meme_of_interest | Prompt Post 01

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Prompt Post 01

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The backwards remix of this (http://astolat.tumblr.com/post/48489637435/strange): When Harold asks John to have sex, he says yes even though he's not sexually interested in him, because it's Harold, and he wants Harold to have everything he needs or wants.

Up to the author whether John ends up liking it/falling in love with Harold or not.

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.