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st_aurafina) wrote2020-02-28 07:08 pm
st_aurafina) wrote2020-02-28 07:08 pm
Entry tags:
Fic: Stepping Out (Person of Interest, Rated Mature, Harold/Grace/John)
Title: Stepping Out
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 1771
Characters/Pairings: Harold/Grace/John
Warnings/Content: Pining, Formalwear, Expanding Relationship
Notes: Written fortalkingtothesky in Chocolate Box 2020
Summary: This is not jealousy. John is happy that Grace is back in Harold's life.
Also at the Archive
It's not jealousy that he's feeling, John explains carefully to himself, when he comes into the library and finds Grace curled up with her head pillowed in Harold's lap.
"Mr Reese," Harold says. He has bought an actual newspaper today, rather than reading online, and John imagines the two of them chatting easily over breakfast. Grace would sketch the faces that walk past their table and Harold would watch her over the top of his paper with that expression of amazement and joy he has been wearing almost constantly since Grace came back into their lives. Into Harold's life, John corrects himself. Back into Harold's life.
Grace stretches out an arm to brush John's leg as he walks past. "Hey, Gorgeous," she says, and John smiles down at her before he puts down the tray of paper cups.
She does pet names, it seems: Root is Legs or Beanstalk; Shaw is Muscles which surprisingly does not get Grace killed; Bear is Good Boy, Fluffernutter, Bristlebutt and all kinds of things. John, apparently is Gorgeous or Handsome. He doesn't hate it, exactly, but there's something about it that makes him ache.
It's good that Grace is here. John is glad.
"We have a new number," Harold says, and passes the newspaper over to him. "And Grace has a connection to get us close. Well, you, at least. I'll be taking the back seat for this one."
"Yay!" says Grace. "I'm going to get fancy with Mr Gorgeous!"
John smiles down at her, and tells the squirm in his belly to shut up.
The number is a councilman, and it's not his first time on Harold's list. Harold tells them about it at the safehouse while Grace and John get dressed for a gallery opening.
"Before he ran for office, he was a gun control lobbyist," Harold says, as he slides the tux over John's shoulders and smooths it into place. "Quite an effective one, judging from the death threats. A certain Mr Partridge paid a great deal of money to attend a fundraiser, and they had a long conversation. I'm fairly sure that he'll remember my face."
"Mr Partridge," Grace says, and laughs. "You must be so tempting to all those hungry politicians. So plump and full of feathers to… pluck."
She's perched on the arm of the sofa, swinging her legs. Her hair is up in elaborate coils, and her eyes seem huge, outlined with silver and teal. John hasn't seen her wear make-up like this before, and it's hypnotic. He watches in the reflection of the mirror as Harold gives her a wicked smile just for the two of them. He's never seen Harold this relaxed. Or flirtatious. He and Grace are so good for each other.
John can do this. He straightens his cuffs, and gets a nod of approval from Harold.
Grace slips her feet into the strappy stilettos on the floor in front of her, then finds the turquoise silk sheath she's wearing is too tight for her to bend over and buckle them.
Harold makes a helpless gesture at her. "I can get down there, but I won't be getting up again in a hurry," he says, and they both look at John.
John goes down on one knee and then the other, and picks up a shoe. Grace's dress is ornately jewelled, and her shoes are high and spindly with silver straps that are barely there. There's just a loop for her toe and a thin piece to circle her ankle. The leather is very soft between John's fingers.
Grace smiles and points the toes on her right foot. "It's just like Cinderella," she says, as he slides the first shoe on. She's bare-legged tonight, and John can smell the faint perfume of her body lotion as he slips the ankle strap around. The buckle is tiny but his fingers are nimble and he easily gets the tongue fed through the metal square and secure.
Grace's other foot is pressed bare against his thigh for balance and John can't stop staring at her toes spread wide across his leg. She's had a pedicure recently and her toenails are shell pink, the polish smooth and fresh. The skin of her feet is soft, even the soles.
The room is silent, though John can hear Harold breathing a little faster than normal.
"We should talk," Grace says. "About the way things have been since Harold came back to me."
John can feel a blush spread across his face, and it's suddenly too warm in the safehouse. He hears Harold's feet on the wooden floor as he comes to stand next to Grace.
"Grace and I have talked about the relationship you and I shared, John."
From where he's kneeling John can see the grey of Harold's trousers, the smooth pale skin of Grace's legs. His cheeks are glowing, and there's a prickle of sweat beading across his forehead. How do they know what he has been feeling? John is extremely capable at hiding his vulnerabilities. It's a skill that has kept him alive so far.
Grace's fingers touch his hair softly. "You must miss him so much, John." She doesn't sound angry. John doesn't think he could stand it, if he had done something to make Grace angry. Grace deserves only good things.
"I haven't…" he says, then stops, rethinks his answer. "When I knew you and Harold were back together, from that moment, I didn't even think about him like that. I promise." He chances a quick glance up at Grace's expression, and finds that she is watching him with such sadness that he starts to stand up, to reassure her that he is fine.
"Oh, John," says Harold, and squeezes his shoulder. "You have behaved entirely honourably. This is not what we wanted to talk about."
Harold's hand is heavy and warm through the tuxedo. It sends a frisson of pleasure down John's back, reminds him that it's been a while since he and Harold have touched at all. John had convinced himself that it was an indulgence, not something he needed. Right now on his knees in front of Harold, John has the sharp realisation that going without again after this small taste will be miserable.
Grace's finger stroke through John's hair, gentle movements, five spots of warmth against his scalp. He resists the urge to lean into it, close his eyes like a dog getting a scratch. "Oh, John," she says, and cups his cheek. "I wish I could kiss you."
John blinks up at her, amazed. "You wish you could kiss me?" he says.
Seeing that John doesn't understand, Grace tugs at his lapel. "Come up here," she says.
He straightens his spine, rising up as high as he can and remain on his knees. It's high enough for Grace to bend forwards and meet him halfway. The kiss is a ghost of a thing, a brush of her lips on his. John is confused and distressingly filled with hope. He doesn't dare move, for fear he breaks this moment. Grace is precious. Grace must never be hurt.
Grace sighs, her lips close to his. John breathes in the faint perfume of cosmetics, and a sweet, bitter hint of Aperol. "I want to kiss you properly, but –" she gestures at her perfectly red lips. "I'm never going to get them this good again if I smear them now."
"I can make them up for you again," Harold says, obligingly. "I'm not as precise as you with a brush, but I have my moments."
John can't stop himself picturing that: Grace's mouth slightly open, Harold holding the brush with two careful fingers, touching it to her lower lip. God. His heart is racing, and his cock is going to betray the line of his pants when he stands up. Some spy he makes.
"You know, you could kiss him for me," Grace says to Harold. John's poor heart stutters, and Grace traces his lips. "If you'd like that?"
John nods, and surrenders the stiletto to her. "Yeah," he says. "Is that okay?"
"John. It's so much better than okay," Grace says. "Come up here where I can see you both." She pulls gently on his wrists, and he stands up.
Harold steps in closer, loops an arm around John's waist and puts his palm to John's cheek. When their lips come together, it's anything but ghostlike. John closes his eyes and lets himself fall into that kiss, lets Harold hold him in place.
Grace's fingers are gently stroking John's belly as he and Harold kiss. "You're so beautiful with your eyes closed," she says. "I want to draw you while you sleep."
Harold moves his attention to the corner of John's mouth, the point of his jaw, the edge of an earlobe, making John gasp. "Doing anything while John sleeps is difficult," Harold says, between kisses. "He has an uncanny sense for when he's being observed."
John breathes fast and shallow as Harold's lips work along the line of John's collar, where the skin is thin and soft. After weeks of isolation, this is feast after famine, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Grace slides her hand between the two of them, so that Harold's body presses her palm against John's shirt. "We'll have to work extra hard to wear you out, then," she says. "That's a good reason to make it home in one piece, isn't it, John?"
John blinks at her over the top of Harold's head, then sees she's holding the other shoe. "The number is real?" His voice is hoarse. He'd come to the conclusion that Harold had arranged the whole thing, including the front page of the paper, just so they could have this conversation.
"Unfortunately it is," says Harold. "It did afford us the chance to open the discussion, though."
From the arm of the sofa, Grace passes him the other shoe. "And afterwards, we can continue it. If you want to, of course."
John takes the other shoe, and goes down on his knees again. This time, there's a pleasant tension in the room when he takes Grace's foot and gently slides it into the shoe and skilfully does up the buckle. "I'd like that," he says, and helps Grace take the first few steps away from the sofa. "I'd like it a lot."
Harold walks them to the door, and kisses each of them on the cheek as they put on their coats. "I'll see you both when you get home," he says. It's the best thing John has heard for weeks.
Fandom: Person of Interest
Rating: Mature
Words: 1771
Characters/Pairings: Harold/Grace/John
Warnings/Content: Pining, Formalwear, Expanding Relationship
Notes: Written for
talkingtothesky in Chocolate Box 2020Summary: This is not jealousy. John is happy that Grace is back in Harold's life.
Also at the Archive
It's not jealousy that he's feeling, John explains carefully to himself, when he comes into the library and finds Grace curled up with her head pillowed in Harold's lap.
"Mr Reese," Harold says. He has bought an actual newspaper today, rather than reading online, and John imagines the two of them chatting easily over breakfast. Grace would sketch the faces that walk past their table and Harold would watch her over the top of his paper with that expression of amazement and joy he has been wearing almost constantly since Grace came back into their lives. Into Harold's life, John corrects himself. Back into Harold's life.
Grace stretches out an arm to brush John's leg as he walks past. "Hey, Gorgeous," she says, and John smiles down at her before he puts down the tray of paper cups.
She does pet names, it seems: Root is Legs or Beanstalk; Shaw is Muscles which surprisingly does not get Grace killed; Bear is Good Boy, Fluffernutter, Bristlebutt and all kinds of things. John, apparently is Gorgeous or Handsome. He doesn't hate it, exactly, but there's something about it that makes him ache.
It's good that Grace is here. John is glad.
"We have a new number," Harold says, and passes the newspaper over to him. "And Grace has a connection to get us close. Well, you, at least. I'll be taking the back seat for this one."
"Yay!" says Grace. "I'm going to get fancy with Mr Gorgeous!"
John smiles down at her, and tells the squirm in his belly to shut up.
The number is a councilman, and it's not his first time on Harold's list. Harold tells them about it at the safehouse while Grace and John get dressed for a gallery opening.
"Before he ran for office, he was a gun control lobbyist," Harold says, as he slides the tux over John's shoulders and smooths it into place. "Quite an effective one, judging from the death threats. A certain Mr Partridge paid a great deal of money to attend a fundraiser, and they had a long conversation. I'm fairly sure that he'll remember my face."
"Mr Partridge," Grace says, and laughs. "You must be so tempting to all those hungry politicians. So plump and full of feathers to… pluck."
She's perched on the arm of the sofa, swinging her legs. Her hair is up in elaborate coils, and her eyes seem huge, outlined with silver and teal. John hasn't seen her wear make-up like this before, and it's hypnotic. He watches in the reflection of the mirror as Harold gives her a wicked smile just for the two of them. He's never seen Harold this relaxed. Or flirtatious. He and Grace are so good for each other.
John can do this. He straightens his cuffs, and gets a nod of approval from Harold.
Grace slips her feet into the strappy stilettos on the floor in front of her, then finds the turquoise silk sheath she's wearing is too tight for her to bend over and buckle them.
Harold makes a helpless gesture at her. "I can get down there, but I won't be getting up again in a hurry," he says, and they both look at John.
John goes down on one knee and then the other, and picks up a shoe. Grace's dress is ornately jewelled, and her shoes are high and spindly with silver straps that are barely there. There's just a loop for her toe and a thin piece to circle her ankle. The leather is very soft between John's fingers.
Grace smiles and points the toes on her right foot. "It's just like Cinderella," she says, as he slides the first shoe on. She's bare-legged tonight, and John can smell the faint perfume of her body lotion as he slips the ankle strap around. The buckle is tiny but his fingers are nimble and he easily gets the tongue fed through the metal square and secure.
Grace's other foot is pressed bare against his thigh for balance and John can't stop staring at her toes spread wide across his leg. She's had a pedicure recently and her toenails are shell pink, the polish smooth and fresh. The skin of her feet is soft, even the soles.
The room is silent, though John can hear Harold breathing a little faster than normal.
"We should talk," Grace says. "About the way things have been since Harold came back to me."
John can feel a blush spread across his face, and it's suddenly too warm in the safehouse. He hears Harold's feet on the wooden floor as he comes to stand next to Grace.
"Grace and I have talked about the relationship you and I shared, John."
From where he's kneeling John can see the grey of Harold's trousers, the smooth pale skin of Grace's legs. His cheeks are glowing, and there's a prickle of sweat beading across his forehead. How do they know what he has been feeling? John is extremely capable at hiding his vulnerabilities. It's a skill that has kept him alive so far.
Grace's fingers touch his hair softly. "You must miss him so much, John." She doesn't sound angry. John doesn't think he could stand it, if he had done something to make Grace angry. Grace deserves only good things.
"I haven't…" he says, then stops, rethinks his answer. "When I knew you and Harold were back together, from that moment, I didn't even think about him like that. I promise." He chances a quick glance up at Grace's expression, and finds that she is watching him with such sadness that he starts to stand up, to reassure her that he is fine.
"Oh, John," says Harold, and squeezes his shoulder. "You have behaved entirely honourably. This is not what we wanted to talk about."
Harold's hand is heavy and warm through the tuxedo. It sends a frisson of pleasure down John's back, reminds him that it's been a while since he and Harold have touched at all. John had convinced himself that it was an indulgence, not something he needed. Right now on his knees in front of Harold, John has the sharp realisation that going without again after this small taste will be miserable.
Grace's finger stroke through John's hair, gentle movements, five spots of warmth against his scalp. He resists the urge to lean into it, close his eyes like a dog getting a scratch. "Oh, John," she says, and cups his cheek. "I wish I could kiss you."
John blinks up at her, amazed. "You wish you could kiss me?" he says.
Seeing that John doesn't understand, Grace tugs at his lapel. "Come up here," she says.
He straightens his spine, rising up as high as he can and remain on his knees. It's high enough for Grace to bend forwards and meet him halfway. The kiss is a ghost of a thing, a brush of her lips on his. John is confused and distressingly filled with hope. He doesn't dare move, for fear he breaks this moment. Grace is precious. Grace must never be hurt.
Grace sighs, her lips close to his. John breathes in the faint perfume of cosmetics, and a sweet, bitter hint of Aperol. "I want to kiss you properly, but –" she gestures at her perfectly red lips. "I'm never going to get them this good again if I smear them now."
"I can make them up for you again," Harold says, obligingly. "I'm not as precise as you with a brush, but I have my moments."
John can't stop himself picturing that: Grace's mouth slightly open, Harold holding the brush with two careful fingers, touching it to her lower lip. God. His heart is racing, and his cock is going to betray the line of his pants when he stands up. Some spy he makes.
"You know, you could kiss him for me," Grace says to Harold. John's poor heart stutters, and Grace traces his lips. "If you'd like that?"
John nods, and surrenders the stiletto to her. "Yeah," he says. "Is that okay?"
"John. It's so much better than okay," Grace says. "Come up here where I can see you both." She pulls gently on his wrists, and he stands up.
Harold steps in closer, loops an arm around John's waist and puts his palm to John's cheek. When their lips come together, it's anything but ghostlike. John closes his eyes and lets himself fall into that kiss, lets Harold hold him in place.
Grace's fingers are gently stroking John's belly as he and Harold kiss. "You're so beautiful with your eyes closed," she says. "I want to draw you while you sleep."
Harold moves his attention to the corner of John's mouth, the point of his jaw, the edge of an earlobe, making John gasp. "Doing anything while John sleeps is difficult," Harold says, between kisses. "He has an uncanny sense for when he's being observed."
John breathes fast and shallow as Harold's lips work along the line of John's collar, where the skin is thin and soft. After weeks of isolation, this is feast after famine, and he doesn't know what to do with himself.
Grace slides her hand between the two of them, so that Harold's body presses her palm against John's shirt. "We'll have to work extra hard to wear you out, then," she says. "That's a good reason to make it home in one piece, isn't it, John?"
John blinks at her over the top of Harold's head, then sees she's holding the other shoe. "The number is real?" His voice is hoarse. He'd come to the conclusion that Harold had arranged the whole thing, including the front page of the paper, just so they could have this conversation.
"Unfortunately it is," says Harold. "It did afford us the chance to open the discussion, though."
From the arm of the sofa, Grace passes him the other shoe. "And afterwards, we can continue it. If you want to, of course."
John takes the other shoe, and goes down on his knees again. This time, there's a pleasant tension in the room when he takes Grace's foot and gently slides it into the shoe and skilfully does up the buckle. "I'd like that," he says, and helps Grace take the first few steps away from the sofa. "I'd like it a lot."
Harold walks them to the door, and kisses each of them on the cheek as they put on their coats. "I'll see you both when you get home," he says. It's the best thing John has heard for weeks.