Title: Because you're mine
By: Beverly aka Bev *too*
Pairing: John Reese/Harold Finch
Fandom: Person of Interest
Note: Again ... this story was named after a song. A song that fitted perfectly. "You're Mine" by Disturbed.
I just got introduced to the loveliness that is Person of Interest. How typical for me to fall for a series AFTER it's finished. ;)
Beta done as always by me lovely sister in crime counselor69, who is extremely happy that I finally fell for the two guys. :)
Warnings: Slight spoiler for 2x13, slight D/s undertones
Summary: John is home. After the prison, after his experiences with Donnelly and Kara ... he's finally home. Home with Harold. Right where he belongs. That is ... if you ask Harold.
Bear woke him up in the middle of the night. With warm huffs across his face and a soft whimpering. He felt groggy for a moment, disoriented. Then the events of the day before came back to him and he sat up as quickly as his injuries allowed him to.
John was back. He patted Bear's head absentmindedly but when the dog didn't leave the room but almost climbed on top of the bed ("What did we discuss about boundaries, Bear?"), he knew that something wasn't quite the way it should be.
Harold reached for his glasses and put them on. Immediately the room swam into focus and he gazed down at Bear. "Where's he?" he murmured, gently scratching him behind an ear. With a woof the dog turned around and ran out of the bedroom. Harold heaved himself up, threw his dressing gown over his shirt and boxer and followed the dog, a little slower than his canine companion. It was still dark outside and when he reached the living-room, he stopped dead in his tracks. In an island of light, John Reese was sitting at the table, cleaning his guns. For a moment Harold just watched him, drinking in the sight of the man. He was back. Back where he belonged. He sighed softly and John's head snapped up. For a moment his body tensed but just as fast he relaxed again.
"Hey, Finch," John mumbled and looked down, concentrating on his weapon once more. Slowly, Harold limped over, Bear following him on his heels. When he was close enough, he leaned with his hip against the table and watched the younger man unmantle the gun, clean it and put it back together. After a few moments, John put the rifle aside and reached for his handgun, and began to clean it, too.
"Bear missed you, Mr Reese," he finally said although it had been obvious in the way the dog had literally kicked him off of his feet earlier tonight.
"I missed you, too," John answered but he didn't look at Bear but straight into Harold's eyes. Then he took a deep breath. "Why did you follow me onto the roof, Finch?" he asked very quietly. "I told you specifically not to come."
Harold skidded a little closer. "I couldn't let you die, Mr Reese. Bear would have missed you too much. He has missed you enough as it was."
A small smile crept over the other man's features. Then he got serious again. "I almost got you killed."
"It wasn't you, it was ..."
"...my past that caught up with me. And you got involved. I'm sorry, Finch."
A little closer and Harold put a hand on John's shoulder. "You have nothing to be sorry about, John. I'm just glad that you are back."
John sighed deeply. "Finch ... Harold ... I ... " He broke off and Harold moved so close that he was now standing right in front of him. A little stunned he noticed the suspicious shimmer in the other man's eyes and without thinking he reached out and put his hand on John's cheek. Another sigh, this time sounding like a sob.
"Finch," he murmured, "please." With shaking hands he reached out and put them on Harold's waist. Harold could feel their warmth through the fabric of the dressing gown and moaned softly. "Mr Reese," he mumbled, "what do you need?"
Slowly, John rolled closer with his chair, opened the dressing-gown and rested his head against Harold's shirt. Normally, the older man was a little self-conscious about his looks. He knew how he looked. Knew about his additional weight, about his scars, about his crooked walk. But right now that thought didn't even cross his mind. John needed him, needed the comfort he, Harold, could give him. And without hesitation, Harold pulled him even closer.
John didn't make a sound while he cried. It was eerily quiet and only the growing wetness on his shirt and the slight shaking of the shoulders showed the deep emotions. Bear was sitting beside them. His head rested on John's leg and he whined softly. Harold didn't know how long they stood there. He realized after a while that his back started to hurt. Next came the discomfort in his hip, creeping down his leg. He grit his teeth against the stabbing pain in his neck that followed the hip. But there was no way he would refuse John the comfort he needed right now.
It seemed to take John hours until he could compose himself again but in fact it might have been less than ten minutes.
"You came for me," John mumbled into his shirt and Harold felt more than he heard the words.
"I would always come for you ... John," he answered quietly. "Don't you know that by now?"
When John raised his head, he had his adorable half-smile on. The shy one he wore when he wasn't sure whether his advances would be welcomed or not. He had worn it when he had brought him his beloved Sencha Green Tea for the first time. And then later on, when he had carried in a box with doughnuts from his favorite bakery. Now he wore it again as he looked up at him. "I should, shoudn't I? You never do what I tell you. Never what is good for you."
"It is good for me to have you around, Mr Reese," Harold answered with a smile of his own. Then he stroked over John's salt-and-pepper hair, feeling its softness under his fingers and for a moment he imagined a slow purring sound emanating from the man before him but it was over before he could be sure so he let it go. "How about we go to bed now?"
John's face fell again and he looked so sad for a heartbeat that it nearly broke Harold's heart.
"Yes, I ... I take the couch. I don't feel like going back to my apartement tonight."
Before he could move back though, Harold put a hand in his neck and held him place. And he was astonished when John yielded immeditely. It took him by surprise. His gesture had been one born out of the necessity to keep the younger man in this position but John had instinctively submitted to it.
Hm, that was interesting. Maybe something he could investigate later on. But not now. Now they both needed rest.
"No, you won't," Harold now said and put a little steele in his voice, and again John simply obeyed. Looking up at him with his beautiful eyes, tears still hanging in his lashes, ready to fall at any moment. His voice gentled when he slowly wiped one tear away. "You need a real bed tonight. And I didn't mean for you to leave. I'm not letting you alone tonight. So ... if you could maybe consider to share a bed with me, you're more than welcome."
John's eyes widened slightly and he nodded eagerly as if afraid that Harold might revoke the offer. With a smile, Harold reached out and John took his hand, trusting like a little child. It touched something deep inside Harold. Similar to Bear when he put his beloved tennis ball on the table for him to throw.
They walked to the bedroom, and there Harold pulled a shirt and a fresh pair of boxer shorts from a drawer, handed them to John and pointed to a door. "The bathroom is there. You find a fresh toothbrush in the drawer under the sink and there are also towels."
John nodded, took the clothes and disappeared through the door. Harold dropped his dressing-gown slowly and his gaze fell on his shirt which was still soaked with tears. He pulled it off and put on a fresh one. He turned around when he heard the bathroom door open and the sight before him made his possessive streak flare up. The thought that the fabric that clung now to John's skin had been on his own body before was intoxicating. And seeing John in clothes that he had not only paid for but that he himself had worn put thoughts in his head that hadn't been there for far too long. He limped over to the bed and slipped beneath the covers. Taking off his glasses, he slid down, trying to find the comfortable aka painless position he had been in when Bear had woken him up. When he finally had found it again, he heaved a relieved sigh. Then he patted the bed beside him.
"Hop in, Mr Reese," he said, making it a mixture between order and invitation. A heartbeat later the bed beside Harold dipped and he found himself in the octopus-like embrace of one John Reese. The younger man put his head on Harold's shoulder and threw his right arm and leg over Harold as if afraid that the other man might vanish while he was sleeping. Almost on its own volition, Harold's right hand moved up and began to caress the younger man's hair. Stroking it like he would stroke Bear. A little grumbling sound was the only reply he got. That and the slow relaxation of the man plastered to his side.
He could feel himself drift off again when John's voice suddenly broke the silence.
"Should've know you'd come for me anyways," he slurred, clearly on the brink of falling asleep.
Harold smiled into the darkness of the bedroom, never once stoping his tender ministrations. "Yeah?" he asked, "why is that so?"
John snuggled himself impossibly closer and murmured, "Cause I'm yours and you care about what's yours." Before Harold could shake off the bewilderment at how casual and with how much conviction those words had been uttered, John went boneless against him, falling into a deep sleep.
You care about what's yours. Those words rang inside of him, made him ache with something he wouldn't ... couldn't name yet.
I'm yours. Words that produced pictures inside his head. Made him see himself sitting on a sofa in his house. His home. His *real* home, with John, kneeling beside him, his head resting against his leg. I'm yours. Yes, he thought, and involuntarily, he tightened his arm around the younger man who snuffled slightly in his sleep, making adorable noises that sounded almost like Bear's. You're mine.
This thought had something calming. The fact that he would never be alone. That John would stay with him.
"Yes, John," he whispered and wished that he could just turn his head and press a kiss to the sleeping man's forehead, "you're mine."
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