Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2013-03-26 03:25 pm
scripted_sra) wrote2013-03-26 03:25 pm
Person of Interest | Undone | PG | Finch/Reese; Zoe/Reese
Title: Undone
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: PG
Pairing: Finch/Reese, Zoe/Reese
Summary: There are worse things than feeling undone. It might actually be a good thing.
Word Count: 1,200
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: I don't know. All of a sudden my brain was like, "Hey, you know what you should write? D/sverse!" and I was like, "I dunno, really, brain? You think?" and it was like, "I MEANT NOW THANK YOU!" and then it just happened. Thanks for the beta, Kelly.
“Are you his?” Zoe asks, intent very clear in her eyes, and John has spent the entirety of their latest encounter trying not to defer to her even in subtle ways, be it eye contact or speech or body language, and that nearly undoes him.
It takes him a second to feign confusion (and to rein in the urge to lower his gaze)—too long. “Excuse me?”
“I know you’re not a dom, John,” she says, amused now. “I’ll admit, you had me fooled for a while, but I like to think I notice things. The way you relax around me, just barely, or the way you relax around him, far more obviously—doms don’t relax around other doms, not completely, not like that. Then I thought switch, but no—you’re practiced, not fluid, like a sub who has spent a long time passing as a dom. And given the way you’ve been looking at me all night, I’m also guessing you’re not gay. So that brings me to my original question: are you his?”
John swallows. This is dangerous, of course; it’s been a while since a dom—an attractive dom, a dom he likes—has spoken to him that way, tone warm but firm, suggestive but demanding. It's...tempting.
He considers caution, but then again, danger has never been a problem for him. “No.”
“Do you want to be?”
He shakes his head, dismissing the question. “Harold’s gay—”
“Not what I asked,” she says, and holds up a hand, which stops him immediately. It feels good, too good, and okay, maybe it has been too long. “Answers my question, though. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in something a little shorter term? I’m not really the collaring type.”
“Yes,” he says in a breath, to her shoes, and her hand slides around his wrist, both an invitation and asking permission.
He yields.
---
John feels undone.
A big reason for that is the sex and falling into subspace for the first time in years, and there’s no denying that. Being with Zoe is exactly like he imagined being with Zoe would be: fun, casual, and highly satisfying. There’s a lot to leave someone feeling dazed afterwards.
The other reason is what she told him just before they parted ways: “For the record? Harold is not gay, not if the way he looks at you is any indication. If I were you, I’d get that sorted out.”
John beats Harold to the Library the next morning.
“Mr. Reese,” he says, eyebrows lifting slightly. His expression is as inscrutable as ever, but there’s something in his tone when he asks, “Did you sleep well last night?”
“I slept fine, Finch,” he says, and takes a sip from his coffee cup. “Actually, I was with Zoe.” He offers Harold his tea as he says it, watching him carefully. He’s still not sure what he’s doing.
Harold can’t physically stand any straighter or taller, but he seems to do so anyway. “I see,” he replies, taking the cup. “I trust you had a satisfactory evening.”
John’s small smile is genuine. “She figured me out, so yeah, you could say that.”
“She figured you out?”
“I’m a sub, Harold.”
Harold doesn’t say anything to that, merely takes a drink of his tea, moving around John to sit in front of his monitors. He starts working on something, keys clicking steadily.
Impatiently, John asks, “Did you know that?”
“I…suspected,” Harold says slowly, after a moment, and he almost sounds like he’s admitting something, but John can’t imagine what that might be.
“Did you,” he says, not a question; Harold doesn’t take the bait. “You know, she asked me if we were together.” Harold’s typing slows, but he doesn’t say anything, so John continues: “I told her you were gay.”
He stops typing, turning his chair to look at him. “They’re called stereotypes for a reason, Mr. Reese. They often fail to account for nuance.”
John can’t help feeling encouraged. “You’re not gay, are you?”
“Bisexual, as a matter of fact,” Harold says, as primly as John imagines anyone could say that sentence.
“Zoe was right about that,” he says. Harold’s gaze is unflinching, and here he thought the instinct to look away from Zoe’s eyes was overwhelming.
“Ms. Morgan was speculating about my sexual orientation?”
“Not speculating,” John answers. “Stating. It had more to do with the other thing she asked me.”
“Care to elaborate, Mr. Reese?”
There it is: that tone, the one that makes it hard to look him in the eyes. Hell, with Harold, it’s starting to become a challenge not to drop to his knees. “She asked me if I wanted to be…yours.”
“That’s when you told her I was gay,” Harold finishes, now eyeing him up and down. “Rather than answer directly…because your answer would have been yes.”
“Harold,” John says, “this doesn’t have to change anything—”
“John. Stop.”
He stops talking immediately, and Harold purses his lips.
“I didn’t suspect you were a sub,” he says. “I had hoped, but in the end I always dismissed it as merely…projection, on my part.”
John’s past undone, possibly even wrecked, when he considers the ramifications of that. Harold had hoped? “You hide it well,” he manages at last.
Harold looks exasperated. “No, I don’t. I hide it exceedingly poorly, as Ms. Morgan obviously noticed,” he says. “Your wardrobe consists primarily of clothing I picked out, Mr. Reese. Every day you take part in a dangerous job at my request. Every night you sleep in an apartment I gave you.”
Harold saved him, so John’s never thought about it that way, how the essence of Harold surrounds him, throughout every aspect of his life. He’s never considered it anything but natural, having Harold’s presence so firmly entrenched in whatever he does, and doesn’t that just say everything?
That really leaves only one thing left to do.
“Harold,” he says, and he kneels in front of him. The look in Harold’s eyes makes him deeply regret never having done so sooner. “Please?”
“Oh, John,” breathes Harold, reaching out to rest a hand on the back of his neck. John doesn’t even try to resist melting into the touch. “Yes. Of course.”
---
“I see you finally had a talk with our mutual friend,” Zoe says, and John can see how amused she is from several feet away, her eyes cutting to the thin platinum collar around his neck.
“I understand I have you to thank for that,” Harold responds, and Zoe grins.
“What can I say? Fixing things is what I do.”
“Yes, I recall,” Harold says dryly. “For a fee. I’m curious about the fee you expect for this particular job, however.”
“I’m a reasonable girl,” she says, and John feels himself sit up straighter when she levels that particular look at him. “Say…ten percent?”
Harold’s look is no better, especially when he says, “I think I can agree to that, Ms. Morgan,” and shakes her hand.
John’s beginning to wonder if he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life slightly undone.
If so, well. It’s a small price to pay for being put back together afterward.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: PG
Pairing: Finch/Reese, Zoe/Reese
Summary: There are worse things than feeling undone. It might actually be a good thing.
Word Count: 1,200
Disclaimer: All copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. This work is not created for profit and constitutes fair use.
A/N: I don't know. All of a sudden my brain was like, "Hey, you know what you should write? D/sverse!" and I was like, "I dunno, really, brain? You think?" and it was like, "I MEANT NOW THANK YOU!" and then it just happened. Thanks for the beta, Kelly.
“Are you his?” Zoe asks, intent very clear in her eyes, and John has spent the entirety of their latest encounter trying not to defer to her even in subtle ways, be it eye contact or speech or body language, and that nearly undoes him.
It takes him a second to feign confusion (and to rein in the urge to lower his gaze)—too long. “Excuse me?”
“I know you’re not a dom, John,” she says, amused now. “I’ll admit, you had me fooled for a while, but I like to think I notice things. The way you relax around me, just barely, or the way you relax around him, far more obviously—doms don’t relax around other doms, not completely, not like that. Then I thought switch, but no—you’re practiced, not fluid, like a sub who has spent a long time passing as a dom. And given the way you’ve been looking at me all night, I’m also guessing you’re not gay. So that brings me to my original question: are you his?”
John swallows. This is dangerous, of course; it’s been a while since a dom—an attractive dom, a dom he likes—has spoken to him that way, tone warm but firm, suggestive but demanding. It's...tempting.
He considers caution, but then again, danger has never been a problem for him. “No.”
“Do you want to be?”
He shakes his head, dismissing the question. “Harold’s gay—”
“Not what I asked,” she says, and holds up a hand, which stops him immediately. It feels good, too good, and okay, maybe it has been too long. “Answers my question, though. I don’t suppose you’d be interested in something a little shorter term? I’m not really the collaring type.”
“Yes,” he says in a breath, to her shoes, and her hand slides around his wrist, both an invitation and asking permission.
He yields.
John feels undone.
A big reason for that is the sex and falling into subspace for the first time in years, and there’s no denying that. Being with Zoe is exactly like he imagined being with Zoe would be: fun, casual, and highly satisfying. There’s a lot to leave someone feeling dazed afterwards.
The other reason is what she told him just before they parted ways: “For the record? Harold is not gay, not if the way he looks at you is any indication. If I were you, I’d get that sorted out.”
John beats Harold to the Library the next morning.
“Mr. Reese,” he says, eyebrows lifting slightly. His expression is as inscrutable as ever, but there’s something in his tone when he asks, “Did you sleep well last night?”
“I slept fine, Finch,” he says, and takes a sip from his coffee cup. “Actually, I was with Zoe.” He offers Harold his tea as he says it, watching him carefully. He’s still not sure what he’s doing.
Harold can’t physically stand any straighter or taller, but he seems to do so anyway. “I see,” he replies, taking the cup. “I trust you had a satisfactory evening.”
John’s small smile is genuine. “She figured me out, so yeah, you could say that.”
“She figured you out?”
“I’m a sub, Harold.”
Harold doesn’t say anything to that, merely takes a drink of his tea, moving around John to sit in front of his monitors. He starts working on something, keys clicking steadily.
Impatiently, John asks, “Did you know that?”
“I…suspected,” Harold says slowly, after a moment, and he almost sounds like he’s admitting something, but John can’t imagine what that might be.
“Did you,” he says, not a question; Harold doesn’t take the bait. “You know, she asked me if we were together.” Harold’s typing slows, but he doesn’t say anything, so John continues: “I told her you were gay.”
He stops typing, turning his chair to look at him. “They’re called stereotypes for a reason, Mr. Reese. They often fail to account for nuance.”
John can’t help feeling encouraged. “You’re not gay, are you?”
“Bisexual, as a matter of fact,” Harold says, as primly as John imagines anyone could say that sentence.
“Zoe was right about that,” he says. Harold’s gaze is unflinching, and here he thought the instinct to look away from Zoe’s eyes was overwhelming.
“Ms. Morgan was speculating about my sexual orientation?”
“Not speculating,” John answers. “Stating. It had more to do with the other thing she asked me.”
“Care to elaborate, Mr. Reese?”
There it is: that tone, the one that makes it hard to look him in the eyes. Hell, with Harold, it’s starting to become a challenge not to drop to his knees. “She asked me if I wanted to be…yours.”
“That’s when you told her I was gay,” Harold finishes, now eyeing him up and down. “Rather than answer directly…because your answer would have been yes.”
“Harold,” John says, “this doesn’t have to change anything—”
“John. Stop.”
He stops talking immediately, and Harold purses his lips.
“I didn’t suspect you were a sub,” he says. “I had hoped, but in the end I always dismissed it as merely…projection, on my part.”
John’s past undone, possibly even wrecked, when he considers the ramifications of that. Harold had hoped? “You hide it well,” he manages at last.
Harold looks exasperated. “No, I don’t. I hide it exceedingly poorly, as Ms. Morgan obviously noticed,” he says. “Your wardrobe consists primarily of clothing I picked out, Mr. Reese. Every day you take part in a dangerous job at my request. Every night you sleep in an apartment I gave you.”
Harold saved him, so John’s never thought about it that way, how the essence of Harold surrounds him, throughout every aspect of his life. He’s never considered it anything but natural, having Harold’s presence so firmly entrenched in whatever he does, and doesn’t that just say everything?
That really leaves only one thing left to do.
“Harold,” he says, and he kneels in front of him. The look in Harold’s eyes makes him deeply regret never having done so sooner. “Please?”
“Oh, John,” breathes Harold, reaching out to rest a hand on the back of his neck. John doesn’t even try to resist melting into the touch. “Yes. Of course.”
“I see you finally had a talk with our mutual friend,” Zoe says, and John can see how amused she is from several feet away, her eyes cutting to the thin platinum collar around his neck.
“I understand I have you to thank for that,” Harold responds, and Zoe grins.
“What can I say? Fixing things is what I do.”
“Yes, I recall,” Harold says dryly. “For a fee. I’m curious about the fee you expect for this particular job, however.”
“I’m a reasonable girl,” she says, and John feels himself sit up straighter when she levels that particular look at him. “Say…ten percent?”
Harold’s look is no better, especially when he says, “I think I can agree to that, Ms. Morgan,” and shakes her hand.
John’s beginning to wonder if he’s doomed to spend the rest of his life slightly undone.
If so, well. It’s a small price to pay for being put back together afterward.