Recorded History
Summary: John's never been ashamed of his scars-they're a record of his history, and he earned every one of them. Harold, he knows, has never felt anything but. So John teaches him otherwise. In the best way he knows. The sex way. Or, each scar has its own history, its own story. Read his file and you can learn the history; put your hands on him, and he'll tell you the story. Harold's already done one; Reese intends for him to do both. Reese/Finch.
Disclaimer: Nope, still not mine. Beggars apparently can't ride.
Warnings: It behoves me to actually have to warn for this, but this a work of 'slash' fanfiction, therefore romantic and sexual content between two men will feature in it. So, if that's not your thing, for moral or other reasons regardless, please feel free to stop reading now; I won't be insulted. But if you do proceed to the fic, please spare me the anonymous commentary on how homosexuality is perverted, and therefore there is something wrong with me for writing it. You are, however, entirely welcome to take that attitude with you back to the dark ages where it belongs. That said, warnings for sex (between two men), potentially triggering body issues (scars) and mentions of past injury and torture.
Rating: M
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"Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars."-Khalil Gibran
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It happens because John gets shot.
No, not that time, with Snow and Carter and a rooftop. With John bleeding out, counting his heartbeats and knowing that they're limited, and with that knowledge calling Finch, not for help, but because if he was going to die, he wanted it to be the sound of Finch's voice, his partner in so much more than the numbers.
Huh.
Well, alright, maybe it happens because of then too.
But that although that shooting may be where it begins, it is perhaps not where it starts. It is an uncatalyzed reaction, occurring too slowly in nature to be beneficial. A spark, but not yet a flame.
No, perhaps it starts when he is shot and wounded, shirtless in the library, and he catches Finch's gaze, drag along his exposed torso longer than polite concern dictates. Perhaps it is that look, part intent, part surprise; at the ease that John wears his own skin, his scars-because John may not know absolutely everything about Finch, but that bewildered, lost look at the comfort that John wears his scars tells him much-part guilty indulgence, that starts this thing.
Perhaps John can't tell you how it starts.
But he can tell you how it progresses.
John has many scars, and each scar has a story.
This does as well.
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Right shoulder, just under his collarbone, a circular burn, about the size of a dime. Feels rough under your fingers.
Cigarette burn from a drug dealer in Colombia. It was hot, far too hot, sweat dripping down into his eyes, and John was bound at the wrists to some chair. It was supposed to inflict fear, make him talk, but it just made him angry.
The lacerations on his wrists healed without a mark.
The dealer didn't die well, but he deserved it.
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Here is a thing that John knows to be true; a similarity between the men that are Finch and Reese.
They both have scars.
John is intimately familiar with his own; his body is a patchwork of them, the hard earned badges of a life not lived safely, but lived to the fullest. And although he has never seen Finch's scars-and this too, is only more telling-he knows they exist; he overheard Tillman and Finch, and one does not have the kind of surgeries Finch would have needed to have without incurring more than a few scars.
Here is another thing that John knows to be true; a difference between the men that are Finch and Reese.
Reese has never been ashamed of his scars; Harold has never been anything but.
John intends to change that.
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Left hand, the fleshy bit below the thumb, between the palm and the top, a thin white line, no longer than half an inch. Can you feel it, it's so shallow?
Medieval sword wound; Jessica. Just a lazy day at a museum, and Jessica bumps into the exhibit, just a little off balance, and the sword slips loose.
John's reflexes grab for it before he can remember why that's a bad idea.
Barely hurt, but it bled something fierce, and Jessica fussed over it like crazy as they sneaked away out of the museum like guilty children, a handkerchief over his bleeding hand.
Afterwards, she insisted on kissing it better.
It was a good day.
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Harold, when they meet for the first time, claims to know absolutely everything about John, and while John admits that he knows much, he denies that he knows all.
Because, well, Harold's knowledge comes from files he hacked, the CIA and military records that he found and declassified to an extent, and while those are through records, that's all they are; records.
Because while each scar has a history, each scar also has a story, and the two are very different. A history is a record that will tell you dimensions, locations, identifiers for when he meets his untimely end-a story will tell you the feelings, the circumstances as only John can tell him; the truth.
Read his file and you can learn the history; put your hands on him, and he'll tell you the story.
Harold has done one; John would like it if he'd do both.
Remember that look? That intent/guilt/surprise look? This is where that look becomes important.
Because its how John knows Harold wants it too.
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Lower left back, few inches above the buttocks, web of ropy, white lines, some deeper than the others. Feels almost too smooth under your fingers.
Knife wounds, cauterized even as they were made. The pain was excruciating, and John prayed to gods he wasn't even sure he believed in for it to end. But the worst was his partner, in the chair beside him, who screamed and blubbered until they cut his throat while John was forced to watch.
Cuts made by a man who wanted answers; John gave him only silence.
It was then he realized that no one comes for you.
Broke his wrist to get out of his restraints-irregular bump in the bone, small, white line where the bone jutted through flesh-and took the knife from the man, shoved it into his throat.
He didn't live long enough for it to scar.
John carried his partner's body back for a proper burial, broken wrist and all.
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But where does one go from there, when knowledge-even mutual knowledge-is not enough?
He considers many ways to bring it up-this thing they could have between them-but ends up discarding each one. How do you tell a man who constantly reminds you of his private nature that you know he has scars and you think they only make him more beautiful? How do you ask him to show you what he hides from even himself? How do you ask for the right to touch them-touch every inch of him, even the scarred ones-when you have only just earned the right to a causal forearm brush or a friendly shoulder pat?
But in the end, he is unsure how to do this-how to breakdown those vaunted walls of Finch's-ever wary of pushing too hard, because Finch is so brittle he would shatter, and this is not a figure of speech. So he keeps quiet, takes what he can get, and tries to earn the trust he needs to do the things he so badly wants to do.
The waiting is a wound of its own, still open, unable to scar.
John can weather it though.
He's had worse, for far less a payoff.
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Lower right abdomen, closer to the belly button than the waist. A starburst under your fingers, rough to the touch-not many grade-A surgeons where he was-almost pretty in shape.
Kara.
An explosion of hot pain, but it wasn't the pain, really, that ached.
That was the betrayal.
He hesitated; she didn't.
Nothing personal.
He leaves her behind as the bomb falls.
Yes, it was.
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They exist for a while, in this strange sort of limbo, one so strong that it still exists even after John rescues Harold from Root. Looking back, he supposed he'd hoped that would be the thing that broken their strange little stalemate, but he's oddly glad it didn't.
He doesn't want something like that-something so important-to be born on that foundation-the center would never hold, and if-when-they do this, John intends to play for keeps.
But the aftermath of Root does have one unintended consequence, and John has yet to decide if it is a blessing or a curse. Because before Root, Harold worried about John's safety-the catches of breath and the edge of panic in his voice at every gunshot and second of radio silence spoke louder than any words-but it was always a manageable worry, moderated by the knowledge that if something did happen to Reese, Finch would still be able to go on with the Machine and some other operative.
Now, after Root, Finch watches him as he leaves the library every time, this terrible edge of terror in his eyes like he believes that this will be the time last time that he sees Reese, and if it is, he'll shatter.
It's understandable, the fear-Root took him and made him feel so helpless, so alone, and John was the one that found him, that proved her wrong-it makes sense even without the unspoken feelings between them, though they too exacerbate the situation. John makes Harold feel safe because he found him, and Harold doesn't feel safe when he isn't around-this is simply logic.
Unfortunately, so too is this.
Finch is terrified of losing him, and John's job is to dodge bullets.
John knows that something has to give.
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Two this time; right side, lower abdomen, just low enough to be a separate mark from Kara's, and right thigh. Gunshots from a high powered rifle-starbursts, once again, but smoother this time, smaller; better doctor, better person picking the doctor.
You know the story to this one already. But this, this you may not know.
John has always considered these Finch's scars.
And no, of course John doesn't think it was Finch's fault he got shot-Carter did the wrong thing trying to do the right thing, Mark ordered the hit and some nameless suit took the shot-but somehow, they've always been Finch's scars, since he woke up in some safe house, alive when he should have died.
Maybe it's because it was Finch he saw when he opened his eyes, watching over him like no one had in so long, or maybe it's because his heart still beats when it should have stopped that day, and Finch is the reason why it does.
Or maybe it's because when Finch looks at him, it throbs, from time to time, not pain so much as an ache-a whisper of things important and visceral-and John has always listened to his flesh.
A record of Finch, on his flesh.
No, these scars have never bothered him.
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And then, he gets shot.
Again.
An unintended catalyst, an accidental splash of accelerant on that spark.
John's always been a bit of an opportunist; he takes full advantage of all opportunities that fall into his path.
This time is no different.
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Right bicep, closer to the shoulder than the elbow, the inside part near the torso, not the outer part. About a quarter of an inch deep and two inches long. Bleeds like crazy, but no major arteries are hit; a flesh wound.
Not a scar yet, but there's a story all the same.
Might even have a happy ending.
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It barely fazes John when he gets shot-just some guy, trying to wound their latest number, with terrible aim to boot-it stings, but John's had much worse.
Harold, on the other hand, doesn't take it well at all.
Although, admittedly, the fact that John's com crapped out only seconds after the gunshot wound, making it the last thing that Harold heard before radio silence, probably didn't help.
The fact that it took him more than a half hour to get back to the library, and that he couldn't call during that time because he was trying to dodge a few cops who made it to the scene before Carter, definitely didn't help.
He knows this because when he finally does make it back into the library Finch is nearly frantic, in that very Finch way of his-camera's from the scene to the library have been hacked, cell terminals have been commandeered, and Reese can see that both Carter and Fusco have received dozens of calls.
Finch is also pacing, his hair mussed from running nervous hands through it, glasses far down his nose, his suit jacket conspicuously absent, leaving him in only his vest and shirt, and his tie is undone, pulled from his neck inelegantly, like it was choking him.
From a distance, he looks like he's been fucked.
The visceral want that shoots through John at the sight, starting at the base of his spine and seemingly reaching every nerve ending is ruthlessly supressed, with some difficulty. Not the time-not when Finch is so worried and John can ease that burden.
"Sorry about that Finch," Reese says, casually, voice deliberately light, stepping further into the library, and Finch's whole body freezes, turns slowly, eyes searching as if to truly ascertain that John is really there, "Had a little trouble with…traffic on the way back."
And although John appears casual as he stays still, and lets Finch examine him, it's all a show; John's pulse is a livewire beneath his skin, but he knows that if he moves too quickly, pushes too hard now that Finch will retreat, and so he stays calm, and lets Finch come to him on his own terms.
And sure enough Finch does, some of that horrible tension finally bleeding out of him as he accepts the reality of a living, breathing Reese in front of his eyes, composing himself back together partially before John's eyes. "Understandable, Mr. Reese," Finch finally says, voice carefully casual, too forced to be their normal banter, but John will never call him on it, "I assume that none of your…traffic followed you back here?"
"I'm almost insulted you have to ask," John says, eyes soft and teasing, and Harold responds to it as he intended, a brief twinkle in his eyes, and it is then that John makes his mistake, because it is then that he steps closer, unthinkingly flicks open his jacket button, and the movement fully exposes his side to Finch.
Which is covered in blood, seeped from his forgotten wound, an impossibly red stain on the white of his shirt.
To say that Finch tenses back up again would be a massive understatement.
"Mr. Reese you're bleeding!" Finch states, voice nearly shrill, and even without being able to see his eyes, Reese knows that his panic must be great, because Finch's limps forward quickly, putting his hands on Reese in a hurried attempt to bare his wound to Finch's eyes, and Finch never initiates physical contact with anyone.
Down, John chastises firmly to a certain body part that is far too interested in the proceedings, not the time.
"Hey, Finch…" he starts, valiantly ignoring the fact that Finch has just striped his jacket off him and is working his shirt off with single mined focus, "It's alright, it's just a flesh wound."
Finch doesn't even acknowledge that, in favor of pulling the white shirt off of him in a single motion and casting it aside, eyes entirely focused on finding where the blood is coming from. What he eventually finds is what Reese was expecting to find-the wound on his arm is ugly and red, but it's stopped bleeding, and it's more of a dull ache than a sharp pain now. It will have to be cleaned and dressed eventually, but with Finch trailing hesitant, shaking fingers across the skin around it, almost like he is unaware he is doing it, it can certainly wait.
"Mr. Keller?" Finch asks quietly, referring to the man who had been after their latest number, his fingers still stroking, and he's so close that if John shifted just a little bit, he could align their bodies', torso to thigh.
He doesn't, but the temptation to do so is almost obscene.
"He was a terrible shot," John offers instead, voice as quiet as Harold's own, unwilling to break the strange spell that has seem to fallen over them, aware that it's unlikely to occur again anytime soon.
Finch's only acknowledgement of what he's said is the tiniest of nods, more of an inclination of his whole head than a movement of his neck, before he says, with an absent, and yet bitter regret, to John's arm and not his face, fingers still stroking in soothing circles, "It will scar."
"I don't mind," John says finally, simply, and it's the truth. He's never minded his scars-the marks of the things that he survived; the marks of things that made him stronger-and the ones that he has gotten under Harold's service are no different.
"You really don't, do you?" Harold asks, finally meeting John's eyes, and the confusion, the wonder in his voice makes him sound more like a little boy than a middle-aged billionaire.
"I could tell you the stories behind them, every one, so that you'd see that I'm not ashamed of them," John says quietly, and even though it's an entirely real offer-John may guard his privacy almost as fiercely as Harold does, but never this, not from Finch-it's also not his preferred choice-at least not at this moment. Something he makes abundantly clear as he leads Finch's hand that wasn't on his body to his left lower abdomen and the starburst scar that can be found there and offers, his natural rasp even rougher than usual, "Or, I could show you another way."
"That's probably not a good idea," Harold says, voice too breathy, and even if John didn't have extensive interrogation training the words would still be little more than token protest, made even weaker by the hand that is now tracing the starburst scar almost compulsively, touch so very gentle.
"Probably not," John says, simply enough, and it's the truth-this will only ever be a terrible idea or the best one, and John will give everything to make sure it's the latter-but there is always a risk. Still, John has no intention of letting this opportunity pass him by without a fight, and so he says, quietly, letting one of his own hands begin to rub soothing circles on Harold's forearm, through the material of his shirt, "But you promised me nothing but the truth once, and so, can you tell me, honestly, that you don't want it too?"
Harold kisses him then, surges forward like he can't not, his mouth hot and wet and a little desperate against John's own, and John takes it for the answer that it is.
And so John does the only thing he can; he opens his mouth, draws Harold into him and makes that shift, finally aligning their bodies, the warmth of Harold's thighs against his own felt even through two layers of thick fabric.
They fit together perfectly.
They kiss for endless moments after that-long, deep, life affirming kissing-tongues duelling and dancing, so hot and consuming that Harold's glasses fog over and they don't even notice, and John brackets Harold's smaller body with his own, struck as he does by the fierce desire to just keep Harold here for the rest of his days, safe in the warmth of John's body.
Root's actions were not without their own consequences for John as well.
John's never been any good at sharing what belonged to him.
But, as much as he'd be content to simply stay in this moment forever, where Finch is warm and solid against him, John can't help but feel a little underdressed, especially as the buttons of Harold's vest brush against the naked skin of John's own torso. And so he moves to even the status quo-the tie is already loose-it's an easy thing to pull it off of Harold's neck, even without breaking the contact of their mouths, and the vest offers little more resistance. And it would be an equally easy task to remove Finch's dress-shirt-John could do it one handed and never have to release Finch's lips-but instead he simply lets his hands hang there, one bracketing the button, the other feathering the back of his neck, the intention clear, but his hands will not move without permission from Finch.
And yet, with the position of his hand, he can feel them, even under the crisp fabric of Finch's dress-shirt-the scars Finch so deeply hates, deep and crisscrossing, as he'd knew they would have needed to be.
He will never presume to look at them without permission, and he will never ask for the story behind these scars.
Finch will tell him if he wants, when he is ready-no sooner or later.
That is what trust is.
What love is.
"They aren't pretty," Finch whispers in response to John's unvoiced query, voice still heavy with shame and his whole body is tense under Reese's hands, brittle like fragile glass, but he doesn't move away, stays close enough that they're sharing breathe and his words feather across John's lips.
"They're part of what makes you, you," John says finally, picking his words carefully, because this is a terribly important thing, and he makes sure that Finch can see that he speaks only truth, "That makes them beautiful and rare to me."
Finch doesn't reply verbally to that, but after a moment where his keen eyes search John's own for any hint of falsehood, he finally tilts his head up as far as he can, exposing his neck, giving John better access to his shirt button, and it is an answer in itself. John responds by once again drawing Harold's mouth to his own, distracting him with long, sipping kisses as he works the shirt off slowly, enjoying the temptation of denying himself the sight he's so wanted to see.
However John's need reaches a certain critical mass when one of Finch's nipples brushes against his own, and at the stiffening of his cock, already steam hot and wanting in his suit trousers John pulls back and puts a few inches of distance between their bodies, and finally looks at the bounty revealed to him.
Skin white and pale, a clear lack of sun, and soft, from too many hours spent in front of a computer screen. A thin smattering of chest hair, framing two surprisingly pink nipples, and a slight softening at the midsection from disuse of the muscles there, but this is Finch, sharing something so private as this with him, and so it is the most appealing sight he's seen in a very long time.
And then, or course, there are the scars.
And they aren't pretty-deep white slashes of flesh that start at the neck and sprawl down his shoulders and upper back, fitting together oddly, some rough and some too smooth-flesh that was ripped apart in some way and put back together as best as it could be, fitting strangely over the added metal in Harold's neck.
And yet, they certainly aren't ugly either, as Harold himself fears-John has always found strength beautiful, and these marks are the highest badge of strength-the record of all of the things that Finch has survived, written on his flesh, and so it is somehow the most natural thing in the world to lays his mouth over the closet ridge, pressing a soft kiss there, almost in tribute.
And it shouldn't be an overly erotic gesture-the skin there is dead and less sensitive, John knows this from his own scars-but Harold makes a sound like he's dying, pulling John's mouth to his again desperately, and John can't help himself from prying open the button on Harold's slacks and sliding his hand in, bracketing the hot, thick column of flesh he finds there before pumping firmly, an easy slide given how wet with precome Harold is.
And because John knows this won't last long-it can't, with Harold jerking his hips helplessly into John's grasp and panting what might be his name into John's mouth-John speeds up his grip, before tearing his mouth away from Harold's and fixing it once again on his neck.
"Beautiful and rare," John rasps into the skin of Harold's neck, the words fluttering over the raised skin of his scars, before he sinks his teeth shallowly into the flesh there-not hard enough to bleed, but certainly so that it will leave a mark-and sucks, hard enough to bruise, and Finch makes a choked noise and shudders in John's hands as he comes-a sight worth a thousand scars.
Beautiful and rare.
And all his.
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When they finally find themselves in a bed-after Harold had taken care of John's own needs with a warm, firm hand before finally cleaning and bandaging his wound-its dark outside, but the street lights and building lights ensure that the room is not entirely black, and so the room is bathed in shadows.
Consequently, John has an excellent view of Harold lying sprawled out next to him on the entirely too comfortable king size bed that Harold apparently had hidden away, more relaxed than John has ever seen him, for all that he's half hidden under a sheet while John is entirely bare.
And yet, even with all they've done already, John knows that Harold isn't quite sold yet on the idea of his scars being beautiful-the fact that he's lying with his back away from John is telling enough-but John expected that frankly. Issues like that, beliefs like that don't just disappear in an instant-they take time to, pardon the pun, heal-but even though Finch isn't quite convinced yet, John isn't worried.
He'll have plenty more opportunities to get the point across.
He'll make sure of it.
It's then that Harold asks, "Will you tell me them now?" apropos of nothing, the first thing said since they fell into this room, a patchwork of hands and mouths, and then he clarifies further, though given the hand that is tracing absent circles across one of his scars, it's entirely unnecessary, "The stories, I mean."
John smiles, in the dark, and finds Harold's hand, brackets within his own and brings it slowly to his right shoulder, just under his collarbone, where a circular burn, about the size of a dime lives, that he knows will feel rough under Harold's fingers.
And teaches.
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Base of the neck, left side, crescent shaped teeth marks, dark in the center, blood vessels broken under unbroken skin by a hungry mouth. Right wrist, five finger shaped marks, red skin from hands that gripped tightly in passion.
A record of Reese, on Finch's skin-the story of this, of hunger and desire and love, written on flesh in an ink of broken blood vessels and teeth marks.
They won't scar-Reese is not so cruel-they'll fade, eventually, as such marks are wont to do.
But that's alright.
It just means he'll just have to do it again, and again, and again.
And so he does.
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FIN
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A/N: So, scar-related context-porn was what I called this thing, and that seems pretty accurate upon reflection! Also, just for clarification, the italics text about the scars was Reese telling Finch the story about the scars (as he asks him to do at the end), so the story is not the most linear tale ever, but I'm pretty satisfied with how it turned out! Also, I feel that I should also mention, for people that read the medieval sword scar and wonder if I've lost my mind; that scar is actually a scar that can be found on my left hand, though it wasn't at a museum but at a friend's home who has a collection of them. I bumped into one on the wall and grabbed for it before my brain could catch up, and voilà, the scar described. The other scars are entirely fictional though.
As for the warning at the beginning; I received an anonymous review on a previous work with this pairing of said nature, and so although I always mark my fics as slash, I felt I should really spell this one out given the mature nature of it, as although I always appreciate constrictive criticism, I have no patience for bigotry and homophobia.
That said, as always, I hope it was enjoyed, and reviews and constructive criticism are always welcome. Still a feedback whore over here!