Hurt / Comfort

Finch glanced up as the unusually loud and uneven footsteps drifted down the long hall to him. Moving stiffly, Reese entered the room, his face tight, jaw set, clothes caked in mud. “What happened to you?” Finch asked, feigning mild curiosity. If he showed too much concern, Reese would just make a joke out of it, and his needling of late had become alarmingly accurate.

“Dragged behind a truck,” Reese said, his voice tight, “through a barbed-wire fence. Did you restock the first-aid kit like I asked?”

“Of course- Did you say barbed-wire?” Finch shoved his chair back from the table and levered himself to his feet, his hip stiff and aching from sitting too long.

“Relax, Finch,” Reese said, managing to smirk through the pain, his voice laced with that predatory amusement that Finch had been trying to avoid. “It’s just a few minor scratches.” But he winced as he peeled off his coat, revealing not just mud on his clothes, but large, dark patches of blood.

“Minor scratches, indeed,” Finch replied, annoyed and worried, and annoyed that he was so worried. “And I suppose being shot was no worse than a bee sting?”

“You’ve got a lot of room to talk,” Reese said as Finch limped across the room to the large, red duffel bag that contained their emergency medical supplies. It seemed like Finch was having to restock it every week or so, Reese having been injured in some reckless stunt or another.

Finch ignored his comment and carried the heavy bag over to his worktable, pushing the keyboards and mouse aside and setting the bag down even as Reese reached for it. “Take off your shirt, Mr. Reese.”

“No need to trouble yourself; I can take care of it,” Reese said, again reaching for the bag.

Finch pushed his arm aside and unzipped the kit, pulling out sterile gauze, antiseptic wipes, antibacterial ointment, surgical tape, and scissors. “No doubt you can, but judging by the location of the bloodstains and the tears down the back of your shirt, you may have a hard time of it. Now quit arguing with me and take off your shirt.”

“Yes, boss,” Reese quipped, unbuttoning his cuffs and untucking the shirt from his pants. Finch busied himself with laying out the supplies in neat rows, well aware that Reese’s keen powers of observation couldn’t fail to miss the way Finch would be looking at him as he undressed. Only when the shirt had been discarded and Finch had given himself a stern mental reprimand did he dare turn his gaze to the injured man.

“Good Lord, John,” Finch breathed, momentarily stunned by the number of deep, ragged gouges carved into Reese’s skin, trickles of fresh blood running down over dried smears.

“I’m all right, Harold,” Reese said, his rumbling voice quiet and lacking the usual mocking tone when he used Finch’s first name. It only lasted a moment, though, and then the smirk was back. “It looks much worse than it is.”

“If you say so,” Finch muttered, tearing open one of the foil packets containing a wet antiseptic wipe. “This is probably going to sting.”

“Like it doesn’t already h-” He choked, only a strangled sound coming out as Finch dragged the wipe across a deep scratch on Reese’s chest. Finch glanced up at him, eyebrow quirked in wordless question, and Reese nodded silently, looking up at the ceiling, his hands clenched into fists as Finch continued his ministrations.

Reese was pale, his face and neck damp with sweat by the time Finch finished cleaning the wounds. He sat on the edge of the table to hide the slight tremor that shook his body as Finch excused himself to the bathroom to wash his hands, mostly to give Reese a moment to catch his breath. Indeed, the operative looked much like his old self when Finch returned, and was even applying ointment to the wounds on his chest. Finch resisted the urge to chide him, for there really was no reason why Reese couldn’t do that part himself. Well, there was one reason, but Finch wasn’t about to admit it, even to himself.

He silently assisted, handing Reese gauze and cutting off strips of tape, and when it came time to bandage the wounds on Reese’s sides and back, Reese handed over the ointment without an argument, letting Finch tend to him. Finch kept his hands steady, trying to liken his task to soldering components to a circuit board, but it wasn’t plastic and wire that his fingertips ghosted over. When the last of the injuries had been medicated and covered, Finch stepped back, adjusting his glasses as he looked Reese over with a critical eye.

“Is that it? What about your legs?” He could see several large tears in his trousers.

“I’ll take care of it later,” Reese said, picking up his shirt.

Finch took it out of his hand and tossed it into the garbage. “No, you’ll let me take care of it now. I already feel responsible for putting you into these situations, I’m not going to lose sleep worrying that you’re going to get blood poisoning because you didn’t take care of your wounds properly.”

“All right, all right,” Reese said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “Jeeze, Harold, I didn’t know you cared.”

And that attitude was why Finch kept his feelings to himself. He quickly composed himself, firing back a dry and snarky retort. “Yes, well, batshit crazy killing machines are hard to come by these days and I was hoping to get a bit more use out of you.”

“What sort of use?” Reese asked as he unbuckled his belt and toed off his shoes. “Because I can do a lot more than just kill people.”

Finch wasn’t sure if that was a deliberate double entendre, but regardless, he ignored it, waving a fresh antiseptic wipe impatiently at Reese’s pants. “Today, Mr. Reese? I have things to do.” He schooled his face into a carefully constructed mask as Reese slid his slacks down, drawing a sharp breath through his teeth as the fabric caught on the ragged edge of a gouge on his thigh. He stepped out of them and straightened up, emptying his pockets onto the table as Finch pulled his desk chair over and had a seat. Reese tossed the ruined slacks into the trash, then turned to face Finch, a smirk on his face as he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxer-briefs and stood there with his crotch at Finch’s eye level.

“Now what?” Reese asked.

“Turn around and put your hands flat on the table,” giving Reese his best I am not amused stare over the top of his glasses. Reese complied, sticking out his ass a bit more than necessary, in Finch’s opinion, but it didn’t interfere with his ability to wash the wounds down the backs of Reese’s legs. And the view was nice.

Finch gave himself a mental shake and went to work, washing and bandaging the injuries. It was hard to reach the ones on Reese’s calves, but he managed without too much protesting from his neck.

“All right, let me do the front,” Finch said, taking a moment to gather up the garbage and toss it in the trash before turning his attention back to Reese, who hadn’t moved. “Mr. Reese, did you hear me?”

“Yeah, just…just give me a second, Finch,” Reese said, his voice strained. It must have hurt more than he let on. When he finally turned around, Finch pretended like he hadn’t noticed.

“Go ahead and have a seat on the table,” Finch said, opening another antiseptic wipe. He was going to have to start buying in bulk. His gaze scoured Reese’s legs, finding that the fronts had fared better, just a couple gouges on one thigh and one on the opposite shin. Not in the mood to put his neck under that kind of strain again, Finch shifted farther back in his chair and spread his legs. “Put you foot up here,” he said, tapping the edge of the chair seat with his fingertips.

For a split second, Reese just stared at him, then his characteristic smirk made a reappearance, and he planted his foot between Finch’s knees, presenting him with his injured shin. This one was deep, almost to the bone, but Finch knew better than to suggest Reese see a real doctor. Reese would insist he could take care of it himself, and he probably could- probably had sutured his own wounds on occasion. Finch washed away the blood, ignoring the way Reese’s foot twitched in pain, brushing against the inside of Finch’s thigh. With the blood gone, it didn’t seem quite as bad as Finch had first thought, although sutures probably wouldn’t have hurt. He had some steri-strips in the kit, though, and those would have to do, because he wasn’t about to stitch Reese up himself.

Picking up the sharp little pair of scissors, Finch quickly trimmed the hair back from the wound. He had to reach for the kit, leaning forward and pressing the inside of his thigh more firmly against Reese’s foot. He almost jerked back as he felt the foot move very slowly and deliberately against him, a caress just inches from his crotch. Since the best way to deal with Reese’s odd sense of humor was to ignore it, Finch went back to looking for the suture strips, also ignoring the way his heart thumped against the inside of his chest, the heat in his face, and the dryness in his mouth.

Finch deftly closed the wound with several strips, then slathered on a thick layer of ointment before gently placing a sterile gauze pad over it. He was in the middle of taping it down when Reese felt it necessary to rub his foot against the inside of Finch’s thigh again, eliciting a physical response in Finch that he found hard to ignore. Annoyed by his employee’s antics and by the sudden hardness in his boxers, Finch pressed the pad of his thumb against the wound, making Reese jerk back with a pained yelp.

“Sorry,” Finch said. “I got distracted.”

“No problem,” Reese replied, giving him a dark look. It was his own damn fault. Finch picked up a fresh wipe to take care of the last two scratches, high on the front of Reese’s thigh, when Reese cleared his throat and reached out for the wipe. “I can finish.”

Finch started to hand over the supplies, but stopped as the location of the injury gave him an idea. Turnabout was fair play, after all. “I don’t mind,” Finch said, “provided there aren’t any more distractions. It’ll only take a minute.” And before Reese could protest further, Finch rolled up the leg of his boxer-briefs and began washing the wounds. Reese tensed against the sting, his breaths becoming short and fast as Finch placed his free hand on Reese’s bare thigh, the skin warm and soft. As he turned in his seat to toss the bloody wipe into the trash, he ‘let’ his hand slide up Reese’s leg a fraction, and was gratified to feel the operative tense. Not as much fun when the tables were turned, apparently.

Pretending like he hadn’t noticed the ‘slip’, Finch began applying the ointment, taking his time in smearing the thick, greasy medicine over Reese’s skin. An unexpected movement caught his attention out of the corner of his eye and he shifted his gaze, surprised to find Reese’s hard cock straining against the front of his underwear. It gave a small twitch, a dark, wet spot appearing on the material where the head pressed against it.

Flustered, Finch felt his face turn red as he struggled to regain his composure. “I wasn’t aware that you had a masochistic streak, Mr. Reese.”

“Sorry to disappoint you,” Reese said, sounding no less uncomfortable than Finch felt, “but I think it has less to do with the pain and more to do with your hand near my crotch.”

Finch almost pulled away, but steeled himself against his own embarrassment; it was worth it if he could teach Reese that it wasn’t fun to be played with. He placed gauze over the wounds, smoothing the white fabric and letting his fingers brush Reese’s bare skin. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched Reese’s cock twitch again.

“Really, Mr. Reese,” Finch said disapprovingly. “If this is all it takes to get you worked up, you really ought to think about getting laid.”

“I think about it all the time,” Reese responded, a trace of anger in his voice, “but you never show any interest.”

“Oh, you can’t be serious!” Finch exclaimed, but his exasperation was short lived, forgotten as soon as he looked up into Reese’s face. He was serious. And something else, something akin to desperation. “But…I thought…I thought you were just toying with me to amuse yourself…”

Reese’s expression softened. “I didn’t know how you’d react, so I made a joke of it, to test the waters, and I still couldn’t tell. You’re just too damn enigmatic.” Finch looked back down at the bandage, trying to keep his hands from trembling as he applied tape along the edges, his heart suddenly pounding. “Even now I can’t tell what you’re thinking.”

“Well…” Finch said, placing the last strip of tape and moistening his lips, “maybe this will make things more clear to you.” Taking a deep breath, Finch hooked his fingers in the waistband of Reese’s boxer-briefs and pulled the front down, freeing Reese’s erection. Reese drew a startled breath, his muscles tensing as he started to rise from his perch on the edge of the table, but he froze as Finch wrapped a hand around the base of his cock. Finch rolled his chair closer, his own cock hard and aching in his pants, and his other hand fumbled with his zipper as he took Reese into his mouth.

“Oh, fuck, Harold,” Reese gasped as Finch began to suck on him, licking up the pre-come that leaked from the slit, using his tongue and lips to stroke the hard, hot flesh. He began to rock in his chair, sliding up and down Reese’s length, his back giving a slight twinge at the unusual movement, but he didn’t care. The weight of Reese in his mouth, the taste, the smell, the ragged breathing and helpless sounds Reese made, all made the pain worth it.

Reese’s hips jerked, pushing him farther into Finch’s mouth, his hands grabbing at the shoulders of Finch’s jacket. “Fuck…fuck, Harold…” Finch could feel him trembling, holding back. He was close.

Finch finally freed his own cock, a low groan escaping him as he stroked himself. The hands on his shoulders balled into fists, pulling at his jacket, and he closed his eyes, sucking hard as he slid down to the base, letting Reese’s cock fill his throat.

“Fuck, Finch!” Reese growled and Finch swallowed, not even tasting the first shot. He pulled back to let himself breathe, suckling just the head as he worked the shaft with his hand, lapping up the salty fluid and licking Reese clean before leaning back in his chair, his glasses fogged by his own heavy breathing, pulling industriously at his cock as he stared up at the dazed and contented Reese. The fast, repetitive movement made his neck twinge and he flinched, his stroke faltering.

“Don’t,” Reese said, his voice low and rumbling.

Finch arched an eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”

“Don’t do that if it hurts.”

“And I suppose my dick is just going to jerk itself?” Finch asked dryly, not about to expect or even ask that Reese return the favor. He did that because he wanted to, not because he wanted something in return.

“May I?” Reese asked. Finch stilled his hand, his heart starting to pound as he nodded. Reese stood up, fixing his underwear before holding his hand out. Finch just stared at it, nonplussed. “Stand up,” Reese said. Curious, Finch took Reese’s hand and let Reese help him to his feet, surprised when Reese stepped up against him, hands making short work of his clothes as Reese’s lips captured his in a deep and demanding kiss.

Shirt hanging open and his trousers and boxers shoved down around his thighs, Finch groaned as Reese wrapped a hand around his cock, making a loose fist. “Thrust,” Reese murmured into Finch’s mouth, giving him a single slow stroke. Finch’s hips jerked, shoving himself into the heat of Reese’s hand. “Did that hurt?” Reese placed his other hand over the knotted scars on Finch’s injured hip.

“No.”

“You promised never to lie to me.”

“I’m not,” Finch said, rocking forward again, wishing Reese had bothered to spit into his hand. Suddenly, Reese let go and turned away, digging into the first-aid kit. “What are you looking for?”

“This,” Reese said, pulling out a bottle of aloe gel Finch had purchased in case of burns.

“What for?” Finch started to ask, but the words died on his lips as Reese shoved down his boxer-briefs, popped the cap off the bottle, drizzled the slippery gel on his fingers, and reached back, leaning one forearm on the table as his closed his eyes, a look of intense concentration on his face as he prepared himself. “Are you sure?” Finch asked, looking away before he embarrassed himself. “This probably won’t last long enough to be worth the effort of preparation and cleanup.”

“Got a short fuse tonight, eh, Finch?” Reese teased, finishing up and wiping his fingers on his underwear before slipping out of them and leaning back against the edge of the table, gloriously and completely naked. “It’s up to you if you want to make it last longer, but I’ll be happy just to feel you in me, to have you come in me.”

“Keep talking like that and it’s not going to happen,” Finch said through his teeth as his cock throbbed, eliciting a chuckle from his operative. Reese glanced behind him, pushed the keyboards and first-aid kit farther to the side before leaning back, balancing on his tailbone and elbows as he drew his legs up. He stopped suddenly, lowering his left leg again as the wounds on the back of his thigh pulled tight.

“Chair,” Reese said, crooking a finger. Finch slid it over, letting him brace his foot in the seat. “Much better. Now, are you going to fuck me, or am I going to have find some other way to entertain myself?” He shifted his weight to one arm so he could reach down and stroke himself, long fingers wrapping around his shaft before sliding farther down and kneading his balls. He groaned obscenely and sat forward, reaching down and sinking two fingers deep into himself. “It’d feel better if it was you,” he purred.

“You’re a fucking tease,” Finch admonished, kicking off his shoes and stepping out of his slacks and boxers before moving over between Reese’s spread legs. Reese pulled his fingers out, wiped the excess aloe on the head of Finch’s cock, and relaxed back onto his elbows as Finch drew a bracing breath and eased inside.

“Damn, you’re big,” Reese panted.

“And you’re tight,” Finch replied, a sweat breaking out on his body. “Do you want me to stop?”

“Fuck, no,” Reese said with a breathless laugh. “Give it to me, Harold. Shove it all the way in.”

“Then stop talking,” Finch gritted out, pushing deeper. Reese arched his back, his head falling back as he moaned, sending a shudder through Finch’s body that almost made him come undone. “Fuck it,” Finch muttered, surrendering to the inevitable. He thrust into Reese, making him buck, and he saw stars as the hot flesh tightened around him.

“That’s the spirit, Harold,” Reese said. “Harder. Deeper. Please.”

Finch slammed his body forward, a sharp burst of pain making the muscles in his hip spasm, but he ignored it, burying himself to the hilt inside Reese’s body, a few short, powerful thrusts all it took to wring a sudden, intense climax from him. Finch cried out as he spilled himself inside Reese, Reese’s accompanying shout filled with what sounded like triumph.

Out of breath, Finch slumped forward, his injured leg suddenly unwilling to support his weight, and he caught himself on the table, his spent cock slipping out. Reese sat up and Finch reached for his chair, trying to get out of the man’s way, but strong arms wrapped around him, holding him up, drawing him close.

“Sorry,” Finch panted, feeling Reese’s semi-erect cock press against his hip.

“For what?”

“I’m sure you didn’t get much out of that.”

Reese chuckled. “For a genius, you can be pretty dense sometimes. I got exactly what I wanted.” He leaned closer and brushed his lips over Finch’s, a surprisingly soft and tender kiss. “And if it still bothers you, I’ll be sure to let you make it up to me soon.”

“Mr. Reese…” Finch said, not sure if that – if this was really such a good idea.

“Oh, Harold, don’t do that to me, please. I need this. I think we both do.”

Finch hesitated. “I think you’re right,” he said finally. “I was just going to ask if we might find an actual bed next time. My workstation really isn’t the best place for such activities.”

Reese just smiled.