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They’re hurting him.
The thing about a skilled torturer is that they know when to quit; they know when they’re not getting through to someone, when they’re never going to get through to someone, and John- well, John may have underestimated these particular mercenaries.
They’re hurting him because they realized that was the best way to hurt John, to get him to fold. They’re hurting him because they realized that John got snarkier the closer they got to Harold, as if he was trying to redirect their attention, because, of course, he was.
They’re hurting Finch because of John.
His teeth grit, hands and wrists rubbing themselves raw against his bindings in an attempt to break free. It’s been a while since he’s actually wanted to kill someone- not just needed to, but wanted to do it himself, to watch the blood drip from their wounds and know that he did that.
Harold would hate that, hate that he’d inspired those thoughts, but Harold isn’t exactly saying much of anything right now.
There’s the glint of a knife and another expertly drawn slash through Harold’s favorite vest, and John lets out a noise he didn’t realize he was capable of making, something raw and wounded, not unlike an animal a step away from gnawing its own leg off.
They turn to him, and that’s Harold’s blood on their hands, put there because John wasn’t good enough to take the blows himself. The one thing he was hired for, and he couldn’t even do that right.
“You ready to tell us why you two’ve been tracking us yet? Your pal in the glasses may not be in the state to talk, but you sure are.” John smiles at them, more a baring of his teeth than anything else.
“When I get out of here,” he rasps, “I’m going to kill you.” He keeps it short and sweet- it’s not meant to be a threat, after all, it’s meant to be a promise. He doesn’t need to tell them exactly how he’ll do it or how much it’ll hurt; they’ll find out soon enough.
Their captors laugh, mean and throaty, and John’s about to elaborate anyways when Harold’s reedy, barely-there voice drifts into the room for the first time in half an hour.
“He doesn’t know anything, you know,” he lilts, the words slow and careful, “He’s just the muscle- who do you think actually controls our operation? Though I’m not really surprised your deductive reasoning skills obviously leave much to be desired.”
“Harold-”
“Shut up, John,” Harold’s eyes flutter shut, his whole body sluggish as his blood continues to drip onto the floor, “Can’t you see the adults are talking?”
John wants to bite something, wants to dig his teeth and fingernails into flesh and muscle until he’s close enough to Finch to envelop him whole, to wrap himself bodily around the other man and take on every injury he’s ever gotten.
He doesn’t know what Harold is doing, or why. This is his job, this is what he was hired for, to hurt and be hurt. He isn’t supposed to just sit here and watch .
The “shut up” works, though, as Harold knew it would, because it makes the protest die in John’s throat as instinctively as any other command might. The men in the room- the ones John had long forgotten the names of in order to focus on terms like enemy and predator - turn back to Harold, setting their knife down in favor of picking up a pair of pliers.
Harold’s glasses have already been smashed onto the floor, his clothes cut open, dozens of small nicks marring his skin- his face is bruised and his right eye has swollen up, and John can’t even imagine how severely his spine must ache from how they’ve been shoving him around. And now- now-
“Let’s see how much attitude you decide to hold onto after losin a couple teeth- maybe that’ll inspire you to talk.”
There’s the sound of something cracking and John realizes distantly that it’s the pipe he’d been tied up to- his body surges forward even as the ropes still bind his wrists, the knotting complex enough that brute force had only gotten him the slightest bit free.
It’s enough.
Kara had long ago trained the instinct to retreat into the back of his head out of him, telling him that if they’re going to be working in the field together then John should be able to remember every last ounce of blood he spills and who it belongs to. He’s usually pretty carefully controlled during acts of violence now, staying present so things never get out of hand or go too far.
He hopes Finch won’t blame him too much when he blinks and there are two men dead at his feet, carotid arteries bitten clean through. You start to run low on options when your hands are tied and your legs are still half asleep.
He fumbles for the knife that they’d put down and takes several, excruciatingly long moments to saw through the last of the rope and finally, finally free his hands. And then he’s moving, not bothering to try to restore blood flow or assess the damage, instead hovering over Harold’s wounds to try to decide the best way to get him out of here without doing any more damage.
Finch had been remarkably quiet this entire time, which John had been both unspeakably grateful for and scared to death by the sheer level of pain tolerance the man seemed to possess. Now, his body oozing blood like it’s even lost the energy to bleed properly, John gently pockets the crushed glasses from the cement floor and hopes for a sign of life.
“Finch? Hey, I’m getting us out of here, but I need you to stay awake for a little longer, okay? Can you nod for me?” John’s voice feels raw as he attempts to adopt a soft tone, and he can’t help but wish that he were better at this, that healing came to him as naturally as hurting did.
Harold blinks at him, a slow response, but a sure one. And then- a nod. His expression is trusting in a way that makes John shudder with it, makes his skin prickle and every nerve go on high alert.
“Sorry, Mr. Reese,” he manages to slur out, “Didn’t mean to tell you to shut up-”
“Harold, it’s okay, it’s going to be just fine, just let me-” There’s a keen of pain from him and then silence as John scoops him into his arms as carefully as he can; he’s not unconscious, not quite, but he’s hovering at the border of it.
The slow walk back outside is more or less a blur to John; there’s no one else around, thankfully, and John can’t bring himself to care about anything other than the man bundled in his grasp, precious and fragile and carved open to a world that does not deserve him. Finch is laid across the backseat and continues to keep quiet the entire time John hotwires a car and drives them to the nearest safehouse that he knows is well-stocked with medical supplies.
The car is parked only a block away- they can burn this place if they need to, John isn’t going to subject Finch to anything further than that.
He opens the backdoor and steels himself for the last of their travel.
“Finch,” he murmurs, “Hey, Finch, can you hear me?” There’s a muttered sound that might be John’s name but nothing more. John can feel his heart climb into his throat as he bends down to get the other man into his arms once more.
As soon as he starts to bring him upright, Harold screams.
It’s a low-pitched, wailing noise, one that speaks of a pain that can’t be communicated or properly expelled, one that John’s only ever heard from people whose hurt goes so deep they beg to be put down.
But Harold does not beg. Finch doesn’t even give John a look of anger, or fear, or anything but the firmest belief in his abilities. John can’t imagine- his injuries, new and old, melding together into something unspeakable, and yet- there’s still hope in Finch’s eyes.
He thinks he loves this man.
“Alright, alright, it’s going to be okay.” John knows his words are choked with terror but he’s still determined to get them out; Harold deserves the reassurance, deserves to know he is not and will never leave him.
Somehow, some way, Finch is back in his arms once more and they’re making their way inside, to safety, to a realm where John can pretend Finch will never again hurt like this because he is here, they are here.
Finch is laid down, the perimeter is checked, and John gathers every supply he can think of that might be useful. Finally, he is back where he is needed, and it is only his years of training and the surefire knowledge of what Harold deserves that keep his hands from shaking.
Finch is, somehow, still awake, and John starts by coaxing some water into his mouth. He touches Harold all the time- presses a hand against the small of his back while walking, pats him on the shoulder after a briefing, even grazes against him while leaning in to view one of his many screens. But this- this is an intimacy not yet shared. He’s normally the one bleeding all over the bed linens while Finch’s skilled hands patch him up.
Carefully, John cuts the rest of his shirt off, the epicenter of where most of the damage is. He peels back any fabric that’s become clotted to his skin, using a warm sponge to smooth the way. Harold is whimpering, seemingly trying to both press into and squirm back from his touch, pain leaving him foggy.
But John should’ve known what Harold is capable of, pain being something that the man lives with and endures better than anyone he’s ever known, and as John cleans and bandages every cut and gash, he starts to murmur.
“Thank you, Mr. Reese,” his voice is feather-soft, “I knew you’d… I knew you’d get us free.”
“Finch-” the name sticks in his throat like a prayer. Harold smiles, mouth twisting upwards before his bruising convinces him to relax once more.
“I couldn’t very well let them hurt you too badly, when I knew you were our only hope of escape.” And that does it for John, a harsh sound too similar to a sob leaving his throat.
“You shouldn’t have needed to do that. I would’ve gotten us out of there regardless, Harold, you didn’t have to bleed for me-”
Harold’s hand catches weakly at his wrist, his thumb smoothing along the very edge of the skin that’d been rubbed raw by rope. “I figured it was time I repay you, for all the blood you’ve spilled while in my service.”
“You’re wrong,” he whispers, “You are ridiculous, and brave, and you’re wrong, Finch. You didn’t have to do that, and it’s never going to happen again- not if I can help it.”
There’s another light smile in return, and they both know that John cannot possibly keep a promise like that. Not for sure- not forever. But it still hangs pleasantly in the space between them, and for now, they both manage to endure this particular act of healing.
--
Epilogue:
“I can assure you, Mr. Reese, I can do this myself.” Harold is fussy even when injured, and John quirks an unimpressed eyebrow at him.
“Really? You can bandage up the cuts on your back? Never knew you were so flexible, Finch.” His voice is wry- enough time has passed since the initial incident that a little sarcasm doesn’t hurt.
There’s a sigh from Finch. “No, perhaps not, but I can handle most of this on my own. I’ve dressed enough of your wounds to know what I’m doing, after all.”
John just keeps working, letting out a gentle hum in response. “I know. But I like doing this for you.”
John can feel him shiver at those words, and it makes his hand linger near the base of Harold’s spine, the touch protective. Reverent.
“John-”
“Reminds me that you’re still whole, Harold,” he murmurs, his voice a rasp, and there’s that shiver again. He finds his thumb smoothing the edge of one stark white bandage down.
Harold is quiet for a long moment, and it’s only when the last bandage is applied and he can turn to face John that he speaks once more.
“Mr. Reese,” he whispers, eyes scanning his expression behind new glasses, “I would really like to kiss you. Would you let me do this?”
John feels his jaw opening and closing wordlessly, his mouth dry with the prospect, with the want that abruptly finds its way rearing out of his chest.
“Yes. God, yes, Harold,” and he moves in closer, the distance between them inconsequential in a way it’s never been before, “I’d let you do anything to me.”
“I know,” Finch mutters, and then they’re kissing, and any responses that could be conjured up if John could think at all cease to matter anyways.