Title: Look Into My Eyes, Tell Me What You See
Author: wildwordwomyn
Word Count: 912
Rating: PG for some angst
Fandom/Pairing: Person of Interest pre-slash starring John Reese/Harold Finch
Disclaimers/Warnings: Spoilers for everything up through season 2. By the way, I own nothing. Ain't that a bitch?
Author's Notes: Don't know where this came from. I was reading pre-slash/slash of this pair all day and started writing a little bit ago...
Summary: Windows are all about seeing. But they're also about being seen.
Windows are all about seeing. But they're also about being seen. John Reese knows this better than most. He's an operative. No point in calling himself 'former' since hooking up with Finch put him right back in the game. At least he doesn't work for the CIA anymore, but he still plays. And windows? Are an op's best friend more often than not. Which is why he still finds himself amazed by the fact that he lives in a place where one whole wall is dedicated to them. Because that means someone can see in past the wide, opaque curtains he bought to hide behind if they're determined enough. Of course, by the same token it also means he can see out. That's why Finch gave him the loft although he'll ever admit to it. He'd wanted to give John a little light, something to look forward to, instead of going back to the darkness he'd gotten so used to living in.
It's strange when John thinks about it. He finds himself wondering at times if Finch is watching him on a monitor at the library or an anonymous apartment he owns that doesn't exist on paper. It's a scary thought. No, that's not true. John stopped lying to himself long ago. Besides, of all the things Finch inspires him to feel, fear has never really been one of them. Exhilaration comes closer to what he means. That, and hungry. For what, John has yet to figure out. He's yet to understand what it is that keeps him around, that keeps Finch around. The Irrelevants matter. They will until John draws his last breath. But he's learning that Finch matters more.
When he became everything still remains a mystery. He's pretty sure the loft sparked the first flame. Root stealing his employer added the accelerant. It didn't turn into a bonfire until John got him back, though. Now when he looks out the windows, when he watches people walking by on the street below as if all is right with their worlds, he imagines Finch beside him, looking too. Would the man let him reach out, place a warm palm against his neck, rub where his hairline ends? Would he let him soothe the tension he always holds there? John wants to heal all the places in Finch that are wounded. Fix what is broken. He can't. He knows this. But he finds himself wanting to anyway. It's the least he can do for a man who has given him reason to believe again.
Jessica was his first real love. His first grown up love. Losing her nearly killed him. Finch, however, has somehow breached the very core of him. Fused himself to John in a way that she never could. Finch knows him, knows the best and worst of him, and still he sticks around. He cares. John hears it in the way a slight gasp carries across the phone lines whenever he hesitates to answer his call, sees it in his slight smiles when John fixes him a cup of tea just the way he likes, knows it by the just how close the recluse comes to touching his forearm, his shoulder, his back. Even holding himself in check leaves a trace of what could be if John were to say the word, if Finch stopped pulling away at the last second.
Does he know? John constantly asks himself as they work the numbers, get knocked down, pull each other back up again. Does Finch know how much he needs his voice in his ear, in his head? His dexterous fingers tripping along the keys in front of him, making John curious as to what sounds he would make if Finch manipulated him the same way? Can the man tell that he's beginning to flinch out of desire when he has to patch him after fights with perpetrators?
It hits him then at the wrap up of a particularly bad number what bothers him about the loft. It's a reminder of what he is when he's around Finch. Of what he has made him into. In the past he'd been a one-way mirror. All his training, his time in the field, honed his ability to look out without revealing what was within. Now? Now he's his own wall of windows. He should be afraid of this. Family, partners, handlers, Jessica. All saw only what he allowed them to see. Then Finch came along at just the right time. Maybe if the recluse had been anyone else when they met, had handled things differently, he would be. But he isn't. He silently walks over to the wall and, without hesitation, shoves the curtains out of his way.
Seeing like this, being seen, is a certain kind of freedom seldom experienced by people like him. He smiles and lays his palm on the glass. It's cool only until his heat warms it up. He really should be resting. It's midnight and his body could use the time to recuperate, could easily lie down and sleep a hundred years, he's well aware. It's probably what drives him to stay, staring out the windows, his recently bruised ribs aching sharply in protest at his raised arm. He leaves his hand there, wishing Finch was standing beside him, the image of him watching and smiling in return dancing around in his head. John savors the sweetness of the idea, its rightness, and thinks, tomorrow.
...Tomorrow...
The End