Warning: explicit content ahead!
Behind Enemy Lines, Part II
France, First World War, 1916
Reese winced as Finch sunk the blade into skin. Fixing his gaze on the outstretched arm, Finch's spare hand gripped tightly on Reese's shoulder; he exhaled only when the blade hits something hard.
"Here we go, Sergeant," he said.
Reese's face drew a masterful blank, no emotion or reaction; only his pupils contracted wildly as Finch dug out the shrapnel with one careful and swift flick.
"I hear Corporal Fusco got his rear shot at again," Finch said, wiping the blade clean on a piece of towel. Reese shrugged with a tight smile.
"Bigger targets are more likely to get shot," he said.
"How grotesque," Finch murmured. His eyes grow imperceptibly softer when he applied dressing to Reese's fresh wound. "Did you assign Leon with him again on the rounds?"
"Made sense," Reese said. He was breathing easier now. "Leon is a much smaller target, and much more deft."
"I hear they make a good team," Finch said. He gave the bandage a firm tug, making sure it would stay in place, then looked up. "L and L, or something to that effect."
"You mean Leon thinks he and Fusco make a good team while Fusco just wants to shoot his brains out," Reese said.
Finch's mouth twitched. He watched as Reese patted the bandage, flexed his arm and extended his fingers, finally nodding in satisfaction. Another wound brushed under the rug, shrugged off as if nothing had happened: survival as usual.
"Well," Finch began after a while. "I suppose there is no point in telling you to take it easy for a couple of days."
Reese gave him an amused look. He sat back down on the chair and pulled it in closer, until his knee was wedged between Finch's leg, and his face an inch away from Finch's own.
"I see," Finch said, the corner of his mouth quirking despite himself. "Not going to take it easy for even a minute, then."
Reese grinned but didn't reply. He leaned in for a kiss, lazy and almost half-hearted, except for the tight grip on Finch's thigh: one that conveyed a sense of urgency only Finch understood. Finch arched back a little.
"When is Miss Morgan scheduled to call?" he asked, quiet.
"Oh-three-hundred," Reese replied, eyes half closed. "We have time."
"You are under the influence of the good drug," Finch said softly. It didn't stop him from allowing Reese access to his buttoned shirt, however.
"No point in wasting the good ones," Reese said with a slight flick of the head, smiling vaguely. His eyes were glazed over, but something remained sharp behind the clouded pain, a persistent alertness that constantly accompanied their time in the trenches. Finch exhaled.
"I suppose Team L and L are not patrolling in this ungodly hour for nothing," he said, and Reese grinned again, slow, unmasked. Finch scowled a little, tepidly. "I was under the impression, however, that we commandeered the bunker so we could conspire."
"Oh, we are conspiring," Reese purred. He nudged at Finch's cheek, ankles rubbing at Finch's calf. Something inside Finch's body unwound itself; it felt pleasant and rare.
"Come here," Finch murmured.
They squeezed themselves onto the bunk in a tangle of limbs and clothing, Reese beaming all the while, inhibition evidently lowered by the onset of painkillers. Finch repressed the urge to make a wry comment, because times of controlled recklessness were scarce during the war, and if a moment of forgetfulness was some luxury he could afford to dispense, then Reese could have all that he had.
Reese sensed a free pass and seized his chance. Finch arched a little into the exploratory mouth, the rough sheets rubbing his back with a slight itch. Hot kisses trailed down his chest, then tickled his abdomen, until a light stubble scraped across his navel and tongue replaced lips; Finch fell back onto the pillow, distracted.
"I think you are more lucid than you let on," Finch accused, without any real conviction.
Reese huffed a laugh. "I'm always more lucid than I let on," he said, eyes sliding upwards as his body slid downwards.
"You do realise crazy is the new sane?" Finch asked absently, "No one wants to go over the top. Appearing insane might just get you a one way ticket out of here."
"Is that why Leon has been eyeing my pencils?" Reese replied lazily, tracing an abstract symbol on Finch's chest. "Because he doesn't need a pencil up his nose to prove that he's crazy."
Finch chortled despite himself. "He did try to steal the Colonel's collector pistol," he said agreeably.
"If Burton wasn't so fond of the damned thing he might have shot Leon with it," Reese said. There was a morbid sense of humour in those words, spoken with a carelessness that came only with the everyday severity of the war. He bent down again. "Speaking of illegal activities..."
"I think I know where this is going," Finch muttered.
Reese rubbed his chin affectionately on Finch's thigh and grinned. "Permission to commit crimes of gross indecency, Quartermaster?"
Finch's lips quirked into a small smile. His hand found its way again into Reese's hair and gave a gentle tug.
"Up," Finch murmured.
The sheets ruffled quietly as Reese surfaced, the shadows of his face swaying gently by the lamp flames. Finch trailed a knuckle down against the contour of his smile, face contemplative with aching tenderness, and Reese's eyes softened; their lips met in a slow kiss, unhurried and defiant, withholding time. A rough palm swept downwards and Finch was caught by surprise; Reese's tongue swept over his lower lip, smiling against his sharp inhale.
"Insubordination, Mr. Reese," Finch advised in a slightly hitched voice before Reese could roll the sly remark off his tongue. Reese laughed.
"Wouldn't dream of it, Quartermaster," he said pleasantly.
Finch's pulse soared as Reese took his length slowly, humming; he watched as Reese closed his eyes, expression content. For a split second he looked far from the horrors of war, free from the weary impatience of the stalemate, unburdened by the responsibility over his men; and Finch was almost dizzy from the slow, surreal nature of their night time dalliance. His nerve endings prickled at the stimulation along with something else, a distinct sense of unease, an uncertain apprehension, and Finch buried his hands in Reese's hair, frowning, trying to banish the stray thought at the back of his mind.
Reese sensed his distress and glanced up. Finch met his gaze with a small apologetic smile, ready for a quip, but none came forth; Reese's gaze was calm and perceptive, he simply spread his palms outward and pinned down Finch's thighs.
"Stay with me," Reese murmured, fingers digging into his hip bone with a mix of urgency and certainty. Finch focused on the sensation, just this side of pain, and the chatter at the back of his mind quietened; the world became simpler, just for a moment. His ears picked up the pattering of the rain on the tarpaulins, the distant bark of a messenger dog, a solider stumbled over something as he came out of the bunker; the night was unusually quiet, theirs.
Finch rubbed the back of Reese's head absently, fingers massaging scalp; Reese leaned into the hand and smiled, his eyes gliding close again in a wave of gratification. Finch kept up the comforting rhythm until the buildup became unbearable, and his fingers tightened; Reese took the cue and swallowed him whole, humming encouragingly.
He came with a strangulated gasp. Reese angled his head back gracefully, swallowing as he coughed; lips curved into a self-satisfied smirk.
"Apologies," Finch murmured, struggling up once he regained control of his limbs. "Here, I'll get you some water -"
Reese waved him off, coughing and chuckling at the same time. He pressed close for a kiss and Finch leaned in, groping under the sheets blindly; Reese found his hand and guided it towards what he was looking for. Finch gave it a firm stroke, then another, and Reese buried his face in Finch's shoulder, breathing deeply; the low noise in his throat halfway between a growl and a whimper. Finch returned his spare hand to Reese's back, caressing it; he felt Reese's shoulder blades rise to his touch, and pressed a firm kiss to the top of Reese's head as Reese came soon after, shuddering, onto his thigh.
They maintained the overlaying position for a while, after Reese lazily cleaned them up; Finch watched as Reese smiled above him, eyes closed, long lashes casting a light shadow on his cheekbone.
"Your arm," Finch said, after a few moments. "The wound is going to break open if you support your weight like this."
Reese's eyes remained shut, but he rolled off to the side, obedient. They pressed tightly together in the small space, Finch's leg tittering dangerously on the edge of the bed. Reese hooked his ankle around Finch's calf and brought him in, until they are completely tangled together; he pressed his nose to the nape of Finch's neck and nuzzled, affectionately.
"Crimes of gross sentiment," Finch mused softly.
"I'm on the good stuff," Reese repudiated, smiling.
Finch huffed a small laugh. "One way ticket to London for Sergeant John Reese," he said.
Reese tipped his head up, his open mouth curved into an effortless attempt at a witty comeback, and Finch smiled; then the ground over their heads exploded.
The initial reaction, embedded in the half second it took for the body to obey the mind, was always stretched into a long, impossible eternity. Finch's eyes slid to the clock just as Reese bounded off his side and shielded Finch's body with his own - 02:58. Timing error, Finch thought; while his arms go up around Reese's head instinctively, protecting the temple and the jugular from the falling debris. They stared at each other for a split second, then rolled off the bed together; the bunker shook violently from the second explosion that landed straight on top of the first.
"Fusco! Tao!" Reese yelled, just as raid alarms started going off. He shrugged on a jacket and hurled Finch his, already grabbing the rifle by the door. "Stay here," he said roughly, throwing Finch a sharp glance, all trace of mellowness gone.
Finch quickly buttoned close his shirt and grabbed onto the table as a third explosion landed somewhere close. "John," he said, "this is not -"
Fusco's chubby frame crashed through the remainder of his sentence at the door. "Sir!" he yelled, "Howitzers!"
"In the dark?" Reese said, "What are they, drunk with rubbing alcohol?"
Half of Fusco's face was smeared in dirt, rendering his complexion barely recognisable. "They are using incendiaries like fireworks," he said, dragging his hand across his face. "Un-bloody-lievable, at this hour - "
"Where's Leon?" Reese asked, stuffing a few grenades into Finch's hand and silencing him with a fierce look. Fusco paused.
"Aw shites," he said, eyes rolling in three different directions. "I said I'd cover him, and he said he'd follow - " he turned towards the door.
Finch's head snapped up in alarm. "Leon is - ?"
"I wouldn't count on it," Reese interjected forcefully. He grabbed a few grenades himself and stuck them in his pockets. "Lionel," Reese said in the same smooth and dangerous voice he always had before going into battle, "If you value your extra can of beef every week, keep our Quartermaster safe."
Fusco grunted. Finch looked wildly from Reese to Fusco, then to the table; where the telephone sat, oblivious and silent. The ground trembled as minor explosions took off around them in a rapid succession, then someone returned gunfire, the rhythmic da-da-da of the automatic ricocheting far into the night.
"Christ," Fusco said. "This is a bloody raid."
"Did you see any unidentified personnel on your patrol?" Reese asked, slinging the rifle over his shoulder.
"No," Fusco replied. "Damn, I knew it was too quiet for a full moon -"
Before he could finish, another bomb landed on top of the bunker and they all ducked in a downpour of dust; the phone rattling noisily on cue. Finch threw Reese a sharp glance, but Reese was frowning furiously with his gaze turned towards the door - there was a scurry of movement and a tangle of noises, closing in fast; a prolonged scream of terror and two sets of gunfire; Reese's eyes hardened into steel.
"Lionel, come with me," he said. "Finch - "
Finch whirled around and picked up the phone. There was static on the line, just as he had expected, and he watched Reese off, the tall frame disappearing through the flapping tarpaulin in the wind.
"Leon!" he heard Fusco yelp, then a muffled curse; and Finch strained to pick out the voices amidst the gunfire -
"- Bullet in your arse for once -"
"- It's a bloody fire bomb, you sucker -"
" - Well, liars get their pants set on fire, innit -"
"- Enough, go make sure no enemy gets through the front line -"
A female voice interrupted his concentration. "IC for Sergeant Reese," she said pleasantly. Finch snapped back to attention.
"Quartermaster speaking," he said.
"Please hold on," the voice announced.
A few more seconds of static later, Zoe's voice appear on the line. "Raid," she said, before Finch could get in a word, "Unexpected -"
"I'm looking at it," Finch interjected, inhaling. "With all due respect, Miss Morgan -"
"Nathan's dead," Zoe said.
The air suddenly turned to blades in Finch's lung. "What?"
"Nathan's dead," Zoe repeated, in that steely voice of hers when she was faced with an impossible task, "Raid in the bunker he was visiting three hours ago. I was with him."
Finch's jaw muscles momentarily lost function. "I - He - How?"
"They are sending me off to Paris tomorrow," Zoe went on, "Listen, I don't have much time. Nathan asked me to relay a message - "
Despite himself, Finch drew a pained gasp."He wasn't killed on scene?"
"Listen to me, Harold!" Zoe's voice grew urgent, a hiss through the interference. "You know how our line of work is. Now, Nathan said, any system can be compromised given enough time. Does that mean anything to you?"
Finch blanked. "It - just means that," he said. "I don't understand - "
The bunker shook again and Finch inhaled a mouthful of dust; he coughed violently, holding the phone away from his ear. Zoe said something he did not catch, and when he returned to the line, the urgency had bled out of their conversation; she sounded weary instead.
"Harold, I'm sorry."
Finch came up empty for a response. Nathan. The name didn't sound like it belonged in the past, not yet.
"How," he asked finally, swallowing thick.
"It doesn't matter," Zoe replied softly.
It was god awful, then, probably messy; Finch squeezed his eyes tightly shut so the bloodied image would not rise to the forefront of his mind. The silence on the line stretched out, though it was probably only a second or two, and his peripheral hearing roared back into function; the gunfire rang through again, the scrambling of soldiers returning fire, the sharp hiss of an incendiary cutting through the night air. Finch exhaled. 02:53.
"We failed to see this one coming," Finch said, grasping onto the phone tightly, "Howitzers and incendiaries in the night. What happened?"
Zoe sounded pained. "I don't know," she said, a strange hollowness in her voice, "Harold, I don't know. We didn't see the raid on our end either, and Nathan," a desperateness in the name now, "Harold, Nathan was killed by friendly fire."
Finch felt his mind and body detach right there and then. His limbs were unresponsive, yet his mind remained crystal sharp; he had to commandeer every single muscle in his body just to speak the one word. "How," he said.
"We evacuated when the raid happened," Zoe said. "And someone opened fire further down the line. Thought we were enemy raiders coming down from the front."
"Only Nathan?" Finch asked again, his ability for coherent speech marred by shock.
"Yes," Zoe said. "I'm only conveniently injured so I can be sent back. Headquarter is furious. There is going to be an investigation -"
"No, there won't," Finch said, startling himself with his own voice. "Burton will bury it."
"A diplomat with Ingram's popularity?" Zoe said, dubious, "You don't know that -"
"Don't I?" Finch said harshly. "Burton was on to our system, he was suspicious -" he stopped abruptly, mouth hanging slightly open.
"What," Zoe said immediately, alarmed.
"- Nothing," Finch replied. He took a deep breath. "Burton knew you were passing intel to me about attacks on John's battalion. He thought I could get more from you, aside from early warnings of stealth attacks."
"Does he know we were close?" Zoe asked, cautious, "All of us?"
"I don't know," Finch said. "Nathan said he wiped the records of our collective attendance at base, but..." he trailed off, letting the machine gun fill in the silence.
"Well, I don't have any intel other than the planned raids," Zoe said, bitter. "If Burton thinks so highly of us, he can damn well come straight to us. But there is nothing in this stalemate that is worth knowing other than the fact that we will rot in those trenches."
Finch's brows unknitted in a wave of strange, disengaged softness. "Zoe," he said, voice low, "Take a boat back to London. After."
"Not gonna happen," Zoe said briskly. "If they're going to stick me in a hospital, fine, but I'm coming back the moment they declare me fit. For what it's worth, my assets are still intact, so I can still get my way -"
Harold huffed a humourless laugh. The tension broke a little, and Zoe's voice softened.
"I managed to send Bear off before they came with my despatch order," she said. "Your messenger dog should be coming back to you with approximate details of the next few raids, so you can at least stay alive until I come back."
Finch closed his eyes again. "Thank you," he said, the words dragging a slow cut across his tongue, "We all owe you our lives. John and I. Nathan -"
"We'll make sure it was not in vain," Zoe interrupted. She knew what he was going to say. Then, "I have to go. This is probably the last time I will be able to call you on our own encrypted line."
"We'll say no more of this," Finch affirmed. "Goodbye, Zoe."
He could hear the rueful smile on the other end as Zoe exhaled. "Goodbye, Harold," she said. "Give John my best."
She disconnected with a click.
Finch stared at the phone cords blankly, unsure of how to proceed. Smoke billowed from outside; the bunker trembled as incendiaries hit surrounding roofs over and over again with blind accuracy. The whole line was awake, the chaotic noise crashing through him like a wave. Nathan was dead.
"Quartermaster!" someone yelled nearby, "They've hit the Depot!"
Finch jolted, his feet already out the door before his mind caught up. Outside the sky was illuminated with an eerie shade of red, the trajectories of incendiaries slicing through the sky like knife on skin. Reese was crouching behind the sandbags, rifle over shoulder and a spade in one hand, returning fire with a determinate look on his face; Fusco was bent over Leon's half singed head, dabbing a piece of cloth on a splitting wound.
"Finchy," Leon greeted weakly. Finch grimaced, forcing himself to ignore the stream of blood down Leon's face. He hobbled fiercely to Reese's side.
"Cover me," Finch said in an urgent undertone, close enough to be registered over the gunfire. "I need to go back to Supplies."
Reese didn't even spare him a glance. "No," he said plainly, swapping empty chambers with new rounds with practised ease, "They can live without a few days of beef. Go back to the bunker, Finch."
Finch narrowed his eyes in annoyance. "Sergeant Reese," he demanded, just as piece of ground exploded over his head. Reese pushed him back down decisively, one hand firm on his shoulder, and Finch never felt so much hatred for his injury or the war before in his life; he and his empty title and seemingly minor position, and Nathan was dead -
Then Reese saw the look on his face, and the grip relented. There was a momentary pause as Reese withdrew his hand, the other still pressed on the trigger out of automation; his gaze trailing over Finch's face, assessing. Finch stared back, painfully aware of his face being nakedly open, emotion bleeding out of every line in his body, until a grenade went off somewhere nearby and they ducked together, just in time.
"Burke! Brody! Watson!" Reese bellowed, whipping his head to the side. "Cover Fusco and make sure Leon doesn't die, I need to cover Quartermaster back to base!"
Finch blinked, frowning; then Reese's steady gaze penetrated his dusty vision. "Let's go," he said simply. Finch opened his mouth, but Reese gave a curt shake of his head, face resolute. "You never said it'd be easy, right?"
Finch pushed himself up without another word.
They made their way through the zigzagged trench, long and stretching miles across heathen land, soldiers scurrying back and forth in heated motion. Finch did a mental count of the bodies on the way, five, seven, ten; some of them simply unconscious, others would never wake up again. Finch pushed the name out of his mind, lowering his head as he rushed towards the supply line, half aware of Reese's hand on his back.
The Supply Depot was in chaos when they arrived. Half the crates went up in fire, the rest tumbled over by the brute force of bombs landing; there were casualties even here, low rank soldiers succumbing to surprise and smoke. Finch's eyes darted back and forth as Reese checked for survivors, his brows knitted tightly together.
"Bear is not here," he said sharply, when Reese straightened. "He was despatched half an hour ago, which means he was delayed, or - intercepted," Finch's heart wrenched in panic as he stared across the eerily lit battlefield. "We need to find him," he said, staring at Reese with widened eyes.
Reese retraced his gaze onto the vast stretch of No Man's Land, where a messenger dog would travel through the night, as crows fly. "Are you sure?" he asked, face perfectly set.
Finch's insides cringed in pain as he realised Reese would jump right into the line of fire at nothing but his word.
"My sources at IC were compromised," he said, fighting to keep his chest from breaking apart, "Ingram is dead."
Reese's eyes flashed but he said nothing.
"Zoe said she sent Bear with intel for the next few raids," Finch continued, not trusting himself with a pause. "After she told me Ingram left me a message. Zoe doesn't know the real scope of his influence, I think whatever he left has to do with what Burton wanted to know, and Bear has it."
Reese swung his rifle over his shoulder again. "I'm going over," he said crisply, without prompt. "Go back to my battalion if I don't return in fifteen minutes, or if you notice any - "
"No," Finch interrupted, his composure coming apart at the seams. "You will be shot in less than fifteen seconds."
Reese raised his brows pointedly. "Any better ideas?"
Finch closed his eyes and exhaled, long and deliberate. "I modified a listening device for explosives when we were forced to separate last time," he said. "It's embedded in your badge. I know the map of this terrain, I can give you directions. No light," he added, "And I can only accurately estimate for about up to five hundred metres, any more than that and I want you to come back, no exceptions."
For a moment Reese made no answer. Then his expression flickered, somewhere between fondness and wonderment, and he bent in for a quick kiss, a rough press of lip and lip. "Yes, Quartermaster," he breathed, of dirt and blood and tragedy and a smile, softer than time.
"Godspeed," Finch murmured, as Reese hopped out of the trench and swiftly lowered himself into the night.
With a special thanks to Sassy J for her continued support and commenting =3