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It’s strange because they’re not even friendly.
So, it’s another night spent in frantic research, toggling between insurance information and GPS tracking and whispering in Reese’s ear, and finally their latest number is safe and the would-be killers are in the capable hands of Detective Carter and it’s over and they can all go home, except Finch doesn’t have a home to go to, not really.
He tries to go to Reese.
Yes, he’s already told Reese that he’s free to do as he pleases until the next number comes up, and yes, Reese has already turned his phone off for the night, indicating that he’d like to disappear for a few hours, and yes, it’s been about twenty minutes since Finch and Reese said their goodbyes and Reese could be anywhere by now. Finch still finds himself driving by the scene of the final altercation, a quiet, shady alley. Reese is gone, of course. All that’s left are a few stray members of the NYPD, clearing up the crime scene. Finch drives around the block, parks on a side street that’s far enough away to not arouse suspicion, but close enough that the walk won’t kill him.
Finch walks all the way back to the crime scene to search for remnants of Reese. A scrap of fabric. A bullet hole in brick and mortar. A faint spatter of blood. In the end, he finds Detective Fusco, standing on the street corner nursing a split lip. Fusco gives him a curt, polite nod of recognition before pressing a crumpled tissue to his bleeding mouth.
“Hello, Detective. How’s recovery coming?” Finch had been listening in on that particular moment, heard the sickening thud and crack of the blow, Fusco’s grunt of pain. He’d caught himself wincing sympathetically.
Fusco shrugs. “Not so bad. You should see the other guy.” He spits on the pavement. His lip is swollen, right cheek and jaw blossoming with red and purple bruises.
Finch shuffles a few steps away, begins to dig into his pockets. “Hit him hard?”
“Sort of. I shot him. Did you miss that part?”
He had. He’d stopped to listen just long enough to hear Fusco get hurt, and not long enough to find out if he’d manage to extricate himself. Finch supposes he should feel guilty. “It’s been a busy night,” he says, finally coming up with a neat, embroidered handkerchief and passing it to Fusco, who takes it gratefully. “I’m sorry if I didn’t appear appropriately concerned.”
Fusco waves it off. “No hard feelings. You’re a busy guy and it’s not your job to care.” His brow furrows as he dabs at his lip and the tide of blood finally seems to stem. For the first time, Fusco considers the handkerchief. “So, you actually use these things? Like, they’re a thing you carry around with you?”
“Yes.”
Fusco gives him a long, wondering look, funny little smirk appearing at the corner of his mouth. “Where the hell are you from?”
The two of them stand together on the corner in slightly uncomfortable but nonetheless companionable silence for a time. In their heads, they are scrambling for words to fill the quiet, they are desperate to fill this conversational gap with any exchange, no matter how meaningless, until the both of them find that they just don’t need to say anything. For Finch, whose days are filled with constant, endless verbal communication, it’s actually kind of relaxing.
Then Fusco says, “So, are you looking for your guy?”
There’s a twinge of something in Finch’s chest. “Your guy”. Sweet, possessive, deferential. Finch loves and hates it at the same time. “Have you seen Mr. Reese?”
“He took off a little after we showed up.” There’s a hint of bitterness in Fusco’s voice right now that’s all too familiar. “Did that thing he does where he makes a smartass remark and then disappears the second you look away.”
Finch sighs. “Typical.”
“You want me to give him a message or something if I see him before you do?” Fusco asks.
“No.” Then, he asks, “Why are you still here, Detective?”
Fusco’s lip has stopped bleeding, though his face is still raw. He starts to pass the handkerchief back to Finch, but then thinks the better of it and tucks the bloodstained cloth into his pocket. “I was keeping an eye on the crime scene.” Then, softly, sheepishly, “I thought he might come back. I don’t know.”
“He won’t.”
“I know.”
They stand in the quiet together again, content to revel in their shared bitterness without acknowledging it. Fusco breaks the silence again. “You want to get a drink or something?”
“Should you be drinking in your condition?” Finch asks. He wonders why he’s asking this question at all instead of turning down the offer right away.
“Sure,” Fusco says. “It’s good. ‘S like a disinfectant.”
“Is it?”
“I don’t care. You coming or what?”
Finch is tired. Finch’s eyes are sore and weak from staring at screens all day. Finch feels the beginnings of an awful, slow-burn headache coming on. He needs rest; he should be resting already.
A half an hour later, Finch is in the nearest dive, being appalled by the wine selection.
***
Fusco winces every time he takes a sip. He probes the inside of his cheek with his tongue, brow furrowed. “I think I sorta bit myself when he hit me,” he says, thoughtfully.
Finch glances from Fusco’s beaten face to the chipped and cloudy wine glass in his hand.
It’s a Friday night. He could be doing so much better.
Not that he ever goes out on a Friday. But still.
Fusco takes a very long swig from his glass, shivers, closes his eyes tight, but the pain passes like a shadow and in a second he’s personable again. “So what the hell’s wrong with you? Did your boyfriend stand you up?”
Finch tries to stop his eyes from widening. “To whom do you refer?”
“Whom?” Fusco repeats. He sounds disgusted. “The creep in the suit, that’s whom. Jesus, whom.” He shakes his head, drains his glass, flags down the bartender.
Finch adjusts his glasses, stiffens his back. “I’m afraid you’ve gotten the wrong impression, Detective.”
“Yeah?”
“Mr. Reese and I have a professional relationship.”
“Do you?” he says, voice flat.
“A very professional relationship,” here he steels himself, knocks the wine glass back, swallows, “based on mutual trust and respect.”
“I see.”
“It’s a partnership, really. We’re completely united in work, but our private lives stay private. I’m a very private person.”
“Yeah.”
“So, you see, you’ve got it wrong,” Finch finishes. He feels burdened, suddenly.
“Yeah, I know,” Fusco says mildly as the bartender sets a fresh whiskey in front of him. “I was just joking.”
They exchange a long, sickly stare. Two mildly drunk people, trying to keep a secret. They both know better.
“You want another?” Fusco asks, pointing to Finch’s glass. Somehow, it’s been emptied.
Finch shakes his head. “What you’re having,” he says.
Fusco shrugs, orders for him.
***
“And then he just shut his phone off. I could turn it back on remotely and track him that way, if I really wanted to. It’d be easy. I mean it, Detective, it would be child’s play. But frankly, I’m not sure I want to.”
Fusco has his phone out on the bar. He’s staring at it with a strange light in his eye, like he’s fascinated by it, but he also wants to smash it.
“It’d be a breach of trust,” Finch continued. “Switching the phone back on. I like to think we do trust each other in some small measure, at least. I admit, I’m more knowledgeable about his personal life than he’d ever want me to be. And he’ll never know so much about me. But I maintain that I never uncovered anything about Mr. Reese that I didn’t need to know.”
“Can I make a suggestion?” Fusco says finally.
Finch nods, blinks as the bar suddenly wavers and blurs.
“Maybe, and this is just me bullshitting, right, but maybe Mr. Sunshine wants jerk off in peace without some nerdy guy listening in on his phone.” Fusco scowls at him meaningfully.
“I did apologize for monitoring you without your permission, Detective,” Finch says.
“No. No, you didn’t.”
“I didn’t?”
“No.”
Finch reaches over, squeezes his forearm gently, stares at him with the over-earnest cow eyes of the intoxicated. “I’m sorry,” he says.
Fusco brushes him off. “Look, it’s fine. Over and done with. You don’t do that anymore outside of work, do you?” he asks, voice tinged with suspicion.
“No,” Finch lies. Then, “You’re right, of course. About Mr. Reese. He has every right to switch his phone off. I can’t blame him for wanting some time to himself. He’s earned it. He’s a good man.” A better man, perhaps, than he deserves in a partner.
“He’s a prick.”
“Detective!” Finch means to sound sharp, but he follows it up with a light, half-sane giggle.
“He is. I put my life on the line for that preening jackass every fucking day and never see one word of thanks for it. Not once.” He scratches the back of his head for a moment. “OK, maybe a couple of times. But I saved his life. I didn’t have to, you know. That one time. With the crazy German.”
“I remember, Detective.”
“I thought about it on the way over. Must have thought about it ten, twenty times. I could just get conveniently stuck in traffic right now, and he’d be out of my life and my problems would be over.”
Finch coughs politely, swirls the whiskey in his glass, ignores the sudden, savage pang in his chest at the thought of how easily John could have been lost. “Not really, Detective. Mr. Reese may be the muscle of the operation, but if I believed that you allowed him to die…believe me, Detective, I am more than capable of ruining your life.” He takes a sip.
Fusco leans his head on one hand, smiles sheepishly. “See, I didn’t even think of that.” He sighs. “Anyway, I saved him. Could have gotten shot, could have died right then, but I didn’t let it happen. And he didn’t say a word.”
“Fusco, I was listening in when Mr. Reese saved your life not too long ago, and I couldn’t help but notice that you didn’t exactly fall over yourself to thank him either.”
He closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose, fights off a headache. “Yeah, well,” he breathes. “He doesn’t want to hear that. Not from me.”
***
“He’s very fond of you, you know,” Finch mumbles, side of his face pressed to the bar. He feels cold. There’s the edge of a puddle drifting against his lips as he speaks.
“What?” Fusco’s face is downturned, badly swollen. He looks like hell.
“He is. I know you don’t think so, but he really is.” He wets a finger in the puddle, begins drawing little shapes on the bar’s pitted surface. “I used to tell him to get rid of you, but he wouldn’t.”
Fusco glances up sharply, seems to catch himself off-guard. “What?”
“Oh, I like you fine now,” Finch says, lightly. “I wouldn’t dream of asking him to get rid of you now.”
“Thanks, sweetheart. I’ll keep that in mind.” Somehow he manages to say “sweetheart” like it’s “asshole.” He rubs his eyes, blinks sleepily. “And he doesn’t like me. He just needs me for things. It’s different; you just think it’s the same thing ‘cause you’re drunk.”
“You’re drunk. And he does like you. He’s just emotionally stunted. I should know,” Finch says. “I have a similar problem.”
“I’m gonna die,” Fusco says, almost offhand.
“You’re not that drunk.”
“No.” He squeezes his eyes shut, rakes a hand through his hair. “I mean I’m not coming out of this thing alive. I can’t. You know that, right?”
Finch pushes himself into a sitting position. The side of his face is dripping wet and it’s oozing into the collar of his shirt. “We can protect you, Detective.”
“Yeah.” He smiles in a way that’s thin and sad. “That’s real easy to say.”
“I don’t say it lightly,” Finch insists. He whips his glasses off, wipes lukewarm beer off the lenses with his tie, replaces them on his face. “If you’re concerned about your future, we can…”
“Concerned. That. That’s kind of the wrong word.” He looks Finch in the eye. His eyes are strange and calm. “You know, I think I’m resigned? And it just hasn’t kicked in yet. Not while I’m sober, anyway. I try not to think long term when I’m sober, but when I’m drunk it kinda creeps up on me. So even though I try not to, I’ve thought about it, and I know there’s two ways this can end for me. I can get found out by the guys in HR, and they’ll kill me. Or I can get found out by honest cops, and I can go to prison, in which case they might as well just kill me and save the guys at Rikers the trouble.
“’Cause it’s not like I’m going undercover with real police, right? There’s no commendation waiting for me when this is done. Nobody on the right side of the law knows what I’m doing. All they’ll see is a dirty cop. And all I can do is make sure that they’re wrong, even if I’m the only one who knows it.”
Finch blinks once, begins to speak, stops. Starts again. “We won’t let that happen to you, Detective.”
Fusco snorts, turns away.
“But if it does, and I know this may seem cheap, coming from me, but if that does happen to you, you have my sincerest apologies and regrets.”
Fusco gives him a long, hard, thoughtful stare. “It does seem cheap, at that.” He drains his glass, turns it over. “I think I’m done for tonight.”
***
Fusco keeps trying to pay the tab.
“No, really. Detective. I can cover it.” Finch fumbles in his jacket pocket; his wallet seems incorporeal and impossible to grab.
“I’ve got it,” he says, uncrumpling bills.
“You don’t understand. I can cover this tab. I can cover this tab ten thousand times. Do you want the bar? I can buy you the bar. The whole bar.” Finch wobbles on his barstool, grips Fusco’s shoulder for balance. “Let me get it.”
Fusco swipes Finch’s hand off his shoulder, goes back to turning his pockets inside out in search of another twenty. “Look, no offense, but I don’t want to owe you anything.”
“Can’t we at least split the check?” Finch asks.
Fusco slams the last bill on the counter triumphantly. “That’s it. We’re done.” He pauses a moment, looks Finch up and down. “You need help getting off that?”
They’re back to uncomfortable silences and staring now, but it’s colder, less hospitable. “If you don’t mind,” Finch says stiffly.
Fusco takes his elbow, gently guides him off the stool, and the two of them lurch for the door, leaning heavy on each other. Finch takes advantage of their closeness, slips the hundred dollar bill he’s spent the last several seconds easing out of his billfold into Fusco’s pocket. It’s such a cheap, paltry gesture that he regrets it instantly, but they’re out in the night air and Fusco makes sure Finch is steady on his feet before backing away, an odd gesture of combined respect and distaste.
“Share a cab?” Finch asks.
Fusco shakes his head. “Probably best if I don’t know where you live. You’re supposed to be private, right?”
“Right,” Finch sighs, shakes his head in the sobering cold. “Well, at least let me call you one.”
“You take it. I’ll catch a train.” He starts to walk away, but Finch grabs the back of his jacket.
“Detective, I can’t guarantee your safety in the months ahead, but I can guarantee that you get home without incident. At least let me do that much.”
Fusco stands back, lets Finch call him a cab. He lets out several slurred, half-formed protests, and each time Finch tells him to shut up. “Think you forgot to call yourself one,” he says after Finch ends the call.
“I don’t need one. I’m having a private car sent,” Finch says.
“Jesus.”
They’re standing about ten feet apart, on either side of the door to the bar, both of them leaning back against the wall, uncaring or ignorant of the filth collected there. Every so often, the last of the bar’s patrons filter out between them. Their heads are inclined back to squint up at the stars they can’t quite see.
“How’s your face?” Finch asks.
“Not too bad,” Fusco says.
It’s something like four in the morning and they stand there, apart, waiting on separate cars. They’re dead silent and it’s so damn cold but for now, it’s okay.