Title: Material Culture

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: PG. The slash, it is getting less subtexty.

Summary: Every object has significance. The goal of study is to determine what it is. (Finch/Dominic)

Disclaimer: 'V for Vendetta' belongs to Alan Moore and David Lloyd. The theatrical version of the story belongs to Warner Brothers, the Wachowski brothers, and possibly a few other brothers. I don't own any of it, am not a brother, and write this solely for my own pleasure.

oOo oOo Chapter 6: Whiskey oOo oOo

Dominic stayed for another month after their conversation. Finch's given name kept slipping into conversation until he heard it more than 'sir' or 'Chief' or 'Inspector'. It seemed to suit the situation better, so he felt no urge to correct Dominic. It was never said at work, of course. At work they were professional and cordial, and perhaps infused with just a bit more closeness than the other detectives could boast.

Dominic stayed at Finch's flat long enough that when he was finally declared 'free of suspicion' and went home Finch's front room felt empty. He expected more late night conversations and drinks. His skin felt tight from lack of casual contact.

He started to make up excuses to have Dominic over. Casework was taken back to his flat and pored over until well enough past curfew that Dominic took the couch. The word 'Eric' again made itself prominent in their conversations. They always had results after, and these 'all-nighters' were never looked on askance by their coworkers. The only jokes were about an unhealthy dedication to the job and never about an unhealthy need to see one another at all hours.

For Finch, though, this was a revelation. He hadn't had a friend but Delia since the rise of Norsefire, and their past failed relationship made home visits impossible. Drinks and chats were lovely, and more than he had without her comforting presence, but he would never presume far enough to invite her back to his flat. Dominic had managed to be that friend somehow. He'd made himself necessary. Finch hadn't trusted anyone so far in decades. He didn't know why his defenses were breached so late in the game. He just focused on his renewed passion for his work, and on those long evenings when he wasn't alone in his flat, when someone wasn't giving him impersonal monikers like 'sir'.

He gave Dominic a good single malt when he moved out, in honor the occasion. Dominic didn't drink it, but instead brought it in to work and stashed it in his desk. Finch couldn't see it, but he knew it was there, and in exactly which drawer. He couldn't imagine a situation bad enough to warrant breaking it out during the workday, but he did appreciate the forethought.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

"It was a shark that did it, I think," Dominic says.

Finch snorts and almost sends whiskey up his nose. "You what?"

"The thing that drowned Moira Cauffman in her bath. We've been working under the assumption that it was a person."

Finch knows this game. They're both drunk enough that it's fine to indulge. They've been coming at the drowning death of Mrs. Cauffman in her bathtub for hours. He can barely see the case notes on the coffee table any more, let alone something new and revelatory. And at times like this, if the mood strikes him, Dominic will start to come up with 'alternative' theories.

"Yes," Finch says. "Those human handprints on her shoulders were really such weak evidence in retrospect."

"A shark could get human hands anywhere, if it wanted them."

"And I suppose it tacked those hands to the ends of its fins."

"Naturally." Dominic nods, and then leans over to catch his glass and drain the rest of its contents. His cheeks flush and he slews against Finch. When he rolls his head against Finch's shoulder to look up at him, his expression is arranged in serious lines. "Sharks are very sneaky creatures, Eric. It would have been easy to press those hands against her shoulders as it drowned her."

"And how does a shark go about drowning someone?"

"It lies on them until they drown. It's like alligators."

"Do alligators lay on things?"

"Well, they sort of roll, but I don't think a shark has to roll. Not if it doesn't want to."

Finch is the first to crack, laughing hard enough that he has to set his glass down before he drops it. His fingers are tingling and he doesn't trust them.

Dominic laughs too, his fingers curling in Finch's shirtfront, and Finch lets his head fall to the side. Dominic's hair is soft under his cheek, and in his drunken state it seems natural to rub against that sensation like a cat. Dominic's fingers smooth up his shirt to his open collar, and brush against the skin just above it. "Eric?" he asks quietly enough that Finch has no idea what that question really means.

"Hmm?"

"Eric, I . . . I just . . ." There is a bashful note to Dominic's voice Finch has never heard before. His fingers are still playing against the skin of Finch's throat, occasionally teasing at his ears or his jaw, and he's turned his head to speak against Finch's neck. There's something between them, some tension pulled tight. Finch isn't entirely certain that it's just the alcohol making his fingers tingle.

They certainly seem to tingle more intensely when he brushes at Dominic's hair. It's fallen from whatever product he uses and brushes across his forehead and over his ears. The folds of his ears are very interesting when Finch is terribly drunk. Dominic's breath shudders.

Their eyes meet and those tingles are spreading throughout his body. Everything is slowed and it feels lovely. "You're a dear friend, Dominic," Finch says.

Dominic blinks, and for a second he looks disappointed. But Finch is drunk and he's not reading signals well. He could have fooled himself, because Dominic's voice is light again. "Do you think a shark is more likely, or a badger?"

The tension dissolves, and Finch chalks it up to the oddities of drink playing games with his head. "Definitely a shark. Badgers don't like the water."