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The number they were working was fond of setting home-made bombs in buildings just for his own entertainment. The man owned two different apartments, and having dealt with people keeping two residences before, neither Finch nor Reese thought much of it. Reese went to check out the primary address first.
Unfortunately, the primary address was not where the number lived, but rather a trap he’d set up to take care of anyone who was onto him. So when Reese stepped in the door, he somehow set off the explosives that hadn’t even realized were there. Finch heard the racket, and then there was nothing. The line was dead.
Believing his partner dead or dying, Finch drives to the site of the explosion with a lump in his throat and tears threatening to cloud his vision. Stepping gingerly out of the car, he tries his best to swallow the lump as he watches the fire trucks gathered around the burning building.
“Hello, Harold,” says a familiar quiet voice from behind him and Finch spins around so fast he thinks he may have damaged his neck. And there is Reese, singed, bloodied, bruised, and cradling his ribs, but still mostly in tact.
For some reason, the only reaction Finch can summon on the spot is to grab the taller man by the jacket and pull him down into a rather clumsy kiss. Reese doesn’t seem to mind—he deepens the kiss for the fraction of a second that it takes for Finch to realize what he’s doing. He quickly pulls away and clears his throat. Reese looks rather disappointed.
Again, Finch clears his throat and says, “I thought you were dead. Can you make it to the car alright?”
Reese smiles and places a gentle hand on Finch’s shoulder. “I’ll be fine, Harold.”
He never mentions Finch’s outburst.