Work Text:
Tell me, when you look in the mirror and talk to yourself
Do you even see it all?
Morning light filtered through the curtains and bathed the safehouse’s bedroom in a friendly yellow glow. A soft breeze coming in through the open window tickled Finch's nose and filled it with the rich smells of a spring morning. Finch stretched out luxuriously, enjoying the warmth under the covers. Faintly, he heard John’s footsteps trail through the hallway into the kitchen, followed by the clicking and rumbling of the pipes when the faucet was turned on and off. Finch listened to the familiar pattern of sounds and relaxed further into the mattress.
At the start of their collaboration, Finch had been hesitant to spend the night in one of the safehouses with John, but over the past years, he had come to often preferring it over making the way to his own quiet home. John was easy to share the space with and Finch had quickly found comfort in the way their morning rituals accommodated each other’s presence.
John loved to start his day with coffee and reading the news before he did his exercises, usually a combination of yoga, pilates and core training. This gave Finch the ample time to take a hot shower to loosen the stiffness in his neck before moving on to his own exercises. By the time Finch was dressed, John had usually hopped into the shower and Finch would start making them breakfast. Neither of them ever breathed a word about it, but Finch suspected he wasn’t the only one who secretly loved the domesticity.
This morning, when Finch emerged from his room, he was surprised to find John was still in the middle of his exercises. John’s eyes grew wide when he noticed Finch’s presence and he paused in the middle of a sit-up.
‘Morning, Mr. Reese.’
‘Finch, What are you doing here?’ John scrambled to hastily tug down his shirt where it had ridden up and pushed himself to his feet. He looked flustered, as if Finch had just caught him doing something embarrassing.
Past experiences - one with an unlocked bathroom door and a shower that had only just been turned off - had taught Finch that when it came to his body, John knew little to no shame. It happened very rarely that Finch got to see John get flustered and when he managed to tease such a reaction out of John, he always enjoyed it immensely. When Finch caused it unintentionally however, without saying or doing anything, it was alarming.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Finch said gently. ‘I expected you would be done with your exercises by now.’
‘Longer sets. I need to get back in shape.’ John quickly rolled up his yoga mat, refusing to look at Finch.
Finch’s gaze swept over John’s lean and strong body and he raised an eyebrow. ‘You are already perfectly in shape.’
John scoffed and brushed past Finch into the hallway.
Finch stared at the empty living room for a moment, trying to process what had happened, then turned sharply and followed John. He paused in the doorway of John’s room. John had his back to him and was quickly buttoning up a dress shirt.
Finch’s eyes raked over John’s body. It was a body he knew well. He had seen all the scars on John’s chest and back when tending to his injuries. He had felt the strength in John’s arms on the few occasions John had pulled him out of harm’s way. Finch wanted to make a comment on the ridiculousness of John’s explanation, when his eyes landed on John’s waist. More precisely, on the soft padding around his waist of which moments ago a sliver had been exposed. The waist that John was trying to hide from him.
The fatty tissue had not been there when they first met. Back then John had been nothing but bone and weakened muscles. He had been underfed and hollowed out by alcohol and a life on the streets. Finch had been relieved to see John put on weight, to catch glimpses of a body that was both strong and well-nourished. Seeing John embarrassed and trying to hide this part of himself was hurtful.
‘John,’ Finch said softly. ‘What is really going on?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Please don’t lie to me.’
John let out a humorless laugh. ‘Like you’re being honest with me.’
Finch frowned. ‘I meant what I said. You are perfectly in shape.’
John shook his head. ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about.’ A moment later he hastily added. ‘I don’t mean because of your injuries. You don’t know what condition my body was in before-’ A soft, unhappy huff escaped him and he shook his head. ‘Nevermind, Finch.’
‘Before you left the agency?’ Finch finished quietly.
John turned around. He looked miserable and Finch felt it tug on his heart. He wanted to protest, to tell John that whatever disruptive thoughts had wormed its way into his head, was wrong, but he didn’t know how. Hesitantly, he took a step into the room, but he stopped when John’s shoulders tensed.
‘I may not have seen your body before you left the agency, but I have seen it after.’ Finch searched John’s eyes, willing him to understand what he was saying. ‘Please believe me when I say that this is infinitely better.’
Finch took another step forward. John didn’t move, he just watched. Following his instinct, Finch reached out.
Strong fingers seized his wrist before he could touch John’s waist.
‘Don’t.’
‘John…’
‘I’m fat,’ John whispered. It sounded like it was a confession.
‘You’re healthy,’ Finch protested.
John lowered his gaze, looking uncertain. His strong grip was still keeping Finch trapped. He pressed one finger to his stomach disgustedly. ‘Not as long as I have this.’
‘Who told you that?’
John shrugged. ‘Does it matter? It’s true.’
Finch stared at him in horror. ‘John, if you lose this, you lose all your reserves. What is the gain in that?’
‘Finch-‘
‘Do you think any of your friends care whether you have abs or not? Do you think anyone cares?’
‘I care.’ But John’s voice was small and he didn’t sound sure.
Finch stared at him in disbelief. ‘Why is this so important to you?’
John looked even more miserable and conflicted than before. He let go when Finch tugged on his hand, but before John could pull away, Finch caught his fingers.
‘How long has this been going on?’
John gave another, barely perceptible shake of his head. His fingers tightened around Finch’s.
‘Is this why we’re not having breakfast together anymore?’
‘Finch…’
Finch’s heart ached and his concern grew when John closed his eyes as if he was in pain. The truth wasn’t hard to deduce. Not anymore. The signs had been there. Extensive workouts, avoiding to eat in company, hollow cheeks and an inexplicable lack of energy. And Finch had ignored it. He had blamed it on the stress of the job. He knew that John had been suffering from more nightmares lately. Once, he had gently broached the subject of seeking the help from a therapist, but hadn’t been offended when John had sent him a stone-cold glare before walking away. Now Finch knew he should have realized that John had been struggling, that John had been in pain.
John couldn’t even look him in the eye. He just stood there, flustered and clutching Finch’s fingers tightly.
Words were failing Finch as well. He couldn’t breathe out more than a broken ‘Oh, John,’ before his throat clogged up with tears. He wanted to pull John closer, wrap his arms around him and hold him tight, but he doubted the touch would be welcome.
‘I’m sorry,’ John mumbled.
‘What on Earth for?’
‘I’m letting you down.’
Appalled, Finch shook his head. ‘You’re not. Of course you’re not.’
Finally John turned his head and lifted his gaze. His eyes were red and Finch wanted desperately to reach out and wipe the tears from his cheeks. He gave John’s hand a soft squeeze and felt John’s grip tighten in return.
‘John, I don’t know what made you think that you need to have a flat stomach, which, just for the record, is ridiculous at your age, but that’s not true.’ Finch was relieved to hear John make a noise that held somewhere between a sob and a huff. ‘You’re perfect like this. Please believe me when I say that.’
John looked down at their hands. He took a few deep breaths as if he was trying to steady himself. A tremor ran through his hand. Then, to Finch’s surprise, he pressed Finch’s hand against his stomach.
Time seemed to freeze. Finch could feel John’s tense muscles beneath the softness of his belly. Even through two layers of clothing, he could feel John’s body heat. John was staring at a point over Harold’s head, eyes red and watery and lips pressed together.
‘Come here.’ Finch slid his hand to John’s back and pulled him closer so he could wrap his arms around him. John stumbled and then his long frame was slumping against Finch. Strong fingers clutched the back of Finch’s shirt as John returned the embrace. Finch soothingly stroked his back.
‘I don’t think I know how to take care of myself,’ John said shakily.
‘You don’t have to do it on your own.’
Finch could feel John nod and the arms around his shoulders tightened. ‘Please talk to someone about this,’ he whispered. ‘These thoughts you’re having are dangerous. They’re hurting you. I don’t want you to be hurt.’
‘I’m sorry,’ John whispered again.
‘Don’t be.’
They held each other for a long time, John clinging to Finch and Finch stroking John’s back, his sides, the back of his neck, mapping out the strong muscles and the softness of his form. Finch’s heart ached with guilt and he tried to transform some of that into his touches, to let John know he was sorry too.
Eventually Finch broke the silence. ‘Will you join me for breakfast?’
There was a pause. John tensed.
‘I like your company,’ Finch said softly. It was easy to confess this with his face still hidden against John’s shoulder. ‘It’s easy to get lonely without it.’
He felt John swallow, then nod. ‘Okay.’
John’s arms loosened and Finch quickly stepped back, suddenly feeling embarrassed by his reaction.
‘I’ll let you get dressed.’
‘Finch, wait.’
Finch halted. John looked shaken still, but there was a determination in his eyes that hadn’t been there before.
‘Thank you.’