Title: Material Culture

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: Hard R for Finch getting hit with the clue bat.

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 9: Bridge oOo oOo

One case lead to another, and that lead to another. Some went cold, while others were solved. It was the nature of police work. They returned to work the next day to find that someone was robbing convenience stores in well-to-do neighborhoods. The case was high profile. They would need to be on top form.

Finch set a tray over the gap between their desks, its legs finding each side. Stone looked at him like he was trying to divine a particularly obscure motive.

"This way," Finch said, "both of us have easy access to files for cases we're both working."

Stone nodded and said nothing. They worked that case and the next with the tray sitting between them. Sometimes it contained files and sometimes it didn't. Two cases then became eighteen, and eighteen became ninety. Cases never stopped. Crime never stopped. It became second nature for a plastic bridge to stand between their desks. Just as it became routine that Stone made an excellent copper, but the spark had gone from their partnership as though it had never been. Years passed in this strange stalemate, and Finch had begun to wonder if their closeness and those evenings on his couch had ever been there at all.

The desire for closeness only grew as the years passed. If Finch had hoped it would fade with time and lack of familiarity he had been wrong. He was getting soft as he got older. Every now and again he would look at the spot where his couch used to sit, and his mind would wander to 'what if's, but he would always pull himself back. There was no use hashing over potentialities that would never come to pass.

Finch didn't deal with what could have been. He dealt with reality. He dealt with crime and arrests and a partner who respected professional distance. It had done Stone good, even. Any hint of the eager rookie was gone. He was jaded, smart and capable. He was still vigorous and tended to charge into dangerous situations, but with his prospects, who was he kidding? Death could come at any moment either way. He might as well die a hero instead of one more faceless criminal.

Finch took to chewing antacids in his spare time. Delia shot him worried looks. For once in his life, he tried not to puzzle out the problem at hand.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

Finch is sitting next to Dominic on the couch that should, by rights, have been sent off to the dump with the rest of the unwanted bits. But there it is in his front room, and Finch doesn't think to question it, nor does he question the fact that his front window has been replaced by a painting of a ship being tossed on a stormy sea that the Ministry of Objectionable Materials would certainly look at askance. None of that matters, though, because he has Dominic's hand in his and Dominic is giving him a very particular look.

"You know what day it is, Eric?" Dominic asks.

Finch knows. "It's your birthday, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Thirty today, aren't I?"

Finch knows Dominic is thirty-three in four weeks, but that doesn't matter. They can certainly both be true. "Forgot to get you a present," Finch says. He knows the response to this. He feels like he's been here before, going through this same routine.

Dominic's palm is warm on the side of his face. His mouth is inches away from Finch's. "Funny, but I rather think you did remember after all."

"Clever old me," Finch says, and then Dominic kisses him.

Their mouths slide together easily, and it feels as though they've been doing this forever. He knows things about Dominic, things like how he enjoys having the tip of his tongue nipped at, and then dragged lightly between Finch's teeth. He knows that Dominic likes getting a light tug at his hair, or a hand teasing at the back of his trousers. Dominic squirms on his side of the couch, his hands urgent against Finch's sides. They've never gone further than this. There are reasons, although Finch can't be arsed to figure them out at the moment. He pulls back a little, breathing the same air as Dominic. Their mouths keep brushing and clinging. Dominic doesn't have a shirt. Didn't he have one two seconds ago? Finch could have sworn he remembers cotton against his knuckles.

It's better this way. Dominic's skin is smooth, except where it's broken by the myriad little scars that dot any policeman's hide after so many years on the streets. Finch tries his hardest to find each scar in turn, running his fingers along the planes of Dominic's back in methodical sweeps. His words are half-kisses when he says, "Come on, get over here."

He doesn't have to tell Dominic twice, and Finch feels the weight of another person settle on him. Dominic's aroused. He can feel it press low against his belly, and it's odd but wonderful. The pressure against his own groin has him grinding up against Dominic's arse.

Dominic breaks away, his head falling back and his eyes closed. He bites his lip. That conjures the vaguest sense of a memory, but it's not enough for Finch to worry about. Not with his arms about Dominic's waist and his lips on Dominic's throat. Dominic's pulse is wild under his tongue.

"Oh, God," Dominic groans, and Finch wants to hear that tone of voice on him much, much more. "Christ, yes."

"Anything," Finch says, and realizes that wasn't as clear as it should have been. He tries again. "Tonight, anything you want."

Dominic gives him a shocked, wondering look. He grabs Finch by the face and kisses him hard. They're tangled together, one second kissing and the next Finch feels himself sliding into a slick, tight heat and he hears Dominic cry out.

He sees the expression of agonized pleasure on Dominic's face, and then he wakes up.

He lays in bed, panting and hard and horrified by the realization that he was dreaming of Dominic—Stone. He was dreaming of Stone. Specifically he was dreaming of having sex with Stone, and it felt like the most perfect thing, far better, certainly, than any sex he can remember having with his incredibly infrequent girlfriends. More than that, he thinks he's dreamed this before. He shivers at the thought.

He climbs out of bed, and hopes that a bit of a walk will work off the frustrated weight between his legs. He gets some water, and finds that his feet have carried him down the stairs to the front room. There are no divots in the carpet where the couch used to sit. The window is back in its place, looking out on a deserted street. No one in their right mind would be out at three in the morning.

He would have used that as an excuse to have Dominic stay the night.

He shakes his head. It's no good going back to bed in this state. He gets the whiskey and pours himself a glass, weighs the possibility of becoming an alcoholic but decides it isn't worth the concern. At this rate something will certainly kill him sooner than booze, and he doesn't drink on the job.

Maybe he should start. Today Stone said barely two words to him. There were hollows under his eyes, and he looked like he hadn't slept. He kept his eyes to the computer screen. If Finch spoke to him he would reply, but any familiarity was gone. He'd been more personal his first day on the job. If Finch has been straining for some sort of renewal of closeness between them, Stone has been pushing all the harder to keep them apart.

Finch tells himself for the thousandth time that they'll get past this. He tells himself this is for the best. The Finger would just love a hint that either of them shows homosexual tendencies, and Finch has no intention of seeing the inside of one of their detention centers. And he doesn't have homosexual tendencies, anyway. People have all sorts of wild dreams that don't reflect anything other than their minds being strange places. He's had Dominic on the brain as of late, and his mind decided to play with the possibilities. That was it. Just one of those damnable 'what if's.

Finch isn't a slave to his feelings or his hormones. He excised or killed both over the years, and this is just a reminder of why. They're dangerous, and they'll just lead him to do stupid things like this. If he hadn't reached out so far, Stone never would have got ideas. They would still be fine.

But Finch wouldn't have memories of evenings spent with someone he cared about. He wouldn't have the memory of those minute expressions as Dominic worked through a problem. He wouldn't have the memory of Dominic's sleepy, half-drunk weight pressed to his side over case notes until their vision blurred and Dominic started to come up with more and more ridiculous explanations for the crime until Finch chimed in, and they would both end up wheezing with laugher, Dominic holding onto him tightly to stay upright.

It's so easy to realize in hindsight how Dominic saw something more in those moments. Finch thinks of the dream, but refuses to wonder if maybe he's the one who got it wrong. None of that matters, because they aren't getting caught doing something stupid. Not while he's got some say about it.

He's wondering if perhaps alcoholism isn't such a bad option after all when he hears the explosion.