POI: Reese/Finch, slashy, no like, no read, no own.
Inspired by the Machine's behaviour in 2.06 The High Road (no real spoilers though).
Summary: The Machine keeps sending Reese's name to Finch. Finch is bewildered.
Matchmaker, Match-Notifier
The first time Harold Finch receives the text, he panics.
He dials the number, opens the GPS tracking service, turns on all camera security feeds along the way, checks the doorman system in the loft, and holds his breath.
"Mr. Reese!"
Reese stares back at him in the monitor. "Yes, Finch?"
Finch breathes a sigh of relief. "You are okay," he says, feeling suddenly stupid.
Reese arches a brow. "Why wouldn't I be?"
Finch glances down at his phone. A single text lies on the screen, Reese, John.
"Nothing," Finch says, then he swallows. "Are you on the way here yet, Mr. Reese?"
Reese gives him a wry look. "Don't install cameras in my car again, Finch," and the monitor goes dark.
Despite himself, Finch smiles.
The second time Harold Finch receives the text, he is confused.
Reese notices his frown. "Something the matter, Finch?"
He quickly hides his phone and straightens up. "No, nothing, Mr. Reese." He proceeds to talk about their new number, trying to ignore the eyes boring into his back.
The third time Finch receives analysis on his computer.
Name: Reese, John
2012/12/01 - Shopping trip
Location: Chocolat Chocolatier
Associated subjects: INVALID
Finch scowls. "Looks like I have some debugging to do," he says to himself.
He sits down in front of the computer and strings of code flow from his fingers.
The fourth time Finch is annoyed.
"Oh do stop," He finds himself saying to the alleyway camera. "Reese is not in danger. I know where he is, he -"
He stops when he sees Reese crossing the street towards him.
"Mr. Reese," he says, genuinely surprised. "What are you doing here?"
Reese shrugs. "Dinner?"
He eyes the man suspiciously. "Surely I pay you enough for cover your own bill, Mr. Reese?"
Reese throws his head back and laughs. It sounds exasperated, but it's oddly endearing. "Got somewhere to be, Finch?"
"No," he says, wistful. Jumpy, even, because he wants to get back to the library and work on the machine's strange behaviour.
"Then spare me the company," Reese says, patronisingly.
Finch opens his mouth and wants to say he need to tap away in the library, but it comes out as, "As you wish, Mr. Reese."
Reese smiles.
The fifth time happens in the dark.
The phone lights up, and Finch jolts himself out of bed. The move is not good on his back, or his hip, or his body in general, but his heart thumps so wildly and adrenaline takes over.
New message: Reese, John.
All the monitors shutter to life at once. Cameras in the loft, microphones turn on. He half expects to see Reese lying on the bed, bloodied and in a pulp, since that is the only reason why the machine, the glitch-fixed, debugged machine, would be giving him Reese's name.
Instead, he sees a brightly-lit loft. All the lights are on, and Reese is sitting on the bed, cleaning his gun. He is befuddled.
Reese looks up, accurately into where the camera is, and smiles. Finch had just installed that camera last week, but of course, the only reason it stayed there was because Reese allowed it to.
"Hullo Finch," Reese says.
Finch says nothing. The loft does not have a two way communication system installed.
"Can't sleep?" Reese asks. "Checking up on your employee 3 o'clock in the morning is not healthy, Finch."
Finch's lips twitch as his fingers slow on the keyboard and relaxes.
You are not exactly asleep either, he wants to point out. Talking to cameras installed by your employer 3 o'clock in the morning is hardly healthy, too.
Reese smiles. "You are right," he says, setting the gun aside. "See you in the morning, Finch."
Finch watches him sleep, and wonders absently whether his brain needed some debugging of its own.
The sixth time and Finch is frustrated.
"Just stop it, will you?" He yells at the monitor. "He's not in danger, and he's not perpetrating a crime. Why are you highlighting him?"
The camera blinks back at him, silent.
Finch deflates. It's been so long since he last talked to the machine, he's not sure whether the machine can still listen, listen in the way that it used to.
"Alright," he mumbles and begins tapping on the keyboard. "What is so odd about John Reese?"
A streamline of information and files fly across the monitor.
"Yes, yes, I've had all these information before, what is your point?"
No reply. He forgets sometimes that the machine watches humans, but does not respond to them.
Finch sits back, listening to the rain, and feels suddenly painfully alone.
Then the machine tells him Reese is last spotted near a flower shop, buying roses.
"A love interest, Mr. Reese?" Finch mutters, pushing his glasses up. He analyses Reese's movement for the past few days and come up with nothing. Despite his burning curiosity, he does not check on the cameras en route, deciding that the man did deserve some form of privacy, after all.
He spends the night doing various housekeeping chores on his computer, here and there, all the while fighting the strange hollowness in his chest.
It happens the seventh time and Finch nearly loses it.
"Mr. Reese," he rolls his chair back and calls out to the man cleaning an obscenely large gun next to the bookcase. "Forgive me for asking, but you are not planning anything homicidal in the near future, are you?"
Reese looks up in surprise. "Not unless it comes as a part of my job," he answers, sarcastic.
"Not planning on taking out any kneecaps just for fun?"
"I have enough fun on my job," Reese says, half amused, half suspicious.
Finch swishes around in his chair and waves an exasperated, see? gesture towards the webcam. Reese scowls.
"Finch - did you just -?"
Finch gives him a sour look. "Go back to your work, Mr. Reese," and he taps away again, deliberately ignoring the penetrating attention he is being given.
The eighth time and Finch starts to worry, really worry.
"Alright," he says, setting down his tea cup and settling into his chair. "For the sake of my pride and sanity, I'm going to assume there is a reason why you keep sending me his name." He taps twice on the computer and looks at the camera, really looks. "The only reason I gave you to keep sending me his information is either he is in danger, or perpetrating a crime. Neither seems to be the case."
The computer screen stays as it is, obedient. Finch swallows.
"Now, the only other reason I can think of - and god forbid I should overlook this - is that he is planning something against me, or trying to jeopardise you." Finch pauses, the muscle in his jaw ticking uncontrollably. He swallows again. "If - if there is any indication that this might be the case..."
Nothing happens. The cursor blinks where it was left, and the console window only streams background maintenance data, static.
Finch lets out a breath he does not know he was holding. "What, then?" He asks, incredulous. "Surely I have built you better than -"
He does not get to finish the sentence. A window pops up on screen, and streams of data scrolls past. Finch has to squint to make out its content - his credit card bills. The one he gave to Reese for work purposes.
- 11/10 5.01pm Finest Chocolatier, Love Box for Two, $36.99
- 11/13 6:10pm Broadway Flowershop, 16 Red Roses, $35.99
- 11/18 3:12pm Chocolat Chocolatier, Premium Chocolates for Two, $57.99
- 11/21 10:11pm Fiona's Flora, Assorted Roses for Valentines, $69.99
... and so on. Always flowers and chocolates, with a few days interval, for the past three weeks.
Finch doesn't know how to react to that. He sits there in stony silence for two full minutes, running over all kinds of possibility in his mind, before speaking again. Tentatively, and to no one in particular.
"Does he have a love interest who is a potential number?"
The computer doesn't reply. As Finch automatically clicks away to arrange for these bills to be paid, he realises he has never been this confused in his life.
The ninth time it happens, it happens right after they finish rescuing a Number.
Finch is clearing away his workstation and removing the earpiece when he hears the ex-CIA agent bouncing up the stairs. Reese's step is light, so he probably doesn't have a broken rib or a concussion or any serious injuries, which Finch finds himself immensely grateful for. He turns just in time to meet Reese arriving at the door, wind-ruffled, eyes bright, still brimming with adrenaline.
"Dinner?" Reese asks, slightly breathless.
Finch is about to say yes, out of habit now, before the text interrupts him. Again, no information other than the name of the person standing right in front of him.
"I honestly don't care any more," Finch says, feeling a little insane and stupid at the same time.
Reese looks briefly bewildered, and narrows his eyes. "Don't care about what?"
"Never mind that," Finch thrusts his phone into this pocket with more force than necessary and grabs his coat. "I did read about a promising new restaurant two blocks from here, however. Care to try it out, Mr. Reese? On me, of course," he adds as a feeble attempt at his boss-humour.
Reese blinks, and surveys him for a moment. "Actually," he says slowly, "I was thinking we could go to that French place you mentioned a couple of weeks ago."
Finch is surprised. "Oh," he says, trying to remember when he had mentioned the said French place. Reese notices his discomfort.
"Well, you didn't mention, you er, kind of looked," Reese explains.
Finch stares at him. His pocket vibrates, and lo and behold, it's that message Reese, John again. He frowns.
"Relax, Finch," Reese says, more than a little sarcastic. "I don't pay that much attention to you."
"Clearly not," Finch replies, equally sarcastic. He pockets his phone again, with defiance. "You will pardon me, though, if I do not remember the restaurant you are talking about. If you will lead the way?"
As they walk down the stairs together, Reese grins.
"I did like your tie that day, Finch," he says.
Finch feels a smile tug at his mouth. "Very funny, Mr. Reese."
As they drive towards the restaurant, Finch studies the neighbourhood and is certain he has never heard of the place. The Machine sends him three texts en-route, which he ignores, and when they pull up, his phone vibrates so violently that Finch has finally had enough. He pulls out the phone and presses down on the power button vehemently.
"Technology giving you trouble, Finch?" Reese asks, amused.
"Just good date etiquette," Finch replies, deadpan.
Reese grins and parks smoothly onto the road. "I'm glad you think so," he says, inconsequentially.
Finch frowns, but before he can process what Reese said, the man is holding the door for him.
"I know you like to try different dining settings, Finch, and I thought you might like this one."
Bewildered, Finch walks into a dimly-light room. It is surprisingly spacious, sparsely filled with tables, with candles and tablecloth lined in such a way that he is reminded of Jacobean England. The wall is blank with absolutely no decor, and a spot of light shone in the middle of the -
"Is that - ?" Finch stops in his tracks, surprised.
"- A 35mm reel, yes," Reese says, stepping in behind him and shutting the door. "This place does a dine-in movie night once every month, and tonight they are showing Casablanca."
Finch glances at his employee, full of wonder. "I don't know why you brought me here, Mr. Reese," he says, expression soft.
Reese opens his mouth to reply, but instead stares straight ahead, and says, "hmmm."
Finch follows the direction of his gaze and finds two giant words projected onto the screen, the name of the very person standing next to him.
Reese, John
"I'm guessing that's not a part of your handiwork, Mr. Reese?" Finch asks drily.
"No," Reese scowls, though he looks mildly amused. "If I did, it would probably not be my name on there."
Finch blinks, once, twice, and it hits him. "Oh," he says.
"Yes," Reese says, his voice deliberate, and his smile just a touch mischievous.
"Ooooooohhhhhhh..."
Reese's lip twitch. "I have many responses to that, Finch, but I'm not sure they are appropriate... for the moment."
Finch is in a middle of an epiphany and does not hear him. Reese looks worryingly upon the man staring at the screen with a half euphoric, half disbelieving look on his face, before fumbling for his phone and muttering something under his breath.
"So much for date etiquette, Finch," Reese says, though the softness betrays his half-hearted sarcasm.
The shorter man whips around to face him. "How long did you plan this?" Finch asks, urgent.
Reese doesn't even bother to lie. "Three weeks."
Finch goes back to his phone and 'Aha!'s. He looks up, his bright and brimming with excitement. "Nothing escapes it, Mr. Reese."
"Nothing escapes what, Finch?" Reese asks, feeling slightly uneasy as he has just a good idea about that what.
Finch doesn't reply but hums happily. Reese watches with a mix of mild amusement and worry, before deciding to try carefully: "So you caught on, then?"
"Hmmm?"
"Your bills," Reese says, a little sheepish.
To his surprise, Finch laughs. "Mr. Reese, I'm a billionaire." He says, and Reese can't help but feel the man is being too smug for it. "You can't seriously expect me to notice a few anomalous expenditure in my credit card bills, much less use it as a way of communication."
Reese struggles to fight the idea of buying something obscenely expensive and pointless just for the sake of it next time. Like an island in the Caribbean. "It was worth a try," he says, if a little feebly.
"I agree," Finch replies, eyeing him with interest. "And I did notice these anomalies... or rather, unusual expenditure, shall we call it, since it tried to warn me."
Reese turns his gaze back towards the screen, which is now empty again. "What - The Machine?"
"It detects unusual behaviour, Mr. Reese," Finch says, smugly.
Reese stares. "If the Machine gave you my number, Finch, then I must apologise," he says, sardonic. "I can't protect you from me."
Finch smiles. "The Machine highlights inconsistencies in behaviour, Mr. Reese," he replies, soft. "What we do with them is at our discretion."
Reese watches the shorter man limp towards the table with a strange sensation in his stomach which he can describe as nerves. He catches up in time to pull the chair out, as he is now accustomed to do since Finch allowed him, and allows himself to linger just a moment longer than necessary.
Finch looks up from setting his tablecloth, and their eyes meet.
"Thank you, John," Finch says, quietly. The candlelight flutters and sways in his eyes, but the warmth and the words that need no voice are there, heart wrenchingly genuine; unwavering, unfaltering, and unambiguous.
Reese smiles as the movie flickers on. "Thank you, Harold." His voice drowns in the sound of classic countdown, but when he presses a light kiss to the sitting man's temple, Finch does not pull away, and he knows that Finch understands.
Finch's phone remains silent for the whole night.
FIN
A/N: Happy thanksgiving everyone. This is just something short and sweet for the approaching holidays, hope you liked it! :)