John feels— pushed. Suddenly. Harold is asking something of him that he'd never— he'd never do otherwise. Ask something of Harold. He's about to say that this is outside his comfort zone, but stops to think. What does it say about him that being called out for what he likes, what he wants is pushing his boundaries? Harold is only asking what he wants, and John does know that. He just— just doesn't know how to ask for it. Doesn't know how to express it.
He realizes in a distant way that his breath has caught, that his thumb has stopped. He's frozen in this moment, trying to decide what to do next. He doesn't think Harold will let him out of this indefinitely, that if he backs out of the question now that Harold won't just ask again. He's already said as much: he won't push John, he wont force things upon him. Harold will keep asking this question until John has an answer.
Heart hammering in his chest, John finds his answer. He slowly brings Harold's hand up, slowly lets his lips brush his knuckles, every movement telegraphed so Harold can pull back, so Harold can say that this isn't what he wants.
It is a push. He knows it is. Harold isn't complacent to rest on his laurels, to take enough as enough, to believe what is presented to him uncritically. He has to inquire and test every piece of information, John no less than the numbers they're presented with. Arguably, he tests more, because it's more important to him personally.
But he doesn't need to make him go first. He'd just been testing, trying to see what would result. John kissing his knuckles makes him smile brightly, widely, so fully immersed in his feelings and feeling safe to have them.
"I like spending time with you," he offers. "Off the clock. Watching old movies -- I know you're indulging me." Harold strokes the pad of his thumb across John's hand now, mirroring his earlier contact. He wants to indulge him, too. But he knows it is something John has long since buried in himself, so he keeps offering his own.
"We could visit museums, see shows. Trade opinions over dinner. Sit in the park and eat ice cream-- I love ice cream," he confesses suddenly. "And you needn't contain yourself. There's nothing I can imagine you asking for that I wouldn't want to give."
He draws his hand toward him now, turns it over, gently unfurls his fingers so his palm is open before him and places his own kiss directly in the center.
Oh. That Harold— that Harold wants this too. That Harold wants John. It feels like so much. Too much. Like he takes a breath and it keeps expanding, out, and out, and out, like his lungs have never been so full before. He's been waiting this whole time for Harold to reject him, been giving Harold every opportunity to back out, and instead— Harold has invited him in. Has reciprocated. This is also what Harold wants.
John hopes that Harold can feel what this means to him. The hope he feels. The joy. That despite everything he's done, despite everything he has been, he wants this. Maybe he is undeserving, but maybe he can do this for Harold. Maybe he can be something for Harold.
He can see it coming, watches every second that leads up to it, but the kiss on his palm still shakes his core. He wants this so badly. Has wanted this for so long. And he's finally getting it. Harold is finally touching him, holding him, asking without asking for John to be with him. They're soulmates. It's more than John could ask for, but— he did. Ask for it. In a way. Harold understood what he was asking for, understood him.
He almost flexes his fingers to slide out of Harold's grasp, to touch his cheek, to let his hand cup Harold's face, but stops himself. What he really wants is for Harold to touch him more, to give him something else. Harold had said it himself, that first day, "There is so much I want to give you," and John hopes he will. He wants Harold to give him this: his touch. Harold had wrapped his arm around John not that long ago, but that's when he was falling apart, under duress. He wants Harold to give him that again, but out of joy. He wants it when they're just sitting together like this, on Harold's sofa. When there's nothing pressing, nothing wrong, just them enjoying each other.
"I would watch anything you want," John confesses. "I would eat ice cream with you even on the coldest day."
Saying you want someone is so simple. Saying how you want them is hard. Harold wants John in every tiny crevice of his life, every domestic scene he's long since surrendered to his own mistakes. It speaks of a pure constancy that is typical of Harold but which doesn't get to surface often. He's been hurt before because of his ideals, hurt deeply, and it's not easily recovered from.
But he will have one chance in his life to find his soulmate, and this is it. He won't let himself lapse into his usual weaknesses of character. So he can go first -- and he's rewarded, with John's expanding joy, with the inchoate sense of yearning he gets from him.
"I have been known to eat ice cream in January," he says wryly, before commenting, "You like this, too. All of the physical contact-- I can feel it. I had a couple ideas for tonight." Harold hadn't expected anything but he'd certainly thought of several things. He brings his free hand to add to their pile of hands, stroking across John's set on top.
"Would you like to trade questions? Where we answer the same question we ask. Know more about me, and I'll know more about you." Making it a trade seems like it would be easier on John, in that he'd want Harold's answers enough to put up with having to produce his own. "Or we could watching something as you said," he suggests, "and at the risk of sounding adolescent, cuddle on the couch."
Maybe all the options is too many options; maybe presenting two will be more palatable. It seems obvious John will like the latter, so if the second option is a safe out for him, well, that's deliberate.
John thinks about both those options. Of course he wants, as Harold put it, "to cuddle on the couch" but he's also aware that Harold probably wants to ask questions, though John can't quite imagine what Harold doesn't know about him already. On the other hand, John might not be ready to answer what those questions might be. Certainly they won't be factual, Harold must know all of that, had said at their very first meeting that he knew everything about him. John doesn't doubt that.
But he also wants to give back to Harold. Do something for him. John feels like he's received a lot tonight already. "What if we did both? Cuddled on the couch and traded questions." He's not sure if Harold will insist on seeing his face if they're talking like that.
Like before, it's difficult to coax John into saying what he wants, but once he's there he's utterly unreserved. No qualifiers to cuddling on the couch. Harold knows he doesn't need to be tentative, exactly, but by reflex he is incredibly cautious, and sometimes he forgets that John is emphatically not. He also suggests this question-exchange activity for an ulterior motive: to let John ask him the things he's most wondered about him, and for Harold to find out what those are. Facts are so the least of it.
"I think I could be persuaded." One corner of his mouth quirks in indication that this is a dry understatement. "You appeared to-- well. It would likely be easier if you leaned on me rather than the reverse."
Is that a convenient excuse for them repeating a position he'd picked up on John liking earlier? Sure. He also, definitely, does not insist on seeing his face. He has his own inclination toward hiding that means he would appreciate the remove as well.
Harold doesn't need to ask him twice. He might be a bit too eager, but— Harold has already called him out on his preference, has already read that perfectly, so there's not much point in holding back. He does hesitate at the last moment though. Should he truly give in completely? Place his trust that Harold won't reject him? After just a moment he decides Harold won't.
John shifts himself and slouches on the sofa so he can lean against Harold's side, so his shoulders can fit under Harold's arm, so he can lean his head against Harold's shoulder. Asking for Harold to hold him again.
"Is this comfortable for you?" They've never talked about Harold's injuries before, about what's comfortable and what's not. This works for John but it has to work for Harold too.
Harold is not a terribly physical person, has never been insistent on it, but he is prone to indulging his partners and he doesn't shy away from it with someone he loves and trusts. Though he is shy, in fact, and this is the very first time he's done this while trying to accommodate his injuries.
It's uncomfortable. More so emotionally than physically. He hadn't ever really expected to have this come up, so he hasn't thought about it, was cavalier in theory but finds in practice it's a little awkward. Sometimes his brain runs away from him, catches onto patterns, makes observations, and doesn't apply them to himself. There's still an innate reflex to reject anything too close. Hands are one thing, but true full-on cuddling...
It does take him a second. He has a hitch in his breathing for a moment as he adjusts to the discomfort, and then his body accepts John, this is John and noticeably relaxes against him. He's embarrassed, truthfully, in the way John was embarrassed to let his feelings out. Harold doesn't feel totally in control of his body and he hasn't reached a state of equanimity with that yet. Mostly, he's been trying to avoid accepting it's happening at all, from refusing medical attention to rejecting verbal acknowledgement.
He hasn't told John yet what happened, how he got these injuries or the extent of them, and he realizes suddenly with a selfish rush there is one thing he doesn't want to be asked about.
But there is its own comfort to feeling John's strong, solid presence against him, the subtle warmth of his breath against the scrap of skin that is above his collar. He can't truly curl around him, not with the limited range of motion in his spine, but he drapes an arm across him and closes his eyes for a moment and just lets himself feel a complicated, twisted pang in his chest about how long it's been since he's done this.
"Yes," he says, and that's all, no other offered information. "Would you like to go first?"
To take some of the sting out of whatever John has sensed from him, he traces his hand up and down his back in a slow reassurance.
John can feel Harold's discomfort at the question. He thinks it would be obvious to him just in the way Harold is holding himself, but he can feel it through their soulbond as well. He feels guilt, he knows Harold doesn't want to address it, but he also has to make sure this works for Harold. John doesn't want Harold to give him something just because Harold doesn't acknowledge his physical limitations.
"I won't ask if you don't want me to, but if I don't will you tell me if I'm doing something that hurts you?" John pauses for a moment, and then, "that's my question."
He knows Harold doesn't want to talk about this, even just the way he addressed it with a single word, but John needs to know. They've talked about John's boundaries and this is one of them: he never wants to hurt Harold. Sometimes in their work it's unavoidable— Harold has to walk faster than he wants, gets put in situations that might be hard on him— but John won't stand for it to happen outside of what's necessary.
He sighs. He doesn't want John to feel guilty, he doesn't even really mind John knowing, he just... finds that if he tries to speak about it, his throat starts to close up. Like an allergic reaction. He thinks about trying to say that he is in pain often without saying anything, but realizes he can slip past that admission by answering only the actual question John asked.
"I won't suffer needlessly," he assures him, tone even. "Believe me, I don't enjoy being in pain and I assume you wouldn't want me to be, either. To what extent it can be mitigated, I will tell you."
If there's one thing Harold is good at, it's respecting others' wishes.
The benefit of this arrangement, though, is that then he gets to nudge John and prompt him. "And your answer to the same question?"
John should have expected that. They do have a deal, after all. John actually thinks about what Harold is asking here, once he gets past the knee-jerk reaction of telling Harold he's always fine. There's two methods of pain he can think of: pain Harold could inflict on him, and pain John accepts on his self.
Kara loved that first kind of pain. She never would have allowed him to lay with her like this, never had put her arm around him except when it suited whatever lesson she was trying to carve into him. She had shown him the knife's edge between pleasure and pain, but— John's not entirely sure he wasn't just making the best of a bad situation. So much of that time was spent cutting himself down to fit the shape that Mark and Kara desired, excising parts of himself. John genuinely can't tell if he wants something like that again, and from Harold. If it ever came up— he'd make sure to talk about it with Harold. That's an easy answer. But he's not sure this is really what Harold is asking about.
The second type of pain is harder to grapple with. John never goes out of his way to get hurt, he doesn't do it on purpose, he knows his body is his greatest asset, it's why Harold hired him in the first place. But. He's not always honest when Harold asks if he's okay. Harold calls him on it and John gives in, but that's part of the push and pull of their relationship. Maybe that's something Harold is asking him to change. Maybe Harold is asking John to volunteer when the knife wound on his arm needs stitches instead of fighting John about it. John's not even— well— he has some idea of why he does it, but he's not quite ready to look at it too closely. But he can acknowledge it's something he does. He can acknowledge that he hates slowing down, hates sitting around, sometimes he gets restless and goes on a long run when he should be on his sofa with something on the tv. Maybe Harold is asking for that too. But he's asked the same of Harold and it's only fair to give in return.
"I'll tell you when I'm hurt. I won't hide it from you. And I'll take care of myself when I need time to recover." He knows he took a long time to think about that answer, but he hopes Harold understands his answer is genuine.
Harold knows John's history probably in more factual detail than John himself does, but that doesn't mean he understands its impact on him. For that he has to rely on observation, his own hard-won familiarity with John, earned in increments over those slow months in which they gradually came to trust one another. He can make some assumptions but he can't know for sure what causes this delay in answering, a faint pulse like a throbbing wound coming across the bond.
This isn't a hard limit for him like it is for John but it is one he's regularly concerned about, and he's relieved to have his answer. He feels perversely like he wants to reward him, make a positive association with admitting pain where he can tell there have only been negative ones.
"I realize it may be a difficult request for you to fulfill," he says, and his hand drifts up, his fingers card through John's loose, unstyled hair. "If it's easier, you can write to me. Just a symbol is enough, to get my attention. Or you can show up here. I'll give you your own code."
That should feel like moving fast, like an abrupt leap, but it's so easy to give things to John. Take away the excuses and the practical objections and it all comes pouring out.
Harold's fingers in his hair feel like a luxury and John melts into him, relaxed in a way he didn't think was possible. Lulled, almost. He could truly be like this for hours, just surrendering himself wholly to Harold's touch. But then Harold says— John gives an involuntary jerk, as if he's going to sit up and turn to see Harold's face, but the moment passes and he relaxes into Harold once more. Lets Harold's fingers calm him.
John had hoped he would be invited again, but he'd never dreamed Harold would let him come over whenever. Never dreamed he'd be given his own key to Harold's house.
"You don't have to. I know you value your privacy. I'm," so happy, so touched, so warmed through and through, "grateful you invited me over tonight. But you don't need to give me that if you don't want."
Of course he wants it. He has a sudden vision of himself here, doing the mundane things that people do together. He could cook for Harold, could learn how to make his tea for him, could sit next to Harold and read some book that was picked out just for him. But these things can happen at his apartment, the loft that Harold gave him. A space that, in some way, belongs to the both of them.
"I'm not always here," he admits, waiting through that startled jerk, pausing momentarily in carding his hair with his fingers and then resuming. He'd meant it as a safe haven even if Harold isn't there to receive him directly at the time; he'd get an alert that John's code was used, of course, and come over without John having to ask. (No need to spoil the surprise on that one if John doesn't realize it already.)
"John, I'll be honest with you." He takes a deeper, stabilizing breath. It's his turn for a question, and also his turn to be brave. He couldn't miss how John felt at hearing he was invited any time, like slaking a desperate thirst long managed.
"Knowing you're my soulmate means there is... no way to protect you by keeping my distance. I'd only be doing us a disservice. With what time we have left, I--" Harold closes his eyes, stills his hand. "I don't want to waste it. That doesn't mean I'll act rashly with you, as I said. And I'm sure sometimes I'll want to enforce my privacy, which I'm capable of doing and I know you'll respect."
A beat of silence. His hand moves again, gently, slowly.
"But you've more than proven you deserve my trust. That is not in question for me."
John can feel his chest expand out and out and out with his breath. He feels so light. He feels like the world has just been rearranged in front of him.
Harold trusts him.
He has the sudden burning desire to twist around, to kiss Harold, to show Harold just what that means to him— but he makes himself stay still. To sit with the moment instead. Harold had just said he wouldn't act rashly, and John won't either. That's a step that needs to be discussed before it happens, there's a marked difference between what they're doing now and that. And he thinks Harold will appreciate his words more than his body.
"Thank you, Harold." His voice feels a bit raw with emotion. He understands what it means for Harold. "I trust you, too. I have for," he thinks back to them standing together on the roof, his bomb vest ticking down, "a while now. When you first told me you would never lie to me I didn't believe you, but I do now. I'll believe whatever you tell me."
The fact that they're soulmates has changed some things, but in this way John was already Harold's. The fact that they're having this conversation now, that John is admitting this is because they're soulmates, but this part of his life was determined long ago.
"I won't do anything to abuse your trust," he vows in a low tone, heart wrenching and turning over, feeling the weight of John's trust in him. John feels weightless from Harold's, but Harold feels immensely privileged and heavy, like he's been given something precious and needs to treat it carefully, a fragile gift he needs to secret away. It's the same slow, deliberate reasoning with which he'd approached training the Machine. He's been given a position of tremendous responsibility and he won't take it lightly.
John's right that Harold appreciates his words. He isn't averse to them becoming physically intimate, but it's unnecessary, another separate gift he doesn't want John to confuse with the first one. Enough is enough and he knows what John feels for him is already enough. If it happens, there won't be any burdens beside it, no expectations creating doubt.
He couldn't bear for anything less.
It takes a long moment for his emotions, his breathing and his heartrate alongside them, to settle. Such a quiet moment, neither of them looking at one another, Harold's gaze off at his own bookshelves but seeing none of its contents. Harold had given him tacit permission but he thinks now to make it explicit.
"... You can ask. Whatever you'd like." He softens further, curls into John to the extent he can, feeling a strange openness envelope him. The texture of his hair under his fingers is intimate, a new privilege alongside the older one, of having his trust. "I know I haven't been forthcoming."
He thinks of Grace and he makes a second vow, this one solely to himself, that he won't make the same mistake twice.
John tries to think about what he wants to ask Harold and comes up short. Given unlimited access he suddenly can't think of anything. Harold is just... Harold. Even the secretive Harold is something he's desired. It feels strange, to have his opportunity to unmask him. But that's not really true, is it? Certainly he doesn't know much about Harold factually but... he knows Harold. The things that are important to him. His values. How he believes that people deserve second chances, how he values life, how he tries to see the goodness in others. This is why he trusts Harold.
Certainly he could ask factual questions about Harold. What's his name? What was his family like? How old is he? What's his favorite food? But frankly, those things don't matter much to him. He doesn't mind that Harold knows some (or perhaps all) of those thing about him and he can't say the same.
There is one more pertinent question. Something he both wants to know and doesn't. But it's something they have to discuss before things develop further. Before John is willing to turn around, to crowd further into Harold's space, to ask him for the things he desires— but not tonight, he thinks. Not tonight. But maybe he can ask, later, if Harold is still allowing him questions. But nothing he will act on tonight.
What about Grace, he wants to say, a petulant reflex that Harold uncomfortably suppresses. It's perfectly reasonable for John to ask about her. It makes sense. It's just that Grace has become a subject Harold observes but does not discuss unless backed into a corner about it. Of course John, with the astuteness of someone who's traded lives for information for decades, takes this opportunity to hone in on a topic that would never come up under other circumstances.
It takes him a moment to gather his composure, loss and sadness licking at his thoughts like waves on a shore, but Harold is able to answer steadily.
"Everything I could say would be a hypothetical. I can't see Grace again." The finality in that is hard to accept even now, which is partly why Harold feels like he needs to say it, remind both John and himself that the reality is there is nothing to say about Grace. But he knows what he's really asking: emotionally, what about Grace?
"But if I could, I can't see her begrudging your place in my life," he goes on, and this hurts acutely. Where before the sense of loss was vague and non-specific, a grief Harold carries with him, thinking of how generous and effortlessly loving Grace is sends a much sharper pang through him. Harold can't doubt her in this; which makes the fact that he can't have it hurt all the more. He closes his eyes and breathes through the abrupt understanding of what he can't have: him, and John, and Grace.
"Grace is... not a jealous person. She would have more than enough room for you in her heart."
Harold still loves Grace. John can hear it in his words, knows it from the way he still goes to the park to watch her from a distance. Can feel his sadness, sure as the tide, and then sharp like the hit from a breaker. He feels guilty. Of course Harold still loves Grace. Why did he think he needed to ask? What was he trying to accomplish here apart from digging up Harold's pain?
He supposes it's because he secretly hopes he occupies some of the same space as Grace does in Harold. It seems like an understatement to say that he's "in love" with Harold; Harold means so much more than that. Harold is John's sun. His orbit would be lost without him; he would wither and die if Harold was gone. But just because they're soulmates doesn't mean that Harold loves John. Certainly throughout this evening he's shown that John occupies some space in him, but John doesn't know what. How much. Harold said that Grace is not a jealous person, and John feels the same way. Grace is a part of Harold and Harold's life, and yet John built his life around Harold. If, somehow, Grace did come back into his life, could John accept her too? The answer is immediately "yes." John would make sure they have the space they need even if it meant less of Harold in his life.
John just wanted to know if there's space in Harold's heart to love John too. But he asked in too roundabout a way, gave away too little and didn't get what he really desired. He needs to think of his question more carefully next time. Or just ask questions that aren't so indulgent of the things he doesn't deserve. Harold had said it's not about what they deserve— but John doesn't really deserve something so fairy tale as "love." He should be grateful for this much. Just for Harold's fingers in his hair, for Harold's warmth, for his honesty.
Words don't seem adequate to Harold either, love being an imprecise concept applied so many different ways. He uses them as an inelegant, imperfect solution, but they don't capture what he has with John at all. And he doesn't quite understand the connection here, why John was asking in the first place if it wasn't for reassurance that Harold wouldn't need to choose between them. Did he want him to say he'd choose? That doesn't seem like John, who has a generous heart of his own. (Harold does seem to have a type.)
Whether there's room in his life is a matter of time and practicality; whether he cares is an immutable fact Harold himself has no control over. Harold is slow to care about others and absolutely steadfast once he's there. Nathan's absence still cuts him deeply and he still finds himself wistfully wondering what could've been with Grace. He thinks of them and of Arthur and his father often, a small but poignant subset of people who've touched his life. He even thinks of the Machine practically every day, though with more complexity behind it, since he could technically reach out whenever he wanted to and their silence is a deliberate choice he's perpetuating.
He thinks of John not just every day, but often every hour of every day. To deserve something is a concept that has no bearing on what is.
Technically it's John's turn to answer the same question, which is convenient, because Harold needs to understand what had spurred him to ask in the first place. It feels unresolved.
"What about Grace?" he asks, nudging him gently. To make sure his intent is clear, he adds, "Why did you ask?"
"Why did you ask" is really the question, isn't it. John had expected the question to turn to Jessica, the mirror of his question to Harold. He had been bracing himself to return to those memories. He didn't expect the exact same question to be turned on him instead.
John feels caught, like a deer in the headlights. He has two options: stay this course and feel the impact of Harold crashing into him, or dodge the question and survive. It really does feel like survival. How could he tell Harold? How could he open his mouth and say the words? How could he even begin to explain the depth, how all encompassing his feelings towards Harold are? But he agreed to honesty, he agreed to answer Harold's questions and Harold had answered such an invasive one from John.
He can do this. He can open his mouth, and does, and nothing comes out. He's at a loss. The words simply don't come. Surely he can say just one word. "I—" he manages to choke out, and it's so painful, it sounds painful.
John realizes in a distant way that he's shaking again. That his body is rebelling against his mind, or maybe— this is his mind telling him that he can't do it. This is its way of saying "no, not yet". He takes a shuddering breath and tries to still himself. How can he not be honest with Harold in this moment? Harold is asking him, and has been so open with him, how can he not return it?
"I think—" you're the center of my life. I asked because I wanted to know if you had space in your heart for me. But the words won't come out. He can think them but they're caught inside of him, his throat closes on them before they can come to life.
"Can I tell you another time. I'm not— not tonight." It comes out as miserable as he feels. He had just said that he trusts Harold, had promised Harold he would be honest, and here he is breaking all of that.
The sense coming from the bond is so acutely painful it deserves to be called torment. It feels like he's pinned John down like a moth by its wings and then shone a microscope directly on him, and he's twisting reflexively to get away and then also suppressing that instinct, trying to fulfill his promise.
Harold is astounded into silence for an unforgivably long moment in which John fumbles to speak, and then he recovers. He shifts as best he can to more properly wrap his arms around him, shushing him immediately.
"John-- John, I'm sorry. You don't need to answer." In an aching voice, low and next to his ear, he murmurs earnestly, "Thank you for telling me that you can't. You said you wouldn't hide when you were hurt from me, and you didn't."
He fulfilled a much more important request than answering Harold's question about Grace. Moved by the intensity of John's emotions, Harold doesn't think twice before pressing a chaste kiss into his hair. Is that-- too far? Is he going too fast? Or is he torturing John by not going faster? It's damnably hard to tell.
When Harold kisses his head John stops thinking for just a moment. It's so— it's beyond what he dreamed he would get. Tonight certainly, but maybe ever. And then he's filled up so much desire, so much longing. He wants it again, he wants Harold— but he's here. He's wrapped up in Harold's embrace. Harold is comforting him just the way John has always wanted.
John is distantly aware that he should be relaxing, that he should be unwinding into Harold's hold, but his heart is hammering so fast and he wonders if Harold can feel how much he wants him. Harold knows to some extent, had offered this position to John, but John thinks he's done a good job of hiding the depth of this desire so far. This is not something he will be able to hide forever and maybe— he'll get what he wants if he's honest. But he doesn't want to ask for it, he wants Harold to find it, to give it to him. He's being greedy and testing both of them when he really shouldn't be playing a game like that. This is far too important.
And then he catches up with what Harold actually said. About how John didn't hide his hurt. John hadn't— when he'd said that he'd meant his physical hurt. He'd never intended to promise that he'd be honest about his feelings. That's difficult in a way he's not sure he's prepared for. If John is being honest with himself (which he is right now), he's a bit too good at hiding that. From himself included. He's not sure how to be honest about that kind of hurt. But he can't take it back now. There's not a good way to explain his own emotional lack of wellbeing in a way that doesn't sound... bad. They'll have to run into that brick wall later and discuss it when the issue is forced.
For now, he can just bask in Harold's touch. In his kindness. This feels like a reward, in a way. Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a reflex.
"You can ask me something else, I didn't answer your question." He sounds calmer now, like Harold's kiss has washed away his pain. John wants to uphold his end of the bargain, prove that he's not just receiving right now.
If that's not what John fully intended earlier with his promise, well, Harold is well aware of that. But he's not going to miss an opportunity to mercilessly push his agenda that John tell him if he's hurting him, in any way. He won't force him to -- it's not a hard limit, like he was thinking earlier -- but it also isn't something Harold is sanguine with letting lie where it is, not if they're going to be exploring ever more potentially fraught spaces in their relationship.
A simple press of his lips to his hair and John is frozen again, after all. Slow it is. That tells him it's time to lighten things. But how? Harold does know almost everything there is to know about John already, which means anything new would be about his thoughts, his inner experience, which as they've just covered he's not ready to fully divulge.
"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asks spontaneously. "As ourselves. Let me do this properly."
For as many times as they've eaten together before or attended a function together before, it's unquestionably not the same, and Harold thinks John will understand intuitively that it means something completely different to be asked deliberately as a personal invitation.
"Sure— Harold." John catches himself before he can say "Finch." It's an automatic response to the question, he doesn't even think before replying, but then his brain actually catches up.
Is that— a date? Is Harold asking him on a date? Surely not— but he said "as ourselves." What does that entail? Does he mean John and not Mr. Reese? He's not exactly dressed for the sort of establishments they often frequent, and certainly not dressed to match Harold. It might do him good to take a break, to put his suit back on, compose himself— but Harold said "as ourselves." John thinks Harold wouldn't like if he did that.
"What were you thinking? I'm not exactly dressed for going out. I could change."
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He realizes in a distant way that his breath has caught, that his thumb has stopped. He's frozen in this moment, trying to decide what to do next. He doesn't think Harold will let him out of this indefinitely, that if he backs out of the question now that Harold won't just ask again. He's already said as much: he won't push John, he wont force things upon him. Harold will keep asking this question until John has an answer.
Heart hammering in his chest, John finds his answer. He slowly brings Harold's hand up, slowly lets his lips brush his knuckles, every movement telegraphed so Harold can pull back, so Harold can say that this isn't what he wants.
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But he doesn't need to make him go first. He'd just been testing, trying to see what would result. John kissing his knuckles makes him smile brightly, widely, so fully immersed in his feelings and feeling safe to have them.
"I like spending time with you," he offers. "Off the clock. Watching old movies -- I know you're indulging me." Harold strokes the pad of his thumb across John's hand now, mirroring his earlier contact. He wants to indulge him, too. But he knows it is something John has long since buried in himself, so he keeps offering his own.
"We could visit museums, see shows. Trade opinions over dinner. Sit in the park and eat ice cream-- I love ice cream," he confesses suddenly. "And you needn't contain yourself. There's nothing I can imagine you asking for that I wouldn't want to give."
He draws his hand toward him now, turns it over, gently unfurls his fingers so his palm is open before him and places his own kiss directly in the center.
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John hopes that Harold can feel what this means to him. The hope he feels. The joy. That despite everything he's done, despite everything he has been, he wants this. Maybe he is undeserving, but maybe he can do this for Harold. Maybe he can be something for Harold.
He can see it coming, watches every second that leads up to it, but the kiss on his palm still shakes his core. He wants this so badly. Has wanted this for so long. And he's finally getting it. Harold is finally touching him, holding him, asking without asking for John to be with him. They're soulmates. It's more than John could ask for, but— he did. Ask for it. In a way. Harold understood what he was asking for, understood him.
He almost flexes his fingers to slide out of Harold's grasp, to touch his cheek, to let his hand cup Harold's face, but stops himself. What he really wants is for Harold to touch him more, to give him something else. Harold had said it himself, that first day, "There is so much I want to give you," and John hopes he will. He wants Harold to give him this: his touch. Harold had wrapped his arm around John not that long ago, but that's when he was falling apart, under duress. He wants Harold to give him that again, but out of joy. He wants it when they're just sitting together like this, on Harold's sofa. When there's nothing pressing, nothing wrong, just them enjoying each other.
"I would watch anything you want," John confesses. "I would eat ice cream with you even on the coldest day."
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But he will have one chance in his life to find his soulmate, and this is it. He won't let himself lapse into his usual weaknesses of character. So he can go first -- and he's rewarded, with John's expanding joy, with the inchoate sense of yearning he gets from him.
"I have been known to eat ice cream in January," he says wryly, before commenting, "You like this, too. All of the physical contact-- I can feel it. I had a couple ideas for tonight." Harold hadn't expected anything but he'd certainly thought of several things. He brings his free hand to add to their pile of hands, stroking across John's set on top.
"Would you like to trade questions? Where we answer the same question we ask. Know more about me, and I'll know more about you." Making it a trade seems like it would be easier on John, in that he'd want Harold's answers enough to put up with having to produce his own. "Or we could watching something as you said," he suggests, "and at the risk of sounding adolescent, cuddle on the couch."
Maybe all the options is too many options; maybe presenting two will be more palatable. It seems obvious John will like the latter, so if the second option is a safe out for him, well, that's deliberate.
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But he also wants to give back to Harold. Do something for him. John feels like he's received a lot tonight already. "What if we did both? Cuddled on the couch and traded questions." He's not sure if Harold will insist on seeing his face if they're talking like that.
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"I think I could be persuaded." One corner of his mouth quirks in indication that this is a dry understatement. "You appeared to-- well. It would likely be easier if you leaned on me rather than the reverse."
Is that a convenient excuse for them repeating a position he'd picked up on John liking earlier? Sure. He also, definitely, does not insist on seeing his face. He has his own inclination toward hiding that means he would appreciate the remove as well.
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John shifts himself and slouches on the sofa so he can lean against Harold's side, so his shoulders can fit under Harold's arm, so he can lean his head against Harold's shoulder. Asking for Harold to hold him again.
"Is this comfortable for you?" They've never talked about Harold's injuries before, about what's comfortable and what's not. This works for John but it has to work for Harold too.
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It's uncomfortable. More so emotionally than physically. He hadn't ever really expected to have this come up, so he hasn't thought about it, was cavalier in theory but finds in practice it's a little awkward. Sometimes his brain runs away from him, catches onto patterns, makes observations, and doesn't apply them to himself. There's still an innate reflex to reject anything too close. Hands are one thing, but true full-on cuddling...
It does take him a second. He has a hitch in his breathing for a moment as he adjusts to the discomfort, and then his body accepts John, this is John and noticeably relaxes against him. He's embarrassed, truthfully, in the way John was embarrassed to let his feelings out. Harold doesn't feel totally in control of his body and he hasn't reached a state of equanimity with that yet. Mostly, he's been trying to avoid accepting it's happening at all, from refusing medical attention to rejecting verbal acknowledgement.
He hasn't told John yet what happened, how he got these injuries or the extent of them, and he realizes suddenly with a selfish rush there is one thing he doesn't want to be asked about.
But there is its own comfort to feeling John's strong, solid presence against him, the subtle warmth of his breath against the scrap of skin that is above his collar. He can't truly curl around him, not with the limited range of motion in his spine, but he drapes an arm across him and closes his eyes for a moment and just lets himself feel a complicated, twisted pang in his chest about how long it's been since he's done this.
"Yes," he says, and that's all, no other offered information. "Would you like to go first?"
To take some of the sting out of whatever John has sensed from him, he traces his hand up and down his back in a slow reassurance.
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"I won't ask if you don't want me to, but if I don't will you tell me if I'm doing something that hurts you?" John pauses for a moment, and then, "that's my question."
He knows Harold doesn't want to talk about this, even just the way he addressed it with a single word, but John needs to know. They've talked about John's boundaries and this is one of them: he never wants to hurt Harold. Sometimes in their work it's unavoidable— Harold has to walk faster than he wants, gets put in situations that might be hard on him— but John won't stand for it to happen outside of what's necessary.
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"I won't suffer needlessly," he assures him, tone even. "Believe me, I don't enjoy being in pain and I assume you wouldn't want me to be, either. To what extent it can be mitigated, I will tell you."
If there's one thing Harold is good at, it's respecting others' wishes.
The benefit of this arrangement, though, is that then he gets to nudge John and prompt him. "And your answer to the same question?"
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Kara loved that first kind of pain. She never would have allowed him to lay with her like this, never had put her arm around him except when it suited whatever lesson she was trying to carve into him. She had shown him the knife's edge between pleasure and pain, but— John's not entirely sure he wasn't just making the best of a bad situation. So much of that time was spent cutting himself down to fit the shape that Mark and Kara desired, excising parts of himself. John genuinely can't tell if he wants something like that again, and from Harold. If it ever came up— he'd make sure to talk about it with Harold. That's an easy answer. But he's not sure this is really what Harold is asking about.
The second type of pain is harder to grapple with. John never goes out of his way to get hurt, he doesn't do it on purpose, he knows his body is his greatest asset, it's why Harold hired him in the first place. But. He's not always honest when Harold asks if he's okay. Harold calls him on it and John gives in, but that's part of the push and pull of their relationship. Maybe that's something Harold is asking him to change. Maybe Harold is asking John to volunteer when the knife wound on his arm needs stitches instead of fighting John about it. John's not even— well— he has some idea of why he does it, but he's not quite ready to look at it too closely. But he can acknowledge it's something he does. He can acknowledge that he hates slowing down, hates sitting around, sometimes he gets restless and goes on a long run when he should be on his sofa with something on the tv. Maybe Harold is asking for that too. But he's asked the same of Harold and it's only fair to give in return.
"I'll tell you when I'm hurt. I won't hide it from you. And I'll take care of myself when I need time to recover." He knows he took a long time to think about that answer, but he hopes Harold understands his answer is genuine.
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This isn't a hard limit for him like it is for John but it is one he's regularly concerned about, and he's relieved to have his answer. He feels perversely like he wants to reward him, make a positive association with admitting pain where he can tell there have only been negative ones.
"I realize it may be a difficult request for you to fulfill," he says, and his hand drifts up, his fingers card through John's loose, unstyled hair. "If it's easier, you can write to me. Just a symbol is enough, to get my attention. Or you can show up here. I'll give you your own code."
That should feel like moving fast, like an abrupt leap, but it's so easy to give things to John. Take away the excuses and the practical objections and it all comes pouring out.
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John had hoped he would be invited again, but he'd never dreamed Harold would let him come over whenever. Never dreamed he'd be given his own key to Harold's house.
"You don't have to. I know you value your privacy. I'm," so happy, so touched, so warmed through and through, "grateful you invited me over tonight. But you don't need to give me that if you don't want."
Of course he wants it. He has a sudden vision of himself here, doing the mundane things that people do together. He could cook for Harold, could learn how to make his tea for him, could sit next to Harold and read some book that was picked out just for him. But these things can happen at his apartment, the loft that Harold gave him. A space that, in some way, belongs to the both of them.
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"John, I'll be honest with you." He takes a deeper, stabilizing breath. It's his turn for a question, and also his turn to be brave. He couldn't miss how John felt at hearing he was invited any time, like slaking a desperate thirst long managed.
"Knowing you're my soulmate means there is... no way to protect you by keeping my distance. I'd only be doing us a disservice. With what time we have left, I--" Harold closes his eyes, stills his hand. "I don't want to waste it. That doesn't mean I'll act rashly with you, as I said. And I'm sure sometimes I'll want to enforce my privacy, which I'm capable of doing and I know you'll respect."
A beat of silence. His hand moves again, gently, slowly.
"But you've more than proven you deserve my trust. That is not in question for me."
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Harold trusts him.
He has the sudden burning desire to twist around, to kiss Harold, to show Harold just what that means to him— but he makes himself stay still. To sit with the moment instead. Harold had just said he wouldn't act rashly, and John won't either. That's a step that needs to be discussed before it happens, there's a marked difference between what they're doing now and that. And he thinks Harold will appreciate his words more than his body.
"Thank you, Harold." His voice feels a bit raw with emotion. He understands what it means for Harold. "I trust you, too. I have for," he thinks back to them standing together on the roof, his bomb vest ticking down, "a while now. When you first told me you would never lie to me I didn't believe you, but I do now. I'll believe whatever you tell me."
The fact that they're soulmates has changed some things, but in this way John was already Harold's. The fact that they're having this conversation now, that John is admitting this is because they're soulmates, but this part of his life was determined long ago.
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John's right that Harold appreciates his words. He isn't averse to them becoming physically intimate, but it's unnecessary, another separate gift he doesn't want John to confuse with the first one. Enough is enough and he knows what John feels for him is already enough. If it happens, there won't be any burdens beside it, no expectations creating doubt.
He couldn't bear for anything less.
It takes a long moment for his emotions, his breathing and his heartrate alongside them, to settle. Such a quiet moment, neither of them looking at one another, Harold's gaze off at his own bookshelves but seeing none of its contents. Harold had given him tacit permission but he thinks now to make it explicit.
"... You can ask. Whatever you'd like." He softens further, curls into John to the extent he can, feeling a strange openness envelope him. The texture of his hair under his fingers is intimate, a new privilege alongside the older one, of having his trust. "I know I haven't been forthcoming."
He thinks of Grace and he makes a second vow, this one solely to himself, that he won't make the same mistake twice.
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Certainly he could ask factual questions about Harold. What's his name? What was his family like? How old is he? What's his favorite food? But frankly, those things don't matter much to him. He doesn't mind that Harold knows some (or perhaps all) of those thing about him and he can't say the same.
There is one more pertinent question. Something he both wants to know and doesn't. But it's something they have to discuss before things develop further. Before John is willing to turn around, to crowd further into Harold's space, to ask him for the things he desires— but not tonight, he thinks. Not tonight. But maybe he can ask, later, if Harold is still allowing him questions. But nothing he will act on tonight.
"What about Grace?"
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It takes him a moment to gather his composure, loss and sadness licking at his thoughts like waves on a shore, but Harold is able to answer steadily.
"Everything I could say would be a hypothetical. I can't see Grace again." The finality in that is hard to accept even now, which is partly why Harold feels like he needs to say it, remind both John and himself that the reality is there is nothing to say about Grace. But he knows what he's really asking: emotionally, what about Grace?
"But if I could, I can't see her begrudging your place in my life," he goes on, and this hurts acutely. Where before the sense of loss was vague and non-specific, a grief Harold carries with him, thinking of how generous and effortlessly loving Grace is sends a much sharper pang through him. Harold can't doubt her in this; which makes the fact that he can't have it hurt all the more. He closes his eyes and breathes through the abrupt understanding of what he can't have: him, and John, and Grace.
"Grace is... not a jealous person. She would have more than enough room for you in her heart."
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He supposes it's because he secretly hopes he occupies some of the same space as Grace does in Harold. It seems like an understatement to say that he's "in love" with Harold; Harold means so much more than that. Harold is John's sun. His orbit would be lost without him; he would wither and die if Harold was gone. But just because they're soulmates doesn't mean that Harold loves John. Certainly throughout this evening he's shown that John occupies some space in him, but John doesn't know what. How much. Harold said that Grace is not a jealous person, and John feels the same way. Grace is a part of Harold and Harold's life, and yet John built his life around Harold. If, somehow, Grace did come back into his life, could John accept her too? The answer is immediately "yes." John would make sure they have the space they need even if it meant less of Harold in his life.
John just wanted to know if there's space in Harold's heart to love John too. But he asked in too roundabout a way, gave away too little and didn't get what he really desired. He needs to think of his question more carefully next time. Or just ask questions that aren't so indulgent of the things he doesn't deserve. Harold had said it's not about what they deserve— but John doesn't really deserve something so fairy tale as "love." He should be grateful for this much. Just for Harold's fingers in his hair, for Harold's warmth, for his honesty.
"Thank you for telling me about her."
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Whether there's room in his life is a matter of time and practicality; whether he cares is an immutable fact Harold himself has no control over. Harold is slow to care about others and absolutely steadfast once he's there. Nathan's absence still cuts him deeply and he still finds himself wistfully wondering what could've been with Grace. He thinks of them and of Arthur and his father often, a small but poignant subset of people who've touched his life. He even thinks of the Machine practically every day, though with more complexity behind it, since he could technically reach out whenever he wanted to and their silence is a deliberate choice he's perpetuating.
He thinks of John not just every day, but often every hour of every day. To deserve something is a concept that has no bearing on what is.
Technically it's John's turn to answer the same question, which is convenient, because Harold needs to understand what had spurred him to ask in the first place. It feels unresolved.
"What about Grace?" he asks, nudging him gently. To make sure his intent is clear, he adds, "Why did you ask?"
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John feels caught, like a deer in the headlights. He has two options: stay this course and feel the impact of Harold crashing into him, or dodge the question and survive. It really does feel like survival. How could he tell Harold? How could he open his mouth and say the words? How could he even begin to explain the depth, how all encompassing his feelings towards Harold are? But he agreed to honesty, he agreed to answer Harold's questions and Harold had answered such an invasive one from John.
He can do this. He can open his mouth, and does, and nothing comes out. He's at a loss. The words simply don't come. Surely he can say just one word. "I—" he manages to choke out, and it's so painful, it sounds painful.
John realizes in a distant way that he's shaking again. That his body is rebelling against his mind, or maybe— this is his mind telling him that he can't do it. This is its way of saying "no, not yet". He takes a shuddering breath and tries to still himself. How can he not be honest with Harold in this moment? Harold is asking him, and has been so open with him, how can he not return it?
"I think—" you're the center of my life. I asked because I wanted to know if you had space in your heart for me. But the words won't come out. He can think them but they're caught inside of him, his throat closes on them before they can come to life.
"Can I tell you another time. I'm not— not tonight." It comes out as miserable as he feels. He had just said that he trusts Harold, had promised Harold he would be honest, and here he is breaking all of that.
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Harold is astounded into silence for an unforgivably long moment in which John fumbles to speak, and then he recovers. He shifts as best he can to more properly wrap his arms around him, shushing him immediately.
"John-- John, I'm sorry. You don't need to answer." In an aching voice, low and next to his ear, he murmurs earnestly, "Thank you for telling me that you can't. You said you wouldn't hide when you were hurt from me, and you didn't."
He fulfilled a much more important request than answering Harold's question about Grace. Moved by the intensity of John's emotions, Harold doesn't think twice before pressing a chaste kiss into his hair. Is that-- too far? Is he going too fast? Or is he torturing John by not going faster? It's damnably hard to tell.
"As I said before, there's time enough for this."
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John is distantly aware that he should be relaxing, that he should be unwinding into Harold's hold, but his heart is hammering so fast and he wonders if Harold can feel how much he wants him. Harold knows to some extent, had offered this position to John, but John thinks he's done a good job of hiding the depth of this desire so far. This is not something he will be able to hide forever and maybe— he'll get what he wants if he's honest. But he doesn't want to ask for it, he wants Harold to find it, to give it to him. He's being greedy and testing both of them when he really shouldn't be playing a game like that. This is far too important.
And then he catches up with what Harold actually said. About how John didn't hide his hurt. John hadn't— when he'd said that he'd meant his physical hurt. He'd never intended to promise that he'd be honest about his feelings. That's difficult in a way he's not sure he's prepared for. If John is being honest with himself (which he is right now), he's a bit too good at hiding that. From himself included. He's not sure how to be honest about that kind of hurt. But he can't take it back now. There's not a good way to explain his own emotional lack of wellbeing in a way that doesn't sound... bad. They'll have to run into that brick wall later and discuss it when the issue is forced.
For now, he can just bask in Harold's touch. In his kindness. This feels like a reward, in a way. Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a reflex.
"You can ask me something else, I didn't answer your question." He sounds calmer now, like Harold's kiss has washed away his pain. John wants to uphold his end of the bargain, prove that he's not just receiving right now.
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A simple press of his lips to his hair and John is frozen again, after all. Slow it is. That tells him it's time to lighten things. But how? Harold does know almost everything there is to know about John already, which means anything new would be about his thoughts, his inner experience, which as they've just covered he's not ready to fully divulge.
"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asks spontaneously. "As ourselves. Let me do this properly."
For as many times as they've eaten together before or attended a function together before, it's unquestionably not the same, and Harold thinks John will understand intuitively that it means something completely different to be asked deliberately as a personal invitation.
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Is that— a date? Is Harold asking him on a date? Surely not— but he said "as ourselves." What does that entail? Does he mean John and not Mr. Reese? He's not exactly dressed for the sort of establishments they often frequent, and certainly not dressed to match Harold. It might do him good to take a break, to put his suit back on, compose himself— but Harold said "as ourselves." John thinks Harold wouldn't like if he did that.
"What were you thinking? I'm not exactly dressed for going out. I could change."
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