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Reese brings tea for Finch and coffee for himself, and by now it almost feels like routine, but he's learned not to associate familiarity with Finch. It's never appreciated, at least not in words. Tea, yes; words, no. So, Reese can bring the tea and order the eggs, and always have his guns ready -- despite Finch's professed dislike of them -- but he can't say anything suggestive of routine or habit or custom. He can't imply that something is typical or ask about something that isn't. He can't take anything for granted, or ever hope to. It's as though they are but coworkers passing in a hallway or two men only ever on conference call, and he has to be more careful with his smiles.
The lesson has always been: nothing is standard, nothing assumed.
There is no intimacy and there is no run-of-the-mill.
=
It's hard enough to ignore Christmas in America, but it's even harder in New York. You don't need to be in Times Square or walking on Broadway; you can't pass a tree without a string or net of lights thrown about it. Hardly a shop window can display its wares without a tribute to the season, from plastic icicles and polystyrene snow to bejeweled ornaments and animatronic north poles. The population of Santas has increased overnight, and the sound of bells fills the air, calling coins into their red buckets. Buildings are hung with great luminescent snowflakes or wrapped like a giant's beribboned gifts. It's as though the entire city has been polished, at least to the less discerning eye, but Reese still sees - will always see - the dirt.
After passing all this, it is a relief to ascend to Finch's nest, blessedly free of any shining red and green or mildly glowing fairy lights. It remains no different than on any other of Reese's visits.
"You said you wanted to see me," Reese says unnecessarily as he sets the tea at Finch's elbow, "but there's no number."
"No number," Finch agrees, unconcerned as he tap-taps at the keyboard, every keystroke swift and precise. He doesn't look up at Reese or down at the styrofoam cup. "The Christmas season is upon us, Mr. Reese. You've earned a vacation, don't you think."
It's not a question and he doesn't want an answer, so Reese says, "That's ridiculous."
Finch glances at him. "You don't want a vacation?"
"No."
"Well, you're getting one."
"Really? Is the machine taking a vacation? Are you?"
"In a manner of speaking."
"What manner of speaking?"
"You ask too many questions, Mr. Reese. You'll be hearing from me after the New Year. I hope you have a pleasant holiday-- you'll even find a bonus in your account."
Reese peers down at Finch, as though focusing his glare will enable him to see through all the shrouds encasing this man of inviolable privacy. There may be few - if any - lies between them, but secrets define their relationship as much as honesty, and Reese always finds himself walking the line between polite subservience and cheeky insolence. It's surprisingly thin.
"You didn't need me to come over to tell me that."
"That will be all, Mr. Reese."
=
Reese has little to do with his newfound free time. All the things one does on vacation are generally not done alone. He has neither family nor friends. Any acquaintances he's earned are not people he wants to see, let alone spend time with. He's had his full of the blustering cold city wrapped and shined for the season.
There are few people he cares about now, and Finch has neatly disposed of him for the month.
Reese is not lacking funds or equipment, so he rents out a small room across from Finch's library and tails him on his rare jaunts into the outside world.
Finch has to know he's being followed, but he never gives any sign. There is no disparaging phone call, no pointed closing of the blinds at a window, no sudden eviction from his new residence.
Reese is never sure what he would say if Finch were to call him on it. Shrug and admit defeat, or find some careless words to make a joke about hobbies or holidays.
Instead, he watches the man. On his rare outings he makes a dull blot against the crowds that part before him with the same distance given to other off-putting creatures beneath notice. The unapologetic carriage of a calm and possessed man is betrayed by the awkward limp, the full-body twist of unbending bone. Curious eyes follow him very briefly in that peculiar stare of people noticing something not-quite-right, and then the eyes drift on and they forget. Reese sees all of this.
When he goes to roost in the many intertwining rooms of his library, Finch sits for countless hours with his books and computers, and it should be boring. Reese should grow distracted from stiff shoulders and intent eyes, should find something else to do with his vacation, really, aside from watching monotonous fingers perched at a keyboard and sharp, bespectacled eyes.
=
Despite his height, Reese knows how to blend with a crowd. His posture as he hunches into his overcoat, his apparent wandering focus as he moves, his strolling gait a bit stiffer in the chill wind: all these things set him into the background of New York's winter like a barely-noticed backdrop.
Finch doesn't always see him, but he knows he's there. Only once does he review the tapes of his own travels about town, watching Reese cross through screen after screen only moments after Finch himself.
It should feel like an intrusion.
It doesn't.
=
The night before Christmas Eve, Finch does something different. He approaches a window that overlooks the street, but before he closes the blinds, he looks out into the night and his lips shape the words, "Go to sleep, Mr. Reese."
The next morning, Finch steps into a car that disappears down the busy streets before Reese makes it out his own door.
Despite his resources and contacts, it takes Reese all day to track down a "Mr. Harold Robinson" that has been admitted to St. Luke's Hospital on Amsterdam Ave.
=
The green wire tree is about a foot high, stuck in a fake plastic pot (presumably it is meant to be Christmas red, but either hospital lighting or cheap Chinese paint render it a faded pink). Its sparkling protrusions leave a breadcrumb-like trail of green glitter on the pristine tile floor, and the miniature plastic pears click together with sharp clacks and clinks. When Reese sets it on the extended rolling tray, he pointedly turns it so the beady-eyed little bird with haphazard brown feathers can peer wild-eyed at Finch where he reclines in the tidy white bed.
"Is that-- a partridge-- in a pear tree?" Finch is still groggy from the anesthesia and his speech is broken with shallow inhales for enough air to push out each set of words.
Reese smiles. His expressions say more than his words ever do. "I thought it was fitting," he points out as he pulls up a chair to sit at Finch's bedside.
"But it's not-- the first day-- of Christmas."
"I didn't know where to come by eleven pipers piping this time of night."
Finch almost rolls his eyes. Almost. "Why-- are you here-- Reese?"
"Well, look at that: all it takes is a morphine drip for you to drop the 'Mr.' You ever get well and truly fucked, maybe we'll move on to first names."
"Answer-- the question-- Mr. Reese."
Reese makes a thoughtful moue of his lips as he leans toward the end of the bed to examine Finch's chart. "Well, Mr.… Robinson? I figured even men like you and me -- dead or absent, whatever you think we are -- we shouldn't be alone for Christmas."
"How-- did you-- find me?"
Reese smiles. It's not a friendly assemblage of features.
"I hope-- you left the staff-- intact. They're-- very efficient-- here."
"Finch, do I look like the kind of man who would take out a few orderlies just because visiting hours are over?"
Finch says nothing, though his expression implies that he knows that's exactly the kind of man Reese is.
"I'm wounded. I take that silent accusation personally."
Finch glares.
It's a very impressive glare for a drugged man recovering from spinal decompression surgery and Reese says as much.
"I know-- that Maria-- at the front desk-- would never let you pass-- without argument."
Reese grins. "I told her I was your partner. She seemed to think that was… cute. She said you'd only just woken, might like to see a friendly face." Reese's expression is infuriatingly smug. "She said I could sneak in for a bit." When Finch says nothing, Reese expounds, "'Partner' has a lot of meanings these days, doesn't it?"
"Mr. Reese…" Finch's tone suggests that his partner is insufferable.
"You could call me 'John,' you know. After all, I did bring you a thoughtful Christmas present."
They both look at the glittering pear tree, the tiny feathered bird.
It's quiet for a long time before Finch says, "Merry Christmas, John."
"Merry Christmas, Harold."
There's the vague hum of machinery and fluorescents accompanied by shimmering lights from the city outside the window, and there's a lack of human voices accompanied by quiet eyes and still hands.
They remain thus until the door opens and a nurse steps half-in. "I'm sorry, sir. We do have to ask you to leave now." She does not depart, but waits to ensure he does so.
So Reese nods and stands. He leans over the bed to whisper, "I'll be keeping an eye on you, Finch. Just in case." And he kisses the corner of Finch's thin mouth for show.
Reese doesn't look back when he leaves, but Finch can't look away, watches the long strides, the crisp suit, the neat hair.
=
The lights are low and the shades down. Every time Finch almost falls asleep, thinking it must have been a drug-dream or pain-hallucination, he looks at the kitschy Christmas trinket Reese left at his bedside. He stares at the damn thing half the night, feeling the ghost of a kiss at the edge of his lips until the morphine lulls him under.
=
Reese visits only briefly the following day. Christmas in a hospital is odd, like he's entered a parallel universe just slightly off from his own. People try to be cheery, but their voices ring somehow false; their eyes shift away just a moment too soon. If someone speaks too loud, everyone stares.
Reese converses with Finch's doctor in an anteroom, and Reese takes all the information away with him to the brownstone Finch lives in as Burdett, where he makes up Finch's bed with as many pillows as he can find. He brings in bags of groceries, everything the doctor had suggested. He fills the prescription at the pharmacy. He puts a wreath on the door, thinking, well, why not? He glances at the laptop, wonders if he could access the machine. Highly doubts it.
He doesn't think much about these chores as he goes about them, only that they need to be done, and he needs something to do.
When he finds himself wondering whether Finch would prefer the green comforter or the red, he disappears from the place, taking himself off to the freezing streets of New York. He walks through the city's night, which never comes close to dark (unless you know the black and secret places) and the wind bites at his nose and ears no matter how far he hunches into his coat. He passes by those shining windows and sparkling lights; they start to grow misty halos in the fine, freezing drizzle that begins to fall. Every opening door emits a tinkle of cheery music. He passes by party-goers in their holiday finery: women click along the cement, men's long overcoats sweep near his calves. The scents of the street vendors tempt the stomach he's neglected.
He falls into bed that night chilled-through and exhausted.
=
Reese brings the car around to patient pick-up/drop-off where Finch sits behind sliding glass doors in a wheelchair manned by a pleasant-looking nurse.
Reese opens the car door, and helps Finch over the freezing gray gutter-water running like a moat before the curb. Finch does not say much, concentrating as he is on managing the pain as he inches himself into place in the generous backseat, a death grip on Reese's hand until he is settled, his entire body overtaken by uncontrollable shivers, brought on by a biochemical cocktail of pain and drugs.
Once Reese is installed back in the driver's seat and easing at a snail's pace into traffic, he smirks at the rearview mirror and asks, "How was your stay, Mr. Robinson?"
"Their selection of reading material is deplorable."
Reese smiles to himself and lets Finch ride all the way in silence, broken only by occasional chirps of pain.
Reese never paid so much attention to potholes in his life.
=
They go to the brownstone. The steps are a challenge, and Reese comes as close to carrying Finch as will be allowed, which is more than it might be otherwise, as Finch is still weakened and dulled by his painkillers. There is a brief trip to the bathroom, where Finch vomits and curses the pain, urinates, and washes his hands with the attention of a hypochondriac-- all things Reese politely ignores.
Finch is shaking again and gasping by the time he's situated in the bed, propped by as many pillows as Reese could find. He quails at the light and requests silence and darkness, which Reese grants him.
=
As soon as he is able, Finch asks for his laptop. Reese brings it and the man is absorbed for hours, moving only to sip the cool water at his bedside, speaking only to grouse at the computer and order Reese about.
When Reese presents a dose of pills, Finch grudgingly accepts them. He naps afterwards, and Reese wakes him gently from the narcotic-induced nightmares with fresh water and soothing words.
"Don't you have a home to go to, Mr. Reese?"
"Not really."
=
Finch sleeps and wakes fitfully throughout the day and night. Reese helps him to the bathroom twice and keeps his glass of water fresh. When the morning comes, Reese presents him with hot soup, Stella D'oro breadsticks, an orange cut into sixths, and cranberry juice.
It's the first thing approaching a full meal he's had since the surgery and Finch eats carefully, and he carefully doesn't say anything about how much effort Reese is putting in to taking care of a man who is supposed to be his boss. And he carefully doesn't think about Christmas Eve at the hospital. He pecks at his food and asks Reese to turn on some music.
Once Finch's meal is done and his computer reinstated on his lap, Reese declares his intention to stretch his long legs on the cold streets. Finch gives him a ring of keys and instructs him to check various postboxes throughout the city.
"Don't you have henchmen for this?" Reese asks.
"And what do you think you are?" Finch tells him.
Reese shrugs and sets out into the biting wind. He walks by mounds of trash bags and the first bare pine trees tossed to the curbside. People rush about their daily lives in the cold and he wonders if any of them are going to die today, a victim of the violent world they live in.
Three subway rides and a cab trip later and he has a plastic bag full of mail that he dumps on Finch's bed, regardless of the man still propped there with his laptop.
Finch makes a noncommittal noise between thanks and disapproval, but otherwise ignores the man that stalks through his place with all the nervous energy -- usually so well-contained -- of a caged beast.
When it looks as though Reese is thinking of departing again, Finch closes his laptop and looks up, waiting until he catches the man's eye.
Reese stands, almost at attention.
"There's something for you in the desk," Finch says. "Top right hand drawer."
Reese suppresses his look of curiosity, but he obediently retreats to the den and opens the drawer. There is a book-shaped package wrapped neatly in red tissue paper. A small green bow sits rather perkily on top.
Reese brings it back to the bedroom. "For me?" he asks, as though to be sure.
"Yes. You looked bored. I thought you could use something to occupy your time." It goes unsaid that it must have been there since before his surgery, that Finch had been thinking of him, had planned it.
Reese sits in the chair he'd brought from elsewhere in the house and hurriedly rips off the wrappings.
"Is this a first edition?"
"Hardly. It was printed in London, 1915. Color plate illustrations by Willy Pogany."
"I studied this in college," Reese says thoughtfully, carefully opening the finely tooled cover of the Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Just as he's about to settle in to read, a thoughtful look descends on Reese's features and he looks up to meet startlingly clear eyes. "Why birds, Finch?"
Finch blinks. "What do you mean, Mr. Reese?"
Reese scowl-smirks as he looks down to the book and back up. "Finch, Partridge, Plume… Robinson. Even Burdett, Billing, Down… I sense a theme."
Finch allows this observation with a slow nod and turns his attention inward, his eyes not focused on anything in the room. Finally, he asks, "Do you have any appreciation for birds, Mr. Reese?"
"Not especially."
"And what of Darwin's Finches?"
Reese thinks a moment. "…Galapagos Islands, right?"
"Correct. They've become a unique study of evolution; there's nothing quite like them anywhere else in the world, except maybe Darwin's rather under-appreciated mockingbirds."
Reese makes himself comfortable as Finch goes on.
"They aren't very impressive to look at, Darwin's Finches - drab little sparrows, really. But each so different from the next they became thirteen different species." His eyes search the nearest bookshelf as he speaks, finally indicating the bottom shelf. "Third from the right, there."
Reese leans over to retrieve the volume.
"Page seventy-three. Instead of remaining one species and overfeeding too small an island, they evolved-- each new attribute allowing them to develop a unique diet and unique way of feeding upon their chosen food source. Some even learned to use tools."
Finch speaks of birds. Reese doesn't tell him that the man reminds him instead of Greek tragedies, of augurs reading nature's tells in search of divine approval, of oracles too all-knowing to be sound of body, too. That there was always a price to pay for a god's knowledge.
The page displays sketches of various birds, with details of their beak-types. Reese looks up and indicates the outside world beyond the window. "And have you adapted to your island, Finch?"
The pain and the pins don't allow him to shrug, but Finch somehow conveys the notion of one anyway. "Only imperfectly, I'm afraid." He opens his computer as if in dismissal, trying for an idle tone when he says, "Not all birds can fly, Mr. Reese."
And he could say something like 'it doesn't matter because this is the most worthwhile job I've ever had' or 'but you promised to give me a purpose and you did' or even something heartfelt to explain how thankful he is just to be there, alive, with Finch, but all he says is, "That's why you have me." Which amounts to the same thing, really.
=
Later, when Finch is too tired to work, but can't sleep for the pain, Reese sits and reads Coleridge. His mouth holds and shapes phrases like "white as leprosy" and "upon a painted ocean" with ease, as his voice trippingly tells of the doom that befalls the mariner who dared to shoot the albatross-- the good omen of the winds. When he is finished, silence falls, but for the city sounds that drift up to the brownstone's window.
The hour is obscene; the room is dim.
Finch murmurs, "I don't think I've ever heard anyone read it out loud."
"Are you the albatross?" Reese asks, his voice harder than Finch's in the darkness.
"Are you the mariner?"
"Don't worry. I won't shoot you."
"You don't have a crossbow," Finch points out.
"Not that you know of."
And it might be that they are honest with each other. But they are less honest with themselves. Finch won't concede that he's been thinking about goodnight kisses on and off for hours. Reese doesn't admit that he wishes -- fervently -- that he could take Finch's pain away.
Finch lays on the bed. Later, Reese lays on the couch.
Neither sleeps much until Reese gathers the cushions and lays them on the floor beside Finch's bed like a soldier's pallet. Guard dog that he is, Reese curls up there, blankets gathered around him where he can hear Finch's breath as it steadies and shallows toward sleep while the wintered city still sings outside.
=
The End