Work Text:
A scratching noise, scratch scratch scratch, woke Finch. He felt a dim light through his eyelids, but before he could even wonder what time it was, a telephone rang.
Finch let it ring once, twice, and suddenly realized that it had to be the Machine. Where is my phone. Sitting up, he became aware of his surroundings, and nearly fell to the floor.
Beside him, Reese was fast asleep, golden in the light from the single opaque window, sheets twisted around his thighs.
Finch looked at him, looked at the bed, the strewn clothes... Looked at the terrifying irreversibility of it all, and felt panic rise up. The telephone rang again.
Picking up pants and a shirt, Finch scrambled for the door to the library.
The new number was already up on his computer screen when he got to the desk, but he picked up the phone anyway. Nothing but an unintelligible collection of sounds on the other end of the line, however. What the…? He pulled on his pants as he read the words on the computer screen.
Will Thomson, 20, NYU pre-law. Lives in campus housing, has an adequate academic standing, and no criminal record.
Finch started to pull on his shirt, and the computer screen blurred in and out of focus. What was he supposed to do now? Wake Reese? Really? How? Was Finch supposed to put his hand on Reese's sleeping shoulder until Reese opened his eyes, only to watch Reese remember what happened, and then react to that memory? Possibly with revulsion? What was Finch even supposed to say? That they... That he... Oh God, he's my employee. He's my employee and I've taken advantage of him. He's my employee and he's the only one I have and I don't want another one, I want him. Finch pulled on the other sleeve of his shirt and tried to calm down.
He had just finished buttoning his shirt when he heard Reese's footsteps. He looked up to see Reese, stark naked, gazing at him, looming just on the other side of the bookcase. He looked like the Vitruvian man. His proportioned, symmetrical body outlined by early-morning light.
Finch's brain went on autopilot, and said the first reasonable thing it could think of:
"We have a new number."
*
The new number, Will Thomson, wasn't being threatened by any professors, acquaintances, or fellow students. Neither was he a threat to any professors, acquaintances, or fellow students. He didn't really have any close friends. His family was far away. Neither Finch nor Reese could figure out why the Machine had sent them this kid's number.
Reese spent two days tailing him. Something would crop up; it was inevitable.
Reese reported in regularly to Finch, but his reports were formal, and unusually succinct. Not that his ability to do the job was in any way impaired. It was just uncharacteristic of him to cut off the comm link as often as possible.
Finch didn't let himself dwell on it. He busied himself with the task of working out what the hell had happened. He was certain that something unusual had taken place, and zeroed in on the handkerchief pretty quickly. It was a simple enough task to cut out a piece of it and send it to a lab (he'd found a well-reputed lab that accepted analysis work from anonymous sources). Now, the trouble was knowing what to do with himself while he waited for the result.
Finch couldn't process what had happened until he had all the facts. But he couldn't get all the facts until he got the lab results. And while he tried to busy himself with work, the new number wasn't making it easy. He was a solid B student, wasn't involved in anything even remotely dangerous, hadn't inadvertently made any enemies, and Finch couldn't think of a single useful thing to do to further his and Reese's investigation. He just stared at surveillance footage of Will's NYU residence hall, and tried to pick out suspicious-looking university students. They all look so young.
"Finch, have you taken a look at Will's browser history? And his credit card history?" Reese asked.
"I will look again, Mr. Reese. Am I looking for something specific?"
"No, just... Anything."
Will's browser history was mostly Reddit, coursework-related things, and porn. Reese had already tried to find a journal or a notebook in Will's room, to no avail, and Finch didn't find any kind of journal-type social media in Will's browser history.
"I give up, Finch. What are we missing? Why would a 20-year old college kid be in danger? What kind of danger would the Machine even be seeing?"
And suddenly, Finch knew. Oh, no. "Mr. Reese. What is the leading cause of death for white males between the ages of 15 and 34?"
"...Accidents? But The Machine wouldn't see that."
"Of course. I suppose I meant the second biggest cause of death."
Reese made a surprised sound, just as Finch found a web search for "lethal dose of codeine" in Will's browser history.
*
Will Thomson was suicidal. He had worked out a plan to kill himself, and that was what had been so confusing. Reese and Finch never knew if numbers were going to be victims or perpetrators, and in this case, it had turned out that the number was both.
The poor kid was suicidal because his academic standing was adequate. "You don't understand," he told Reese. "When I was in high school, I had a perfect GPA for three years in a row. My parents are expecting way better than adequate."
Clues about Will's situation had been hard to find, because all the real information about his intentions had been in his evernote account, which he only ever accessed with his ipad. Newfangled gadgets, how can anyone keep up, I ask you? Will had used to it write drafts of a suicide note. He'd also called student services a few times, but the mental health clinic had been completely swamped with requests. Fortunately, the phone call had probably helped the Machine pick him out.
So Finch had joined Reese on campus, and they'd knocked on Will's door together.
"I can't tell you not to kill yourself, Will. You're the only one who had the right to make decisions about your life. But that's just it. Your opinion is the one that counts. Not someone else's opinion. If you're killing yourself because of what someone else will think of your grades, I urge you to reconsider."
Once Will had answered the door, Reese and Finch had barely needed to explain their visit. They told him that they were alumni who were volunteering with student services, and had been informed of his attempted phone call to the hotline. Will had quickly confided in them.
"He's right," Reese said. "We can't ever presume to know what it's like to be you, so we can't tell you what to do. But from what I remember, the great thing about being in college is that you care about stuff. You care. I'm twice your age and I'm cynical and I wish I cared about stuff. But you. You have really strong feelings about things, and that is a great thing. Don't let the darker side of that take over and blind you to everything else, Will."
"Please," Finch added, when he'd recovered from Reese's speech. Where did that come from? "Please, we know that the NYU crisis hotline is often overwhelmed, and we encourage you to call this number instead," handing Will a card with a handwritten number.
CRISIS NETWORK
212-555-3232
Will took it, and Finch and Reese left soon after. They exited the residence building awkwardly, not speaking to each other, and Finch didn't even look up when Reese mumbled something and took off towards his loft. Finch felt tense and empty.
He went back to the library, and there he found lab results waiting for him. The email said something about a "concentrated empathogen..." blah blah etc "serenic... stimulant... anxiolytic..." and then, curiously, "p.s. Where did you get this? Can you get more?"
Distraught, Finch took Bear out for a walk.
*
He felt no better in the morning. Ever since that night, they'd been keeping communication to a minimum. They'd never spoken so little, in fact. They had been in some kind of liminal space. All through the Will Thomson case, Finch felt the shock of what had happened, felt the dread of the unknown fallout, but had also found himself maintaining the working patterns he and Reese had established over the two years of their collaboration.
His coping mechanism, he'd found, was basically: "as long as I don't know exactly what happened, I don't have to think about what happens next, and I definitely don't have to think about my feelings."
And as far as Finch could tell, Reese's coping mechanism was basically: "finish the job, then worry."
Well, now the job was finished, Finch knew exactly what had happened, they had both had time to rest, and Reese was going to appear at any minute.
Finch fiddled with his cufflinks, and tried to stop thinking. He'd been able to put that night out of his mind as long as he'd been working, but then after their conversation with Will, when it had all been over, Finch's head had been flooded with images, bits of conversation, and hazy memories, and he just couldn't make it stop. It had all seemed so real. The intimacy had seemed (still seemed!) so genuine. He'd felt... happy. And yet. It was all the result of a drug.
Reese and Bear walked in.
"Mr. Reese," Finch's voice croaked slightly. "Mr. Reese, do you recognize this handkerchief?"
Reese sat down. "Yes. That's yours. You had it the other night."
"I did have it. Yes. But as a matter of fact, this is not mine. It was handed to me by the serial killer on Owen Island."
Reese blinked. "I beg your pardon?"
"The man on Owen Island gave me this. At the time, I wiped off my glasses with it, but I did not unfold it. You see, had I done so, my hands would have come into contact with a very fine powder that was covering the handkerchief's creases." Finch demonstrated by unfolding the handkerchief. "Instead, that happened the other night. My hand and face were covered with it."
Reese's eyes widened, but he didn't say anything.
"As you will recall, you also handled this handkerchief."
"Yes."
"Now, I cut off a part of the material and sent it into a lab. Yesterday, they informed me that it was a substance that was unknown to them, but that probably behaved like a concentrated empathogenic drug. Empathogens, as you may know, are associated with serotonin, dopamine, and norepinephrine release, and activation of oxytocin-containing neurons."
Reese's jaw dropped. "Ecstasy?"
"Well, no, but something very similar."
Reese blinked incredulously. "So the serial killer, before he died, tried to drug you… with a handkerchief? But that instead of giving you GHB or some other date-rape drug to make you pass out, he gave you something that would… what, put you in a good mood? Make you feel friendly?"
"I'm as bewildered as you are, Mr. Reese."
"So the other night, you and I... we were drugged."
Finch nodded. He couldn't think what to say. His mind suddenly supplied an image of Reese's throat working on his cock, and he squeezed his eyes shut.
*
When Finch opened his eyes, he saw Reese looking back at him, and sitting very still. He seemed very, very attentive.
"Finch, are you okay?" Reese asked. "The drug - were there any adverse reactions with the pain medications you are using?"
"No, no." He was concerned with Finch's health? "Please don't concern yourself with -"
"Do you feel violated?"
What? "No! No," Finch looked imploringly at Reese. "Mr. Reese, if anything, as your boss, if -"
Reese shook his head, and Finch's voice died in his throat. "Finch, you told me, and showed me, more about yourself in that one night, than you did in all the time since we've met. Now I'm gonna ask you again: do you feel violated?"
"Heavens, Mr. Reese." Harold's breath caught in his throat. "No. If anything, it is you who should feel -"
"Finch," Reese said, shaking his head again. "Finch, the kind of work we do... Things happen. Don't worry about me. I know you would never coerce or take advantage of me."
"I would never."
Reese looked down at his hands. "In the field, we see things and do things other people will hopefully never have to do. These aren't normal situations. And sometimes, things happen."
Finch felt as though all the things that had happened to Reese, the things he'd presumably filed under the label "Sometimes, Things Happen", had just wandered into the room and sat down at the table with them, and for a moment, he felt surrounded by pain and loss. "Mr. Reese, if I -"
"Finch. We were investigating a serial killer. A serial killer. He nearly killed you, Finch. What..." Reese looked suddenly tired. "Accidentally getting high isn't even in the top 5 worst things that happened that day."
Sometimes it was so easy to forget all the lifetime of terrible things Reese had been involved in. This was a man who said things like, "you look worried, Finch. Did your tailor leave town?" and giggled when he rolled around on the floor with a dog. How was he to reconcile that incredibly silly person with the hard-edged Reese who now sat in front of him?
Finch pinched the bridge of his nose. He nodded. "Perhaps you would like to take the day off, Mr. Reese."
*
So Reese had taken the day off. Reese had, as far as Finch could tell, translated "perhaps you would like to take the day off, Mr. Reese," to "Mr. Reese, please take the day off," which was very perceptive of him. He'd given Finch one last, searching look, and he and Bear had left the library.
The rest of the morning was quiet, with sunlight slowly moving across Bear's empty doggie bed, and Finch's cup of tea slowly growing cold on the desk. Finch busied himself with preliminary research for the crisis network, and he looked into purchasing the lab that had analyzed the handkerchief. They'd done good work; best make sure they couldn't possibly go out of business. If only we could hire them to prevent this from ever happening again. If only...
In his mind's eye, Finch saw Reese wrapping his arms around him, felt Reese's lips touching his hair.
They hadn't even known they were drugged. Nobody could have helped them. Even if we'd had some kind of antidote the other night, we wouldn't even have known to use it. We would have needed… Finch's heart stopped. Surveillance. We would have needed surveillance. Oh my goodness, the Machine would have seen… why didn't the Machine warn us?
But it was obvious, wasn't it? He and Reese hadn't been in any kind of mortal danger. Sometimes, things happen.
What he really wanted, Finch realized, was a protocol. But there was no protocol for this. He was just going to have to soldier on.
He suddenly felt tired. He hadn't slept well in days - he hadn't set foot in the library bedroom since that morning; he couldn't even go inside to change the sheets. He'd been sleeping in hotel rooms - not avoiding, exactly, just giving himself some breathing room while he recovered from the loss of control.
Finch didn't do well with loss of control. Most of his life had been spent in front of a keyboard and a screen, in the process of breaking a large, complex task up into smaller and smaller subtasks until the subtasks were simple enough to be performed with basic operations. Somehow, somewhere along the line, he'd forgotten what do do about problems that could not be solved with computer programming. If I could just figure out my current use case…
He shook his head. Deep down, Finch knew that what he needed was time, and some breathing room.
*
When Reese showed up the next morning, the library was empty. Finch had left a note on the desk.
"Mr. Reese,
I will be away for a few days. I have every confidence in your ability to take care of the numbers in my absence.
Please apologize to Bear, on my behalf, for my leaving, however briefly, without saying goodbye."
*
Reese spent the week brooding all over the library.
It wasn't that he and Finch were separated. It was that and Finch couldn't even talk to each other.
During the Will Thomson case, Reese had kept the communication to a minimum. He hadn't known where they stood, and had kept comm discussions distant and businesslike. But even with the very spare communication, Reese had always known that if he wanted - if the situation called for it - all it took was the push of a button, and he would hear Finch's voice. Now he didn't have that, and it was lonely in a way Reese had never expected.
Finch had left his glasses on the office desk, as a kind of wordless request: please don't look for me. Reese felt a pang in his chest when he realized that Finch must have known about the tracker in his glasses all along. Known about the tracker, but kept the glasses, and not said anything.
Reese found that the CIA had left him emotionally prepared for all kinds of disturbing situations, but completely unprepared for the experience of having a colleague who cared about him. Reese tended to think of himself as a puppet doing someone else's bidding; with the CIA, that someone had always agreed with, and endorsed, that self-image. But Finch. Finch didn't think he was a puppet. Finch liked him. Finch liked him and wanted to spend time with him, and even liked having Reese close by. And it wasn't even so that he would be easier to manipulate, later on. It was just… because. And apparently, Finch felt so close to Reese, that he didn't even mind that Reese tracked him at all times.
Or he hadn't minded, anyway. Until now.
While Finch was away, a musician attempted to kill a conductor. Reese enlisted Zoe Morgan's help for the case - apparently, she'd played violin since childhood, all through college, and knew how these classical music types thought.
"The principal second told me all about it, Reese. Apparently, the violist's wife, a violinist, had an affair with the conductor." Zoe flipped her shiny hair as she talked. "They filed for divorce some time ago, but the strain of having to look into that conductor's face in rehearsals every day, and having to call him 'maestro,' must have driven her completely crazy."
"Why would she try to kill the other…" Reese nearly said "the other woman" before remembering that the conductor was a man. Though the broken marriage was between two women. Reese's brain hurt.
Zoe smiled up at him.
Reese started over. "Why kill the conductor?"
"You wouldn't say that if you'd ever been in a symphony orchestra, Reese. Everyone wants to kill the conductor. She just had a little bit more motivation than most."
Together, they'd taken care of the case in less than a day. The violist had kept her murder plans between herself and her browser history, and was really very organized and methodical, but she wasn't a professional killer by any standard.
"Kind of civilized, compared to your usual thing, Reese. And a way better soundtrack."
"Hey now, Zoe, don't start playing favorites with the attempted murder cases."
Zoe grinned. "Incidentally, John, where's your better half?"
Reese didn't even flinch. "Out of town. Everyone needs a vacation now and then, Zoe."
*
The next case came up and Finch still hadn't come back.
A payphone rang while Reese and Bear were walking back to the library. They'd spent an unusually long time at the dog park, and it was getting dark. If he was honest with himself, Reese knew he was dawdling - it had been three days since Finch had gone, and it was getting harder and harder, once he'd left the library, to come back and find it still empty.
He picked up the payphone receiver and held it to his ear. "Hello?"
It took a moment for the Machine to answer, and during the brief silence, Reese irrationally thought: Finch?"
But of course, it wasn't Finch calling.
The new number was pretty run-of-the-mill. Robert Knox, 65, unmarried, owner of two rental properties in Brooklyn. Reese hardly even had time to type the name in before Google told him why Mr. Knox was in danger: his tenants wanted to kill him.
The website http://www.robertknox.slumlord.com included a "Robert Knox Incident File," detailing such gems as "February 3, 2010: told me he was within his rights to order a strip search if I was late with my rent." The most popular story seemed to be the one where the heating malfunctioned in November of 2009 and the entire building was overheated to 105 degrees, even with the windows open, while Mr. Knox refused to believe the tenants. It had taken an entire week for him to even deign to inspect the place.
Overheating stories or the like didn't make people want to kill him, though. They just made him colorful. No, what seemed to be driving tenants over the edge was that Mr. Knox went out of him way to prevent them from moving out. He claimed not to have received notices, never gave back deposits, made threats about credit histories, and told naïve tenants made-up rules and laws about their leases. Basically, unless tenants were wealthy enough to afford lawyers, they were stuck with Robert Knox.
Not so long ago, Reese would just have helped them get rid of Knox. As in get rid of him. In and out, simple and straightforward. No one would even have had to see his face. But... Needs must, apparently. He grabbed Bear's leash (since he couldn't leave Bear with Finch, the dog just went everywhere with him) and went to knock on Mr. Knox's door.
Then, having paid Mr. Knox a remarkably fruitless visit, Reese put in a call to Detective Carter.
"A slumlord?" said Carter. "I didn't know people still used that word. Where is he?"
Reese was pleased to see her. Carter was so efficient, and she always seemed to know when he wanted to punch someone. Together, they sorted things out quickly - well, she sorted things out, and Reese loomed menacingly - and then they gave the tenants detailed instructions in case Mr. Knox ever bothered them again.
Some of the tenants insisted on baking them brownies and muffins - Bear even got some doggie biscuits - and it took a while to get away. But soon enough, arms piled high with baked goods, Reese walked Carter to her squad car.
Carter smiled up at him. "Is Harold taking care of another case, John?" she said, apropos of nothing.
Reese's breath caught in his throat, just a bit, just for a split second. "Why?"
"Just, I haven't seen him, and I don't think I've heard you talk to him all day." She was just being nice, asking after Finch. It was fine. She was being friendly.
Reese nodded. "Finch is working on another project."
The sun wasn't quite set when Bear and Reese finally headed back to the library. It was still devastatingly silent and empty. Bear poked through every corner of every bookcase, and then he trotted back to Reese and looked up at him, oddly mournful.
*
Reese left a handful of pastries, and most of the doggie treats, in the library's refrigerator. Then he took Bear back to the loft.
The loft was quiet and huge, the high ceiling and vast expanse of bare floor seeming higher and vaster even than usual. Being here, alone or with Bear, was usually a relief, a time to breathe. A moment for opening up the weapon closet for maintenance without Finch tsk-ing nearby. Or a moment to check up on his own projects.
But, like the saying went, too much of a good thing... Quiet and privacy were nice enough, but tonight, the loft just felt big, and silent, and lonely.
Reese filled Bear's bowl with kibble, and headed into the shower. He mentally reviewed his open projects. Mostly they just involved keeping tabs on his former bosses, though he did run regular surveillance on Logan Pierce. There was something about that guy... Always running off to the other end of the earth, but still not the most difficult person to keep tabs on. Actually, the most difficult person to keep tabs on was Finch. When Finch didn't want to be found, there was no point in trying to tail him. Reese still hadn't managed to… Holy crap. With a shock, Reese realized he could now terminate his two-year-old project of finding out where Finch went at night.
Wrapped in a towel, he sat down on his armchair (the armchair Finch had bought for him) with his laptop (the laptop Finch had picked out for him) and looked over the file notes (project "RAVEN"). He added the appropriate comment, and shut the laptop.
Marking a project "complete" should have cheered him up a bit, but it only made him feel worse.
Reese had spent so much time alone, before Finch. But he didn't remember it like this. He didn't remember being aimless and lonely like this. I need to get a grip. Then again - he supposed that he'd never really felt loneliness before. If anything, back then, he'd been happy to run away from his coworkers. Even when Jessica died... he hadn't felt loneliness. He'd only felt guilt and regret.
Regret. At least, that was one thing he wasn't feeling. He didn't regret that night with Finch - he was feeling worried for Finch, sure, and he felt protective of him. But he didn't regret sleeping with him.
What if Finch regretted it, though? Finch hadn't been an agent. He didn't... Finch didn't see his body as a tool. The CIA had taught Reese to dissociate himself from his body, and Kara had taken away any romantic notions he might've had about workplace sexual relations. But Finch... It was a good thing that he was taking some time off now. Some time away. Maybe everything would be okay, once Finch had gotten some breathing room.
This is fine. Shit happens in the field, John told himself as he fished some leftovers from the fridge. At least Finch didn't fuck me so he could manipulate me; he just took off because he has no field experience and he needs to get his head straight.
John kept up this line of thought, throughout the evening, like a mantra. It's good that he took off, really; nothing is really wrong; it's just that we were in the field, and shit happens in the field. Shit happens in the field. Shit happens in the field. Shit happens. Shit happens.
As he drifted off to sleep, John recalled, just briefly, the sensation of Finch running his hands over his bare shoulders, down his arms, and threading their fingers together.
*
In the morning, Finch came back, and Reese saved the life of a poet.
The poet's case was, even by Reese's standards, absurd and amazing. And it said far too much about the world of publishing.
His name was Foster Mackenzie, and he'd - not to put too fine a point on it - lived under a rock for the past twenty years. He'd been lucky enough to have a wealthy patron who'd left him a small apartment in his will, together with a tiny allowance, and he'd since become, in essence, a hermit. A hermit with some friends, and a bit of a cult following among students (they came to him for advice), but a hermit all the same. He didn't even read the newspaper.
So he had no idea that an unscrupulous soul had been shamelessly plagiarizing his work. For years. In The New Yorker.
That is, he had no idea until a few days ago.
The poor man had confronted his plagiarist, a Mr. Robert Cunningham, the day before, and Mr. Cunningham was planning to strangle him and make it look like a suicide. It would probably have been believable, even - just leave a few Gérard de Nerval quotes in the suicide letter, and remove any evidence of the plagiarized originals - and no one would have been the wiser.
Thankfully Reese had made it there first, and he hadn't even needed to make any threats to save Mr. Mackenzie's life. All he'd needed to do was make a few copies of his poems, and call the police. Cunningham wasn't going to be charged with attempted homicide, but he'd never work again, and Foster Mackenzie was safe.
Fusco was particularly bewildered by the case. "Just when I start to think I've seen it all," he said, shaking his head, "some people who rhyme for a living start trying to whack each other."
"Truth is stranger than fiction, detective."
Reese was about to join Fusco for lunch, when his phone alerted him: Finch's glasses - the ones with the tracker - had just moved.
Reese's heart lurched. Finch was back. Had to be.
He excused himself from lunch ("Catch you later, Lionel.") and practically raced to the library. A jumble of thoughts and images crowded his mind - he saw Finch telling him they'd been drugged ("Do you recognize this handkerchief?") and Finch's handwritten note ("I will be away for a few days"), and Finch whispering in his ear ("I trust you, John") - all at once, and Reese didn't know if he was hoping for Finch to pretend it had all never happened, or... Or what?
When he got there, he tried to settle down. He walked past the bookshelves, towards the library office, and took a deep breath. It had been five days since he'd found Finch's note. Five days without Finch's voice. But he was here now, and everything was going to be fine.
Reese looked up, and saw him. Just there. Behind the desk. There he was. Reese blinked, and, for the first time since he'd left the CIA, Reese thought, maybe there were some upsides to being emotionally numb. Because there Finch was - Finch with his glasses, and his hair, and his waistcoat - and Reese felt a little bit undone. Years ago, CIA-era John Reese had misplaced his sense of morality, but at least back then he didn't get fucking heart palpitations just from seeing someone's face.
Today's John Reese could still fake it, though. He walked up to Finch's desk, and barely paused before saying: "Finch." Like he hadn't spent the entire week waiting to see him. Not at all.
Bear whacked his tail on the floor, over and over, with the purest canine happiness.
Finch looked up. "Mr. Reese."