John Reese has a home now. Well, a place that could be home if he let it. Granted, his employer bought it, can easily afford it and twenty more like it, and he's yet to actually sleep in it. But still, Finch's intentions had been good when he offered both key and address with an awkward smile. John finds himself walking around the loft at different times of the day and night, checking the solidity of the locks. They're sound. Not like he would expect anything less. He checks anyway, though. Old habits are hard to break.
It doesn't take long to walk every square inch. There are only fifteen hundred of them. Most of it open, unobstructed space so it's not hard to keep track of how many times he reaches that same spot right next to the wall of windows. Once he gets to fifty he forces himself to stop, to leave. It's not restlessness even if it seems like it. He acts like a caged animal here. It's odd how much he doesn't feel like one.
The thought of how it all looks on the outside makes him laugh out loud. Despite evidence to the contrary he's not a kept man. He's simply allowing himself to be cared for by a billionaire who asks for favors in return. At least the favors aren't sexual, he thinks. Though he's not sure he would say no if Finch requested that of him. He hasn't been with anyone since Jessica and there are moments where the other man's proximity causes the hairs on the back of John's neck to stand on end. It makes no sense to anyone else but them. Maybe it's that they're both lonely. Or maybe it's that they both have gone too long without companionship. John doesn't know. It doesn't matter anyway.
This time when he comes to the loft he imagines Finch here. Placing the dishes in the kitchen cabinets, the towels in the linen closet, the sheets on the bed. He imagines the man bent over the mattress, fighting to get everything just so even as his hip twinges from the uncomfortable position and his neck strains. He can't see the recluse paying someone else to do it. No, Finch would've fixed the place up himself. He smiles and runs his hand along the cold granite island. It's large enough to serve a buffet on, which makes it a waste, but it's slate coloring reminds him of a tie Finch once wore so he can't help liking it.
His subconscious warns him once he's made his fiftieth circuit. He sits on the bed, lost in his wondering, in trying to figure out why he keeps doing this to himself. He's not a prisoner, not unsafe, so why does he have to keep moving? The mattress is just right for him. Not too soft, not too firm. Queen. A king-size would've been too big for one man but a queen fits perfectly. He lays down, lets his body relax, tells himself tonight he'll stay. He won't. Tomorrow he'll try again, however. To make things easier he'll even pretend that Finch is watching, and it'll work. Because not all habits need to be broken.