Work Text:
He‘s a very private person. Not even Nathan, his closest friend, knew his most intimate secrets. Which is why he‘s so surprised in himself when he lets Fusco find his old school records. When he lets John find her. For the first time in his life, he wants somebody to know.
Sometimes, in the quiet timelessness of the library, he forgets. He forgets that the hands of his chess mate are bathed in blood. Forgets that he could snap is neck in a heartbeat. It‘s only when he‘s left alone that he wonders how he can find solace in such a violent mind.
The first time they played chess, he was shocked when he looked down at the board and discovered that he‘d lost. He looked up at John, expecting gloating, but he seemed just as bewildered. They said nothing as they reset the board.
It seemed nothing but poetic that the first time he killed, it was to save John‘s life.
He heard the music down in the street. With a chastising word on his lips, his mind blanked as John grabbed him and danced a few steps with him. And when John offered him a finger of scotch, he found himself inclined to accept.
The first time they kissed was that very night. Drunk on scotch and high on music, John grabbed him and kissed him. Finch smiled at him drunkenly when he pulled away, and John smiled back.
John is lying bleeding on the floor when he finds him. He kneels next to him, putting pressure on the wound. John mentions that they've been here before, but Finch doesn't say anything - can't say anything. He ignores the words John whispers before he loses consciouness, and calls for help.
When he sees John again, he's pale and tired, but saved. He sits next to him with a little travel chess set, and they play in silence. When the phone in the room rings and a pre-recorded voice spews out random words, he directs it to Carter, knowing she'll be more than capable of handling it. John looks at him knowingly, but Finch just sets up a new game, determined not to leave his side.
He wasn't sure how it came to be, but it seemed only natural when John got into the bed next to him, and they slept long into the morning. He could say that it happened for the sake of convenience, but he promised to never lie. He could also dive deeper into their temparaments and conclude that they had both been starved of affection for so long that this seemed inevitable, but for once he let it go. He hadn't slept so deeply and so soundly in years, and to wake up with John resting peacefully next to him was worth his entire fortune.
Captured, he had been locked up in this infernal bedroom for longer than he could say. They fed him, but had no contact with him, and he supposed he was happy for that. At least he wasn't being tortured. But it was only when John broke up the door, bloody and desparate, that he realised why he had been held there. The man in the suit finally had a weakness.
The next time it was attempted to kidnap him, he was having none of it. By tapping into the wiring in the walls, he managed to knock out the lights in the building and opening the electric locks. He quietly walked past his captors in the darkness and out the front door. He walked a few blocks before turning the next payphone, contacting John, who sounded both surprised and releaved to hear from him. When it was all over, John paused in the street just outside the precinct and, swallowing the words he wanted to say, gave him a rare kiss. Finch sighed, and smiled, and told him to have more faith in him. John smiled mysteriously, and kissed him again.
The library is quiet, moreso than usual. Bear is sleeping in his usual spot, and Finch stands by the window, gazing out without really looking. John drops his bag in the corridor and slides out of his jacket, crossing over to Finch. He rests a hand on his shoulder, bringing him out of his reverie. Without asking, Finch tells him that today is the day he died. John doesn't press it, but embraces Finch and stands with him for a long while, dusk falling on the other side of the glass.
They spend the day in bed. It hadn't exactly been the plan, but snow was falling on the streets of New York, blanketing everything in cool silence - and the phone stayed quiet. John ventures out of the warmth of the duvet and returns with books and tea. They talk about anything they can think of; the power of ideas, science, people. They talk about Carter and they laugh about Fusco, and Bear gives a little bark at the foot of the bed before running out into the library. And they read together, each lost in their own world, sharing their warmth. And something happens, an avalanche of things unsaid, and the old, tea-stained porcelain breaks on the floor, and the books slide down, spines opening, the pages fluttering before settling open. And when everything is done, they stay in each other’s arms, and sleep soundly - until the phone rings.
The morning after, the books are stacked neatly on the desk in the corner, the shards of the broken teacup have vanished. He's warm under the duvet, but it feels empty in the bed without John there. He hears rustling outside the door, and John walks past with two books in his hands. There must be a new number. He resigns himself to leave the warmth, and dresses before joining John, who's already researching the latest victim or perpetrator. John pauses when he comes in, tells him he didn't want to wake him. He smiles as Finch sits next to him, the two sharing a quiet moment before getting to the job at hand.
He listens to the conversation, his heart lodged in his throat. John is speaking to a victim, and tells her about love. That he'd wondered for a long time what love was, that he'd lost it once and that he had been certain that he'd never find it again. Finch falls into the chair, breathless, when he tells her that he was wrong. That when you stop looking, you find the person you were waiting for your whole life.
When John returns to the library, limping and battered, he gestures for him to sit down on the desk without saying a word. He cleans his wounds, and stitches up the deepest cut, willing his fingers not to tremble. When John seems likely to say something, he pauses his work and leans in to kiss him, a little unsure, not used to instigating this display of affection. John sneaks an arm around him and holds him close for a moment. They part, but stand closer than before, and Finch continues patching him up.
He wakes as something brushes against his lip, and he opens his eyes, the world and incoherent blur. He makes out a hand, feeling it rest on his neck, and he gives a small smile when John's sleepy, low voice fills his ear, telling him he's sorry for waking him. He puts his own hand over John's, and squeezes it lightly, waiting for the kiss he knows is coming. It still takes his breath away. He rests his head against John, closing his eyes again, relishing the warmth and slowly dozing off again.
Sometimes John can't sleep. He doesn't know why, he never asks. He doesn't really need to know. But John gets restless, and moves about in the bed, and wakes him up. Without a word, he finds John in the darkness and just holds him, and sometimes he kisses him, and calms him down. Sometimes John fights his comfort, but gives in, relaxing at his touch. In the mornings, John usually makes a point to thank him; bringing him tea to bed, or goes out before he wakes up to get his favorite bagel. And Finch smiles, and accepts it, and doesn't tell him that he loves him.