He’s a violent man.  He’s hurt, maimed, killed with his bare hands.  He lives one minute to the next holding himself in check, the anger burning inside him in those empty places hollowed out by loss and death and rage.

When he lays his hands on someone, ninety-nine times out of a hundred it’s to scare, to threaten or to hurt.

That one time out of every hundred, the times when he’s touching Harold, those are the exceptions.

It took time to get the man to trust him enough to let him near and even now it’s more likely he’ll turn his back than step into it but on those occasions when he allows it, comes close and lets hands that have killed in a hundred different ways cradle his damaged neck, fingers that have punished countless people trace the edges of his scars with the most tender of touches, those occasions remind John that he’s still human. 

It’s been comparable to approaching a wounded animal; Harold’s skittish at the best of times.  But since he was snatched he’s jumping at every sound, nervous as hell. 

His kidnappers didn’t hurt him so much as terrorise him.  He got away with a few nasty bruises, a split lip, a black eye and a couple of knife cuts deep enough to require stitches.  Most of it was acquired in the minute or so it took for them to take him, when Harold fought for his freedom.  The mental scars will last longer than the physical ones. 

The last thing they did just before John rescued him was inject him with LSD.

On the first night, the psychotropic was still in his system.  Thankfully, rather than the bad trip John had worried about, Harold sat on the old leather couch in the corner of the library’s main room still wearing his torn shirt and dirty trousers and stared at his hands for a couple of hours, turning them over and back again, seeing things John couldn’t see.  It was late, gone midnight, when the effects started to wear off and he started to come down.  By dawn he was freaking out.  All John could do was sit with him, wrap his arms around him and hold him tight even when he fought – clawed – at John’s shoulders.  It was harder when he started to beg and plead, when he started to cry.  Finally he exhausted himself. 

When he slept it wasn’t restful.  John tried to make him as comfortable as possible on the couch but he knew Harold’s damaged body needed more support and predictably when he woke later that evening he was in agony, dehydrated and sick.

John didn’t want to feed him any more drugs.  He persuaded him to drink a couple of water bottles then called a car and took Harold to the apartment he’d given him for his birthday.  That in itself wasn’t easy.  Finch didn’t want to leave the relative safety of the library, he didn’t want to be out in the street, he definitely didn’t want to be cooped up in the back of a car.  John kept up a litany of what was supposed to be comforting and supportive bullshit but it wasn’t his forte and Harold wasn’t buying it.  By the time they reached the loft, Harold was ready to bolt and his driver was clearly considering calling the cops.

John talked the guy down and somehow convinced him his boss was going to be fine.  He managed to coax Harold into the apartment and once there, with the security system activated, he quieted.

“I can’t give you any pain meds until I’m sure the LSD’s out your system,” Reese explained apologetically and Harold nodded miserably.  “Maybe a bath would help?”

Another nod.  He ran a bath.

“Can you manage?”

“I am capable of washing myself,” Harold snapped then immediately regretted it.  “Sorry.  I’m... sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

He left him to undress and climb into the water by himself, waiting out in the corridor for half an hour, listening for anything that might indicate he was drowning until he heard movement and the water draining and made himself busy in the kitchen until Harold joined him, wrapped in a big white bathrobe, looking so incredibly fragile and vulnerable it made John’s muscle’s ache to grab him, to hug him, made his soul ache to put the man in a gilded cage and keep anyone from ever coming close to him again.

“Are you hungry?”

Harold shook his head.  “I’m tired, Mr Reese.  If I can just....”

“Of course.  Take my bed.”

“I’ll be fine in the guest room.”

“I don’t keep the guest room made up.  Take mine, Finch.”

By the time John finished his shower, fifteen minutes later, Harold was in his bed, on his back, propped up against the pillows.  Mouth open, snoring softly, robe still tied around him under the sheets.  John left a glass of water on the bedside cabinet and poured himself a glass of wine.  He quietly made himself an omelette and sat down on the couch with a glass of wine, listening for any signs that Harold was in trouble, in pain, or in the grip of a nightmare until he finally fell asleep and woke with the sun. 

Making tea felt oddly soothing, like a strange ritual.  Harold was still sleeping, not looking as if he’d moved at all.  Sitting on the edge of the bed, John stroked the palm of his hand over the soft ends of Harold’s hair, ghosting fingertips over his temple until he opened his eyes and John dropped his hand at the flash of fear he saw there. 

“I’ve bought you tea.”  He handed Harold his glasses from the bedside cabinet.  “How are you feeling?”

“As if I’ve been run over.”  Harold manoeuvred himself into a sitting position, every movement looking as if it caused him pain.  “I’m sorry if I said anything I shouldn’t have done.”

Reese shook his head.  “You didn’t.”

“I recall getting rather emotional,” he murmured, and John wished he could take the shame from those startling eyes.

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”  He made sure his tone was gentle, wanted to make sure Harold knew it was okay.

“I recall you... hugging me.”

He fought the urge to laugh and smiled instead.  “Like I said, Harold, nothing I couldn’t handle.”

“It’s been a long time since someone held me.”

Harold’s tone was so matter-of-fact that John didn’t know what to do with it.  He watched Harold turn awkwardly and reach for the tea cup, belatedly reaching to help him.  Their fingers momentarily touched on the china and John glanced at his boss, locking with his steady gaze until the edges of Harold’s mouth turned upwards into a wan smile.

“Just offering up another secret, John,” he explained quietly.  “I don’t expect anything in return.”

“You never do.”  He let Harold have the cup.  “I’m the one who should be apologising.  I should have been there.  They shouldn’t have had the opportunity to get to you.”

“I am my own man, Mr Reese.”  The formality didn’t go unnoticed and this time he was expecting it, knew it for what it was.  “You can’t and won’t always be at my side.  I put myself in danger when I started this project.  When I die, I don’t expect it to be of natural causes.”

Brave words coming from a shaken, frightened man.  “When you die, Harold, I’ll make sure it’s of old age, not some asshole opportunist putting a bullet in your brain.”  He saw the ever-so-slight tremor in Harold’s hands as he lifted the cup to his lips.  “It’s okay to admit you’re scared, to admit you’re still scared.  You think I haven’t been where you are?  The trick is to let someone help you through it.”

Finch stared at him, eyes hard.  “Is that what you did, Mr Reese?”

“Yes, Harold, it is.  In a manner of speaking.”

He lowered the cup and took a deep breath.  “They came at me with knives.  Four of them, as you well know.  I tried to fight them off but what chance did I stand?  They put a hood over my head and bundled me into the back of a van.  They kept telling me I was going to die, that no one would be able to find me in time.  We stopped after twenty minutes, at the place where you found me.  They weren’t gentle with me, but they didn’t beat me or torture me.  They tied me to a chair, made more threats, more noise, but they didn’t touch me again.  It was if they were waiting for something, or someone.  They didn’t feed me but it didn’t matter because I wasn’t hungry.  They gave me water through a straw every hour or so.  Twenty hours went by.  Then there was a commotion.  I knew it was you.  So did they, apparently, because that’s when they punched me in the face and stabbed a needle into my neck.  After that... it’s something of a blur.”

Reese recognised the flat tone, the rendition of the events as if they’d happened to someone else.  Denial was a powerful emotion but it was always temporary.  It would hit him eventually.  John could only hope he was close by when it did.  Then again, he was always close by in one way or another.    Harold drank his tea.

“I’m sorry they hit you, sorry they drugged you because of me.”

Finch shook his head.  “You saved my life.  Again.  A split lip, a black eye and a bad trip are small prices to pay.”

“If it’s any consolation, you seemed to be enjoying the trip until you started to come down from it.”

Harold smiled.  “I’m grateful to you for not taking advantage of my condition.  I’m certain I would have answered any question you put to me.”

“As am I.  Which is why I didn’t ask.  I enjoy this game of ours as much as you do, I wouldn’t cheat.  Besides... that would hurt you and I don’t want to hurt you, not ever.  I don’t want you to regret anything you do with me.”

Harold looked at him steadily and John smiled with a slight shrug.  He looked strangely at home in just a robe under high thread count cotton sheets.  Then again, he would do.  John imagined him at home on a Sunday morning, reading the paper, sipping tea.  He didn’t know if Harold even had a real home, if he ever relaxed on a Sunday morning, if he’d ever had anyone to bring him tea while he lay in bed.

Yesterday, when he’d realised Harold had been snatched, the panic, the blind rage, the fury he’d felt; he would have torn the world apart to find him.  He’d killed everyone, even when he’d found Harold alive; he’d wanted to send a message.  When that rush of adrenaline left his system, it left behind a wash of something else, something stronger, a need, an urge, a wave of possessiveness and protectiveness.

He didn’t play well with others.  He didn’t share.  Harold was his and no one had permission to touch.  But this was more, this went deeper.  This was love.  He recognised it and it didn’t surprise him.  Harold was responsible for saving him, for giving him another chance, another life, a purpose.  A reason to get up every morning.  Harold made him happy.  Given that, it wasn’t a shock to find out he’d grown incredibly fond of the man, grown to care about him.

He just had to keep that in check, because he didn’t love easily but when he did it was without reservation.  He had already made a mental vow to protect Harold at all costs, but he knew himself better than that.  He knew it would become more if he allowed it to.  Harold definitely didn’t need that.

Rising from the edge of the bed, he dropped a warm hand on to Finch’s shoulder and squeezed gently.  “There are a couple of errands I need to run.  Will you be all right here for an hour?”

“Of course.”  Reese admired the bravery even though he could hear the underlying tremor. 

“Promise me you’ll stay here.  You installed the security system so you know you’re safe.”

“I know.  And I promise.  I’ll be fine, Mr Reese.”

“Thank you.”

Despite his own bravado, he spent the first ten minutes standing on the pavement opposite his own building watching for anything suspicious. 

A week’s gone by since he got Harold back.  In that time he’s chased down three numbers.  He’s talked a woman out of robbing the bank she works at, preventing the collateral damage that would have presumably have caused or he doubts the machine would have spat out her number.  He’s stopped a guy from shooting his wife and kids after finding out she’s had an affair.  And he’s stepped in before a carjacking could lead to a young woman’s death.  Throughout it all he’s had Harold’s constant presence in his ear and in doing so he’s staying at Harold’s side where he thinks he’s still needed.  He’s proved right when a fourth number requires them both in the field.  He’s reluctant but he needs the help, this needs the two of them, and all Harold has to do is attend a business lunch.  Reese wants to be there to accompany him to the restaurant but he gets caught up and all he can do is listen to the sounds of Harold putting on his coat and leaving the library, gives him a few words of encouragement as he climbs into the car then has to disconnect to deal with a petty thief who’s run off with his target’s handbag containing the blackmail payoff she’s just taken from the ATM.

When he connects again, a few minutes later, he knows there’s something wrong.  He can hear Harold breathing, rapidly as if he’s run a marathon, and with only a passing sense of frustration that he’s obviously not on his way to the business lunch, he says, “Are you okay, Harold?”

“I’m... I’m so sorry, Mr Reese.”  His voice is stuttering, John can hear panic and maybe tears.

“It’s okay, Harold.  Are you still in the library?”

“I tried to leave....”

“I’ll handle it then I’ll be back.”

When he gets back to the library, Harold is sitting staring miserably at the monitors.  John drops his hands to his boss’s shoulders and squeezes very gently. 

“Are you all right?”

“I believe I had a panic attack.  I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologising.”

“If I can’t back you up in the field, I’m no good to you.”

John moves around him, perches himself on the edge of the table with his hands at his sides.  Harold has to move his chair back to look at him.

“You’re the most resourceful, most capable partner I’ve ever had.  If I’d really needed you out there today, if my life had depended on it, you would have backed me up no matter what.  I’m not worried about that.  I’m worried about you.”

Harold looks away, then back at him, while John reaches out and curves his left hand around the back of his damaged neck, putting pressure in all the right places, knowing where to apply it to do the most good and where he can’t even brush the skin without causing pain.  Harold’s eyes close momentarily and his mouth falls open on a breath of rare relief.  A smile touches the edges of John’s mouth and he stands up.

“Come on.”

Harold blinks owlishly, covering his disappointment well.  “Where are we going?”

“That Italian place you love, the one that serves Gianduiotto chocolates with their espressos.”  He looks sceptical.  “It’s a ten minute walk.”  That’s at Finch’s pace.

He expects a sarcastic response at best, a snarky one at worst but Finch just nods and smiles.  He knows what Reese is up to but that’s okay.  “Thank you, John.”

“You’re welcome, Harold.”