The steady beep of the heart monitor had become little more than a drone in the back of John’s mind, a tiny little message from Harold saying I’m still alive, Mr. Reese. At least that was how he imagined it in the hours he spent sitting in the chair, alternating between watching Harold, watching the door, and watching out the window for any approaching operatives. Occasionally he spared a glance upwards to the patient camera the nurses used.
Are you still up there? he thought once. He opened his mouth to say it, hesitated as the sound caught in his throat, and closed his mouth again, returning to watching the window.
Reese spent hours that way. He needed medical care too, and at least one of the nurses coming and going tried to talk him into it, but he couldn’t explain to them the life altering fight that had just went down, that he didn’t know if they were still safe, that he had to keep an eye on Harold, that he had to make sure he was safe above all else.
At some point, exhaustion won out and he nodded off in his seat, leaning his head against the windowsill. Everything hurt, a full body ache that made it hard to pinpoint the major injuries—a consequence of having a missile bring a building down on your head, he supposed—with the exception of his left leg. It was… it wasn’t doing good, crushed under rubble and then some. He’d have to have it checked out, eventually, but now wasn’t the time. First he had to make sure Harold was fine, and then he had to make contact with Shaw. Then he’d worry about his leg.
The voice brought him out of his sleep and dreams of fire and gunpowder with a shocking abruptness, sitting up sharply, sending pain corkscrewing around bones, fractured and otherwise, and badly bruised muscles. A soft grunt escaped him, bringing a hand to his stomach, bruised from the multiple gunshots his vest had caught, but he was already looking over at Harold.
“I’m here,” he said, a little hoarse, and cleared his throat as he stood up unsteadily on his good leg, before limping over to the bed with a little assistance from leaning on the end of the hospital bed for support. He slid onto the bed next to him, even now as he was wracked with pain being mindful of Harold’s injuries. He reached up to rest a hand on his chest, but his other hand came up to take Harold’s hand nearest to him. “You’re awake.”
They talked a little, John filled him in on what he knew so far, that they were safe for now, that he hadn’t made contact with Shaw or Fusco yet [ I wanted to focus on you went unspoken. ], and an emphasis on I’m okay when Harold turned his attention to it, even though he’d just watched John limp, heavily, from the chair to the side of Harold’s bed. Still, a smile settled onto his features. Tired, world worn and exhausted into the bones, but a smile all the same.
But for the moment, Harold seemed okay to let it go, at least, instead disentangling his hand and reaching up for John. John, who put up no resistance at all, leaning down gladly to capture Harold’s lips with his own. One hand came up, an instinct at this point, to slide beneath Harold’s neck, calloused fingers brushing across old scars with as much tenderness as an ex-assassin could possible muster… which turned out to be quite a lot, as he braced Harold’s neck, ensuring it didn’t bend any as they kissed.
The sweeping relief the kiss started with drained into a kind of desperation as his other hand, the one that had previously been clutching Harold’s hand, slid up to cup the side of his face, fingers curled gently around the warm skin of his cheek and the side of his neck, his thumb resting lower down on his chin as they sat there.
Some of Harold’s scent, the smell of tea and incense that hung so heavily around him, had mostly been replaced by something more sterile, iodine and alcohol or some other disinfectants, along with the stony-cement smell that hung around John, still clinging to his suit despite his best attempts to brush off.
When they parted, he still leaned in, even as his joints and his bones and his muscles ached at the position, so he could rest his forehead against, the end of his nose brushing Harold’s.
“I think we’re okay,” he said, eventually, in a low rasp so quiet it was almost impossible to hear beyond them. “I think we won.”
The ONLY THING Harold remembered about reaching the hospital was that he'd somehow made it there on foot. Everything else was either entirely blank or a blur. He'd lost a lot of blood, been in far more pain than he'd EVER experienced all at once—which, for someone with chronic pain, that was saying something. And yet, somehow he'd made the trek down from the top of the building, through the streets of New York, where he remained unconscious in a hospital bed, for the moment.
Harold hadn't known then if he'd ever see John again; in fact, despite his desperate hope, he practically BET on it being incredibly unlikely. When he began to stir, all of his senses gradually coming back to him as consciousness encompassed him once more, he'd expected to be alone. Those who would have stayed until he awoke were gone, he'd thought, and truly, he didn't blame the others for not being here. They had their own lives to rebuild, their own wounds to heal.
As blue eyes fluttered open, however, Harold turned head and shoulders stiffly, glancing around—and it felt like his heart had practically leapt into his throat at the sight of John’s sleeping form. He was perched on a chair, his head resting against the windowsill ... and he looked like hell, even if the sight of him at all, STILL ALIVE, was the most incredible thing he could've asked for. Harold felt an overwhelming surge of emotion swell in his chest, curl in his throat enough to make his eyes burn. He cleared his throat softly before finding his voice.
John awoke with a start at the MERE SOUND of Harold’s voice and he couldn’t help but wince at the clear pain the movement caused; but the sound of John’s voice caused another twinge of emotion, so much desperate love and relief. 'I'm here,' he'd said, sounding absolutely as pained as he looked. Of course Harold noticed the way he moved, the CLEAR INDICATORS that he was in worse shape than Harold was now. He resolved himself to convince John to get the help he needed.
At first, however, they discussed the situation at hand; all the while, Harold easily twined their fingers together when John took his hand, rested his other atop the wrist of the hand resting against his chest. They needed to touch bases with Miss Shaw and Fusco, Harold found out what exactly had happened to John—which was when he did try to bring attention to his injuries, but ... he emphasized how fine he was. Harold let out a quiet sigh ... before disentangling one of his hands to reach for him, coaxing him to lean in so that he could capture John's lips with his own.
A sweeping, bone deep relief encompassed him, as if kissing John was like a long drink of water after having been SEVERELY dehydrated. Things intensified quickly, however, and Harold's other hand came up to curl into the lapels of his ruined suit jacket. A soft, wavering sigh escaped him as they parted and Harold could FEEL the way the answering pain made him wince—he tried to stifle it, but ... he knew John too well for that.
"Yes," he agreed, speaking just as softly between them, briefly allowing blue eyes to flutter shut. "I believe so." They lingered there like that for a few minutes, Harold allowing himself to simply BASK in John's presence, knowing that he was here and he was alive. Now, he had to try and CONVINCE the most selfless man alive to get his injuries taken care of. He glanced up to regard John’s features, breathing in a scent that was DISTINCTLY John underneath ( a smoky musk scent, very frequently with a hint of gunpowder ), but partially shrouded by the dusty cement smell that clung to him. Harold slid his hands up to hold John's face between them, gently urging him to look up.
"You've gotta get yourself checked out now, John. I can handle contacting Miss Shaw and Fusco—my phone's in reach, I won't exert myself. YOU, on the other hand, nearly got crushed to death by a collapsing building," Harold affectionately smoothed his thumbs over John's cheeks and his eyes closed again, albeit TIGHTLY this time as dark brows tensed. "Please, John. I ... suspected you might not be here when I woke up. I need you to let them take care of you."
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