Archive of Our Own

"Mr. Reese."

Finch heard himself say John's assumed name in a calm, level tone. Almost as though he hadn't spent days rehearsing what he now had to say.

He gestured for Reese to sit. "I am happy to see that you are neither hospitalized nor imprisoned."

Reese sat. "Couldn't, Finch. You know that. They don't allow dogs in hospitals or prisons."

"Oh." By leaving Reese on his own, Finch had left Bear vulnerable as well. "Of course."

"Then again, maybe Bear could have used a break from being around me, too," Reese said.

Reese had obviously meant it as banter, but for a short moment, Finch felt as though all the air had been taken out of his lungs. He'd spent the week in an old safe house he hadn't used since university - he'd written most of his thesis there - and he'd fallen back into the long-ago-familiar mindset of a recluse who didn't have any responsibilities. It had just been Harold, a computer, and some frozen dinners. He'd spent the week working on a project. A nice, coherent, complicated, workable project. In truth, he'd done his best to forget all about John Reese. It just hadn't occurred to him that John Reese might care.

He took a deep breath. He'd emerged from his safe house a stable, grounded, reasonable man. He was just going to have to do his best to remember that feeling. "We have something to discuss, Mr. Reese."

Reese nodded. "What's on your mind?"

"It was kind of you to respect my privacy during my absence. Thank you. You would not have been able to find me, but I appreciate that you did not even attempt it."

"Well, Finch -"

Finch held up his hand, just a little bit, so Reese wouldn't interrupt him. "Were you take a similar leave of absence, I would, of course, afford you the same respect."

He was struggling with what he had to say. Finch had spent the week putting together most of the framework for an online suicide prevention network (he was going to call it "imalive.org"). He'd had to think about suicidal teens… for hours on end, and that had still been more fun than this conversation was probably going to be.

"Mr. Reese," Finch had spent a long time figuring out how to say this, "Mr. Reese, our partnership has the potential to become... claustrophobic, at times, and I would certainly understand if you needed some breathing room." He couldn't quite make himself look Reese in the eye. "However... it occurs to me that we... that you and I may be on uneven ground. You have, of course, the loft, and your credit cards, and your aliases. But they are the credit cards and aliases I gave you, and the loft I bought for you. And since you do not have similar knowledge of my sources of income or my aliases, I'm concerned that this might be... unfair."

Finch took out a folded piece of paper from his pocket, and slid it onto the table. "I've deposited a sufficient amount of money into this numbered account for you to purchase a safe house. The account is as untraceable as I could make it - untraceable even from myself - and I urge you to select an equally untraceable safe house."

Reese started. "Harold -"

"Mr. Reese - John - you said that you did not feel that anything untoward had happened between you and I, and I trust you, but -" he looked up at Reese. "It would ease my mind if you had a space. A space I could not go looking for, even if I wanted to."

Reese slowly reached out for the piece of paper.

"I would like us to be on even ground, Mr. Reese."

*

Getting Reese to accept the money for his untraceable safe house was Finch's project for day one of his return. On day two, he considered the library bedroom.

He hadn't been in there since - since he and Reese… since their night of concupiscence. He hadn't felt ready.

But now, here he was. He took a deep breath. He put his hand on the door switch…

Then, from the far end of the corridor, Finch heard the unmistakeable sound of Reese and Bear coming through the library hallway. Odd.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Reese?" Finch called out, just as Reese appeared with two paper cups, a pastry box, and Bear pulling on his leash.

Finch stood up to grab one of the cups before it tipped over, and Bear circled them, effectively tying them up with his leash. "Ah." Finch said.

Reese quickly dropped his end of the leash and they extricated themselves from the tangle, but they couldn't help but brush up against each other, and Finch could feel Reese's warm muscles through the fabric of his suit.

Reese coughed.

"Thank you for the tea, Mr. Reese, but to what do I owe the honor? I would have called you if we had a new number."

Reese cocked his head in that way he did when something wasn't right. "I got a call this morning, Finch. Phone rang, couldn't make out the words, but sounded just like the The Machine."

Curious. "So you came here."

"Yes."

"I see." I don't see at all. What is The Machine up to? "I'm sorry to tell you that your trip has been in vain. We do not have a new number."

Something happened to Reese's facial expression. It was just a moment, but Finch had seen it, and he wished he knew how to heal whatever it was he saw in Reese's eyes. He didn't know what could have prompted it, he wanted to somehow fix it.

"Oh Mr. Reese -" Finch touched his eyeglasses.

Reese seemed to hold his breath.

"These glasses… You know, I like them. I think I will wear them all the time."

*

On day three, a number came in. Severin Sheffield, 14, student at the Owlsgate Academy in New Hampshire.

Reese was surprised. "A boarding school. That's a new one. Didn't know they had murders in boarding schools." Teenagers... "Suicide?"

"I shouldn't like to hypothesize ahead of the facts, Mr. Reese."

Reese immediately set out for New Hampshire. It would take him a few hours to get to the boarding school, which would give Finch enough time to create an identity for him.

Owlsgate Academy was in the middle of the woods, near a small village called Meadow. It housed less than a thousand boys and girls, of middle school and high school ages.

After the first hour's drive, Finch called. "You will be passing yourself off as a National Geographic photographer, Mr. Reese."

Reese couldn't help feeling a thrill as he heard Finch's voice through the comm. It had been so long. He could hear Finch throwing Bear his ball, and softly humming to himself. He tried to think of a topic to keep Finch talking, but then Finch cut off the comm link.

The drive was a pleasant one. The roads were getting progressively smaller, and the trees started to outnumber the humans. Reese stopped off for lunch, and purchased some different clothes. He had a sneaking suspicion that National Geographic photographers did not wear suits.

His phone beeped. He answered: "Gotta tell you, Finch, it's been a long time since I've done field work in an actual field."

"Perhaps The Machine thought you needed some fresh air, Mr. Reese."

Finch sounded sarcastic, but Reese could tell he was amused. "Perhaps."

"If I may interrupt your country vacation Mr. Reese, I must tell you that I can get access to all the computers in Owlsgate Academy," Finch was telling him. "But I have no way of knowing which one belongs to Severin Sheffield. So you'll have to do with the information from his school record."

*

It wasn't a problem. Reese had always been the best. He quickly found young Mr. Sheffield, even with nothing but a class photo to go on. He was on the very edge of the school grounds, sitting below a willow tree, and reading a dogeared copy of Seamus Heaney's "Human Chain."

Reese sent photos to Finch. "Hey look at that. Didn't know teenagers read poetry."

"Why, did your high school curriculum have only popular fiction, Mr. Reese?"

Reese snorted. "Nah. My high school didn't teach us to read. It might have led to independent thought." He looked through his lens at Severin Sheffield. "Finch, this kid looks terrible." Severin was alone, appeared unwashed, and clothes didn't seem to fit. He seemed melancholy. His hair was long in a way that would have been attractively androgynous, had it been clean. "He looks like someone shot his dog and made him watch."

*

Severin Sheffield's phone was such an old model that Reese couldn't piggyback it, and other than getting a good look at the kid and photographing the surroundings, neither Reese nor Finch could learn anything more without getting into the school.

"I suppose I don't have much choice, Mr. Reese."

"I could just go talk to the kid, Finch."

"No, no. Don't let them see your face. I'll make sure they need a substitute math teacher, and be there by tomorrow."

"What'll I do until then?"

"Find out what you can in the village nearby. I've booked you a room at…" Reese heard keyboard noises. "The Merchant Arms. You will be under the name John Anderson."

*

Getting information turned out to be incredibly easy. The inn was attached to a tavern, whose owner was very chatty.

"Oh, taking photographs of the old place, are you?"

His name was Gerry, and he had the widest selection of beers on tap in New Hampshire. Not that it was any use for his main clientele. "The kids down at Owlsgate are too young, sad to say. They would sure love to get their hands on this fine brew, and heaven knows they can afford it."

Reese sipped politely at his brown ale. "It's very good beer, sir."

The tavern owner smiled. "Call me Gerry. And try the cream ale next," he said, gesturing towards the taps. "Now tell me about yourself! You take photos for a magazine, eh? The teenagers won't even know what that means. They put everything on Instagram." He chuckled as he wiped down the counter. "Will you be taking photos of Owlsgate Academy?"

The man hardly let Reese get a word in. He was just showering Reese with information, and Reese hardly even needed to prompt him. By Reese's third beer, he'd told him the names of the last four headmasters, the latest teachers's gossip, and his favorite schoolkid pranks.

"I tell you, Mr. Anderson, this latest generation, they're taking pranks to a whole new level."

Reese's ears pricked up. "Are they?"

"Sure are. Them Owlsgate kids, they've been tearing the headmaster's patience to shreds these past few years. Internet just makes it worse, you know: gives them ideas."

"What kind of pranks have they been pulling?" John asked.

"Well... the usual, you know: pouring water over cars in the middle of winter, putting office supplies in jello, that kind of thing. But sometimes they get creative. There's four of them, especially... I'm surprised you haven't heard about them. They've been in a national newspaper at least once."

"Is that so?"

"On April fools, couple years ago."

It seemed that, on the most recent April first, four freshman students had placed dozens of mirrors next to the cafeteria windows, at just the right angle, so that the forest was hidden. The mirror reflected the field, and to all the students in the cafeteria, it had looked as though the entire forest had been cut down. And then, the four of them had shut down the school's wifi, and switched all the newspapers being delivered that morning for counterfeit papers they'd made themselves, all including a story about the forest being cleared.

Reese was impressed.

"The four of them filmed the panic in the cafeteria, uploaded the video, and next thing you know, whole county is on the news. Next thing I know, the inn is full of journalists, and as I'm sure you know, you journalists appreciate good beer."

"And this certainly is good beer."

Gerry raised his glass in thanks. "Cheers!"

"So… no one was in danger, then." Reese asked.

"In danger? Why would anyone be in danger?"

*

Reese looked up the news items as as soon as he left the tavern.

The kids were called Robert Little, Samuel Black, Joan Patterson, and Peter Perkins, and Reese couldn't find anything incriminating about any of them. They were pranksters, just like Gerry said.

He sent Finch everything he had. "Probably unrelated, but this is all I've got about Owlsgate."

"Well, those students are juniors. They may have classes with Severin. Let's keep them in mind all the same, Mr. Reese."

Reese raised an eyebrow, not that Finch could see it through the comm. "I keep everyone in mind, Finch."

An odd noise came through the line, as though Finch had just choked on something.

"You okay, Finch?"

"Yes. Yes. I will contact you when I arrive at Owlsgate. Good night Mr. Reese." Finch said, perfunctorily, and he cut off the connection.

The line went silent. For just a moment, Reese felt bereft.

*

Reese slept soundly, despite the unnatural silence of rural New Hampshire just outside his window. Just as he was drifting off to sleep, he thought that Finch was probably driving to Owlsgate overnight, and the thought was soothing, somehow.

In the morning, he settled down with a long lens just outside the school's territory, and looked through every single dormitory window until he found Severin. Finch was going to find his dormitory location with school records soon enough, but it wouldn't exactly hurt to have a visual right away.

He watched Severin as he went to the dining hall. Reese didn't know what to make of him. Severin ate breakfast, ignored the other students, and wrote lengthy notes in the margins of a textbook. He didn't look like an outcast. He just looked sort of invisible. And maybe a little bit unhappy.

What's putting this kid in danger? Reese watched him for a while. The other students hardly seemed to notice Severin. The school seemed so peaceful - almost pastoral - like a boarding school in a book. Why would any teenager be in danger, in this place? The terrible danger of… Privilege? Entitlement? Really bad fashion choices?

Finch would know. He'd probably been to a place like this. Reese could just see it: Harold at Owlsgate, with the exact same eyeglasses, not popular but not unpopular. Reading poetry. A little prissy but brilliant enough to get away with it because he was obviously being groomed for great things.

Reese was just about to pick up his long lens and head out to survey the grounds, when four teenagers - a girl and three boys - surrounded Severin's table. The angles were awkward, but Reese managed to take photos of the four of them.

The girl was tall and gangly, with dark, artfully tousled hair, and seemed only mildly interested in the proceedings. One of the boys was very pale, wore a cardigan that seemed like he'd gotten it from someone's great-uncle, and he was standing close to a very, very handsome boy with black hair and a look of mild sociopathy in his eyes, the kind Reese usually associated with the very wealthy. The last one of the group was short, and stood slightly apart. Reese got the feeling that he didn't quite fit in with the others.

He couldn't hear what they were saying, but it didn't look friendly.

*

Finch started teaching as soon as he arrived, and did his best to investigate the school from the inside, while Reese continued his investigation from the outside.

There wasn't much to know about the students. They liked bad music and were obsessed with their iPhones, and they were unexpectedly clever. They slept in class, both literally and figuratively, and then when Finch least expected it, they asked intelligent questions. Finch liked them.

Severin did well in the pop quiz Finch administered on the first day. He was intelligent. Finch couldn't discover much else about him. Some slight reference to bullying in his school records. That was it.

There wasn't much to know about the faculty, either. They were welcoming enough.

"Giving Fletcher's math classes, right?" A short-haired women thrust out a hand at him.

Finch smiled his most winning smile. "Yes, that's right. Harold Swift."

"And I am Mrs. Hall. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Swift."

Hall quickly introduced "Mr. Swift" to the entire teaching staff. They seemed harmless: not one warning bell was set off in Finch's mind. They were an eccentric bunch, but knowledgeable and kind.

The administration had assigned Finch one of the guest rooms, with huge windows that looked out to the forest. What a view. Though the school day was over and dinner had just ended, there was still some light out; he could just see the roofs of the village beyond the forest.

Finch put his earpiece in. "Where are you, Mr. Reese?"

"Looking at you, Finch."

Finch's heart lurched.

"I've..." He faltered. "I've accessed school records but there is nothing significant about our Severin Scheffield. Have any of the villagers said anything about him?"

"No… just a lot of chatter about some kids pulling pranks. I've sent you their names." Reese's voice was warm and familiar, and Finch felt himself flush.

"I see..." Finch trailed off. He stepped away from the window, and tried to hide behind his computer screen. "What is your instinct telling you, Mr. Reese?"

"Nothing." Reese said, blunt. "Either the threat is something way out in left field, or these boarding school kids know way more about secrecy and stealth than we're giving them credit for."

"I fear it may be the latter, Mr. Reese."

Reese chuckled. "Didn't I tell you teaching was a dangerous profession, Finch?"

Finch sighed. "Perhaps that is why it feels so familiar to me, John." Dangerous profession, indeed. He wondered where Reese had gone to school. An inadequate institution, no doubt. An inadequate institution where Reese had probably been overlooked by incompetent teachers and ignorant students. An image flashed through Finch's mind… Teenage Reese, smart and loyal and full of potential, just waiting to be tapped by someone who could recognize what he had to offer. Oh, John…

*

Finch's second day at Owlsgate was almost as fruitless as the first. He found a way to identify the students' personal computers, but what he found on Severin's computer was disappointing. It had a file with some clever science fair project ideas, another file with some slightly creepy surveillance photos of a pretty girl, a frankly appalling selection of music, and the rest was all homework, homework, homework. He was just... a normal teen with above-average intelligence and a some social anxiety issues. Why has The Machine sent me your number, Severin?

So Finch tried to get information from the staff. "The students here certainly are well-behaved, Mrs. Hall," Finch commented over dinner.

Mrs. Hall, who taught most of the gym classes, rolled her eyes. "Are they? Don't let that fool you. Boarding school kids are very accomplished at disobedience."

Finch feigned ignorance. "Are they?"

"All those years of sneaking out of bed, you know. We try to monitor them, but honestly... We're outnumbered." Mrs. Hall shook her head. "We may have wit and wisdom, but we'll just never be able to top their collective intelligence."

Finch raised and eyebrow.

"Mrs. Hall is correct," a nearby teacher said. "They may seem polite and well-behaved but really Owlsgate is a co-educational St. Trinian's."

"Oh, dear."

"Well, perhaps we're a bit… tidier. But when it comes to covert and elaborate disobedience… Frankly, it's anybody's guess as to why the CIA doesn't just conduct recruitment drives on the premises."

Finch kept fishing as inconspicuously as he could. "From your lighthearted tone, I'm guessing their mischief has never put anyone in danger."

"Oh, heavens, no. Mostly we just have interrupted class time when the entire student body starts talking like pirates, that kind of thing. Or when we can't get into the classrooms because they've somehow filled them up with foam."

"I see. So the disruptions are caused by all the students? There aren't any… ringleaders?" Finch asked, as nonchalantly as he could manage. He winced. I hope Reese isn't listening in. His information-gathering techniques were so amateurish.

Finch's dinner companions didn't seem to notice, however. They were pointing out four students seated at one of the long tables in the dining hall.

"See the four of them there? Sitting so close their heads are nearly touching?"

A girl, and three boys. "Yes, I see them."

"They think we don't know, but they call themselves "The Latrunculi".

Finch smiled. "They named themselves after a Roman board game?"

"Or the Latin word for "bandit". There's just four of them, but they make so much trouble… Sometimes I wonder how they ever get any sleep."

They were the same kids Finch had seen in Reese's surveillance photos. Could they be related to this? They aren't even sitting at Severin's table.

*

After dinner, Finch put their information together.

1) The names Reese had gotten from the bartender, Gerry, were the names of the four students Mrs. Hall had pointed out to him in the dining hall.

2) Those names were: Robert Little, Samuel Black, Joan Patterson, and Peter Perkins. Aka "The Latrunculi"

3) Reese had seen those four students talking to Severin during breakfast.

That was it. That was all the information they had.

"We're going to have to bug their rooms, Finch."

"I take your point." Finch looked outside, to where Reese was, undoubtedly, looking at him through a lens. "But how?" He asked, staring down the treetops as though they were Reese's eyes. "This is a post-Tyler Clementi world, Mr. Reese. Teenagers can tell when their computer microphones are on."

"I know, Finch. I brought some surveillance bugs. They might be clever little punks, but they're not in the CIA yet."

*

Reese slipped into the school just before lunch the next day, while Finch had a free period.

There were a few cameras in the school hallways, and Finch watched while Reese made his way to the dormitories.

"The entire fourth floor is empty, Mr. Reese."

"Convenient." Reese answered, and made quick work of the room Severin shared with three other boys, setting up a a camera and microphone in the air vent.

He made his way to Joan Patterson's dorm next, where the air vent was inconveniently placed, but one of the cornices had a useful protuberance.

"I hate to backseat-spy, Mr. Reese," Finch said, "But did you happen to notice if the air vents and cornices were dusty?

"Yeah Finch, I noticed. They were covered with dust. No one's touched them in months."

"Good. I would hate for our marks to find the bugs because they happened to be storing their illegal substances in the same location."

Through the camera monitor, Finch saw Reese grin. "I like you, Finch. You're such a perfectionist when it comes to disrespecting privacy."

"And you enjoy your job far too much, Mr. Reese."

The remaining Latrunculi shared a dorm. "Helpful of them, really." Reese said, as he picked the lock. "What time is it?"

He still needed to get out without being seen. "You still have thirty-two minutes and fifteen seconds until the bell, Mr. Reese." Finch answered. Plenty of time...

Which was, of course, when trouble arrived.

"Mr. Reese, Sam Black and Rob Little are heading your way. You have approximately eight seconds."

Reese took five seconds to replace the air vent cover he was holding, and then, moving efficiently, he shut himself into the closet.

Sam and Rob came bounding into the dorm room.

"...Do you even, you deceitful freak?" Rob was saying.

"I can get anyone out of study hall, you know that."

"Oh I know that, do I?" Rob punched Sam's shoulder.

"It's just a skill I was born with." Sam grinned.

Reese could just see them through the door panels. They were flushed, and Sam's arm was around Rob's shoulder.

They went on teasing each other for several minutes. Reese typed out a text message as quickly as he could: "IF NEARER CLOSET SOUND FIRE ALARM"

Finch's voice quickly came through. "Understood, Mr. Reese."

But the mood in the dorm room suddenly shifted. The boys went silent for several seconds. Sam removed his arm from Rob's shoulder, and they stared at each other.

Rob spoke up: "Why did we come back here, Sam?"

But instead of answering, Sam gripped his wrist, pulled him close, and kissed him.

"Oh dear," Finch said, just as Reese thought: Oh, fuck.

Sam kissed the other boy, from an angle where Reese couldn't see but he could hear.

"What are you doing?" he heard Rob whisper.

"What does it look like?" Sam whispered back.

They moved towards the bed, moaning and sighing into each other's mouths.

"Mr. Reese." Finch's voice sounded strangled. "When you were in the CIA... was there a protocol for this type of situation?"

*

Once, early in his career, Reese had been sent to Ibiza to infiltrate a group of mercenaries. Just an information-gathering mission. In Ibiza. (Apparently, even mercenaries sometimes had to take vacations.) At the time, he and Kara Stanton had been partnered for less than a month, and Reese still felt awkward when they had to pose as a couple.

The CIA had booked them rooms next to their marks, in a bed and breakfast so upscale it wasn't even listed. Getting to know their marks hadn't even been difficult - Kara had just knocked at their door and asked to borrow a corkscrew, and twenty minutes later they'd all been enjoying a bottle of wine together. Kara had made everyone laugh by poking fun at Reese's prudishness, and they'd all been best friends before the morning.

But then, even after spending three entire days together, they had nothing. They hadn't learned a thing. Apparently, these guys never ever talked business with friends.

So one day, while the whole crew had been out, Kara and Reese had stayed in, and Reese had broken into their rooms.

He'd planted half a dozen bugs, and had finished cleaning up, when two of the men walked into the suite. Reese had had time to hop into a closet, mercifully undetected, but soon, the men had gone from aimless chatting, to flirting, to groping, to intercourse.

And through it all, Reese had been ten feet away. He'd heard all the groping and fumbling sounds, all the obscene kissing noises… the entire soundtrack of energetic - and oddly emotional - sex.

Reese had been trapped in that closet for nearly an hour, a few feet away from their loud lovemaking, Kara's mocking voice in his earpiece, and a huge, painful erection in his pants.

*

And now here he was, in terrifyingly similar circumstances. Reese was completely frozen. The air around him felt thin and insufficient, and through his earpiece, the sound of Finch's breathing seemed unnaturally magnified.

When it had been Kara on the other end of the line, his discomfort had been passed off as mild homophobia. As far as he knew, it had never even occurred to Kara that he'd been aroused. At the time, she hadn't known much of anything about him, not really, and he hadn't cared about her opinion anyway.

But now. Now he… Now things were different.

It had been two years since he and Finch had met, and a month since they'd spent the night together. Reese had filed the memory of it away, and had successfully avoided thinking about it since. And he'd been so good at quashing his libido. He'd done it so skillfully, so automatically, that he'd even hidden it from himself. He hadn't even known he was doing it.

But here, now, ten feet away, were two people expressing all the desire and longing and passion two people could have for each other. They were wild with it. The noises they were making made it sound as though they had been pining for each other for so long that they couldn't have stopped their cries now even if they wanted. And Reese was just… overcome. So suddenly and powerfully that he couldn't think. It was like that time in a Costa Rican prison when a bottle of water had been dangled under his nose, after he'd successfully forgotten how thirsty he was.

It was just so unfair. He was - he hadn't even known it, but all of a sudden, in that moment, he wished, he would have given anything, for Finch to want him the way those two boys wanted each other. He would have… he would even have settled for Finch expressing innocuous physical affection for him. Just… a hand on his shoulder. Just Finch's fingers in his hair. Just… Finch standing close enough to smell his laundry soap and… and leaning in a little bit.

On the other side of the closet door, Sam was fervently whispering "there's no one like you."

The fire alarm rang.

*

Reese got out and went back to the bed and breakfast.

He didn't know what had just happened. It was like seeing those kids and their passion had created a fracture somewhere inside Reese, and now two years' worth of pent-up longing had started pouring out, pouring out, pouring out.

And the thing was.

The thing was, Reese had been trained to shut off the part of himself that wanted things. He had a huge set of psychological tools for dealing with shocks that come from outside himself, like fright, or pain, or sleep deprivation. But he did not have tools for dealing with lust, or yearning, or love. When Reese was overwhelmed, it was bottled up. Every time. Over and over. And the bottle was never emptied.

Disturbed, Reese sat down and meditated. He didn't have time to be sentimental. Someone's life was at stake.

"Shit happens in the field. Shit happens in the field. Shit happens. Shit happens." And he repeated it over and over until he could breathe properly. He wasn't going to freeze up again. He only made mistakes once.

He meditated. Then he went back to work.

*

Having now done everything he could about surveillance inside the school, Reese only had the outside left to busy himself.

And it was just as well, because something about the school grounds niggled at him. He couldn't really put his finger on it. It just... bothered him.

He went out into the woods just as the sun went down, and started walking in concentric circles, ignoring the paths. He didn't know what he was looking for, and so he walked slowly, keeping a mental tally of every kind of tree, every species of wildlife, and sketching a map of the paths sinewing between the trees.

"Mr. Reese?"

Finch's voice was unexpected, and Reese's heart lurched.

"Mr. Reese, while I admire the skill with which you magically went in and out of Owlsgate undetected today, I would like to remind you that we are here because someone is in mortal danger. So please be just as careful while you're in the woods?"

"Sure." Reese whispered.

He was walking through the trees and the undergrowth, using every skill he'd ever learned about tracking in the woods. (Those skills were seriously out of practice, he realized - he didn't exactly get many chances to work on his wilderness survival in New York.)

He walked for hours. He had infrared goggles but the moon was shining so brightly that he barely needed them. The moonlight was so bright, in fact, that the trilliums under the trees were shining like tiny white beacons, lighting his way.

Reese was crouching down over the flowers when he heard them.

Voices.

He put on his goggles so no one would see his eyes, and opened a channel for Finch to hear as much as possible. And soon, he saw them.

Two men were walking up the path and talking. Two men Reese recognized, in fact. He knew them. They worked for Elias. They were suspected of drug trafficking. Holy shit.

"Little shit said two a.m. It's fucking two a.m. What, like we've nothing else to do?" The first man said.

"Calm the fuck down, Larry. Don't get all worked up. Little shit is jumpy enough as it is without you getting worked up." The second man looked tired.

"Motherfucker, don't tell me what emotions to have. Do I tell you what emotions to have? No I do not." He pulled at a loose thread on his sweater. "I don't like waiting, okay? Fuck."

Larry and No Name Yet went on bickering until a slight, pale figure appeared in the distance.

"Sorry I'm late," Rob Little said.

No Name Yet answered quietly. "Never mind that. What've you got for us?"

Rob pulled a large package out from under his hoodie. "Three new samples in there." Then he handed them a tiny slip of paper. "And you'll find the usual order here."

"Alright, kid." Larry pocketed the slip of paper. "And we got you covered right here." He said, throwing a fat envelope at Rob. "Just don't be late next time, okay?"

"Yeah, okay." Rob nodded, and backed away, only turning around once they were out of sight.

*

Reese followed the men for a good half mile until he saw No Name Yet crouch down near an enormous tree.

"Come on, come on, can we get out of here, please?" Larry griped.

No Name rolled his eyes, but soon they were walking away with about a dozen tightly-wrapped packets.

Then, when they were gone, Reese crouched down at the same spot. He dug around. This would be a great time to get lucky... And sure enough, buried a bit too far under a root, he got lucky: he found a packet.

*

Finch was on the line with detective Fusco the moment he heard the name "Larry."

"Yes. Some kind of product exchange originating from Owlsgate, New Hampshire. Two men with New York accents, one of them called Larry. I've seen them with Elias."

"I can't get you their records at buttfuck-a.m. in the morning, Finch."

"Certainly not. Six a.m. will be sufficiently quick. However, buttfuck-a.m. in the morning, as you say, is not too early to tell me if you know why a New Hampshire high school is involved in the drug trade."

Fusco sighed loudly into the phone. "Not ringing any bells, sorry."

After hanging up, there wasn't anything left to do. Finch checked the feeds from the dorms.

No movement, no sound. Rob wasn't back yet. There wasn't anything to see. Unlike that afternoon, when there had been too much to see.

In all his projections of all possible contingencies, it somehow hadn't occurred to Finch to factor in adolescent sex drives. Which probably said a lot about Harold's own high school experience. How mortifying.

Now that he thought about it, Finch was amazed that he and Reese hadn't ever accidentally witnessed carnal embrace - they had never witnessed any sexual activities at all, really - during their various surveillance-related activities.

He hoped it wouldn't happen again. Reese was probably blasé and professional about such things, Finch thought, but for himself, he couldn't imagine having to watch two people being intimate without feeling acutely embarrassed. Let alone watching it along with Reese.

He'd quickly set off the fire alarm, that afternoon, and switched off the feeds the moment Reese was clear of the building.

So now, he didn't know why Rob Little had left the building. He only knew that Rob hadn't been back to his bedroom at all after dinner. Where he'd hidden was a mystery to Finch. His face-recognition software wasn't any use if the kids knew where the school surveillance cameras were - which Finch was starting to think they did.

*

Finch had just finished feeding the day's recordings to his speech-recognition software when he saw an unexpected movement from the corner of his eye.

"Got something for you, Finch."

Finch jumped out of his skin. "Mr. Reese!"

Reese was already halfway across the room when Finch turned. He was dressed all in black, and he moved quickly and efficiently, looming over everything in the room.

Finch stared. There was something detached and robot-like about John Reese, all of a sudden. This was not a guy to banter with. This was a guy who killed people for a living, and didn't have any feelings. It was as though Reese had drained all the emotions out of himself since the last time Finch had seen him.

"Found this." Reese handed Finch a packet. Their eyes met. Finch's fingertips brushed Reese's hand. Finch felt an indescribable yearning.

*

The thing was.

The thing was, Finch had been overwhelmed ever since Nathan died. He had literally spent years being overwhelmed. Every since he'd decided to take up Nathan's insane vigilantism project, new and crazy and unexpected things happened to him nearly every day. Things he was just psychologically and physically not equipped to do. He just made up the tools as he went along. But on the whole, all the work he'd done, he had done it through a haze of strong emotion. He'd never tried to suppress anything in order to get work done. He just… worked. Finch knew his emotions, saw them, acknowledged them, and told them "I'll take care of you as soon as I have a minute, okay?"

So now he was feeling desire, and sadness, but it wasn't hard for him to say, "This needs to be delivered to a lab."

Reese nodded in response.

"I'll text you an address. Make sure it's in New York by lunchtime."

*

The following day, Finch confiscated Rob's cell phone.

Well, he didn't so much confiscate Rob's cell phone, as confiscate everyone's cell phone. And he didn't so much "confiscate" as "borrow the entire classroom's phones for a probability demonstration." But the result was the same.

The students were very chatty that day. "Mr. Swift, Sir, when is Ms. Fletcher coming back?"

"Not soon enough, sad to say," Finch answered.

"Why, Sir, don't you like us?" asked Sam Black.

Finch smiled at Sam. "Feebleminded delinquents such as yourselves? Well... I suppose I do appreciate your creativity." He held up Sam's pop quiz, which sported a very obvious 10/10 at the top, but also featured a highly competent drawing - or rather, caricature - of Finch himself.

Sam and Joan grinned broadly, but Finch could see Rob reddening at Sam's impertinence. Peter, meanwhile, only seemed unsure.

*

Finch looked over the cloned phone over lunch.

What he found genuinely startled him. Rob appeared to have created many of the apps himself, and the phone appeared to serve as the hub of some kind of organization. Whatever his involvement in the east coast drug trade, it was long-standing, and it involved some meticulous planning.

One of the apps Finch found was called "Marauder's Map", which appeared to show the position of most of the cellular phones in the building. How Rob had gotten the iphone GPSs to that level of precision was anybody's guess. And he had to have drawn and implemented the maps of Owlsgate himself.

Parts of Rob's calendar were obviously written in code, and the text messages were suspiciously respectable. Finch set them aside for later inspection.

*

Over dinner, Finch cornered Rob's chemistry teacher.

"The Little kid? What do I know about him?" Ms. Brown looked at Finch suspiciously.

"Yes, he's been quiet in class, and his results have been very reliable but I wondered if perhaps I should give him some more advanced material..."

"Oh. You mean you don't know?"

Finch raised an eyebrow.

Ms. Brown continued: "Rob's family - well, his uncle was convicted of producing and selling designer drugs in 2011."

"...Oh." Finch did not know what to say.

"Many of the parents... Well, Rob wouldn't even have been admitted here, if it hadn't been for the headmaster. He's very principled, you might say."

"I see."

"You can definitely give him more advanced material - he is disciplined and there are many qualified scientists in his family to help him. But most of us tend to leave him alone - he hasn't had an easy time of it, and extra coursework would only be an added stress for the poor kid."

*

Rob's drug connections weren't the last surprise of the day. Shortly after dinner, he got an email from the lab.

Mr. Crow, we hope this message finds you well. The substance you've sent us is identical to the sample we analyzed for you a few weeks ago. Please find the detailed analysis in the attached document.

"What on earth…"

Finch had reached the for heaven's sake, just be done already moment of the case. He'd had gone from stuck and frustrated, to some breakthroughs, and now. Now he just wanted it to be over.

He forwarded the results to Reese, and threw himself into work. He spent hours making sense of what was in Rob's phone, and the next day, told Reese to take a second look over the grounds. If Rob was synthesizing some kind of drug, he had to be doing it somewhere.

The next thing he knew, Reese was calling him from an abandoned house on the outskirts of the village. "Finch, you need to get over here."

*

The lab was nothing short of alarming.

"Teenagers made this?" Finch exclaimed. From the outside, the lab looked like a deserted cabin. Finch could imagine children imagining it to be haunted, daring each other to go in. But the inside. The inside looked like a chemistry lab from a particularly well-funded university. Wide spaces, good lighting, well-ordered and tagged equipment, sinks, fume hoods - even an eyewash and emergency shower. But what really stopped Finch dead in his tracks - and probably the reason Reese told him he had to come - was the massive wall of computer hardware.

Reese shone his flashlight over the equipment. "Finch, some of this stuff - I don't even know what it is."

Finch was dumbfounded. "This is…"

But before he could tell Reese what it was, Finch's phone beeped. He looked at it. There was only one word on the screen.

HIDE

*

Reese reacted first, pulling Finch with him. Before he even had time to blink, Finch found himself behind a partition, wedged between a rack of servers and Reese himself. He probably identified hiding places the second he walked in here, thought Finch, hysterical. Panic hit him like a physical blow. He could hardly breathe.

Reese looked straight into his eyes. "Shh," he soothed. "Harold. I've got you."

Finch felt something in himself loosen, and he exhaled calmly. Seconds later, there were voices in the lab.

"I'm this close to crushing sleeping pills into your fucking dinner, dude."

"I'll sleep when this batch is done." Rob said.

"Fuck this batch. You just delivered twelve kilos of Bliss. Take the weekend off, asshole."

Rob response was brusque. "Fuck, Sam, why do you - we have to do it on the first weekend of the month. We have to. It takes two fucking days to synthesize the shit. Maybe we could repeatedly get in and out of school for two days without getting noticed when there's a full staff. Maybe. But I'd rather do it when half of them are on their weekend off."

"Rob's over-the-top security measures are the stuff of legend," another voice said.

"SHUT UP, PETER," the other three voices said in unison.

A girl - Joan, presumably - spoke up. "Rob, bro… You're right. But maybe you could let us do it this time? I mean… this is why we got into this in the first place, right? ''Cause you're stuck with this job, bro, and we can't stand how fucking hard it is on you every month."

"We've got your back, okay?" Sam said.

"And look," Joan said. "I hate to bring this up, but you haven't slept in days, and sometimes… it gets a little ugly when you… I mean, we don't want The Thing That Happened to happen again."

Behind the partition, Finch looked up at Reese, alarmed. What is The Thing That Happened?, he tried to ask Reese telepathically.

Rob was raising his voice. "Fuck! I'm not going to kill anyone, okay!"

"You had a gun, Rob!"

"I always have a gun! Sam's the moron who came in here unannounced!"

"You're right, Rob," Joan said, soothingly. "He should never have surprised you. But bro, you get jumpy as fuck in here, and if you're sleep-deprived, it's just going to get worse. Jumpy people make mistakes, Rob."

Then, from what sounded like the other end of the lab, Peter spoke up. "Hey there's some leftover Bliss here."

"CAREFUL!" Rob cried, "Don't get it on you."

"I know, man. I know just a touch is enough!"

"Jesus, Peter, why are you such a dumbass?"

"You know, I was thinking: this shit is the perfect date-rape drug, when you think about it."

From where they were concealed, Reese flinched.

But then, they heard Sam laugh. "More like the worst date-rape drug ever, dude. 'Cause if your date is tired of your shit, they're twice as likely to tell you if you give them this."

Joan chimed in. "Yeah, Peter, no offence, but if you give this to someone who doesn't already want to get in your pants, you're shit out of luck."

"Nobody does stuff they don't want to do under the influence of Bliss." Sam said. "They do the things they've always wanted to do."

Oddly enough, the shift in conversation seemed to have calmed Rob down. "It's not something I strongly suggest anyone use without supervision, Peter, and of course there are the usual caveats related to the use of illegal substances, but the bottom line is: you can't get someone to do something they don't want to do by giving them this drug."

"So why do people keep coming back to this stuff, Rob?" Peter asked.

"I don't know, maybe they just… want to stop thinking too much."

*

A few hours later, Reese and Finch were able to leave the cabin.

Reese had spent an entire evening draped over Finch. He'd managed to remain indifferent to the proximity for the first hour or so, but then… He kept feeling Finch's breath against his skin, and he could smell Finch, and the scent had wafted over him and it had been all he could do to restrain himself from bending down and nuzzling him.

And then he couldn't stop himself from thinking about it. The drug he and Finch had unknowingly taken That Night. "Bliss," they called it. These kids were the ones making it. Of all the…

He tried not to think about about what those kids had said. Because there was no point thinking about it now. But he… "Nobody does stuff they don't want to do under the influence of Bliss. They do the things they've always wanted to do."

Reese's head hurt.

*

Reese camped out in view of the cabin for continued surveillance, and in the morning, Finch finally found the link between Severin and the Latrunculi. On Facebook.

Sam had been baiting and goading Severin on Facebook for weeks. "Facebook communications are surprisingly hard to retrieve, if you don't already know what you're looking for, Mr. Reese."

Severin, meanwhile, had started paying close attention to Sam's movements, and asking pointed questions.

And so, the week before, Sam had suggested that Severin visit the cabin when half the school staff had their weekend off. And to "make sure not to make a sound until the last second - Rob's surprised face is hilarious."

"He knows Rob will put a gun to his head, Mr. Reese."

*

Things happened very quickly after that. Reese made sure Severin was safe, and talked to all of them. The whole story came tumbling out - they were clandestine prodigies, sure enough, but they were also kids who had no experience with keeping long-term secrets. If anything, they were relieved to finally talk to someone.

"It was when my uncle was arrested." Rob told Reese. "The people he was working for… I think my dad offended them once, and when uncle Frank got arrested, instead of asking my cousins to work for them - all my family members are good with biochem, you know - they approached me. I couldn't say no. You don't say no to Elias."

"And your friends?"

"They found out a year ago. They learned all the necessary biochem on their own, they didn't even tell me. Then one day, in the dining hall… They just announced that they were going to come to the cabin and help me. The cabin set-up was only rudimentary until they came. We fixed it up together. And having them there… It was just so much easier. Not much faster, but just… less boring. Less like the worst thing that ever happened to me." Rob mumbled the last sentence despondently.

"Those are some good friends. Except for the part where one of them put an innocent onlooker where he knew you might shoot him."

Rob nodded. Tears were welling up in his eyes. "What's going to happen now?"

"Mr. Reese?" Finch said. "I've just spoken with Elias. He has agreed never to bother Rob again, in exchange for a detailed recipe for the Bliss drug."

Reese told Rob this, and gave him the address of the crisis hotline, and resolved to punch Elias in the face next time he saw him.

Then he went to rip Sam a new one.

*

After they got back to the city, Reese spent a full day in his safe house - the one he'd purchased as untraceably as possible, as per Finch's request - sleeping, and thinking things over.

The things they've always wanted to do.

Reese needed to know, desperately needed to know just how true that was for Finch. The seed of hope was planted in his mind now, and would never go away. But. What was he even supposed to say? "Hey Finch, I was wondering: have you always wanted to get in my pants?"

*

It was dark by the time Reese went to find Finch. The library felt muted and lonely, as though he'd been gone for months.

But Finch wasn't there.

Reese went up to the bookcase and reached back behind one of the books. He remembered which one it was - he couldn't forget.  There was a switch there, and he pressed it down. Just to his right, an entire bookshelf swung open, revealing a small bedroom. Reese went in. He hadn't been in there since That Night, and neither had Finch, from the looks of things.

It was pouring rain when Finch came back. He didn't seem surprised to see Reese there. His hair was wet.

"Mr. Reese, you should know two things." Finch spoke without preamble of any kind. "First, that I have been thinking about this for a long time, and second, that I have had some qualms regarding… Well. Becoming becoming involved romantically as well as professionally is unwise, to say the least. The phrase "putting all one's eggs in one basket" comes to mind. In fact, I -"

Finch suddenly fell silent. Reese had hardly ever seen Finch overwhelmed. It was devastating.

"I believe -" Finch coughed. "I believe my feelings on the matter change daily, if not hourly. As a result," Finch looked up. "My behaviour may have been... inconsistent. I cannot make up my mind, Mr. Reese. But I also think that an analogy about horses and barn doors would be appropriate."

"Finch"

Caring about Finch had wrecked Reese because it had woken him up. He felt as though he was seeing clearly for the first time in years. He could see concern and worry, in Finch's eyes; he knew that if something happened to him, Finch would be hurt. And Reese had never noticed until now, but ever since he'd met Finch, he identified with the marks. He identified with having something to lose.

"Finch," Reese pleaded. "I was confused - you said it was a drug, you didn't say anything else - I thought maybe you wanted me to forget all about it."

Finch stared at the floor. "I've found it difficult to think of anything else, John, I could hardly be hoping that you would…"

"Harold" Reese closed the distance between them.

Finch looked at Reese. Then he was touching Reese's bare skin, all the places he'd touched before. And John was shocked to find himself abruptly, appallingly, on the verge of tears. He shouldn't have been surprised, really. It was a natural reaction.

Reese felt like he was falling apart. "Harold, I wanted to -"

"Shh, I know." Finch brushed the back of his hand down the side of Reese's face. "I know."

THE END

BONUS DIALOGUE:

"So Finch. How come you had condoms in the nightstand?"

"…That's what you want to talk about?"