Work Text:
The hotel in which John’s next client wants to meet is different from what John is used to. For starters, it’s posh. Very posh. Most of John’s clients have money to spare, but they prefer the anonymity of cheap hotels with pay-by-the-hour rooms.They’re generally workaholics with too little time on their hands to build an intimate relationship. John’s agency offers them what hookers can’t: intimacy.
John squares his shoulders and tries not to look too out of place as he crosses the lobby and lets the elevator take him up to the top floor. He’s chosen to wear a suit for this occasion so as not to draw attention to himself, but his comfy t-shirt and sweatpants are in his shoulder bag.
As the doors slide open, there is a man waiting in the corridor. John can only spot three doors on this floor, meaning the suites are very large. He wonders not for the first time what kind of man his client is.
“You’re John?” The man in front of him asks with a flash of white teeth.
John frowns. The man is tall. blonde, and moderately muscular, and does not match the description John received from his contact at the agency.
“I’m sorry,” he says politely. “I think you’re mistaking me for someone else.”
“No, I don’t think so. You’re here for Harold, right?” The man extends his hand and John, more out of curiosity than anything else, shakes it. ”I’m Nathan, Harold's friend. Harold doesn’t know you’re here. You’re eh-” Nathan laughs awkwardly. “A gift so to say.”
John raises his eyebrows.
“He’s a bit- Well, you’ll see.” Nathan opens the first door on his right and motions John to step inside.
The suite is again not something John has ever encountered in his line of work before. The place is bigger than his own apartment, with floor to ceiling windows on one side, a small kitchenette and a separate bedroom with ensuite. The centerpiece of the room is a large desk with a complicated looking computer setup. John counts seven screens amidst a mess of cables and blinking led lights, all carefully turned away from both the window and the door. Behind the desk sits a small man with dark, spiky hair. He stops his typing when he notices John and hurriedly closes his laptop. Immediately all the screens go black.
The man stares at John with wide eyes that appear almost comically small behind the thick lenses of his round glasses. He has something bird-like over him, John thinks, like a fledgeling that is facing its first predator.
“Who are you? How did you get in here?”
“Relax, Harold.” Nathan closes the door behind him. “He’s with me.”
“Explain,” Harold demands sharply.
“Well, he’s here for you.” Nathan looks a tad unsure suddenly. “Remember the conversation we had about human contact? John’s here to help you with that.”
Harold’s response is an icy glare.
“You gotta-” Nathan gestures vaguely in Harold’s direction. “Unwind a little.”
“Nathan.” A warning tone has entered Harold’s voice.
Nathan is already retreating, flashing John a pointed grin as he backs out of the room. “I’ll leave you to it. Have fun!”
The door shuts with a definitive click and then John’s alone with a murderous looking Harold.
“I’m sorry,” John offers. “This normally doesn’t happen. The agency has a strict policy of making personal appointments only.”
Harold shakes his head with a short huff. “Nathan is good with people. It’s easy to get fooled by him.” He ducks behind his monitors and opens his laptop. “As it is, I have no need or want to engage in any sexual activity. You should go.”
John stares at the monitor behind which his client has disappeared. “I’m not a sex worker.”
Harold’s eyes appear around the edge of a screen. “Then what could Nathan possibly have hired you for?”
“I’m a professional cuddler.”
Harold lets out an incredulous laugh.
“What’s so funny?” John demands.
“You hug people for a living?”
“I provide non-sexual intimacy," John corrects him. “Hugging is only a part of what we offer.”
Harold’s scrutinizing look is a little hurtful, until John notices the uncertainty that has slipped into Harold’s expression.
“I gotta finish this,” Harold says and ducks out of sight again.
“Your friend paid upfront for ninety minutes. I can wait.”
Harold’s hand appears in a nondescript wave that John interprets as permission to stay. He looks around the room and then settles in an expensive looking armchair. Soft clicking of the keyboard fills the room as Harold continues to work.
Despite his initial reservations, John finds Harold intriguing. During his time with the agency John has encountered many different kinds of people. A lot of them find it hard to express what they need. Some others are very bold and upfront about it. On more than a few occasions John has had to put an end to a session when a client tried to take things further than established beforehand. He has a strong suspicion that Harold falls into a different category altogether.
Once in a while John’s work leads him to people that don’t know their own needs. John prides himself on being able to handle these cases with extreme care and often positive outcomes. Harold looks overworked and sleep-deprived. He looks uptight, pressed neatly into sensible shoes and a brown suit. More than that, he looks lonely. Harold looks like he might benefit greatly from some intimacy, but has forgotten what it’s like. So John waits.
Almost an hour later, Harold closes his laptop and stretches with a groan. Then he stands and his eyes fall on John.
“You’re still here.”
He sounds so surprised that John suspects that Harold had forgotten all about John’s presence while he worked.
“I said you could leave. Nathan already paid you, so why didn’t you?”
John smiles disarmingly. “Professional curiosity?”
Harold looks dubious. “So you’re just gonna sit there until those ninety minutes are up?”
John shrugs. “Unless you’d rather do something else.”
Harold snorts at that. John watches as he walks into the kitchenette and fills the kettle.
“Tea? I only have sencha green, I’m afraid.”
“That’s fine, thanks.”
Harold moves with deliberate precision, going through the steps in a mechanical way. As he waits for the water to boil, he leans against the counter and peruses John.
“I can see you have questions,” John says, offering an opening. “Ask away, I’m not easily offended.”
The frown that has appeared on Harold’s face increases.“Maybe you could explain what it is you do,” he says eventually, “Because I can’t seem to figure out what Nathan expects me to gain from your visit.”
John settles more comfortably in his chair and leaps into the speech he needs to give at least once a week. “Like I said, I provide non-sexual intimacy. That comes mainly down to cuddling, simply holding hands or even watching a movie on the couch together. Some of my colleagues offer massages, but the agency’s policy is that our clothes stay on during a session. Talking is optional, but whatever you decide to share is confidential.” He pauses briefly to give Harold the opportunity to ask questions, but even though Harold is still frowning, he gestures for John to continue. “As to what you stand to gain from a session with me, physical contact like we offer makes the body release all kinds of neurotoxins. You’ll feel better.”
“Bonding hormones,” Harold says with a disgusted expression.
John chuckles. “You’re not a fan of bonding?”
“I’m not a fan of people in general,” Harold says darkly. He turns around to tend to their tea. “I still don’t understand why people would pay for this instead of sex.”
“Because an orgasm is good, but the positive effects of hugging last longer,” John answers easily. “For some people it’s even easier, knowing an arrangement like this will not lead to anything sexual.”
Much to John’s delight he notices the flustered look when Harold’s carries over their tea mugs and John takes advantage. He leans forward, glancing up at Harold mischievously.
“Besides, it’s impossible to hug yourself, but it’s very easy to give yourself an orgasm.”
The blush deepens and Harold quickly averts his gaze. He sits down opposite John, perching on the edge of the seat, looking ready to flee.
“I’m still not sure what this has to do with me,” he says, a little indignantly.
John decides that he has teased his client enough. He sits back to allow Harold some space. “When was the last time you were hugged by someone, Harold?”
Harold shrugs.
“Longer than a month ago?”
Harold laughs mirthlessly.
“Over a year?” John presses.
“I don’t see why that matters.”
“I’m simply proving a point.”
John picks up his mug and smoothly crosses one leg over the other, carefully arranging himself so that his body language is open and trusting.
Harold raises his eyebrows, seemingly uncertain whether John has just insulted him or not. Somehow he looks even more birdlike like this.
“All I’m saying is that you might have something to gain,” John answers the unspoken question.
Finch snorts. “Is this your selling trick?”
“No need, I already got paid, remember?”
The room falls silent then and John sips his tea while Harold stares at his own, lost in thought. The tea is surprisingly rich in flavor and John wonders what that tells about the man opposite him.
“I’m not a tactile person,” Harold says after a long minute.
“Most clients aren’t.”
Harold falls silent again. He frowns unhappily at his tea. John decides to offer him another opening.
“Will you let me try something?”
Harold examines him cautiously before he nods. John sets down his mug and stands up. He beckons Harold to stand in front of him.
“Just tell me if you want to stop.” John waits for Harold to nod, still a little apprehensively, and then offers him his palm. “Take my hand.”
Harold stares at him as if he has lost his mind. When John doesn’t lower his hand, Harold laughs, disbelieving and sceptical. John stares back at him unmoving and finally, with a dubious expression, Harold places his palm lightly on top of John’s.
“Very good,” John says. He can’t keep the light teasing from his voice, but apparently Harold shares his amusement about the absurdness of the situation.
“Believe it or not, I do on occasion shake hands with other people,” he remarks dryly.
“Not people like me.”
John curls his fingers, positioning their hands so that his thumb can rub over Harold’s knuckles. As far as touches go, it isn’t very intimate, but after only a moment Harold yanks his hand away and steps back. He rubs his knuckles roughly as if trying to erase John’s touch. John is surprised that the gesture hurts a little. He tries not to take it personally. Every client is different, every person experiences touch differently. John knows this.
“That just feels weird,” Harold says apologetically.
“That’s okay.” John rushes to reassure him. “Do you wanna try something else?”
John has noticed that Harold's lips become a thin line when he thinks and he finds it oddly endearing. He’s used to clients telling him what they want. More often than not they already have a pretty good idea of how they want to spend their time together when they hire John. Of course Harold didn’t hire John himself and thus didn’t have time to think about this beforehand.
“It’s okay if you don’t. I won’t be offended.”
That makes Harold smile softly and he shakes his head. “What do you have in mind?”
John thinks for a moment, then steps closer to Harold, within reach. “Touch me,” he says. “Just place your hand on me somewhere, see how that feels.” Something tells John he doesn’t have to warn Harold to keep his hands above the waist.
With a curious look, as if John is a piece of a puzzle he can’t solve, Harold lifts his hand. It hovers between them for a moment. Harold tilts his head and his eyes narrow. Then he places his hand flat on John’s chest. Under his jacket. Over his heart.
As far as touches go, this one is very intimate and the suddenness of it sends a shiver down John’s spine. John tries not to let it show. He focuses on his breathing instead of the warm palm on his chest. Inhale in three, exhale in five. Harold looks intrigued as he watches his hand move with John’s rising and falling chest.
“Checking if I’m not a vampire, Harold?” John quips, but his mouth is dry and the words come out a little hoarse.
Hastily, Harold withdraws his hand, but John catches his wrist.
“It’s okay. It was just a joke.”
Harold lets John place his hand back on his chest. He doesn’t resist when John gently moves it to the side to splay over his ribs.
“You can use your other hand too,” John instructs softly. “If you want to.”
Harold looks conflicted. “Do you want to?”
John chuckles. He can’t help it. Harold looks so worried, so innocent, so oblivious when it comes to something that has always come natural to John. “I do,” he says, sensing that Harold needs his explicit consent on this. “It feels good to me.”
“Oh.”
Harold doesn’t hesitate now to put his other hand on John’s side. Once again under his jacket. This time John is expecting the touch and he manages not to let his breath hitch when Harold’s fingers curl around his waist. Still, his stomach muscles tighten reflexively and Harold looks up in surprise. John wonders what would happen if he leaned in to kiss the man. He wonders if the intensity of Harold’s gaze would translate to his lips, how it would be to be kissed like that.
Inwardly John reprimands himself. He’s a professional, he’s not supposed to let clients affect him like this. He’s used to people touching him intimately, it’s his job. But John has to admit that it has never been like this. He has never felt like an experiment under his client’s hands, subject to their full fascination. It’s making him feel a little light-headed and he prays that Harold doesn’t notice the way his heart-rate picks up.
Normally a reaction like this would be enough to make him put an end to a session, but right now, John doesn’t want to stop.
“You’re only two steps away from hugging me,” he says, a little breathless.
“Two steps?”
John swallows. “You need to step closer. And you have to wrap your arms around me.”
“You make it sound so simple.”
“That’s because it is.”
Harold huffs out a laugh, but he doesn’t move. “For you maybe.”
John doesn’t really know how to react to that. “What’s holding you back?” he inquires curiously.
A thoughtful crease appears in Harold’s forehead. The hand cupping John’s hipbone tenses. “I’m good with computers,” he answers eventually. “People not so much. It’d feel like I’m taking advantage.”
John has to hold back a laugh, because it’s a little rich, coming from someone who still has both hands on John’s torso and is essentially feeling him up. “Maybe you’re thinking too much about this,” he says.
“Have you considered maybe you’re thinking too little about this?”
“Hmm, I’d be pretty shitty at my job if I had an existential crisis every time I tried to hug someone.”
Harold grins amusedly and John is mesmerized by the way his whole face lights up.
“I can assure you, I’ve put enough thought into this to know that I’m perfectly fine with you hugging me,” John says lightly. “You’re not taking advantage. I would actually prefer it if you would get on with it.”
“Oh.” Harold looks a little flustered. His gaze drops to where his hands are still touching John. His lips twitch. “Alright then,” he mutters, more to himself than to John. He nods, moves his arms, hesitates.
Wordlessly, John opens his arms,
Harold stumbles when he takes a step forward, somehow still, after all this, uncertain. John draws Harold in, draping his arms over his back, careful not to apply pressure and Harold’s hands move to John’s back, settling over his shoulder blades, holding John loosely, fronts barely touching.
That won’t do.
“Tell me if it’s too much,” John tells Harold. He waits for the quiet nod before he slowly tightens his arms and presses their chests together.
Harold lets out a soft noise. His hands flutter, then grip John’s back tighter. When John inhales deeply and slowly breathes out, Harold shudders and then his body relaxes and he leans into John.
“That’s it,” John whispers, biting back a smile. His hands easily slide into a more comfortable position. He’s taking a little of Harold’s weight, the soft belly pressing against his own with a pressure that is more reassuring than anything else.
John’s heart flutters, If Harold looks up now, he isn’t sure what will happen. The air is heavy, rich with possibilities that are unprofessional at best and John breathes it in, let’s it fill his lungs until he’s dizzy and warm and his nerve endings are tingling in anticipation.
Experimentally, he rubs the spot between Harold’s shoulder blades. The soft noise that Harold makes is muffled in John’s shirt. The hands that are warm under John’s jacket, tighten, fingers curling softly into John’s skin. Spiky hair tickles John’s cheek.
There’s a buzzing noise somewhere close to them and Harold steps back as if he’s been shocked. It takes John a long, disoriented moment before he realizes the insistent buzzing is coming from the phone in his jacket pocket,
“Sorry,” he mumbles sheepishly as he fumbles with the buttons to stop the alarm that he always sets in preparation for a job.
“That’s ninety minutes, isn’t it?” Harold is looking away. His arms are wrapped around himself now. John can feel the cold seeping into his own body at all the places they’ve been touching.
“Yeah,” he admits reluctantly. “How are you feeling?”
Harold shrugs. His eyes meet John’s briefly. Then he steps back and John’s chest aches in a phantom pain as the physical distance between them increases.
“I can’t stay.” John says and it feels like he’s offering a weak apology. Something happened. He’s pretty sure from the way Harold is holding himself, that Harold has felt it too.
Harold’s face is an impenetrable mask as he watches John straighten his shirt and shoulder his bag. Protocol tells John he should leave and refer Harold to someone else for all further appointments, but John doesn’t want to do that. He hovers on his way to the door, all too aware that on the other side of town another client is expecting him and he doesn’t have time to linger, no matter how much he wants to. When he turns, he finds Harold’s eyes on him.
“Will I see you again?”
The words are out before John has thought them through. They land between them, vulnerable and heavy and John fights the urge to close his eyes and brace himself.
Harold’s expression gives nothing away, but his eyes soften a little bit. “Probably not,” he says softly. He turns away and walks back to his desk. The screens flicker back to life when the laptop opens and Harold types in his password. John still stands frozen while a sickening feeling that has no right being there fills his stomach.
“Go, Mr. Reese.” Harold shoots him a last tiny smile. “If I need to, I’ll find you.”
It is only when John is riding the elevator down to the lobby that he realizes that he never told Harold his last name.