Work Header

a weight in the air

Work Text:





Didn’t I tell you
You were gonna break down
Didn’t I warn you?
Didn’t I warn you?

He balls his hands tightly into fists, unsure of what he wants at the moment: to hold John, to cling to him, to punch him, to never let him go.

“I’m fine, Harold,” the man has the gall to whisper into his ear, and anger rises, swift and fierce, to mingle with choking fear and terrible need.

Tell me what you’re needing
Give into your bleeding
Never any feeling for yourself

Tell me, Mr. Reese,” he hisses between gritted teeth, tasting the blood in his mouth, “am I truly that terrible of a boss?”

He feels John stiffen against him, and he squeezes his eyes shut, pushing back the flame of hot tears as he swallows against the lump blocking his throat.

“Has there been any moment during our acquaintance,” he nearly laughs at the word, bitter and vile, “when I made you feel like you were dispensable?”

He feels something wet drop onto the back of his hands, and he realises two things at once: his hands have migrated of their own accord to clutch at John’s lapels like a lifeline, and he is ashamed to find that he’s crying against John’s shirt.

We build it up
We tear it down
We leave our pieces on the ground 

He ignores the sharp burst of pain at his hip as John winds his arms around his waist, pulling him flush against his own broken body, tight and unrelenting.  The people at the laundry service are going to have a field day with how John is smearing blood all over his expensive three-piece suit.  Maybe he should just burn it.

Maybe he should just let the world burn if it means keeping John safe.

We see no end 
We don’t know how

He doesn’t know how John manages it given the state of his injuries, but his hand is steady as he threads through Harold’s spiky hair, fingers spread like a web to encompass the back of his head, wrist pressing against Harold’s nape as he gently tilts Harold’s face up.

There’s a cut on his lip; blood smears Harold’s skin as John presses a kiss to Harold’s forehead with a quiet sigh.

“You really should have more confidence in my ability to survive, Harold.”

We are lost and we’re falling

He narrows his eyes as he looks up at him.  He cups John’s face between both of his palms; he swipes his thumb at the blood dribbling at the corner of John’s mouth.

“And you, John,” he declares, dangerously quiet, teetering on the edge of collapse, feeling his heart give out, give in: “You are overestimating my ability to survive without you.”

Hold onto me
You’re all I have
All I have