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Simplicity

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It started out as the simplest of gestures. Though, having said that, when it came to Harold Finch, no gesture was ever simple. The thought process behind every last twitch, every last murmur, was a wall of text - a full page, where most ordinary men would use a word. Some would even suggest it was code, akin to the very code which was the lifeblood of his own machine. For when people in this city made simple gestures, Finch knew that there were no fewer than a thousand actions, predictions, realisations and decisions at the core of those throwaway movements you speak of. Harold Finch simply didn't believe in simple.

He found himself, however, arched forward in haste, restraining his associate with a firm grip of the knee. Reese was disciplined in the art of levelheadedness - any CIA operative worth his salt knew that a calm situation was a controllable one - but there was something about seeing Finch in danger which erased his former education, and brought on a reckless nature which no amount of training could quell. All hell was about to break loose. If John was going to forget everything he was ever taught, Harold was their only hope, and hope he certainly would, as his arm flew out like a barrier between themselves and their aggressor.

"For God's sake, stop! Mr. Reese..." he choked out the words knowing that, should they manage to negotiate a little longer, Carter was on her way and would surely track them down.

What was simple and easy to deduce from this was that Finch had effectively managed to defuse the situation, thus buying them some much needed time. What wasn't, for Finch at least, was his choice of method. Because, whilst he could have chosen to pull on Reese's shoulder, grab his arm, or merely stand from his chair as a means of regaining composure from the younger man, Finch's hand slid along Reese's muscular thigh and tightened around his knee. The sound of Harold's speech could be heard to waver as the warmth of his colleague's flesh seeped through the suit fabric and into his fingers.

For Harold, the intense heat seared his palm, and he witnessed the hotness rush to his face, his cheeks now flushed, beads of sweat forming at his temples. It was an instant reaction, as if igniting touchpaper.

He may have lost himself for a split second but, after a few of them, he was more than aware of what he had just done. Of course, nobody else would ever realise anything had changed from his mostly cool front - apart from the one person who knew him best. Reese wouldn't had batted a pretty little eyelid had it have been say, the protective Joss Carter or the sexually provocative Zoe Morgan, but when it came to a touch from the emotionally cold Harold Finch - there were no fewer than a thousand actions, predictions, realisations and decisions behind every throwaway movement. When John looked into Harold's nervous eyes, he finally fathomed each and every one.

The next time Harold's hand snaked its way along John's thigh, it was bare. Nimble typist's fingers traced a map of surface wounds and bullet scars as if they were trying to find the way. Eventually they would lead him to his treasure, buried within an underwear clad mound. When he placed his hand atop it, he faltered and, feeling shy, he retracted his hand. The former agent hissed with desire and bucked forward until his friend's grasp met with it again. And to ensure that the same would not happen this time, he wrapped an arm around Finch and brought him close.

Fully clothed, the reclusive billionaire was half-dragged and half-clambered of his own accord into Mr. Reese's lap. Easing the slight discomfort his injuries constantly caused him, he shuffled slightly, unknowing of what he was doing to the passion-addled John. With his arms around his beloved Harold, the feel now of his breath ghosting against the side of his quivering jaw, his hardness constantly roused by the fidgety man, Reese knew he would scream if he could not focus his desperate mouth on something and something soon. And so he did. He then captured Finch's soft lips, hungrily, in what would be the first kiss of many more.

Harold Finch was the creator of the machine, though some would even suggest that the emotionally cold Harold was a machine himself - from the way that his brain processed data to the logical, unhindered thought processes which guided them through saving every number. But whoever said a machine had to be complicated? He now knew what his heart wanted and what it wanted was simple.

Simply John.