biggelois: (cellophane)
[personal profile] biggelois
Theme: Giving
Characters: Finch/ Reese
Location: Reese's place
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 725
Summary: Giving, and the art of recieving

Note: third in a series of themed drabbles for seasons 1 and 2, this one is however more of a ficlet.



"Take it back, Harold. Take 'me' back."

Harold watched as Reese slowly made his way across the floor. There was something predatory in the way he moved; silent steps and eyes locked on Harold.

He straightened a little, a man wearing only a towel should not be impressive, but Reese succeeded. There was no slouching to be done while having such a piece of art approaching, especially when there was a look of intent on said piece of art's face. Reese had a purpose. Harold couldn't decide if he should feel awed or afraid.

¤¤¤¤

The claw marks on his back stung a little, pulled slightly when he rolled his shoulders. The walk across the field of a floor was a long one, but there was a prize to be had at the other side of it.

"Take it back, Harold. Take 'me' back." He heard the tired rasp in his voice, had seen the shadows under his eyes in the bathroom mirror.

The first step was difficult, the second easier. Reese had always been good at reading people, and the writing on Harold's pages; there was only to read it loud. Harold may be a very private person but once you had the first letter of the cipher, some things were easily decrypted. The slight widening of eyes, the unconscious straightening of back- signs of appreciation.

Reese took his time crossing the floor, he wanted to show Harold as much as possible on the way to his goal. He finally stopped at the very edge of the carpet. The signs were all there, enhanced by a pale pink on Harold's cheeks.

"Mr. Reese, I don't..."

Reese dropped the towel to the floor. He really shouldn't, but couldn't help, feeling a little triumphant at Harold's gasp. Gasps were something he was used to, people had a tendency to gasp when they saw him- naked or not. But this particular one, meaning he was probably right, meant something.

"She clawed my back, Harold. Before I put her on her knees." Another gasp and Reese's mouth twitched, he was getting a reaction.

"Don't you think you should do something about this?" He slowly turned around, let Harold have a good look at the scratches, reveled in the third gasp.

"You've had me all along, but you've only taken half." A look over his shoulder showed him Harold with bright red spots instead of the pale pink ones his cheeks. "So why don't you take the rest?"

Reese never drew the blinds, even on cloudy days the light made small dust angels sparkle. There hadn't been enough of either light or fabric to create dust angels before, and now when he had both he wasn't going to miss out on them. The walk back across the floor was bathed in sun and little dust angels floated happily in the shafts of light. He stopped when he reached the bed. Then he waited.

Seconds, heart beats, ticked by before the first quiet shuffle made its way to his ears. The carpet muffled sounds quiet effectively but the hardwood floor didn't. He counted the steps, quite a few more than he himself needed to cross the floor. But he still wasn't prepared for the featherlike touch ghosting across his back. Perhaps he had been doubting his assessment, perhaps he had been afraid he had been playing too high. The touch, barely there, made him jolt, made him let out a shuddering breath of relief. He hadn't been wrong after all.

"Take you back, Mr. Reese? I have never given you away." Harold's voice, quiet and gentle, floated on the sunbeams. His fingers stroked softly over the scratches on Reese's back, mapping them as only the dust angles could.

"I have taken so much already, why shouldn't I let you have something left?"Harold cleared his throat, the noise sending a vibration through his fingers into the skin under Reese's shoulder blade. "In case I accept your offer, Mr. Reese, there will be no more of this. I don't share well."

Ungraceful as it was, the snort snuck its way out before Reese could stop it. "This? This won't happen if you 'accept my offer'. The question is though," he leaned back, just a little, to feel Harold's palm firmer against his back, "the question is if you can handle my offer?"
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