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It was Saturday evening, and Carter was trapped with John in the stairwell of an enormous Manhattan office building, somewhere around the fifth floor. There were several very angry men shouting at them in Polish from a few floors above. Carter couldn’t understand them, but she had a pretty good idea of what they were trying to convey, based on the anger and the gunshots and the fact that she and John were fleeing for their lives.
“Where are we going?” Carter gasped. They’d been running for twenty flights of stairs. Even John looked almost ruffled. “Is Finch back up?”
John’s hand strayed to his ear. He choked off a frustrated noise, gasping a breath. “Still down,” he gritted. Finch’s communications channel had lost connection 6 minutes ago, and it was becoming very clear to Carter just how much John depended on him.
“We gotta move,” Carter said, firing a warning shot upward. The thugs replied with a volley of bullets. Typical.
“He said something about a closed wing on the second floor. There’s an unused staircase there,” John said. “We’re on our own finding it, unless Finch can re-establish the connection.”
“Okay,” Carter said. “Between the two of us, I think we can navigate a building.”
“Second floor,” John confirmed, and they jumped a few stairs to the landing of the third floor, putting on a burst of speed. They were going to be fine, Carter thought, because she had always done well under pressure, and John hadn’t gotten her killed thus far.
Of course, that was when John got shot. It took a few seconds for Carter to notice, focused as she was on not tripping down the stairs as they ran. She heard the low, muffled noise he made, though he had clearly tried to hide it.
“Okay?” she asked, keeping her eyes trained on the staircase.
“Just fine,” John said roughly, and that was when she glanced over. The blood was shockingly bright against his usual white shirt.
“Hit anything important?” She asked. John was losing momentum. His face was drawn with pain, his gait suddenly lurching and clumsy.
“This was Finch’s tie,” John said. It was amazing how the man managed to sound reproachful, even as he was bleeding out. “He loaned it to me.”
“Finch can afford a new tie,” Carter said, and hauled John into the second floor hallway. He was leaning heavily against her. She could hear the thugs gaining on them.
“Unh,” John grunted suddenly, a relieved sound. He was collapsed half on top of Carter as she dragged them down the hall, so she could hear the faint tinny echo of Finch’s voice coming from John’s phone.
“Thank god,” Carter said fervently. “What’s the plan?”
John activated his speakerphone. “Any bright ideas?” he asked.
“Down the hallway to the right,” came Finch’s voice. “There are reinforced doors leading to the unused wing. I’ve taken out the lights in the stairwell. Get through the doors and lock them. They should stand up to some abuse. I’ll be there in two minutes.”
“Finch,” John gasped, sounding pained, desperate.
“Go,” Finch said harshly. “Carter, keep him safe.”
“10-4” Carter said, and flung them through the doors.
Behind them, the hallway erupted in a hail of bullets. Carter heard two men shout, then someone else, the unmistakable timbre of Fusco’s voice. He said something to whoever hadn’t been shot, Carter couldn’t make out what. It sounded like he was complaining to the Polish thugs, which was pretty easy to believe. Carter relaxed minutely. They were okay. She didn’t know how Fusco had found them, but it seemed safe to assume that Finch had been involved.
Carter deposited John against a nearby wall so she could lean over and catch her breath. She watched John fumble with the earwig, putting Finch’s voice back where it belonged, or so the minute relaxation of his shoulders seemed to indicate. .
“Tell the boyfriend thanks,” she said wryly, dropping her head to gasp another ragged breath. She glanced back up at John, prepared to meet his enigmatic little smile, only to find that he was suddenly significantly more pale than he’d been a moment ago. “What’s wrong?” she barked out, hurrying back to his side to check for signs that he had somehow done more damage to the bullet wound. “Where does it hurt? Are you still bleeding? Can you breathe?”
John looked up, wild-eyed. His hands were flexing convulsively. “I’m normally better at these things,” he said, which sounded like some sort of admission.
“...What sort of things?” Carter asked suspiciously. She considered this. She wasn’t a detective for nothing, after all. “Things like-- things like not having a heart attack when I call Finch your boyfriend?”
John flinched again, glaring at her. “I’m wounded,” he complained. “I’m not in control of my emotions.”
“Yeah, I’m sure that went over great in the CIA,” Carter said dryly. “Wow, you’re really broken up about this. Does he know?”
John glared again. Carter hadn’t even known his face could crinkle up like that. “There’s nothing to know,” John said flatly. He was twisting the hem of his jacket, a pathetically obvious tell.
“Sure there isn’t,” Carter said, because counseling love-stricken vigilantes was absolutely not within any definition of any of her job. She cocked her head at the sound of an engine approaching. “Looks like we’re home free. Think you can walk?”
“Just give me a second,” John said, painstakingly tucking his shirt back in where the tails had twisted loose. Making himself look presentable for Finch, Carter’s mind supplied, and she fought to contain her hysterical laughter. “Sure, sure,” she said mildly.
A second later she heard a car door slam, followed by a light, uneven tread on the stairs. Finch emerged through the unused stairwell, making for them with the fastest, fiercest hobble Carter had ever witnessed. He barely spared her a glance, launching himself at John to pat him down for injuries. “Mr. Reese,” he said reproachfully, “I do not like when you get shot.” His hands were both splayed over John’s chest, like he couldn’t stand to lose contact with John for even a moment. “Lets get you bandaged up,” Finch said quietly, and John relaxed into his touch, like all the tension had melted out of his body.. Finch stared at him for just a moment, wide and open, and the air between them suddenly seemed thick.
“Oh, it’s like that,” Carter said, and left them to their awkward half-hug. Definitely not her job.
Finally home for the evening, Carter had just changed into her fluffiest pajamas and topped off a liberally spiked hot toddy when her phone vibrated ominously on the kitchen table. She sighed, flipping it open without bothering to glance at the caller ID. There was only one person rude enough to call her at this time of night.
“Hello Detective,” John said cautiously. He sounded suspiciously meek, and Carter immediately realized what was going on.
She groaned. “Are you really calling me about this? Don’t call me about this.”
“I...” John trailed off. “help?”
Well, he had just been shot. And he certainly wasn’t going to figure this out on his own. “So you like him, huh?” Carter said. “And he’s clearly interested in...everything you’ve got going on,” she finished doubtfully, gesturing with her toddy. It came dangerously close to spilling, so she took a hasty gulp.
“Well...” John trailed off, “I don’t exactly know how to...”
“Yeah, what about me made you think I was a relationship counselor?” Carter asked, letting her forehead rest against the edge of the table. “I’m a homicide detective, in case you forgot.”
“The only other person I could ask was Fusco,” John said, which was just pathetic, but now that Carter thought about it, probably true. “Please?”
Even Carter wasn’t cruel enough to want John Reese to sound that sad and lost. “Take him out somewhere, just the two of you,” she offered grudgingly. “You know, in the evening.”
“Okay,” John said, sounding a little less helpless. “I can do that.”
***
“Time to get out of the library,” John told Finch, the next evening. It was nine o’clock at night and he suspected that Finch hadn’t looked up from his computer screens in hours.
“Where are we going, Mr. Reese?” Finch asked, still at least half focused on whatever he was scrolling through on-screen.
“Stake-out,” John said cheerfully. “Come on, I got snacks.”
“I believe I would be more useful here,” Finch said, already slipping back into whatever he was working on.
“Nope,” John said. “Bear can come too, he likes riding in the car. Come on, Harold. Fresh air’s good for you.”
“Well, I suppose a break wouldn’t hurt,” Finch said, and John restrained the urge to do something horrifically embarrassing, like a victory fistpump.
“These are my favorite croissants,” Finch said wonderingly, several minutes later. He was sitting in the passenger seat examining the contents of the bakery bag that John had procured before picking Finch up.
John grinned. “There’s tea for you, too. You know, from that place you like.”
“Thank you, John,” Finch said, looking owlishly at him from above his glasses. “That was exceptionally thoughtful.”
“Oh, you know,” John said casually. “Just trying to show that I care.”
Bear whined hopefully from the backseat, and John reached back to scratch his ears. “Yeah, there’s one for you too, buddy,” he said. He hadn’t done it to impress Harold, but it still made something feel warm and tight inside his chest, knowing that Bear had come to belong to both of them, together.
**
“We went out last night,” John told Carter casually on the following evening. They were in one of John’s dubiously obtained cars, tailing a Russian mobster. Carter still wasn’t quite sure why, or how she had gotten involved in it. John seemed obnoxiously unaffected by his recent brush with, oh, being shot.
“I didn’t think you had it in you,” Carter said. She had to admit, if only to herself, that she was impressed. “Where’d you go? Harold strikes me as the foodie type. Or did you take him somewhere ironically casual and let him act smart at the unwashed masses?”
“We went on a stakeout,” John said, sounding very pleased with himself. “We were out until 3 am.”
Carter slammed her foot on the brake, startling a crowd of tourists about to cross the street beside them. “You...took him out on a stakeout. That’s your idea of--” She shook her head, accelerating. “Nevermind, I honestly have no words.”
“It worked for Fusco,” John said, sounding wounded, “ and Finch liked it too.”
“Yeah, the fact that you’re taking relationship advice from Lionel doesn’t really fill me with confidence,” Carter said. “Also, why am I still talking to you about this?”
“Because you’re worried that I can’t effectively save lives while I’m experiencing personal-life conflicts?” John tried hopefully.
“Because watching your slow motion trainwreck is genuinely painful,” Carter corrected. “Look, it worked for Fusco because his date wasn’t a cop. It was exciting for her. It was new. For Finch, that’s just part of his job. The whole point was to do something that’s not about work.”
John mulled that over, his brow furrowed. “Work is...the only thing either of us ever does,” he said, sounding perplexed.
“Yeah, I think you just uncovered part of the problem,” Carter said, and lunged out of the car after the mobster. John followed, still deep in thought.
**
Of the two of them, Finch was obviously the ideas man. However, John felt he was doing a pretty good job with it himself.
“What is this place?” Finch asked, stepping out of the latest car John had lifted. He glanced around, cataloguing the unfamiliar neighborhood.
“Tea shop,” John said casually, trying not to be too obvious about how his eyes kept catching on the sharp cut of Finch’s blazer. “I thought you might like it.”
“Why, thank you, Mr. Reese,” Finch said. He did sound pleased. John was a mastermind. Tea was good. Tea was thoughtful. Tea was something Finch liked that had nothing to do with work. There were no numbers or guns or near-death experiences involved with tea.
“What do you think?” John asked, holding the door for Finch to enter before him.
“It’s--” Finch paused, gazing around at the tiny, cluttered shop. “It is certainly unique, Mr. Reese.”
“John,” John murmured, leaning close to Finch’s ear. He liked the way Finch instinctively shifted in close to his voice, unbothered by their proximity.
“John,” Finch agreed quietly, then, “Oh, good lord.”
John clapped a hand down on Finch’s shoulder, startled. “Everything okay?” He ducked around Finch to see that the shopkeeper had emerged from the back of the store. “Oh...my,” John said. He’d never seen so many beads on one person. Some of the beads appeared to be beaded.
“My what harmonious vibrations you two have,” the shopkeeper said. “Just a moment, let me get the sage.” She proffered a dish displaying some sort of plant matter. It was smoking, billowing a thick, harshly scented smell. John’s nose wrinkled, despite his best efforts to control it.
“Tea?” he tried desperately. Finch nodded vehemently, backing awkwardly away from the smoke. He hit John’s chest with an oof. John steadied him, trying not to enjoy it too much.
“Have you two considered healing crystal meditation?” the shopkeeper asked. Finch made a horrified noise, low in his throat. John prepared to do something drastic.
Half an hour later, they stumbled out of the shop, laden with a vast array of teas. “How did she do that?” John asked wonderingly. “She seemed so innocent.”
“Twenty varieties of green tea,” Finch said disbelievingly, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I even remember agreeing to them all.”
“And a healing crystal seminar,” John choked out, dissolving into laughter. Finch’s lips twitched. Surprising John, Harold clapped a hand over his own mouth, doubling over with poorly contained laughter. John reached to steady him, trying to choke off his own laugh. Finch’s mirth was contagious.
“Sorry to subject you to that,” he said a moment later, still gasping. Finch was tucked in close to him, half leaning on John’s shoulder. “I just thought you’d like the tea.”
“Well, Mr. Reese,” Finch said, straightening his tie as he finally managed to collect himself. “I’d say this was considerably more entertaining than going to see a show.”
“Come on, Harold,” John said, offering him his arm. “You can make me some of your new tea.”
“That sounds very agreeable,” Finch said, and linked their arms in a surprising show of good humor.
**
“You took him where?” Carter said. She was really trying not to snicker, but it was a lost cause. She indulged herself for a moment, then tried to remember that she was an adult and a very successful detective. “We brought that lady in three times last year. Two-bit pot dealer. Terrible at it, kept saying it was necessary to experience the soothing warmth of Mother Earth’s love.” She shifted carefully, trying not to splash. John’s call hadn’t been worth getting out of her bubble bath. His voice sounded tinny from her cell phone’s speaker. “I think you’re learning,” she added, when John’s input didn’t seem forthcoming. “Still doing a horrible job, but I see your thought process.”
“Thanks, Carter,” John said sarcastically, sounding hurt. “I haven’t done this in a while, okay?”
“Still not your therapist,” Carter said, but it was hard to be mean about it, when John sounded like such a kicked puppy. “Look, there’s a vintage computer museum not far from here, I can text you the address. That’s suitably creepy, take him there.”
“I don’t see anything creepy about that,” John said, but he sounded thoughtful, like he was already making plans.
“Yeah, huge old warehouses, lots of dusty corners and machines that your man could probably do terrible damage with? Sure, not creepy at all.” Carter sighed. “You two really are made for each other.”
“Thanks, Carter,” John said, sounding unmistakably pleased.
“Don’t mention it,” Carter said. “No, really. Please.”
“Sure,” John said unconvincingly. “Enjoy your bath.”
**
John liked watching Harold prowl through the museum, captivated by the cluttered, amateurish displays. He looked intent, like he was on the hunt. Occasionally he paused and ran reverent hands over a display placard, his fingers slow and almost loving as he paused to savor some anecdote or bit of trivia. John doubted that there was much here that Finch didn’t already know, but he still seemed to enjoy it all, like this place was full of old friends.
“Okay,” John said finally. “Start telling me all the stuff you want to share. I’m curious.”
Finch glanced at him, then quickly away. His cheeks seemed a little pink. “I’m sure you wouldn’t be interested in anything so mundane.”
“I’m sure I would,” John said, grinning at him. “Indulge me.”
Finch did.
Afterward they ate mediocre burgers on the deck of a nondescript restaurant that looked out over the shore, even though it was a little too windy to be outside. Finch buttoned up his heavy tweed coat, and John stole his fries while he was distracted. Finch took an onion ring in retaliation, but didn’t seem very impressed with it. John hadn’t been able to imagine Finch at a baseball game, but now he was starting to see it. Maybe they could do that next.
“You must be extraordinarily bored,” Finch said reflectively, tugging up the collar of his coat against the chill of the wind.
“The burgers weren’t that bad,” John said, looking carefully away.
“Not what I meant, Mr. Reese.” Finch’s voice was gentle, but John still didn’t exactly like what he was saying.
“I’m not,” he said firmly. “Really.”
Finch nodded, but he was quiet after that, all the way home.
“Have you been in contact with Ms. Morgan lately?” Finch asked, the next morning. There was a new number, but John wasn’t certain what good Zoe would do.
“Not lately,” John said. “Not since the last time she helped us.”
Harold cleared his throat. “Mr. Reese, I realize that this particular job has left you somewhat isolated. However Ms. Morgan has some notion of your circumstances. I believe it would be reasonably safe, should you wish to spend time with her. I don’t want you to feel as though you’re not allowed to interact with anyone.” His eyes were fixed on the screen, but there was nothing there except a list of processes, hovering static and unchanging in the terminal window.
“If I wanted to see Zoe, I’d see her,” John gritted out. He wanted to tell Finch that he was all John ever thought about. When he woke up at night dreaming about things that he’d done, or things that had been done to him, John thought of Harold’s fingers unbuttoning his shirt over a ticking bomb. That calmed him. When he was alone, walking through the park or picking up groceries, all he could think about was what Harold would be doing, if he was there beside John. It sounded crazy and obsessed, even in his head. John sighed, and changed the subject back to their number.
**
Carter was out having a drink with the last few decent cops at the precinct, when she felt her pocket buzz. She glanced at it briefly, sighing at the unknown number. “Gotta take this,” she said, finishing off her beer. It definitely wouldn’t be there when she got back, if she left any. “Friend’s having relationship problems with an emotionally distant boyfriend.”
“Poor lady,” Officer Ceresini said, from beside her. “You gotta talk about your feelings. Real men cry, you know?”
“Yeah, I’ll pass that along,” Carter said dryly, and slipped out of the bar.
“Hey Carter,” John said. He sounded quiet, and tired.
“What’s going on?” Carter asked. She’d been having a good night, and now Reese was going to smear his feelings all over it, she could just tell.
John sighed heavily. Carter wanted to repeat the question, but she suspected he was just preparing himself to say something unpleasant.
“We were wrong,” John said finally. He started to say something else, then cut himself off, rough and sudden.
“What do you mean?” Carter said. It wasn’t on purpose, but her voice came out gently, sounding like she was taking a statement from some survivor of a crime.
“I--” John said. “He told me I should spend more time with a woman, one we’ve worked with. He didn’t like that we were spending so much time together.”
Carter considered. Finch was unhappy when he went more than a few minutes without talking to John. She’d never been told anything about their living arrangements, but they sometimes talked about going ‘home’ to feed Bear. Finch came the closest he ever did to smiling when Reese did something noble and good-hearted.
She couldn’t imagine that Finch was homophobic. For one thing, he wasn’t very subtle in the way that he watched John’s confident stride, whenever he left a room. Finch was always subtle, so Carter had to conclude that Finch knew what he was doing. He might be repressed, but it didn’t seem likely. Alternately, perhaps Finch didn’t feel he was good enough. This was possible. Finch was self-effacing to a fault, and rarely put himself in a position to be praised. Carter kneaded the back of her neck with her free hand, feeling a headache coming on. There was something missing, some piece of the puzzle that she hadn’t yet discovered.
“Maybe you should just talk to him,” Carter said. “Maybe that would be easier than this.”
“I can’t,” John said miserably. Carter hated that she really wanted to hug him.
“I don’t know what to tell you,” Carter said quietly. “I don’t know how Finch would ever go on without you. What you two have is real. The way he treats you? It’s different from how he interacts with anyone else. It’s clear to anyone who’s ever seen you two together that you adore each other.”
John sighed, a tired, defeated sound. “I have to go,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said softly. “Take care of yourself, John.” She sighed, staring down at her phone as the call disconnected. It was getting cold, and she was suddenly very tired. She wasn’t sure she felt up to another round in the rowdy, packed bar.
The phone rang again. Carter answered. “Look, I wish I knew what to say--,” she started.
“Detective.” It was Finch. She paused, surprised.
“What’s wrong, Finch?” she asked. “Looking for John?”
“No,” Finch said. He sounded desperate. “I’ve resisted the temptation to confide, but I simply don’t know where else to turn. Please, Detective, may I speak to you in confidence?”
Carter barked out a laugh. She was so tired, and her heart ached for John in a way that was probably not healthy, and this had definitely gone on long enough.
No need,” she replied, not giving Finch a chance to cut in. “Just got off the phone with John. He’s heartbroken, says he’s sure you’ll never reciprocate the depths of his feelings for you. He’s been calling me about this for weeks. Gotta say, I think he’s been pining a lot longer than that.”
“I-- detective,” Finch said. He made a choked, shuddery noise. “I was so afraid I--” He trailed off, clearly struggling to find the correct words. Since it had taken Finch months to even tell Carter something as personal as his false name, this was unsurprising.
“Scared you were making him feel like he had to in order to keep his job?” Carter tried, making an educated guess.
“Yes” Finch said vehemently. He made a frustrated noise, like he was shocked about how much emotion he had let show.
There it was, the missing piece. Of course Finch had worried about his influence over John. Of course he had neglected to see what John gained from their partnership.
“Yeah, kind of doubt it,” Carter said, keeping her voice carefully even. “So, time to finally make a move and let your helpful Detective get a good night’s sleep for once?”
Finch cut off suddenly, before Carter could discern what he’d been about to say. She heard the low rumble of John’s voice in the background, too distant for her to make out any words. Based on the shocked noise that Finch had made, John must have snuck up on him. Carter heard movement, then a sound, low in someone’s throat. She wasn’t sure who it was; they must have both been very close to the speaker.
“Mr Reese, I--” Finch gasped, fumbling the phone. It made a loud, unpleasant noise, then clattered across something, probably a table. .
“Hang up the phone,” Carter yelled, feeling crazy. Her face was doing something completely against her will, a big, highly unflattering grin.
The call disconnected with a click.
“Finally,” Carter muttered, and wandered back into the bar. All of a sudden, she felt like celebrating.
**
A few weeks later, Carter dubiously accepted an anonymous invitation for brunch at a charming French bistro. She wasn’t very surprised to see Finch and Reese, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder at a dainty outdoor table that was somewhat dwarfed by John’s broad frame. Finch was savoring a cup of tea, while Reese seemed mainly to be savoring his proximity to Finch, his coffeecup tilted precariously in his hand as he watched Finch’s mouth.
Carter rescued the coffee, stealing a sip. It was delicious. She decided to confiscate it for herself.
“Ah, Detective,” Finch said, making as if to rise and pull out Carter’s chair. She made a face at him and did it herself. She couldn’t help smirking at how John leaned in even closer to Finch, looking distressed that he had thought to move.
“Finch,” she said slowly, feeling suspicious. “Reese.”
“This place does a remarkable quiche,” Finch said, “If you wanted a suggestion.”
“Why am I here?” Carter countered. “Info first, food second.”
Finch cleared his throat. “We wanted to give you this, Detective.” He produced an elegant, cream-colored envelope. She took it. The paper felt weighty and expensive, smooth in her hands. Carter slit the top with a useless grapefruit spoon, pulling out a plain white card. She opened it, curious.
There was no printed inscription, just a pair of words in an elegant script. Thank you. Below, both Reese and Finch had signed it, Finch in the same beautiful script, Reese in a scratchy, narrow scrawl. Carter closed it, slowly and deliberately. “A thank you card,” she said, slowly and deliberately. “You know, it’s not common practice to send someone a thank you card for a hookup. Especially if nobody was even hooking up with me.” She stared both of them down with her best interrogator’s look. Her mouth was twitching uncontrollably, so it was a good thing this wasn’t actually an interrogation.
“It’s not a hookup!” John started, sounding offended. Finch placed a hand over his, and John subsided, his shoulders losing all of their tension. It was kind of amazing. Carter wondered if it would ever come in handy in the field.
“Detective,” Finch took over, “Men like ourselves, we do not--” he faltered glancing down at where his fingers were now intertwined with Reese’s, then looked back up at her. “We do not make connections to others so very easily. We might never have done so, and thus denied ourselves a great deal of joy. So please, when we say that we are thankful, we mean it.” He closed his eyes, looking like that degree of honesty had worn him out. John ducked his head close, not seeming at all aware that he was doing it.
“This is going to make you two even more obnoxious,” Carter said, watching them silently reassure one another. She was grinning uncontrollably, like a crazy person. “Yeah,” she admitted. “You must have broken me, because I don’t even mind.”
“Quiche?” Finch asked her, raising an eyebrow.
“Sure,” Carter answered. “Why not?”