Person of Interest crack fic, Finch/Reese, slashy, no like, no read, no own.
100% Crack! Contains some swearing words.
The Scramble for Fusco
"Madness."
"I agree. Will you do it?"
"Mr. Reese - "
"Not a man up for a challenge, then, Finch?"
Finch bristles. "I will not stand to be insulted on my ability to pursue and flirt, Mr. Reese."
Reese grins. "Then accept the challenge. First man to hit first base wins."
Finch makes a strangulated noise. "I cannot believe I'm considering this, Mr. Reese! Who will be unfortunate enough - "
"Lucky, lucky enough, Finch," Reese corrects him. "We are not an unattractive pair, us."
Finch blushes imperceptibly. "Still. I hardly think Detective Carter will appreciate of our little competition, if it might be called that."
"No, she won't. Knowing Carter, she'll probably shoot us both when she finds out she's been played." Reese doesn't sound nearly bothered enough by the idea. "We need someone who won't jeopardise our future operation, and won't object to our little game..."
Finch looks up in time to see a sly smile spread across the man's face.
"Why, I think I know just the person to woo."
Finch stares at him, and sighs. "Oh, Mr. Reese. I feel for that man."
Reese glances at his watch, and grins some more. "As of this moment, so do I."
8.55am and Detective Lionel Fusco is in a good mood. The weather is nice, the wind is in his hair, and the line for the doughnut cart is moving admirably fast that he will probably be on time for work. He pulls out his wallet, grabs ten bucks and considers what type of frosting he wants this morning.
"Lionel."
Fusco jumps and nearly drops his bill. "You! Stop creeping up on me while I'm in line, can ya?"
Reese grins. "Just want to say good morning, Lionel."
Fusco blinks. "Sure, and I'm happy to see you too," he says, sarcastic. "What do you want this time?"
"Nothing," Reese says, a coy smile upon his lips. "Just wanted to check up on you, make sure everything's alright with my favourite detective."
Fusco snorts. "Carter will be crying in her sleep," he says.
Reese says nothing but grins wider. A trace of familiar menace flutters in the smile like a TV with poor signal, and Fusco swallows instinctively. Reese notices his discomfort.
"Sorry. Old habits." Reese makes another attempt at an earnest and warm smile, only Fusco sees it as a declaration of his impending doom. Light sweat quickly collect at his brows.
"OK, funny man." Fusco squares his chest and tries his damned hardest to hide the primitive fear, "What do you want?"
"Nothing," Reese insists, henceforth confirming his suspicion that personal danger is imminent. "Just wanted to let you know how much I appreciate your work... If HR ever gives you any trouble, you be sure to let me know, right Fusco?"
Fusco stares at the hand that is placed warmly on his shoulder, and wonders if he's gone delusional. "Er... yeah. Sure. Thanks?"
Reese gives him one last terrifying smile and walks off.
"I've gone mad," Fusco mutters as he returns to the line. "Completely ma - Whoa!"
Finch appears in front of him. "Hello detective," he greets cheerfully.
"Where - where did you come from?" Fusco asks, befuddled.
"The Einstein Rosenberg Bridge," says Finch. "I managed to breach the space-time continuum."
Fusco stares, a run of the mill cop like him does not have a reply for that. After a second or two of anticipation, Finch appears crestfallen.
"No one ever gets that joke," Finch mutters. "Never mind... how are we this morning, detective?"
Fusco is no longer certain that 'fine' is a justifiable answer. "I'm... I'm just buying breakfast," he replies cautiously, fighting the urge to ask for his lawyer. Finch eyes the food cart he is waiting in line for.
"Deep fried doughnuts are not good for you, Detective." Finch announces in a voice so grim that Fusco thinks he's being told that the world has just gone to Defcon 1. Before he can gather his wits about to reply, a paper cup is shoved into his hands, and it's warm. Finch is eyeing him with unmasked concern. "Here, try some green tea. It's full of antioxidants and really good for you."
Fusco decides that taking the man's advice was a safer course of action and takes a sip. Only he is so racked up, he takes a unwitting gulp instead, and promptly throws up on the sidewalk.
"Erggh! Do you always put salt in your tea?" Mad, mad men with glasses and hyperconsciousness for health, Fusco thinks morosely.
A split second of confusion crosses Finch's face, then he bristles. "MR. REESE!"
"He's just gone," Fusco says, brushing out his tongue with fingers. "What the hell is up with you two -"
But Finch has already stalked off, leaving Fusco with nothing but a growling stomach and a funny taste in his mouth.
Finch catches up with his employee two blocks away from the precinct. He decides he is outraged enough to pull the man away from the newspaper stand and confront him while the newspaper man eyes them with interest.
"Putting salt tablets in my tea is hardly fair game, Mr. Reese."
"I bought that tea for you, Finch," Reese replies, amused. "Frankly I should be the one asking how it's fair, that you gave my tea to Fusco."
Finch is taken aback for only a brief moment. Then he comes again, full throttle. "For me? You put salt tablets in my tea, Mr. Reese?"
"All's fair in love and war," says Reese, answering his own question and feeling rather satisfied with himself.
"Oh, I wish you hadn't said that, Mr. Reese." Reese turns just in time to catch the man looking at him oddly, a look that Finch usually reserved for federal databases with only three layers of firewall. "Now I..."
"Now you what, Finch?" asks Reese, alarmed.
Finch merely smiles at him. "Nothing. May the best man win, Mr. Reese."
As Finch limps off into the glorious morning sun, Reese suddenly realises that look he was given was one of generous pity.
Oh, this can't be good.
3.30pm in the afternoon and Fusco sits at his desk, mulling over the idea of going for a long, leisurely poo. The strange morning encounter left him jumpy for most of the day, and Carter doesn't help by laughing at his clinical paranoia when he told her what had happened. Fusco reserves his opinion; he has strange gut instincts for sure, but strange gut instincts got him to where he is.
The phone beeps. Fusco looks down, and to his gut's dread, sees a text from the Bane of his Existence.
Miss me, Lionel?
Fusco gulps. Spare me. What do you want?
Just checking to make sure paperwork hasn't killed my favourite detective yet.
Fusco suddenly brightens. You need me for fieldwork? Anything's better than sitting at the desk, even tailing Glasses.
No. Lionel, I like you dominatrix for now.
Fusco blinks.
Domestic. I like you domestic for now.
Fusco glances around to make sure no one is watching, and chuckles nervously. A whole load of better that makes me feel, funny man.
The reply came before he could hit send. Sorry, auto cockring.
Fusco stares.
Auto Cockring.
Cockring
Why does this phone always auto cockring
Fusco hears his integrity crumbling as he watches these texts. Are you even reading this? He types, fearful of the answer.
You vermin
Ne vermin
Never mind, Lionel.
Fusco laughs nervously. Why don't you let Glasses have a look at your phone, and leave me alone while you are at it.
I will, Lionel. You can go and take anal now.
Fusco's eyes drop out of his sockets, and the phone drops to the ground. Hastily picking it up with only two fingers as he would a used tissue, he sends: Are you crazy?
A nap. Take a nap. Sorry, still auto cockring.
Cockring
Oh finch it.
What the finch?
Finch. Finch.
Fusco hears his sanity getting up and leave. There are things I don't need to know, buddy, he types with fervour.
The reply comes at lightening speed. Tickle you later, Lionel.
Fusco decides to let Carter know that his case of paranoia has just proved itself worthy, and escalated into clinical hysteria.
Reese bustles into the library.
"Finch! What did you do to my phone?"
"Nothing, Mr. Reese," Finch replies, innocent. "Why, is something wrong?"
Reese doesn't waste a second buying the facade. "Auto Cockring, really, Finch?"
Finch's lips twitch. "I believe auto correct is the term you are looking for, Mr. Reese."
Reese stares daggers at him. "A clear abuse of your skills, Finch. Turn it back."
Finch tilts his head. "Turn what back? I have not touched your phone, Mr. Reese."
"You and I both know you don't need to touch it to break it," Reese says. "I also know you've locked me out of the settings panel for my own phone. Undo it!"
Finch shrugs. "Don't know what you are talking about, Mr. Reese."
"Oh really?" Reese shows him the texts, eyes brimming with something dark and dangerous. "Then why am I not allowed to swear on my own phone?"
"Ah." Finch raises his hand in a placating gesture, innocent facade not faltering for one bit. "I took the liberty to install a child protection software on your phone, Mr. Reese. You know I frown upon obscenity."
Reese nearly chokes with disbelief. "So you'd rather see me use your name as a swear word, than seeing an actual swear word on my phone?"
Finch shrugs again. "Lesser evils, Mr. Reese."
Reese gives him a sour look. "Finch you."
Finch laughs and laughs.
5.01pm and Fusco is out of the door faster than anyone can say 'off the clock'. Clutching his phone to his chest like a piece of tempered evidence, he fumbles for his car keys while quietly swearing to no one in particular as a soothing mantra to salve his soul. He feels his sanity hasn't quite returned yet, and he is tittering dangerously close from shouting 'The Man in a Suit just sent me dirty texts' in the middle of the Eighth Precinct, caution and his father's good name be damned.
Two ridiculously muscular guys stop him from cursing at his own car out loud. Fusco looks up into two pairs of identical sunglasses, Men In Black style. He frowns.
"Can I help you?"
MIB #1 nods towards a town car that slid up behind them, elegant and graceful, ridiculously expensive and upper class. "My boss wants your company."
Fusco pokes his head around the muscles to see Finch smiling at him inside opened doors of the limousine. "Come join me, detective!" He calls cheerfully. "I'll give you a lift."
Reluctant, and perhaps because his sanity has yet to make a return, Fusco gets in the car.
"So er..." He eyes the interiors of the car as Finch pour him a glass of bubbly, "Are you rich or sumthin'?"
Finch laughs. "Or something, detective."
"Oh." Fusco is suddenly uncomfortable in his own skin and 100 dollar suit. "It's alright for some, then, isn't it?"
Finch smiles, makes no reply, and offers him canapés. Fusco laughs nervously.
"You are gonna need more than that if you want to feed me for dinner," he jokes.
"Oh, I intend to," Finch tells him, "We are driving to a restaurant right now. This is not even starters." Catching Fusco's unmasked gape, Finch adds, a little worried: "You are not going to turn me down for dinner, are you, detective? It's all good will, I promise."
In his heart's eye Fusco sees his sanity buy a one way ticket to Antarctica. "I - "
"If I remember correctly, detective, your lovely kid is with his aunt today," says Finch reassuringly. "So you owe yourself a good evening, at least."
Fusco scrapes the floor for what's left of his intellect. "How - how do you know where my kid is?"
"Oh, detective." Finch eyes him with amiable sympathy. "Don't worry about these things. Allow me to entertain you for the night."
Dumbfounded, Fusco nods, and spends the rest of the car journey trying to convince himself that this wasn't a bad idea.
Turns out, it was.
Fusco, being a moderately good cop that he is, notices a man sitting next to them with a camera only ten minutes into their first course. His hands curve around the steak knife nervously.
"Your employee of the month is stalking you," he tells his host in a hushed voice. Finch is amused.
"No, detective, he is stalking us."
Fusco blinks. "Us? What us? There is no us."
"Oh, detective." It's that mild sympathetic look again, and Fusco can't help but be reminded of the look his grandmother gave him when he couldn't grasp a particularly difficult piece of maths. "We are on a date, you and I."
It takes Fusco three seconds to realise what Finch had said, and another three to process it. His hands clatter uncontrollably against the plate.
"I don't know why it does that," says Fusco, desperate.
"Oh, detective." If Finch oh-detectives once more, Fusco is going to plunge that steak knife into his own eyes for sure. "You don't need to be afraid. A date can be perfectly benign... to begin with."
"Afraid?" Fusco laughs, a high pitched nervous sound so alien that even Finch appears momentarily startled. "I'm not afraid! At least not of you," he says as a bitter afterthought.
Finch looks unsure whether he should be relieved or offended. "Concerned about something else, detective?"
"Yes! Like how your model employee looks like he's going to come over here and strangle me with his bare hands -" he hisses, and only stops when the waiter comes to deliver the main course. "Look. I think this is a bad idea."
"Don't mind him," Finch says lazily. "John is harmless."
Fusco watches with increasing alarm as Reese flashes his signature Smile of the Jungle King again. "I gotta go," he says, fight or flight instincts taking over. He tried fighting with Reese once, and it did not end in his favour. With only one option left, Fusco promptly got up and fled through the door.
Finch watched him go with a sigh.
"I ordered these beef from Japan, Mr. Reese." Finch says, without looking around.
Reese relocates himself into Fusco's chair, completely unapologetic. "It'd be a shame to let it go to waste then, Finch," he replies, a self-satisfied smirk evident upon his lips.
Finch watches him and finally raises a hand for peace. "Oh alright. Would you like some more wine?"
But Reese surprises him by waving the waiter close. "No, Harold," he says with an amused look, "I'm going to pack the leftovers and bring it over to our mutual love interest."
Finch pause mid-pour and is appalled. "You do not ask to pack leftovers in a container in a restaurant such as this, Mr. Reese," he says in an urgent whisper. "It's unbecoming!"
Reese eyes him with sarcasm. "Right. Chinese will have to do for Fusco then, won't it?"
Finch nods the waiters away with a graceful apology before returning his attention on Reese. "Absolutely not," he says, adamant. "Kobe beef takes weeks to pre-order then arrive."
Reese blinks. "Oh. It was meant for me?"
Finch sighs and makes no answer.
Reese appears to be torn between being touched and being amused. "Are you - are you trying to refine my taste again, Finch?"
Finch gives him a dirty look. "Detective Fusco is probably waiting for you and the Chinese, Mr. Reese."
Reese grins, and relaxes into his seat. "He'll live. Not so sure about you, if you are seen to be abandoned by two people during the course of one meal."
Finch tries another dirty look unsuccessfully, as his lips twitch. He pours Reese more wine.
"How are we keeping score, Mr. Reese?"
Reese cuts into the beef and is nonchalant. "The night is till young, Harold, there might be time to up the scores yet."
To his surprise, Finch smiles. "Yes, there might be indeed."
Reese's phone rang, almost on cue.
Giving Finch an odd look, Reese taps his ear: "Hungry so soon, Lionel?"
"What the hell have you done to my flat?" Fusco shrieks in his ear. Reese frowns.
"Something the matter, Lionel?"
"Yes! Yes! There are roses! And candles! And ROSES ON MY BED!"
Reese stall mid-cutting and looks up into amused, glinting eyes of Harold Finch.
"A romantic, you are," Reese purrs. Finch does not even bat an eye lid. Fusco cannot dial down his clinical hysteria.
"This is not funny anymore! How am I supposed to sleep in my bed that's covered in rose petals?" The sound of sniffing. "Is that incense? Did you light incense in my room? What kind of sick - I'm allergic to that kind of stuff, you know!"
Reese nearly gloats. "I can't believe you didn't do your research ahead of time, Finch."
"Who says I've done anything?" Finch replies, all innocent again. "You are the traditional romantic, according to your profile."
Reese wants to point out that it was Finch who wrote his profile to begin with, but doesn't. He leaves Fusco wailing in his room, disconnects the call, and leans close.
"Do you have eyes in Fusco's flat?"
Finch regards him with immense satisfaction. "Do I indeed, Mr. Reese."
Fusco spends better part of his evening cleaning up the petals, blowing out the candles, and opening the windows to eradicate the smell. He does not know that ten miles away, two men are huddled in front of a large monitor, watching his every move, every swearword and every mutter, laughing and laughing and laughing.
Fusco turns up for work the next day, creeped out of his skin.
"I don't know what kind of kink these two are into," he says in a hushed whisper during lunch, "But I swear to god if they don't leave me out of it, I'll check myself into a mental asylum."
"What, Fusco?" Carter gives him an amused look, "You worried they'll use you as a sex toy?"
Fusco blanches and promptly discards his sandwich. "Nice, real nice, Carter." He shudders. "Brrrr!"
Carter laughs. Fusco considers the idea for some more, and turns three shades of pale.
"Wait. You don't think - can they?"
Carter pats him on the shoulder sympathetically and tells him to get a new hobby. Fusco is miserable.
1.03pm and Fusco receives a package. Once opened, it reveals a pair of tickets to the National Philharmonic Orchestra, in town for a week. Fusco is confused, he is not into these things.
1.05pm and another courier comes with a pair of tickets to the Travelling Zippo's Circus. Fusco is not into these things either, but the idea is more appealing than a night spent in classical music. He accepts the tickets thinking he could go with Michael, and ignores Carter's smug references to having a secret admirer. He returns to his desk to find the orchestra tickets gone.
He brims with an uncomfortable self-consciousness all afternoon, and finally decides to tell Carter that he has not one secret stalkers but two. Carter reminds him of his apparent clinical paranoia. Fusco is miserable again.
2.05pm and Fusco is sent out to run an errand. Instead, he runs into Finch in the park.
"Hello detective," Finch greets him cheerfully.
Fusco has a fearful deja-vu of yesterday's events and his brain works itself into a haze. He ogles but does not respond.
"What a coincidence," Finch prompts, looking hopeful for a conversation.
Fusco is not sure that it is a coincidence, but he does not voice his concern. He glances down to see a large dog crouching next to Finch's feet.
"Entrusted his dog to you, then?" Fusco says gruffly, in an attempt to look more confident than he is feeling. "You must also speak Dutch?"
Finch smiles. "Yes, amongst six other languages," he says matter-of-factly.
Fusco deflates. "Alright, what do you want."
"Nothing, detective!" Finch exclaims, amused. "Just a random encounter under the sun. Why must I need something from you, to see you?"
Fusco is unsure of how he should answer. "Er..."
"Oh but you do remind me," Finch carries on, smiling warmly. "We didn't get to finish dinner last night. Perhaps another time?"
Fusco stares down at the friendly hand being placed on his arm and cannot form a single word in response. The working part of his brain got up and left to join his long lost sanity. A dog barks.
Fusco shifts his gaze further down and chuckles weakly. "Your dog doesn't think that's a good idea," he says, hoping that's enough of an excuse.
Bear barks some more and makes a threatening growl towards him. Fusco is sourly reminded of his ill fortune and misery, all the way from Oyster Bay to here, since a dog is also picking on him now.
Finch frowns. "Hmm. I don't know why he does that, he's usually very amiable." He bends down to stroke Bear. "It's alright, boy, our good detective here is a friend." Finch puts the friendly hand back onto his arm.
Woof! The dog barks louder this time, and makes a charge at Fusco's 100 dollar suit. Fusco takes a nervous step back. "That's okay," he tells the dog, "I'm just a random encounter. Not a friend. Yeah. Friend is too strong a word." He figures appeasing the threatening dog is wiser than appeasing the smiling man with glasses and a limp.
Finch hmmm-s thoughtfully. "Come now, Bear. Detective Fusco is a friend," he tries, emphasising on the last word. Bear makes no reply but eyes them warily. "That's right... a friend," Finch extends his hands again towards Fusco's shoulder.
Fusco flinches.
The dog makes a whimper and pulls against Finch's trousers.
Fusco laughs, a little mad. "I don't think your dog likes the idea of you manhandling me, Glasses," he says.
Finch struggles between amusement and incredulity. "But I don't... hmmm...oh well," he straightens up. "Some other time then, detective?"
Fusco wants to say Geez I really hope not but he does nothing but nod. Finch gives him one last smile and limps off, dog in leash, cute, fluffy and obedient to innocent eyes.
Fusco spends the rest of the afternoon contemplating the cost of seeing a personal therapist.
Finch is not surprised to see Reese waiting for him near the exit of the park.
"I'm going to conduct an experiment," Finch says loudly, as he's stalking close. "Please don't be alarmed, Mr. Reese."
Reese does not have time to ask alarmed of what, before Finch closes in and gives him a hug.
"I..." Reese hugs back instinctively, feeling like Father Christmas. "I'm not alarmed," he tells himself.
Finch ignores him. Instead, Finch pulls back and looks at Bear, who's crawled up behind their feet, looking satisfied and licking a lazy paw.
"Interesting," Finch declares.
"I'm not alarmed," Reese repeats, feeling anything but.
"Why does Bear show signs of distress whenever I'm friendly with detective Fusco?" Finch asks, cutting straight to the chase.
Reese looks at his hands with a strange expression of reverie before snapping his head up. "Hmm?"
"Bear barks whenever I try to touch our detective," Finch points out.
"Oh. That." Reese smiles, all cunning and wits and coyness and Finch glares the hardest he can. "Remember when I told you if anyone tries to touch you, Bear will eat them?"
Bear woofs in agreement.
"Well, I may have also give him the impression that..." Reese trails off. Finch is highly alarmed.
"The impression of what, Mr. Reese?"
Reese says nothing, but wraps an arm around Finch's shoulder. Finch is both mortified and astounded to find that Bear is wagging his tail in approval, running around them in little circles and growling in contentment.
"Bear thinks I'm cheating on you, if I touch anyone else?!"
Reese attempts half-heartedly at an apologetic grimace. "Your words, not mine, Finch."
Finch makes a strangulated noise.
"Well...If it makes you feel better, Finch," Reese says while studying his expression carefully, "If I try to make a move on Fusco in front of Bear, he'll probably attack me too."
Finch gives him a look that is half dirty and half amused. "I'm heartened, Mr. Reese."
Reese smiles to himself. They watch Bear wags his tail harder as they lean towards each other, habitually and subconsciously.
Fusco goes to the circus that evening with his son. Somehow his phone keeps giving him random texts of information about how to get to his seat (VIP lounge), which line is the fastest for popcorn and which toilet doesn't have its door broken. Fusco spends the evening rubbing his neck insistently and waiting for the phone call that never comes. Michael claims he had enjoyed it, so it was all worth it in the end.
He doesn't spare a thought for what could be going on in the Philharmonic concert.
Finch is holding himself more stiffly than usual. "Not quite who you are expecting, Mr. Reese?"
Reese doesn't even look up from his own seat. "You are not in the circus either, Finch."
Finch's face relaxes fractionally, though he still sits down with a straight back.
"Detective Fusco is not a man who appreciates these things," Finch says, his tone deliberately level. "I'm surprised you didn't do research."
This time, Reese looks up. And he's smiling. "National Philharmonic Orchestra tickets sold out three months ago," he says inconsequentially, all innocent.
A bit of colour appear on Finch's cheeks as he looks away. Reese suddenly finds the evening programme extremely interesting.
"You know I can remotely access our detective even when I'm here," Finch says, finally. It sounds strangely like he is admitting to cheating. Reese flips the programmes close.
"We have no Number at the moment," Reese says, "Or I could save Fusco's life. That'd get me in his good books, I think."
Finch almost laughs and points out that it is more likely for Reese to get Fusco into mortal danger in the first place. Reese is dismissive of the idea. Finch no longer feels guilty about using his tech-power to assist his operation, and Reese refrain from eyeing him with distaste as he taps away on his phone.
They bicker for some more until the curtain ascends.
"I'm afraid I might win on this one," says Finch, with quiet satisfaction.
"As long as you are here," Reese replies.
Finch wonders if he'd imagined it since the crowd was clapping so loudly.
11.45pm and Fusco returns home to find unopened, unordered-for Chinese food in his fridge. Michael is delighted; Fusco is less certain about it, but he eats it anyway.
He contemplates sending two texts before bed, one to the Bane of His Existence and one to Four Eyes, but decides it would be too weird, and anyway, it could all be just happening in his head.
Fusco falls asleep to the faint lingering smell of incense.
The third day whirls past in a hurried haze.
At 9.03am Reese brings him breakfast, with coffee and doughnuts, which Finch replaces with green tea and grained oats at 9.05am. Fusco dumps both in the trash once they are out of sight.
10.11am and Reese sends him a text asking him to a movie. Only he'd asked, There is a good action fuck at the porn house I hear, and Fusco laughs insanely at Carter's disgusted expression. Reese tells him auto cockring is still in force and he had meant an action flick in a picture house, but Fusco is no longer convinced.
11.05am and he receives a call from Finch, telling him that a lunch basket is on its way to him. When asked what the basket consisted, Finch replies with many strange sounds that Fusco only suspects is in another language, but does not have the guts to confirm the suspicion. He hides the basket under his desk until one of the task force dogs comes sniffing, and promptly gives them all away.
1.31pm and Fusco runs into Reese outside the building, a camera in hand. He asks if Reese is tailing someone else, and cannot think of a reply when Reese says no, actually, I was tailing you. Fusco contemplates about telling Reese that his routine was quite predictable and did not require much tailing, and was shut up immediately when he sees the picture Reese hands him. It was a photo of him, shot in a particularly flattering light. Fusco is almost touched, and refrains from pointing out that he had his feet on the table in that photo and was picking his nose. He keeps the photo anyway.
2.01pm and Fusco receives an email with a particularly large attachment. He opens it to find a whopping 1.3G of photos, consisting of him walking down the street, sloshing coffee on his shoe, eating his doughnut and licking his fingers, staring surreptitiously at a girl with particularly pleasing cleavage, and... Fusco deletes the whole thing in a frenzy and makes sure to double wipe the hard drive. Then he remembers the department email doesn't even allow attachments more than 25MB, and he is both terrified and furious.
3.15pm and his intra-departmental messenger on his computer lights up with a new message. It reads, you look nice in your tie today, detective, and Fusco promptly does a anti-virus, anti-spyware check on his computer. When he finishes, he finds a trojan horse named fusco's little . And against his better judgement, he opens it. Immediately his computer seizes and roses descend from the desktop, with soft orchestral music, and all the icons blink and move around to form a flashing heart.
3.18pm and Fusco has a clinical breakdown in the middle of the precinct.
It takes Fusco well over half an hour to compose himself again. The rest of the afternoon passes relatively event free, and he has never devoted so much attention to the safe, boring, benignities of paperwork.
4.32pm and Carter spots that Fusco is getting ready to leave.
"You are not forgetting about the party, I hope?" she calls.
Fusco stops in his tracks. "What party?" he asks, alarmed. In the universe of fanfic logic, it is entirely possible that the one last benevolent member on his team has turned against him.
"The themed party they are throwing for Old Levenson's retirement," Carter says. "Super hero costumes, remember?"
Fusco doesn't. "I ain't going to no super hero party," he grunts. "An early night is what I need."
Carter is amused, and Fusco wonders if the whole universe is amused at him these days.
"It's required attendance," Carter tells him, "The captain made it painfully clear. Levenson's been with the task force for forty years, it's the least we can do for him."
"Oh yeah?" Fusco rattles the keys as he locks his desk drawer, all sarcastic. "What will I go as, hmm? The Incredible Hulk?"
Carter's eye twinkles. "I'm sure you'll think of something, Fusco," she says. "If you don't, I have a feeling you'll have some help."
A Sense of impending doom washes over his body. "Help? What do you mean help? Did you just feed me to the wolves? Carter? Carter!"
A large town car was waiting for him again outside the station. Fellow officers are starting to notice.
"You got a patron, Fusco?" one of them calls out, gleeful.
"Naw, I'm off to see the queen," Fusco retorts, and squeezes himself into the car. "You gotta stop doing this," he says as soon as he fits himself comfortably. "People might think I moonlight as a rent boy."
Finch starts to laugh but has the good grace to hold back when Fusco gives him a dirty look.
"I hear you have a party going on," Finch says, amiably. "I'm here to pick you up as per detective Carter's request."
"Carter did put you up for this?" Fusco said, indignant.
"No," Finch says, amused again. "She simply voiced her concern that you are having trouble enjoying yourself lately, and want us to make amends."
Fusco does not think that is a wise idea, but he no longer has the courage to say so. He purses his lips and sulks. Finch's amusement is palpable.
"I'll let you in on a secret," Finch says playfully, and Fusco instinctively check the car to see if the dog is around. It isn't. "Half of the department is going as The Guy a Suit to this party."
Fusco snorts and splutters. "I bet your friend is real pleased with himself," he says. "Being considered a superhero by half of NYPD."
Finch tilts his head. "On the contrary," he tells him, "These people are all dressing up as villains." He pauses for a second. "Although, I'd imagine he would be pleased that the whole of NYPD's task force thinks it would take a roomful of super heroes to deal with him."
Fusco is lost halfway into that convoluted sentence. "Well, I'm not going as him," he says with fake cheer. "I don't think we'd pass as twins."
Finch eyes him. "Detective." The title is said with such patience that Fusco cringes. "You may not be The Guy in a Suit... but you are a Guy in a Suit."
The car pull up in front of a ridiculously expensive-looking store with a ridiculously large dressing room, with a ridiculously Victorian tailor with a ridiculously long piece of measuring tape.
"No," Fusco says, as he is being ushered inside. "I am not buying a suit just for the party!"
Finch smiles placatingly but does not respond.
"Do you know how much these things cost here?" Fusco asks, flipping over the price tags of a display suit and quickly retreating as if he'd been burned. "What kind of crazy -"
"It's on me," says Finch dismissively. "Come now, detective, the suit to the Man in a Suit is the cape to superman."
Fusco tries not to imagine Reese in a superman cape, and fails.
"I don't think rest of the NYPD had noticed," said Finch in a slightly condescending air, "But the Man in a Suit actually wears custom-tailored, handmade suits, rather than the average stock off the rack." He sniffs. "Seeing how no one is going to turn up in the correct attire..." Finch trails off and began leafing through ten kinds of different fabric.
Fusco gets the sneaky feeling that he is being used as Finch's poster boy, and he shifts on his feet. "I, er," he began tentatively, watching Finch's long fingers move. "I'm not sure I'm the best person to say this, but, erm, I really think -"
"Hold still, detective," Finch orders, and bends down.
Fusco jumps a mile. "Whoa! What are you doing?"
"Measuring the hem of your trousers?" says Finch, sarcastic. "A well tailored suit does not hang below the -"
Fusco backs away from him frantically as if Finch was contagious. "Alright! Alright! Enough with the pranks!"
Finch looks up at him, eyes blank.
"Look," Fusco says, rubbing his hand through his hair, frustrated, "I don't know what's going on with you and your friend in a Suit, but leave me out of it, okay?"
Finch frowns as he slowly pulls himself up from the floor. Fusco feels a tinge of guilt as he realises the man's backs must be giving him problems, but decides if he had offered help, Finch would only be more offended.
"Look..." Our good detective tries again, more awkward this time. "I appreciate all the little things, the tea, the dinner, the car, but..." It's clearly not for me, he wants to say, but instead conveys with his glare.
Finch stares back. The line of silent communication is not open on his end, it seems, as he does not appear to have grasped Fusco's glare-message.
"Are you not happy with the arrangement, detective?"
Fusco thinks he must be imagining things, because Finch is looking crestfallen and just a little bit disappointed. "I - "
"It's okay, detective," Finch says softly, turning away. His eyes are full of morose and Fusco wonders absently if a puppy has died somewhere because of his sins. "It would appear that I'm not good at human interaction offline after all."
Fusco is bewildered. "Offline?" He knew that Finch was good with computers, but by god if Finch had invented a way to live inside those codes, in the cloud, then the world he knows is coming to an end and he is emigrating to Antarctica for sure.
At long last Fusco's mind meanders back to the present and he finds Finch is looking amused again.
"It's not your fault, detective," Finch says, rather inconsequentially as he had forgotten what they were talking about. "I'll let the valet finish tailoring you, and you can go to your party with your head held high."
Fusco wants to say that he did not want to go to the party at all, let alone as the Man in a Suit, but the soft sorrow he sees in Finch's turned back silences him. Whatever, he thinks bitterly. Can't be as bad as rose petals and incense.
But of course, he's wrong again.
Fusco stands near the bar, folded arms and growling face, watching a whole load of cops he did not know dance away the night. Half of the room was filled with Men in a Suit, the other quarter with Men in Black, with the occasional Tony Starks, and somehow it looks more like the wrong kind of Wall Street After Party than a superhero gathering. He's in a bad mood; a total of five people had commented on his lack of costume today. It turns out you can't make out how much the suits are worth in semi-darkness, especially not in revolving dance lights, and nobody, nobody thinks someone with Fusco's build can pass for a Man in the Suit.
A drink slides into his hands. "Having fun?"
Fusco does not need to turn to see who it is. He feels the sarcasm boiling to the surface. "Oh yeah. Loads."
Reese comes up behind him and eyes him with interest. "Are you supposed to be me?"
"No, I'm supposed to be the wallflower," Fusco says, seething.
Reese grins. "Come now, Lionel. You are not half bad," he compliments. Fusco thinks he looks pained when he does that, and decides to ignore him.
"What are you doing here?" Fusco asks, trying not to sound too concerned, "Like the idea of being taken down by a room full of people looking for you, is it?"
"No better place to hide than in plain sight, Lionel," Reese says dismissively. Fusco huffs.
"I'm not gonna shoot anyone to cover you this time, just you mind," he says. "You are on your own here, smart ass."
Reese does not appear to have heard him, instead is deeply amused as he examines the texture and the design of Fusco's suit.
"You are supposed to be me," Reese says, looking oddly gleeful. "Did Finch buy these for you?"
Fusco has a million nasty and clever things to say to that but he bites down each and every one of them. "Yeah. For the record, I'm burning them when I get home."
Reese laughs. "Keep them as a souvenir," he says. "Might come in handy one day."
"Like what?" Fusco retorts, looking mildly disgusted. "Date with either one of you again? I don't think so."
"Hmm." Reese shifts close to him and orders a drink of his own. "Dates are hard to come by with people like us, Lionel."
There is surprising honesty to his voice and Fusco temporarily forgets the resentment and anger he feels towards the world and this man in particular. He grunts. "You tell me."
"HR work preventing you from finding the one, Lionel?"
The coyness is back and Fusco feels like a cat that's been stroked the wrong way. "No thanks to you," he says gruffly.
Reese is watching him intently. "I apologise," he says. There is a moment of hesitation during which Fusco thinks he has hallucinated the apology and Reese is struggling to keep his expression level. Then Reese extends his hand. "Maybe I can make up for it?"
Fusco yelps, jumps a mile and promptly sloshes the drinks down his finely tailored suit. The hand that Reese almost touched burns like a bee-sting. "What the hell!" He glances around to make sure that no one noticed the commotion in the loud music, and sits back down again, tentatively.
Reese's face is inscrutable. "Too soon?" He says, in a voice of detached worry, as if he is speaking to himself.
"First Glasses, now you," Fusco says, a desperate laugh escaping his throat, though he is unaware of it. "Two years I've worked with you, and not once did I realise you were the touchy-feely type!"
Reese's lips twitch. "Too soon," he concludes, to no one in particular.
Fusco regards him with a look that is usually reserved for Officer Simmons. "Look, I don't know what is going on between you two, but I ain't a couples therapist, okay?"
"What are you talking about, Lionel?" Reese drawls, lazily. "Can't a man take an honest interest in you?"
"You think I'm a fat idiot and a laughing stock," Fusco points out.
"I don't think you are a laughing stock," Reese says. Fusco is not amused.
"Am I in trouble? Is that it?" he says, deep annoyance radiating from his every pore. "Cos unless I'm in trouble, the kind that you people are interested in, I'd really like it if you didn't give me so much attention. Ever again," he adds for good measure.
Reese inspects him for a while. "If Finch were to proposition you at this moment," he says, out of nowhere and dead serious, "would you accept?"
Fusco thinks he is hearing things, and seeing things, and fights the urge to take a bullet to his mouth. He checks it isn't April the First before answering. "No," the answer comes out a little more indignant than he'd hoped for.
Reese hmm-s. "What about me?"
Fusco laughs, more than a little mad. "Kill me first," he clutches his chest. "In fact, kill me now."
"It's a draw," Reese says, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. "Fusco's hopeless."
Fusco agrees; he catches a glimpse of Finch coming over from the other end of the bar and thinks he is not only hopeless but doomed. Two of the most wanted people in New York turning up in a room full of NYPD detectives, just for him. He's sure he's got nothing left, no sanity, no brains, no integrity, not even an ounce of humour left to appreciate the predicament he's worked himself in.
"Our detective is a hard man to please," Finch says as he stalks close. "Neither the soft approach nor the straight forward one works."
Reese looks just as remorseful as his boss, which is, not at all. Fusco's brain is whizzing slowly back into motion, and he frowns so hard that his brows hurt.
"You were faking it back in the store yesterday?" Fusco is furious, furiouser, under the influence of alcohol. "I felt sorry for you! That's why I let you put me in this ridiculous suit and came here in the first place! I didn't want to hurt your feelings!" It sounds even stupider as he says it out loud.
Finch regards him curiously, head tilted sideways. "Yes," he says softly, barely audible above the music. "People often do that."
Fusco thinks he saw Reese's nostril flare just a little, but he's not sure of anything anymore.
"- Which is why I take advantage of it when I can," Finch finishes, entirely unapologetic.
Fusco stares. "You asshole," he curses, and it comes out more like a wonderment.
Finch's lips twitch and Reese smirks. For a completely insane moment, they look oddly alike.
Then Fusco has an epiphany.
"I'm your go-between, aren't I?" His eyes feel very uncomfortable bulging out of its socket but he can't control it. "This is some sort of elaborate plan to profess your love to each other, through me?"
To his deep annoyance and somewhat attestation to his deductive skills, both Reese and Finch appears to be amused. At each other.
"The dinner was meant for me," Reese says.
"I know," Finch replies.
"The Philharmonic tickets were meant for you," Reese says again, softer.
"I know." Finch replies, softer too.
"I thought you'd track Fusco's deliveries to see what I was up to."
"I know."
"And you would never have accepted the concert tickets or showed up if I had just invited you."
Finch looks pained. Fusco, who's been watching the whole conversation with his heads whipping back and forth, supplies helpfully: "He knows."
Reese smiles.
Finch drops his gaze to the ground, and back up again. "Maybe we should take this somewhere else, Mr. Reese."
"He agrees," Fusco says, hopeful.
"Now what would you know about me, Lionel?" Reese asks, amused.
"Your hands are hovering on his arse," Fusco points out.
Reese concedes gracefully. Finch somehow looks incredibly mortified yet incredibly pleased with himself at the same time, and Fusco, well, Fusco feels like he ought to say something to congratulate this relatively benign outcome of a series of unfortunate events.
He watches the pair gaze into each other with a million emotions, and decides that fuck it, it's now or never.
"It's not that I'm not happy for you two," he says awkwardly, shutting his sanity out the door for just a moment longer. "But for the record, messing with me is not foreplay, okay?"
Fusco watches with increasing uneasiness as the pair pulls out of their lover's gaze and stare at him in unison.
"Maybe we should procure detective Fusco a real love interest," Finch says, thoughtful.
"That sounds like an excellent idea," Reese agrees.
Fusco thought he'd die. "Did you not hear a word I said?!"
"We did cause him quite a bit of inconvenience," Finch continues, completely overlooking Fusco's comment.
"Mmm. And he's probably earned a reward for being such a good go-between," Reese says, in a tone that sounds suspiciously like the one reserved for his dog.
"I can always write him an online profile..."
They exchange a look and smirk.
"Warm, cuddly middle aged man looking for commitment?"
"Not so sure about warm, Mr. Reese, but we can definitely work on the cuddly..."
Fusco groans, and decides he is going to Elias for protection.
THE END
A/N: Sorry. I just couldn't resist the plot bunny on this one. Messing with Fusco is too much fun! As always, with crack-fics a certain degree of OOC is inevitable, but I hope I've done them justice. Please do let me know if you had a laugh out of this, it'll make my day :3