Reese watched with a wolf like grin as Finch hovered over the stove, preparing a gravy sauce from scratch for the ham Reese had whipped up for tonight’s dinner, currently warming up in the oven. The green beans where steamed and waiting on one burner, while Finch smattered some salt into the mix, humming to himself.
The ex-op approached closer, socked feet not making a sound as he slipped behind the shorter man, nuzzling the side of his neck and nearly making Finch spill the boiling gravy onto the floor. Harold gave him a look, but said nothing and simply satisfied Reese’s primal need with a kiss on the cheek, before returning to his chefing duty, while Reese set the table.
Soon the timer beeped and the gravy was already on the table, in a gravy dish elegantly made to the recluse’s fine taste. Reese went to get the ham, but was shooed off, Finch already holding the meat carefully in the tin pan, blue cooking mitts protecting his skin. The sight of the older man in a simple plaid shirt, no tie, and just normal khaki pants, topped with his circular frames melted a piece of John. There were very few times when Finch became relaxed, even fewer when he’d dress ‘lazily’ and Reese felt honored to see the man like this. (More honored to see him spread wide and moaning under him, but we won’t go into that.)
“Mr. Reese,” Finch interrupted the ex-op’s thoughts with a strained voice, “Could you help me cut this monster of a pig you’ve bought?” The wording made them both chuckle, but the ham was rather large for the age of the sow, but who could complain, it wouldn’t go to waste, besides, Bear liked a good snack every now and again. He grabbed a fillet knife-the closest thing around-and circled both arms at the sides of Finch’s pudgy waist, pressing the man on the counter as he leaned over and leisurely cut the pork. “J-John,” Harold stuttered, licking his lip when Reese nibbled on his exposed neck, vibrating with happiness.
“Yes, Harold?” Reese whispered against his neck, stabbing the pieces that were cut off and transferring them onto a serving platter, not at all bothered by his childish antics. You couldn’t blame a man for showing his love. Turning around, he set the platter on the table set for two; giving Bear a warning look when he was the guard dog under the table lick his lips. Finch slipped the oven mitts off, setting them on the counter then walking over with a cup of the green beans while Reese shot back off the grab the wine, filling up the empty glasses. Then, ever the gentleman, he pulled out Finch’s chair and then scooted it closer once he’d been settled in the dining chair.
“Well, thank you for dinner, Mr. Reese,” Harold said, looking up at John from over his frames, a coy smile playing on his lips.
“Oh, believe me,” John drew in a breath, pressing a foot to Finch’s, smirking, “The pleasure’s all mine.”
(Okay, the hell is this. What am I doing?)