Disclaimer: I don't own "V for Vendetta" or any of its characters, wishful thinking aside.

Authors Note #1: Finch and Dominic has been a favorite pairing of mine since the movie came out. I wrote a horrible fic for them on around 10 years ago. So, I decided to get my ass in gear and churn out some stuff for these two. – Set post movie.

Warnings: friends to lovers, unresolved sexual tension, ust, resolved romantic tension, angst, drama, romance, post traumatic stress disorder, hurt and comfort, canon typical homophobia, first time.

Convergent Evolution

"You were there, weren't you?"

He smiled over the rim of his glass, knocking the rest back in one burning go. It wasn't a pleasant expression. It had teeth. It was resigned, tired, and for once- utterly sure of himself.

"You weren't," he returned, eying Finch's undone collar. Two buttons down. Indecent by the man's usual standards.

It was only a little bit of an accusation.

He knew he wouldn't be. Finch would have stayed in those tunnels till the bitter end. Dogged and stubborn and absolutely doomed from the start. But that hadn't stopped him from looking for him. Wondering if the person standing beside him, behind him, in front of him, was Finch somehow.

Finch took a deep breath from the seat across from him. Looking at his glass, the one he'd barely touched but wasn't his first, before doing the same. Knocking it back like it was nothing. Like he needed it. Voice hoarse as he shook his head, throat struggling through the last swallow.

"No," Finch answered. He spoke in his familiar, soft brogue, but the inflection was all wrong. It didn't fit the words. "No, I did something worse. …I let it happen. I looked her in the eye, and I- I let her do it."

He sat up in his chair. The same one he'd folded himself into, with the glass of scotch Finch handed him, when he first arrived. Sitting together in silence like it wasn't 5am. Like the entire world hadn't changed. Like they knew what happened next.

"Why?" he finally asked. Keeping his hands at his sides to avoid tracing the edges the terrorist's mask had etched into his skin.

He'd liked the pressure. It'd felt like a punishment. Like he was doing something. Maybe for the first time in his life. And weirdly enough, surrounded by thousands of people wearing the same face, it made him feel safe.

Finch looked at him with bloodshot eyes. Apparently forgetting that even for them, trust was hard to come by.

He knew why. Maybe he could even guess the reason. But he wanted to hear it. He wanted Finch to tell him. He wanted that inch. That precious part the Chief Inspector kept to himself. He wanted that inch for his own. He wanted-

"Because... he was right. Wasn't he?"

He exhaled, relieved but still heavy.

"He was," he answered.

But Finch wasn't done

"I am tired, Dominic."

The revelation didn't sound finished, so he stayed quiet. Every nerve tingling discomfort, excitement, and something else. Something more. Something that would make the years he'd spent wanting – waiting – worth it somehow.

"And I am a coward."

He shook his head.

Bollocks.

"A coward wouldn't have let her finish it," he pointed out. Because Finch was the last thing from it. He could have stopped trying. Stopped trying to understand why and focus on crushing whatever V had planned before it happened. Finch wanted the story more than he wanted V in handcuffs. That was the difference. Out of all of them, Finch had held tight to the question. To the reason. "Piss on standing with the crowd, that's the bravest thing I've ever heard of."

"No. Not that," Finch rasped, setting his glass on the table with a dangerous sound. "Its about everything else."

He didn't know what that meant. He didn't even know if he wanted too. But he was greedy for it. When it came to Finch, he was afraid he'd always be.

"Its about the past 27 years. Its about Norsefire. The Chancellor. All of it. I knew the party was all wrong, even in the early days. The wars. The food shortages. The virus. Fear was just an excuse. We created this. We allowed them to take our freedoms away under the guise of security. To strip away the right to love who you wanted. To think and feel and scream what you thought into the void and not get black-bagged for it. V was right. I can even tell myself why I did it. Why I voted on the party line every time. Trapped by this long line of circumstances...all the things I'd let happen. All the things I didn't do. Didn't say. Until it felt impossible to fight back. They weaponized our fear, then our apathy. That's why I am a coward. Because people died fighting for what they believed. I never did. I swallowed it."

Finch growled a rough note as he wrenched himself up and made a bee-line for the open bottle on the mantle. Catching the neck between two crooked fingers.

But Finch didn't sound angry.

He sounded careworn and full of faded self-loathing.

It was the only familiar thing about the day so far.

"He gave us a chance," Finch hazed, more to himself than anything. Looking through the blinds as the early morning sun shone amber through the smoke.

"You took it," he pointed out, having to clear his throat not once but twice.

"So did you," Finch murmured. Every day of the past year obvious on his face as he refilled their glasses before returning to his seat.

"Now its over," he hummed. Idly wondering if he even had a job anymore.

"No," Finch shared, shaking his head. "Now it starts. And- I am tired."

The unspoken meaning was clear this time.

I don't know what to do.

I don't now how to be.

I don't know how to find myself.

I don't know how I can be who I was or who I wanted to be.

He'd never been particularly imaginative. He was a methodical sort of person. Growing into himself as the years past. But especially since he'd met the Chief Inspector. He'd been a child when the party had come to power. And the truth was, he'd never known anything else. He'd never been too curious about what was forbidden. He'd merely taken it at face value and continued on with his life. Enjoying the privileges that came from being the youngest son of a prominent family, in good party standing. It was Finch who'd put cracks into him. Who made him see that maybe the party wasn't for the good after all. And worse, maybe they weren't the good guys.

So, he didn't know the right thing to say.

That wasn't his place.

But maybe he knew how to help him start.

He opened his mouth, willingly letting go of a secret he'd kept for years.

"There used to be a club, on East side by the docks. Called 'Friends of Dorothy?' It wasn't a dodgy place, despite the address. More high class than it looked from the outside. Do you remember it?"

The line of Finch's back stiffened. You wouldn't have noticed unless you were looking for it. And he was. He waited as Finch feigned thinking, before he continued.

"That was before your time," Finch responded, covering the real question with a careful twitch of his lips. "The entire block was condemned almost twenty years ago."

He nodded, remembering the sleepless nights he'd spent going over the records. Everything about the place, about Finch, about everyone in that photograph he could get his hands on. In the end, it felt like he'd been there. Like he'd run his hands down the velvet seat booths. Like he'd watched the drag queens perform with a drink forgotten in his hand. Like he'd moved to the pulsing beat on the dance floor. Like the phantom pressure on his hips from someone grinding behind him was real. And if he'd turned, he might have seen those dark black curls in motion.

"Yeah, I know," he replied, voice barely steady. "But the first week I started here, and got assigned to you, I came home to an envelope slipped under my door. There were four pictures inside, camera stills from the old CTV system. It was you. But you were younger, barely nineteen. Twenty. It was just before everything changed. You were wearing a leather jacket and a shirt without a tie. You looked happy. Free. You were smiling. I don't think I have ever seen you smile like that. And... you were with someone."

He closed his eyes, able to see it. The easy, familiar way the red-haired man had pressed Finch against the brick and kissed him. Leaving him with a sick sort of jealousy that only made sense later. Hindsight was a bit of a cunt like that.

He opened his eyes in time to watch Finch sling back half his glass. Just as gorgeous as he'd been that night, but now cripplingly tired. It wasn't the kind of tired a good night's sleep could fix. This ran deeper. He thought about taking a dram from his own glass, but thought better of it as he watched Finch's hand curl into a quiet fist. Because he wasn't done.

"I reckon someone wanted me to use it against you. Probably someone from the Finger or higher up in the department. I don't think it was Creedy, you would have been dead. More like some arsehole looking for a pay-out or a promotion. After I looked into it, I hunted down the footage and erased it," he took a deep breath and decided to be brave again. "...But I learned something about myself."

Finch didn't take the bait. But at least he was talking. He could work with that.

"Why are you telling me this?" Finch asked, every word ragged and thin. But not afraid. He was too tired for that.

He cocked his head, smiling small. Wondering if this was the stupidest thing he'd ever done, before barreling headfirst into it anyway.

"Maybe that's where you start. Finding yourself, I mean? If that's what you want? Its a new world out there."

Finch blinked at him. Eyes shining. Warm. Before hope stuttered itself and the moment was gone. He hated that most of all.

"And what happened to the photos?"

There was fear there, wrapped up in the stern lines of Finch's face. The same lines that were a new addition, considering the man in the photographs had none of them.

"Lots of records were lost in the war," he replied. "Might be I accidentally shredded them. Figured they didn't have to be like those tax records, hmm?"

He grinned, sly and boyish, getting an amused twitch of Finch's lips for his efforts. It reminded him of the bits of humor that would come through near the end of their first year together. Giving him a hint of the man under the suit, the badge and all the years since the start of all this. It wasn't much, but he'd take it. Eagerly even.

"Who was he?" he asked, before he could stop himself. "The red head? I couldn't find anything on him."

It was true. He had nothing. Not a name or a number. Nothing. It was like he never existed. Just a ghost claiming lips that didn't belong to him. That wasn't fair, obviously. But he was too far gone to think any different.

"Braver than me," Finch replied simply. "He was an idealist. Those types didn't last long, especially back then."

That said it all really.

"I found out who did it," he said awkwardly. Forced to clarify when Finch's head whipped up. "The git who sent me the photos."

Finch actually flinched.

He'd never seen him do that before.

He hurried to get the rest out.

He needed Finch to know that he wasn't the only one with secrets.

"They won't be bothering you," he said firmly, like admitting it was easy even though it had been one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Not the decision he'd made, but everything else. "They won't be bothering you ever."

Finch rose from his chair, bare feet curled into the carpet like claws.

"You didn't."

He took an unsteady sip from his glass, nodding in agreement.

"Not according to the authorities."

Finch wavered. Looking like he wanted to say something, only to kill it before it could make it past his lips. It was something he was used to with Finch. Silence. It usually never meant anything good. But he was willing to chance it.

"You remember when I came in with those stitches?" he pressed. Anything to get them past this part. "Bastard broke a mirror in my hallway, nearly cut my arm clean off. They told me what they were going to do. I- I couldn't let that happen."

Finch stared at him like he was only just seeing him. Maybe for the first time. Dark bits and all. A bloke he'd known, trained, and trusted for years. The same one who'd walked into his home hours ago with the indents of a Guy Faux mask etched into his skin.

"Why? Why did you do it? "Finch finally asked, standing there like he expected something more to happen. "Why did you cover for me?"

It was upsetting he had to ask. But he understood. Just one of those photos could have made him Chief Inspector if he'd timed it right. It was just the way things were. Finch hadn't lived this long, in this party, not to be painfully careful. Always.

"Because you're a good cop. That's what it was about at first," he started, unfolding from his seat when it felt like one wrong move, one car back firing, one firework, would send him through the roof. "You actually care. Its about the cases, the people with you. Not about climbing the ladder. Why do you think I requested to be assigned to you in the first place?"

Because he had. He'd used his family connections to make sure of it. Letting his superiors think it was a punishment as they joked behind his back. And why wouldn't they? Everyone knew Finch was a bull of a man. He'd run off every partner the Super had forced on him. And while he was track to make Detective Inspector, Finch didn't play politics like the rest. He was a dead end and a dying breed of a copper to boot. Strangely, he'd never been more interested in proving himself. He'd chosen Finch for a reason. He just hadn't realized it would go so deep.

Finch opened his mouth. Closed it. Then tried again.

"I didn't know."

He let go of a mad half-laugh. Running his hand through his hair as the Inspector collapsed into his chair with a whinging sound of fake leather and trouser cuffs.

"You busted my balls for months thinking the Super was punishing you with a junior partner right out of the academy. And I didn't tell you any different. In fact, you probably would have hated me more for it. Christ, that could have backfired," he hummed, peeking out of the blinds as Parliament smoked in the distance.

He wished Finch could have seen it go.

Maybe he had.

Maybe-

"But that wasn't all of it," he admitted. "I earned my place. Became your partner. Got to know you. Trust you. Respect you. I didn't want to be anywhere else. But, more to the point, I didn't care."

"You didn't care?" Finch repeated, disbelieving. And god, as much as he hated him for shit like that, he loved him for it at the same time. Because Finch was ever himself. And part of that was the inability to see his own worth. How he could be desirable and worthwhile, beyond what he did on the job.

He nodded, turning to face him this time.

"I don't care who you are or who you love...none of it. But you know what I do care about? I finally figured out why I couldn't get that one picture out of my head. It wasn't me. It- it wasn't me kissing you."

The quiet this time was small. Shocked. Mute.

The glass in Finch's hand hit the side table with a clatter. Like all the nerves in his fingers had been abruptly cut.

Oddly, it was only then that he finally understood what Finch had been trying to tell him for months. That everything was connected. That from the moment he'd seen those pictures, they were bound to be exactly here. Just like with everything else, they were trapped in it. Shaped by it. But it didn't have to be for the worse. He had to believe that. Now more than ever.

He chanced a look at Finch's face. Surprised not to find it blank. Masked. Instead, it was a tugging mess of shock, disbelief, and the kind of hunger that would have scared him just a year ago to the day.

Finch didn't know what to say. Or maybe he did, and he didn't know what to do about it. Years of caution and being too much to himself had taken care of spontaneity and even bravery.

But it was there, on his face, loud and clear.

And that was all he needed.

"I said I learned something about myself," he offered, low and shy as he knocked back the last of his drink. Needing the burn of it as Finch just stared, eyed fixed on his face. Wondering if he was ruining everything as he took the one step Finch couldn't. "I just couldn't do anything about it. Not until-"

"-tonight," Finch finished for him. Hoarse and softly breathless.

It didn't feel like a no. But it wasn't a yes either. It was somewhere in between. A cautious, impossible maybe.
He smiled for real this time. So fucking fond of him he could have pumped his fist. Caught between terror and excitement as he took a careful step towards him.

"Can I try something?" he asked, hope making a pitchy mess out of the words. But he didn't clear his throat. This was too important.

Finch didn't ask what he meant, but he nodded. Rangy and tense as he met him standing. Watching him close the space until they were a hand apart and breathing hard. Wound so tight the next move felt like a release. Like something they could never take back.

He kissed him with an awkward, juvenile jerk. It wasn't romantic. Not anywhere close. But it was a statement. A desire. A wish. And he cocked it up because he was too afraid to get closer. Too afraid Finch would step back before he got there. In a sense, it was very them.

Finch tasted like tear-salt, roses and whiskey. Good enough that when Finch exhaled, he kissed him again. Better this time. Scratching stubble and belt buckles as they stood in the middle of the den, living with it.

And as he kissed him - dry, good, and nothing like he'd imagined - he thought of them as they were. Two people all but living together, day after day, year after year. Knocking elbows. Sharing air. Finishing thoughts and understanding trailed-off sentences. Orbiting each other until it wasn't by mistake. It was about comfort, familiarity, and the kind of need that felt like friendship until it wasn't anymore. Until it was sensually, aggressively, awkwardly, impatiently, love.

That was what loving Finch was. It wasn't fireworks. It was this. A careful, plodding progression until right fucking now.

And thank Christ for that.

He didn't need fireworks.

"Dominic..." Finch started, hands curled around his forearms as he pulled back with a hiss of sensitivity. Not seeming to realize his body language was opposite to the words. "This won't work, you're still young and I'm-"

He shook his head and kissed him free of the rest of it. Enjoying the soft sound it dredged up when he tugged at Eric's bottom lip with his teeth.

"I don't know what tomorrow will be like, and I'm not asking either. But maybe we can figure out right now together, yeah?"

Like he said, he wasn't imaginative. But maybe he'd found the right words after all. Because this time, Eric's eyes crinkled. Heralding a low laugh that hazed out of practice and new in the humid air. Shocking them both by deciding to be brave. Curling his hand around the back of his neck and pulling him in for a kiss of his own. Pouring more of himself into it than he could have dreamed as Eric backed him into the window. Dragging his fingers through the mussed up schlack of his hair, and trailing kisses down his throat.

Maybe he'd been wrong about the fireworks.

A/N: Thank you for reading. Please let me know what you think! – This story is now complete.

Reference:

- Convergent Evolution: the independent evolution of similar features in species of different periods or epochs in time.