Title: Material Culture
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: PG-13 for minor violence.
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 8: A Hollow oOo oOo
When Finch came to work the next morning, he found all the things cleared off Stone's desk, and Finch's spare key lying next to his keyboard. Every excruciatingly revealed inch of personality was gone. Stone sat in his chair, working steadily on leads for the smuggling case, and was buttoned into a suit so well ironed he might have been a poorly executed statue with no creases and no life. He was doing his best to make himself just another shadow in Finch's periphery.
Finch wanted to shout at him, but there was nothing to say, and he did prefer things this way. Every other alternative was unthinkable. The hollow feeling that settled in his gut when he looked at Dominic and thought of the lie the past five years had been would pass with time. He went back to work.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
In the end they have to go outside quarantine. They take an armored truck along with several of the young lads to track down their lead, which is reported to be on the outskirts of what used to be Manchester. Finch knows that Stone has never been outside quarantine and shoots glances at him as their armored van bounces along the old M-1. Stone is leaning toward the window, watching the scenery flash past.
Finch has long since learned that the country outside quarantine looks quite a bit like the country inside quarantine, if a bit more overgrown. There are vast tracts of land where no one lives, and the weeds have overrun the farmhouses and small villages. Some structures have fallen entirely, and their support struts look like ribcages against the early morning sky.
But everything is still green, and the sky is a pale, almost cloudless blue. "Funny how something so nice can give you the collywobbles, isn't it?" Stone asks, shooting him a grin before looking away sharply. "Sorry, Sir," he mutters and stares out the window with even more resolution.
The constables exchange a look, but none seem overly concerned. Spats between superior officers aren't unheard of, after all, and even partners like Finch and Stone might have the occasional falling out. They're the only ones who know how far they've fallen.
"All right," Finch says. "When we get to Manchester we stay on our toes and we focus on the job. No one wanders off. We get in, we get the job done and we go home. Decontamination is going to take long enough as things stand. Understood?"
He receives a chorus of 'yes, sir's from the constables, and the same from Stone, who still stares out the window. He does so throughout the rest of the trip, never sparing Finch so much as a glance after his initial slip-up.
Three hours later and the team steps out into clean air. London has a perpetual smog hanging over it, but after twenty years of no industrial works, Manchester is clear. One of the constables coughs a bit for the sharpness of it.
Stone has that keen look on his face that says he's learning unexpected things. Finch has a momentary wonder if Stone intends to leg it into this very nice desolation.
They make their way in cautious file toward the warehouse triangulated by their computer experts. It isn't much to look at, and half-fallen in, but the part that still stands looks sturdy. It would be shelter enough for smugglers.
The warehouse, when they search it, is empty, but still shows signs of its former occupants. Several rooms are done over for their photo-shoots, and Finch recognizes the desk and the bedroom. He does not look at Stone, and he knows Stone isn't looking at him. This assignment is cutting too close to the knuckle by far.
The photographs recall too easily in his mind, painting pictures of men in intimate relations with one another. Only in each situation, he sees Stone: perched on the edge of his desk, legs wrapped around navy blue suiting of an unseen other man, face slack in stunned wonder; in the bed pressed close to some equally lovely young man, gasping and clawing at the sheets. Finch shakes his head, but can't dislodge such vivid images.
"Are you all right, Sir?" Constable Burrows asks.
"Of course," Finch says, more out of reflex than any conscious decision. "Just a bit of dust."
"Too right," Burrows says. "This place hasn't seen people in at least two weeks."
"No it hasn't," Finch says. He raises his voice so everyone can hear. "Looks like our smugglers have already scarpered. Spread out. If they have left any evidence of their present whereabouts, I want it found."
The constables make their way into other rooms. After a moment of standing about near Finch but not actually approaching him, Stone moves off as well.
Finch begins to go through the rooms one at a time. They are abandoned, although there are remaining crates, boxes and even the odd jar of honey. It's a lonely, broken place, fit only for those whom society has rejected. The broken cities are full of people who've slipped the Finger's net and are willing to risk the plagues for a chance at a decent span of years. He supposes it's the safer bet for people like that.
People like Stone.
No, it's not the time to think about his own problems. And it's especially not the moment to think about how it's only been four weeks, and he already misses Dominic like a fucking lost limb. It's especially not the moment to think about how his hard stance against associating with a man so likely to get him bagged feels ready to fall apart under the slightest offer of friendship. Not that Stone has offered. He's always been good at following orders, and he must be good at shutting himself off from people to have risen so far through the Met's ranks without anyone knowing about him. He knows the conditions Finch has set for his life, and he will stick to them, no matter his own thoughts on the matter. Whatever they may be.
Damn Stone anyway. He was supposed to be shallow and a bit interesting. He was never supposed to have become a friend and he was certainly never supposed to have been such a brilliant liar until he very suddenly wasn't. And damn Finch for walking into that evidence room. If he hadn't done, he never would have known. Stone wasn't stupid enough to have ever acted on those impulses of his, and Finch would never have known. They would still be friends.
But that wouldn't work, either. Because Finch is beholden to the truth, always, and their so-called 'friendship' was a lie. Some sort of masochistic exercise on Stone's part to get close to another man without getting arrested for it. Precisely how much of their interactions had been a careful manipulation on Stone's part? How far had Finch been willing to be duped?
This won't do at all. Finch can scarcely concentrate on the evidence in the warehouse, let alone the intricacies of the case. In the span of moments he's veered wildly between hating Stone and wanting Dominic back no matter the cost. He can recognize the signs of grief, having seen them in enough witnesses over the years. He shouldn't be working in this condition, but there's no choice. There's no reason he can give for a leave of absence that won't arouse suspicion. He'll get over this. He will—
He hears a crunch behind him. Finch turns faster than he should and scans his gun across the room, searching in the shadows. It's a bright day outside. He didn't even think of bringing a torch. Not until he can't see a thing in the corners.
Finch keeps his breathing steady and his hands from shaking. Adrenalin can be a powerful tool or the one slip-up a criminal needs to end him. He makes for the door, knowing that a single egress will allow a safer vantage of the room. It's likely a feral cat, but there are men out beyond quarantine who would be more than willing to kill him for his shoes.
Another noise has Finch turning toward the door itself, but there is still nothing there, no movement whatsoever. Given the state of abandonment, the lack of anything personal or valuable in the warehouse, the smugglers have long since left to set up shop somewhere else. Their success lies in mobility, and he has little doubt that they move after each shipment of goods.
No sound heralds the attack. He should have anticipated that.
It's nothing fancy. It never is. Just a blinding strike across the back of his head from a two-by-four and an ungainly sprawl to the ground. His gun goes skittering away, and Finch goes scrambling after it. He doesn't look at his assailant. There is no time. If his attacker has a gun Finch will be dead before he reaches his. If it's only the two-by-four Finch can hope it doesn't have nails in.
The board strikes him across the shoulders. No permanent damage, but the pain is intense, and if there aren't nails there are certainly tacks. He feels the ends pierce his skin, but don't get far. They hit his shoulder blade first. His arm goes numb.
"Shit," he gasps, forcing himself through the pain and onward. It would be pathetic to die in this empty warehouse, killed by someone who likely isn't even involved in his case. Just some damned crazy wild man out beyond quarantine.
Finch rolls over and manages to catch the next swing. The man does look wild, with an unkempt beard and long hair. He wears clothing that could easily date before the pandemic, and he wields his board with a single-minded intensity that has Finch worried.
Finch scrambles backward, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the cement floor, his elbows jockeying a path behind him. The man comes for him.
"Oi!" he hears from the doorway. The wild man does not turn either, but bolts from the room. Stone barrels past Finch's prone form, but does not give chase as the wild man hops through the window and plunges into the bush. The tangled weeds are a tactical disadvantage to anyone who isn't used to them.
Stone turns slowly, looking at Finch for a moment. His hands flutter, and then still. "Did he hurt you, Sir?" he asks, his face and voice giving nothing away about his feelings on the matter.
"Strike to the back of the head, and a puncture to the back of my shoulder. I'll need to be certain my tetanus jabs are up to date."
Stone gives a nod. "Do you need my help, or shall I gather the lads?"
Finch gives a shake of his head. "I'll get to the truck on my own. You finish the search."
"Already done. The lads are just waiting for orders."
As is Stone, Finch realizes. He isn't going to take the initiative here. There was a time when Dominic would have been helping Finch out the door whether he wanted it or no, but Stone is distant and professional: exactly what Finch demanded he be.
Finch knows he should send Stone off to see to the lads, but there is something in this moment that tells him not to do. He's weakened and an easy target. It makes sense to accept help where it's offered. There are hundreds of perfectly legitimate reasons. None of them matter. It is the first time since their confrontation that he can bridge the gap in any way.
He holds out his hand. Stone regards it with caution. Finch wonders if he thinks it's a trap. Finally he takes Finch's hand and pulls him to his feet. The pain in his shoulder, even with the other arm being pulled, is excruciating, and Finch grits his teeth against the desire to scream.
Stone holds him steady, but his hands don't stray from the positions they took up on Finch's upper arms. There are no calming strokes, not even a reassuring pat. The grip might as well be for any victim of a crime, but particularly those who might not be entirely innocent themselves.
Finch allows himself to lean against his partner regardless, waiting for the dizzy spell to pass. It will do him no good to pass out by moving too soon.
Once he's certain his feet can hold his weight he shifts back. Stone lets him go without hesitation. "Come on, Sir," he says. He sounds gruff. Finch is used to hearing that particular tone in his own voice. "Follow me."
Finch does, and tries to understand what he's doing. Here he is, following his junior partner out of a crime scene in hopes that said junior partner, the same man he threw out of his flat and his life four weeks back, might show any signs of affection. He should transfer Stone before this gets worse and they both get bagged. He should take a vacation to get some perspective and gather his thoughts about how best to handle Stone on a long-term basis. He should get over the denial and ask Dominic to forget everything he said, to forgive him and maybe come over for drinks and case files.
He stumbles while trying to climb into the truck, but Dominic catches him before he can fall altogether. Dominic holds him steady. Finch looks at Stone, but can't maintain eye contact. "Thank you," he says.
Stone doesn't say anything at all, but nor does he let go until Finch is safely in the vehicle. The driver starts it up, and they rattle away from the abandoned shell of the warehouse.