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the_machine_mod ([personal profile] the_machine_mod) wrote in [community profile] meme_of_interest2013-03-28 06:03 pm

Prompt Post 01

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a variant of ''Reese seduces Finch for trust and information''

(Anonymous) 2013-04-28 07:57 pm (UTC)(link)
Finch pov, in the beginning of season one:

Reese attempts to seduce Finch to gain his trust and personal information and Finch lets him, because- Well, sex is sex and and he is curious about what Reese's endgame is. Does he really think this will work?
Finch even plays along, letting Reese think he's succeeding, that Finch is actually developing feelings for him. He could have been, Finch thinks, easily, if they had met under other circumstances.

Reese is a surprisingly affectionate person- No, it's the CIA that trained him well, Finch reminds himself.

But actually Reese really means it. He did it all because he wanted to and he's so happy Finch is feeling the same way.

Finch discovers this in the most horrible way when when-

Well, that's up to you, dear writer :D

FILL Part 2: We All Fall Down [graphic violence?] [explicit?] [d/s] [Reese/Finch or gen]

(Anonymous) 2013-04-28 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)
Finch sighed and put the photographs on the desk. “You don’t know, do you?”

Behind the glasses his blue eyes were intense, knowing. Reese couldn’t look at him. He let his gaze wander to the window. “Does it matter?”

Finch stepped out from behind the desk, stepped toward him. “Yes, it matters, Mr. Reese. You shouldn't go to waste. You're a talented man. One of the best in the world at what you do.”

“And what is that?” Reese’s voice was hollow, weak. He knew it made him vulnerable. He just couldn’t bring himself to care anymore.

Finch was calm. The shaky mask long gone. “You work for me.”

“And you work for the Agency.”

“No,” Finch countered. At the twist in Reese’s face, he went on. “I work with the Agency, from time to time. And as you have surmised, as Kara apparently wanted you to know, I found you with the Agency's help. Unwitting as it may have been.”

Unwitting . . . “I don’t believe you.”

“I’ve told you nothing but the truth from the beginning, Mr. Reese.”

John laughed, and even he heard how broken it was, how pathetic.

Harold leaned against the desk and crossed his arms. “Your experience with the Agency was a dark one. You saw the worst face of it. But not everything they do is sinister, John. To get the necessary background information, to vet you fully, I had to convince enough of them that you could be . . . repurposed. As you obviously could be.”

Anger welled up in John and he welcomed it. Anger gave him strength. “They gave you a few favors, let you play Robin Hood for awhile, and now they own you, Finch. You let me believe I was finally free. But all this time they’ve been pulling the strings. You lied.”

John should leave, disappear. But he couldn’t get over it. It had seemed so genuine. Too far-fetched even for the Agency –

“It’s understandable that you would feel that way,” Finch said, dispassionate. Reese could feel the weight of his stare, the penetrating brilliance behind it. “When you decide to serve a cause you want to do so totally, blindly.” Finch paused, added softly, “That’s why I urged them to pair you with Kara.”

Reese bowed his head, took a moment to school his expression. The anger had been beaten back by a wave of nausea. “Wow,” he managed. “Have to hand it to you, Finch. You’re a colder bastard than I’d ever given you credit for.”

“Perhaps,” Finch agreed. “But cruelty had nothing to do with your choice of partner. You needed to work with someone accustomed to absolute control. Someone willing to hold absolute control over you. Without it you would have walked away from the horrors of that job before you fulfilled your purpose there, before you even had the skill to survive beyond it. You would have been assassinated by your own people.”

Kara as protector. That was rich.

“I know it wasn’t pleasant,” Finch continued. That same soft, steady tone. “That she wasn’t kind. But she gave you a structure, Mr. Reese. Gave you the sense of direction that you need. One I was not yet ready to offer, at the time.”

John shook his head, but Finch kept going. “You say you want to be free. But we both know that isn’t true. All you have ever wanted is to serve. To be given a purpose.”

The way he said it, so knowing - John stiffened, his eyes drawn back to Finch reluctantly. He couldn’t know –

“You’re wrong,” John said.

“There are times I can’t help but feel you are willfully blind, Mr. Reese. They told you from the very beginning that they knew absolutely everything about you and so did I. You simply never believed it.”

John still couldn’t quite believe it. And he couldn’t really be bothered to care. It didn’t matter, now. None of this mattered.

Finch sighed again, continued calmly. “You won’t serve just anyone, I’ll grant you that. You need something you feel is worthy to devote yourself to. But isn’t that what you have here, John? You know the work that we do, the help that we provide, is real. Regardless of my past and how we came to be here, we’re making a difference. It’s something you can be proud of,” he added gently, like he was giving John a gift.

John shook his head, eyes wandering once more to the opaque windows. Harold was trying to justify it, to confuse him. This is what they’d done to him before. This exact thing. “Until they come for us,” he said. “And we have no choice. I know this game now, Harold. I won’t play it again.”

Harold’s voice grew sharp. “You have never had a choice, John, and you probably never will. Because choice is not what you want. If not for this job you know very well you would be dead by now, by your own hand. What you need is trust. And I think you know you can trust me. That’s why you came here today, isn’t it?”

“I was curious,” John said dully. “How you would justify it, if you would. Can’t say I anticipated this.”

“Yes, well, you think I’ve lied to you, and I don’t appreciate the accusation. Perhaps the Agency did lie to you, perhaps Kara did. But I have protected you from them. I gave you a second chance, gave you what you need. You think I’ve betrayed you, but the truth is, John, you never asked the right questions, were never willing to face the truth. You don’t ask for what you need. Come here.”

John looked at Finch, at the bright, angry blue blaze of his eyes. He felt the edge of the precipice under him, the drop into nothingness. Into the drunk and the wasting away. It wasn’t death that he feared, there. It was the nothingness. The despair. Finch said he was talented and Reese knew that was true. Talented at fighting, at espionage, at killing. But knowing who to trust. Knowing who to give that service to, or when to pull back – that wasn’t in him. He’d been molded for obedience, molded for orders. Knowing who to take them from was something else.

“There will be more numbers, John. I can protect you from your past, from the Agency and all who will come for you. From your fears. But only you can protect the numbers. Do you want to continue doing that?” Harold’s words were even. The question felt sincere.

The fall loomed under John, gave him vertigo. Innocent dead lay in wait for him down there, ready to crush him. But he could feel others trying to pull him back. Desperate men and women, desperate teenagers, children even, who were safe now. Relief, kindness in their eyes as they thanking him. Thanked him for saving them.

It was the only proof he’d ever had, the only hint in his life that he was, had ever been, on the right path. “Yes,” he gasped.

“Then come here.”

John did.

“Take off your coat and jacket. Remove your weapons.”

John hesitated. Harold was going to kill him. Or call someone else to do it.

But Harold had also given him the numbers, given him some peace. Maybe it was better this way. Maybe he needed to step aside to protect the numbers. Something clean, something here, would be better than wandering into the city anyway, wandering and waiting for death to come. This would be more merciful.

John did as he was told.

“Your shirt.”

John gave it to him.

“Face the wall.”

Harold gestured to a spot on the wall. John turned and walked to it.

“Kneel.”

It was going to be Harold, then. Here, now. John felt something like the relief from the roof, only he wasn’t alone now. This was better, warmer. He hoped that it wouldn't trouble Harold. From the sure, easy tone of his voice, it didn’t sound like it would.

John smiled grimly as he slipped to his knees. Hidden depths to the very end.

Harold came to stand close behind him. John could feel the soft wool of expensive pants brush against his back. He heard the distinct clink of handcuffs.

“Arms up.”

John turned his head to the side, away from the dark wall. He wanted to go freely. “I’m not going to try anything, Harold.”

“Arms up, Mr. Reese.”

John put his hands behind his head. Harold secured his left wrist in one of the cuffs and pulled it up and out, finally clipping the cuff to a pipe at the farthest point John could stretch. His second wrist followed, stretched high in the opposite direction, John almost hanging between them.

He flexed his hands. Nothing useful in reach. He pulled, subtly, but the pipes were secure. He could have stood up if he wanted to, but there would be no escape either way.

“Are you giving me to the Agency, then?” he asked. John’s loss of faith meant he was less reliable then before. Maybe Harold thought John couldn't be trusted to go back, whatever his intentions. Maybe Harold was going to trade him in for a new model.

Harold put a hand on John’s head, silent, and simply kept it there. John bowed eventually, submitting to the weight of it. Vulnerable, death lurking close, it felt intimate, powerful. Like the hand of god.

“Shh, Mr. Reese. I will ask the questions. A simple yes or no will suffice in answer, unless I say otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” John answered dutifully.

“Kara and Agent Snow died yesterday. Does that trouble you?”

John blinked, staring hard at the wall. A test of his Agency loyalties? Or of how far he had moved beyond them?

Harold’s hand smoothed through his hair gently, like he was petting Bear. “Just answer honestly, Mr. Reese. That is all I want you to do, all you need to do.”

“No,” John answered, honest. Kara and Mark were the past. Their deaths were more than deserved and John hadn’t killed even them. They’d killed themselves, really.

“Are you sure?” Harold’s hand stroked down the nape of his neck, massaging the corded muscles softly.

“Yes.”

Harold moved away, steps toward his desk, only to return a moment later. He held something in front of John’s face, but close against the wall it was too dark to see.

“Open,” Harold said. It took a moment to understand. John opened his mouth and Harold pressed it in. “Bite down.”

It was soft and tough.

Harold stepped away and John twisted his wrists quickly, grabbing onto the pipes for support. The first blow was a lick of fire, falling on his right shoulder and tearing down to the left, to his waist. The second was the same, only opposite, starting at his right waist, lapping up his left shoulder. Harold paused then and John breathed deeply through his nose, bearing down on the strap, gripping the pipes under his hands.

After that the blows were harder, landing unerringly one on top of another, and it wasn’t fire anymore. It was worse, raw, flaying him open. John bore it unmoving, for a time. But it kept on, on and on, the only sound the deep thud against his back. Harold had easily cut him to the bone by now, but still it went on, until it stopped, as suddenly as it began.

Harold’s footsteps moved away. John knelt, shaking, sweat pouring down his face, too relieved to really wonder where, or why. Harold was back again quickly though. He tugged John’s head back, pulled his face up toward the ceiling. It stung his neck and John clamped his eyes shut, blocking out Harold’s face looking down, seeing his pain, the tears that had to be obvious on John’s face.

“Open.”

John opened his mouth blindly. The strap was removed and a moment later, the plastic rim of a water bottle held to his lips. “Drink,” Harold said, and John swallowed rapidly to keep from choking on it.

When John turned his face away, Harold let him. His hand came up again, stroked over John’s sweaty hair, and John put his face to the wall. Harold petted his head, his face and neck, for long minutes.

“Your former partner, Kara, and your former teammate, Mark Snow, died yesterday.”

John didn’t stop the shudder, didn’t try. “Yes.”

“Does that trouble you?”

He thought about it. Wondered if this answer would determine his fate. Whether he would be allowed to return to the numbers. Whether he would be allowed to live.

“Just answer honestly, Mr. Reese,” Harold said patiently.

John swallowed. “No.”

The petting didn’t stop. Harold didn’t step away this time.

“Open.”

Reese opened his mouth and the strap slipped in. He bit down without being told.

It went on longer than before, and somewhere in the depths of it, in the darkness of the wall and the stretch of his body down from the pipes, in the unrelenting rhythm of the pain, Reese lost all sense of where he was. He was in training. He was captured, in prison. This was an exercise, valuable prep for some new tactic. This pain was the last thing he would ever feel, the last thing he would ever know. He began to grunt with each blow, a sound to anchor himself, to keep a toehold in the world. He leaned forward to escape it, pressing his head, his face, as much of his chest as he could against the wall. It was futile, there was no escape, there was no mercy or relief or sense to it. He shuddered and cried for a time, pulling uselessly against the pipes, and then he sagged, quiet and still, surrendering utterly to the cross of knives falling endlessly on his back.

When he realized it had stopped he wasn’t sure how long the quiet had gone on, whether he had slipped into unconsciousness or not. He hung without strength in the cuffs.

Harold was above him, tipping John's head back. “Open.”

John’s eyes were open. Sightless. Harold wiped a thumb down his cheek, wiped away sweat and tears, his hand coming to rest on John’s jaw. “Open, Mr. Reese.”

John struggled to release. The strap scraped out from between his teeth. Water flowed into his mouth, flowed out. Harold’s hand went to his throat, massaging firmly. “Swallow.”

John did.

Harold left, came back. Petted his hair. “Do you need to rest?”

John did not know what rest was. “No,” he said.

A sigh, above him. “Did the deaths last night of your old friends, the destruction of your former teammates while you survived unscathed, trouble you at all?”

John leaned against a forearm and cried silently, shoulders jerking weakly against the pull in his arms. The hand on his head was the only kindness, the only softness in the world.

“Mr. Reese. Your honesty is all that is required.”

“I don’t know,” he gasped.

The click of a handcuff key was dim, unreal. All that mattered was the hand on his head, and that did not falter.

“Well,” Harold murmured. “It’s a start.”








Re: FILL: We All Fall Down [no warnings] [Reese/Finch or gen]

(Anonymous) 2013-04-28 11:15 pm (UTC)(link)
thanks! and yeah, as for __________, true. here's some more. so many directions it could go . . .

Fill 1/?: Vine and Vervain (Finch/Reese) [Not Rated] [No meme warnings apply]

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 12:43 am (UTC)(link)
“I'm afraid there are no pre-made bouquets for bereavement.”

Startled out of his introspection, John flinched, almost knocking over the little planter he'd been admiring, and whirled to face the speaker. It was the shop's proprietor, an unassuming figure whose forehead barely cleared John's shoulder. He was wearing a dark grey apron upon which the legend 'Hendricks & Finch' was scrawled in stereotypically florid typeface, and he was cradling an extravagant bouquet of flowers in his arms. A pair of large eyes peered myopically up at John through thick, plastic-framed glasses, set back from a hawkish nose and pursed, uncertain lips. “My apologies,” the florist said, his voice utterly calm. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“N- no, I-” The words stumbled on his tongue, heavy and unyielding, and uncertainty was a familiar burn in the pit of his stomach. “I'm not looking for anything in particular.”

The florist blinked. “Then I can highly recommend the harebells,” he said. He made an awkward gesture with his elbow, directing John's attention to a row of gently-nodding violet flowers, bell-shaped with their heads hung low. “They're rather fine at this time of year.”

With that, the man went back to his work; he laid his bundle of flowers down on the counter, somehow contriving to keep each stem in its exact place, and began to pluck fussily at it. John watched him for a moment, assessing (stiff posture, muscles clenched tight in his neck, fingers nimble but uncalloused, clothes flat to his soft, lived-in frame; not a threat) then redirected his focus. The harebells continued to nod, disturbed no doubt by the low swell of the air-conditioning, and he reached out to stroke the delicate curve of a petal. He'd never bought flowers individually before. His gifts had been stuck firmly in the 'roses and tulips' rut, on the basis that he'd heard of those two types and therefore knew how to ask for them.

Jessica had always loved yellow tulips.

All of a sudden, there was a vice clamped around his throat and his vision blurred, violet shading into green, the still-dark tan of his skin clear and damning against the sweet-scented backdrop, and he forced himself to swallow, to breathe, to...

“Are you quite all right?”

The florist's voice came as a surprise; the right sort of surprise, one he could latch onto and tug against, to pull himself away from the shocking rush of grief. “Yes, thank you, I'm-”

He stopped. Silky softness whispered across his palm and he released the fist that he'd never intended to make, watching the crushed harebell flutter miserably from his grip. “Oh- I'm sorry, I didn't mean to.” He turned, already patting as his pockets for his wallet, and found his gaze caught by bright blue. The other man's stare was hard, almost brazen in its appraisal, and John's shoulders itched with the need to come to sharp attention. “I don't know what I'm doing here,” he confessed in a rush, staring hopelessly at the florist. “I- My friend, she- Look, I'm sorry, I'll pay for the-”

The florist tilted his head, the flare of light across his spectacles making his eyes unreadable, and that tiny motion was enough to stem the clumsy, tumbling words. “No matter,” he said, softly, his hands still moving over the bouquet. “That one only had a day or two left anyway.”

At a loss, John continued to stare, watching the man as he began to wrap up the bouquet, unhurried and utterly inscrutable. He worked with quiet efficiency, ignoring John's study, and finished up by scribbling something onto a card and sliding it in amongst the blooms.

He looked up, one eyebrow creeping up by single, unsurprised millimetre. “May I ask a favour?”

John resisted the impulse to glance at the little destruction he'd wrought. “Of course.”

The florist stepped out from behind the counter, his body canting into a twisted limp, and offered him the flowers with a rustle of cellophane. “Would you drop these in at the coffeeshop at the corner? I believe I may shortly owe its head barista a favour.”

(A/N: Or, to put it another way, even in coffeeshop!universe Finch has to be mysteriously controlling Reese's life from the moment he meets him...)
ladyvyola: Mr. Finch at a computer, Mr. Reese standing beside him (secret masters of the universe)

Re: FILL Part 2: We All Fall Down [graphic violence?] [explicit?] [d/s] [Reese/Finch or gen]

[personal profile] ladyvyola 2013-04-29 02:03 am (UTC)(link)
Oh, so good! So painful! (Both in a number of ways.)

Fill: A Very Private Person [Reese/Finch] [explicit]

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 04:36 am (UTC)(link)
Love the prompt.


When Harold pushes him down and shifts over him, the sudden weight on John’s bare back is a surprise. John’s entire world view is cut down to the sheen of the pale sheet under him, high thread count, velvety. But for all its luxury it feels too closed in. He turns his head so that he can see out the high windows, watch the spangle of city lights, headlights crawling across the bridges and the deep, dark sky beyond. There are determined, quick movements behind him. Harold arranges John’s legs, pulls one out to the side, bends the other at the knee. John pillows his hands under his head and waits, still.

And then the burn . . . that’s a shock. John goes rigid, even though he knows that will only make it worse. But Harold is insistent, pushing forward firmly, and John feels a hand on his neck, stroking him, pinning him.

John reminds himself that he can throw Harold, if he wants to. Could break him with one blow. John pushes his forehead into his hands, wills himself still. Tonight he could probably break Harold with a few words.

He closes his eyes, relaxes a little, against all instinct. Harold surges forward and John breathes out carefully, smothering the urge to buck. The pain is okay. But the feel of invasion, of surrender when Harold finally moves into him . . . it’s too much. Just for a moment, it’s more than he can take.

Fortunately for both of them, Reese knows how to take more than too much. His coaches were the first ones to see it, when he was still in school, and then his officers. They understood how valuable it could be, that John knew how to take, how to survive and take more. Though it’s not very often that he takes it lying down.

He grits his teeth and fists the sheets and wonders, not for the first time, how they got here. It’s not an honest question, really. Reese knows exactly how they got here. Every faltering step along the path to this moment, to Harold’s hot breath, whisky sour, panting over his shoulder. To Harold in him, around him, pressing into him everywhere.

The first time, the first move, Finch was high as a kite on ecstasy. Someone somewhere said it always comes down to chemistry, one way or another, and from his current perspective that seems pretty accurate.

John breathes out a laugh, but Harold is moving above him now, rhythm strong and slow, and any sound John makes is swallowed up in the satisfied, breathy moan above him. Harold’s hand rubs up and down John’s back, followed by his mouth, wet, tender.

John feels the care behind it, feels Harold’s lonely desire. Harold is a good man, a caring man. The need to be close to someone, to protect something, is an almost desperate want in him, when he allows himself to feel it. John closes his eyes, feels sorrow well up in him for his loss, for all that both of them has lost.

John is soft, but Harold is solid above him, murmuring endearments, pain of his injuries forgotten, lost in pleasure. Harold has given him all that he is. John can give him this. He lifts his hips experimentally. Harold hisses in delight.

They met in an abandoned lot after the Hester case and the subsequent ecstasy debacle, since Fusco wasn’t in on the library’s location.

Reese was there early. He stood back and watched as Finch pushed open the passenger door of Fusco’s vehicle, hauling himself out of the police cruiser by degrees. Finch clung to the door, swaying dangerously until Fusco came around from the driver’s side and grabbed him by the elbow.

“Better keep an eye on him,” Fusco said. “Pretty sure he tried to hack the Pentagon on the way over here.”

Reese nodded and Fusco guided Finch in his direction, a little push in the last moment sending Finch stumbling along to where John stood. Finch’s face was happy and loose, his movements discombobulated, like a toddler’s.

“See you,” Fusco said vaguely, and John heard a car door slam, an engine rev. He didn’t watch the detective’s hasty retreat, though, because Finch was already sagging against him, moving his arms and legs weirdly against John’s heavy coat. He was either trying to use Reese’s body as a wall to prop himself up or as a fun new jungle gym to climb, Reese couldn’t really tell.

“You are . . .” Finch grabbed Reese’s lapels and leaned back, an unannounced trust fall, forcing John to catch him around the waist before they both toppled over. Finch felt incredibly light in his arms – maybe not toddler light, but Reese instantly knew that if Harold fainted or got confused he could handle him easily. Reese could contain him and carry him for miles, whether Finch liked it or not. Finch giggled and patted his chest. “Strong.”

John smirked. He was leaning over Harold, keeping them both from falling, figuring how to push him in the direction of the car without straining his neck or his back or his bad hip. For just a moment they held each other in a parody of a dance.

Then Harold looked into John’s face, eyes darkening, and the parody faded in an instant, like the flip of a switch. John watched, incredulous, as Harold strained up toward him, searching, wanting, too close.

John hauled Finch upright, smooth and easy, and put a foot of space between them as he moved them toward the car.

He’d wondered at first, cataloging Finch’s fussy habits, the funny suits. But Harold never made the slightest move, the least hint, and then John found the woman Finch left behind and he figured that was the whole story on Harold.

Seemed like he might have gotten that wrong.

John held Finch up with one hand and popped the rear door to the sedan with the another. It was a twenty-minute drive to the library, at least. Finch could sleep in the back. But when John tried to maneuver him in Finch got a hold of the top of the car and clamped down, abruptly halting progress. “Backseat?”

“Yeah,” John said. He put a hand on Finch’s and started to pry it up. “That way you can take a nap.”

“Hm.” Finch considered that. “No. No, I don’t think so.” He giggled. The flirty seduction was gone. The toddler had made a comeback. “I want the front seat.” He tipped back his head before John could reply and howled, like a dog at the moon. “Shotguuuunnnn!”

“Okay,” Reese said easily, “Front seat.” It was late as hell and all he wanted to do was get off the street, get secure, and sleep. But he helped Finch ease back from the car and push closed the backdoor. Controled Finch’s immediate fall into the front door, got it open despite Finch’s full bodyweight slumped against it, and finally swiveled Finch around the door and down into the seat itself. Finch was unharmed, still grinning happily, and Reese barely noticed the bang and scrape of his knuckles against the side of the car.

He pulled the seatbelt out and leaned over Harold to secure it and Harold instantly reached up with both hands to explore John’s waist, slipping in where his winter coat and suit jacket had fallen open, sliding his palms over John’s shirt.

John’s ear was about three inches from Harold’s mouth, which is the only reason he heard it. Harold’s satisfied, “Oh. Nice,” as his fingers spread and traveled rapidly up John’s sides, rubbing firmly over his torso. The touch wasn’t the least hesitant or tentative. It wasn’t an experiment or the odd tangent of a drugged mind. It was Harold taking and enjoying something fine, something the billionaire connoisseur in him knew and approved of. His favored merlot at the Carlyle, the steak at the Grand. John’s chest, apparently.

John secured the clasp and pulled away, satisfied. Scraped up knuckles and a doped, horny boss were the least of his worries – Finch was in the car, seatbelt on, and Reese headed around to the driver’s seat to get them home.

Finch was quiet the first few blocks. Then he started to hum to himself, absently. At a traffic light Reese looked him over and handed him a water bottle, instructing him to drink it. Finch rolled down his window and tried to throw the bottle into a trash bin on the corner. He missed.

“She tricked me,” Finch said, like he was talking to himself. Then he said it again. “She tricked me,” and it sounded lost, forlorn. Reese glanced at him as he sped down an avenue, weaving around late night traffic, wondering about another try with the water. He decided to wait till they were in the library, where the windows were nailed shut.

Harold turned toward him as they cruised through Chelsea. John heard the telltale click of the seatbelt catch releasing and frowned. He was about to protest when Harold reached out lightening fast, a move worthy of a boxer, and seized John’s hair.

“Harold,” John reached up and pulled the hand away, pushing it back toward Finch. “I’m driving.”

Finch didn’t seem to notice. “Are you tricking me?”

The words were low, suspicious. Brittle. John didn’t know the details of whatever had screwed Harold over in the past. But he knew enough to know the scars ran deep.

“No,” John said. “We’re friends.”

Harold relaxed, his voice going happy again. “My very good special friend.”

John smothered a laugh, wondering how much of this Harold was going to remember in the morning. “Something like that. Put your seatbelt back on.”

Harold leaned over the divide and touched John’s arm, his leg. “Are you okay?”

John let his eyes drift from the road to Harold’s upturned face, his wide open gaze, and wondered fleetingly what that meant. Was he okay with working for Harold? With his new life? Or with Harold’s hand moving up his thigh?

John grasped the hand gently, just before it found his crotch, and pushed it away, back toward Harold. “I’m great. But I’d be even better if you moved back to your seat and put on your seatbelt.”

Harold’s body shifted closer, his free hand moving up to stroke the back of John’s head and neck. “You get hurt a lot.”

John gave up on the seatbelt, and his neck. “Not really.”

“It’s not fair,” Harold said sadly. “I feel good.”

John activated the turn signal and shifted lanes. They were coming up on the library’s cross street. “Well, you should. You’ve been drugged. You’re high.”

“Nevertheless,” Harold said sagely. “The fact remains.” And hopefully, “Are we home?”

“We’re almost to the library.”

“Oh good,” Harold yawned. “I missed it.” His hand flopped from John’s neck to the arm of his coat, fingers clinging to the thick wool. “It was exciting, being out and about, thrilling, really. She said she got me high because that’s more efficient. Do you find it to be more efficient?”

John maneuvered them into the parking spot Harold kept permanently clear by fake marking it as a bus stop. Harold surged out of the car almost before they'd stopped moving, turning circles on the sidewalk, cooing up at the streetlights. He met John under the scaffolding, grinning, swinging around one of the poles. “Well, do you?”

John took Harold’s elbow and escorted him to the entrance. “Do I?" Oh yeah. "More efficient than what?”

“Why, than killing, of course.” Harold pushed his glasses up his nose seriously. “What is your view?”

His eyes were warm, bright and inquisitive. John cleared his throat and did his best to push the dark away. “In your case? I think high is better than dead. Though not necessarily more efficient. Watch the step.”

Harold was quiet the rest of the way up the stairs. John thought it was because he was out of breath. But when they got to the top Harold said stoutly, “I’m glad you’re my friend.”

They’d stopped by the library gate and John leaned Harold against it so that he could jimmie the lock. When he could slide it open and propel Harold forward again, Harold stepped close, stepped into him, and raised a hand. It hovered for a moment over John’s chest, and raised slowly to brush his cheek. “You need to be careful.” Harold's breath hitched painfully and John frowned down at him helplessly. “My friends are dead now, mostly. Did you know? You be careful.”

Harold’s eyes lowered from John’s, settling on his chest again. His hand slipped slowly from John’s cheek, gentled over his throat to rest on his heart. He leaned forward, just as slowly, until his forehead rested next to his hand on John’s chest, and John felt Harold’s other hand creep around his waist, gripping him tight, holding him close. “Please be careful,” Harold whispered. “Please.”

John patted Harold’s shoulder calmly. “It’s okay, Finch. I am careful.”

“I can’t lose you. I can’t lose anymore. Please.”

God. “You won’t. It’s okay,” John said gently. He rubbed slow circles over Harold’s shoulder, trying to shuffle them down the hall, toward the bed he knew Harold kept made up.

Harold pressed closer, pressed his body along John’s. His hand slipped down to John’s ass and squeezed.

“Okay, Harold." John stepped back, set him upright, on his own more or less. "You need to get some sleep.” And hopefully forget every detail of this night.

“Whoa.” He studied his own library like he'd discovered the gold at the end of the rainbow. “Why didn’t you tell me I had so many books?”

John snagged a six-pack of water bottles and lifted them up into Harold’s view, stepping away as he did so. “It’ll be out of your system in a few hours. But you should drink this so you don’t get dehydrated.”

“You’re leaving?”

Harold looked gutted.

“I’ll stick around to keep an eye on you. But you should really get some sleep.” John pressed a blanket into his hands.

Harold cradled it like a teddy bear. “You don’t want to talk?”

Talk. Right. “You might regret it in the morning. You’re a very private person, remember?”

# # #

That was the first time. It hadn’t come up the next morning. It’d never come up again. John figured Harold didn’t really see him that way. Only turned to him that once because he was out of his mind, drugged and desperate with loneliness.

Tonight would back that theory up. John suggested a beer and Harold had swallowed his fear, his hurt after Root, and stepped out into the city with his guard dog by his side.

But Harold hadn’t wanted beer. He’d started with wine and quickly moved on to whiskey. From whiskey into emptiness. From loneliness into John.

Harold finished above him, gasping, and sank bonelessly down on top of him, pressing his face into John’s back. “John,” he whispered, “John.”

A moment of absolute quiet, absolute stillness, nothing but their breath disturbing it. Then Finch rolled, slipping off him, and John followed the move. “Harold?”

Harold had passed out.

John collected his things quietly, eased into his pants gingerly. Finally closed the door behind him silently. He doubted they’d talk about it in the morning.

Grace's new love interest is a Number

[identity profile] of-fkilter.livejournal.com 2013-04-29 06:51 am (UTC)(link)
Or Grace herself, I suppose, but more I was thinking of Harold and Reese trying to figure out if this new guy is bad, good, in between, and wresting with the desire to get him the hell away from Grace any which way. Also, Harold battling the urge to reveal himself, Reese "subtly" (as subtle as he gets) intimidating the hell out of the guy and shuttered disapproval of Grace's move onward (with or without a conflicting urge to hope she DOES move on should the story go Rinchy, which I have a personal thing for), the both of them maybe trying to keep Carter and Fusco from figuring out Grace's connection, and Bear pulling things out of Grace's house that smell like Harold.

Um. Any or all of that--forgive if this is a prompt already that I missed.

Reese suspects past Finch/Nathan Ingram

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 11:51 am (UTC)(link)
Reese doesn't have hard evidence, but he's pretty sure.

Could be unrequited Finch/Ingram -- up to the author. Reese/Finch preslash or first time is an added bonus!

Re: Reese suspects past Finch/Nathan Ingram

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 02:10 pm (UTC)(link)
o__o I really shouldn't. But I might try this. No promises but we'll see. o__o

Something about 42, Finch and Machine

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 02:29 pm (UTC)(link)
or 42 and Finch, or 42 and Machine

Reese, Carter and the picture

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 03:59 pm (UTC)(link)
It's got to happen eventually, right? Reese finds out about Carter having the picture of him and Jessica, maybe she even decides to give it to him.

I know that's been done before, but I don't want Reese to be understanding and forgiving. I want him to be mad at her and reminded of his time with Jessica.

If you could add Finch in the mix as his emotional sounding board that would be great. [Maybe it'll even turn into something more?]

Finch/Reese - Finch thinks Reese is too vulnerable to make judgments about sex

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 04:08 pm (UTC)(link)
Reese keeps trying to seduce Finch; Finch is attracted to Reese but refuses because he thinks Reese is too emotionally vulnerable to Finch to make those judgments. He knows that Reese thinks that Finch, and their work, saved him - Finch feels like sleeping with Reese would be taking advantage of him.

Somehow, it all works out in the end with true love.

Reese/Finch memory loss

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 06:24 pm (UTC)(link)
Reese/Finch established.

Finch loses his memory of everything that happened after 'the accident' with all the consequences (he doesn't recognize Reese, maybe thinks Nathan is still alive and so on, details up to the writer)

Reese desperately tries to gain Finch's trust and make sure he doesn't do anything stupid but is also broken-hearted because he's afraid he lost the most important person in his life.

Re: FILL Part 2: We All Fall Down [graphic violence?] [explicit?] [d/s] [Reese/Finch or gen]

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 06:29 pm (UTC)(link)
Strangely enough I can actually believe that death by Harold's hands would be some sort of relief for John. Like he'd be allowed to die because he has made up for all the bad things he's done.
Can't wait to see how this continues.
annchi: Elizabeth Shaw (Default)

Re: Fill: A Very Private Person [Reese/Finch] [explicit]

[personal profile] annchi 2013-04-29 08:31 pm (UTC)(link)
Oh man, I love this. There cannot be enough written for the missing scene(s) in Identity Theft!

(Anonymous) 2013-04-29 09:19 pm (UTC)(link)
just the prompt lol'd me. this would be hilarious!

Reese's childhood or high school friend is a number

(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:30 am (UTC)(link)
The new number is a high school friend or acquaintance of Reese's. Finch listens to their conversations and learns things about Reese, Reese's past, or Reese's thoughts about his own past that surprise him.

Re: Home Run (Reese/Finch) - not explicit, no warnings

(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:33 am (UTC)(link)
wow, intricate and disarming and beautiful, really vivid. well done.

Re: One Way Glass (Finch/Reese) - explicit - consent issues

(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:38 am (UTC)(link)
reese is perfect in this, his dialogue and his thoughts, yum, and the twist of it turning out okay for Rinch and all bad things for Elias is superb.

Re: Cuffed, Reese & Finch, Reese in handcuffs, General, No Warnings

(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:41 am (UTC)(link)
Hilarious and awesome, from first line to last, loved it. Laughed out loud at using the phone as lockpick, bamf hearts.

Re: You Can Drive My Car (Finch/Reese)

(Anonymous) 2013-04-30 01:55 am (UTC)(link)
pretty and unique and funny. I'm going to be thinking about pilot fish my next after dark walk in the city . . .
talitha78: (Default)

Re: Fill: A Very Private Person [Reese/Finch] [explicit]

[personal profile] talitha78 2013-04-30 04:12 am (UTC)(link)
So good!
killalla: (Default)

Fill: Enough, Finch/Reese [Mature] [Choose Not To Warn]

[personal profile] killalla 2013-04-30 06:16 am (UTC)(link)
I also really liked this prompt, so I wrote a fill for it as well. Linked here - http://archiveofourown.org/works/779432
killalla: (Default)

Re: Fill: A Very Private Person [Reese/Finch] [explicit]

[personal profile] killalla 2013-04-30 06:20 am (UTC)(link)
Definitely hot, but also hilarious in the portrayal of Finch when high. “Shotguuuunnnn!”
killalla: (Default)

Reese/Finch, One Night

[personal profile] killalla 2013-04-30 06:38 am (UTC)(link)
There are some lovely stories out there where our heroes acknowledge that their relationship is not a one time thing, but because I love bittersweet downer endings, I'd also like to see a story where they only get one night together.

So, perhaps Reese finally gets his suicide mission, and this gives him the courage to confess and ask Finch as a last request? Or vice versa? Bonus points for the other not guessing, not even imagining that there was mutual attraction until the very end, and one or both of them facing their death with a laugh and a smile.
Edited 2013-04-30 19:59 (UTC)