A/N: I'm indebted to Wuchel1 who provided some much-needed feedback, and whose support and fellowship were essential to seeing this story through to the end.

Tausend Dank!

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The Boundary Dweller

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"Creep, creep."

The sound at first seemed like the small, persistent squeak of an old porch swing, and it matched the rocking in his head.

He felt ill but forced his eyes open anyway, blinking rapidly against the dazzling sunlight. A warm breeze blew sheer curtains in through a large, screenless window then pulled them out again.

"Creep, creep?"

A tiny red and yellow bird, unlike any he was familiar with, landed on the sill and tilted its head curiously.

He tried sitting up to return the bird's scrutiny but a powerful wave of nausea rose with him, and he fell back with a groan. The effort brought a flurry of movement and a light touch on his shoulder as his partner perched on the edge of the bed next to him.

"I'm right here, John."

He tried to focus on Harold's face but his vision blurred as his friend dashed off a hasty text message.

"Indulge me and be still until the doctor arrives. You've been out for nearly 48 hours. Another few minutes won't matter."

It was an easy request to comply with. There was an epic pounding radiating through his entire head which left him with little ability to do anything else. His sight cleared a bit and he watched as Harold took a few agitated steps around the airy room before returning to sit beside him again, his face drawn and troubled.

"How much do you remember, John?"

He concentrated for a moment then turned his gaze towards the ceiling. The motion of a slowly-turning fan threatened to make the room spin with it, and he shut his eyes.

"I remember we lost Carla."

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Carla Atwater was one of Manhattan's great ones. A tireless, wholly committed young woman with a privileged upbringing, she had exerted her family's social clout - as well as their considerable wealth - on a breathtaking number of charitable and social causes. A picture of the pretty socialite wielding a hammer for Habitat for Humanity had been picked up by the Associated Press a few years ago and splashed around the internet. Since then her philanthropy had become something of a movement, inspiring people from all backgrounds to get more involved with their communities.

The only person unimpressed with her accomplishments had been her brother Jason. Unhappy that she was depleting so much of the family fortune on her good works, he conspired to have her killed during a much-needed weekend of rest at her home in the Hamptons. The Machine had done its job and given them her number, but in the end all of their resources had been no match for a massive pile-up on the Montauk Highway which brought traffic to a standstill for miles in every direction. They had abandoned the car and John had raced on ahead, but by the time he arrived the house was already an inferno.

He'd broken down the burning door but every room was ablaze, and he had followed Carla's screams back to the bedroom where she was trapped by the fire. He tried desperately to dodge through the blaze and reach her, but a gusty wind blew the billowing flames around erratically forcing back his every attempt. Her terrified face as the cottage roof collapsed in flames on top of her was his final sight before a fiery beam had fallen and knocked him unconscious. He remembered nothing after that; he only knew that it was perversely unfair that this exemplary woman had died while he survived.

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"John, there's something you need to know."

Harold was still sitting beside him. The little sunbird had returned to the window sill, and beyond its chirping John could hear what he would have sworn was the lulling sound of an ocean tide. For the first time it occurred to him to wonder exactly where they were.

"Ms. Atwater was a very prominent individual - known and admired throughout the country. Even though Detective Carter assures me that Jason Atwater is in custody and will likely spend the rest of his life behind bars, Carla's death is still being investigated on a microscopic level. The police were able to recover a fair amount of information from her security system. Unfortunately some of that footage shows us at the scene, which is generating quite a bit of curiosity from the authorities. It seemed prudent to leave the country until some of the attention surrounding Carla's death has passed.

"We're in the Seychelles, Mr. Reese. I have…interests in this part of the world."

John tried to absorb this bit of information into his jumbled brain. His work with the CIA had taken him to many exotic locations, but this secluded chain of islands in the Indian Ocean was not one of them. He was about to question his partner on this seemingly eccentric choice of hideouts when they were interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.

Harold greeted the medic at the door, but their voices carried clearly into the bedroom.

"So he's awake? Well I'm glad to hear it, since you're well aware that he should have been in the hospital."

"Obviously I had faith in your ability to take care of him here, doctor."

Even though the doctor had opened the conversation with a rebuke, the tone of the exchange was familiar and John had the impression that the two men had known each other for some time.

"John, this is Dr. Galway."

Harold finally relaxed a little, and the arrival of the physician even brought a tentative smile.

"Please, call me Dylan."

The young man extended his hand. With his red hair and scattering of freckles he looked more like an earnest teenager than a thirtyish professional. But he exuded a modest confidence that was appealing, and John thought he understood why Harold trusted him.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Rooney?"

The doctor's eyes flickered over to Harold for the briefest moment.

"You had us pretty worried."

Dylan pulled a chair next to John's bed and Harold gave him an encouraging nod before retreating from the room, managing to leave the door partway open behind him.

John sat up carefully. Every part of his body ached, but not enough to prevent a casual interrogation as his eyes followed the beam from Dr. Galway's penlight.

"It seems like you've known Harold for quite a while."

"Just a few years really. He contacted me while I was finishing my residency at Mount Sinai."

"You're his personal physician, then?"

"In a way, I guess. I oversee the medical staff that works out of his foundation."

Foundation?

John kept his surprise carefully masked but needed a moment to consider this. The observant young doctor took the opportunity to do some fishing of his own.

"Normally I work at the foundation's headquarters in Nairobi, but yesterday Mr. Crane ordered me here and said that everything else could wait, that you were the priority right now."

This was said as a matter of fact, no more or less, yet the doctor's curiosity about his new patient was evident. John ignored the comment.

"And you enjoy working here? And working for Mr. Crane?"

Dylan had been about to slip a blood pressure cuff over John's arm, but he stopped mid-task and his face lit up.

"Oh, yes! I wouldn't want to be anywhere else. Although my family thinks I'm crazy," he admitted good-naturedly.

"They just assumed I would go into private practice. But Mr. Crane was instrumental in providing aid to the Somalia famine victims a few years ago, and right now the foundation is funding the Red Cross's disaster relief efforts. We're making a real difference here. Now that I've been given this opportunity I can't imagine spending my life any other way."

The man's enthusiasm and passion brought Carla rushing back to John's mind - all of her commitment, all of her dedication to making the world a better place, all the good she would never do because he had failed her. His little interrogation didn't seem like such fun anymore.

Harold had given up hovering outside the door and was back in the bedroom, pinning the doctor with an expression which left no doubt that he was waiting for an update.

"Rest is crucial at this point. We don't want that swelling on his brain to return. Keep him quiet for a few days and he should be fine."

John recognized that the doctor was obliged to give an account to his employer, but the exchange still left him feeling reduced to the status of a very young child in need of supervision and he rolled his eyes vigorously. Only a tiny quirk at the corner of the billionaire's mouth betrayed that he noticed his partner's indignation.

Harold had retaken his post on the edge of John's bed and Dr. Galway paused and looked back at them before taking his leave.

"You're a very fortunate man, Mr. Rooney."

Everything about Harold seemed lighter after Dylan's examination, and despite his wounded pride John was relieved to hear a note of dry humor return to his partner's voice.

"Did you understand the doctor's orders Mr. Reese, or would you like me to go over them?"

John understood and he did try to comply - he still felt lightheaded and sick. But he was unable to close his eyes without replaying that desperate failed race to reach Carla in time, searching for any error he made or any other choice that might have brought him there in time. The fact that he could find no mistake did nothing to ease his remorse, and only utter exhaustion finally allowed him to slip into a troubled sleep.

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The now-familiar chirp of the colorful little bird and the distinctive sound of uneven footsteps moving around the room informed him that it was a new day, and he opened his eyes to the sunlit room.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese. I trust you're feeling better today?"

John heard right through the casually-uttered words to the worry underneath and never considered mentioning the unrelenting nightmares of the fire which had prevented any real restfulness. Instead he simply nodded and allowed himself to enjoy the incongruous sight of his partner - now out of the dusky library and presiding over what appeared to be a sunny beach house - still wearing an exquisitely tailored three-piece suit.

"Good, but remember that you still need to rest. The detectives - and Ms. Shaw, hopefully - will be able to handle matters until it's safe for us to return."

Harold clearly had something else to share with him, and whatever it was he was positively brimming with satisfaction.

"There's one more thing, John. Bear will be here in just a few days."

Harold was watching him closely - waiting for his reaction - and John did not disappoint. But he also didn't dwell too long on the realization that - happy though he would be to see Bear - his smile was more for his partner's rare unguarded expression, an almost boyish eagerness that pulled at him so strongly he decided the feeling must be one more after-effect of the concussion.

For the moment at least he was content to let the other man fuss over him, and he laid back to allow a cold compress to be placed on his still-throbbing forehead. Harold's sleeve pulled back as he reached across to settle the cloth in place, revealing a thick bandage that started at his wrist and appeared to travel the length of his forearm.

John's mind abruptly presented him with an array of disjointed memories: the deafening roar of the fire but above it his name being called over and over again. The heat of the flames and the smell of his own singed hair. And finally the sensation of being lifted under the arms and dragged slowly but relentlessly out of the cottage as all hell burned around him.

He understood exactly why he hadn't died in the fire along with Carla, and the discovery added an entirely new dimension to his guilt.

But while his heart and mind struggled with this revelation his body began to heal. After another day he was permitted out of bed, and he began to explore his surroundings. The bungalow - as Harold quaintly insisted on calling it - was an exquisite single-story house that edged the glimmering beach and boasted a 180 degree view of the turquoise waters of the Indian Ocean. The design felt contemporary but with its clean, unpretentious lines it nestled in harmoniously with the lush foliage and coco palms that surrounded and sheltered it. The large, uncluttered rooms were just as tastefully furnished as John had expected, and large French doors opened onto a spectacular deck crafted from some dark, exotic wood. The house was largely cooled by the gentle winds that blew in through one side and out the other, carrying the intoxicating scent of wild orchids and giving the entire place the feeling more of a breezeway than an exclusive beach house.

Dr. Galway continued to check on him twice a day, and John didn't bother to protest since the orders were coming directly from Harold and his partner was not about to relent on this point. He soon felt well enough apart from a lingering sadness he couldn't seem to shake, but Dylan assured him that the feeling was not uncommon after a concussion and that it would pass in time.

John wasn't so sure.

Carla's memorial service was streamed live and they watched it on Harold's laptop, sitting together in the bungalow's great room with the French doors open to the sound of the lapping waves and squalling seabirds. He couldn't watch the solemn service without reliving the tragic night of Carla's death, and he couldn't go on any longer without trying to talk to his friend about the recollections that were tormenting him.

"I remember the fire, Harold. I know what you did and you can't - you got hurt rescuing me."

Harold gave him the slightest nod of acknowledgement before averting his face.

"Then I'm sure you'll agree Mr. Reese that there's nothing more that needs to be said on the subject."

In a way John supposed that was true - they both understood that Harold had risked everything to save him. And even though he knew there were other things that might be said, those words always seemed frustratingly out of reach, and he let the moment go by.

Bear's arrival was a joyous reunion for them all, and the bungalow's gleaming hardwood floors were soon sprinkled with white sand from the dog's large paws. Dr. Galway quickly recruited the Malinois for visits to the children's hospital on nearby Mahe Island, and with Harold providing long-distance intel to the New York team John was left to wonder how he had become the least-productive member of the partnership.

He began taking long walks and soon came to know the island by heart - the little hills and groves of cinnamon trees, the pristine beaches with their ambling tortoises, the wild white orchids that grew in profusion around the bungalow. And with just a bit of prodding the billionaire admitted what John had rapidly come to suspect - that his partner owned the beautiful little island. It was paradise really, and Harold made it abundantly clear that everything this little paradise had to offer was John's for the asking. It only added to his guilt and restlessness.

And though his friend did his best to conceal it, John knew that Harold was let down by his inability to enjoy all that was being offered to him; he seemed confused by it even. But he also seemed more determined than ever to make John feel at home on the island.

Harold's next inspiration was to invite him to sit in on a board meeting of The Crane Initiative. John did so to please his partner, though he could scarcely imagine a situation where his skills were of less use. And as he tried to focus on a discussion about the future of developing countries he caught a glimpse of the still-healing wound beneath Harold's elegant French cuff. Suddenly he had a vision of an entirely different future, the nearly-realized future of a Finch-less foundation closing its doors forever because its foolhardy leader had thrown his life away on a cause that was lost long ago.

He left the room abruptly and didn't return. Without hiding his concern Harold let him go, and John was grateful that the other man knew him so well as to recognize when he needed to be alone with his thoughts, however unhappy they might be.

John left for his walk early the next morning and headed for a little cove on the far side of the island where the terns gathered to nest. He sat on an outcropping of smooth rocks under a cluster of breadfruit trees and tossed stones into the water, taking stock of his life and feeling utterly wretched.

He had been repulsed by the work he had done for the CIA and he'd survived those dark years by withdrawing from himself as if the horrific acts he committed were done by an outsider, by some intruder who had stolen his body. And he had watched himself commit these atrocities the way people who've had near-death experiences often describe looking down at their bodies before floating off to heaven. But there would be no heaven for him. He would never belong with the Carlas and Dylans and Harolds of the world, bringing aid and comfort to others.

It was late in the afternoon when he finally headed back to the bungalow, having found no peace or enlightenment among the seabirds and tortoises.

Still deep in his desolate thoughts, John was startled out of his reverie by a salutation from Dr. Galway, who greeted him somewhat awkwardly and then made several minutes of uneasy small talk. It seemed after a while that Dylan had decided against saying what was really on his mind, but as John turned to go the young man called after him.

"You never mentioned how you know Mr. Crane."

Something in the young man's expression spoke to the decency that made him such an asset to Harold's foundation; even so John was cautious with the information he dispensed.

"We work together."

And then the good doctor froze him in his tracks.

"Do you love him?"

The question seemed out of the blue but it wasn't, not really. In fact already suspecting its answer had been adding to John's misery these last days.

"I was at the airport when the two of you arrived. It was a disaster. You had a grand mal seizure on the flight over here, several of them actually. That only happens when a patient has survived an impressive number of concussions."

The doctor looked to John for confirmation, but when it became clear that the ex-op was not going to comment he continued.

"Our employer brought you in on a medical plane that was better equipped than most hospitals I've seen, but they couldn't stabilize you. It was touch and go for a few hours, and Mr. Crane was nearly out of his mind. He was frantic, inconsolable. I wanted to give him a sedative - at least treat the burn on his arm - but he wouldn't hear of it. He wouldn't let you out of his sight and he insisted that we bring you to his home instead of the hospital. I don't think he slept until you were out of danger.

"Listen. I don't know you but I've come to know him and I've never seen him care for another person the way he cares for you. Mr. Crane is such a good man - he does so much good - I would hate to see any harm come to him, that's all.

"If he's really no more than an employer to you maybe you should just go now and let him be, before you end up destroying him completely."

With a nod that wasn't unsympathetic the doctor left John alone then, devastated by this confirmation of everything that had been holding him back all along. Pain and suffering followed him, and they were all that he brought to those he cared about.

Somehow - with Harold - he had allowed himself to believe that he might be able to return from the darkness, that redemption was still possible for him. These last days had shown him the folly of that notion.

He was crushingly aware of just how alone he was - never, ever at home with the CIA and now just an imposter in his partner's fraternity of goodness. The kiln-hot sun beat down on him and he wished fervently that it could purify him - purify him for Harold - and he wandered under its scorching rays until it disappeared into a pinkish-blue glow on the horizon, leaving only the physician's words ringing in his head.

Maybe you should just go now and let him be…

He knew in his heart the doctor was right - and yet he could no more do that than part from his own soul, blackened though it was.

He burst into the bungalow with such force that the door crashed through the doorstop and slammed into the wall behind it. Harold jumped at the noise, but one look brought him to his partner as quickly as his awkward gait would allow.

John had no idea of his own expression, but the distress there caused Harold to reach up and gently cup his face. He leaned into the soft touch, yielding to the comfort it offered, before covering Harold's hand with his own. With no thought beyond the desperate need to belong somewhere, he allowed himself to be pulled into Harold's arms.

"I know you need me, John."

Was that even allowed in his world, to need another person this completely? He let his head fall to Harold's shoulder and rest there.

"You won't lose me, John. I've done some brave things in my life and some things of which I'm not very proud. But the strongestI've ever been was when I pulled you out of that fire. I can't be anything less than what you need me to be."

Harold stroked the back of his head, ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck, and John was suddenly aware that the billionaire was trembling. Long moments passed before he heard a low voice close to his ear.

"I thought I'd lost you in the fire, that I had let all of our chances pass us by. I was afraid we would never discover together how this feels."

Harold found his mouth so urgently it felt as if he were claiming John's very breath for his own. John let himself disappear into the kiss and everything else seemed to melt away. The warmth of Harold's skin, the taste of his mouth on John's lips, his partner's familiar scent mingling with his own were all that mattered to him now. All conscious thought ceased. Only Harold was real.

And when the kiss ended Harold still did not release him; one hand loosely gripped his forearm while the other rested on John's chest where he could feel the rhythm of his pounding heart.

"You should know that I'm not easily parted from what belongs to me."

John gasped. It was said as a tease but they both knew better, and the words filled some measureless void deep within him. He wanted the other man's hands on him, to feel complete in the way that only Harold's touch could accomplish.

"Without you my life would be far too boring."

John raised an eyebrow at this last, and Harold surprised him by reaching up and gently tracing it with his fingertips.

"I know your every expression, your every mood. I know exactly everything about you, Mr. Reese - and I wouldn't change a thing."

He was drawn into another kiss then, this one so tender and full of understanding that his legs almost gave way beneath him. Harold steadied him and with a little tug pulled him through the open French doors.

Moonlight glimmered across a large, low bed that had been placed in a private corner of the deck where it was open to the elements but sheltered by the overhanging palms. A few loose orchid petals blew gently across the single fitted sheet, and John realized that his partner was still trying to offer him paradise.

Harold's words so far had been brave but his face was now a question. It was a question John knew he wanted to answer forever, and he longed to erase every lingering uncertainty, every last foolish doubt about how much he ached for the other man.

It was Harold's turn to gasp at the swiftness with which John gathered him in and eased him down onto the soft bed.

Words were still elusive but with every inquisitive touch, each fervent kiss he could show Harold how much he loved him, how much he needed him. So dedicated was John to this communion that he was scarcely aware he was removing the other man's clothing as he went, and that Harold's hand was guiding his along a row of obstinate buttons that dared try to keep them apart from one another.

And when the absurd clothes had finally fallen away John started with the fresh pink wound on Harold's arm and moved his lips along in a wandering path until he reached the scars on his partner's neck and back, where he tried to take away all the pain he knew resided there, tried to soak it into his own body instead and send it away forever.

Perhaps it worked because Harold suddenly pushed him onto his back with surprising strength. And as he began stripping away John's clothes it seemed as if he was also stripping away all the pain, all the darkness, all the haunting regret that had kept them apart for too long. Harold's hands were touching him everywhere, possessing every mortal scrap of him.

John felt as if his very soul had been laid as bare as his body and he cried out as if he were broken, though in truth he had never before felt this whole. He gently pulled their bodies closer together and when their skin finally touched - first with a shivering graze and then with the full contact of a new embrace - the sensation ignited such intense, mutual pleasure that for a moment John thought that Harold might actually purr in his arms at this long-denied satisfaction. With a look that was at once both blissful and mischievous, Harold brushed his lips softly against John's own, flaming his body with an entirely new kind of fire.

"Did you know that this island once claimed to be the Garden of Eden?"

And with that he began slowly trailing his kisses down John's chest, down his abdomen, still descending…

As they found an urgent rhythm John wondered how this singular man had become a part of his very essence, as inextricable as the brilliant stars above them were from the deepening night.

But that was a question for another time. For now he simply gave himself over to a quiver of ecstasy, a sultry breeze on his naked skin, and a sound that was surely just the soft moan of the breaking ocean returning home to the shore.

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FIN

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A/N: Thanks so much for reading my story. I was a little out of my comfort zone with this one, so if you enjoyed it feel free to let a girl know, okay? It's very much appreciated.