They had met in another public place. It was their last day in New York. Their flight was leaving tonight. Q wasn't looking forward to flying, but he was looking forward to going home.

Bond had healed nicely, though he still featured spectacular bruises, scars that had yet to fade, and Q knew only the pain and discomfort had kept the phoenix from claiming Q and reassuring itself of the more intimate connection.

Finch already had a soda in front of him and Q ordered tea. He looked around the coffee shop and he saw no trace of John Reese, but he suspected the hellhound was close by.

"I have to say I enjoyed working with you, Mr. Whittmore," Finch said pleasantly.

Q smiled a little. "So did I. Your help was greatly appreciated. I'm not sure we would have been able to find Stanton before she killed Snow and maybe even gone after others."

"That she might have." Finch was silent for a moment. "What are you going to do about… us?"

Q sipped at his tea. "Nothing."

Finch gazed at him.

"Your involvement in this was… not report-worthy, Mr. Finch. Agent Leiter agreed. My partner agreed. Neither you nor Mr. Reese were ever a part of it."

"I'm surprised," the cipher said slowly, clearly stunned.

Q took another sip. "Both Bond and I can keep a secret. I'm sure you can, too."

"About a fully functional technopath and something as preternaturally rare as a phoenix? I'm sure we can."

The quartermaster smiled. "I might be overstepping boundaries, Mr. Finch, but since we worked together… and briefly against each other… I gave your… predisposition another thought."

Finch raised his eyebrow.

"You might be able to surpass what you already are," Q said calmly. "You said you were only talented in that one area, writing a code that no one else could ever have come up with, let alone be able to read. But you have a great many more talents. Your computer skills, the engineering part, are quite admirable."

Finch watched him warily.

"As a fully functional technopath the danger of losing myself within even the smallest network was what kept me from taking steps, from learning and honing my abilities. I needed an anchor for that, someone who fit me, whom I could trust instinctively."

"I don't need an anchor."

"No. You're a cipher. But you could use someone to balance you in a different way, Mr. Finch. You already have someone who gives you a purpose, who lets you live, who dragged you back into the world, don't you?"

The other man refused to answer, but Q could see the truth.

"I'm not a technopath, nor do I tend to lose myself in anything technological," Finch finally said.

"You created something wonderful, Harold," Q told him, voice as intense as his eyes. He had switched to his handler voice. Even, calm, very balanced and without a hint of stress. "You gave it everything, part of you. It might be self-aware. Or soon anyway. What I looked at wasn't mechanical and run only by code lines. It might become sentient. You are the Admin. You know it is possible. You gave this everything and the result is The Machine. Think of what you could still do if you allowed yourself this trust; if you allowed yourself to connect… again."

Finch swallowed hard, shocked and clearly terrified by what Q implied.

"Again?" he echoed weakly.

"A cipher is a variation of what a technopath can do," Q explained calmly, readily. "You don't need an anchor, just a connection. To program The Machine's core you had to have someone you trusted, someone you, probably unconsciously, used as a connection. You never openly did so. And I would suspect he is gone. John isn't gone. He is ready. You know it. I saw it. He's a protector and he chose you, Harold. He won't say no to your needs."

"I can't…"

"Like I said, sometimes decisions aren't made by us. For me, the anchor was needed to survive with my mind intact. Bond is my sanity, my greatest strength. It was almost fate that I became his balance in return. It could have backfired, but it didn't. Reese doesn't need someone to balance him like Bond, but he needs a stability, a purpose. You are his purpose. You gave him his life back, Finch. The work you gave him was his reason to drag himself out of the hell he lived in. He has purpose. And he would be a great connector."

Finch stared at him like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Let him decide," Q added. "Don't make the decision for him. You're already working as a team. This will only cement that, nothing else. He needs you just as badly. And you know it. I'm sure you researched his preternatural side."

Finch only nodded once.

"Then you know that, while they aren't called cerberus any more, it's what they are: guardians. Hellhound is so incredibly misleading." Q shrugged. "Nothing hellish about him, except that he will never back down, won't ever turn his back on you, and his loyalty can't be swayed away once he has decided you are his to keep safe."

He emptied the cup and took his bag.

"Think about it, Harold. You need each other. Take it from me, it's not bad. It actually enriches your life. And his. Look at him. Just look at him closely and tell me he isn't happy with what he is doing. The numbers, the people, they are important to John. But you, Harold Finch, are the most important part in his new life." He smiled and inclined his head. "Thank you again for all your help. I wish you good luck for your… enterprise, Mr. Finch."

Q walked out of the coffee shop and Bond fell in step with him.

"He was watching and listening," the agent said conversationally.

"So were you."

"You're mine," he growled softly.

Q glanced at him, hearing the fond note. He smiled a little. "And Finch is Reese's. Period."

Bond chuckled, giving him a look that spoke lengths. They walked two more blocks until Bond finally flagged down a cab that took them to their hotel. The suite was still theirs and they had almost twelve more hours until they had to be at the airport.

When the door closed behind them, Bond turned and Q looked into those intense eyes, fire and ice thrown together in their depths, and he had never felt this… content. Complete. At ease. So much just because of James Bond.

Calloused hands cupped his face and caressed his skin, then drew him into a kiss. It was soft, gentle, easing into Q like it was their first time, the caress of hands sliding over his sides, around his waist, pulling them closer together.

Never idle, the younger man let his own hands slip underneath the jacket, meeting heat and strength.

James lightly bit at his neck. "We have some time left. Room's paid for."

"We still need to pack."

"I'd rather unpack."

He looked into the mischievous, blue eyes and had to laugh. "You've had better lines, 007."

"I also had worse, Q."

"So very true."

"But they always work."

"Maybe I need to be the first to actually say no."

Bond caught his mouth once more, this time with more intent, with more emotion, with more… him. Q had this sensation again, like the phoenix was spreading its wings, ready for flight, for the hunt, the chase.

He nipped at the preternatural's lower lip, feeling his own pulse quicken.

"Let's put the room to good use," he murmured, slipping out of the embrace.

Bond let him, watching him with an expression that had Q want to roll onto his back and just submit.

He fought down that instinctive notion, refusing to be dominated. The phoenix was a primal creature and it would never stop, never just accept, it had to fight and Q would always fight back. It wasn't in his own nature to be meek, submissive, weak.

And it was fun. It was… enervating. Looking at Bond, seeing the fire, aware that only he could touch it without burning himself. It wasn't a power trip; it was simple appreciation of the facts. James Bond was a lethal killer, a ruggedly handsome man, a well-versed lover, and he was a very vital and important part of Q's life.

He was the anchor.

And Bond enjoyed the challenge every time.

Q simply enjoyed the fight and the resulting, very intense aftermath.

Now he slipped out of his own jacket and unbuttoned his shirt, smiling at the clear sign of hunger and appreciation.

X X xxX

They made it to the bed on the second attempt, but it was a close call.

x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX x XX xx X XX xxx x X XX x XX xx X XX xxx x X XX x XX xx X XX xxx x X XX x XX xx X XX xxx x X XX x XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X

It was late. The library was dark and silent. Bear was sleeping on his doggy bed, snoring softly, and Finch was sorting the books.

It wasn't necessary, but gave him something to do.

Bond and Q would be leaving tomorrow morning and matters would return to…

He stopped, book in hand.

No, nothing would return to normal.

Things had been upset and nothing would ever erase the revelations from his mind, nor from John's.

"You're up late," a low, soft voice disturbed his thoughts.

He pushed an old edition of a medical history book into the shelf it belonged and stiffly turned his head.

"Good evening, Mr. Reese. I'm surprised to see you."

"Don't be."

Finch picked up another book and studied the ancient cover. The Collected Works of One of the Greatest Surgeons of the Sixteenth Century. It was a very valuable edition.

"I heard what Q told you, Harold."

Of course he had. Reese had been logged in and Finch hadn't cut the connection.

The double entendre in his thoughts didn't escape him.

Connection.

Connector.

He knew what Q had been playing at, though the young Brit couldn't know about Nathan Ingram. Nathan had been a stabilizing influence who had kept a younger Harold Wren focused on his tasks. Finch had never given it much thought, but he had felt the loss with the death of his longest and best friend – a friend who hadn't really known who Harold was.

Maybe he didn't know himself any more either.

Reese rested a shoulder against the shelf, those alert eyes on Finch. He had John's full attention.

"He said you might not have developed your full potential as a cipher."

"He is wrong."

Reese leaned closer. "He isn't."

Finch refused to look at him, too aware of the physical closeness. It was… distracting. He slid the old book into the appropriate slot on the shelf, then limped off to another cart with more books.

Reese followed.

"You never asked, Harold."

He refused to be baited.

"You knew what I was."

"I didn't, Mr. Reese. It was never mentioned in any of your files and it never came up in our conversations."

Reese smiled a little, still watching him. This singular attention was truly unnerving.

"You have known for a few days now."

"It changes nothing."

"It changes everything, Harold."

And when had he come up so silently, so close? Finch froze when strong fingers that had killed others so easily curled gently around his wrist. He let Reese take the book and place it back on the cart.

"It changes everything," the preternatural repeated.

He was mesmerized by the blue eyes, that intense expression.

"You gave me a chance, Harold. Give this a chance as well."

"Despite what Q said, I don't need an anchor, Mr. Reese," he heard himself say.

"Not like Bond, but you need a partner."

"I already have you as my partner."

Reese's smile was back, warmer, softer, more… private. "I know you never mix work and play, Harold," he said in that low, hypnotic voice. "I know you never let anyone look past those shields into your private life. I know you know me better than anyone else ever has. I know you need me."

"John…"

"I offer you my partnership," he continued, fingers still holding Finch's wrist lightly. "You know what I am and that I need a purpose. You gave me one that fills me, has captured me, my soul, and I'm willing to make it my last."

Finch stared at him, aware what he was being offered. "You can't..." he tried.

"I can. It's my decision. I already do protect you, Harold. To make this permanent, to bind myself to you, feels normal. Natural."

"I can't have you do this," he whispered in denial.

If a hellhound chose a partner, one for life, it was for life. For the rest of his natural life. Nothing would be able to break this. It was a promise, a bond of a special kind. History knew of such singular devotion, of hellhounds choosing one master and staying with him or her to the very end.

Finch swallowed.

"You can," Reese only said easily. "You can if you want to. And I know you want to."

His heart hammered in his chest.

"One final assignment," the former CIA operative went on. "I've never felt it like this before, Harold. You chose me for a reason and I stayed for the same reason. You knew when we met that first time. In the hospital."

Reese's smile oncreased at Finch's stunned expression.

"Yes, I know. I finally remembered that day. Your scent was there, heavily mixed with the smell of the hospital and nearly drowned by my grief and anger. But I remembered."

How Reese had managed to crowd him against the book shelf was beyond Finch. His wrist was still held captive and he was mesmerized by the very… presence of his partner.

Reese leaned closer. "I trust you," he whispered into his ear, lips brushing against his skin.

Finch felt something inside of him shatter and reform. He really didn't need an anchor to work or he wouldn't have been able to create The Machine. But he needed something else, a support he had never had in Nathan or anyone else.

"You might regret this," he started a last attempt.

Reese chuckled, those dark blue eyes filled with something Finch found he was unable to comprehend. A ring of silver was forming, the hellhound pushing to the forefront. He found it fascinating.

"I haven't regretted a single day of working with you."

Neither had Finch.

And he was aware of the grandness of what was happening.

Reese leaned in again. "We are loners until we choose a partner," he murmured in that soft voice. "I made my choice."

So had Finch, but to bind a man like Reese to himself…

"I can't let you do this, John," he tried one last time.

"You can't stop me either. I made my decision. My second chance. My final one. You." He tilted his head a little, a smile teasing at his lips. "And when you're ready to accept me as well, Harold, I'll be there. Open your eyes. Learn to see." He smiled enigmatically. "I finally did."

And with that Reese pushed back and released his wrist. His smile stayed, almost impish for a second, then he turned and silently walked out of the library.

Harold remained behind, still leaning against the shelf, his heart hammering in his chest, his breathing harder than normal. He felt slight tremors race through him.

He didn't need an anchor.

He was only a cipher and he didn't need anyone to keep him from sliding into a code.

Q had claimed he could be more, could train his abilities to become better.

Finch closed his eyes.

Reese had offered him everything; he had already made his decision and Finch knew the former CIA operative would be by his side whatever happened. The hellhound's loyalty was absolute. Now he had bound himself, too.

No one but Finch would be able to command him. No one but Finch would have his absolute trust and loyalty. It was… stunning. It was unbelievable.

And part of Finch wanted just that, had wanted it for a long time. Now that he knew what John Reese was, so much made sense.

He looked into the darkened corridor.

John trusted him.

Completely.

And… and Finch found that he trusted him in return. For the first time in so many years he found he trusted someone more than ever before.

Enough to start trusting this man with more than a few tidbits of his life. Maybe enough to open himself to John Reese like he hadn't been able to, even to Nathan Ingram.

Finch closed his eyes and exhaled softly.

tbc...