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There are days when John hates the CIA even more than usual: today he feels that way because Kara sneers and kicks his knee out from under him before jumping into a car and flooring the gas. This time, though, John doesn't care much: Harold is inside the deserted factory hall, tied to a chair with a pair of odd-looking handcuffs around his wrists.
John races back inside. It's freezing cold, the windows lying in shards on the concrete floor. Harold's jacket is lying abandoned on a metal table; judging by the tears in it, she cut if off of him. Currently, Harold is tied to a chair with his left shirtsleeve rolled up. He looks like he is waiting for a doctor's appointment, surprisingly calm under the circumstances. John flinches when he sees the empty syringes on the table. He picks up one of the little glass bottles: sodium thiopental. Fuck.
Harold looks up at John when he kneels by his side. "Are you okay, Harold?"
"I am not physically hurt, I think," Harold says, looking down at his wrists in mild confusion. "But the handcuffs deliver electrical shocks, which is rather inconvenient --"
John stares at him. "I am going to kill her," he says flatly.
"As much as I appreciate the sentiment," Harold says, "I'd prefer it if you wouldn't kill anyone on my behalf." He blinks, like his vision is a little fuzzy. "You already had to do so many things that you found distasteful and morally wrong, I'd hate to add to the list any more than necessary."
John examines the handcuffs: it's a heavy model with a confusing set of multicolored wires attached. John has no idea how to disarm those.
"The handcuffs are wired to a small battery, delivering an 80,000 volt shock when the button on the transmitter is pushed. The mechanism is not unlike a classical taser," Harold says like he's lecturing a class. “Apparently they can be triggered over the distance of a hundred yards.”
John clenches his jaw. He unties the rope that Kara used to secure Harold to the chair. "Did she tell you all this?"
Harold shrugs. "She seemed rather taken with them," he says. "She is a very cynical woman and a terrible host, but I suppose she is doing excellent work in her field --"
"Don't," John says, helping him up. Thinking about Kara holding Harold hostage to pry information from him and electrocuting him at her leisure is making him want to smash things, and he'd rather not punch a wall in front of Harold. "Let's get out of here, I'll get you out of those cuffs at the library."
"John, I am so very relieved to see you. I was waiting for you to come and get me," Harold says. He puts a hand on John's arm and squeezes briefly. John tries his best not to lean into the touch, warm even through the fabric of his suit.
Harold seems lucid, but John won't take any chances: as far as he's concerned, Harold is still under the influence of powerful interrogation drugs and his judgment is compromised accordingly. John pulls down Harold's sleeve over the red puncture mark on the inside of his elbow while they're walking, grimacing. If he had paid more attention to Harold during their latest number, maybe Kara wouldn't have been able to kidnap him pretty much from under John's nose.
"Look, that stuff she gave you? It's basically truth serum, so you might want to not talk for a bit,” John says.
Harold is a little shaky on his feet. "I was convinced that you would find me," he says.
John keeps his hands on the small of Harold's back all the way to the car.
--
Back at the library, John rummages around in his toolbox for a set of pliers when Harold says: "She talked about you a lot."
"Yeah, we go way back," John mutters, darkly. He gestures to the handcuffs. "Did she use them?"
"Four times," Harold says instantly. "When she seemed dissatisfied with my answers." He leans in closer. "She asked me to tell her all I knew, so naturally I started with basic maths and moved to more sophisticated scientific problems from there."
John smirks. "It was a very vague question."
"She let me name pi to the twentieth digit before pressing the button for the first time," Harold says, and that wipes the smile from John's face instantly. He busies himself with the wiring, trying to identify the power source.
The handcuffs seem to have a mechanical lock that he could pry open, but he wants to remove the battery first so Harold doesn't get an electrical jolt when he tries to take them off. Leave it to Kara to use stun cuffs: John can't help but feel reminded of the shock collars used to train dogs. Maybe that is where she got the inspiration.
John carefully removes the isolation from one of the wires. Harold seems calm, almost chipper, and John feels like he should ask him something harmless to avoid Harold blurting out random truths: he seems suspiciously chatty, like the drug is not only making it impossible to lie but is also removing inhibitions.
"So you could control what you told her?" John asks.
"To a degree," Harold says. "All the information is right there in my mind, clear and bright and sharp, everything connected with thread. People asking questions is like... something pulling at the strings, making me want to give in. I seem to have some control over which pieces I want to give up first, though, which is a small mercy." He frowns. “I find this need to share information a bit unsettling, I have to confess.”
John nods. “Yeah, I can imagine.” There is a moment of silence. "Look, you don't have to say anything at all, I understand if you don't want to share private information by accident," John says, just as Harold tilts his head and says: "I have always admired your dexterity."
John looks up at him. "Thanks," he says, using a screwdriver to work on the casing that seems to hold the battery.
"It makes me think of you putting your hands on my body, caressing me," Harold says, matter-of-factly.
John drops the screwdriver. It makes a comically loud, metallic noise when it hits the floor, but Harold doesn't seem to notice. When John bends down to retrieve it from the floor, Harold adds: "You show excellent hand-eye coordination when stripping your weapons. I have often wondered how your hands would feel wrapped around my cock."
John makes a weak noise. Harold looks at him like he has said nothing out of the ordinary, holding out his handcuffed wrists for John to work on. This isn't good at all.
"Harold," John says in a strangled voice. His heart is beating wildly, and worst of all, he is suddenly, embarrassingly hard in his pants. “You might not want to --”
"Of course that is not all I fantasize about. A particular favorite, for example, is the fantasy where I make you take off all your clothes and lie down and then proceed to suck your cock for hours without letting you come."
"Oh god," John says faintly. He has defused bombs in the desert under the threat of imminent death, but he isn't going to touch electrical wiring attached to Harold while being so turned on that he can't think. “Harold, you're not thinking straight, I'm pretty sure you don't want to tell me about all of this.”
Harold seems oblivious to John's state. He is watching John's hands with obvious interest. "I often wonder if you would enjoy getting fucked," he says. “As a general premise, of course, but also more specifically by me.”
John grips the edge of his seat. His erection is straining against the fabric of his pants and all of his blood is rushing to his crotch. Harold's voice is the only thing that matters to him now, the only thing he can hear above the hammering of his pulse in his ears. John tries very hard not to let the corresponding images form in his mind: putting his hands all over Harold's body, the contrast of rough scar tissue and smooth skin, Harold thrusting into John's grip, gasping beneath him.
"You sometimes come in half undressed or unbutton your shirt in front of me before taking a shower," Harold adds. “I appreciate the view, even though it comes with a certain level of sexual frustration.” If it wasn't such an impossible situation, John would probably laugh. Harold continues, ignoring the way John is blushing. "In these moments, I imagine bending you over the desk and taking you, or letting you sit in my lap."
John is aware that he is panting, but he can't help himself: he barely refrains from touching himself through his pants, rubbing his cock through the fabric. He can't touch himself, he just can't, it would feel too much like taking advantage. Harold clearly isn't aware what he's doing to John, or even able to consent to anything. John can't leave, either, not while Harold is still in stun cuffs.
"I'd like to jerk you off while you ride me," Harold says, looking up from the handcuffs and meeting John's eyes.
John shudders. He can't help it: he imagines lowering himself down on Harold's cock, Harold's hands gripping his hips, completely in control. "Please," he says. He has no idea what he's asking for. “Harold, just. Try not to say anything, okay? Or go back to maths, what are the first hundred digits of pi?”
"I'd like to tease you for hours, John, maybe have you without letting you come, and after, when you're desperate for it, put my hands and mouth on you and give you release,” Harold says as if John is completely invisible to him. He seems to be oblivious of the things happening around him, which is both a pain and a relief: it spares John the embarrassment of having to admit that he is desperately turned on, but it also lets Harold keep talking.
John takes a deep breath. He needs to concentrate and disarm the battery, then maybe he can leave Harold on the crash bed to recover and go somewhere quiet to jerk off. Harold seems content with the topic he's chosen: it makes John wonder what other things are looming in his mind that he's afraid to say.
“Of course, I have no idea what you would like,” Harold muses. “I have considered a number of things: tying you up, of course, although that would be more for the aesthetics of the thing than actual restraint, wouldn't it?”
John makes a meek noise that hopefully registers as agreement. Of course, being tied up with rope or handcuffs wouldn't be much of an obstacle, but that wouldn't be the point: if Harold told him to stay put, John wouldn't need any restraints at all, he would hold perfectly still for hours.
The corner of Harold's mouth twitches, that little half-smile that he does. “You are so very capable at getting out of difficult situations, you proved that impressively even on the day we first met,” Harold continues. “Me tying you to a bed wouldn't hold you back unless you wanted to yield.”
John desperately tries to get the tiny silver screws out of the casing to get to the battery. He is squirming in his seat, unable to sit still. The edge of his collar is wet with sweat, and he can feel the wetness of precome soaking his underwear.
Harold licks his lips. “I wondered if you would enjoy being spanked: bent over my lap, maybe, with your pants pulled down. You have a staggeringly high pain tolerance, so most things wouldn't even register for you, probably. I could imagine dripping hot wax over your naked body, or using nipple clamps on you.”
John takes a break to catch his breath and allow himself to shift position a little. The slide of fabric that his clothing provides is not enough at all. He can imagine it so clearly he almost forgets to breathe: Harold pulling John's pants down, bending him over his lap and spanking him with his open palm, talking to John the whole time while John shivers happily beneath him, getting lost in the rhythm of Harold's hand on him, each slap a sweet sting. Harold's legs are spread a little to allow John better access, and for an intoxicating moment, John imagines himself humping Harold's leg, rubbing himself off against the expensive fabric.
“I have been considering a variety of toys, obviously. A vibrating buttplug might be nice, with a remote that lets me dole out stimuli to you as I see fit, making you shudder and squirm even when you're out there, going about your day.”
John feels like there is not enough air in the room. Harold still looks at him, face bright and open, and suddenly John wants to throw up: he will probably hate himself for telling John about these things, about private fantasies and desires, and never be able to look John in the eye again after today.
“I'd like to spread you out on my bed and lick you open before I fuck you, put my mouth on you until you weep,” Harold says, and John makes a helpless, guttural noise at that. He feels his hips jerk before he fully understands what's happening, a bright hot spark of pleasure surging through him. When he looks down, he can see the tell-tale wet stain on his pants. Christ.
Harold frowns at him. "You seem surprised about this," Harold says. "I thought that you were aware of my attraction to you, and were ignoring it because the feeling is not mutual."
If John's mind wasn't so hazy, he would probably catch on sooner. This way, he just pants and gives Harold a baffled look. “I, what?”
Harold inspects a wire on the handcuffs. “I only really desire making you feel good, feel safe. If you had ever given the slightest inclination of wanting a romantic or sexual relationship, I would have gladly given you whatever you asked for.”
John feels like somebody removed a few vital organs from his body and left him with the corresponding gaping holes inside. “Harold,” he says, shaking. The battery is half exposed on the handcuffs, and John can see where to cut to disable the power source.
Harold meets his gaze again. “I would love to take you home and curl up with you in bed for days,” he says, and it makes John feel so suddenly, achingly alone that he can barely breathe. “You knew all of this, didn't you?” Harold asks. He tilts his head a little. “Tell me that you knew.”
John cuts the wire.
–
Harold wakes up with a dry mouth and an unpleasant headache. Once he has found his glasses and put them on, he can read the note that is attached to a bottle of water next to the crash bed:
you were drugged, don't worry, everything is fine
drink water
Harold frowns. He doesn't remember much from the moment Kara Stanton knocked him over the head with a blunt object. What he does remember looks like grainy surveillance footage in his head: a flickering view of an empty factory hall, a set of syringes, John's worried expression. He reaches for the bottle of water and drinks half of it before slowly getting to his feet. The ache in his joints isn't as distracting as the numbness in his brain.
He makes his way to the desk and starts looking for clues at his workstation. Harold finds a set of opened handcuffs that he dimly remembers Kara putting on him: his wrists are still raw where the metal chafed against them. Wincing, he remembers what the wires were for, unconsciously rubbing his own skin. There is an open toolbox on the desk, and some of the wires are cut. John must have peeled the cuffs off of him. Something stirs in Harold's mind. John?
He spots John on the couch: he has folded his long limbs into an uncomfortable-looking position and is asleep, a wool blanket covering him. He seems to be unharmed, which is a relief.
Harold sits down at his desk and rewinds the security footage from last night. It seemed overly cautious, once, to install cameras even in the safe haven of the library, but now he is glad to get some answers without having to wake and possibly alarm John. Harold fast forwards the recording up to the point where John and him arrive together. John steadies him, and Harold's own face looks ashen and pale. John makes him sit down in his chair to inspect the handcuffs. Harold plugs his earphones in and turns on the volume.
"It makes me think of you putting your hands on my body, caressing me," the Harold on the screen says, and.... oh. Yes. Harold had quite forgotten about that, the truth serum.
A cluster of information presents itself: Miss Stanton, the handcuffs, the needle in his arm. Harold remembers the way the questions tugged at his mind like insistent little hands. Harold watches the scene between John and him, and this time he's actually able to pay attention to John's reactions.
The John on the tape seems distinctly uncomfortable, keeping busy with the handcuffs. He asks Harold to stop, but Harold keeps babbling, ignoring his protests. Harold swallows. He dimly remembers that his confused mind had reasoned that he wasn't telling John anything that he didn't already know, and surely his fantasies couldn't be actively harmful. If John would learn, on the other hand, what Harold did to keep Grace close, all those little, terrible acts of control: the job in Paris that was looming on the horizon, evaporated with a few keystrokes. If John knew the part Harold played in Nathan's divorce, knew about those guilty, miserable nights they stole long after Nathan had met Olivia. Harold has a long list of mistakes he'd like to keep hidden, even from John. Still, looking at the way John's shoulders tense and his face is tight with concentration or dismay, Harold isn't sure if it was a good call at all.
Then John makes a noise like he's in pain, biting his lip. “Harold,” he says, like a plea. It takes a moment for Harold to realize that John isn't embarrassed, he is... sexually aroused. It is quite obvious in the way his hips jerk, the flush of his cheeks, his rapid breathing.
“I'd like to spread you out on my bed and lick you open before I fuck you, put my mouth on you until you weep,” past Harold says, and John shudders visibly, thrusts forward with his hips and makes a soft, helpless noise. When Harold looks down at John's crotch, the evidence of his interest is quite clearly to see.
“Harold, are you okay?” John asks from somewhere beside him.
Harold rips the earphones off and minimizes the window, turning around in his chair. “Fine, just fine,” he babbles. He feels like a teenager caught with his hand down his pants. “I was just, ahem. I was trying to figure out what happened during the last twenty four hours.”
John's face goes carefully neutral. “Were you successful?”
Harold clears his throat. “Mr. Reese, I feel like I should explain myself,” he starts, but John raises a hand.
“No reason. I've been injected with plenty interrogation drugs before. Nothing you can do to control what's happening, even if you're trying really hard.”
Harold huffs. “Well, it's a relief to hear that I did my best at least. I kept grasping for control, to talk about topics that were minimally destructive, but it was honestly a very confusing experience. I apologize if I said something to make you uncomfortable.”
John raises an eyebrow at that. “It's fine, you know, you don't have to apologize. It wasn't your fault.” John's smile is more of a grimace. “I'm sorry you had your secrets dragged out of you like that,” he says.
Harold swallows. “I wasn't aware that I was giving you information you didn't previously possess.”
John blinks rapidly, as if he's rewinding the sentence in his head. “Harold, I don't know what you think you said to me, but you were not in your right mind and I'm perfectly capable of forgetting everything that came out of your mouth during that time.”
“I believe I gave you a detailed description of ways I imagined having sex with you,” Harold says dryly.
John looks down at the floor. “Harold,” he says, and his voice is a warning.
Harold doesn't care: he has lots of experience in breaking things, and once the first crack disappeared, he finds it difficult to stop. “You knew, of course, that I am attracted to you, and found listening to the details awkward and inappropriate, if not to say distasteful.”
The next moments are crucial: Harold has seen proof of John's arousal on the surveillance video, but that might not mean anything – maybe just the idea of being touched intimately had appealed to him. There is a part of Harold that is terrified that John will just agree with that statement, walk through the door Harold has left open.
John's head snaps up. “You have never given me the slightest reason to think --” He gives Harold a helpless look like he's not sure how to form words anymore. “Look, I don't know what Kara gave you, but whatever you felt in that moment was possibly induced by one of the drugs.”
“I entertained the first thought of that kind exactly two and a half weeks after you started working for me. You insisted on doing push-ups right in this room and made a few, ah. Interesting noises. The display of strength in your arms and upper body did not go unnoticed, either,” Harold says, and now it's his turn to blush.
John looks completely nonplussed. “You never told me,” he says accusingly. “How was I supposed to know?”
Harold crosses his arms in front of his chest. “Well, I don't see how that makes a difference at all. I am very much aware that a romantic or sexual relationship is out of the question based on your lack of attraction to me, I don't need a clear rejection from you to drive the point home.” Harold is gritting his teeth, and he makes a point to relax his jaw. If Miss Stanton only knew about all of the frustration that she has caused. “I apologize for blurting out these things in an altered state of mind, Mr. Reese, but I can promise you that our working relationship will continue as professional as ever. You don't have to worry about me making an unwanted pass at you.”
“You didn't ask me,” John says. His voice is suddenly very calm. “You didn't once ask me what I want.”
Harold's first thought is to point out all of the ways John's preferences are fairly obvious: attractive women, for example, and even if he showed attraction to men, he hasn't given Harold a single reason to believe that Harold might qualify, of all people. Well. Apart from coming in his pants after Harold talked to him about the things he'd like to do to him in bed.
Harold takes a ragged breath. “Fine. What do you want, John?”
John takes a step forward. If Harold reached out a hand, he could touch the fabric of John's shirt.
“You want me,” John says, frowning a little, more a question than a statement. “You want to sleep with me. You want... a relationship with me.”
“Yes,” Harold says. The sensation is a lot like being drugged again: the answers are right there, bright and obvious, and he can't wait to say them out loud. “Yes. Yes.”
John's mouth twitches into a split-second smile, then he bends down to press his lips against Harold's. Harold is too surprised to do much but reach out and hold on to John's arms, and John makes a noise and pulls him closer. When they part, Harold's hands are shaking. “I didn't – I never thought --”
“Yeah, well, you're dumb,” John says, and brushes a kiss against Harold's forehead. “A really dumb genius.”
Harold huffs a laugh and lets himself sink into the embrace, the comforting warmth of John's arms.
“I want you to do all the things to me that you talked about,” John says quietly, and Harold shudders. John's lips brush the shell of his ear. “But first, I want to suck your cock.”
Harold's hands tighten on John's shirt. “You talk too much, Mr. Reese,” he says.
Harold won't get tired of John's delighted laugh for as long as he lives.
– FIN