For The Love Of Talent

Harold and John were enjoying their first moment of respite between number since the Machine had set itself free.

Just the two of them.

They were sitting on the sofa.

John was lying down with his head resting on Harold’s lap, completely surrendering to the peaceful atmosphere as Harold gently ran his fingers through his hair. This soothing gesture dispelled John’s usual hypervigilance and he began to doze off, enveloped in a rare and profound sense of security.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by a whisper from Harold.

"Have you really forgiven me?"

The gentle drowsiness that had enveloped John vanished instantly. However, he didn’t change position, keeping his cheek pressed against the warmth of Harold’s thigh and his gaze fixed on the interplay of sunlight on the living room floor.

"Forgiven what?" John asked softly.

"The impact that my actions regarding the Machine have had on your life," Harold whispered.

He paused his hand in John’s hair as he waited for his lover’s response.

John remained silent for a long moment, sensing how important the question was to Harold, and took his time answering.

After a while, John raised his hand and took Harold’s from his hair. He gently intertwined their fingers and pressed his palm against Harold’s. "As I told you," John said in a calm voice, devoid of any lingering bitterness. "My life changed when I kept my mouth shut at an airport terminal seven years ago. It’s not your fault. You lost a friend. You did what you had to do." 

"I’m not sure I deserve such magnanimity." Harold replied, his voice tinged with self-deprecation as his thumb nervously brushed against John’s knuckles.

John didn’t let Harold sink any deeper. With a fluid, unhurried motion, he sat up and took a seat beside him on the couch. Once settled, he took Harold’s hands in his and turned fully toward him. He held his gaze, urging Harold to look at the absolute, unshakable truth that shone in his eyes.

"It's not a matter of magnanimity, Harold," John said gently. "As far as I'm concerned, there's nothing to forgive. You made mistakes and have been trying to make up for them ever since. But beyond that, it’s all a matter of personal responsibility. We’re adults, capable of making our own decisions. You don’t have to bear the weight of those choices. Everyone complains that I always want to save everyone, but the same goes for you. You’re trying to shoulder the weight of the world’s mistakes. You don’t have to do that, Harold. In my opinion, you’re fulfilling your responsibilities to the best of your ability and beyond." 

He sensed Harold’s hesitation, the older man’s difficulty accepting a verdict that didn't involve self-flagellation. John softened his expression and leaned a little closer to Harold.

"From me, Harold, you'll receive nothing but understanding, gratitude, deep respect, and boundless affection," John whispered, his words sounding like an oath. "No resentment, no debt."

Harold scrutinized John’s face, searching for the slightest hint of doubt or resentment directed at him.

He found neither.

Only a deep and unconditional acceptance met his gaze. 

A deep sigh escaped his chest. He knew, with a sadness tinged with serenity, that a lifetime would not be enough to truly forgive himself. The memory of Nathan’s lifeless body and Grace’s receding figure was etched too deeply in his soul. However, knowing that one of the people he cherished most in the world harbored no spite, bitterness, or resentment soothed the painful wound he had carried within him for years, if only a little.

John offered a gentle, understanding smile. He raised his hands to cup Harold’s face, his calloused palms brushing against his lover's cheekbones. Then he leaned in to press his lips against Harold’s.

That kiss was filled with so much devotion and silent respect that the world around them simply faded away. Harold had never lost himself so completely in a kiss before. A sudden, desperate wave of emotion overwhelmed him. His hands reached out to grasp the fabric of John’s jacket and pull him as close as possible. He was terrified that if he let go, the moment would vanish.

Feeling Harold’s body tremble, John gently pulled him back. With infinite tenderness, John raised his hand, removed Harold’s glasses, and set them safely on the coffee table. Then, he wrapped his arms around Harold and held him close to his chest. He held him firmly, being mindful of his fragile back.

John pressed his temple against Harold’s and whispered into his ear, "It’s okay, Harold. I’m here. I’ve got you. You did the right thing. You did what you had to do, and you did it well." Harold felt a huge, suffocating lump form in his throat. He tried to swallow but couldn't because of the overwhelming pressure building behind his eyes. He closed his eyelids tightly, fighting desperately against the tears threatening to spill over.

"You can let go," John whispered, repeating it over and over. "I'll catch you, Harold. All you have to do is let go. That’s all."

And there, in the protective sanctuary of John’s arms, Harold finally let go for the first time since his world had come crashing down so many years ago.

The dam broke.

The tears that followed were neither silent nor restrained. They were the choked, heart-wrenching sobs of a man who had been fighting alone for far too long. He cried like never before, his fingers clutching John’s shoulders frantically and his face pressed against his lover's chest.

John didn’t pull away or offer any platitudes. He simply held Harold even tighter. One hand supported the back of Harold’s neck while the other gently stroked his back in soothing, circular motions. John whispered words of encouragement and comfort, anchoring Harold in reality as the storm finally subsided. He kept this up as the violent sobs gave way to slight shivers.

John slowly adjusted their position so that he was leaning back against the sofa cushions while holding Harold tightly against him. The room was now almost completely dark as the sun set behind the city's rooftops.

Harold rested his cheek against John’s chest. After letting out one last trembling sigh, he whispered in a broken voice, "Thank you." John said nothing. He hummed softly and placed a tender kiss on the top of Harold’s head.

Harold surrendered completely, giving himself over to John’s physical and mental strength as John held him.

What he felt for John at that moment was beyond words, yet he knew its nature perfectly well. He treasured it deep within his heart. He wasn’t quite ready to say the words out loud yet, but he knew they were there, shining with a steady glow in the darkness, waiting for the right moment.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

The rumbling of the forges had resumed, and the occasional sound of warm, hearty laughter dispelled the lingering shadows of the past.

Deep within the mountain, in a quiet wing reserved for the king's private quarters, a different kind of silence reigned. This space was shared by two very different souls who had eventually found the same home.

Bilbo was comfortably settled in his oversized armchair, which was lined with warm furs. He discovered that Erebor suited him far better than he could have imagined when he decided to accompany the dwarves on their adventure.

Admittedly, the architecture had been designed for a people quite different from hobbits. Even though the level of comfort was lower than in his own home, the months spent sleeping outdoors on more or less comfortable ground had taught him to be content with less.

However, there was still something that annoyed him deeply.

Yes, dwarves were taller than hobbits.

But they were shorter than men.

So why were their rooms so high and their furniture so big?

This was the question that Bilbo was asking himself as he stood in front of a tall bookshelf. Of course, the most interesting volume was on the second-to-last shelf.

No matter how much he stood on tiptoe and stretched his arm, Bilbo's fingers didn't even brush the spine of the heavy tome.

He exhaled, blowing a stray lock of hair out of his eyes, and grumbled about the lack of practicality and the fact that there wasn’t even a small ladder, because, let’s be honest, not even a dwarf as tall as Thorin could reach that book without help.

Bilbo looked around, spotted a sturdy wooden stool near the hearth and fetched it, dragging it over to the bookshelf. He climbed onto it, but even then he had to stand on tiptoe to reach the book. He stretched out his arm once more.

He pushed himself up onto his toes a little harder, saying, "Come on, just a little more..."

His fingers brushed against the leather cover when, suddenly, the smooth wood of the stool gave way and his foot slipped.

He let out a brief, undignified cry as his arms flailed in the air and gravity pulled him towards the stone floor. Bracing himself for the inevitable impact, Bilbo closed his eyes and raised his arms to shield his face.

But instead of the expected crash, he felt  firm arms catch him mid-fall and press him against a broad, solid chest just a fraction of a second before he would have hit the ground.

Bilbo opened his eyes. Above him, Thorin’s piercing, and above all, worried gaze met his own.

"Master Baggins," Thorin murmured, his deep voice tinged with a mixture of exasperation and profound relief, "after surviving a dragon and so many other perils, now a wooden stool has nearly been the end of you." 

Bilbo let out a nervous laugh and rested his hands on Thorin’s broad shoulders. Thorin gently set him back on his feet, his hands lingering on the hobbit’s waist to steady him.

Instead of letting go, however, the king suddenly pulled Bilbo close, hugged him tightly, and whispered into his hair, "Don’t ever scare me like that again."

The raw vulnerability in the dwarf king’s voice wiped away any trace of amusement Bilbo had felt. He smiled softly, closed his eyes, and wrapped his arms firmly around Thorin’s waist. "I'm fine," he murmured against the thick wool of Thorin's tunic. "Everything's fine, my love. Really."

They remained like that for a long moment in the room's silence. Then, slowly, Thorin began to move, loosening his grip as if to pull away. But Bilbo held him firmly, tightening his embrace around Thorin’s waist and refusing to let him pull away.

Thorin paused, a snort of surprise vibrating in his chest.

"I see...we're feeling a little needy today, are we?"

Bilbo shook his head against the king’s chest. "Not needy," he muttered, though his embrace didn't loosen by a millimeter. "It's just that..." His voice trailed off as he recalled the first time Thorin had held him like that.

Gandalf's voice echoed off the cliffs: "Thorin! Thorin!"

But Thorin did not answer as the wizard knelt beside him, and Bilbo began to walk toward them.

Gandalf placed his hand above Thorin’s face and whispered an incantation that Bilbo could not understand. Holding his breath, the hobbit watched Thorin’s eyes flutter open. The dwarf gasped and spoke in a faint voice.

"The halfling."

Gandalf replied gently in a soothing voice, "It's all right. Bilbo is here. He’s quite safe."

All the dwarves had now been brought to the Carrock, and they were gathered around Thorin.

Bilbo sighed with relief when Dawlin and Kili helped Thorin to his feet. However, as soon as he was standing, the king pushed them aside and approached Bilbo.

"You!" he exclaimed. "What were you doing? You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild, and that you had no place among us?"

Bilbo swallowed, feeling anxious and frightened by Thorin’s menacing demeanor as he advanced toward him.

"I've never been more wrong in my life!"

Before the dwarf had even finished speaking, Bilbo found himself engulfed in the warmest, strongest embrace he had ever received. Feeling a little awkward, Bilbo gently patted Thorin on the back before letting himself be carried away by the embrace for a few moments. Thorin didn’t seem in any hurry to break it, while the other dwarves cheered loudly in the background.

At that moment, they were bound only by a desperate quest and a fragile friendship. Yet, in that instant, Bilbo had never felt safer than in Thorin's strong arms, even if only for a fleeting moment.

Noticing the hobbit’s sudden stillness, Thorin gently placed his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, pulling him back just enough to meet his gaze and rouse him from his reverie.

Cupping Bilbo’s chin between his calloused fingers, Thorin asked softly, his gaze both searching and tender: "It's just that...what?" 

Bilbo swallowed with difficulty. He looked up into Thorin's deep eyes and immediately realized he couldn’t evade the question with words. Besides, he didn’t really want to. Lowering his eyes for a second, a little embarrassed, he answered sincerely.

"When you hold me like this, it's as if nothing else exists," Bilbo confessed in a voice barely louder than a whisper. "As if nothing in the world could touch me."

The words hung in the silence of the room. They were simple yet deeply moving in their sincerity and left Thorin completely speechless.

He had spent so long bearing the crushing weight of a lost kingdom and the painful guilt of a man convinced that he had failed too often to protect his people. Scarred by this wound so deeply that even the reconquest of Erebor had not fully healed it.

Until now.

Until the heartfelt words of his beloved hobbit.

Learning that he could be a refuge for the bravest creature he had ever known was like a balm to his spirit. It soothed a wound he hadn't realized was still aching.

At a loss for words, Thorin responded in the only way that truly mattered. He wrapped his arms around Bilbo once more, holding him close with all his strength.

Bilbo sighed and wrapped his arms around the dwarf’s waist again, resting his cheek against Thorin’s chest. 

They both let out a long, slow breath as a deep sense of contentment enveloped them. After a few moments, Thorin gently brushed his lips against the hobbit’s hair, pressing a tender, lingering kiss there before letting out a soft chuckle.

Bilbo took a step back and looked up at him, puzzled.

"Why are you laughing?" he asked, narrowing his eyes.

Thorin’s lips stretched into a rare, breathtaking smile, and a spark of pure mischief danced in his blue-gray eyes.

"I was just thinking that Gandalf was right to call you a burglar."

Bilbo furrowed his brow further and tilted his head. His hands were still resting comfortably on Thorin’s chest.

"Where does that come from?"

Thorin took one of Bilbo’s small hands between his large, calloused ones. He lifted it gently, placed a light kiss on the knuckles, and slid it flat against the left side of his chest, just above the steady beat of his heart. 

With his gaze fixed on Bilbo’s with an intensity that took the hobbit’s breath away, he replied softly, "You stole my heart without me even realizing it." 

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, stunned by the sentimentality of those words, something he hadn’t expected from this dwarf. Then, a soft, warm laugh rose in his throat, and a teasing smile spread across his lips as he said, "Well, I must say, I don’t think the wizard anticipated that you’d become so terribly sentimental when he pushed me to go on this journey with you." 

The dwarf grumbled, "I’ll show you how sentimental I can be." 

He leaned in and pressed his lips against the hobbit’s, wiping that cocky smile off his face in the most thorough and satisfying way possible.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Harold dropped him off just a few minutes earlier after promising to return once he’d checked in with Carter, ironed out the final details, and picked up Bear.

For now, though, John was alone.

He walked over and sat heavily on the edge of his bed.

In the calm of what had become his refuge, as the adrenaline and the mechanical, desperate focus needed to survive Kara’s twisted game began to subside.

There, in the silence of his loft, the crushing weight of recent events hit him full force. It overwhelmed him like a suffocating wave, from his detention at Rikers Island to the threat of the explosive vest he could still almost feel against his chest.

He closed his eyes and relived the precise moment when Harold appeared on the roof.

That mixture of terror and relief.

The terror of dragging Harold down with him, coupled with the relief of seeing him one last time before...

John stopped his train of thought when he realized just how close he’d come to death. Not the death of a soldier in a nameless desert or a CIA agent in the shadows, but a violent and senseless demise high above a city that wouldn't even know his name.

His knees buckled, and he slid off the edge of the mattress. He collapsed onto the floor, pulling his knees up to his chest. He knew Harold was probably still on his way to the library, but he couldn’t help himself. His fingers fumbled blindly near his ear until they found the familiar plastic of the earpiece that Harold had given him before dropping him off at his apartment. He pressed the small button with a trembling finger.

In a barely audible voice, his throat tightening, he called out, "Harold?"

Harold’s reply was immediate.

"Is everything okay, John?"

"Not really," John replied.

He felt angry with himself. He hated the tremor in his voice and the weakness he couldn’t fight off. Yet, swallowing painfully to get rid of the lump in his throat, he murmured, stumbling over his words, "Could you...would you..."

Harold didn't let him finish. He didn't ask for an explanation.

Instead, he simply said in a clear voice, "I'm coming."

A long, trembling sigh escaped John’s lips.

He didn't get up from the floor. Instead, he curled up into a ball as the minutes stretched into an indefinite blur. He lost all sense of time until the soft, familiar jingle of keys reached his ears.

The door opened. John looked up to see Harold enter the loft.

"John, what are you doing sitting on the floor like that?"

Harold's tone was affectionate as he stepped forward and slipped an arm under John’s. He knew he wouldn’t be able to lift John, but it was enough to convince thr other man to stand up. Once John was on his feet, Harold gently nudged him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Seated on the edge of the bed with Harold standing right in front of him, John felt his last defenses crumble. He couldn’t hold back. He leaned forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Harold’s waist and pressing his face against his stomach, burying himself in his lover’s warmth, finally allowing himself to let go.

"Oh, John..." Harold whispered hoarsely. 

He raised his hands and slid them through John’s tousled hair, stroking his head with infinite tenderness. Feeling the violent tremors shaking his lover’s body, he gently pulled John back just enough to cup his face in his palms, lift his lover's head, and lean in to kiss him tenderly.

Despite the uncomfortable position, they continued kissing as if unable to tear themselves away from one another, trying to forget the lingering terror of what had nearly happened.

After a few moments, Harold felt the warm, damp heat of John’s tears beneath his fingers. Then, breaking the kiss with a soft sigh, Harold sat down beside John on the bed. He reached into his suit pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and began to wipe away John’s tears without a word. His movements were so gentle that John felt his throat tighten again.

Once he was finished, Harold looked at the pale, exhausted man beside him. Realizing his condition, Harold stood up, held out his hand, and helped John to his feet. He led John, who was in a daze, to the bathroom, turned on the shower, then returned to John and gently helped him take off his clothes before guiding him into the now warm, steamy sanctuary of the shower.

While the water ran, Harold went back to one of John’s closets and rummaged through the change of clothes he kept at the loft, changing into flannel pajamas before laying out a pair of soft sweatpants and a clean T-shirt for John. He returned to the bathroom and waited by the glass wall with a towel in hand. When John finally emerged, Harold began drying him off slowly and carefully, stifling a gasp at the sight of the bruises marbling John’s skin—lingering remnants of his time at Rikers, followed by his day with Kara and Snow.

Harold’s touch grew even lighter, if that were possible. Once John was dry, Harold handed him his clothes and waited patiently while he got dressed. Then, he simply offered John his hand again, silently leading him back to the bed.

All the while, John said nothing. He let it happen, allowing the panic to subside. He savored this unfamiliar, overwhelming sensation of being in the hands of someone who cared about him. 

Harold settled into the bed first, lying on his side and opening his arms as he whispered, "Come here." 

John lay down and almost immediately moved closer instinctively, with his back to Harold, pressing himself against his lover’s chest as Harold wrapped his arms firmly around him, holding him close, until John could feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breathing on the back of his neck.

"Are you okay like this?" Harold asked in a low voice.

"Yeah," John murmured, barely above a whisper. He was ashamed of feeling so needy, yet he was unable to deny himself Harold’s comforting embrace.

He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had taken care of him like this. If he’d ever truly experienced it at all. 

A sudden, desperate dread washed over him, taking the form of a thought spinning in his head: I don’t want this to end.

"I don't see any reason for it to end," Harold murmured, his lips brushing the sensitive skin of John's neck.

John blinked, suddenly realizing that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

Slowly, he placed his hands on Harold’s, which were clasped tightly over his stomach, and pressed them gently as he confessed in a voice whose vulnerability he couldn’t hide, "I… I realized something up there on the roof when you joined me and insisted on staying to save me. Despite all my bravado, for the first time, I didn’t want to die. Actually, no...it's more than that. It's not just that I didn't want to die; I wanted to live. I want to live, Harold. For the first time in a long time, I was truly afraid that it might all come to an end." 

He felt Harold let out a long sigh of relief tinged with a slight shiver against his skin. Then, Harold placed a long, tender kiss on the nape of his neck.

"That's good to hear, Mr. Reese," Harold murmured, his voice heavy with emotion. "Because I want you to live, too. More than anything." 

John turned within Harold’s embrace, moving until he could capture Harold’s lips for another kiss. This one was filled with deep relief, like a silent celebration of life. When they finally pulled apart to catch their breath, John pressed his forehead against Harold’s until their breathing returned to normal. Then he snuggled up against Harold, burying his face in the crook of his neck.

"I missed you so much," John whispered in the darkness.

Harold hummed softly against John’s hair, stroking his back rhythmically and soothingly the whole time.

Finally succumbing to the exhaustion he’d been ignoring for days, John exhaled deeply and drifted off to sleep.

Harold stayed awake for a while longer in the quiet darkness, holding John in his arms and savoring the wonderful reality of having his beloved alive and safe by his side.

The next morning, Harold sat in front of his screens at the library. He had gotten up early to pick up Bear from Detective Fusco's house, and the dog was lying nearby.

"We found him. Our John is back," Harold said softly, more to himself than to the dog.

Suddenly, footsteps and the opening door caused the dog to jump up and rush toward the entrance. He dashed toward John, greeting him with wild excitement.

Harold watched the scene unfold, his heart swelling with emotion. Bear knocked John to the ground in his joy at reuniting with his second owner.

Harold held his breath as he saw John’s smile. So open and bright. Full of life. John stroked Bear before gently pushing the exuberant dog aside so he could get up.

In that moment, Harold felt that his world, which had been turned upside down for a time, had finally returned to normal.

As normal as their life could be. 

John stood up, stroked Bear’s head one last time, and walked toward the desk. The smile was still on his lips, dispelling the last lingering shadows of the past week, and Harold savored the sight, drinking it in like a man dying of thirst.

When John reached Harold, he leaned in and brushed a tender, lingering kiss against Harold’s lips. He paused for a moment with his hand warmly and firmly resting on Harold’s shoulder before stepping back just enough to ask, "Do we have a new number?" A slow, emotional smile lit up Harold’s face, and he nodded.

John moved close behind Harold, leaned over his shoulder, and rested his hand confidently and firmly on his other shoulder.

Harold’s world began to spin again.

Everything was exactly where it belonged.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Although he’d come back physically unscathed this time, the number that had come up was Leon Tao’s again. And just like every other time it had involved him, it had been epic, frustrating, and incredibly exhausting for John.

He felt like he hadn’t accomplished anything, and all he wanted was to finally get home.

Harold told that he would be waiting for him for dinner at his loft once John had dropped Leon off at home safe and sound. As he got out of his car, the sight of the lit windows on the top floor gave John a sense of relief.

No sooner had he crossed the threshold that he kicked off his shoes, set his things down in the entryway, and began to untie the tie he’d had to wear for appearances' sake but hated.

As he sighed, releasing the tension, a pleasant smell reached his nose. His stomach growled, and he realized he had barely eaten anything since the doughnuts that morning. John headed toward the kitchen and stopped in the doorway, smiling at the scene before him.

Harold was preparing dinner while being watched by Bear. The dog followed his every move, no doubt hoping for a treat.

When he spotted John, Bear barked once and ran over to him to get petted.

After doing his best to avoid tripping under the dog’s enthusiastic affection, John bent down to scratch his head and at that moment, Harold turned around and said gently, "I’m glad you’re finally here, John."

John stood up and, once he was in front of Harold, rested his forehead on his lover’s shoulder while Harold wrapped his arms around him.

"...A tough day, huh?" Harold said, giving John an affectionate kiss on the temple.

"You have no idea," John whispered, wrapping his arms around Harold's waist.

"Which is always the case whenever Mr. Tao is involved. I’ve prepared..."

He was interrupted by John’s rumbling stomach and continued with a soft laugh, "Something that will fill you up, I hope."

John looked up and said, "That smells divine," before kissing Harold lightly on the lips and burying his face in his neck.

They stayed like that for another two minutes until Harold tried to pull away. John held him back, and Harold chuckled softly.

"Mr. Reese, if you want to eat, you're going to have to let me go so I can finish cooking."

John reluctantly released Harold. Harold turned toward the pot on the stove and, as he began stirring the contents, he felt two arms wrap around his waist and John’s chin rest on his shoulder.

Harold chuckled softly but made no move to break free from John’s embrace.

Honestly, even though John wasn’t shy about kisses and touches, there was something endearing about the way he clung to Harold. It was a side Harold wouldn’t have suspected before getting to know the younger man more intimately.

So Harold continued to bustle about in the kitchen without dislodging the "octopus" that had made itself at home against him.

After the food finished cooking, he turned off the burner under the pot. Then, turning back into John’s arms, he kissed him on the forehead.

"Do you think you could let go of me so we could eat?" 

Reluctantly, John let go of Harold and went to sit at the table. Harold brought two steaming plates over to him. They began to eat in silence and after a moment, John’s hand slid across the table to take Harold’s hand, which was resting near his plate.

He brought it to his lips, kissed it, and said softly, "Thank you..."

Harold looked taken aback and asked, "Thank you for what?"

"For this." John gestured broadly toward their plates.

Harold frowned. "Isn’t that normal?"

John nodded. 

"That's it. It's normal. Thank you for giving me this. This sort of normality."

Seeing Harold’s puzzled expression, John explained, "Our lives are pretty hectic, even chaotic. Who knows what tomorrow will bring? But when I’m sitting here with you like this, I can leave all that behind for a few moments. Just because you’re here and take care of those normal things as you say."

Visibly embarrassed, Harold nodded and grumbled, "Eat, or it'll get cold."

John picked up his fork but noticed the slight blush rising to Harold’s cheeks.

His lover had gotten up to pour them two glasses of wine. When he was near John, John called out to him softly.

"Harold?"

"Hm?" Harold looked up. John cupped Harold's face and pulled him closer, lightly brushing the corner of his mouth with the tip of his tongue.

"What was that for, Mr. Reese?"

John put on an innocent face and said, "You've got a little sauce on there."

Harold, who wasn’t fooled for a second, shot John a fake look of disapproval while pointing at him. "You..."

John burst out laughing, and Harold quickly joined him, delighted to see his lover laughing and having fun so openly.

Tomorrow would bring chaos, but for a few hours, they could experience what all couples experienced.

A normal life.

A happy one.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

Sam stood on the wooden patio with his hands on the railing, gazing into the distance. Far off on the horizon, a dark, menacing mass of clouds was gathering.

Sam said softly, "Looks like there’s going to be a storm."

Bucky, who had been standing a little way back busy doing some maintenance on his arm, stopped to look at his lover. He recognised the tone of his voice and knew that he hadn't just said that to comment on the weather. Bucky wiped his hands on a rag, dropped it on the workbench and stepped up behind Sam, sensing the tension radiating from his body.

He asked gently, "Do you think so?"

Sam nodded, never taking his eyes off the horizon.

"Look at that. It looks almost like the sky at the end of the world."

Bucky didn’t try to contradict him with weather statistics. He knew that what Sam was talking about, those warning signs and hunches, it was second nature to them both. He moved even closer and gently wrapped his arms around Sam’s waist, embracing him from behind as he rested his chin on his lover’s shoulder.

"Sometimes," Bucky murmured in a calm voice, "a storm is just a storm."

Sam let out a long sigh, leaning back slightly to rest against Bucky’s solid chest. He slid his hands down to cover Bucky’s, which were clasped over his stomach, intertwining their fingers.

"I learned a long time ago that nothing in this world is ever just something," Sam replied, his voice hoarse. "Everything is a prelude to something else. » 

Bucky shifted slightly to press a slow, lingering kiss to Sam’s temple.

"Whatever it is, Sam," he replied gently but firmly, "I don't know if this makes you feel any better, but you know I'll always be here for you. By your side, behind you, watching your back."

Sam turned his head, his eyes meeting Bucky’s. In the former soldier’s gaze, despite all the wounds of his past, there was a crystal-clear clarity, an unwavering devotion that, time and again, managed to soothe Sam’s inner turmoil.

"Yes, I know," Sam said softly. "And yes, it does bring me comfort. More than you can imagine."

The wind picked up, rustling the leaves of the surrounding trees.

Sam turned fully into Bucky’s arms, choosing to stop looking at the horizon and turn his back on the storm in order to focus on what was most important here and now.

Sam wrapped his arms around Bucky’s neck, his fingers tangling in the other man’s longer hair. He gently pulled Bucky’s face toward his until their breaths mingled.

Bucky closed the distance between them, pressing his lips against Sam’s in a kiss that lingered until the sound of the rain caused them to pull apart.

Bucky whispered against Sam’s lips, "Let the rain fall. We’re safe here."

Sam nodded, closed his eyes, and pressed himself closer to Bucky, who tightened his arms around him. For a moment, entwined, they forgot the wind, the rain, and all the signs of the apocalypse, focusing only on each other. 

There would be enough time for the rest. Later.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝I

Finally, Harold felt John sit up on the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

He sat up and asked softly, "John? Can’t you sleep?"

"It's mostly because I can't find a comfortable position." John sighed and continued, reluctantly, "Because of the pain."

Harold knew how difficult it must have been for John to admit that he was in pain, and that it must really be intense.

Even now, when they were closer than ever, it was a real struggle to get John to open up about his sufferings. His lover was so used to relying only on himself and being strong that he took on everything alone. But Harold was there now.

He asked gently, "May I take a look?" 

During their last case, John had been hit by a metal pipe while chasing the culprit. Despite his exceptional pain tolerance, he still felt the impact afterward.

John lowered his head and said sharply, "What?" What do you want to see? That I’m not as strong as I claim to be? That I can’t take a hit without feeling pain?"

But Harold wasn’t at all unsettled by John’s defiant tone. He knew it was easier for John to attack than to show his weaknesses, better than feeling like a burden to others. Because that was what John feared most. Harold kept his composure and said in a calm, firm voice, "Show me, John, please."

They stood like that for a few moments. Harold remained impassive in the face of the dark glances John shot him, staring back until John gave in with a sigh of defeat.

He reluctantly lifted his T-shirt, and Harold gasped at the extent of the bruise. No wonder John had trouble sleeping. It stretched from the top of his shoulder down to his ribs and curved back, a mix of blue and purple.

If John wasn’t going to take care of himself, Harold would do it for him.

He turned on his bedside lamp, got up, walked around the bed, stood in front of John, leaned down, and kissed him gently on the forehead. Still in that same gentle tone that brooked no argument, he said, "Stay like that. I’ll be right back."

He went into John’s bathroom. John heard him rummage through the drawers until he returned with a tube of cream that John recognized as a pain reliever.

"I didn’t know I had that here."

Harold chuckled softly. "It’s part of the starter pack in all my safe houses since I've known you, so it had to be in your apartment too."

John shook his head and laughed, but he immediately winced in pain.

Harold quickly examined the bruise, trying to figure out how to relieve John’s pain, and then said, "Lie on your stomach. I’ll put some cream on it."

John sighed and said, "Harold, there's no need. It'll go away. Don’t worry."

"I’m sorry, but I can’t do that. I care about you so much, more than I can say. You can’t ask me not to worry about you. Just deal with it."

He placed both hands on his lover’s shoulders, gently urging him to lie down. "Let me take care of you," he said kindly. "I know it’s not easy. I know you don’t like feeling vulnerable. But here with me, you don’t have to be strong. There are no expectations. It's just you and your lover taking care of you after a difficult mission. So try to let go, and I’ll take care of the rest, okay?"

"Okay."

John complied. He could never resist Harold, especially when he used that tone and handled him so gently. John’s bravado was his last line of defense against letting go, and they both knew it.

Once John was lying on his stomach, Harold sat down beside him. He opened the tube of cream, squeezed out a small amount, warmed it between his hands, and began applying it to John’s skin.

John flinched slightly.

Harold stopped immediately and asked, "Am I hurting you?"

"No, on the contrary," John murmured, his voice choked up. He placed his arms at his sides, his shoulders completely relaxed.

Reassured, Harold continued applying the cream, massaging John’s back and loosening his tense muscles while keeping his touch light so as not to cause more pain.

Suddenly, John said in a slightly hoarse voice, "Harold, actually, it wasn't just the pain keeping me awake."

"Hm? What else?"

Harold had expected this, so he simply listened.

"I'm trained. I'm not afraid to fight when I have to, but sometimes I..."

John paused, as if he didn’t dare finish his sentence or was struggling to express his feelings.

Harold hummed to himself, continued the massage, and waited.

"Sometimes I’m afraid of becoming that monster the CIA turned me into again. In the heat of the moment, I was so caught up in the fight and the adrenaline that, despite the impact, I kept running as if the pain didn’t exist, like a machine. I don’t want to go back to being who I was."

Harold lay down next to John, turned him toward him, and embraced him carefully, being careful not to press on his bruise.

He began whispering into John's hair, "No, John, you won't go back to being that person. Because I know you never really were. If Kara called you a 'boyscout,' it's because deep down, that's who you are. You’re a good guy, John. You have a heart that will ultimately guide your decisions. You’re clearheaded, sometimes even too much so. You see yourself in a much darker light than you really are. Would you let yourself get carried away to the point of forgetting your humanity? No, John. I’m certain of that. You chose not to kill someone even though it was an ordered, not just once, but several times, because your heart and instinct told you it wasn’t right, even though you were fully aware of the consequences those decisions would have on you. That was you, and that’s still you. You’re human, John. That’s why I chose you."

Harold gave John some time to process what he’d said, hoping he would accept it. 

After a moment, sensing him relax against him, he kissed him tenderly on the lips, then whispered softly, "So now, you’re going to get some sleep. We’ll enjoy the rest of the night, and I promise you that you’ll see things differently tomorrow."

John snuggled closer to Harold’s chest and said softly, "I don't know what I'd do without you."

"We'll never know because I have no intention of leaving."

As Harold wrapped his arms around John and pressed a long kiss into his hair, John’s fears and doubts gradually faded, and he fell into a restful sleep.

Harold didn't let himself drift off to sleep until he sensed John’s breathing become steady and deep.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, they would prepare together for a new day and perhaps one or more new cases.

Tomorrow, at the end of the day, it might be Harold who would need John.

Tomorrow and forever, one truth would remain unchanged. 

They were each other’s safe place.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

"Cannon, eight to six."

John moved Han’s piece, then his own, saying aloud, "Horse, two to three."

Han chuckled and asked, "Are you sure?"

John, amused, replied, "You tell me, Han."

"As I recall, John, you don't make any move you're not sure of. Aren’t you working today?"

John leaned in and said in a lower voice, "My boss gave me the day off. It’s my birthday."

The old man said to him with a big smile, "Sheng ri kuai le."

"Thank you."

Han chuckled again and asked, "Did you get any gifts?"

John took the small package Harold had given him out of his coat and replied, "One."

He finally opened it and, to his great surprise, pulled out a key. He placed it in Han’s hand.

The old man felt it before saying, puzzled, "A key? To what?"

"Good question."

Han asked, "Who gave it to you?"

"My boss."

"Your boss?" The one who gave you the day off?" He's giving you a gift on top of that. He seems nice."

John smiled fondly as he thought of Harold before replying, "He is. He’s also my friend. Probably my best friend."

Han tilted his head and asked with an amused little smile, "So, why aren't you celebrating your birthday with him?"

"He told me to do what I usually do when I’m not working."

John wasn’t going to lie to himself. Even though he enjoyed playing Xiangqi with Han, he would have loved to spend his birthday with Harold for once. However, even though their relationship had evolved, John didn’t feel he had the right to be demanding or make requests. 

While Harold had told him he had the right to hope for more, there was a chasm between words and actions that John didn’t feel capable of bridging. Besides, what did that really mean?

Something about his conversation with Harold bothered him, though. His friend had seemed almost annoyed that John had arrived early. 

He didn’t doubt Harold’s intentions regarding his birthday, but something was nagging at him. His instinct told him that Harold hadn’t told him everything. There was no number and no case. On his birthday? Everything seemed too smooth.

He had been right. It had all been too easy.

Harold had lied to him. In the end, John took matters into his own hands and went wild anyway. Now that everything was settled, John was walking toward the bench where Harold was sitting. He didn’t know if he was angry, disappointed, or just incredibly tired of it all.  

There was the initial anger and disappointment of realizing Harold had lied to him, as well as the exhaustion from Sarah's case, which forced John to relive the darkest moments of his life. 

But he knew he couldn’t end the day without talking to his friend, no matter how much resentment still gnawed at him.

He sat down next to Harold on the bench and stared straight ahead.

He felt his friend’s gaze on him as Harold said, "I was beginning to wonder when I was going to hear from you again."

John replied matter-of-factly, not quite sure what else to say: "I had some business to take care of out of town."

Harold replied, clearly on the defensive, "I trust you now fully appreciate why I couldn't tell you about Sarah's case."

John replied slowly but immediately, "I hope you now understand why you should have."

He felt his employer’s gaze on him and let a few moments of silence pass before asking, "Did you know? Was she one of those numbers that came up again and again?"

Without looking at him, Harold replied, "What I know, Mr. Reese, is that New Rochelle happened before we started working together. And because of that, there was nothing either of us could have done."

Unable to reply, John looked at Harold for a few moments and saw the weight this had placed on him. However, it did nothing to ease John's disappointment at having been lied to.

Harold handed him a business card.

"Forgot to include that in your birthday present. Must have slipped my mind."

Then, as John stared at the card and turned it over, Harold stood up and left. By the time he turned the card over and read the address on the back, Harold was gone.

After sitting on the bench for a long time, deep in thought, John finally decided to go to the address Harold had given him. Half an hour later, he stood in front of a door in a building. He inserted the key into the lock and opened the door, unsure of what he would find inside. 

The first things that struck him once he had taken a few steps inside were the light, the space, and the sobriety. He slowly walked toward the large windows spanning two walls of the loft. When he reached them, he scanned the surroundings. Suddenly, his gaze fell on a spot downstairs, a little further away.

It was the place where he used to play xiangqi with Han. He saw Han playing with someone else and couldn’t help but smile. He realized just how thoughtful John had been and understood that John’s desire to keep him out of the case stemmed from that. 

This was something he could accept.

He sighed, feeling ungrateful.

How was he going to move forward from here? How was he going to make things right?

His eyes still fixed on Han, he watched his playing partner walk away.

At that moment, John thought that Han, always so wise, might be able to help him see things more clearly.

A few moments later, John sat down across from Han.

"John?"

"Good morning, Han."

Han began placing the pieces on the game board and asked, "Want to play a game?"

John stopped his hand and said, "I won't be a good opponent today."

"I haven’t seen you since your birthday. What was the key for?"

John looked behind him at the windows of his apartment.

"It was for an apartment. Right above us, on the street behind me."

Han chuckled.

"Well. A friend, you said? I may be blind, but to me, someone who gives you an apartment must see you as more than a friend."

John lowered his head and sighed.

"It's...complicated."

Han reached for John’s hand, found it on the table, and squeezed it gently. "Is it really that complicated, my friend? The most important question is how you feel about him, this friend of yours."

John replied immediately, "Of that, I'm sure."

Han chuckled again.

"So, should I repeat my question? Is it really that complicated, John?"

When John remained silent, Han continued, "I think you have the answer, my friend. In that case, I have one last question."

"What is it?"

"What are you still doing here?"

Was it really that easy? 

If he looked deep inside himself, of course it was.

"I..."

"Come on, go on..."

Han made a dismissive gesture, and John stood up. 

Before leaving, he told his friend, "Thanks," and headed toward his apartment.

He touched his earpiece.

"Harold, are you there?"

"Always, John. Is there a special reason you're calling?"

Without giving it much thought, John blurted out, "Would you like to have dinner with me tonight?"

There was a brief silence on the other end of the line, and John held his breath until Harold answered, "Sure. Where should we meet?"

"At my place."

"Oh... um... you mean..."

"810 Baxter Street."

"Oh, well, all right."

First hurdle cleared, John thought to himself.

"Great."

"Do you want me to bring anything?"

"Um...maybe some wine? You know, I’m not really a connoisseur, so..."

"What kind? What are we having for dinner?"

"I don't know yet. That's too much to ask of me. Just something that goes with everything."

"All right."

"See you tonight, then, unless the machine gives us a number."

"See you tonight, John."

A few moments later, Harold walked through the door John had left ajar. John had just finished setting the table. As soon as he heard Harold, he turned around and walked toward his friend.

Harold stepped forward, holding out a bottle, and said softly, "Good evening."

John reached out to take the bottle. "Welcome," he said. Then he paused, the words almost choking in his throat.

"John?"

John composed himself, took the bottle, and said, "Sorry, I realize this is the first time I’ve said something like that in a long time. I mean, not just pretending to be a host, but actually welcoming someone home. Come in." In a lighter tone, he continued, "I guess I don't need to give you a tour of the place."

"Do you like it here?" Harold asked, following him to the kitchen counter. John rummaged through the cabinets and pulled out two glasses.

"Yes, I love it, Harold. Sorry for being ungrateful at first. Thank you so much for this place. Although..." He began rummaging through the drawers until he triumphantly held up a corkscrew. "I’m having a little trouble finding some things."

They shared a chuckle as John uncorked the bottle and filled both glasses.

Then, picking up the glasses, he nodded toward the couch. "How about we drink this over there?"

Harold nodded, and a few moments later, they were sitting side by side with their glasses in hand.

Harold raised his glass. "Happy birthday, John."

"Thanks," John replied softly, clinking his glass against Harold’s. After taking a sip, John set his glass down on the table. In a slightly hesitant tone, he said quietly, "I wish I could clear the air between us somehow...about everything that's happened these past few days."

Harold set his glass down as well, nodding.

They turned toward each other in silent agreement. John continued softly, "I'm not going to lie to you, the fact that you didn't tell me the truth did hurt me."

Seeing the sad look on Harold’s face, John raised his hand. "Wait, let me finish, please. It did hurt me. Past tense. You told me you’d never lie to me. Finding out you’d hidden that from me was a punch in the gut at first. But since I came back, I’ve had time to put things into perspective. Most of all, a friend has helped me see things clearly," he said, his gaze drifting toward where Han was playing chess.

He took a sip of wine before continuing, "I realized it came from a place of care. You didn’t want me to get hurt even more. You knew my story, and you knew how much it could hurt me. I realized you did that because you care about me."

Harold nodded eagerly. John continued, a slight tremble in his voice, "And I reacted badly because I care too. A lot, actually."

Harold turned a little closer to John and slowly raised his hand. As he brought his fingers closer to his friend’s face, he asked softly, "May I?"

John nodded.

Harold placed his hand on John’s cheek and gently caressed his cheekbone with his thumb. 

"I'm sorry I lied to you," Harold whispered, his voice vibrating with raw sincerity. "I think I could have handled it differently. But you’re right. I didn’t do it because I was afraid of your reaction, I did it because I was afraid of how it would make you feel. I should have talked it over with you. I’m afraid I’m not good at this."

There was an honesty in that confession that disarmed John. 

He laughed softly.  "I'm no better at it than you are, you know."

Harold offered an encouraging smile. 

"But we can learn together, can't we?"

John nodded and leaned his cheek into Harold's palm. 

In a voice slightly hoarse with emotion, he said softly, "When you find that one person who connects you to the world... You become someone different. Someone better." John swallowed, then continued, his eyes slightly watery. "For a long time, when I thought of those words, I thought of Jessica. But now, Harold, when I think of those words, I think of you. You’ve helped me reconnect with the world and given me the chance to be a better person."

John turned his head into Harold’s hand and kissed the palm for a long moment, a gesture of pure adoration. They gazed at each other in silence for a few moments, sharing a mutual understanding. Then, Harold’s hand slowly slid from John’s cheek to the nape of his neck. With a gentle press, Harold drew John closer, narrowing the gap between them. John closed the remaining distance, pressing his lips against Harold’s in a tender, hesitant kiss.

He pulled back slightly, breathless, his eyes feverishly seeking approval. "Is that okay?"

Harold shook his head and his expression turned playful. A mischievous twinkle appeared in his eyes. "Oh no, Mr. Reese. That’s far from okay. It’s not enough, actually."

Without a second thought, John’s arms immediately closed around Harold’s back, his hands gripping him firmly to pull him close while remaining gentle, acutely aware of his lover’s physical condition. 

John murmured against Harold’s lips, which were beginning to stretch into a smile, "Let me make it up to you, then."

John captured Harold’s lips once more, and their breaths mingled in the passionate dance of their lips and tongues. At first hesitant, Harold’s hands grew bolder. He gripped John’s waist, his fingers entangling in the fabric of his shirt. In response, John’s hands traveled up Harold’s back to cradle his face, his thumbs brushing Harold’s cheekbones with almost sacred tenderness.

The kiss lingered and grew deeper. They pulled apart just enough to catch their breath, their foreheads brushing, then lost themselves in each other once more with the eagerness unique to those who have waited too long. 

Gradually, the urgency gave way to infinite tenderness. Their movements softened into slow, comforting caresses. 

They settled more comfortably onto the couch, shifting so that their bodies were entwined. John snuggled up against Harold, wrapping his arms around his waist as he rested his head on his lover’s chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. Harold slipped a protective arm around John’s shoulders and brushed his lips against his hair. 

They remained like that for a long time, savoring the peaceful silence and serenity that, for the first time, did not seem like the calm before the storm.

Later, when their stomachs began to rumble, they shared the meal John had prepared in an atmosphere of newfound lightheartedness. The conversation flowed naturally, punctuated by smiles, knowing glances, and casual touches, as if their bodies were learning a language all their own.  

When dinner drew to a close, they finished the bottle of wine as the evening lingered on.  

A little later, Harold decided it was time to leave, though his expression betrayed his desire to stay. However, they both knew they needed time to process this new step in their relationship. 

John walked him to the door. In the shadows of the entryway, they shared one last kiss, promising the next day and the days to come.

After Harold left, John stood motionless for a moment. Then he hurried over to the the window overlooking the dark street. He saw Harold’s familiar silhouette receding under the streetlights. At one point, Harold stopped and turned around. He must have seen John silhouetted against the lit window because he raised his hand and waved. It was a simple gesture, and John could only wave back with a sincere smile, even though Harold probably couldn’t see it from there.

Under normal circumstances, he would have stayed in the shadows, watching his partner leave. But with Harold, he realized he didn’t need to. 

With Harold, he didn’t need to hide.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

When Greg finally appeared in the living room, he stood motionless. His face, usually so warm and expressive, now seemed drained of life, marked by an unusual pallor.

"Greg?"

Seeing that the detective wasn’t moving, Mycroft put down his book, stood up and went to meet him.

"You look like you just saw a ghost." Mycroft said gently once he reached Greg.

Greg flinched slightly and finally met Mycroft’s gaze. He swallowed hard and began to unbutton his coat, his hands trembling imperceptibly.

'"You could say that," Greg replied, his voice hoarse, lacking its usual liveliness.

Mycroft didn’t ask for details right away. He knew better than to overwhelm someone in Greg’s state with questions. Instead, he simply helped Greg take off his coat, his hands brushing the detective’s shoulders with infinite gentleness. 

After draping the coat over the back of a chair, he returned to stand in front of Greg and gently took his hands in his.

"Come," he said simply, guiding him tactfully towards the large leather sofa. He sat down and pulled Greg close, offering him a place to seek comfort if he needed it. Greg took him up on the offer, snuggling up against him as he wrapped his arms around him. 

"I was walking near Scotland Yard," Greg began after a few minutes, his voice monotonous. "There was this man. He was wearing an old overcoat. He... he turned his head; he straightened his shoulders in that particular arrogant, cold way."

Greg paused, then continued in a trembling voice, "It hit me like a slap in the face. For a second, I thought it was him. My father."

Mycroft stiffened imperceptibly and instantly tightened his arms around Greg. He knew the story, and the invisible scars that man had left on Greg’s soul. 

"He’s been dead for twenty years," Greg continued, clearly trying to convince himself. "Twenty years, Mycroft. I know that. And yet, that posture… the way he stood… My heart stopped. I saw the kitchen again as it was back then, the sound of breaking glass, my mother’s silence so as not to upset him further. It’s ridiculous. I’m a grown man. I lead a team. I face crime every day. And yet..."

"It’s not ridiculous, love," Mycroft interrupted, his voice firm yet tinged with tenderness. He brushed a strand of hair from Greg's forehead and pressed a lingering kiss there.

 "Trauma isn’t bound by time. He may be gone, but the impact he had on you hasn’t disappeared. Seeing someone who reminded you of your traumatic past was bound to trigger a reaction, and in my view, you reacted perfectly normally." 

Greg closed his eyes, a single tear escaping. 

"For a moment, I felt so small. As if I were still fifteen and just wanted to disappear."

Mycroft gently pushed Greg back so that he could see his face better. With his thumb, he softly wiped the tear from Greg's cheek.

"You’re not that child anymore, Greg," he said tenderly. "You’re here with me. You’re safe. That man has no power over you anymore. His only hold lies in those memories, and we’re going to chase them away one by one until they become nothing more than background noise." 

He leaned in and pressed his lips to Greg’s, first gently, then more passionately as Greg responded. 

Greg sighed against his lips and buried his hands in Mycroft’s hair.

Mycroft didn’t stop. Enveloping Greg in his whole being, he cradled him and planted kisses on his neck and jaw. Forcing him to focus on the physical sensations, he made him feel the warmth of his breath on his skin and the touch of his hands.

As soon as he sensed his lover’s mind wandering, he whispered against his skin, "Look at me, love. Feel me. Just me."

Greg obeyed, searching for Mycroft’s face with his eyes. In Mycroft’s eyes, he saw no judgement or pity, only raw adoration and unshakable certainty.

"There’s no room for him here," Mycroft continued, gently stroking Greg’s back, soothing his frayed nerves. "There’s only us. There’s only you and me. Only you, so lovable, so perfect. My Greg."

Gradually, Greg’s breathing became more even. The images from the past faded and dissolved in the face of Mycroft’s physical presence. He let himself sink into the arms of the man he loved, acutely aware that the past could not reach him there.

Burying his face in the crook of Mycroft’s shoulder, Greg whispered, "Thank you."

"Never thank me for that, Greg," Mycroft replied, holding him even tighter and pressing a long kiss to his hair.

Greg snuggled closer to his lover, letting the ghosts of the past fade away and feeling safe in his comforting embrace.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

Still thanking you for bearing with me 😝

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