokes the backs of his fingers along the line of John's jaw. 

"You did."

How they get from an innocent morning wake up call to his tongue down Harold's throat he'll never know.  But somewhere in between Harold's hand stroking the back of his head and his own hand landing on Harold's knee to steady himself, the space between them has vanished and Harold's kissing him with the fervour, passion and need of a teenager. 

It's better than he's imagined it would be.  For all his standoffish ways, Harold's tongue is doing obscene things to his mouth and it's not so much of a surprise more of a total shock.  John has to pull away, has to shift back.  He's breathing like a marathon runner who's just crossed the finish line and they haven't even started.  All at once Harold's right there with him, on his knees in front of him and that must hurt but he's got his palm pressing gently against the begging hard on in John's pants and he's speaking, saying something...

"... this time.  Please."

Suddenly how they got here doesn't seem very important.  But if there was anything more comfortable in the library than the table, Harold would choose to sleep there instead. 

"Let's go to my place."

Harold nods.  "Yes." 

~

He worries the journey from the library to his apartment will dampen the barely kindled flame.  He doesn’t need to. 

They make the trip in a loaded silence but once the door is locked behind them Harold is back with him, the front of John’s light blue shirt clenched in one fist as he walks backwards towards the bed John didn’t bother to make when he left just over an hour ago.  There's an almost manic quality to the look in Harold's startling blue eyes and if John didn't think the question would earn him a slap to the face or worse he would ask if his boss if he was sure.  But Harold seems sure enough.  As soon as they're sitting on the edge of the bed, his fingers are in John's hair and his mouth is back where it most certainly belongs, tongue sliding over John's, lips restless.

John wraps his arms around Harold.  It's such a simple gesture, one he's been wanting to make for too long.  For a time he just holds him, kisses him, ignores the insistent ache of his erection and soaks up the other man's warmth, the solid body pressing into him. If Harold's in any pain he isn't showing it.  John's fingers lift to the deep scars at the top of his spine, tracing the line of each one, still with no idea what happened but he doubts now that it was an accident.  If he ever finds the people responsible for the damage he is going to kill them.

Harold finally pulls back, flushed and breathless and if John didn’t need him like oxygen before he certainly does now.  Harold's fingers rest at the top button of his shirt and it's amusing that they're here, on his bed, with barely ten words having passed between them, that Harold practically assaulted him to get them here and now he's asking permission.

John gives it by starting on the buttons of Harold's waistcoat.  His tie's already loosened, he hadn't taken it off before falling asleep in front of his work.  John pulls it undone and drops it to the wooden floor.

Deft fingers open his own shirt in seconds, warm hands sliding inside and under the material, over his skin.  He shivers at the touch, so intimate, so long forgotten.  The caresses are so reverent he feels like he's being worshipped until perfectly manicured fingernails flick over his nipples and he can't stop the groan that breaks free from his throat.  He catches Harold's smile and mirrors it back, strips back the final layer of cloth and runs his fingertips through the dark hairs on Harold's chest. 

If he's worried about comparisons he doesn't show it.  He pushes John's shirt and jacket off his shoulders as one, follows the sleeves down his arms and pulls them free of his hands. He leans in, and John can feel the cool metal of his glasses against his skin as he sucks first his left nipple then his right, gently nipping each one in turn with his teeth before bathing them with his tongue.

"Christ, Harold...." 

John's never been all that vocal in bed but this quiet, unassuming man with the world's biggest secret is going to drive him out of his mind with the simplest of wet touches.  Hands still roaming over his chest and stomach pause up at his shoulders and push him back with surprising strength.  John goes, lying on the messy sheets, naked from the waist up, fully clothed from the waist down.  He laughs softly in delight, something he hasn't experienced in such a long time, but his breath catches as Harold slips his belt open and unzips his pants, reaching in to free his erection. 

He opens his mouth to say something but instantly forgets what when he's surrounded by wet heat and perfect suction.  He lifts his head to stare speechless at Harold's lips stretched wide at the base of his cock, Harold's head bobbing gently at his groin.  He pushes up on to his elbows and forgets how to speak as heat and sensation and pleasure rush through him.  He won't last long but he can't stop it, his body won't allow him to.  It's been years since he did this.  When he comes it's embarrassing quick and almost painfully intense.  Harold swallows every drop, licks him clean then lifts his head to smile at John and this is absolutely not the Harold Finch he thought he knew. 

There's something at once both smug and predatory in his expression, but something soft too. 

“That was....”  John shakes his head, words still not easy to find.  Reaching out, he touches his fingertips to Harold’s lips.  “You’re....”  It’s pointless.  He has no idea what to say.  Instead, he sits up and manhandles Harold gently until he's flat on his back on the bed, pillows supporting his neck and head, John straddling him.  He knows his own strength but there's not a glimmer of fear or hesitation in Harold's eyes.  Keeping his weight on his hands, either side of Harold's head, he leans down and kisses him, deepening it quickly.  Harold’s fingers slide into his hair, rakes his nails across his scalp and down his back. He's imagined how Harold would be in bed but he realises he's never come close.

Now he has the real thing, he wants answers to all those questions he doesn’t need to put into words.  He kisses and nips and licks as he works his way down Harold’s body, learning as he goes every place that earns him a long, drawn out groan of pleasure.  So responsive, inhibitions gone, Harold hums with pleasure and laughs when John finds a ticklish spot of which there are many.  He's so far from what John thought he would be that he can't quite match this man with the buttoned down Harold Finch he's been working for. 

As wanton a sight he is with his clothing undone, splayed out on the bed, John doesn't want Harold to think this is anything temporary.  He kicks off the rest of his own clothes then straddles Harold’s thighs, watching his face for signs of pain, easing his jacket, shirt and waistcoat from his shoulders and down his arms then working his belt and fly.  Harold's erection springs free and huge eyes stare at him through thick lenses as he lowers his head and licks over the reddish tip, dipping his tongue into the slit there and grinning at the shudder he feels run through the body under his hands.

He wonders how long it's been for Harold, if he's been with anyone since Grace.  He doubts it, but with Harold he clearly can't be sure.  Someone this passionate going without for so long is a tragedy.  He sinks down, taking Harold right to the back of his throat, stroking light fingers over heavy balls and back, pressing along his perineum.  Harold's hands settle on his head but he doesn't put any pressure there, doesn't push or try to direct, instead he just gives himself up to it.  John's hard again, unsurprising under the circumstances, and as much as he wants to feel Harold flood his mouth, he wants something more this time; he wants to watch his face as he comes, wants to know what that looks like.  No way is this a one-time thing, now he knows what he's been missing he can't possibly be expected to give it up, but their lives aren't at all predictable and he's going to take what he needs before he looks to get what he simply wants. 

Harold mutters a brief string of obscenities as he lifts off and moves back up, licks his tongue between Harold's lips to silence him.  Stripping his pants off, straddling his thighs again, John reaches between them and lines their cocks up in one hand, jerking them both off together, pushing through his own fingers and at the same time along Harold’s impressive length.

Harold obviously doesn't have a huge range of movement like this but he doesn't seem to mind.  He touches John everywhere he can reach, every sound urging John to move faster, harder, until Harold’s eyes shutter closed and he sobs once before John feels ribbons of warm semen on his hand, his cock, his stomach, even his chest.  He needs to laugh just at the sheer joy of it and when Harold opens his eyes and just shines... John comes harder than he can remember doing before.

He's careful not to drop his weight onto Harold.  Although he doubts he’ll complain, eventually the pain would break through the endorphins.  Instead he drops to the side, leaving one leg lying over Harold's legs, one arm across his chest, the other hand supporting his head so he doesn't have to stop looking.

Harold's right hand sweeps over his hair once again before coming to rest on his arm.  He looks like someone else and John wonders what this man's name is.  Grace knew him as Harold so maybe that's right, but he's certain his second name isn't Finch.

"Not quite what I'd had planned for my work out this morning," he murmurs, eyes not leaving Harold's face.

"Nor I, Mr Reese."

"Seriously?"

Harold smiles then chuckles.  "No, John.  I’m just winding you up."

"Who the hell are you?"  He asks it on a breath out, barely more than a whisper.

"I could ask you the same thing.  In the fifteen months since we started working together, you've never bought me tea in a cup."

"That's what started this?"

To John it makes no sense but it clearly does to Harold and frankly now they're here he doesn't care what finally lit the fuse.  It's not as if they'll ever have grandchildren demanding to know how they got together. 

"I am rather sticky," Harold complains, and suddenly he's with the man he recognises, or at least closer to him than the stranger he's just had sex with.

"Wait here."

John fetches a wet cloth from the bathroom, lets Harold wipe himself clean before pulling the sheets up over him.  He makes himself look a little less like a porn star after a shoot and by the time he gets back to bed, Harold's asleep, mouth open, glasses askew.  John slips them off and balances them on top of the nearest bedpost before lying down next to him on his side.  He isn't tired, he's only been up a couple of hours, but obviously Harold didn't sleep well last night.  He's almost sure there isn't a number waiting for them or Harold wouldn't have initiated this. 

He thinks about what Harold said, about the tea in the cup.  He doesn’t know what possessed him to do it but he'd been passing the department store and thought it would be a nice gesture, something proper in their improper world.  Harold likes things like that.

Harold isn't half as proper as John has been led to believe.

~

He wakes a couple of hours later to a noise out in the corridor, but it's just one of his neighbours letting themselves out.  It's an expensive apartment, thick walls, he doubts anyone heard them earlier. 

Next to him, Harold's still asleep, hand clutching at John's arm where it's lying over his chest with is hand curved possessively around his rib cage.  If he was protective before, after today he knows he's going to be downright proprietary.

He glances across at the clock on the far wall over the corner couch.  It's just gone midday.  The sun is shining in through the half open blinds.  He needs to pee, as reluctant as he is to move, and finally he unwraps himself and slides out of bed.

He takes a shower, hears Harold moving about in the main room.  Thinking he might need some space, he takes his time in the shower then pulls on a pair of warm, clean sweats and a grey T shirt.  When he steps back into the main room he expects to see Harold dressed and ready to leave.  What he actually sees takes his breath away.

His saviour, his friend, his boss, now his lover is standing just back from the one of the windows wearing nothing but John's light blue shirt with a couple of buttons done up haphazardly at the front and the tails brushing the creases of his ass.  The sun's shining, catching in his hair and on his glasses and John's struck by how much beauty there is in this one, peaceful moment. 

"There's tea on the side," he says, and John spots the pot in the kitchen and the mug in Harold's hand.  He isn't sure if he drinks tea.  There’s not a lot he is sure of right at this moment.  Crossing the loft he closes up to Harold's back and wraps his arms around him, leaning down to kiss the scars at the back of his neck.  He wants to tell Harold that he loves him, because he does, but he can't get the words out and it’s probably for the best that it doesn’t get said.

Harold's free hand settles on his arms, his fingers rub gently at his wrist and he leans back into John.

"You thought I would leave."

John chuckles.  "To be honest, yes.  I'm a little bit out of my depth here."

"You didn't seem to me like you were out of your depth."  There's a wonderful little tease in Harold's tone. 

"Neither did you.  If I’d known all it took was a cup of tea I’d have brought you one some time ago.”

“I did wonder what I was going to have to do.  The cup was just... an enabler.”

Now it makes sense. 

“It did seem like an overreaction to a china cup.”

“We didn’t have a new number, it felt like an unmissable opportunity.  And you did already have your hand around my neck.  I figured if you were going to get hands-on, so was I.”

“I wasn’t sure.  I know about Grace....”

“But you didn’t know about Nathan.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.  Like I said, I was happy.”  John leaned down, nudged the collar of his shirt aside and kissed the base of his throat and his shoulder, breathing him in; the faint smell of expensive cologne, sweat and sex.  “I’m happy now too.”

John runs the palm of his hand down the straight line of Harold’s spine until he touches skin.  Harold leans back until his head touches John’s shoulder and he hums softly, eyes closing as John strokes the back of his index finger along the curve of his crack, applying no pressure, just teasing, finding out how Harold will react, although given what they’ve already done he thinks he can guess. 

“Are you going to fuck me, John?” Harold murmurs and Christ, that voice... having it as a constant in his ear all day every day is going to be interesting now. 

“Only if you want me to.”

“I want you to.  I really, really want you to.”

John pushes deeper, just a little, scraping his fingernail over Harold’s hole.  “I won’t hurt you.”

“I know you won’t.”  John drops his other hand to palm Harold’s erection, giving a gentle pull.  “I should... put down my tea.”

He hasn’t exactly planned for something like this, but there’s an unopened tube in the bathroom that will suffice.  After their antics earlier, it’s probably too late to consider wearing a condom.  He knows he’s clean and he’s ninety-nine percent – no, he’s one hundred percent – sure that Harold is too.

Back in the main room he strips naked, takes Harold’s hand and leads him back to the bed, removing his glasses and pulling him gently onto the sheets, letting him take the lead as he lies half over John and kisses him.  That’s all they do for a while, letting it build, both of them recognising this for the rare quiet time it is.  All Harold sees without his glasses is blur, he uses touch much more and John appreciates that, inquisitive fingers tracing old scars and new ones, drawing patterns on his skin.  He gets the buttons on his shirt undone but leaves it on – he likes Harold in it.

Eventually, he whispers,

“Turn onto your side.”

Harold does as he says and John baths the back of his neck in kisses.  He can’t help but wonder how close he came to death with the scars he has, what state he must have been left in after whatever happened.  He doesn’t want to think about it but his feelings for Harold leave him breathless and this is just one more thing he wasn’t there to prevent, even if there was absolutely no way he could have known about it.

Snagging the tube from the pillow, he coats his cock and fingers and pushes one of Harold’s legs up to bend at the knee, pressing one, then two fingers gently inside him.  Harold groans and pushes down onto John’s fingers as deep as he can take them.  John bites his shoulder through the cotton, not hard enough to leave a mark but enough that it makes Harold actually growl.  He adds a third finger carefully, rewarded by a long, drawn out moan.  He takes it steady, moving slowly back and forth until Harold actually threatens him if he doesn’t get a move on.

John moves closer, strokes a sure hand along one well-muscled thigh as he curls over, kisses Harold’s hip and presses into him. 

“Oh, God, John....” 

Burying his face in Harold’s neck, reaching around to take a firm grasp of his cock, he jerks him off at the same maddening slow pace he’s fucking him.  It’s perfect, the way they fit together.  He’s still stunned this is even happening, they’ve gone from idling to breaking the law in a single morning and he can’t even begin to think what this is going to do to their working relationship.  But Harold’s moving on him as much as he can, gloriously trapped between John’s hand and his cock, sweat beading on his skin, arm reaching back to claw fingers into John’s thigh and this isn’t something he’ll give up without one hell of a fight.

“John, please....”

He was fully intending to stay at this pace, to hold his nerve and take Harold to the edge, to drive him crazy.  It’s not even that he’s pleading, because he isn’t, it’s just that John realises he can’t ignore that voice.  It’s more familiar to him than his own and he’ll do anything it asks of him, even in this.  Letting go of Harold’s cock, he puts his hand flat on the sheets and lifts his weight, upping the pace, pushing deeper, harder, basking in Harold’s gasps and moans, in the way he’s clawing the sheets, the open pleasure in his expression.

“Harold....”

His orgasm slams into him as he slams into Harold with more force than he means to use.   When he can breathe again, he eases back down to curl around Harold’s back and stroke his cock through a firm grip until he comes over John’s fingers, crying John’s name.

He slips out, helps Harold turn onto his back, finds his glasses again and handing them to him.  He hovers over him, kissing him as he blinks from behind the lenses.  He looks utterly sated; a strangely rewarding sight.  Before today the closest John’s seen him to being relaxed was after Hester drugged him and tried to kill him.  This is so completely different.  He honestly does look happy and John thinks that could be what he’s feeling too.

“This is a wonderful way to spend a day,” Harold says, reaching up to squeeze John’s shoulder and he just stares down at him. 

“I never thought I’d hear you say that under these circumstances however long I lived.”

He smiles.  “I’m only human, John.”  Spoken so softly it makes John wish he’d done this sooner.  Neither of them are alone so there’s no reason why they have to be lonely.  “And I’m sticky again.  Would you like to share a shower?”

~

Harold’s scars are extensive, from the deep gashes in the nape of his neck, criss-crossing his spine almost to the small of his neck.  There are other marks too, a pale web over his ribcage and left side.  More than anything John wants to ask and maybe this new intimacy has earned him at least some answers but Harold doesn’t volunteer the information he doesn’t want to exploit the situation.  Harold has to know he’s curious but the incident (because John’s sure as hell it wasn’t an accident), Nathan, the birth of the machine, these are things he hasn’t shared.  Maybe it’s all still to personal, all too painful.  Maybe he’ll come clean one day.  John can only hope it’s by choice.  He’s more aware than most of how the past can creep up to bite them on the ass when they’re least expecting it.

It’s bad enough watching out for repercussions from their recent history without ancient history waiting around the corner.  But he isn’t about to force the issue.  It’s important to him that Harold can relax and enjoy this without an inquisition.

Besides, as he runs his fingers through short, soft dark hair, washing away the shampoo, he knows he isn’t about to do anything to threaten this.  It’s all he can do to keep his fingers above the man’s neckline, with Harold in-front of him under the spray, partially learning back on him, partially supporting his own weight.  John’s careful neck and shoulder massage has turned him to putty and he’s responding to having his hair washed like a true hedonist.

He lives most of his life in pain, it isn’t a surprise to John to realise how good it is to be able to relieve some of it for him, just for a little while. 

~

The rumble of a phone vibrating wakes him.  Harold wakes too, shifting under John’s arm, against his chest.

“My phone....”

“I’ll get it.”  He kisses Harold’s jaw and slides out of bed, padding over to the coffee table where Harold’s phone is next to his own.  It’s dark out.  They went to bed – to sleep – after a takeout and a bottle of wine, watching ‘Vantage Point’ and picking holes in the plot. 

He takes the phone back to the bed where Harold’s grabbing his glasses from their precarious position to read the text.  It’s another number.  John knows he should be thankful they had all day but he’s reluctant to leave this slice of heaven in the past.  He fully expects Harold to climb out of bed, but he just locks his phone and drops it carefully to the floor with his glasses before shifting to make himself comfortable on his back.

“We’re not going to the library?”

Harold stares at him, or at the blurred shape he must be.  “It’s two o’clock in the morning.  Even I understand the need to rest before we throw ourselves into another manhunt.  We’ll get up at your usual time and start looking into it then.”

Maybe it’s him but he’s sure there’s been a change in Harold’s attitude to the numbers since Root snatched him.  A little more ruthless, a little more reluctant to save the ones who don’t deserve to be saved.  John’s with him to a point.  If not for Harold, none of them would be saved.  He isn’t concerned about it.  It’s not his responsibility to tell Harold how to feel.  He just wishes he’d talk about his time in Root’s corruptive company.  He’s scared of her, that’s obvious, but there’s an admiration there too, and that does scare John because he won’t lose Harold to her in any way.

Climbing back into bed, he lies on his side and wraps his hand around Harold’s, resting his forehead against his shoulder.

“I’ve lived with the numbers long enough to know that letting them rule every aspect of your life is dangerous and an impossible thing to maintain.”

“Spying inside my head now?”

“I can hear you thinking.  Get some sleep, John, and I promise I’ll tell you about it when we have time.”

John kisses his shoulder.  “Thank you.”