For The Love Of Talent

"Everything's fine here, Merlin. I just took care of the last one—the warehouse is secure."

"Tristan?" 

"I'm done too, mates. I've turned the security back on and reinforced it according to protocol, so no one can have a go at it again."

"Galahad?" Merlin asked.

"Everything's in order. I'm already on my way to HQ."

"All right, that was the last one, mission complete! Tristan and Lancelot, head back to base."

It had been a routine mission for Harry, Eggsy, and Roxy.

A small group of amateur burglars had broken into one of the Kingsman’s backup warehouses to steal weapons and technological equipment.

They were just amateurs who knew nothing about their target, so they had been easily disarmed and rendered amnesiac. However, to be on the safe side, Merlin sent all three of them to check the other warehouses in London and the surrounding area to reinforce security protocols.

Half an hour later, Roxy and Eggsy walked into Merlin’s office. Harry was already there, finishing up his report.

Harry walked out of the office, and Eggsy followed him with his gaze until Roxy nudged him. 

The two of them briefed Merlin, and a little while later, Eggsy headed toward the high-speed shuttle to return with Harry. As he approached the familiar figure, he heard Roxy’s voice in his earpiece. 

"Eggsy, could you be a little less obvious, please?"

Eggsy raised a puzzled eyebrow. "What are you talking about?"

"The way you're looking at Harry. No, I should say, the way you’re checking him out."

Eggsy protested, whispering so Harry wouldn't hear, "Wot?! Nah! I was just 'avin' a looksie at the fruit of me labour, the suit I measured an' tailored for him myself."

Roxy snickered. 

"Really? You little liar! Not to me. Even Merlin noticed it."

"Roxy, don't lay it on me for bitin' the view. Give these legs a know, yeah? They'd make a saint drop his fai's. I'm tellin' you, there ain't a single blush-full thought in my head when I look at 'em, especially when I take my eyes a little higher down the line!"

Roxy snorted.

"Watch your language, Eggsy!" Harry’s deep voice echoed in the younger man’s ear.

"Shit! You was still online?"

"Language!"

"Sorry, Roxy. I’m logging off."

Roxy replied with a fake pouting tone, "Oh, no! Just when it was getting interesting!"

"Oi, you fancy me filling ya in on how you get lovin' eyes on Merl..."

Only a beep answered him.

Chuckling slightly, Eggsy walked over to Harry. However, his chuckle quickly died down when he saw how his lover was looking at him, leaning on his umbrella.

The doors to the shuttle train car opened and they stepped inside.

As the doors closed, Eggsy leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees. "You mad, Harry?" he asked.

Harry leaned forward, bringing their faces within a few centimeters of each other.

"I should punish you. Two profanities, and furthermore, you are uttering such unseemly remarks concerning my anatomy."

Leaning in even closer, Harry whispered, his gaze intense, "So, does my new suit flatter me?" 

Eggsy swallowed. 

Harry continued, "Or, to quote you, does it show off my legs that could make a saint sin?"

Eggsy bit his lip before replying, "You've got no idea, Harry."

"So, how do you plan to make up for your blatant lack of manners, my dear boy?"

Eggsy gasped slightly and asked, "Would a birthday dinner cooked by me, just the two of us at home, be enough to make you forgive me?"

Harry pretended to think it over, then said, "That ought to suffice, provided I am permitted to bestow a kiss upon the chef."

"Just the one kiss ?" Eggsy replied in a feigned pout.

"That'll depend on the dinner, my dear."  

"Cheeky bastard," 

"Manners."

"Harry, stop that."

Harry brought his face even closer to Eggsy’s. So close, in fact, that Eggsy could feel Harry's breath on his skin. In a teasing tone, Harry said, "Don't worry, my dear boy. After dinner, I'm going to take such good care of you that, instead of swearing, you'll be begging me."

Eggsy was so flabbergasted that he didn’t notice the cabin doors had opened.

"Shall we head home, my dear?"

The two of them walked out as Eggsy protested, "Harry, you can't just go saying stuff like that to me."

Harry chuckled softly and whispered, "That'll teach you to stare at my legs instead of focusing on your report."

They took a London cab with a driver instead of a Kingsman taxi, so the ride back was uneventful. The two men simply held hands while Eggsy replied to messages from his friends and mother and showed Harry the latest photos of Daisy.

A little later, they walked through the door of Harry’s residence. Eggsy kicked off his shoes and murmured,

"It's good to finally be home."

Eggsy would never tire of saying this, as being home was, until recently, something he had never truly experienced while living with his mother.

A home, that was what Harry had given him, and for that alone, he would have Eggsy’s devotion for the rest of his life. The fact that he loved his legs was just a bonus.

"What are you thinking about, my dear?"

"Nothing," Eggsy replied, blushing slightly.

Harry’s chuckle made it clear that his lover wasn’t fooled in the slightest by the nature of his thoughts, so Eggsy protested, "I was just thinkin' that sayin' the word ‘home’… made me…fuck" He swallowed before continuing. "Made me happy. That’s it. That’s all."

He headed toward the dressing room to end the awkward situation, but Harry held him back by the sleeve and made him turn toward him. Then, he cupped Eggsy's cheek with his hand and caressed his cheekbone with his thumb. "My dear Eggsy, you cannot fathom the delight it brings me to hear such words from you. There is no cause for embarrassment, I assure you."

Harry leaned toward Eggsy and pressed his lips to his in a tender kiss. Then he whispered, "Welcome home."

He captured Eggsy’s lips again in a kiss just as tender as the first until Eggsy stopped him and gently pushed him away. "C'mon, Harry. I know you don't want nothin' fancy for your birthday, but I still wanna do this little somethin' for ya."

"Oh, so dinner was already planned? That means you're going to have to come up with something special to make up for your earlier lack of manners."

Eggsy chuckled softly, then wrapped his arms around his lover’s neck and pulled his face close to his own. After nibbling on Harry's ear, he whispered, "What if later I worship those legs that could make a saint sin?"

Harry playfully pinched Eggsy's buttocks, making him yelp and step back.

Harry chuckled as his younger lover walked away, feigning offense, toward the dressing room.

A little later, while Harry was relaxing on the couch with a book—on Eggsy’s orders—Eggsy was preparing dinner in the kitchen, having barred Harry from entering.

The kitchen was quiet as Eggsy stood at the stove with a clean linen apron tied around his waist, watching the butter melt and foam around the thick, beautifully marbled steak.

Eggsy didn’t want anything extravagant. There would be no theatrical haute cuisine, no dishes simmered for hours on end, and certainly no endless tasting menus designed to impress. He just wanted to cook something that Harry would enjoy.

Something authentic.

He opted for a steak, quickly pan-seared in butter and garlic and served with crispy roasted baby potatoes. It was the same meal he’d made the first time he cooked for Harry, at the start of their relationship.

He remembered the happy look on Harry’s face that evening, when Harry confided with rare vulnerability that it was the first time a lover had cooked for him.

That detail had been etched into Eggsy’s mind forever.

He had bought everything the day before, slipping away while Harry reviewed intelligence reports in his study. He knew he could prepare everything in about an hour. He seasoned the baby potatoes with sea salt, coarsely ground black pepper, and a generous drizzle of olive oil before putting them in the oven. While they were browning, he heated the skillet until it was sizzling hot. This allowed the meat to develop a beautiful caramelized crust before he flipped it over to cook for a few minutes on the other side.

Finally, he added butter, crushed garlic cloves, and fresh rosemary, basting the meat continuously with a large spoon. 

Once the meat was cooked to perfection, he placed it on a wooden cutting board to rest.

Eggsy wanted to take care of Harry today, to spoil him. Pamper him. Because that’s what Harry had done for him since the beginning of their relationship, while introducing him to his world without ever making him feel inadequate, at least not around the people who mattered.

They were very different. 

Their respective insecurities stemmed from very distinct sources: Harry’s rigid perfectionism and fear of becoming obsolete versus Eggsy’s persistent feeling of being an imposter stuck in a tailor-made suit. Yet, in the peaceful sanctuary of Harry’s home, those differences faded away. Eggsy wanted Harry to be able to count on him as much as he counted on Harry himself. 

He wanted them to be equals in every way possible.

He reached for the lemon on the wooden cutting board and began slicing its peel into a thin spiral for their martinis when he heard Harry’s soft, familiar footsteps behind him.

"Nope, that's off-limits," Eggsy said without turning around, a tender smile on his lips.

"Come on, Eggsy. It is my birthday, and I am quite alone. I promise I won’t touch the kitchen utensils. I shall merely adorn the room with my presence and observe your culinary artistry."

Eggsy let out a soft chuckle and tilted his head forward.

"Alright..." 

Harry moved closer and wrapped his arms around Eggsy’s waist from behind, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Eggsy set down the lemon and knife he was holding, turned completely around, and faced Harry, who was still holding him tightly.

"You call that ‘not touching’?" Eggsy teased, placing his palms on Harry’s chest.

"Well, I did declare I would not lay a finger upon the kitchen utensils" Harry murmured, a mischievous glint in his eyes. " made no such pledge regarding the chef. You cannot expect me to let the most tempting dish in front of me go untouched, my dear.."

He didn’t give Eggsy a chance to protest. His hands slid from the younger man’s back to the nape of his neck. He lingered in his blond hair for a moment before lifting his face upward. Harry captured Eggsy’s lips in a kiss marked by quiet yet intense hunger. It remained gentle, though, as neither of them wanted to give in to the heat. It was as if they knew it was a foretaste of what was to come later that night. 

Eggsy simply closed his eyes and surrendered to the moment, his arms sliding up to encircle Harry’s neck. He snuggled into the warmth, perfectly content to stay there until he suddenly remembered the potatoes were still in the oven.

He told himself that Harry’s lips were far too distracting and seductive.

Reluctantly, Eggsy pulled away. A breathless laugh escaped him as he enjoyed the way Harry’s lips tried to follow his own, before the older man realized, a moment too late, that the kiss was over.

"Hands off, Mr. Hart," Eggsy murmured, with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, gently pushing Harry away by the shoulders. "Do what ya said. Don't touch nothing, just look pretty." 

Harry chuckled and obeyed, stepping back just enough to lean against the countertop and watch Eggsy bustle about the room.

He wouldn't say it out loud to the younger man, but this was the best birthday gift he'd ever received. Just seeing Eggsy move through his house with such natural ease and treat the place like a home they shared, not a museum, was enough.

Eggsy had turned his back to him again to slice the lemon, and Harry thought that if his younger lover felt free to "check him out," as he'd put it, then he could certainly take the same liberty and enjoy the sight of his magnificent figure.

After taking a long, lingering look at Eggsy’s broad shoulders, slender waist, and muscular legs, his eyes drifted to the cutting board where the steaks lay, loosely covered with aluminum foil. A sense of gratitude washed over him, followed by a surge of deep tenderness.

Eggsy had remembered.

He had taken the time to prepare something he knew would please Harry.

Before Eggsy could turn around, Harry stepped closer and wrapped his arms around him from behind. After pressing a lingering kiss to the top of Eggsy’s head, he rested his chin on his shoulder and whispered, "Thank you, my dear boy."

Eggsy froze, the knife still in his hand. A look of genuine surprise crossed his face. "For what?"

"You know exactly how to make me feel cared for," Harry replied, his voice deeper and tinged with an emotion he showed only to Eggsy.

Eggsy wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden display of affection. However, since his goal for the evening had been to make Harry feel this way, he simply let out a quiet purr of satisfaction and rested his head against Harry’s shoulder for a moment. Then, he turned back to finish preparing the martinis.

Once the cocktails were mixed, chilled, and garnished with lemon zest, they clinked their glasses to toast Harry.

"I have to admit, my boy," said Harry, taking a slow sip and closing his eyes in pleasure. "Ever since you learned how to make a real martini, this is the best one yet." 

Eggsy smiled slyly, leaned over the counter, and planted a brief, light kiss on Harry’s lips. "Mmm, yeah, you're right. It tastes way better, innit."

Before Harry could respond with one of his dry quips, the oven beeped, making Eggsy snort.  He immediately shooed Harry out of the kitchen with a wave of his hand and directed him toward the dining table. Then, he dressed the plates with swift and confident skill.

A few moments later, he returned carrying two steaming plates. The presentation was simple and unpretentious, but the aromas of garlic, rosemary, and perfectly browned beef filled the room with a sweet scent." 

Harry took his first bite, his eyelids closing gently. The moan of pure pleasure that escaped him was so deliciously indecent that it almost made Eggsy want to abandon the meal, pull Harry out of his chair, and take him straight upstairs for a very different kind of feast. 

But it was Harry’s birthday, and Eggsy wanted him to enjoy every bite of the dinner he’d prepared with such care. They took their time, exchanging a few quiet words about work, Daisy, and all sorts of things. They were relaxed by the sheer luxury of spending an evening free from any outside obligations. 

After dinner, they made their way to the living room. Since it was his birthday, Eggsy let Harry choose the activity. 

However, Harry didn’t ask for a movie, music, or any other form of entertainment. He simply settled into his favorite spot on the couch and pulled Eggsy down with him. Harry sat up straight against the armrest while Eggsy stretched out fully and rested his head comfortably on his lover’s lap. 

The room was lit only by the amber glow of a floor lamp, which added to the moment's intimacy.

"You sure you don't want nothing else, love?" Eggsy asked softly, watching the light dance across Harry’s face as his slender fingers gently ran through his blond hair. "No film? No spa day, massage, or summat more elaborate? I can sort most things out if I have to." 

Harry slowly shook his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. "I'm at home with the person I hold most dear in all the world, xactly where I want him to be. I require nothing more, Eggsy."

Eggsy hummed, the sound almost like a purr, as Harry’s fingers continued their gentle, soothing dance through his hair.

At that moment, the silence felt heavy with serenity, and Eggsy was overwhelmed by a sudden wave of emotion. Even now, after everything they’d been through, he sometimes found himself staring at Harry, wondering how he’d ended up here: safe, cherished, and infinitely loved.

"Harry…" Eggsy whispered.

"Hmm?" Harry’s fingers paused for a split second, sensing the slight shift in Eggsy’s posture.

"You gotta listen to me, right, without interrupting," Eggsy said, his voice growing hoarse and thick with emotion.

Harry tensed slightly as his protective instinct kicked in and he sensed the tension in his younger lover. He asked with concern, "Eggsy, my dear, what’s wrong?" 

Harry instinctively tried to turn Eggsy’s head so he could look him in the eyes.

Eggsy shook his head firmly, keeping his face pressed against Harry’s thigh. "Don't worry. Everyfing's fine. I'm alright. But I'd rather you didn't look at me right now. Just let me talk." 

Harry nodded and let his hand drop to rest gently on Eggsy’s shoulder. He resumed his slow, rhythmic stroking of Eggsy’s hair and forced himself to stay still so he could listen.

Eggsy took a slow, deep breath, his gaze fixed ahead as he searched for the words to best describe how he was feeling.

"Harry, before I met ya, I really thought that happiness wasn't for me," Eggsy began. His voice was barely above a murmur, but he managed to steady it with each word he forced past his lips. "You know me, yeah? You know where I'm from. For ages, the only real light in my life was my little flower, my Daisy. Everything I did was just tryin' to get by and make a better life for her. I was tryin' to stack the odds in my favour against the hand life dealt me as a kid from the estate."

He paused, swallowing hard.

"Then you come along. Not only did you show me I was worth it and could aim for summin' better, bigger, and brighter, but you gave me all of that." 

He made a vague gesture toward the room, encompassing everything that made up their home. "Even though our beginnings were chaotic, you were first my mentor, then my friend, and finally...somethin' you'd never dream for someone like me: someone that loved me."

Eggsy closed his eyes, and a single tear escaped. It slid silently down, leaving a small wet spot on Harry’s pants.

"I'm no poet," Eggsy continued, his voice tinged with self-deprecation. "An' even if I was, all the words in the dictionary wouldn't be enough to say how much I love you. That's the full extent of what I feel, Harry. I don't need money, status, or any of that stuff the world tries to sell us, as long as I've got you. You're the most precious thing in my life, no doubt. I bless the day you was born, the day the brightest, most stubborn, and most beautiful person I know came into the world. Thanks for bein' my superhero. You're the love of my life. I love you, Harry Hart. Happy birthday."

The silence that followed was complete.

Harry stopped caressing him. His hand remained flat on Eggsy’s chest, feeling the heavy, rapid beats of his heart. As the seconds ticked by without Harry saying a word, a sudden feeling of insecurity washed over Eggsy.

Did I look pathetic? Did I go over the top?

Needing to see his face, needing to know that he hadn’t crossed the line into saccharine sentimentality, Eggsy sat up abruptly and spun around to straddle Harry’s lap.

He studied Harry’s face and found him completely overwhelmed.

His eyes shone with unusual brilliance, his lips were slightly parted, and his usual impassivity had crumbled completely, revealing a raw, unvarnished devotion that took Eggsy’s breath away.

Seeing the slight uncertainty and vulnerability in his young lover’s eyes, Harry snapped out of his momentary daze.

"Did I go on a bit, or what?" Eggsy asked softly, his voice trembling slightly.

"Never," Harry murmured, his voice heavy with emotion.

Before Eggsy could respond, Harry placed his hands on the younger man's face and cradled it reverently. He pulled Eggsy close and whispered against his lips, "This is the most splendid birthday of my existence, for I am graced to spend it in your company. Thank you, Eggsy, my dearest love. You’re the greatest gift life has ever given me. I know I’m old and difficult and have a thousand exasperating flaws, but despite all that, you’re here. And you love me."

Harry gently brushed his thumb across Eggsy’s cheek, wiping away the last trace of moisture.

"Words will never be enough to express the depth of my love for you, my dear, dear boy. Never." 

Harry didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, he pulled Eggsy closer and thanked him with a kiss, pouring all the intensity of his ardent and unwavering love for the extraordinary man into it.

This time, there was no restraint. The gentle, intimate tenderness of the evening gave way to a sudden, electric heat. The kiss deepened rapidly, becoming urgent and breathless until they were forced to pull apart to catch their breath. Their foreheads were pressed against each other and their chests were heaving. 

Harry didn’t let Eggsy pull away. With a strength that belied his distinguished demeanor, he slid his hands under Eggsy’s thighs, gripping them firmly. Eggsy instinctively wrapped his legs around Harry’s waist.

With a low growl, Harry rose from the couch and carried Eggsy effortlessly toward the bedroom. Eggsy laughed softly against Harry’s neck. He covered Harry’s jaw and throat with languid, eager kisses and ran his fingers through Harry’s hair as Harry gently laid him down on the wide mattress.

Eggsy rolled onto his back and looked up at Harry, who climbed onto the bed and positioned himself above Eggsy. Harry leaned down to brush a stray strand of blond hair from Eggsy’s forehead, his gaze burning with an incandescent passion.

"It's your birthday, my love," Eggsy murmured. A mischievous, knowing smile played on his lips as he grabbed the hem of his T-shirt and slowly pulled it up. "Do whatever you want with me." 

Harry swallowed hard, his eyes tracing the firm, sculpted lines of Eggsy’s flat stomach and chest in the dim light. "Oh, my dear boy...what a delightful gift." He leaned in, pausing barely a millimeter from Eggsy’s lips. His voice dropped to a deep, husky whisper. "Is this offer only good for today?"

Eggsy shook his head, his gaze dark and his eyelids heavy.

"Today," Eggsy whispered. He reached out and pulled Harry toward him by the lapels of his shirt. "And for as long as you want."

"Forever, then?" Harry asked.

Eggsy nodded, too overwhelmed by emotion to speak, his throat tight.

From that moment on, words became completely unnecessary. Harry pressed his lips against Eggsy’s once more, and in the hushed, shadowed warmth of the bedroom, they surrendered themselves entirely to the night, devoting themselves to one another with all the time in the world to savor the moment.

_________

Still not beta'd (per choice)

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story  🥰

"You're going to think I'm picky," Norman said sheepishly, running a hand through his hair.

Amused, Ethan glanced at his companion. Norman had changed so much since the events that had brought them together ten years earlier. 

He had hardly believed his ears when Shaun called to tell him who his criminology professor was. 

However, if there was one thing Ethan had learned from that time when they all more or less nearly died, it was to take chances. He’d managed to get Norman’s number with the help of his son and was thrilled when the former FBI agent agreed to meet with him again.

Now, after their reunion the night before, Norman was helping Ethan pick out an apartment. The advantage of being his own boss was that no one was breathing down his neck, telling him that he should have been working on his current architecture projects instead of spending the morning looking for apartments for Norman.

Norman.

Ten years ago, the circumstances hadn’t exactly been ideal setting for a romance, and Ethan hadn’t viewed the other man in that light at the time. However, he’d had time since then to observe the man, and what he saw appealed to him. In fact, a great deal appealed to him.

What struck Ethan most was that even though ten years had passed, Norman seemed to have grown younger.

The days of suits and ties, immaculately styled hair, cold demeanor, and meticulous, uncompromising nature were gone. Now, Norman had a slightly shy air about him, dressed more casually with slightly tousled hair. 

Ethan would be lying if he said he didn’t find him extremely attractive. 

Even without the appearance of a professional FBI agent, Norman remained a hero in Ethan’s eyes. So, even if Norman was demanding and made him tour ten apartments, Ethan would do it without complaint.

Not to mention, during the evening they’d spent together the night before, Ethan had clearly sensed Norman’s deep loneliness. He couldn’t deny his desire to fill that void.

With a wink, he said, "The first apartment was too small and the second was too noisy. Maybe this one will be perfect. And if not..." Ethan waved a stack of papers in front of Norman. "I've got plenty more in reserve."

"Yeah, but still," Norman replied, pouting. "You're already going out of your way for me. I don’t want to take advantage."

Ethan gave Norman a light nudge with his shoulder, his face full of warmth and concern, and said, "Don’t worry. We’ll find the perfect place for you. You deserve it."

"I don't know if I deserve anything."

Norman spoke so softly that Ethan could barely hear him. Ethan looked at him in surprise. Norman waved his hand dismissively and said, "Forget it."

Ethan chose not to react, but he decided not to forget. He kept those words in mind to reflect on later because they revealed the same crack in his friend’s facade that he had sensed the day before. He steered the conversation toward the next apartment and explained the essential details to Norman. 

A few moments later, they walked through the door together.

The third apartment was a charming loft on the second floor of a historic building. As Norman crossed the threshold, he felt a wave of comforting warmth. The living room was bathed in sunlight, and the solid wood floor gleamed in the soft light. He imagined his old mahogany piano tucked away in a corner. He knew with the same certainty he’d felt when he uncovered a crucial clue during an investigation that he’d found his home.

"It's beautiful," he murmured, his eyes shining.

He slowly walked through the loft, taking in every detail. Though small, the kitchen was modern and functional. He could already picture where to put a comfortable bed and desk. A small balcony overlooking the street promised peaceful evenings spent with a cup of tea and a good book.

"This is the one," Norman declared with conviction. "I can already see myself living here."

Ethan watched him, a smile on his lips. He knew it. He’d seen the look in Norman’s eyes and the expression on his face from the moment he walked in, even during the silent tour of the loft. Ethan found seeing the emotions on Norman’s face absolutely endearing. In that moment, he marveled as Norman’s eyes lit up with enthusiasm, replacing his usual calm. Ethan now knew what had changed in the Norman of the past. Norman now seemed truly alive.

"See? I knew you’d find one," Ethan said in a soft, warm voice.

Norman turned toward him and met his gaze. "It's true, isn't it? I can already picture so much. I’ve never had a pet, but I can imagine having a cat here and putting my piano over there. A couch here and…"

Ethan’s soft laughter made Norman stop mid-sentence, and the tender expression on Ethan’s face brought a lump to his throat.

"I'd love to see you with a cat," Ethan said gently, and then added with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "Just imagine the chaos."

Norman laughed.

"Chaos and me in the same sentence? If you’d told me that ten years ago, I would’ve suggested you stop taking triptocaine."

He shook his head before continuing in a more serious tone. "I’ve wasted so much time. I’ve lived most of my life in the virtual world that ARI gave me, with nothing real outside of my work."

Seeing the disillusioned look on Norman’s face, Ethan gently placed his hand on Norman’s shoulder and said kindly, "Don't think of it as a waste of time. Think of it as an experience that brought you here. To me, it’s not a waste of time because the person you used to be saved Shaun and me." 

Norman swallowed hard, then slowly nodded.

To avoid any misunderstanding, Ethan added: "But don't get me wrong. I really appreciate the person you've become. I’m happy to help you in this new life." 

They looked at each other in silence for a few moments. The air between them vibrated with unspoken words, a kind of comfortable tension that had been simmering since their reunion. 

Ethan broke the silence and asked, "So, is this the one?"

Norman nodded vigorously.

Ethan gave him a more detailed tour of the loft. Then, they went to the real estate agency with which he worked to take care of the paperwork. When they came out much later, the sun had set, and the streetlights had come on.

Norman glanced at his watch, hesitated for a moment, and then said in a slightly shy voice, "I'd like to celebrate my new apartment by treating you to dinner tonight." 

His boldness was rewarded with a broad smile from Ethan, who simply replied, "It's a date."

Norman, now even bolder, retorted, "Is it?"

Ethan looked him straight in the eye and replied, "If you want it to be."

Norman swallowed and replied, "Yes."

Ethan smiled again, and after they agreed on a restaurant, they set off. They walked through the brightly lit streets. The city buzzed with the usual evening traffic, yet the rest of the world seemed delightfully far away.

Norman found himself stealing glances at Ethan. In the glow of the streetlights, Ethan’s profile looked sharp yet soft, his hands tucked casually into his coat pockets. It was hard to believe that ten years ago, their paths had crossed under such dire circumstances: fear, despair, and a race against time to save a little boy.

Back then, Norman was a workaholic agent who shielded himself behind a professional façade and chemical crutches. Ethan, on the other hand, was a desperate father who had been pushed to the limits of human endurance. Neither of them was looking to form a connection. A child’s survival was their only priority.

Yet there they were, walking toward the restaurant and chatting about this and that.

"What are you thinking about?" Ethan asked softly, breaking the pleasant silence. He glanced sideways at Norman, his gaze warm and welcoming.

Norman offered a gentle, slightly embarrassed smile and shook his head. "I...I was just thinking about how strange life is. Ten years ago, if someone had told me that I’d be walking down this street looking for an apartment and on my way to dinner with an architect I met under such terrible circumstances, I probably would have had them committed."

Ethan chuckled softly.

"Well, life has a funny way of setting things right. That said, even back then, amidst all the chaos, there was something special about you, Norman. Even when you were determined to put me in jail."

Norman felt a slight flush warm his cheeks and was grateful for the dim streetlight. "That's a polite way of describing a workaholic who was neurotic and a little rigid in his convictions."

"I'd say you were doing your job much better than that idiot Carter Blake. Your priority was to save my son, not lock me up," Ethan corrected gently, stopping at the corner in front of a warm, welcoming bistro whose windows glowed with amber light.

Norman looked at the restaurant’s entrance, then turned his attention back to Ethan. The sincerity in the other man’s gaze tugged at his heart in a delightful way, a gentle, rising pressure he hadn’t felt in a long time. Well, to be honest, he had never felt it before. 

For years, he’d lived with the conviction that his life was frozen, unchanging, and doomed to loneliness. Ethan was proving to him, one gentle gesture after another, that he had the right to start over. That he had the right to be happy.

"Shall we go in?" Ethan asked, holding the door open for him with a gaze that was both playful and tender.

"Let's go," Norman replied, walking past him and stepping into the welcoming warmth of the bistro.

The waiter led them to a secluded booth in the back, where Norman settled into the plush seat. Ethan took a seat across from him and picked up the menu, but his gaze lingered above it, resting affectionately on Norman.

The clinking of glasses and the warm buzz of conversation filled the bistro, but Norman barely paid any attention to it. All of his attention was focused on the man sitting across from him.

The conversation had flowed smoothly ever since they raised a toast to Norman’s new apartment.

Norman had never been in a relationship before, nor had he ever felt such a strong attraction to anyone. It was a new and intoxicating sensation, a mix of intense excitement and apprehension. He was captivated by every word Ethan said. His gaze lingered on the way the light danced in Ethan’s dark hair, and on his lips curving into a smile, framed by a shadow of stubble that could melt glaciers. It was a sight he thought he’d never tire of, especially knowing those smiles were meant for him.

Ethan was also incredibly sensitive. He seemed to pick up on the slightest shift in Norman’s mood and knew exactly when to give him space. For example, he did so when the conversation turned serious and touched on the darker aspects of the former FBI agent’s past.

Norman felt a sense of ease unlike anything he had ever experienced, a feeling of being truly seen and valued.

Much later, as they stood on the street in front of the bistro, Ethan insisted on walking Norman back to his hotel.

"You know, I'm not an FBI agent anymore, but I can take care of myself."

Ethan chuckled, then said seriously, "It's not that. It’s just that I don’t want to say goodbye to you yet."

Although the connection they shared that evening exceeded anything Norman could have hoped for, Ethan’s honesty still caught him off guard.

He mocked himself inwardly. It had taken him 40 years to finally feel butterflies in his stomach!

Taking his silence as agreement, Ethan began walking side by side with Norman toward his hotel. The city lights twinkled above them, casting an ethereal glow over the cobblestone streets.

Ethan asked softly, "Did I make you uncomfortable with my forthrightness?"

Norman shook his head. "No, I'm not uncomfortable. Surprised, yes. But that’s also because I’m out of practice… or rather, my experience is close to zero."

Ethan laughed softly, gave him a playful nudge, and said, "I think you're doing just fine." 

Norman replied with a light laugh as Ethan added, "So, if my straightforwardness doesn’t make you uncomfortable, I hope what I’m about to do won’t either." 

Norman stopped laughing and furrowed his brow, intrigued. Suddenly, he felt Ethan’s hand slide up his arm from the elbow before taking his hand and intertwining their fingers.

The butterflies in his stomach made a big comeback.

"Still not uncomfortable?" Ethan asked.

Norman tightened his grip on Ethan’s fingers and replied with a wink, "What do you think?"

They continued walking in silence, holding hands, for a few moments.

Feeling confident, Norman softly confessed, "You know, this is a first for me."

"What?"

"That," Norman replied, raising their intertwined hands.

Ethan nodded and remained silent for a moment, causing Norman to worry that he had said too much. But Ethan asked softly, "With a man?"

Norman shook his head and laughed. "With anyone."

"By choice?"

Norman shrugged. "Until ten years ago, yes. Workaholic and all that jazz. And after that… let’s just say it’s not easy to find someone when you have a past like mine. Addiction issues and that sort of thing..."

"I understand."

Ethan traced the back of Norman’s hand with his thumb and asked, "So, after what you just told me, I feel like I have to ask: Are you really okay with this?"

Touched by the gesture, Norman replied, "Yes."

"Much more than okay," he thought.

They arrived near the hotel entrance and stood still for a moment, lost in silence. The air was thick with unspoken tension like a silent acknowledgment of the undeniable attraction smoldering between them.

Ethan’s warm, firm hand lingered in Norman’s before gently caressing his cheek. Unaccustomed to such contact, Norman closed his eyes for a moment, relishing the touch and leaning instinctively into Ethan’s warm palm.

Then he opened his eyes and met Ethan’s tender gaze.

Ethan took another step forward until he was close enough for Norman to feel his warm breath on his skin as he asked in a low voice, "May I?"

His heart pounding, Norman nodded silently. His breath caught in his throat as Ethan leaned forward, brushing his lips against Norman’s first lightly, then more earnestly. The kiss was slow and tender. It was a gentle exploration of the unspoken desire between them.

Norman closed his eyes and surrendered to the sensation of Ethan’s lips against his own. At first, he tried to etch every detail into his memory, the warmth, the softness, and the hesitant exploration. But he let himself be overwhelmed by the flood of unfamiliar sensations, and all rational thought deserted him.

A few moments later, when Ethan pulled away, his eyes reflected a sense of wonder that echoed Norman’s own feelings.

He said softly, "I've had a wonderful evening."

"Me too," Norman replied, his voice slightly choked with emotion.

Ethan pressed a light kiss to his lips and whispered in a tender voice, "Good night, Norman."

"Good night, Ethan," Norman replied in a barely audible voice.

Norman watched Ethan turn and walk away, his silhouette fading into the night. He stood motionless for a long moment, unable to stop himself from touching his lips. An intense warmth washed over him. He had never felt anything like it.

That evening, or rather, to tell the truth, Ethan himself, had opened a door within him, a door leading to a world of possibilities.

He didn’t know what the future held for him, but he knew, with a certainty that surprised even himself, that this was only the beginning.

_________

Still not beta'd

Still not my native language

Still hoping you'll enjoy this story 🥰

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 😝

They worked in comfortable silence. Harold was finishing up by cross-checking the information from their latest case to close the file, while John was bent over a Glock 19 at a work table, disassembling it with surgical precision to clean it. He loved this ritual and the satisfaction of knowing that no matter how urgent the situation, he would be ready.

"The firing pin shows slight signs of wear," John said without looking up, his deep voice breaking the silence. "Nothing serious, but it's better to prevent it from getting stuck."

He knew Harold wasn’t interested in any of this, but he took a mischievous pleasure in providing this kind of detail just to get a little dig in from his boss and now lover. It was a little game between them, just like John’s habit of asking trivial questions to learn more about Harold's life.

However, tonight, he received no response.

No "You can't do that anywhere else," or "How is that going to help me with what I'm doing?" 

Nothing.

Just silence.

John looked up and gasped in surprise.

He often arrived at the library to find Harold asleep at his desk, but this time, Harold had fallen asleep while John was there and was sleeping soundly.

He was slumped over his desk with his head resting on his crossed arms and was surrounded by files, his deep, steady breathing indicating how soundly he was sleeping.

John gently placed the parts of his gun on the cloth, taking care not to make any sudden movements.

To say that John was astonished would be an understatement. For a man like Harold Finch, whose life was so secretive and who was so distrustful of the outside world, to fall asleep in such a vulnerable state while John was there was a sign of unfathomable trust.

John suddenly realized that he had never experienced anything like this. The feeling of being a place where someone could finally close their eyes without worry.

He got up as quietly as possible and went to fetch the woolen blanket he had seen in the corner of the library. He returned to Harold’s side and gently draped the blanket over his shoulders. Harold let out a soft sigh and continued to sleep peacefully.

John returned to his work table, finished assembling his weapon, and stowed it in the safe. Then he came back and sat in the same spot. He pushed his chair back, rested his feet on the table, crossed his arms, and leaned back in his chair. 

He continued to watch Harold, basking in the calm of the moment, which was so rare in their lives. Gradually, weariness overcame him, and he eventually tilted his head back and sank into sleep, his eyelids closing on the sight of the one he had sworn to protect. 

He was jolted awake by a strange sensation, like a gentle caress on his cheek. 

He opened his eyes and saw Harold standing before him. Like John, he looked a little disoriented; his hair was tousled, and there was a mark from the fold of his shirt on his cheek. He had probably just woken up. 

John sat up with a grimace, his neck protesting the awkward position in which he had slept.

"Did I sleep for a long time?" he asked, his voice slurred from sleep.

Harold replied, "I couldn't say. I just woke up myself."

John glanced at his watch.

"What? I slept for half an hour!"

Harold raised his hand and ran his fingers through John’s hair, brushing it back. Still not quite awake, John could almost have purred at the gentleness of the touch.

"Well, Mr. Reese," Harold murmured, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "you clearly don't see me as much of a threat if you can sleep like that with me in the room."

John laughed softly.

"I could say the same thing to you, Harold. After all, I’m technically the threat. And yet, you fell asleep like a child in my presence."

Harold’s hand paused in John’s hair, and their eyes locked. He gently tugged at John’s hair teasingly.

"Nonsense," he murmured, a small smile playing on his lips. "I know you'd never hurt me. I trust you completely."

John gasped in surprise. Realizing it was one thing, but hearing it said out loud was another. It wasn't so much the words as it was the absolute conviction with which they'd been spoken. 

Seeing John’s trouble, Harold didn’t look away. He slid his hand along John’s face and gently cupped his chin.

"Did you doubt it?" he asked, his voice turning serious. "I see. You really did doubt it. Oh, John, I know I’m secretive and keep my life under lock and key. It’s a habit I’ve developed to protect myself, but not from you anymore. With you, it’s different. I have absolute trust in you. I’d put my life in your hands without hesitating for a second."

With his thumb, he traced the curve of John’s lips, which had remained slightly parted in surprise.

"And if you don't believe me," Harold added with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, "I'll be forced to use much more coercive measures."

Before John could reply, Harold leaned forward and captured his lips in a deep kiss, as if he wanted to pour every ounce of love and trust he felt into it.

John stood motionless for a moment, his eyes wide with surprise, before letting go and surrendering to the kiss. His hands instinctively reached for Harold’s shoulders and pulled him close. The kiss went on and on until they had to pull apart to catch their breath. Harold whispered, "Was that convincing enough?"

John let out a small, stifled laugh before wrapping his arms around Harold’s waist, burying his face in his lover’s stomach as Harold ran his fingers through his lover's hair.

They stayed like that for a while, enjoying the moment. 

John was relishing the feeling of being cherished by someone who trusted him completely and whom he trusted completely in return.

_________

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 😝