Sara (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
scripted_sra) wrote2013-04-08 02:20 pm
scripted_sra) wrote2013-04-08 02:20 pm
Person of Interest | Distractions | PG | Finch/Reese
Title: Distractions
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: PG
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Summary: Harold is wearing jeans.
Word Count: 930
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: For a prompt at the![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
meme_of_interest: On a case, as part of a cover identity? Finch wears casual clothes or similar and Reese can't keep his eyes off him (or his hands to himself). Thanks for the beta, Kelly!
Harold is wearing jeans.
John is sure they’re the most expensive, well-made version of jeans that money can buy, probably costing more than at least a few low-end cars, but the underlying fact is indisputable: Harold is wearing jeans.
Jeans and a button-down shirt, in light blue, actually, and John is far too aware of the fact that his attention keeps wandering much more than it should. Harold had told him to dress down, that it would ensure he’d fit in better at this particular Internet café, well-known for being run by a couple talented (but generally reasonable) hackers—in this case, their numbers.
Unfortunately, you’ll be far too conspicuous wearing that suit, he’d said, and John had teased Harold about what he’d be wearing, but Harold hadn’t deigned to answer.
That makes sense, though. John isn’t sure he would have believed him. He’s still not sure he believes it, honestly, despite the evidence in front of him.
The plan was to play business partners, trying to approach the owners with some overly complicated opportunity that Harold had tried to explain and John had mostly tuned out—except the intermediary watching them from his post at the back (you don’t last long in this world if you’re not careful) keeps shooting him suspicious looks, and he knows his distraction is blowing it for them.
He decides to improvise.
“Honey, I’m getting a muffin,” he says, and deliberately touches Harold’s shoulder in a familiar way. “Want a cup of tea?” Harold’s expression doesn’t change, but there is a question in his eyes, so he tips his head slightly in the direction of their onlooker, and adds, flirtatious, “This is mostly your area anyway; I’m not sure why you brought me along. I’m probably going to spend the entire time staring at you in your new jeans.”
Harold’s cheeks actually go slightly pink, but he obviously understands now, because he clears his throat and says, “Tea would be lovely, yes, but you know I always value your input.”
“Yeah, but the technical stuff just goes over my head,” John says, and heads to get in line. He catches sight of the intermediary out of the corner of his eye, and he looks vaguely amused now, rather than suspicious.
Better.
---
It turns out to be a quick case: it’s only ten minutes into their meeting with both hackers that someone tries to kill them, via a locked door and a planted bomb. John defuses it handily (incredibly poorly made, obviously an amateur’s work) and the shocked face of the intermediary when he breaks down the door after the non-explosion doesn’t make identifying the would-be killer terribly difficult.
Apparently someone had gotten sick of being an intermediary.
(“I knew you were too good-looking to be just another nerd,” he says, resigned, as they wait for Carter to come arrest him. “I thought bodyguard for sure, the way you kept, like, half your attention on that little guy.” He sighs. “Shouldn’t have bought the trophy boytoy act.”)
After, when it’s all wrapped up, John meets Harold back at the Library, and he’s surprised to find him still wearing those jeans.
“Settled on a new look, Harold?” he asks, and Harold just studies him.
“You changed our plan, Mr. Reese,” he says. “It occurred to me to wonder why.”
“The old one wasn’t working,” John says lightly. “He thought I was your bodyguard.”
“Because you kept a considerable portion of your attention on me,” Harold finishes, and yes, of course he was listening; if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that Harold is always listening.
John manages a shrug. “It all worked out for the best.”
“Were the jeans truly that distracting, Mr. Reese?”
He considers lying, passing it off as mere surprise, but Harold is still studying him, so he says, simply, “Yes.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he says thoughtfully, making his way over, and then Harold is kissing him, urgently but thoroughly, hand fisting in his shirt. John doesn’t even have to think before losing himself in it, touching Harold wherever he can reach, hands eventually settling as he hooks his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. He tugs him that much closer, and Harold gasps into his mouth, free hand moving to clutch at John’s shoulder. The kiss turns ragged and desperate, and what little capacity for thought John has left starts focusing on what location nearest them provides some semblance of a horizontal surface. Or, failing that, something sturdy.
Harold breaks away, breathing heavily, and stares at him for a moment. “I confess I failed to anticipate the myriad advantages of denim.”
John licks his lips. “Maybe we should consider instituting casual Friday.”
“Maybe,” Harold says, and tugs him in again by his shirt. John is entirely unsurprised to find he’s content to go wherever Harold wants him. Another hard, scorching kiss, and Harold adds, “Provided that you wouldn’t be unduly distracted, John.”
“I’ll manage,” John says roughly, eyes drawn to the buttons on Harold’s shirt.
“Yes, I can see that,” Harold says dryly, but his face flushes pink again, and this time John notices that his blush dips down his neck. “I think, perhaps, the couch would be a more convenient location for these activities.”
“Yes,” he breathes, and Harold’s grip on his shirt lessens. John reluctantly disentangles himself from Harold’s jeans, watching him as he heads toward the couch. “Just so you know, Harold,” he adds, once they’ve repositioned themselves, “this isn’t only about the jeans.”
“So I’d guessed,” Harold says, and tugs him in again.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: PG
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Summary: Harold is wearing jeans.
Word Count: 930
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: For a prompt at the
meme_of_interest: On a case, as part of a cover identity? Finch wears casual clothes or similar and Reese can't keep his eyes off him (or his hands to himself). Thanks for the beta, Kelly!Harold is wearing jeans.
John is sure they’re the most expensive, well-made version of jeans that money can buy, probably costing more than at least a few low-end cars, but the underlying fact is indisputable: Harold is wearing jeans.
Jeans and a button-down shirt, in light blue, actually, and John is far too aware of the fact that his attention keeps wandering much more than it should. Harold had told him to dress down, that it would ensure he’d fit in better at this particular Internet café, well-known for being run by a couple talented (but generally reasonable) hackers—in this case, their numbers.
Unfortunately, you’ll be far too conspicuous wearing that suit, he’d said, and John had teased Harold about what he’d be wearing, but Harold hadn’t deigned to answer.
That makes sense, though. John isn’t sure he would have believed him. He’s still not sure he believes it, honestly, despite the evidence in front of him.
The plan was to play business partners, trying to approach the owners with some overly complicated opportunity that Harold had tried to explain and John had mostly tuned out—except the intermediary watching them from his post at the back (you don’t last long in this world if you’re not careful) keeps shooting him suspicious looks, and he knows his distraction is blowing it for them.
He decides to improvise.
“Honey, I’m getting a muffin,” he says, and deliberately touches Harold’s shoulder in a familiar way. “Want a cup of tea?” Harold’s expression doesn’t change, but there is a question in his eyes, so he tips his head slightly in the direction of their onlooker, and adds, flirtatious, “This is mostly your area anyway; I’m not sure why you brought me along. I’m probably going to spend the entire time staring at you in your new jeans.”
Harold’s cheeks actually go slightly pink, but he obviously understands now, because he clears his throat and says, “Tea would be lovely, yes, but you know I always value your input.”
“Yeah, but the technical stuff just goes over my head,” John says, and heads to get in line. He catches sight of the intermediary out of the corner of his eye, and he looks vaguely amused now, rather than suspicious.
Better.
It turns out to be a quick case: it’s only ten minutes into their meeting with both hackers that someone tries to kill them, via a locked door and a planted bomb. John defuses it handily (incredibly poorly made, obviously an amateur’s work) and the shocked face of the intermediary when he breaks down the door after the non-explosion doesn’t make identifying the would-be killer terribly difficult.
Apparently someone had gotten sick of being an intermediary.
(“I knew you were too good-looking to be just another nerd,” he says, resigned, as they wait for Carter to come arrest him. “I thought bodyguard for sure, the way you kept, like, half your attention on that little guy.” He sighs. “Shouldn’t have bought the trophy boytoy act.”)
After, when it’s all wrapped up, John meets Harold back at the Library, and he’s surprised to find him still wearing those jeans.
“Settled on a new look, Harold?” he asks, and Harold just studies him.
“You changed our plan, Mr. Reese,” he says. “It occurred to me to wonder why.”
“The old one wasn’t working,” John says lightly. “He thought I was your bodyguard.”
“Because you kept a considerable portion of your attention on me,” Harold finishes, and yes, of course he was listening; if there’s one thing he’s learned, it’s that Harold is always listening.
John manages a shrug. “It all worked out for the best.”
“Were the jeans truly that distracting, Mr. Reese?”
He considers lying, passing it off as mere surprise, but Harold is still studying him, so he says, simply, “Yes.”
“I’ll have to keep that in mind,” he says thoughtfully, making his way over, and then Harold is kissing him, urgently but thoroughly, hand fisting in his shirt. John doesn’t even have to think before losing himself in it, touching Harold wherever he can reach, hands eventually settling as he hooks his thumbs through the loops of his jeans. He tugs him that much closer, and Harold gasps into his mouth, free hand moving to clutch at John’s shoulder. The kiss turns ragged and desperate, and what little capacity for thought John has left starts focusing on what location nearest them provides some semblance of a horizontal surface. Or, failing that, something sturdy.
Harold breaks away, breathing heavily, and stares at him for a moment. “I confess I failed to anticipate the myriad advantages of denim.”
John licks his lips. “Maybe we should consider instituting casual Friday.”
“Maybe,” Harold says, and tugs him in again by his shirt. John is entirely unsurprised to find he’s content to go wherever Harold wants him. Another hard, scorching kiss, and Harold adds, “Provided that you wouldn’t be unduly distracted, John.”
“I’ll manage,” John says roughly, eyes drawn to the buttons on Harold’s shirt.
“Yes, I can see that,” Harold says dryly, but his face flushes pink again, and this time John notices that his blush dips down his neck. “I think, perhaps, the couch would be a more convenient location for these activities.”
“Yes,” he breathes, and Harold’s grip on his shirt lessens. John reluctantly disentangles himself from Harold’s jeans, watching him as he heads toward the couch. “Just so you know, Harold,” he adds, once they’ve repositioned themselves, “this isn’t only about the jeans.”
“So I’d guessed,” Harold says, and tugs him in again.