Work Text:
.
The problem with tailing a nun through the streets of New York was that it didn’t take much effort to keep the traditional penguin garb in sight, leaving Reese far too much time to think.
Sister Mary Paul stopped to chat with a homeless woman, pressing some money and a small card in to her hand. Reese took the opportunity to grab a cup of coffee from a sidewalk cart.
He was sure the dear sister wouldn’t approve of or even really understand where his thoughts kept leading him, Finch had been surprisingly talented, but then he wasn’t entirely sure that he understood it himself.
Reese sipped his coffee, certain to keep the sister in his line of sight.
Unfortunately, understanding the objectives of the mission and knowing how those objectives would be accomplished were not one and the same thing. He didn’t like being stuck in a feedback loop, having been trained to act not to obsess, and he couldn’t even rely on Finch anymore to provide a distraction. The casually teasing conversations that had become a habit when Reese was tailing a number had ceased. He could sense Finch weighing every word before he spoke and it was grating on Reese’s nerves. He missed the camaraderie that had been so hard earned yet knew he only had himself to blame.
The sister had moved on to chatting to the owner of a newsstand who was pressing money in to her hand “for the mission.”
This was the second number to come up since the incident, the word he’d been taught to apply to all actions that didn’t result in a successful mission. The first number had been complicated to save and had necessitated Finch passing himself off briefly as a pastry chef. Reese smirked to himself at the thought of Finch’s buns although his pastries had been pretty good too. His first impulse was to share his bad joke with Finch which currently just wasn’t an option.
Reese’s instincts nagged at him to focus. Something wasn’t right. He scanned the crowd again, this time easily spotting the man standing by the subway entrance trying too hard to look like he wasn’t watching the nun. Jimmy Pollack, the nephew, and now Reese had the probable answer as to who might want to see Sister Mary Paul dead. The sister crossed the street towards the alley behind the mission with her nephew following close behind.
Pollack, after pulling a ski mask down over his face, stopped the nun by threatening her with a knife and then Reese stopped Pollack, unfortunately not permanently.
Reese sent the sister to call Carter and then handcuffed Pollack to a fire escape before conducting a hasty interrogation that involved Pollack’s face colliding several times with Reese’s fists. Theory confirmed, Reese moved swiftly back out in to the street, blending back in to the crowd while calling Finch.
"It was the nephew. Simple matter of his dad disinheriting Jimmy and leaving his money to Sister Mary Paul instead who is giving it all to the mission. Carter’s coming to get Pollack.”
“Well done, Mr. Reese. I’ll be in touch when we have a new number.”
Reese started walking back to his apartment. It had now been five days since the incident and neither one of them had even alluded to it. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Could Finch really let it go that easily? He knew it was his ego talking but he didn’t consider himself to be easily forgettable… but then Finch was no slouch himself, so perhaps he’d had better.
Reese frowned, only marginally aware of people on the sidewalk starting to give him a wider berth.
He’d been thrown off balance, Finch’s responses and actions not at all what he’d been expecting when he’d planned his strategy. He was sure he could do better, could take control and— no, that’s what had got him in to trouble in the first place. He remembered the shadow that had passed over Finch’s face when Reese had suggested tying him to the bed. Bad experience, perhaps? Just how hard would it be to find out if there was anyone in Finch’s past who needed killing?
A man crashing in to a garbage can in the effort to avoid him finally drew Reese's full attention. The man backed off rapidly, hands held out in front of him, and Reese consciously willed his face back in to more passive lines.
No, it was far more likely that Finch’s reaction just resulted from knowing Reese’s motives in seducing him. Why would Finch put himself any further at his mercy? Although how Finch would have been able to stop him— that wasn’t a good thing to be thinking about either. Brute force wouldn’t work any better than anything else had. You couldn’t force someone to lo— want you.
Reese turned around, heading for the library instead. He didn’t have a clue what he was going to do once he got there but perhaps just being around Finch might give him some new ideas.
He’d never been a coward but he still walked past the library three times before going in, telling himself he needed to run a quick check on the neighborhood and then that he needed another cup of coffee. The thing that finally forced him through the door was the realization that a bemused Finch was probably watching his impromptu sentry-like maneuvers via the library’s security cameras.
Reese placed the paper cup of Sencha green tea at Finch’s elbow. Finch looked down at the cup before looking back up at him, flexing his really, Mr. Reese? eyebrow.
“Sometimes a cup of tea is just a cup of tea, Finch. I’m told normal people pick one up for their colleague all the time.”
“If we ever meet any normal people I’ll be sure to ask them if that’s true.” Finch picked up the cup, warming his hands around it.
“So, do we have a new number?” He looked Finch over. The deep turquoise shirt was a bold choice but it looked really good on Finch.
“Not yet.”
Not avoiding conversation entirely then, but Finch’s body language was even more guarded now than it was before the incident, if that was possible. Finch had also developed a habit of looking at Reese’s forehead when he spoke to him rather than making direct eye contact, an old public speaking trick that probably would have fooled most people.
“I’m going to clean the guns, check the other equipment and stay close by in case there’s a new number.”
“All right, Mr. Reese. I have a few subroutines I intend to run.”
Reese went to the storage locker in one corner of the room and punched a seventeen digit code in to the keypad to open it.
“I didn’t realize you’d moved your entire arsenal here.”
Reese was thrown by Finch’s presence at his side. Since when had Finch been able to sneak up on him? There were always inherent dangers in trusting someone.
“It’s not my entire arsenal just a few favorite pieces. I have caches all over the city, just in case.”
“Just in case of what?”
“If I knew that they wouldn’t have to be all over the city.”
He knew Finch was putting it on his mental to-do list to check for the cache locations but all he had to do was ask. Well, perhaps Reese would make him squirm a bit first but he wanted Finch to be able to protect himself.
Reese sipped his coffee and methodically field stripped guns, the repetitive actions as close to a Zen state as he’d ever managed. He removed the magazine from an AK47, pulled the bolt to be sure the chamber was empty and removed the receiver cover.
He’d been taught to examine the parameters of a problem before seeking a solution.
He removed the spring and slid the bolt carrier assembly to the rear of the receiver to remove it.
In this case the parameters were depressingly simple. He wanted Finch. No, he wanted Finch again.
He turned the bolt carrier assembly upside-down and proceeded to remove the bolt before rotating the gas tube release lever, working towards removing the gas tube from the rifle before freeing the cleaning rod.
No, that wasn’t strictly accurate either. He wanted to be with Finch which wasn’t the same thing as simply wanting him. It implied something more, much more, but he shied away from analyzing it any further.
He finished cleaning the rifle, inspecting all the parts as he went, and then began to reassemble it.
…The numbers weren’t going to stop coming and... No, he wanted to be with Finch. That was all he needed to know right now. So, the target had changed. The first time he’d believed the target to be further information about Finch and now the target was Finch.
He raised the rifle, viewing Finch through the rifle’s iron sights. All things considered, shooting him might be the easier option although Reese was quite certain that wasn’t recommended in any dating handbook.
Finch was staring back down the sights at him, his eyebrow again quirked. Perhaps Finch was psychic. It was definitely a more preferable notion to the more likely explanation that he was just being that transparent.
He could do this. He could win Finch over, but how? Seduction had always worked for Reese before, it had even seemed to work with Finch initially, but he’d blown his chance. Of course Finch had blown— He needed to stay focused.
Finch was convinced that any move on Reese’s part would just be a further attempt to acquire information, but how could he show Finch he wanted him without making a move? It was a Catch-22 situation, something he simply wasn’t trained to deal with. Accepting defeat was not an option but he couldn’t force Finch at gunpoint, could he?
No way out. He would just have to learn to accept it. “Finch?”
“I’m busy, Mr. Reese.”
“Do you know what the Kobayashi Maru is?”
Finch was staring at his forehead again. “Frankly, I’m surprised you do.”
“I wasn’t always in the CIA. I was once a gangly adolescent just like everyone else.”
Finch snorted. “You were the captain of your high school basketball team and class valedictorian.”
“Didn’t stop me from being gangly and awkward—”
“You dated the head cheerleader and actually took two girls to the prom.”
“You forgot to mention the captain of the football team, behind the bleachers.”
“He was heartbroken, you never called, you never wrote.” Finch went back to typing. “He’s a lawyer now you know, here in New York, works for Lawson & Lawson. He’s filthy rich, still single and even more attractive now he’s filled out.” Finch turned the monitor so Reese could see a picture of a still familiar face. “You should look him up.”
“Not my type, not anymore.”
Finch’s expression clearly conveyed his suspicions about what had prompted Reese’s comment. “To answer your question, the Kobayashi Maru is the un-winnable battle, the test of a captain’s worth under impossible circumstances.”
“Kirk beat it.”
“Kirk cheated” Finch began typing again “and if he’d really been as smart as he thought he was he would have done a better job of covering his tracks.”
Anything Kirk could do, Reese could do. He’d just have to, as Finch had pointed out, do a better job of covering his tracks.
Two hours later all the guns had been cleaned and he'd performed a full inventory of the rest of the equipment, looking for frayed or otherwise damaged gear. Still no new number and he’d run out of reasons to hang around the library. He wanted to suggest getting dinner but it might look like he was making a move and he really needed to think hard about his strategy first.
“You must be hungry, Mr. Reese.”
But if Finch suggested dinner that was a different thing entirely. “As a matter of fact I am.” Perhaps Finch was thawing and they could—
“Then go home and get yourself something to eat. I have a few more hours of work to do here. I’ll call you as soon as there’s another number.”
“You should go home as well.”
“I have a room on the upper floor if I need to sleep.”
“Is that really safe?”
“I installed the security system myself.”
That certainly answered Reese’s question.
“It’s convenient for when I just can’t face going— for when I’m running a new program and need to stay close by. Goodnight, Mr. Reese.”
If he hadn’t been paying close attention he’d have never spotted Finch’s quick glance at his wristwatch. So that was it, Finch had plans to be somewhere and he needed Reese to leave first to be sure he wouldn’t be following him.
Now he had a plan for his evening. “Goodnight, Finch.”
He knew Finch would see him hail a cab two blocks down from the library, but then he had it drive him around the block and drop him off. He doubled back to a blind spot between cameras, one of a handful in a three block radius he’d made a point of locating only two days after starting to work for Finch, and settled in to wait. Finch emerged forty minutes later. He’d changed his clothes. Black tie. Now where the hell was he going?
It wasn’t difficult to find a cab to follow Finch’s cab and it was ridiculously easy to hide himself in the milling crowd outside the Metropolitan Opera House. Large banners revealed the evening’s performance to be Puccini’s Turandot.
Even in the elegantly attired crowd Finch stood out sartorially, immaculate in classic black evening wear, his dress shirt crisp and snowy white and fronted with black onyx studs and a hand-tied, perfectly blocked, bow tie. The only homage to Finch’s usually more colorful clothing palette was a dark purple scarf hanging around the neck of his evening overcoat. He noticed Finch had even switched his black heavy-framed glasses for his wire-framed ones. He wasn’t surprised by how good Finch looked. To surprise him, Finch would have had to wear jeans and a t-shirt.
He didn’t even realize he was grinning at the thought of Finch in jeans until he noticed a woman smiling hopefully back at him. Reese nodded and threw up a hand like he’d just spotted a friend, moving away and blending in but never losing sight of Finch while he scanned the crowd for trouble.
There was a tall man moving smoothly through the crowd with his gaze fixed unwaveringly on Finch. Reese moved quickly forward, perfectly willing to kill the man in front of witnesses if he had to in order to protect Finch, but he hoped that either the knife in his pocket or the gun at the back of his belt would be enough to quietly gain control of the situation.
“Harold, there you are, I was worried you weren’t going to be able to make it after all.”
Reese stopped dead in his tracks only a few feet away, turning slightly to look like he was part of a small group listening to a society maven drone on about what was wrong with New York nowadays. He took the opportunity to pickpocket a ticket from a man who looked bored enough to be the maven’s husband.
Finch turned towards the man who’d spoken to him, a warm smile breaking out on his face. Finch never smiled at Reese that way. Well, he had once, sat naked on the edge of the bed while waiting for Reese to finish undressing.
The man who’d spoken to Finch was approximately thirty-five, no, as he turned the spill of light from the opera house revealed him to probably be in his mid-forties. Six feet tall, one hundred and eighty pounds, broad shoulders, slim build, hair a dark reddish brown, eyes hazel (perhaps green), high cheekbones, nose broken at least once, no other discernible distinguishing features, handsome bastard. Broken Nose had an equally brilliant smile and was closing in on Finch with arms outstretched, like Finch was his long lost brother.
He must be a friend of Finch’s. Wait, Finch had friends? Friends other than Reese? Not that Finch couldn’t have friends, but—
Broken Nose embraced Finch warmly and Finch returned it. Definitely a friend then and not just a business acquaintance.
Broken Nose stepped back just a little and lifted one hand to cup Finch’s cheek before leaning in and kissing him briefly on the other cheek. No double kiss, not continental, just very sure of his welcome.
Reese took his hand back out of his pocket where it had been clenching around the knife’s handle. A single kiss on the cheek was hardly a killing offense.
“It’s good to see you, Denham.” Finch stared up at the man.
Broken Nose— Denham didn’t lower his hand.
Perhaps Denham needed his nose broken again, only this time Reese could drive it up through his brain. Who the hell named their kid ‘Denham’ anyway?
Finch gently removed Denham’s hand from his face. “We should go in. It’s only thirty minutes now until the overture.”
Reese tailed them all the way in to the lobby, moving easily around tourists staring up at the chandeliers. After they left their overcoats at the coat check and headed in to the auditorium, Reese doubled back and asked one of the ushers when the performance would be over, claiming he had been called away to the office and would have to return to pick up his partner.
He needed to kill time, so he walked a couple of blocks and found a little Italian restaurant, in honor of Puccini. For once he actually ordered a real dinner from antipasto to coffee but regretfully passed on the wine.
His Southern mama had tried to teach him to be gracious in defeat when it came to affairs of the heart, particularly if the person you lo—were interested in would be happier with someone else. Of course the lesson hadn’t taken. Reese didn’t have a gracious-in-defeat bone in his body, never had. He’d ended a lot of relationships, telling himself that he’d done it for their own good, and he'd even really meant it once. He’d never actually lost though and, what’s more, he had no intention of starting.
It looked like Finch had known Denham for a while yet he’d still made— had sex with Reese. Finch struck him as the slow-to-fall-last-to-leave type so the facts suggested the relationship with Denham wasn’t a serious one… Unless things hadn’t got that far yet – slow to fall – and Finch had merely been on a fact finding mission when he’d had sex with Reese, in fact, hadn’t he said as much?
He checked the time and drank a last cup of coffee. Twenty minutes waiting in the cold outside the Met might help to clear his head.
When they stepped out of the Met, Denham had a protective arm draped lightly around Finch’s shoulders as they navigated through the crowd and Reese was immediately ready to take up where he’d left off, finding a good reason to bury Denham. Perhaps he’d even whistle a little Nessun Dorma while digging the hole.
This time it wasn’t so easy to follow their cab because of the number of people trying to hail one outside the Met. Reese tripped a man up so he’d fall in to the couple about to get in to the cab Reese needed if he wasn’t going to lose Finch and Denham. As the couple and the man worked on disentangling themselves, Reese commandeered their cab.
He was disappointed. He’d been hoping they’d leave the opera in two taxis and had already planned on following Denham’s. One taxi at this time of night didn’t bode well for Reese's objective, given how late it already was and that Finch didn’t seem like the nightclubbing type.
Their taxi finally pulled up outside a smart townhouse on the Upper East Side. Judging by how imposing the buildings were and how clean the street was, Denham was obviously very successful or had inherited money, either that or it was Finch’s home. Reese was frustrated to see both of them get out of the cab and to then watch it drive off. Denham unlocked the front door and had Finch precede him. Denham’s place then, not Finch’s, not unless Denham had his own key. His hands tightened in to fists.
He needed better eyes on the building. A quick jog down the block brought him to a narrow alley that took him around the back of the townhouses to a small service street. Looking up at the back of the townhouse, he could see lights on in the living room. Not Finch’s house then, his security would never be that slack.
Finch was already sat on the couch, his overcoat off and his bow tie and top button undone. Denham handed Finch a glass of wine, letting his fingers linger just a bit too long on Finch’s. Reese thought about how many hours it had taken him to get Finch to that stage of undress at the hotel and yet Denham had managed it in less than ten minutes. Just as Reese was settling in for the long haul, Finch gestured at the windows and Denham crossed the room to draw the blinds, obscuring Reese’s view.
He briefly considered scaling the balcony that ran across the back of the house, it wouldn’t take an awful lot of effort, but then if something went wrong, if there was a hidden alarm or a neighbor spotted him, he might have to explain to Finch why he was lurking on Denham’s balcony. It would be better to just bide his time. Finch would probably be finished with his nightcap in under an hour, and then he could tail the cab back to Finch’s home and start working on the next stage of his plan. Once he’d had chance to come up with a plan.
Seven hours later and Finch still hadn’t come out of the townhouse. He could no longer feel his ears and was concerned that his ass might have welded to the iron park bench hidden in the shadow of the park wall across from Denham’s house. Reese had double checked the back of the townhouse, realized Finch would have no reason to exit in that direction, and then picked it as the best spot from which to watch Denham’s front door. His lifesaver had been a late night coffee bar on the corner.
As a cab pulled up outside the townhouse, Finch walked out of the door and down the stairs alone, checking his phone for messages. Finch was about to get in to the cab, and Reese was already calculating how fast he’d be able to get another cab at that time in the morning to follow him, when Finch looked straight across the road.
“I’m going to the library, Mr. Reese. Would you care to share a cab?”
He’d already blown it so, given the circumstances, why not? He crossed the road and joined Finch in the backseat of the cab.
“How did you—”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Reese, I didn’t actually see you. The other secret agents will have no cause to make fun of you.”
Then how could Finch have— “My phone.”
“Your phone.”
“Why were you tracking me anyway?” A good offense made a good defense.
“It rather seems like that should be my question.” Finch was staring out of the side window. Finch hadn’t made eye contact with Reese since he’d got in the cab. “I’d thought I might ask if you would like to get breakfast, but it’s early still.” Finch turned to stare straight ahead at the driver’s partition. “I thought if your phone’s GPS showed you still at your place I’d wait until after I’d changed my clothes to call you.”
He caught a whiff of mint on Finch’s breath. Not good. Reese surreptitiously leaned in a little closer to Finch under the cover of stretching his legs a little. Clean, he smelled freshly showered but not ‘Finch clean,’ it was too citrusy. Finch had used Denham’s soap.
“Mr. Reese?”
So Finch and Denham were fucking. Not that he was going to say anything about it, Finch’s business was his own. “You mean he didn’t even make you breakfast?”
Finch finally turned to look at him with an expression generally reserved for something stuck to the bottom of a shoe. “Yes, Mr. Reese, of course he did, I’m just in the habit of eating two breakfasts… Would you like the cab to drop you off?”
“No, I’d like breakfast.”
“As you wish.”
Breakfast was surprisingly pleasant, all things considered. He managed to keep himself under control and said nothing about the night they’d spent together, despite provocation. Reese had almost choked on his orange juice when Finch had waggled his fingers at the waitress in the exact same manner he’d waggled them when offering to prepare Reese.
He didn’t ask any questions about Denham despite thinking his head might explode from the effort of holding them in. Finch had visibly relaxed as the breakfast had progressed obviously surprised by Reese’s self-restraint.
Finch didn’t mention Denham and Reese managed to narrowly avoid blurting out “is he better in the sack than me?” by filling his mouth with French toast. As avoidance strategies went it wasn’t his best, he ended up with syrup on his shirt, but it was effective.
They separated in front of the diner, Finch promising to call as soon as there was a new number.
He considered returning to Denham’s townhouse to follow him to work, assuming Denham actually kept a regular schedule, but he had a strong suspicion that Finch would be keeping a close tab on him for the next few days. He’d already been caught red-handed once and he certainly didn’t need to compound that sin. Instead, he went to one of the eight gyms where he held memberships under other aliases and engaged in a two hour workout, just to get the endlessly grinding gears in his head to shut off for a while. Then he went back to his apartment and fell in to bed. When he woke up the first thing he did was double check his phone before getting dressed and heading back to the library.
“I’m impressed, Mr. Reese.”
He wasn’t quite sure how to respond to that.
“It’s now 4:00pm. I was sure you’d have been here hours ago trying to find out some information about my friend. I’ve decided to save you the trouble.” Finch slid a manila folder across the desk to Reese.
Reese rested one hand on the folder, not opening it. “You don’t have to do this, Finch.”
“I think I do. If I don’t, you’re going to waste far too much time digging for information or tailing Denham and in this case I find I have nothing to hide.” Finch pushed his chair back from the table. “If you don’t find everything you want to know in there, just ask me.” He rose to his feet, picking up an open book from the corner of the table. “I might even give you an answer.” He walked off in to the book stacks.
Reese watched him go, noticing Finch seemed to be favoring his bad leg more than he had the day before, hoping it wasn’t an indicator of how athletic things might have got with Denham. He picked up his coffee and opened the folder.
Denham Stuart Caswell. Reese examined the three photos in the file closely, hoping for defects to show up in the close-ups. Reese couldn’t see any other than the broken nose which just gave the man’s face a piratical edge. Caswell really was a handsome bastard. Born 1967. He was forty-five then. Reese leafed quickly through the pages about Caswell’s childhood (privileged), schooling (private) and university (Ivy League). Caswell had got his law degree, Harvard naturally, but when he’d inherited the family fortune he’d given up his law practice to become a dealer of rare and antiquated books, his true passion. It didn’t take a genius IQ like Finch’s to work out how Caswell and Finch had probably met.
All in all, it seemed the two of them were a well-matched pair, two peas in a pod. What did Reese have in common with Finch apart from the numbers?
Finch came back carrying three more books. “Curiosity satisfied, Mr. Reese?”
Of course there wasn’t anything in the folder Reese had really wanted to know, like how long had the pair of them been involved? He couldn’t ask that, not without putting Finch on the defensive again, and certainly not just when Finch finally appeared to be opening up a little.
“No. Everything looks fine, if you’re sure this is all in order.”
“I’m sure, I doubled checked all the information myself. Now if you’ll excuse me I have some work to do.”
Of course he couldn’t let it go. Midnight found him back at the library, breaking in to one of the locked library cases in Finch’s computer room. He smirked at Finch thinking he could hide files from John by concealing them behind librettos.
“What are you doing, Mr. Reese?”
He shivered as Finch’s breath caressed his ear, Finch’s chest pressed up against his back. Finch’s hand slid up his arm, fingers circling his wrist where he was bracing himself against one of the unopened bookcase doors. The click of the handcuff closing around his wrist was loud in the quiet library. John looked up, surprised to see the handcuffs dangling through the door’s wrought ironwork. How had he not noticed them when he’d opened the bookcase? He raised his free hand to examine the cuffs more closely and Finch clicked the handcuffs closed on his other wrist as well.
John liked where this was going. “Doesn’t seem very sporting, Finch.”
“I’d say it beats poking your eyes out.” Finch’s hands slid around John’s waist, under his jacket, fingers spreading wide over his stomach, warming him even through his shirt. “Again, what are you doing here?”
“I couldn’t sleep, wanted to check if Turandot was one of the ones where a guy gets stabbed and sings instead of bleeding.”
“Sorry, but it’s one of the few operas where that doesn’t happen.” Finch licked at the exposed strip of skin between John’s shirt collar and his hairline.
John’s breath hitched. “…That’s my question answered then.”
“For a spy, you’re a terrible liar.” Finch unbuttoned John’s dark grey shirt, fingers playing over Reese’s chest.
“I wonder what it will take to get the truth out of you.” Finch dragged his hand down over John’s rapidly hardening cock, before moving to undo John’s belt and zipper.
“You’ll get nothing but name, rank and serial number out of me, Finch.” He stifled a gasp as Finch reached inside his boxer briefs, Finch's fingers closing around his cock. “…But you’re welcome to try.”
“Perhaps I’ll have to probe deeper.” Finch pressed his erection against John’s exposed ass, the material of Finch’s pants scratchy against his skin.
John pressed back in to Finch. “Perhaps you will.”
Finch eased John’s pants and boxers down around his knees, effectively hobbling him.
“Are you sure you’ve got nothing to say for yourself, Mr. Reese?” Finch’s fingers were slick, easing slowly between John’s cheeks, circling slowly with increasing pressure, before one finger slipped easily inside.
“More?”
“I think that can be arranged.”
John should have let Finch do this the first time around as Finch really was extremely dexterous. John wasn’t a fan of Finch's other hand though, currently clamped around the base of his cock and preventing him from coming, as Finch’s fingers played havoc with his senses. He was chewing at his lip, determined not to say anything, determined not to beg Finch to stroke him off, when Finch withdrew his fingers leaving him craving more.
Senses on full alert, he heard the sounds of Finch undoing his pants and strained to look back over his shoulder. Finch was slowly stroking himself. Screw pride. “Please.”
Finch moved closer again, dragging blunt nails down John’s chest, causing him to buck against the handcuffs, before Finch's hand stopped low on his stomach, rubbing in slow barely there touches. “Tell me what you want.”
“The same thing you do, the same exact fucking thing.”
“Language, Mr. Reese.”
“Shut me up, Mr. Finch.”
Finch pulled him as far back from the shelves as the handcuffs would allow, before pushing in to him at an agonizingly slow speed. It was a masterful move. He could do nothing to speed Finch up as the only option Finch had left him was to move forward. As he wanted Finch in him now, it was really no option at all.
Finally, after what seemed like hours, the only sound their ragged breathing, Finch was all the way in.
“Move, Finch.”
“Just a moment.” For the first time, John could hear the strain in Finch’s voice, the struggle to control himself.
The two of them stood there, panting.
“Move else when I get out of these handcuffs…”
“Is that a threat?”
“More like a promise.”
“You seem to be laboring under the misapprehension that you are in charge here, Mr. Reese.” Finch slowly pulled out of him. “Nothing could be further from the truth.” Finch rubbed his cock against John’s ass. “I could get off just like this. You, however…”
Finch reached to hold John in the palm of his hand again, caressing him too lightly to do John any good, before snapping a leather cockring closed around him.
John looked down to see his cock obscenely engorged in the very best of ways, the cockring at its base a color he’d come to think of simply as ‘Finch purple.’
He tugged hard against the handcuffs, feeling them bite into his wrists. He was thrilled when they took the strain without the door buckling. “So, you’ve got me, now what are you going to do with me?”
“Anything I want.” Finch drove his cock in to him so hard it took him up on his toes and he had to brace himself against the doors, fingers clenching around the ironwork, to avoid slamming face first into it.
Fast and hard, fingernails digging in to John’s hips, dropped in to slow and almost tender, Finch’s hands caressing John’s sides, hips and thighs before Finch stopped dead again, balls deep in John.
Finch’s nimble fingers slid to tease and caress John’s cock again, John’s denied orgasm creating a mounting pressure that walked a very fine line between pleasure and pain as Finch slowly slid nearly all the way out of him, before slamming home again as he unsnapped the cockring…
Reese woke up alone in his bed, gasping for breath. It only took a few hard strokes to take care of his erection but he was still left with the yearning and no way to take care of that particular bone deep ache.
He collapsed back against his pillows, rubbing absent-mindedly at his wrists. He’d never liked to be tied up. In his line of work it had happened so many times he’d have been dead from multiple orgasms if it had been a particular fetish of his. While he could think of worse ways to go, it certainly wouldn’t have been good for his agent efficiency rating.
What he really couldn’t believe was that he’d dreamed about being totally at Finch’s mercy and just how much his dream-self had enjoyed it. He was used to taking orders from his years in the army and the CIA and Finch was technically his boss rather than his partner, but Reese had never actually fantasized about being taken before, at least not that he could remember. Reese was always dominant during sex, always. Whether he was fucking someone or they were fucking him was immaterial. It was not only a smart move for an agent to always be totally in control of the situation but also Reese’s personal preference.
Or so he’d always thought. Of course that hadn’t turned out to be true when he and Finch had— he ruthlessly crushed that particular memory. Freud would have a fucking field day with him.
He checked his phone knowing it was stupid as he would have heard it if Finch had tried to call him. No message.
He took a long, hot shower while thinking over the information on Caswell, looking for an angle. He couldn’t find one.
He ate breakfast in a diner four blocks over from his apartment while contemplating how easy it would be to plant information to make Caswell look bad. Over several cups of coffee and the New York Times he considered just making Caswell disappear. He should have felt bad even thinking about it, Caswell hadn’t actually done anything wrong as far as he knew, but what really derailed that train of thought was the sure and certain knowledge that Finch would never buy it as an accident. Still no call.
He walked the city, checking for tails by erratically doubling back and cutting through alleys. No joy. He found himself wishing for someone stupid enough to try and mug him. The thing was, even predators have a pecking order and he spotted at least one instance where someone lower on the food chain decided to give him a wide berth after taking a second look at him.
He visited one of his uptown caches, a storage locker in the basement of an apartment building and checked over the equipment stashed there before cleaning a couple of the handguns.
He stopped later at a large bookstore chain, bought a cup of coffee, checked for messages and perused their very small selection of books on collecting first editions. Reese couldn’t really give Caswell a run for his money when it came to Finch’s hobby but that wasn’t going to stop him from even trying.
His stomach had been grumbling at him for two hours, not that he was in the habit of giving in to his physical needs that fast. He couldn’t afford to let himself get soft, to get used to luxuries like regular meals. He considered calling Finch to ask if he could bring him some dinner. The only meals he really enjoyed were the occasional ones eaten in Finch’s company.
He was just going to have to put all his cards on the table and simply tell Finch what he wanted even though it went against every instinct he had and every bit of training he’d ever received. If Finch didn’t want the same things too then he would have to accept it. Well, at least until he'd had time to think of a different strategy, something where Finch might end up thinking a change of heart was his own idea.
He picked up a sandwich at a corner deli on the walk home, but didn’t buy beer even though he wanted it. He told himself it was because he had to be alert in case Finch called with a number but really it still rankled how far in to the bottle he’d let himself slide after Jessica’s death.
He was only a block from his place when his phone rang and he hit his earpiece, knowing it was Finch.
“John, I need—”
“Finch, you’re going to have to speak up, I can barely hear you. Do we have a new number?”
“Met Carter. Gave her files… Been taken, off street... Think I’m in a car trunk.”
Reese stopped so suddenly a man walked in to him, cursed him and moved on. “Who Finch? Where are you?”
“Don’t know… Your phone… Dial *374851*… will track me…”
“Finch stay on the line. Finch? FINCH?”
He dropped the deli bag and ran back down the block to where he’d parked his car, dialing the number Finch had given him on the way. A GPS map popped up on his phone, a flashing icon indicating the car carrying Finch was headed downtown. He drove, following the GPS tracker, mentally going over the small arsenal he currently had in his car's trunk.
Who would take Finch? Who would even know about him? Had Carter tipped someone off? No, not again, it wasn’t Carter’s speed. He just didn’t know enough about Finch’s life away from the numbers, Finch had seen to that. He was friends with Caswell, perhaps he was also friendly with someone else or had one of the numbers caught up with them?
Ultimately it didn’t matter who’d taken Finch because he was getting him back. Nothing good ever came out of taking someone who belonged to him. Wherever Finch was he knew Reese would be coming to get him.
The GPS tracker had hit the Battery Tunnel. With traffic the way it was, a quick estimate put him thirty minutes behind and that was thirty minutes too long. Luckily he’d made a few modifications to his car just in case. He jammed the red light on the roof, hit the sirens and started to run red lights. It was a pity, he liked the car but he’d have to get rid of it when this was all over.
Red Hook, Brooklyn. Parked between two warehouses, across from where Finch was being held, unloading the tools of his trade from the trunk, he thought about how these things always went down in places like this, only the names of the places changed.
He strapped on a handgun in an ankle holster, just in case, shoved another handgun in to his waistband and slipped on a small backpack full of hand-grenades, extra ammo and tear gas grenades. He shoved a couple of extra grenades and a knife in his overcoat pockets. One Vector slung across his body, the other in his hands ready to go, it was time to introduce himself to Finch’s captors.
His car plowing through the yard gates and in to the security guard’s hut certainly said hello. Two CIA agents, he could smell it on them, stepped out from the shadows and tore what was left of the car to pieces in a hail of machine gun rounds. Unluckily for them, he wasn’t in it but they didn’t live long enough to regret it. He stepped over their still twitching bodies and kept moving steadily towards the warehouse indicated by Finch’s GPS location.
He took out a third agent who was stupid enough to think he could hide behind a wooden door, the Vector making toothpicks out of it and taking the man’s kneecaps at the same time. He stopped briefly to kick the agent’s gun away and then to kick him in the head to make sure he stayed down. Reese hadn’t had time to plan an exit strategy but making sure he left no guns at his back was always a good place to start.
A fourth agent didn’t survive the plunge off the top of a storage container although the bullet that shattered his skull might have had something to do with his untimely demise.
Fifteen minutes after his car had hit the gate, Reese was face-to-face with the man holding a gun to Finch’s head, a man he recognized. Wherever Barrett was, Snow wouldn’t be far behind.
Finch, stripped of his jacket and vest, his left sleeve rolled up, was tied to a chair. He seemed to be struggling to focus on his surroundings.
“What did you do to him?”
“New MK-ULTRA blend, Reese. The lab boys are very excited about it. Snow said we weren’t allowed to damage him, much, so it seemed worth a try.”
Barrett ruffled Finch’s hair, like he was petting a dog.
“You dosed him with an experimental psychotropic?” Reese breathed deeply, forcing himself to stay calm. If he wasn’t careful he was going to get them both killed although only Finch’s death would be a tragedy. “If he has brain damage I will bury you.”
“Is that a threat?”
“No, it’s a promise.”
“Snow said you probably had a soft spot for the little gimp though fuck knows why.” Barrett went to pet Finch again.
He’d noticed the first time Barrett had done it that despite being a consummate professional Barrett had instinctively turned his gun a little to aim it away from his own hand. This time, when Barrett repeated his mistake, Reese was ready, shooting Barrett clean through the shoulder, the force of the bullet throwing him back on to the floor, his gun skittering away.
He touched Finch’s arm as he walked past, “I’m here, hold on” and went to deal with Barrett.
“How did you find him?”
Barrett just gazed defiantly up at him. He very slowly pressed his foot down on Barrett’s bleeding shoulder causing him to cry out.
“Tell me or this is going to get ugly fast.”
“Snow found security footage of the parking deck. Saw the gimp—” Barrett cried out again as he applied more pressure. “Fuck you didn’t have to do that—”
He stepped down hard, twisting his foot.
It took a moment for Barrett to be able to speak again, his voice weak and thready. “All right, all right, no more… Had us watching Carter, recognized the gi— him when he showed up. It was easy enough to pick him up once the detective was out of the way.”
He was relieved to hear that Carter’s involvement was only accidental as he hated to be wrong about people. He knocked Barrett unconscious with the butt of his gun and turned his attention back to Finch, untying him quickly.
He had to get Finch out of there but how? He’d wrecked the car getting through the gates and no matter how isolated this place was he’d made too much noise taking down Snow’s men for it to go unnoticed. The cops had to be on their way. They couldn’t get far with Finch in his current state, his pupils dilated to the point where Finch’s eyes were more black than blue.
He’d be able to move much faster with Finch in a fireman’s carry but he didn’t want to risk doing any more damage to Finch’s neck. The other warehouses were the only option. It was a risk, going to ground, but the odds were in their favor. The place would be swarming with cops soon enough and when Snow showed up he’d back off and start looking again for Reese elsewhere, assuming that he was long gone.
That was the way this kind of operation worked, maximum damage followed by maximum distance, and Snow was going to have his hands full denying running an operation on American soil, if he even bothered to claim his men at all. It was the only reason Barrett was still alive, to add to the confusion. Decision made he helped Finch to his feet.
“Come on, Finch, I’m sorry but we have to move before the cops get here.”
“I think… I can still walk, Reese… if you can help… steady me.”
He caught hold of Finch, slipping an arm carefully around him. They made it back outside, his ears straining for the sound of sirens. There they were, in the distance but closing fast.
He kept the Vector ready, scanning the area for more of Snow’s men, as they walked down the row of warehouses. He didn’t pick any of them but swung around the block to the next row, trying doors. He couldn’t believe his luck when the third door he tried opened without his having to force it which meant he didn’t have to leave any sign of their having entered. Inside was a small office, the charts on the wall identifying it as a part of a freight haulage business. He bolted the door from the inside.
He propped Finch up in the desk chair before removing his backpack and pulling out a bottle of water which he handed to Finch.
“Here, drink this.”
He slipped the grenades and the knife out of his pockets, laid them on the desk and stripped off his overcoat. He felt Finch’s hand on his arm.
“John, you’re bleeding.”
He looked at his left bicep where blood was slowly oozing from a rip in his jacket. “It’s just a graze.” He hadn’t even noticed it.
“Take your jacket off.”
“It’s nothing, Finch.”
Finch wasn’t listening. He was taking off his tie, making quite a mess of it with uncoordinated hands, before Finch finally managed to work it loose. “Here, hold this.” He handed his tie over and pulled his shirt tails out of his pants, before reaching for the knife.
It took Reese a moment to realize what Finch was planning on doing. “Don’t, I—”
“Jacket, now.” Finch cut a large strip off the bottom of both his shirt and his undershirt before putting the knife back down.
Given Finch’s current condition, it seemed prudent to humor him. Reese put the tie on the desk and removed his jacket, ripping off what was left of his shirtsleeve.
Finch picked up the water bottle, staring too closely at it for a moment, before handing it over to Reese and reaching for the piece of his shirt he’d cut off. “You’ll have to open it.”
“You didn’t hesitate to use a large knife right next to your stomach but don’t feel coordinated enough to be able to open a bottle of water?”
Finch just stared at him through those unnervingly black and unfocused eyes. He opened the bottle and handed it back to Finch.
Finch drenched the shirt cloth in water and dabbed gently to clean the bullet graze, his fingers hot, far too hot, on Reese’s skin. Finch went to throw the cloth in the wastebasket but Reese took it off him, dropping it in to his backpack along with the knife and the grenades. There was no point in leaving more trace than they had to behind them. Finch wadded his piece of undershirt up and then used his tie to secure it around Reese’s arm.
“Thanks.” Reese slipped his jacket back on.
It was a cold night, the office was unheated, and while Finch was currently burning up that wasn’t going to last. Reese picked up the backpack, the Vectors and his overcoat and moved to the corner of the room opposite the door, lowering himself to the floor and putting his back to the wall.
“Come here.” He settled back in to the corner and held out his arms.
Finch was huddled over visibly trembling. “No, I’m fine.”
“I believe you. Right now you feel like nothing can touch you but I know how these drugs work and I need to get us settled before things get worse.”
Finch was pacing back and forth, his limp much less noticeable than usual. Watching Finch just made him want to go and step on Barrett all over again. Finch might not be currently feeling the pain but being so careless with his leg was going to come back to haunt him.
He knew the drugs had already been in Finch’s system long enough for him to be biddable.
“Now, Harold, you will come here, now.”
Despite the look of total disbelief on Finch’s face, he crossed the room and went to his knees in front of Reese. He got Finch turned around, trying to handle him as gently as possible, maneuvering Finch so he was sat between Reese’s legs, his back up against Reese’s chest. He brought the sides of his open jacket around Finch as far as he could and then draped his overcoat across both of them like a blanket.
“Can’t stay here.”
“Why not, Finch?”
“I’m not the walrus.”
“What?”
“Shoes, ships, sealing wax.”
Through the Looking Glass. Only Finch could be drugged up to the eyeballs and quoting Carroll.
“Tell you everything, donwanna.” Finch struggled like he was going to try to get up again.
“You’re slurring your words.” He wrapped his arms around Finch, rubbing soothing circles against Finch’s exposed stomach where the skin was hot and clammy. “You’re already trembling and this is the best place for you to be with the smallest chance of you hurting your neck further once the shakes set in.”
He tightened his arms around Finch, coaxing him slightly sideways so the top of his head was lying alongside Reese’s neck. It allowed Finch’s neck and shoulders to stay straighter and made Reese’s access to the Vectors lying on the floor beside him easier, just in case.
Soon, Finch would start spilling secrets even Finch didn’t know he had. He wouldn’t be able to help himself. Thanks to his CIA training, Reese knew this could only really go one way, but if he was very lucky he would be the only one of the pair of them who remembered it.
“The time has come, Harold, to talk of many things.”
.