John accepts the tea and listens to Harold, who is asking him to trust him. Harold, who won't promise him this, won't give him this.
John feels his jaw locking in place, distantly realizes that there's a tremor in his hands. He doesn't want to trust Harold, he wants to know that Harold is safe. That he's not taking risks. This isn't a new request, it's not like John hasn't asked Harold to stay back, stay safe before. But there is a new weight to it.
He doesn't want to cede this to Harold. Not this time. He barely unclenches his jaw to get the words out, quiet and pleading. "Please. Promise me you'll be safe."
Harold has said some other things, something about how he doesn't mind being known as John's soulmate, but John is just so preoccupied with Harold deliberately avoiding giving John a straight answer.
Harold sighs, sets his tea cup down. Realizes he's fixated on this. But as he'd said years ago, he won't lie to him.
"I can't make you that promise," he tells him softly. "You know that as well as I do, John. I won't agree to sacrifice you wholesale for my own welfare." He meets his gaze, firm and unyielding. "If you wish to keep me safe, you must add yourself to the equation."
Maybe there is something more important than this suicidal crusade to atone for the lives they've lost -- maybe that something is each other.
And that's-- that's really it. Out there between them now. That Harold cares about John. About John's well-being. That Harold won't let him get away with whatever he wants, whatever he thinks he deserves. That he's tied their safety together in this way.
It's too much again (he swore he was going to keep it together this time, now look) and John turns away from Harold, places his tea cup on the counter and grips the edge for support. He tries to take a breath but doesn't quite get all the way through it. Harold is asking John to take care of himself in a way that John hasn't for-- years. Well since before he met Harold. He's been cutting away little pieces here and there, trimming himself down to something unrecognizable, and Harold is asking him to stop. Is asking for him to plan for there to be a tomorrow. Not just another number, but a tomorrow.
John makes another attempt at breathing, manages a shuddering gasp. There's really only one answer he can give here.
"Okay."
He knows he won't follow through on his end of this bargain every time, that he will slip up, that they will probably have this conversation again. But Harold has made it clear his terms and John has to accept them.
Oh. It's so much more impactful than he'd expected. Harold had assumed this would be the obvious part, the part they could agree on, but-- clearly, that's why one thing has to happen at a time, in order. Because making assumptions is dangerous.
Harold edges closer to John and lays a hand on his arm, well above where he's gripping the counter. Not demanding, not insisting, merely resting there and indicating his presence.
"I'll owe you the same, of course," he says softly. "I won't endanger myself without thinking of you. Having a soulmate is-- means--" Harold falters. He'd spent so many years suppressing these thoughts, trying to make peace with what he couldn't have. Being presented with it suddenly leaves him reeling, all those pieces of yearning assembled again from where he'd dismantled them.
"It means we have to think of one another, no matter what." He swallows. "It means we... by definition, we aren't alone."
He keeps arriving at this conclusion no matter how he examines it, and it makes him dizzy, nearly faint. He'd prepared himself to spend the rest of his days as remote to human connection as possible, and although John had infiltrated that, he hadn't broken his overall resolve. Harold had still intended to keep him as distanced as he feasibly could.
But having a soulmate... is that even possible, to remain distanced? And if it were, what would the point be? That's the thought he's been spinning over for the past several days. He can't come up with a reason to deny them. Not one that achieves anything other than senseless self-denial and pain.
Alone. John remembers what he said to Jessica that day in the airport. "In the end we're all alone, and no one is coming to save you." He had meant it then, has believed it for every moment since then, had proven himself right when he let Jessica die. And now here is Harold saying that they're not alone. That he's not alone.
It feels like he's been hit, and suddenly he's not just gripping the counter but leaning on it as if his legs can't support his weight, and he breathes out with something that almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't think he's crying, he doesn't think he knows how to cry anymore, but he is shaking.
Suddenly he want's to hold Harold, can't imagine not-- but no, what he wants is to be held by Harold. He wants to fold in on himself until he's small enough for Harold to engulf, but-- they haven't talked about that. He doesn't know if that's something Harold wants. He doesn't have the wherewithal to ask for that right now. Instead he raises his hand to where Harold's is resting on his arm and slides his hand under it, entwining their fingers. John realizes distantly that he's probably gripping too hard, that he's still shaking, that he hasn't taken a steady breath in a while. But this is his silent answer for Harold. Together.
Oh dear. Harold had drastically underestimated the impact, it seems. But he doesn't think there was another option, that maybe there isn't a way to do this gently enough with John that he doesn't come loose like the tape holding him together has held on too long.
It defies articulate words, but Harold senses something like a request from John, a plea, in his body language and mentally, and he responds with the automatic surety of a switch being flipped. He leans in toward him and wraps his free arm around his back, pushing close to him and noticing the strangeness of doing this with John in a t-shirt, as if they needed any added element of vulnerability.
He hushes him softly (shhh, shh, it's alright, John) and feels something in him break apart and crack open, too. He did this for his father so many times. Harold providing comfort is his natural state of being and he's had to keep it tightly walled off for so long, the reflex is withered and stale, but so gratifying to indulge.
If John sends him a silent requesting signal, Harold sends back yes, yes, yes -- always.
Suddenly John has everything he's wanted, everything he's desired in the dark of the night; Harold's arm around him, Harold's comforting words, his touch. Everything has been so hard and sharp for so long and all he's really wanted is something soft, something comforting; a balm.
He feels something in Harold change too and lets go of Harold's hand, turning in his arm so he can slide between him and the counter, and wrap his arms around Harold's shoulders. John tries not to hold on too tight, to find a balance between clinging and comforting. He's still unsteady, still shaking, but he leans back slightly against the counter instead of using Harold as his support. He rests his head against Harold's and lets himself hold, lets himself be held.
After what feels like ages, but was probably a few minutes, John realizes his shaking has stopped. He tries taking a deep breath and finds he can get most of the way through it without his lungs shuddering. He tries thinking about all the things they just talked about and feels himself tremble before turning his mind from the topic. That will take some time to work through. He'll probably do this again, it still feels terrifying and foreign, but hopefully next time will just be in the privacy of his loft where he doesn't-- but Harold would-- John realizes that Harold wouldn't like it if John just went away to curl up on himself and shook himself to pieces. He is, after all, not alone.
He should probably let go, should give Harold his space again, their tea will get cold, but he doesn't. He just continues to hold Harold, continues to be in Harold's arms.
Time passes. Likely the tea does get cold, or at least room temperature, but it's not like it matters. Harold doesn't care in the slightest, not with John in his arms trembling his way from shaky to regular breathing. Harold has to put on so much armor, so much distance, because in private with loved ones Harold is tremendously soft, from the fine-combed cotton of his shirt to the timber of his voice, patient and caring.
He waits until he thinks John has recovered enough to speak real words again, and coaxes him back lightly, with a mild invitation to humor. He shifts away only to put them at a more natural speaking distance face-to-face, but doesn't truly withdraw.
"I really did think that would be starting off easy," he says, somewhat bemused, making fun of himself but all over warm. "It seemed to me that you'd refused to let us go our separate ways some time ago. This is a shift in... in character, but not intensity."
Harold couldn't possibly have missed that much, he just assumed previously that John preferred to leave it all unspoken.
In the aftermath John feels a bit... embarrassed. Here he is, ex-CIA assassin, crying (or near enough) because his soulmate told him he wasn't alone. He doesn't quite know what to say to Harold now, though he is grateful that he's trying to lighten the mood.
"I never would have left you, Harold. This job...," John trails off, looking for the right words. He suddenly feels unsure, they still haven't talked about this much. He doesn't know how Harold would react if he was fully honest. So he isn't. John leaves it at that. "It means everything to me. And you're part of that. I wouldn't have left you before, and I won't now."
That's maybe underselling it a bit, but John realizes he's maybe not in the best place to be making grand confessions about how he never wants to leave Harold, how he craves Harold's comfort, how he hoards every smile Harold gives him. There's also no good way to talk about what just happened, he can't exactly say "also I apparently have a breakdown when people genuinely care about me because that hasn't happened in about a decade, and I've been ready to give my life up for every single number so far and it seems I need to stop."
He realizes suddenly that he really, really does need to change the subject. John twists slightly, angling himself so he can awkwardly reach behind to find his cup. As expected, the ceramic is no longer warm. "Sorry about the tea, it got cold."
Fortunately for John, Harold's staunch morals arise directly from his belief that people are all people, no matter their capabilities or what they've done. His surprise is only that John would show such emotion to him, not that he has it; and he's honored, truthfully, that he would. Once again he can't help but think that there was something oddly right about the timing, in them getting to know one another so thoroughly before they realized.
He wonders how it would've gone if they hadn't. Useless speculation, but he's grateful for the surety he feels now, the lack of hesitation in his acceptance. How all of the truths he's bottled up inside him feel light as air, and he's only waiting for the right time to share each of them with his soulmate. He wants to tell him everything.
Harold neatly plucks the tea cup from John's hand and backs away a step. It gives them some space again, but it also means he can add a splash of hot water from the appliance and hand it back to him, warmed if diluted.
"Don't tell anyone," he says wryly, "it'll ruin my reputation. But I didn't start out this particular."
Just a small hint, a glimmer of the spectrum of things Harold wants to share with him. Taking it slow, he reminds himself. A tiny personal reveal instead of a huge emotional declaration. It'll still mean something to John, but hopefully help orient him in a different direction, trading some of his vulnerability for Harold's.
Oh, there it is, a little gift that Harold has given him. John has a collection of these and he carefully places it with the others, like the baseball teams Harold likes. Maybe... maybe he'll get more of these now. John has always wanted to know more about Harold, at first because he wanted whatever edge he could get on his mysterious employer, and now because... he just wants to know Harold. His friend, his soulmate. Harold is the only person John trusts in this way and to be trusted in return is more than he could ask for.
John accepts the tea with a small smile. "Don't worry Harold, your secret is safe with me." And it really, truly is. John would rather die than give anyone else this moment between them. It's not just that Harold asked him, but this moment is precious, delicate. No one else would understand what it means and to share it out would tarnish it, somehow. "Besides, no one would believe me if I said you weren't born in a three piece suit."
It's a joke, and it feels good to be able to make it. There's a certain lightness in his shoulders now that the storm of emotion has passed. He feels... not better, but maybe a bit freer.
Harold twists awkwardly to refresh his own tea as well. He turns back to John immensely relieved his ploy to lighten things a bit has worked.
"Far from it," he replies mysteriously, a slight smile hovering around his mouth. Much as he wants to tell him everything and knows he shouldn't move too fast, Harold has to admit he also gets some pleasure out of the back and forth he has with John where he parcels out tiny personal details. It baffles him that anyone would find him this interesting, this compelling, but it's undeniable that he does and that John hasn't gotten tired of it learning each tidbit. Of course they're soulmates, he reflects.
"Let's try this again, shall we? We'll keep working the numbers, and we'll both refrain from doing anything reckless with our own safety." There's a slight dry note to the statement indicating Harold is well aware which of them will struggle with that more. He sips his watered-down tea and nudges the forgotten tin of balm closer to John across the counter.
"That's for you. I won't be offended if you wipe everything off, but..." A short hesitation. "I'd like to be able to write you sometimes, as is feasible."
He won't be reckless, as he'd said, but. There's a part of Harold still so astonished and quietly delighted to have found his soulmate at all, and he doesn't want to let go of it just yet, breathing oxygen onto that small ember.
Harold's summary of their agreement just gets a silent nod of agreement from John. He does know what Harold's tone implies, but. He'll work on it. For Harold.
John accepts the offered tin and slips it in his pocket. If he's honest (which he is being, right now) he wants nothing more than to have Harold's elegant script on his skin. This proof that they belong together, that they're soulmates. John tries looking at that thought with just the corner of his mind, like staring at the sun through the cracks in his fingers. There's really no one he'd rather it be. Not even— Jessica. She was so sweet and he was so happy with her, but he feels like a puzzle that's found its missing piece with Harold. He wonders, just for a moment, what it would have been like to find Harold before, back before the CIA, before Ordos, before everything— but it's a moot point. They didn't. But they have each other, here and now.
"I'd like that too. I'd also like to write to you, if that's okay." John isn't sure what Harold wants, but he thinks he'll want this. Will want John to reach back, an invisible hand breaching the distance between them.
Harold won't say a single thing at this juncture; he has to trust John, give him chances, only react to what actions he actually takes. If he didn't feel that way, he'd have given the Machine a much more slippery slope to act on by far. But judging someone for actions they haven't yet taken is not in his nature.
He smiles at him again, that same helpless smile. "Of course-- John." He almost called him Mr. Reese. That doesn't seem appropriate for the conversation, but he'd lost himself for a moment.
"I trust your discretion," he says again. And he does. "Let's have a seat in the living area."
He's already compiling his thoughts and how he'll present them, realizing John is going to need direction-- or rather, reassurance in the form of direction, stability-- before he gives himself up further. Harold doesn't mind. It feels extraordinarily easy to be the one to put his cards on the table first. He just needs to make sure he isn't somehow coercing John, in any direction, by doing so.
There's that smile again and John can feel himself take a deeper breath, an easier breath. He can feel just a hint of Harold's joy and it buoys him, he lets himself ride that feeling. Feels it mirror in himself, slightly. This promise that they're together.
John follows Harold back into the living area and looks at the arrangement of furniture. Part of him wants to be able to see Harold's face, his reactions, but this is the part of him that's always calculating, always wanting to be in control of his situation, always wanting to be able to say the right thing.
What he really wants is to sit shoulder to shoulder with Harold, to be able to feel him breathe, to feel his warmth. But that might be-- Harold might not want that. He doesn't know how Harold feels about his own body, if he wants to be touched the way John wants to touch him. The way John wants Harold to touch him. Certainly Harold held him in the kitchen, but John's not certain he didn't coerce him into doing so with his breakdown. So. He'll just. He'll just ask.
"Can I sit next to you?" His voice sounds unsure and the slightest bit shy even to his ears; he wonders what Harold will make of it.
"Oh, of course," he says again, thinking belatedly that he has not made himself clear enough, or maybe John has had too much cause to think himself unwelcome based on prior experiences. That won't do. He has to amend this misapprehension, yet he's also still convinced he has to tread carefully, ensure he isn't overstepping and compounding the damage. John seems -- very fragile, somehow, after this revelation.
Harold takes his hand without a second thought and draws him to sit beside him, angling toward him, still soft and receptive if not overtly smiling anymore. He sets his tea on the coffee table with his other hand.
"Please don't think me unreceptive. I'm only being... cautious. Our partnership is very precious to me, John, even before learning this. I would not be careless with you."
John follows Harold's movement, sits beside him, mirrors Harold's position. He places his cup on the coffee table as well; in truth he doesn't care about it very much, it's more of something to do with his hands. But what he truly wants is in his hands right now-- or, at least in one.
He brings his now free hand up to join with its pair where he's holding Harold's. This is maybe too brave of him, but Harold is saying-- Harold has indicated as much-- that this might be okay. John lets his thumb run back and forth across the back of Harold's hand, a slow, delicate touch.
"It's important to me, too. I don't want to jeopardize it. If I make you uncomfortable, if I'm too much, or doing something you don't like, tell me." The question is implicit: is this okay? Can he touch Harold like this? Does Harold even want his touch?
John has always been braver than him in certain ways. Not that it's ever been a competition, but Harold is acutely aware of how often John still astonishes him, proves his faith right again and again in example after stunning example. What he says is exactly the right thing to say, the words Harold has been trying to build up to, and John merely lays them out there without pretense. Too important to dither around.
He squeezes his hand tightly in reassurance.
"I will, if you'll make me the same promise." He's not about to miss this opportunity. Harold meets his eyes with the demanding expectation of someone who knows what John is capable of, and expects him to live up to it.
"I have never been shy about setting my boundaries, but I admit to some reservations about making sure I do not cross yours."
If John is going to be bold, then he will be, too. It's a bit scary, nerve-wracking, to put his real concerns out there on the table, but it has to happen sometime and Harold won't give him less than he receives.
John understands what Harold is getting at, what he really means. He's not talking about how he knows more about John than John probably remembers about himself, he's talking about how John just accepts things. How John just lets things happen to him. It's a quality that he's aware of, and is also aware of how well it works for him. If he's fine with everything then he's fine. Right?
Probably that's not healthy. He's aware of that, in a textbook way.
There's also the other side of the equation where he wants anything from Harold. Whatever Harold is willing to give him. As long as Harold's attention is on him. That's probably also not healthy, but not really negotiable.
John takes a breath. He won't lie to Harold. Long ago Harold promised never to lie to him, and while John never made the promise back, he has never forgotten it either. Harold has (with only very slight exception) held up his end of the bargain. "I don't know what my boundaries look like. But if I find one I'll tell you."
John takes a breath, and Harold lets one out, relieved he'd taken his requirement seriously and responded in kind. He wouldn't presume to tell John how to cope with the rest of his life -- not when Harold himself depends so regularly on his ability to do so. He's all too aware that he, as much as anyone else, is using John.
But he won't tolerate that happening on a personal level as well as a professional. Harold is keenly sure of the difference.
"Then please have patience with me if I go slowly, or check in with you," he says softly. "We can do nothing but sit and hold hands and drink tea and I will be so pleased to share that with you. I want to find your boundaries by finding their edge, not by crossing them.
"We may not have all the time in the world, but there is time enough for this."
He listens to Harold and tries to remember the last time anyone handled him so gently. He's not— used to this. It feels strange. Wrong, somehow. There should be something here that cuts, something sharp and bright that brings everything into clarity— but there just isn't. John feels a bit lost. He doesn't have a good handle on this. The line has always been drawn by someone else and now Harold has handed him the marker, is letting him be the one to draw it.
John's thumb is still going back and forth across Harold's hand, he hasn't stopped, he doesn't want to stop. Harold is letting him have this and he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't— feel like he should push further, not tonight. Realistically he hasn't even been here very long, but it feels like an age. Like his insides have been stretched out and rearranged. He just looks Harold in the eye and hopes Harold can see his promise, that this is what he wants, that he wants more but he's respecting Harold's desire to go slow. That he's not going to push things.
"Okay," is all he says. And then, again, in case once wasn't enough, "okay."
His lips twitch into a hint of a smile, hopelessly charmed by just having John here in front of him, willing to be pinned down and made honest. Harold knows it for the gift it is, and wants to offer it in return. While still taking things carefully, of course. Harold would go to his grave happy knowing he never pushed John an inch too far. And he knows that his death is likely to happen sooner than later, so it's not an idle thought.
"You like holding my hand," he notes, without a trace of judgement. "What else? Let's assume I'll give it to you." His hint of a smile twitches again, entirely without his consent. "It's a safe assumption."
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."
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John feels his jaw locking in place, distantly realizes that there's a tremor in his hands. He doesn't want to trust Harold, he wants to know that Harold is safe. That he's not taking risks. This isn't a new request, it's not like John hasn't asked Harold to stay back, stay safe before. But there is a new weight to it.
He doesn't want to cede this to Harold. Not this time. He barely unclenches his jaw to get the words out, quiet and pleading. "Please. Promise me you'll be safe."
Harold has said some other things, something about how he doesn't mind being known as John's soulmate, but John is just so preoccupied with Harold deliberately avoiding giving John a straight answer.
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"I can't make you that promise," he tells him softly. "You know that as well as I do, John. I won't agree to sacrifice you wholesale for my own welfare." He meets his gaze, firm and unyielding. "If you wish to keep me safe, you must add yourself to the equation."
Maybe there is something more important than this suicidal crusade to atone for the lives they've lost -- maybe that something is each other.
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It's too much again (he swore he was going to keep it together this time, now look) and John turns away from Harold, places his tea cup on the counter and grips the edge for support. He tries to take a breath but doesn't quite get all the way through it. Harold is asking John to take care of himself in a way that John hasn't for-- years. Well since before he met Harold. He's been cutting away little pieces here and there, trimming himself down to something unrecognizable, and Harold is asking him to stop. Is asking for him to plan for there to be a tomorrow. Not just another number, but a tomorrow.
John makes another attempt at breathing, manages a shuddering gasp. There's really only one answer he can give here.
"Okay."
He knows he won't follow through on his end of this bargain every time, that he will slip up, that they will probably have this conversation again. But Harold has made it clear his terms and John has to accept them.
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Harold edges closer to John and lays a hand on his arm, well above where he's gripping the counter. Not demanding, not insisting, merely resting there and indicating his presence.
"I'll owe you the same, of course," he says softly. "I won't endanger myself without thinking of you. Having a soulmate is-- means--" Harold falters. He'd spent so many years suppressing these thoughts, trying to make peace with what he couldn't have. Being presented with it suddenly leaves him reeling, all those pieces of yearning assembled again from where he'd dismantled them.
"It means we have to think of one another, no matter what." He swallows. "It means we... by definition, we aren't alone."
He keeps arriving at this conclusion no matter how he examines it, and it makes him dizzy, nearly faint. He'd prepared himself to spend the rest of his days as remote to human connection as possible, and although John had infiltrated that, he hadn't broken his overall resolve. Harold had still intended to keep him as distanced as he feasibly could.
But having a soulmate... is that even possible, to remain distanced? And if it were, what would the point be? That's the thought he's been spinning over for the past several days. He can't come up with a reason to deny them. Not one that achieves anything other than senseless self-denial and pain.
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It feels like he's been hit, and suddenly he's not just gripping the counter but leaning on it as if his legs can't support his weight, and he breathes out with something that almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't think he's crying, he doesn't think he knows how to cry anymore, but he is shaking.
Suddenly he want's to hold Harold, can't imagine not-- but no, what he wants is to be held by Harold. He wants to fold in on himself until he's small enough for Harold to engulf, but-- they haven't talked about that. He doesn't know if that's something Harold wants. He doesn't have the wherewithal to ask for that right now. Instead he raises his hand to where Harold's is resting on his arm and slides his hand under it, entwining their fingers. John realizes distantly that he's probably gripping too hard, that he's still shaking, that he hasn't taken a steady breath in a while. But this is his silent answer for Harold. Together.
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It defies articulate words, but Harold senses something like a request from John, a plea, in his body language and mentally, and he responds with the automatic surety of a switch being flipped. He leans in toward him and wraps his free arm around his back, pushing close to him and noticing the strangeness of doing this with John in a t-shirt, as if they needed any added element of vulnerability.
He hushes him softly (shhh, shh, it's alright, John) and feels something in him break apart and crack open, too. He did this for his father so many times. Harold providing comfort is his natural state of being and he's had to keep it tightly walled off for so long, the reflex is withered and stale, but so gratifying to indulge.
If John sends him a silent requesting signal, Harold sends back yes, yes, yes -- always.
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He feels something in Harold change too and lets go of Harold's hand, turning in his arm so he can slide between him and the counter, and wrap his arms around Harold's shoulders. John tries not to hold on too tight, to find a balance between clinging and comforting. He's still unsteady, still shaking, but he leans back slightly against the counter instead of using Harold as his support. He rests his head against Harold's and lets himself hold, lets himself be held.
After what feels like ages, but was probably a few minutes, John realizes his shaking has stopped. He tries taking a deep breath and finds he can get most of the way through it without his lungs shuddering. He tries thinking about all the things they just talked about and feels himself tremble before turning his mind from the topic. That will take some time to work through. He'll probably do this again, it still feels terrifying and foreign, but hopefully next time will just be in the privacy of his loft where he doesn't-- but Harold would-- John realizes that Harold wouldn't like it if John just went away to curl up on himself and shook himself to pieces. He is, after all, not alone.
He should probably let go, should give Harold his space again, their tea will get cold, but he doesn't. He just continues to hold Harold, continues to be in Harold's arms.
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He waits until he thinks John has recovered enough to speak real words again, and coaxes him back lightly, with a mild invitation to humor. He shifts away only to put them at a more natural speaking distance face-to-face, but doesn't truly withdraw.
"I really did think that would be starting off easy," he says, somewhat bemused, making fun of himself but all over warm. "It seemed to me that you'd refused to let us go our separate ways some time ago. This is a shift in... in character, but not intensity."
Harold couldn't possibly have missed that much, he just assumed previously that John preferred to leave it all unspoken.
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"I never would have left you, Harold. This job...," John trails off, looking for the right words. He suddenly feels unsure, they still haven't talked about this much. He doesn't know how Harold would react if he was fully honest. So he isn't. John leaves it at that. "It means everything to me. And you're part of that. I wouldn't have left you before, and I won't now."
That's maybe underselling it a bit, but John realizes he's maybe not in the best place to be making grand confessions about how he never wants to leave Harold, how he craves Harold's comfort, how he hoards every smile Harold gives him. There's also no good way to talk about what just happened, he can't exactly say "also I apparently have a breakdown when people genuinely care about me because that hasn't happened in about a decade, and I've been ready to give my life up for every single number so far and it seems I need to stop."
He realizes suddenly that he really, really does need to change the subject. John twists slightly, angling himself so he can awkwardly reach behind to find his cup. As expected, the ceramic is no longer warm. "Sorry about the tea, it got cold."
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He wonders how it would've gone if they hadn't. Useless speculation, but he's grateful for the surety he feels now, the lack of hesitation in his acceptance. How all of the truths he's bottled up inside him feel light as air, and he's only waiting for the right time to share each of them with his soulmate. He wants to tell him everything.
Harold neatly plucks the tea cup from John's hand and backs away a step. It gives them some space again, but it also means he can add a splash of hot water from the appliance and hand it back to him, warmed if diluted.
"Don't tell anyone," he says wryly, "it'll ruin my reputation. But I didn't start out this particular."
Just a small hint, a glimmer of the spectrum of things Harold wants to share with him. Taking it slow, he reminds himself. A tiny personal reveal instead of a huge emotional declaration. It'll still mean something to John, but hopefully help orient him in a different direction, trading some of his vulnerability for Harold's.
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John accepts the tea with a small smile. "Don't worry Harold, your secret is safe with me." And it really, truly is. John would rather die than give anyone else this moment between them. It's not just that Harold asked him, but this moment is precious, delicate. No one else would understand what it means and to share it out would tarnish it, somehow. "Besides, no one would believe me if I said you weren't born in a three piece suit."
It's a joke, and it feels good to be able to make it. There's a certain lightness in his shoulders now that the storm of emotion has passed. He feels... not better, but maybe a bit freer.
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"Far from it," he replies mysteriously, a slight smile hovering around his mouth. Much as he wants to tell him everything and knows he shouldn't move too fast, Harold has to admit he also gets some pleasure out of the back and forth he has with John where he parcels out tiny personal details. It baffles him that anyone would find him this interesting, this compelling, but it's undeniable that he does and that John hasn't gotten tired of it learning each tidbit. Of course they're soulmates, he reflects.
"Let's try this again, shall we? We'll keep working the numbers, and we'll both refrain from doing anything reckless with our own safety." There's a slight dry note to the statement indicating Harold is well aware which of them will struggle with that more. He sips his watered-down tea and nudges the forgotten tin of balm closer to John across the counter.
"That's for you. I won't be offended if you wipe everything off, but..." A short hesitation. "I'd like to be able to write you sometimes, as is feasible."
He won't be reckless, as he'd said, but. There's a part of Harold still so astonished and quietly delighted to have found his soulmate at all, and he doesn't want to let go of it just yet, breathing oxygen onto that small ember.
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John accepts the offered tin and slips it in his pocket. If he's honest (which he is being, right now) he wants nothing more than to have Harold's elegant script on his skin. This proof that they belong together, that they're soulmates. John tries looking at that thought with just the corner of his mind, like staring at the sun through the cracks in his fingers. There's really no one he'd rather it be. Not even— Jessica. She was so sweet and he was so happy with her, but he feels like a puzzle that's found its missing piece with Harold. He wonders, just for a moment, what it would have been like to find Harold before, back before the CIA, before Ordos, before everything— but it's a moot point. They didn't. But they have each other, here and now.
"I'd like that too. I'd also like to write to you, if that's okay." John isn't sure what Harold wants, but he thinks he'll want this. Will want John to reach back, an invisible hand breaching the distance between them.
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He smiles at him again, that same helpless smile. "Of course-- John." He almost called him Mr. Reese. That doesn't seem appropriate for the conversation, but he'd lost himself for a moment.
"I trust your discretion," he says again. And he does. "Let's have a seat in the living area."
He's already compiling his thoughts and how he'll present them, realizing John is going to need direction-- or rather, reassurance in the form of direction, stability-- before he gives himself up further. Harold doesn't mind. It feels extraordinarily easy to be the one to put his cards on the table first. He just needs to make sure he isn't somehow coercing John, in any direction, by doing so.
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John follows Harold back into the living area and looks at the arrangement of furniture. Part of him wants to be able to see Harold's face, his reactions, but this is the part of him that's always calculating, always wanting to be in control of his situation, always wanting to be able to say the right thing.
What he really wants is to sit shoulder to shoulder with Harold, to be able to feel him breathe, to feel his warmth. But that might be-- Harold might not want that. He doesn't know how Harold feels about his own body, if he wants to be touched the way John wants to touch him. The way John wants Harold to touch him. Certainly Harold held him in the kitchen, but John's not certain he didn't coerce him into doing so with his breakdown. So. He'll just. He'll just ask.
"Can I sit next to you?" His voice sounds unsure and the slightest bit shy even to his ears; he wonders what Harold will make of it.
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Harold takes his hand without a second thought and draws him to sit beside him, angling toward him, still soft and receptive if not overtly smiling anymore. He sets his tea on the coffee table with his other hand.
"Please don't think me unreceptive. I'm only being... cautious. Our partnership is very precious to me, John, even before learning this. I would not be careless with you."
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He brings his now free hand up to join with its pair where he's holding Harold's. This is maybe too brave of him, but Harold is saying-- Harold has indicated as much-- that this might be okay. John lets his thumb run back and forth across the back of Harold's hand, a slow, delicate touch.
"It's important to me, too. I don't want to jeopardize it. If I make you uncomfortable, if I'm too much, or doing something you don't like, tell me." The question is implicit: is this okay? Can he touch Harold like this? Does Harold even want his touch?
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He squeezes his hand tightly in reassurance.
"I will, if you'll make me the same promise." He's not about to miss this opportunity. Harold meets his eyes with the demanding expectation of someone who knows what John is capable of, and expects him to live up to it.
"I have never been shy about setting my boundaries, but I admit to some reservations about making sure I do not cross yours."
If John is going to be bold, then he will be, too. It's a bit scary, nerve-wracking, to put his real concerns out there on the table, but it has to happen sometime and Harold won't give him less than he receives.
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Probably that's not healthy. He's aware of that, in a textbook way.
There's also the other side of the equation where he wants anything from Harold. Whatever Harold is willing to give him. As long as Harold's attention is on him. That's probably also not healthy, but not really negotiable.
John takes a breath. He won't lie to Harold. Long ago Harold promised never to lie to him, and while John never made the promise back, he has never forgotten it either. Harold has (with only very slight exception) held up his end of the bargain. "I don't know what my boundaries look like. But if I find one I'll tell you."
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But he won't tolerate that happening on a personal level as well as a professional. Harold is keenly sure of the difference.
"Then please have patience with me if I go slowly, or check in with you," he says softly. "We can do nothing but sit and hold hands and drink tea and I will be so pleased to share that with you. I want to find your boundaries by finding their edge, not by crossing them.
"We may not have all the time in the world, but there is time enough for this."
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John's thumb is still going back and forth across Harold's hand, he hasn't stopped, he doesn't want to stop. Harold is letting him have this and he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't— feel like he should push further, not tonight. Realistically he hasn't even been here very long, but it feels like an age. Like his insides have been stretched out and rearranged. He just looks Harold in the eye and hopes Harold can see his promise, that this is what he wants, that he wants more but he's respecting Harold's desire to go slow. That he's not going to push things.
"Okay," is all he says. And then, again, in case once wasn't enough, "okay."
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"You like holding my hand," he notes, without a trace of judgement. "What else? Let's assume I'll give it to you." His hint of a smile twitches again, entirely without his consent. "It's a safe assumption."
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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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