Reese stared up at the ceiling. Street lights shaped dancing shadows across it, but there were no cracks to count. So 'that' had happened; Harold had staked his claim. No other people, no other hook-ups. No more scratch marks on his back, no one other than Harold now. Reese could do that.
Without looking, he reached for Harold, felt sleep-warm skin under his fingers. The touch was almost electrical. He belonged. He was owned, as he had never been before, because he was wanted. And not for his 'skills', but for who he was.
The little pleased half-smile that graced Harold's lips when they had succeeded with a case made sense now. It wasn't the smile of a an employer; what Reese had thought was reluctant approval, born from necessity, that was Harold wanting.
Reese wondered if this was to be happy, he couldn't really remember- it had been so long. But if his memory was correct, he was happy. The skin under his palm, the soft rise and fall of breathing, the calm of satisfaction. He stretched carefully, stroking his hand down Harold's back.
Harold was so much smaller, so fragile. Some would think him weak because of the limp and the bird-brittleness of his collarbones. Reese smiled to himself in the dark, they had no idea what they were up against.
Harold twisted slightly in his sleep, Reese figured he must be as taken as Reese himself was with what they had done. What Harold had done to him.
He was slightly sore, even though Harold had spent a good long while getting Reese ready before letting him mount up to ride. It had been a long time since he had given himself over like that. He smiled at that too, 'given himself over'. That was what he had done, from the first step across the hardwood floor he had given himself over. That wasn't so bad, not bad at all actually.