#catladylexi

The way he handles illnesses varies, depending on the type, but he's not expecting to gravitate toward John instead of away when his insides start malfunctioning. Still, he doesn't resist the impulse, sliding into John's embrace as he lies down beside him on the bed, then taking John's hand and placing it against his belly.

"Not feeling so good, huh?" John says, and Harold lets out a discontented sound he'll never admit was a whimper and snuggles up closer. Perhaps it's childish or undignified, perhaps not, but John feels good, warm and steadying and soothing, even more so when he runs his hand over Harold's aching middle. "Stomachache?"

"Indeed." He heaves a sigh, and John makes a sympathetic noise and slips his hand under Harold's sweater—and, oh, that's even better. It felt excellent through the soft wool, but directly on his skin, John's hand feels heavenly, especially when it starts to move, sliding gently across Harold's belly, back and forth, moving down. "Nothing remarkable—just your garden variety gastrointestinal distress, but I just...feel awful. I promise I'm not usually this clingy when I'm ill, but..."

"Your stomach hurts." John kisses his cheek. "Let's see if I can get you feeling better, okay?" He pushes in deeper, massaging Harold's belly, and though it doesn't cure the pain, the relief is immense. Harold's next sigh is more of pleasure than weariness, as John's strong, loving hand brings comfort his own touch most likely couldn't. Harold closes his eyes, leaning his head against John's, getting the rest he was certain he'd miss as John chases the cramps and the ache away.

He really did pick a winner, didn't he, when hiring John and saving him and kissing him that first time. "You're too good to me," he says. "Thank you."

The light is already on when Harold opens the door to his apartment, and every cell in Harold's body goes on high alert. He freezes in the doorway, hand still on the knob, heart hammering in his chest, eyes scanning every visible section of the living room for the intruder. Complete silence greets him, and emptiness. Not a thing is out of place, not even the television or the two laptops on the coffee table.

A gentle, "It's safe," in his earpiece makes him jump, and his hand flies to his chest. Sheepish, The Machine says, "Sorry, Harry. But it's safe."

"There's an intruder in my apartment."

"Yes," she says.

"And you're telling me it's safe?"

"It's never been safer. I promise"

He turns and glares at the security camera at the end of the hall. "I thought you'd become less cryptic lately," he says, and she laughs softly. Good heavens, while he appreciates the reassurance, sometimes he wishes he didn't feel so naked without an earpiece after wearing one for so many years. A bit of silence—or, at least, a bit less insolence—in his life would be appreciated. His glare deepens, but it's clearly ineffective, so he heaves a sigh and takes hold of the folding wire cart full of his groceries. "If you're wrong, I'm running the intruder over."

"Oh, Harry," she says, with fond exasperation, "You never have liked surprises, have you?"

Never is inaccurate, but years of hiding and fighting a secret war have rather soured him on the concept. "It's been quite some time since I cared for them," he says, rolling the cart inside, biting back a groan at the strain. She sees everything already, but he's noticed an uptick in the number of advertisements for orthopedic surgeons and physical therapists creeping around his stringent adblockers lately—orthopedic surgeons and physical therapists who, he found upon further investigation, didn't even advertise their services. Best not to give her more fodder for her crusade to "help" him. "So, whatever it is you're planning, I'd appreciate it if you would spoil the sur—"

"Hey, Harold."

For the second time, Harold freezes in his tracks. His words die in his throat. His heart clenches and aches, his eyes spontaneously sting and burn. Standing in the doorway to the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe, is a dead man in a black suit, with silver hair and a scar-slashed face and a smile for him like he is everything.

A small, "Oh," slips out of Harold's mouth, and he claps his hands over it. Surely his eyes are lying to him. What he's seeing isn't real, cannot be real. It's impossible. He's either dreaming or hallucinating.

Except this incarnation of John looks different from the man he's dreamed about—the pure gray hair, the scar running from his left temple down near the bottom of his right cheek, the heavy limp as he starts toward Harold, favoring his right leg. "Need me to give you a hand with those?" he asks, and Harold lets out a choked-up sound that is far too much like a sob for his liking. "I kind of just got back on my feet for good a few days ago." John gestures toward his leg. "Still working on the whole walking again thing. But I think I can manage it."

Harold's own legs threaten to give out. He catches himself on his cart, stammering, "Mr. Reese, John, I—how?" and, "You came back. You actually—how?"

John pauses halfway to Harold, cocking his head. "You know, I really don't know?" He starts moving again, talking as he goes. "I was in pretty bad shape for a while, got her—" He waves toward Harold's ear. "—to keep quiet about the whole thing 'til I was ready."

Harold suddenly feels like he's been punched in the stomach. The sensation is short-lived, fading completely when John stands next to him, where he belongs. "I suppose it would be rather hypocritical of me to complain about your deception, considering that I'm something of an expert in doing exactly the same thing." Harold can't help reaching out, and splays his hand on John's chest. John is warm beneath his palm, real, chest rising and falling with his breaths, and some of the cracks in Harold's heart seem to mend. "I can't believe you're actually here, that you came back."

"But I did," John says. "Should've done it sooner." He shrugs a shoulder. "But I'm here now."

He holds open his arms, and Harold steps into his embrace, drawn to him like a magnet. They never hugged before—how foolish of them. Had Harold known it would feel like this when John wrapped his arms around him, so warm and comforting and restorative, so much like a resurrection, he would have allowed it, and would have held on tight and never let go. He takes advantage now, splaying his hands on the small of John's back, savoring the familiar smell of him, the closeness, the return. The urge to kiss him, too, becomes overwhelming, and in the moment, Harold cannot think of a single reason why it would be a bad idea. If, after everything, John was willing to come back, surely even an unwelcome press of lips to his cheek wouldn't drive him away.

The stubble on John's cheek is rough, the skin warm, the scar ragged. Harold gives him only the briefest, most experimental and fleeting kiss, and John lets out a soft sigh and tightens his grasp. "Harold," he whispers, turning and nuzzling Harold's nose, lips brushing faintly—and deliberately, Harold suspects—against Harold's. "We should've done this years ago."

"Yes, we should have," Harold says. "Oh, the mistakes we've made."