Archive of Our Own

Wire shelving and long-forgotten maintenance supplies littered the sides of the hallway they walked down. The air was barely filtered underground—It was cool enough to the point that Finch could feel it on the surface of his skin when he moved, but it wasn’t enough to bring a chill.

Barely-lit as the enclosed space was, the two of them had just enough light to see their dreadful surroundings. Finch squinted. “The lockbox containing the evidence of our mechanic’s innocence should be stored ahead, Mr. Reese.”

“He better have given you the right directions,” Reese said. He stepped over a collapsed pile of wrenches varying in size and made an exasperated face. “The guy might not have murdered anybody, but the up-keep of this place is criminal.”

Finch grunted as he had to move around a discarded pipe on the ground. He proposed charitably, “The disorder may be on purpose—A deterrent to those not already familiar with the layout.” There was a target on the number’s back after all. He agreed, though; these conditions weren’t optimal to traverse through.

“There’s controlled chaos, Finch, and then there’s this.”

The already dim lights flickered above as if to prove a point. How wonderful. Reese looked like he was itching to leave, but he’d gone along with Finch to retrieve the evidence in case an ambush was lying in wait for somebody to make a move. 

Finch motioned his partner over to where the lockbox was said to be stored: in the back of the hallway, on the middle rack of a dented wire shelf, and behind a few wooden planks. Now that they were here, he could see that he wouldn’t be able to move them himself without risking serious injury. 

Reese nodded, pushed some debris out of the way, and approached the shelf. Finch joined him. They moved the wooden planks aside together. 

“As much as I would love to open it here,” Finch said, moving to drag the light grey lockbox forward, “we do not truly know what is inside. I don’t think Mr. Hayes is malicious, but in the event someone is tailing us, it would be a good idea to wait until we’re at a safer location to inspect—”

The noisy air conditioning shuddered to a stop and suddenly Finch couldn’t see any longer. He blinked a couple times, stunned from the interruption, then it became apparent that the power to the building must’ve gone out when nothing in his vision changed. That wasn’t a good sign. The lack of emergency lights meant the back-up generator hadn’t kicked in.

Somebody’s arm slipped around his back. They were utterly silent sneaking up on him. Finch tensed and let go of the container’s handle, about to shout out for his partner, but instead let out a startled breath as he got pulled close to the body of whoever the arm belonged to. It didn’t feel like an aggressor’s grasp; it was more of a protective hold.

“Shhh,” Reese hushed. His voice was close to Finch’s ear. 

Ah, that would explain it.

Without the ambient humming of the building’s systems, it was eerily quiet except for the irregular drips coming from the ceiling nearby and Finch’s own erratic breathing. He tried to stifle himself, but his racing heart wouldn’t allow for it. The poor air quality wasn’t helping either. 

God, I’m being loud, he thought. I’m going to get us caught.

Reese made a shuffling motion. Finch wasn’t certain why until the hand that previously held a pistol brushed against his back. He’d tucked his gun away. As far as Finch was concerned, ranged weapons were useless in this darkness. He didn’t know how true that was for someone who was trained for such disadvantages.

The warm hand was a comforting presence at least. It didn’t move, but it brought Finch’s attention to their position—what was essentially a hug—and away from the possible oncoming threat. It felt… secure. Finch could feel Reese’s comparatively calm pulse with them chest-to-chest like this.

Reese’s breaths came out in timed intervals, presumably a skill he must have picked up from his time in the CIA to stay composed. It was almost hypnotic to Finch. The steady rise and fall of his chest with each controlled breath reminded him of waves lapping at the shore. The tempo of his own heartbeat eventually calmed down to match.

To give the arms standing at his sides something to do, Finch brought his hands up to rest against Reese’s waist to complete the embrace. Reese shivered. 

Amused, Finch thought, Oh, are my hands cold? but didn’t move them whatsoever. 

“I don’t think anyone is coming,” Reese said after enough time had reasonably passed. It was low in tone and almost whispery, like he dared not break the delicate balance beneath the stuffy air. 

Finch sighed in relief. He trusted Reese’s threat assessment more than his own. It hadn’t proven them wrong yet, and they could only stay here for so long… even if it was tempting to not let go.

“I’ve got nothing on my end to help us out of here. What about you, Finch?”

Reluctantly, Finch removed his hands from Reese and rustled around in his suit jacket’s pockets. “I believe I have—” he said, cutting himself off when his hand found what he was looking for. “Yes, I do.” It wouldn’t be very good for efficiently lighting their way, but at least it would allow them to see something in the pitch black.

He pulled out a small toy flashlight that was given to him that afternoon. Their first number was a kid, no older than 9, and he’d put it in Finch’s hand as a gift of thanks for dealing with his bullies. Reese had ‘scared the piss out of them’ to put it in the kid’s very energetic words. Mr. Hayes’ number had come up soon after, so Finch didn’t get to look at it all that much beyond a brief check that it hadn’t been tampered with. 

One could never be too sure with personal items.

Finch struggled to remember how it turned on. It was a tad strange, and the kid told him that was the reason he’d held onto it. Only relying on tactile information made it significantly more difficult to figure out again. He turned it around in his hands, and he couldn’t even watch in horror as he managed to fumble it. He heard the flashlight fall to the ground with a clatter.

“...Finch, what was that?”

Dejected, Finch said, “Our only means of lighting the way.”

Reese sucked in a breath. “That’s, uh, not great.”

“Indeed. It is not.”

Well, this provided quite the dilemma. They could really use the aid of that flashlight, even if the object didn’t produce the strongest illumination. However:

1. Finch would still have to figure out how to turn it on.
2. He’d be aimlessly searching in the dark. The flashlight would’ve rolled away when it hit the ground, and the clutter meant it could take him forever to find where it ended up. He’d like to be certain how long he’d be on his hands and knees for the sake of his injuries.
   
   
3. With Reese being the nearest source of known stability, Finch would have to climb down his body to brace himself. That is horrifically awkward to do to someone, especially so when they can’t see you and you can’t see them.
   
   
4. Getting Reese to search for it would mean encountering the opposite problem. He wouldn’t have to stabilize himself like Finch, but depending on what order of movement he went in to get to the floor… God, Finch couldn’t think any further about that lest he fluster more. Apart from having to deal with that potential imagery, his partner didn’t know what the flashlight felt like.

“Got a plan B?” Reese asked.

“Naturally, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, keeping his voice level. He wasn’t about to explain the somewhat shameful thought process he just went through.

“So, what have you got?”

There was a pause. It wasn’t Finch’s best plan, but it would have to do. “I’m afraid we’ll have to rely on the electrical workers and pray that the power returns to the building soon,” he said. “The outage wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, especially not in this busy area.”

“That’s your plan B?” Finch felt the chuckle shaking from Reese’s chest before he heard it. “We’re gonna wait it out?”

Feeling the need to defend himself, Finch hissed, “Would you rather take your chances navigating blindly around here and risk tripping, falling to your death? My leg will be furious with me, but at least I’ll be alive.”

Reese exhaled. “Point taken,” he said. The hand began to rub Finch’s back, soothing his agitation, and pleasant tingles ran up his spine. It took all his control to not fully melt into the touch. Only a faint twitch betrayed him.

If it were anyone else, he might have had a few choice words to say after the ordeal, but Reese’s physical contact was a welcome one. This is really quite nice, Finch thought. He hadn’t let anyone get close enough to touch like this—that is, unless it was strictly necessary to keep up appearances, and those were rare thankfully—after the ferry bombing incident. Not since he’d left Grace behind for her own safety.

“Safe to say, we may be stuck here for a while,” Finch sighed.

“Better get comfortable then.” Reese shifted a bit and then there was a thunk near their heads. Alarmed by the sound, Finch raised his hand around the area to feel what it was that got struck. It was smooth and solid. A wall?

He flinched as his eyes got assaulted with light. They were very much no longer dim. Reese grunted before him, blinking multiple times in pain since he was facing their direction. The reverberating mechanical hum within the walls returned. 

“...or not,” Finch groaned. At least the fix hadn’t taken several hours.

Once Finch could see again, he took in his surroundings properly. Oh, that’s what the noise was. Reese had tilted his head back into the wall somewhat. He was giving Finch this incomprehensible look now, eyes lidded, and Finch didn’t understand why. His focus trailed to the hand right beside Reese’s head. Then he processed where they were. His partner had pulled them into the alcove between the wall and another shelf, and with Finch’s hand there bracketing him in… 

His heart rate ticked up a notch, and he noted that Reese could probably feel it with how close together they were still. Neither of them had moved yet. Oh, god. I let my enjoyment get the best of me. This looks entirely unprofessional, he thought with a spark of mortification.

“My apologies, Mr. Reese,” Finch said. He went to pull away, and as if in reflex, Reese’s grip tightened around him for a split second before letting go. 

Hm. He speculated Reese might also be starved for physical contact. Specifically, the kind that doesn’t come from fighting—Affectionate touch. The fleeting touches Reese would give him, the quick pats on the shoulder… Maybe this selfish behaviour wasn’t as one-sided as he initially thought. 

Either way, they shouldn’t indulge in this cuddling any longer. They were sent here for a reason. Finch extracted himself from Reese’s personal space and gathered his bearings. 

He limped back over to his prior position in front of the dented shelf and moved to grab the lockbox once more, relieved to see that it hadn’t been taken from under their nose. He slid the rest of it off the wire rack with ease. 

“You were going to use this little thing?” Reese inquired behind him. Finch turned around. His partner stood up from the crouch he was in and lifted the toy flashlight upright by the base. He wiggled it playfully in his hand.

Finch pursed his lips in a way that conveyed ‘it’s all I had.’ Then he said, “I’m surprised you even found that.”

Reese looked all too pleased with himself at those words. He approached Finch, drawing close to a point he wouldn’t have normally tolerated from others, and slipped the toy in his breast pocket. His partner lingered there for a second. Reese’s eyes flicked up to stare at him, and then he walked away with an infuriating amount of nonchalance.

This was a one-time occurrence, Finch reminded himself. I shouldn’t give in to these pitiful feelings. He would be lying if he said he didn’t miss the close proximity, but he needed to tamp down his own expectations. 

He remembered that heartwrenching look on Grace’s face when she’d gone looking for him. Her sobs when Harold Martin hadn’t turned up with the other bodies and she’d believed he was dead. Chasing that reinvigorated desire for contact with Reese would only make it hurt worse when something inevitably happened to either one of them.

“Come on, Finch. Let’s get out of this clusterfuck.” Reese’s voice snapped him out of his inner turmoil. His partner was looking at him again from further up the hall, wearing a worried little smile like he wanted to ask if he was okay without saying it aloud, and Finch had to fight off the pit of longing in his chest. 

Weakly, he repeated in his head, I really shouldn’t.

Both their faces fell when they exited the building and spotted Mr. Hayes crossing the street towards them. He waved. “I know you wanted me to stay away from the building,” the number said, dragging out the vowel in ‘know’ obnoxiously, “but it hit me that I forgot to plug the back-up generator in before I left! Whoopsie me!”

Finch was at a loss for words. He thought, Oh dear. Maybe this man has more than one reason for being targeted. 

Reese bristled beside him. He looked like he wanted to vigorously shake the number, but he kept his fists clenched tight at his sides instead of following through. “You are very lucky something hadn’t happened to us,” he snapped.

Finch had never seen him so peeved. He blinked, thinking about the fair share of irritating numbers they had saved without so much as a direct complaint from the ex-CIA agent, then he lifted the lockbox by the handle and added, “Or the evidence, for that matter.”

“Whoa, chillax!” Mr. Hayes said, putting his hands up in surrender. “I got my buddies to fix the problem up ASAP when I heard the power went kaput. No harm, right?” 

Reese scanned their surroundings when the word ‘buddies’ was uttered by the number. His eyes widened at whatever it was that he saw when Mr. Hayes finished. A perpetrator? Finch thought, attempting to follow the trail of his gaze, and then he was shoved back into the marbled doorway by a pair of firm hands. Finch grunted at the abruptness of it. 

He watched Reese dive toward the number to tackle him out of the way as a flurry of gunshots rang out. Finch’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. Had they stood there a second longer, it could’ve been fatal. The people around them screamed in a chorus and fled the area. 

As Reese pulled both himself and the number behind cover, he huffed, “Yeah, well, I think your ‘buddies’ are hunting you for sport.” The number made an undignified squawk of disbelief. 

Reese looked at Finch. Finch looked back helplessly. “Harold, I need you to get out of here with that evidence. I can handle this,” he said, whisking his gun out and preparing to fire back if need be.

Finch knew that he could handle the situation. His exceptional skills in fieldwork were part of the reason why he’d hired him after all. Still, that fact did little to squash the budding fear of ‘what if you don’t make it this time?’ nor the strain in Finch’s voice as he nodded stiffly and said, “Get back safe, John.” 

 He slipped back into the building to leave through an alternative route. It was better this way. Safer. Reese’s self-sacrificial nature had been distressingly proven to Finch time and time again, and he’d only be a distraction by staying there. 

Maybe putting some physical distance between us would do me well, Finch thought. He felt ill.

By the time Finch hurriedly stepped back into the library with Bear at his side, it was deep into the late hours of the night. He sat down in his desk chair and booted up the computer. The lights to the library were left off, so the computer displays were the only source of illumination in the room. 

He hadn’t heard a word from Reese for a couple hours now. The connection of their communications system had abruptly ended while Finch was out on an errand. He pulled up the last known location of his partner and got to searching, desperately chasing leads, but came up short. John Reese was nowhere to be found. 

Finch just had to trust that Reese would be all right and wasn’t bleeding out alone in a dingy alley somewhere. 

Bear whimpered from his bed, likely picking up on Finch’s distress. A wet nose bumped into his hand a few seconds later. He petted the dog’s head and whispered reassuringly, “He’ll be back, don’t you worry,” but it was more to himself than anything.

Half an hour ticked by at an excruciatingly slow rate. It was difficult to focus on the strings of code running down the screen in front of him. He pondered going out himself to scavenge the streets for his partner, but that thought process cut itself short when he noticed Bear’s head was perked up, ears pricked in the hallway’s direction.

What do you hear, Bear? The hairs on the back of Finch’s neck tingled with apprehension. 

Whatever caught his attention made his tail thump wildly. Bear trotted into the dark to investigate, and all Finch heard was a loud sniffing coming from the dog’s nose. If it were some unknown intruder, surely he would’ve heard a scuffle by now? Bear wasn’t easily swayed by treats. Could it be, then, that it was—

“That can’t be good for your eyes,” a familiar voice rasped from the gaping maw of the hallway, confirming the rest of his speculation. Finch’s breath caught. There was a flick of a lightswitch and the room lit up with the warmth of the library’s soft lamps.

Reese stood a few feet in front of the open accordion gate, enough to see that his suit jacket’s left sleeve was torn open and frayed at the edges like he’d been grazed by a bullet. The thin line of red on his skin staining the fabric below it corroborated that interpretation. The suit pants were no better—riddled with tears, caked in dust and what Finch hoped wasn’t more of his friend’s blood. Bear was certainly interested in the smell because he’d pressed his snout into the side of Reese’s bloodied pant leg with an obnoxious schnorf. That earned a chuckle from Reese and a pat on the dog’s head. 

Satisfied with his investigation, Bear sauntered back to the dog bed and flopped down with a heavy sigh. 

“Mr. Reese,” Finch said, almost but not quite in a question.

“That is what people call me these days.”

The desk chair rolled with how quickly Finch stood up and limped over. His hip angrily protested the treatment. He scolded, “This is no time for banter, John! You’re hurt.” and I don’t know why went unsaid. Bear whined behind him.

“Tends to happen when I’m in the field. I’m fine, Finch,” he said, despite his scuffed up condition.

Finch scowled at him. He took Reese’s face into his hands, ignoring the resultant startled breath, and tilted Reese’s head with his thumbs as he inspected it for more injuries. Evidently his partner had gotten into a physical fight at some point because he noticed two bruises forming under the skin: one on the right cheek, and the other on the left side of Reese’s jaw near the chin. There was a small nick on his forehead as well. It looked fresh.

Finch’s right hand unexpectedly became enveloped with warmth, breaking his focus. Reese had brought his left hand up to cover it. “Harold,” he said softly, pausing until he drew Finch’s attention back to his eyes, “I’m okay.” 

The expression had returned—the same incomprehensible one from the basement, in fact one Finch had seen glimpses of on his partner several times before when the man thought he wasn’t looking—and he couldn’t place why this scenario felt so oddly familiar, what it could be perceived as, until Reese’s eyes flicked ever so slightly downward. 

Recognition floored Finch. 

It was that of someone who was smitten, and on Reese’s face no less? The light had softened his features, made him glow with warmth, and that gaze at Finch’s lips… His mouth felt dry. It would be so easy to close the remaining distance between them and kiss—

God, what was he thinking? Finch urgently withdrew his hands and stepped away, shattering the fragile moment, and he caught the flash of disappointment on Reese’s face right before it was plastered over with a meticulously crafted blank expression. 

Finch had the nagging feeling that he’d made a rash mistake.

Instead of acknowledging that heart-wrenching shift verbally, however, Finch muttered, “I’ll go grab the antiseptic,” with an unspoken stay here underlying his excuse. Reese turned his body to face Finch’s retreating form as he limped past.

“Sure,” Reese said, sounding detached. 

Just as he was about to round the corner at the end of the hallway, fighting himself to not turn back, Finch paused when his eyes laid upon the gas-fueled generator on the floor. He considered it briefly.

If the anguish he felt in Reese’s total absence was any indication, at the possibility of his partner being dead, that ship had evidently sailed long ago.

He could only hope that someday Grace would find someone better than him. He still held the memories made with her dear to his heart, and he would continue to look out for her from behind the scenes, but Finch was no longer that same man she’d believed in those many years ago. His pursued life with Grace was over, buried with Harold Martin in a grave that didn’t even contain his body.

Emotion welled up behind Finch’s eyes. He recalled the close proximity he’d shared with Reese in the dark hours prior. He could feel the phantom sensation of the hand resting on his upper back like it was imprinted into his skin’s memory through the layers of clothing.

This was now his life as Harold Finch. He turned around. The barest flinch escaped Reese. He was still standing there at the other end of the hallway, watching him, but his hands twitched at his sides like he was itching to follow. Finch wondered how long Reese had been repressing his own feelings. Knowing him and how little he actually asked for things, it’d probably been a long, long time before he showed any hints. 

Oh, to hell with this façade, Finch decided. He marched back over to his partner. He said with anew vigour, “This denial isn’t doing us any favours, now is it?” and slipped his fingers into Reese’s left hand.

Reese adjusted the position, weaving their hands together until their fingers were interlocked comfortably. He gave a gentle squeeze. Finch’s heart fluttered. He studied his partner’s expression once more and found a cautious smile waiting for him: it wasn’t a full smile, not quite, but it was on its way to becoming one with glimmers of hope cracking through.

They should have an actual discussion about their relationship later, but for the time being, hand-holding was relatively harmless.

“My, my, Harold. You’re forward today,” Reese teased when Finch led him to a mattress set up in one of the more empty rooms in the library. 

Finch averted his eyes. “I wouldn’t expect anything of that nature anytime soon, Mr. Reese. Please, sit down.”

“I don’t mind,” Reese reassured. He stroked Finch's palm with his thumb, making the goosebumps on Finch’s skin raise before he let go. The mattress squeaked when he sat down. “I wasn’t expecting it to.”

“Good, that’s… good. Now, this may seem like I’m suggesting otherwise, but please get yourself…” Finch waved his hands at the tattered clothing. “...situated. I will return with the first-aid.”

Finch wasn’t away for very long, he’d just slipped into one of the library’s restrooms nearby to grab the necessary supplies, and so he was startled to see his partner stripped down to his black boxer briefs when he came back. Oh my, Finch thought with an ounce of admiration. That was swift. 

The clothes were discarded—albeit folded—on the floor by his feet. Reese gave him a smug look that expressed I did what you asked. 

Finch couldn’t tell if Reese was showing off out of a desire to fluster him more, or if it was simply a skill he’d picked up during his time in the military, but either way Finch was glad that he wasn’t around to watch the process of him undressing; the sight would’ve been too much to handle in the present moment. The sheer amount of bare skin on display was already skirting the edge. Good god.

“Yes, very impressive,” Finch said dryly. 

Reese wiggled his eyebrows, suggesting the former. Well. Finch hadn’t brought him here just to stand around and ogle. He was getting distracted. 

Finch approached the mattress with a clean towel wrapped over his arm. He set the towel and the first-aid kit down on the light grey sheet, leaving just enough space to sit beside Reese. He decided to deal with the wounded arm first. 

Finch left again for an even shorter period of time to retrieve a clean washcloth and a bowl of warm water, then finally sat down with the bowl in his lap.

“Isn’t this a little much for just a couple scrapes?” Reese asked, eyeing the supplies set out on the towel after Finch popped open the latch to the first-aid kit.

“On the contrary, Mr. Reese. I believe I’m being perfectly reasonable.” Finch took the offending arm into his hands to examine it more closely. He dipped a majority of the washcloth into the water, wrung out the excess, and dabbed at the area as gently as he could. “I thought I’d lost you for good.”

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” Reese said. “Alive.”

“Yes, but you were in tatters. Forgive me if I worry about ‘a couple’ of ‘scrapes.’”

Once the area was appropriately clean, Finch removed a sterile cotton ball from its container and transferred the antiseptic onto it. He applied it to the wound. Reese stuttered on an intake of breath at the initial contact.

Reese changed the subject. “I trust that Lionel was able to handle Bear?”

“...One could say that. He’d gotten slobber all over the detective’s face when I arrived.” Finch smiled warmly at the amused huff that got from Reese. He wrapped the wound in gauze and continued, “Mr. Peregrine left a certain package for him as a thank-you. I don’t envy the fight with the legal system Mr. Hayes will incur with that as his sole evidence.”

Reese grumbled. “Don’t get me started on Hayes. You ever seen a live wire melt through several priceless wax statues at once?”

“I can’t say I have.”

“Let’s just say he’s lucky I managed to keep him out of the security’s sight… too much hassle to deal with otherwise,” Reese sighed. 

He filled Finch in with the number’s current whereabouts, passing him a pillow when he went to kneel on the floor to treat the minor cuts on Reese’s shins, and Reese leaned back onto his uninjured arm, staring up at the ceiling as he talked. 

While Finch was indeed glad that the number was safe for now—it was a relief really—he was wholly disinterested in Mr. Hayes’ misadventures; that man lived too comfortably close to proving Murphy’s law for his liking. Finch was instead interested in how animated he’d become in his retelling of events. It seemed that the tone of their nights had been vastly different.