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It was dark by the time they got back from Owen Island. The library felt muted and lonely; as though they'd been gone for months. They were still damp from the rain, but too tired to bother with a change of clothes.
"Tell me again, what's happening with The Machine?"
"I'm as perplexed as you are, Mr Reese. It's too soon to tell."
The table and chairs felt both familiar and new, as though Reese and Finch had come back from such a harrowing experience that they were changed people. Bear nudged Reese's leg, as though to ask, is everything okay?
It had been an unsettling case. Like something out of an Agatha Christie book, but without the necessary romance subplot, and fewer accents. Truth should be stranger than fiction, not a good approximation thereof. But there they'd been, as in a classic whodunit, interrogating each suspect, ending up themselves endangered. The Queen of Crime couldn't have done better. Then again, Agatha Christie's detectives had always possessed unimpeachable morals, and no one could say that about John Reese, Harold Finch, or any of their aliases.
The rain was picking up again, beating against the windows.
"You know, Finch, if you and I weren't on the same side... you would be very scary."
Finch's eyes slid up from the table. “Are you frightened?”
“No,” Reese said. “You are on my side.”
They quietly considered this. The rain, persistent, beat heavier, now accompanied by thunder. And Finch reached into his pocket, to retrieve the handkerchief the killer had given him.
Finch unfolded the handkerchief, ignoring the faint sheen of powder that clung to the creased centre of the cloth, and wiped his hair and face with it. Then Reese took the handkerchief from Finch's fingers and did the same.
*
After he folded the handkerchief away again, Finch bit down on his lower lip, as though considering something.
"Would you care for a glass of wine, Mr. Reese?"
Reese gestured towards the window, as though to say everything's shut down for the storm. "Where are we going to get wine?"
But Finch was already standing up, and had walked up to a row of books. Reaching behind them, he retrieved a (slightly dusty) bottle, which he set on the table. He then went into the kitchen space, and came back with something that looked like a metallic attaché case, except that it turned out to contain two delicate-looking wine glasses.
"Gee, Finch, to what do I owe this?"
"Well, Mr Reese, it's not every day you get shot at with a speargun again."
Reese stifled a giggle. Finch poured a small amount of wine in one glass, held it up to his nose, and drank it. Then he served them both.
"Thank you, Harold." Reese held up his glass.
Finch nodded. "Cheers."
The downpour continued, and they chatted aimlessly, while Bear napped at Reese's feet. When he thought about it later, Reese couldn't find anything unusual in this part of the evening. Unless one considered Finch's impromptu drink suggestion odd.
The conversation was unremarkable, until Finch asked Reese if he'd ever met a serial killer before the fake Fahey.
"Not that I knew of," he said. "Though if you want my opinion, most of the agents I worked with probably had a lot in common with serial killers." Reese said it as though there was nothing special about the statement.
"That can hardly have been pleasant, John." Finch said Reese's first name - the name he only seemed to use when Reese didn't expect it - softly.
Reese felt a little fuzzy around the edges, and tenderhearted, as though sharing the wine was creating a cocoon of something affectionate and companionable, holding them together, he and Finch. And maybe Bear too.
Reese finished his glass and poured another, and something reckless came over him. He flushed, and looked at Finch. "Harold, there's something you should know."
And Reese, for the first time since their meeting, and for seemingly no reason at all, confided in Finch. He told him about how, in the CIA, he'd sometimes understood his targets, he'd sometimes even identified with them. He'd occasionally even felt like their roles - his targets as villains, himself and his partner as heroes - were arbitrary.
"You know, Finch, when I chased you and Root all the way to Union Station, if I'd thought it would help me find you, I would have... The only thing that would have stopped me hurting innocent people would have been that you wouldn't have wanted me to. I'm not sure I... Sometimes I'm not sure that I have a moral code, like normal people." Reese closed his eyes, as though bracing himself for bad news.
Finch had reached out, halfway through Reese's speech, to clutch Reese's hands in his. His head bobbed a bit as he slurred, "John, there is no such thing as a normal person. And if you really didn't have a moral code, you wouldn't be so worried about my reaction to what you've just said."
"Harold, you're so... reasonable."
Finch took off his glasses. "I'm not reasonable," he said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. Then - though the library wasn't particularly warm - Finch moved as though to take off his jacket. He slid a sleeve down, but his cufflinks appeared to be stuck in a buttonhole. He struggled awkwardly with the jacket.
Reese stifled a laugh, and stood up, walking around the table. He tried to help Finch with his sleeves, but Finch wouldn't sit still, and the two of them fumbled uselessly, Finch still seated and Reese awkwardly standing, both intoxicated.
Reese wobbled, and started to lose his balance, nearly falling on top of Finch. He overcompensated, while Finch reached out to steady him, and Reese lost his balance completely. He fell flat on his back, dragging Finch along with him.
They landed awkwardly. Reese broke Finch's fall, and Bear trotted up to see what had happened. Reese ran his hands down Finch's arms, his sides, his legs, making sure Finch was intact. "Are you ok?"
Finch's voice was strained. "Are you ok, John?"
"I feel... odd." Reese slipped his fingers underneath Finch's collar, to feel the skin there.
"Oh." Finch said.
They lay there, confused, unmoving, until a crack of thunder outside broke the moment. Bear whined, and they turned their heads to find him looking at them curiously.
"John," Finch slurred. "John, we should..."
Finch groaned as he got up, swayed to one side, and tried to help Reese to stand. Reese brushed him off, but Finch fussed anyway, touching Reese's face, and feeling his forehead. "Hm."
Reese tried to bat his hand away. "Finch, no, I'm fine -"
"Sit, Mr. Reese. Just there."
Reese opened his mouth to protest, but felt his knees wobble dangerously. He sat. Finch moved his hand, and asked Reese to follow it with his eyes. He made a tiny clucking noise. Which was absurd because Finch appeared to be just as addled and confounded as Reese. "Mr. Reese, you're not well… You should get some rest."
"What, no, I'm not leaving the library now." I don't want to leave you alone.
"Shhh…" Finch stroked Reese's shoulders absentmindedly. "You'll stay here, of course."
"What?"
"Haven't I ever shown you?" Finch's eyes seemed unfocused.
"Finch, you're not making any sense."
But Finch was pulling Reese towards one of the bookcases.
"You need to lie down, Mr Reese." Finch said, matter-of-fact. "Come here."
He went up to the bookcase, and reached back, behind one of the books, pressing down. Just to their right, an entire bookshelf swung open, revealing a small bedroom.
"Oh." Reese said.
*
Reese just stood there, first staring at the secret room, and then at Finch. Without his glasses, there seemed to be something so unbearably vulnerable about Finch, and Reese's mind was abruptly filled with and overwhelming need to be close to Finch, to be near him. Like maybe if he covered Finch with his body, then nothing would ever happen to him.
But Finch was pushing Reese, blindly, towards the inside of the bedroom. They wobbled through the bookcases, and Finch pulled the secret door shut behind them. On the other side, Bear went back to his nap.
They fumbled.
Finch was trying to herd Reese towards the bed; Reese was still sort of trying to cover Finch's body with his own. They shuffled towards the bed in a confused pattern. Finch pulled back the covers and tried to tuck Reese in, while Reese tried to pull Finch under the bedclothes.
"John, this is okay." Finch clutched Reese, and breathed nearly directly into Reese's ear. "It wouldn't be with someone else. But it's okay with you." What did Finch mean, that this was okay? If it was okay, why was he trying to leave?
"What do you mean?" Reese asked. He was stronger, and had succeeded in pulling Finch onto the bed with him.
"I trust you, John. I trust you to know…" He gestured around the room "…where I sleep."
Reese tackled Finch, wrapping his arms around him. He felt as though he could have told Finch anything, confided in him, told him things he'd never thought he'd say out loud. He dimly remembered having told Finch one such thing already, though he couldn't remember exactly what it had been.
But Finch still seemed determined to put Reese to bed and then leave, or perhaps just settle himself on the other side of the bed. He did his best to disentangle himself from Reese's body, while Reese kept pulling back, because Reese did not want Finch to leave. He wanted Finch exactly where he was, because Finch was precious and could not, should not be left alone. What if he didn't know how much Reese cared?
In the struggle, Reese tried touching his lips to Finch's hair, to quiet him. And then to Finch's eyebrows, and cheekbones, and then he slowly brushed his lips across Finch's. Finch became very, very still. And then he let out a breath.
"Harold?" Reese spoke, his lips touching Finch's as they moved.
But then Finch's lips parted, and Reese's mind whited out. He kissed Finch. Kissed him like he'd been waiting to do it, as though he'd always been waiting to do it.
They clutched at each other, their minds drifting along with their senses. Reese ran his hands down Finch's body. They shifted... and suddenly their erections were poking into each other's hips. The room abruptly became very warm, and Reese rolled Finch over, and held his shoulders as he kissed him.
But Finch, unexpectedly, put his hand up, as though asking Reese to wait. His eyes seemed very dark, and he said: "No."
"What?" Reese answered, bewildered.
"No… no not like this."
Finch sat up, somehow, and pushed Reese down on the bed.
"Harold?" Reese gasped.
But Finch ran a finger over his lips. "Shhhhh," he soothed, while he groped Reese with his other hand. He unzipped Reese's fly, and palmed Reese's cock, and Reese felt touched and needy and broken, all at once.
A frenzy seemed to come over them; Reese's hips snapped while Finch kept his hand on Reese's chest, holding him in place. Reese lifted his arms and reached out, but Finch said, "No," softly, and Reese complied.
Reese's breathing quickened and he moaned into Finch's hand. His sounds filled the room.
Suddenly, disconcertingly, Finch took his hands off him. He whispered: "Ride me. You should ride me."
*
Finch lay down, or maybe Reese pulled him down, it was hard to tell. As though in a dream, Reese pulled off Finch's clothes, Finch's clothes, first peeling his trousers off, and then pulling down his briefs. Something so unbearably vulnerable about Finch without his glasses. Finch smelled like gabardine and library books and something... unutterably precious.
Overwhelmed, Reese leaned in close to Finch, his head lolling down over Finch's nude thighs. He touched the soft hairs there.
Once, on a camping trip, Reese had been so exhausted that he'd fallen asleep in front of the campfire, and had woken up with his head in his best friend's lap. For a brief moment - one of those moments that stay with you, always - the warmth of the fire, the smell of the campsite, and Joey Mackensie's thigh, had felt like everything he'd ever wanted.
But then he'd woken up. The abrupt realization that he wanted to rub his face all over Joey's upper legs had made the rest of the weekend awkward, and Reese couldn't look him in the eye. On the last day, his friend had become annoyed at his weird behaviour, and Reese had seen the impatient look in his eyes and suddenly imagined Joey taking it out on him. That night, in the tent, Reese had fallen asleep with an image of Joey pinning him down, and a painful, painful hard-on. He never told Joey. Reese had always thought that no one else could possibly want what he wanted.
Coming back into the moment, Reese looked down at Finch, dumbfounded.
With an impatient cry, Finch grabbed his hair, and pulled Reese down over his groin. Reese swooned, and Finch rubbed Reese's face onto his cock, roughly, ungainly, until Reese managed to pull it into his mouth. Reese thrust his tongue out and took it down so he felt the head of the cock in his throat, and kept it there, swallowing down on it until he could hear Finch groan.
You should ride me. Reese sat up and scrabbled at Finch's shoulders, whispered in his ear "Harold, where are the - do you have...?" And Finch pointed at the bedside table.
Reese grappled for the drawer, and handed Finch one of the condoms while he busied himself with lubrication. His fingers slipped in and he felt dizzy, like he couldn't push them deep enough. Wanton.
He threw his leg over Finch and gripped Finch's cock, but Finch put his hand up. Reese held still, and waited. And waited.
"Mr Reese, does nothing strike you as odd, at the moment?" Finch slurred.
Reese closed his eyes. Something did strike him as odd, but he couldn't remember why he should care. He couldn't let go of this moment. "Please." He begged. "Please, please, please."
Finch ran his hands over Reese's shoulders. "Alright."
*
Reese slid the head of Finch's cock, back and forth, back and forth, over his opening. He heard Finch inhale sharply as he started to push down. The head of Finch's cock was real, and blunt, and Reese wanted it. He mouthed the word "please" one last time, and sat all the way down on Finch's cock.
Finch took a deep breath, and threaded their fingers together.
Reese moved. Everything was fuzzy at the edges, but his body didn't need anything more to know how to do this. He pulled Finch's hand up to his lips, kissed it and sucked fingers into his mouth. He made the bed shake under them.
The penetration overwhelmed Reese. How could he have gone without this for so long? If he'd known - if he'd only known - maybe...
He clenched down onto Finch's shaft, and Finch moaned, loud and long. Finch's arousal was a powerful, powerful thing; it took hold of Reese; it shattered him. He took Finch's hand, wet with saliva, and wrapped it around his own cock. Finch squeezed, Reese moved up and down, and they were floating; their whole worlds reduced to Finch's cock sliding in and out, in and out, and their obscene noises.
Reese shuddered, and Finch surged up and came, hard, gripping Reese's cock with his hand. Reese came in his turn, sticky and lewd, all over Finch. His head was a jumble of thoughts. Why haven't we done this before? He sagged, and Finch pulled him down, wrapping his arms around him, holding in Reese and his shudders and their heaving breaths and all the things they didn't talk about.