meme_of_interest | Prompt Post 01

Remember the scene in T2 where the T1000 stabs Sarah in the shoulder and tells her "I know this hurts, call to John." Someone does something similiar to Harold, but he won't do it. And then, finally, he tells the bad guy 'I don't have to,' because John is now standing behind him.

Somehow, John and Harold end up swapping bodies. While they try to figure out how to get the situation reversed, it presents several logistical problems. As Finch said, the numbers never stop coming...but John with his knowledge of combat and tactics is now in a body not equipped to use those skills; and Finch is in a body that is physically capable of all of those things but in the hands of something lacking the knowledge to do them. How do they manage?

Bonus if Finch's back seizes badly at one point, and Harold (in John's body) has to help John deal with it. When they get things sorted, John asks Harold if there have been times he's been in that much pain and not said, and makes Harold promise not to do that again.

If it's alright with you, I would like to have Finch not know how to swim/be bad at swimming in this fic as well.
One more thing-- would it be okay if an established Finch/Reese relationship was lightly implied?
Thanks!

Sorry for the wait!

The completed fill can be found at LJ (http://eyeus.livejournal.com/7949.html) or AO3 (http://archiveofourown.org/works/903968). I hope OP enjoys!

I don't have an account but my AO3 name is Callmecathy.
Here's the link, and I hope you like it.
http://archiveofourown.org/works/904330

Thank you thank you thank you! Perfect!

Reese is seriously injured and the bloodloss is making him dopey. He doesn't think it's too bad, it can't be when it doesn't hurt all that much, right?

He doesn't want Finch's help and perhaps struggles against him, just generally acts really stupid.

I'd love if it started with Reese out on his own and Finch at the library trying to reason with him over the comm and finally realizing that he needs to go and get John to safety because he won't do so on his won.

Oh, I like this one. I'll definitely try to fill this, as soon as I post the last chapter to a WIP of mine.

Oooh that would be so awesome! Feel free to change the details if you want.

(Where's that WIP you're talking about?)

Thanks for the leeway with the prompt.
The link for my WIP is here (it's set after God Mode, about what happens with Reese and Finch when they find out Nathan is-- because there was enough of a loophole in the finale for it to be theoretically possible-- alive).

Edited 2013-08-05 07:58 (UTC)

[I am so stupid I never look at usernames here cause I automatically assume everyone's on anon, my apologies]
Gosh I love that story and can't wait for the remaining chapter! The AU dynamic between Finch/Nathan/Reese is a favourite of mine.

A/N: Thank you, I'm really happy you like the Nathan AU. And, damnit, but your prompt distracted me from working on it, so... here's the fill! =)
I hope you like it. (It's pre-slash, although only if you squint).

Their number this time isn't a perpetrator playing victim, like others have been-- he's just a young scared kid with trust issues and a knife that Reese doesn't know is coming until he hears the skid of a footstep behind him.
Ben Daly should have gone for a stab. Maybe a quick dart towards the neck. Instead he throws a wild slash that catches Reese in the abdomen. The air going out of him like a punch without the pain, clatter of the knife and the door clanging as Ben runs out of the room.
"Reese? Mr. Reese, what happened?"
Reese is standing amidst a complex of old warehouses, slatted metal and peeling paint and weeds that don't get enough sun. The kid they've been trying to help had taken a few wrong turns and wound up with a gang that doesn't let members get out; Reese had followed him to the warehouses, planning to deal with the gang before they dealt with Ben.
"Just a scratch," Reese tells Finch-- and it can't be much more, can it? It barely even hurts.
Shouting not far ahead, the clang off metal; Reese rounds the corner fast enough to see Ben being hauled into one of the alleys between the warehouses by six twenty-somethings.
Reese pulls out his gun. Sunlight glinting off walls in disorienting flashes. The structure farther away than he'd first anticipated and his legs weighing heavily, turning liquid.
"How bad is it?" Finch says in his ear. "Really."
The logical part of his brain has started a mental countdown from twenty five. "They've got the kid, have to get to him." Although something in Finch's tone tells Reese that isn't what he asked.
"John, you're hurt, stay where you are." When Reese doesn't answer he hears Finch take that level, steadying breath, and say evenly, "You're in no condition to do take on a dangerous gang."
Reese realizes, feeling nonspecifically pleased, that Finch can tell that he is in "no condition" just from the way Reese is breathing. "Even in this 'condition'," He says implacably, "I'm twice as good as they are." Which isn't really boasting. He pulls out his gun and ignores Finch's "John"-- and that should tell him something, Finch only ever drops his security-blanket formalities when someone is dying-- and slips into the alleyway.
Twenty two.
Ben is sprawled on his side and one of the gang members has a gun leveled at his chest. Reese shoots five of them in the kneecaps before getting tackled by the sixth. He rolls, lashes an elbow to the side and scrabbles to his feet. Reese knocks the man out, quick and efficient with the butt of his gun. Now it hurts. Ben is at the back of the alley and he throws him a wide-eyed look before rabbitting out of it. This time, Reese leaves him be: threat, resolved.
Nineteen.
Reese stumbles into the warehouse. Shelves, equipment-- hammers and nails and screw drivers, tools originally meant for building things until he made a mockery of their original meaning during his work with the CIA-- and a lone tube of superglue. It's crude, of course, but he's done it before and it does its job now.
And he's been here before, too, feeling the shake in his hands and the metallic taste in his mouth and he knows, superglue or no, that yes: he took too much time going after Ben, got his pulse pounding during the fight fast enough to increase the blood loss. "Blood is thicker than water." Reese mumbles, which is amusing at first but then he repeats it again, hard at Finch, for the sheer truth of it. He's dizzy. Dizzy and falling.
Seventeen.
"I'm very close." Finch says softly.
Reese's head jerks up. At what point had he sat down?
He listens hard: on the other side of the connection he hears the low rumble of a car, water slicking against the sides. "You haven't been in the Library for a while now, have you." Reese knows he should be reprimanding Finch for speeding towards him even before the danger had been subdued; he wants to inform Finch of costs and consequences and the fact that he isn't worth it-- but he doesn't. There is something about Finch coming for Reese that is too intuitive to argue.
Fifteen.
The stone is cold beneath him and his coat is crumpled and soaked, pressed against his abdomen. He's always thought he'd go by a gunshot, but bleeding out will do: it's hideously appropriate, and Finch would find it abhorrent but he finds it ironic. Blood. He's spilled so much of it over the years. Swam in it, drowned in it. "Have... have to stop the bleeding." He mutters.
"Yes, John." Finch says, thready and panicked. "You've got to stop the bleeding. I'm close, just..."
He's trailing, fading-- long concentric swirls pulling Reese downwards. He clings to Finch's voice like a lifeline and wonders at what point dying had stopped being the easy part. "Tell me something."
Silence. And that silence spans out long enough for Reese to realize that his version of silence isn't actually a lack of noise so much as the lack of Finch's voice in his ear. Then: "Forgive the-- morbidity of the topic, but you are indeed correct: blood is thicker than water. Roughly six times thicker. The proverb is generally taken to mean that family is more important than any other bond."
Thirteen.
"The second meaning derives from soldiers. Blood pacts that these men forged with their comrades, that the bonds they form with those they fight with are the strongest." His pause is gentle enough that it asks the question without needing an answer. And the grace of that. Reese nods to himself.
Twelve, the doors sway open and it's Finch and the countdown stops. He has a bag slung across one shoulder and he drops to his knees in front of Reese.
"Dear God, John."
Finch stares at him for a moment-- calculating something, Reese is sure, although that means little since the man is always considering something-- and then draws a pair of needles and a thin tube from the bag.
Reese lifts his head. "You have an IV in your field kit?"
"Since meeting you, I've had to rethink my definition of necessary medical supplies." Blood is pooling on the cement and Finch is ruining his perfectly-pressed, bespoke suit. "I think even you'll agree that there isn't time to get you to one of my private clinics." Finch says. He pulls out a bottle of disinfectant and gives it a critical shake. He peeks at Reese and offers him a shaky smile that's supposed to be reassuring. "I am very good at learning by observation."
Easy for a man who built a worldwide surveillance system to say, but Reese thinks Finch has it backwards. He's witnessed it in Finch's eyes after their failure to save Matt Duggan from a bomb, he's heard it in Finch's voice after he'd secured Scott Powell a good job. They learn to live by living, and then they observe; which Finch demonstrates by missing the vein three times before getting it right on the fourth.
They have both begun to live to learn again.
It's only as Reese watches Finch insert a needle into his own vein and connect it to the tube running into Reese's arm that he understands.
"No." He starts to pull away.
"I'm O-positive, you're B-negative" Finch says, latching onto his arm with his polite don't be stupid look.
But that's not it-- Reese can't accept what Finch is offering, can't take a pass-go-free or a get-out-of-jail card. Because he knows all too well what his own blood is made of: it's the dull rush of it through his head as he stands over a killing ground, it's the hot thrum of it under his skin with Kara Stanton.
"It's okay." Finch says firmly, except it isn't.
He thinks of the cooling corpses, three businessmen who had been clinking glasses when he'd shot them, he thinks of the dark rooms he's walked into with wordless things, he thinks of the restaurant server he and Kara had killed after sharing a dinner, and he still doesn't know whether those people had done anything wrong.
Reese bats at Finch weakly.
"Stop it, John, stop--" Finch lets go of his wrist and turns fully towards him, forcing Reese to meet his gaze. Finch is a locked room fortified with steel walls and key codes, but his eyes are opening wide and he's letting Reese see, wholly and completely.
Again: the grace of it. So Reese looks.
When he'd met him by a bench beneath the Brooklyn Bridge Finch had been pale and haunted, still is-- but there are less ghosts in his eyes now, and Reese knows why. He recalls the lives they've saved, Joss Carter's arms opening wide as she runs towards her son, Joey Durban stepping onto a bus with his girlfriend, placing that tiny precious bundle into the Veda Cruzs' arms. He thinks of letting Jessica walk away and he thinks of waiting for Harold in the remnants of an abandoned warehouse.
All those images juxtaposed in joy and grief, clicking and sliding into place like a deadbolt, although he isn't sure whether they're being locked in or being locked out. A hundred broken fragments that don't fit together, except maybe they do.
There's an edge there in Finch's gaze, somewhere past the irises, full of ambiguity and intensity, saying something Reese thinks he already knows.
He stops fighting. The makeshift intravenous line slips under his skin.
Reese feels Finch's blood running into him, warm and clean and strong. The line jostles as Finch eases to the side and awkwardly slides into a sitting position beside Reese, shoulder to shoulder, that tube connecting them in a no-longer-figurative lifeline.
"Hope you're not fond of that suit." Reese murmurs.
"It's replaceable." Finch answers.

Edited 2013-08-06 01:11 (UTC)

Ahhhhhahaha.... OP is brilliant. Someone write this.

Would it count if it's a fic about a puppy mill owner that's the number and Bear helps? Cause I have one all plotted out.

OMG, cathy.... sigh of happiness.

This is perfect! It has just the right amount of idiotic John and worried Finch.
And then the imagery of Finch sharing his blood with Reese, indeed, "the bonds they form with those they fight with are the strongest".
Thank you so much, I love it (sorry I distracted you from your other project though)!

WELL this just made my day. @____@ <3333
I love it so much.....

omg this is AMAZING <3

OP, I'm sorry if this isn't what you had in mind, it came out a lot more Finch/Reese and smug!jerk!Logan instead of Reese/Logan, but I figured I would toss it out anyway!

----

Foot In The Door

When John finally lost his temper all the way, halfway through the flight home, and shoved him down on the bed in the back of his private jet, the main feeling Logan had was an intense sense of triumph: he'd won, he'd gotten to him. The sex was almost an afterthought -- a fucking fantastic afterthought, but Logan wasn't moaning like a whore just because John had a nice cock and knew what to do with it. Victory was the real high, and Logan luxuriated in his.

That feeling lasted right up until the GPS signal from the transmitter died abruptly not an hour after he'd given John the watch. He had a couple of guys on John at the time, with live cameras. John and his highly mysterious and well-dressed friend, and John had just handed over a two million dollar watch and let his pal smash it to pieces without batting an eye. Mr. Bespoke collected his dog shortly afterwards, and the three of them lost his private detectives in less than ten blocks.

The watch showed up on the market a couple of months later, repaired, and Logan chased it down eagerly: but it was being sold by an old guy who met his questions blankly and said he'd found it busted in a pawnshop for eighty-seven bucks and had fixed it up himself. He stared even more blankly at the pictures Logan showed him and shook his head. Logan wanted to believe the guy was selling him a line of bullshit, but if so, it was extremely good bullshit.

John still hadn't called, hadn't texted, hadn't emailed. Logan was feeling a little hurt. Finally he staked out every dog run in the city for two more months until one of his people called to report that Mr. Mysterious and his dog had shown up at the Museum of Natural History, and he jumped in a cab and got there before they'd left. John was nowhere in sight, but the other guy was sitting on a bench watching the dog race around the park. He didn't bat an eye when Logan sat down next to him. "Long time no see," Logan said.

"Mr. Pierce, it's bad enough that you choose to put yourself at risk by pursuing us," the man said. "Handing photographs of myself and my friend to dozens of private investigators and putting them out on the street is considerably worse. Please stop."

Logan didn't bat an eye either, although it was something of an effort. "What would you give to have me stop?"

"A warning, which I've already done," the man said dryly. "If necessary, I'll take further steps."

"Huh," Logan said. "What would those further steps be?"

"You're quite wealthy, Mr. Pierce," the man said. "But your money is young and still largely tied up in stock options, and you've gotten yourself into substantial debt on the strength of it. If your primary line of credit were called, you would be forced to wipe out most of your other assets and severely curtail your discretionary spending."

"You think you can get the Geschellschaft to call my line of credit?" Logan said, amused, until the man gave him a completely flat stare.

"As I said, Mr. Pierce. If necessary."

Logan narrowed his eyes. He was about 85% sure it had to be a bluff, or at least that he could find some way out of the hole, but arguing the point wasn't going to get him anywhere: this wasn't the partner he wanted to be dancing with. "You know, I don't think it's unreasonable of me to want a little closure," he said in wheedling tones. "It didn't occur to me at the time that John was the love 'em and leave 'em type."

The guy jerked around and gave him another look, astonished this time. Logan gave him a sunny smile full of teeth, privately satisfied: no, Mr. Bespoke hadn't struck him as the kind of boss John would share his sex life with. There was abruptly a growl in front of him; Logan jumped and looked at the dog, which was standing right in front of him with bared teeth, ears sharply forward.

"Hey boy," Logan said, offering a hand. The dog's lips peeled back a little further and it growled again. "Af, Bear," the man said absently, and then reached for his leash. The dog didn't take its eyes off Logan while the man clipped it on and stood.

"I'm afraid you'll have to endure your heartbreak, Mr. Pierce," he said. "Please remember what I've said." He inclined himself slightly and tugged; the dog gave Logan one last snarling look for goodbye as they left.

But Logan figured that John would respond to the provocation, and he was delighted to see the motorcycle parked at the far end of the basketball court, a week later. He cut his game short and jogged down towards it. John took off his helmet. Logan beamed at him and rolled onto his toes and down again, feeling gleeful and effervescent. "Hope I didn't mess up your working relationship," he said cheerfully.

"You didn't," John said, and there was a low, smoky note in his voice.

Logan dropped flat to his heels and stared at him. "No, really?"

John gave him a heavy-lidded, satisfied smile, then leaned in and said softly, "Really. And Logan? The next time you put anyone on his tail, he won't have to take steps. Because I'll get there first."

"Hey, seems to me you should be thanking me," Logan said, peevishly.

"Thank you," John said. "Now don't do it again."

"Yeah, yeah," Logan said, waving a hand, turning away. "Come on, seriously, though," he wheeled back; John paused with the helmet halfway up. "Is it the job? I could put together a great job, John."

"He didn't give me a job," John said. "He gave me a purpose. And you haven't got one to give."

That stung just a little. Logan's eyes narrowed: John was wearing an earpiece, and the connection LED was lit up green. He leaned in. "Yeah, but I was better, though, right?" he said. "Please, you got a hell of a charge shoving me down on my face. Don't tell me he'll even let you do that."

John's mouth quirked. "No," he said. "I let him."

Logan scowled: he could just imagine Bespoke back in his lair somewhere listening in and enjoying that -- enjoying John, bending him gently down over a desk, John spreading himself wide open for it-- "Fine," he said sulkily, backing up as John slid on the helmet. "Go live happily ever after, whatever. And text me back once in a while or I'll keep staking out your dog!" he yelled abruptly, as the motorcycle pulled away from the curb, a new plan already forming in his head: nothing in the world wrong with a threesome, and after all, he'd proven he was pretty good at getting to them both.

This is so ridiculously in character for all of them that I could scream. As it is, I'm kind of holding myself and rocking back in forth.

(No, housemate, I'm fine, just reading fic!)

Also, ridiculously hot. Uhf. Something about laser focus and self-assurance from three directions. Not to mention the idea of Logan getting put in his proper place....

He came to in the trunk of the car, wrists zip-tied behind his back, sack tied over his head. The wheels were crunching to a halt on a dirt road: a few moments later they opened the trunk and dumped him out and into a hole dug out of soft dirt: a grave.

The sack was close and dark around his head, hot and stinking of gun oil. The fabric was glued to his forehead with sweat, and he could feel the dirt pressing against his face on the other side. He managed to turn himself over and drag short breaths in through his nostrils. He worked his mouth against the duct tape, but it was tight.

The three of them were having an argument up above over whether to risk killing a cop: they'd found the badge. Reese worked his hands back and forth uselessly against the zip-ties, flexing his shoulders, more to give himself the illusion of doing something than to really escape. The sun was beating down on him and claustrophobia was scrabbling at the back of his head, trying to get in. The argument might get decided for them. It was getting harder to breathe with every minute. He couldn't stop the hyperventilating.

The earpiece crackled to life in his ear. "John, if you can hear me, I'm on the way," Harold said, his low voice steady and calm. John made a wordless noise of protest behind the duct tape, but tension slid out of his shoulders anyway, involuntarily, and he was able to pull in a long slow breath, little by little, and let it out again. "Good," Harold said. "Just hold on. I'm close."

He fell silent. John closed his eyes behind the sacking. He took another breath. He could hear the car Harold was driving, the sound of the road, the engine roaring, but his hands were in the dirt, tied, and the cloth was still pressing in on him, trying to cover his nostrils. Some of the dirt of the walls crumbled in on him, on his face. John made a noise, helpless to keep it in.

"I'm coming," Harold said immediately. "Hold on. Just breathe, John. Breathe for me. I'll tell you when. Now."

He didn't stop talking again, softly telling him, "Now," and "Now". John breathed when Harold told him to: long steady rhythmic breaths, his chest expanding, the world contracting. His whole body felt heavy and still and relaxed, a tingling spreading over the back of his skull, a pleasurable lightheadedness and Harold's voice in his ear, traveling through his whole body. He shivered abruptly, his whole body.

"All right, John," Harold said. The engine had slowed, the noise of the car died. John heard Harold get out of the car. His voice was hushed. "I can see them and the car. Are you nearby? Once for yes, twice for no."

John made a humming noise against the duct tape. He was floating, untouchable.

"Are you under any cover?" Harold asked. "Where -- wait, I see it. You're in the pit?"

John made another affirming noise. "Just as well, I suppose," Harold said. "Give me a few minutes. Keep breathing."

John kept breathing, kept floating. He wondered distantly what Harold was planning to --

The roar and thunder shook a shower of dirt down on him, and a wave of heat beat against his face; John turned into the wall of the grave as small burning bits of ash fell on him, small prickles of pain. He heard groans above, heavy thumps, and then Harold's voice above calling, "John!" and coming closer. John squirmed back over onto his back, waiting. "John," Harold said, scrambling down into the pit, and his hands were tugging on the sack, pulling it off, ripping away the duct tape, and John dragged in a long gulping breath of cool sweet air, his eyes watering.

"Let's get you up," Harold was saying. The grave was narrow. Harold was kneeling over him. He pulled John up sitting and had to put his arms around him to get at the zip-ties with his pocket knife. John leaned in against him, head spinning even worse, and then his wrists were free and he kept leaning, his forehead pressed against Harold's shoulder -- the smooth light cotton of his summer suit, smelling of smoke, of the library, of Harold's body. Harold froze for a moment and then slowly, awkwardly put his arms back around him. John let his own arms go around Harold and shut his eyes and just breathed.

#

Harold had trussed the bad guys up with their own zip-ties. He called Fusco and then drove John back to his apartment. He stopped just in front of the front door, both hands on the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. "Are you all right?" he asked.

"No," John said. He could take a lot of punishment, but everybody had limits. Harold parked illegally next to the hydrant.

John jerked awake out of nightmares three times during the night, heart pounding, the dark around him close and smothering, his breath coming in quick gasps. Each time, Harold's hand was already resting on his wrist, lightly. The third one was the worst: he was back in Kazakhstan, the torturers' hands on him, pressing his face down hard, dirt clogging his mouth and his nostrils and his eyes, and after that one he couldn't fall asleep again. He lay on his back, his chest heaving for air, staring up at the ceiling.

Next to him, Harold asked quietly, "Can I help?"

"Talk to me," John rasped out.

After a moment, Harold began to recite, softly. "It was a threatening misty morning, but mild," he said, "We set off after dinner from Eusemere," and onward through a long slow walk in the countryside, daffodils and dinner, and little by little the hard bands around John's chest loosened up and let go.

Harold finished, and the silence tried to close in again. John turned onto his side and looked at Harold's profile against the windows in the dark. Harold turned and looked over, his eyes large without his glasses. His face was as close as a lover's. "Should I keep going?"

Yes was the easy way out; the safe way out. John swallowed. "Yes," he said.

Harold looked at him and didn't say anything, and then he said softly, "John," and nothing more, because Harold never took the safe way out. John shut his eyes and in the dark remembered Jessica, saying, "Just ask me to wait," and he took a deep harsh breath and leaned over in the dark and kissed Harold, deep and sweet, and drew the breath out of his mouth.

*flaily hands* Oh, this is so exciting! I am a sucker for fic where someone isn't a character isn't present right away and there's the whole air of mystery thing going on. Also, little!Harold is the cutest thing ever. I wonder how the rest of the first season would ave gone if Harold was a child now.

Love!

This! THIS! THIS IS PERFECT.

omg I love this so much. Pierce being Pierce, Finch being FINCH, damn what a bamf he is, Bear knowing when his daddy's unhappy, John being smug about it all, just--*flails*

Yessss. :D

Delighted OP here!

"What would you give to have me stop?"
"A warning, which I've already done,"

♥ Harold!

"Hey, seems to me you should be thanking me," Logan said, peevishly.
"Thank you," John said. "Now don't do it again."

♥ John!

Heh, smug!jerk!Logan is pretty much canon!Logan, so yeah. *g*

"He gave me a purpose. And you haven't got one to give."

That right there is why John/Harold forever.

Those were just my favourite lines, but the whole piece is beautifully in character for all of them. Thank you! :D

Oh! And I just realised, after reading this, and the parallels between Harold's and Logan's surveillance: Logan is the "bored rich guy" that Reese accused Finch of being in the first episode, when they didn't really know each other! Clever, clever show.

Prompt Post 01

Prompt Post 01 is open!

Finch, Reese, using Finch to lure Reese out, h/c

Reese, Finch, body swap

Re: Finch, Reese, rescue, angst, close calls - can be pre slash

Re: hotel room

FILL: When Night Doesn't End (Reese/Finch) [General] [No meme warnings apply]

Re: FILL: When Night Doesn't End (Reese/Finch) [General] [No meme warnings apply]

Reese/ Finch: bloodloss making Reese dopey/stupid

Re: Reese/ Finch: bloodloss making Reese dopey/stupid

Re: Reese/ Finch: bloodloss making Reese dopey/stupid

Re: Reese/ Finch: bloodloss making Reese dopey/stupid

Re: Reese/ Finch: bloodloss making Reese dopey/stupid

Fill: Other Side of the Connection (Reese/Finch) [Teen] [No meme warnings apply]

Re: Finch/Reese - Reese has to hurt Finch until he screams

Re: Bear, Bear being AWESOME

Re: Fill: Other Side of the Connection (Reese/Finch) [Teen] [No meme warnings apply]

Re: Fill: Other Side of the Connection (Reese/Finch) [Teen] [No meme warnings apply]

Re: Fill: Other Side of the Connection (Reese/Finch) [Teen] [No meme warnings apply]

Re: FILL: Fledgling (Finch, Reese) [Not Rated] [No meme warnings so far] 2/?

Foot In The Door (Logan Pierce/John), no warnings

Re: Foot In The Door (Logan Pierce/John), no warnings

Keep Breathing (Finch/Reese), adult, not explicit

Re: FILL: Fledgling (Finch, Reese) [Not Rated] [No meme warnings so far] 2/?

Re: Keep Breathing (Finch/Reese), adult, not explicit

Re: Foot In The Door (Logan Pierce/John), no warnings

Re: Foot In The Door (Logan Pierce/John), no warnings