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“I need you, Finch.” It was a great relief to be able to finally say the words that he’d been holding in ever since recovering from his last beating.
“Isn’t Detective Fusco available?”
He choked on his mouthful of beer, spluttering.
“Mr. Reese? Are you alright?”
“... Yes... Finch... Just get over here.” He ended the call.
Finch wasn’t a mind reader but even if he was John suspected his answer would have still been the same.
He rubbed a finger across the faint scar high over his right eyebrow, a scar only really discernible by touch thanks to Finch’s skill with a needle. John had already lost count of how many times he’d patched him up and that was the problem. Why would he ever want to get involved with someone like him?
His expression hardened and the bartender who’d been trying to flirt with him for the last twenty minutes stepped back so fast he smashed in to the bottles on the back counter.
He forced himself to relax and smile before tapping the side of his glass, signaling his need for a second beer.
Finch arrived twenty minutes later and slid awkwardly on to the barstool next to him.
“Why am I here, Mr. Reese?”
“McKinney’s still out in Brooklyn, but Hall’s in a booth near the stage. He called Davidson, told him to meet him here then left his phone in his car. I need you to follow Davidson when they split up. One of them might lead us to where they’re holding Melissa.”
“Surely Fusco would be far better suited to such a task.”
He wanted to ask Finch why he was avoiding him, but he’d long since learned it was better not to ask a question when you knew you wouldn’t like the answer. “His son has an awards banquet tonight, I couldn’t—”
“No, of course you couldn’t… and Shaw’s still out of commission. What about Leon?”
Leon? Just how badly had he fucked up? He stared at Finch.
“Sorry, that was rather stupid of me.” Finch leaned in closer. “So what’s the plan?”
“When the band starts playing and the crowd moves towards the stage we’ll use the cover to get closer to Hall’s booth.”
It was a good plan, not too many moving parts and it was easy enough to blend in with the crowd as they moved forward. Of course, nothing could ever really be that easy. Fuck. He’d been herding Finch forward in front of him, but now he turned him round, wrapped his arms around him and pulled him close.
For just a moment, Finch seemed about to move closer still but then he jerked his head back as far as he was able. “Mr. Reese?”
“McKinney’s here.” He kissed Finch.
And Finch stiffened in all the wrong places. He didn’t fight him off, he was too smart for that, knew that John had kissed him to conceal his face from McKinney, the only one of Hall’s associates who could identify him as a threat. That Finch could actually get any more tense than usual would have amused John, if some stupidly optimistic part of him hadn’t hoped for a more positive response.
He shifted his arms, loosening his hold across Finch’s back and then bent down further, taking any possible stress off Finch’s neck and increasing the intensity of his kiss. Other than his shoulders dropping slightly as the pressure eased, it was like passionately kissing a wall, no physical reaction other than the press of lips.
That answered his unspoken question. John pulled his coat closed across his own reaction and backed away quickly.
“Hall’s on the move. You stick with Davidson.”
He’d really fucked up this time. He left the bar as fast as he could, the sensation of Finch’s eyes drilling a hole in the back of his head speeding his exit. Beating Melissa’s whereabouts out of Hall might at least provide some diversion.
Hall had been surprisingly cooperative, but then in John’s experience dangling a man upside down off a rooftop almost always led to a frank and open exchange of information.
Melissa Bambridge had been right where Hall had said she would be, tied up in the basement storage area of Hall’s apartment building, frightened and shaken up but otherwise unharmed. Fusco had taken custody of Hall and Davidson, McKinney unfortunately having disappeared without a trace. John had returned to his apartment to take a long hot shower, to treat his skinned knuckles and then to drink himself to sleep while deliberately not recalling the feel of Finch in his arms.
Unfortunately, drinking to oblivion wasn’t a viable long term option as there were always more numbers that needed his help, so other strategies had to be employed. He avoided Finch, obtaining information on new numbers by phone rather than by going to the library. He didn’t know what he hated more, that Finch obviously knew he was avoiding him or that he was letting him. He could have easily insisted that John come to the library as usual, he had no real justification for staying away, but he never even alluded to it.
Six days later, John had finally had enough. He had a job to do and responsible ex-CIA assassins didn’t conduct themselves this way. He would have to face Finch in the library, apologize for his actions if he couldn’t find a way to avoid doing it, and reestablish their prior working relationship for the sake of the numbers.
It was never a good sign when he started lying to himself. He missed Harold, missed spending time with him and anything else John may have wanted would have just been gravy.
He was on his way to the library when Finch called.
“Mr. Reese?”
“I was just on my way—”
“I’m at the Tall Story, on W. 57th. They’d called me about a signed first edition of ‘Fahrenheit 451’—”
“Get to the point, Finch.” Normally, he loved to hear him talk about books, about anything that won his enthusiasm, but there was a breathlessness to Finch’s voice that didn’t jibe with being in a bookstore, no matter how excited he might be about a first edition, and instinct was causing the short hairs on the back of John’s neck to rise.
“I saw McKinney walk right past the bookstore.”
“Please tell me you’re not following him.” John hailed a cab and climbed in.
“I couldn’t let him get away again.”
“Where are you exactly?”
“We just crossed 6th Avenue.”
“57th and 6th.” The cab driver nodded and moved out in to traffic. “At least don’t follow him off the main streets, Finch. Wait for me.”
Slipping the driver an extra fifty meant it only took twenty minutes to get there, but he was still relieved to see Finch standing outside the Bay Hotel, waiting for John as instructed.
“McKinney is in room 420.”
How the fuck did Finch know that? “I told you not to follow him inside.”
“McKinney had already left the lobby. I bribed the desk clerk to get the room number, told him I was an insurance fraud investigator. Then I came right back outside to wait for you.” Finch spoke very slowly, like he was pacifying a fretting child.
He gritted his teeth. “Stay here, Finch.”
“John? Can you hear me? John?”
The hand holding his squeezed and another moved gently over his face with a now familiar touch. Harold.
He forced his eyes open against the pain, possibly another concussion, to find Finch’s face hovering mere inches above his own.
“Am I dying?” He didn’t like how unsteady his own voice sounded.
“What?”
“Why else would you be holding my hand?”
Finch frowned at him but didn’t let go.
“What happened?”
“McKinney used a blackjack on you. I believe he must have been hiding behind the room door.”
John forced himself upright, fast, too fast, wincing against the pain and the resulting tilting landscape, scanning the room. McKinney was unconscious on the rug, surrounded by broken shards of pottery. He turned to stare at Finch.
“There wasn’t an opportunity to poke him in the eyes so I improvised and hit him with a table lamp.” Finch grinned at him. “I must remember to send the hotel a check for the damages.”
If McKinney had used that blackjack on Harold… “I told you to stay outside.”
“You’re welcome.” Finch kept holding his hand as he started to try to get up, guiding him instead so they were both sat on the carpet with their backs to the couch. “I think you may have another concussion although your eyes look alright. I’ve called Fusco and I think we should just wait here until he arrives so he can render assistance if you’re unsteady.”
“You can let go of my hand now.”
“No, I don’t think I will.” He lightly caressed the back of John’s hand.
Perhaps Finch had got hit in the head after all. It was the only possible explanation.
He could hear the door lock open, was bracing himself to move, when Fusco spoke:
“Don’t shoot me Wonderboy, I’m coming in.”
He again tried unsuccessfully to extract his hand from Finch’s before desperately blurting out, “Not in front of Lionel, Finch.”
Finch let go just before Fusco rounded the couch. Fusco slowly and carefully helped Finch to his feet. He would have liked to regain his feet under his own steam, but both Finch and Fusco had a hand extended and it felt like it would have been petty, even if gratifying, to ignore them. He let them pull him up to his feet, putting far more of his weight on Fusco. He wobbled a little, Finch moving his other hand to his elbow to help steady him, but was proud of himself for staying upright as the room finally leveled off.
“Thanks, Fusco, I can take it from here.”
Fusco stayed to take custody of McKinney, John flipped up his coat collar to cover the back of his neck where he’d been blackjacked and Finch dogged his footsteps out of the hotel, before guiding him back to Finch’s car near the bookstore.
When they got to his apartment building, John started to say something about dropping him off but Finch drove down in to the underground parking lot, taking the reserved spot next to John’s car. He made a mental note to find out if Finch had another apartment in the same building.
“See you tomorrow, Finch.”
Finch turned the engine off and got out of the car. It was John’s turn to trail after him.
Inside his apartment, they fell in to their usual routine. He went to take a quick shower and to confirm his hope that the skin hadn’t been broken by the blackjack, given the lack of blood. For once, he didn’t need to put his shirt and suit straight in to one of the plastic bags he kept under the sink for just that purpose, ready to be fed into his apartment building’s incinerator. He put on some sweats and went back out to the living room.
Finch had got out the first aid kit but hadn’t bothered to open it, he must have got a good look at John’s injury while he was unconscious, and had an ice pack wrapped in a small towel, a bottle of water and two Acetaminophen ready and waiting. He took the tablets, washed them down with the water and then picked up the ice pack, walking over to the couch. He pressed it to the back of his head and then leaned gingerly back against the cushions, closing his eyes.
He could feel the couch shift as Finch came and sat beside him.
Thirty minutes must have passed while they just breathed the same air, the most time they’d spent together in six days. Perhaps they really could go back to how things used to be between them.
Finch took his hand again.
Perhaps not. “Why?” John lifted their joined hands a couple of inches off the couch before letting them settle again.
“You’ve never heard of a hand job?”
He would have rolled his eyes if he could have done so without worrying that they might fall out. His head was killing him. “Mixed messages, Finch.”
“About that...” The phrase just hung there unfinished. An inarticulate Finch was a revelation.
He didn’t want to let him off the hook but he couldn’t see any other option. “Don’t worry, I get it. We’re fine.”
“We’re patently not.”
He turned his head ever so slightly to look at Finch, who leaned in like he was going to kiss him. He held him off with one hand.
“John?”
Finch’s puzzled expression usually made him want to kiss it right off his face but not this time.
“Sure you wouldn’t prefer to wait until I’m passed out?”
“What?”
“All this affection, you save it for when I’m beat up, injured, unconscious.” He was surprised by the force of his own anger but couldn’t stop talking. “Do you have a fetish, Finch? Get off on seeing me injured, bleeding?” Perhaps he really did have a concussion. Hell, he should make the most of it, while they both believed him to be temporarily out of his mind.
This time it was Finch’s hand to his chest that stopped the kiss.
He could practically see the cogs in Finch’s head turning as he worked his way through what he’d just said. “...You meant it then, the kiss in the jazz club?”
It had never occurred to him that Finch wouldn’t have realized that.
“What exactly about me ever suggested to you that I’d take kindly to being pawed in public, Mr. Reese?” Harold raised his hand to gently caress the side of John’s face.
He leaned in to it, before raising his own hand in a mirroring gesture. “I forgot that you’re a very private person, Harold.”
This time their kiss was no mere press of lips.
“Bed, John.”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“I’m not asking, I’m telling.” Harold helped guide him to his feet.
The help wasn’t necessary but the care in his hands was more than welcome all the same.
“So giving orders is your fetish?”
“Please stop talking about fetishes.”
Harold’s kiss stopped him talking further, before he helped him to strip down and climb in to bed.
“Goodnight, John.”
He was surprised to feel the stirrings of interest, given the size of the knot on the back of his head and his resulting headache, but he’d wanted this for a long time. “I’m not injured that badly.” He was proud to keep the whine out of his voice, for the most part.
“And I have no injury fetish at all. Sleep.”
“At least lie down with me.”
Harold looked exasperated, but he stripped down and slipped under the bedcovers.
“When I feel better—”
“You can show me all your fetishes, of which I’m sure you have several.” Harold again took his hand. “Now, sleep.”
He should tell him that he loved him. “Hand partialism, Harold?”
“Handfasting, John.” Harold entwined their fingers. “If you’re amenable.”
John grinned up at the ceiling, his own hand tightening. “I’m amenable.”