Title: Material Culture
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: PG
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 11: The Key Again oOo oOo
Finch took Dominic home. He did this on instinct, without thinking of anything but the unconscious weight in the passenger seat of his car, and his insistence to Dascombe that Dominic didn't need to go to hospital with the rest of the witnesses. He could well imagine who would be waiting to question them there.
When he got to his flat he didn't quite know what to do with Dominic. Eventually he lugged him inside in a fireman's carry, took him up the full flight of stairs and dropped him onto the bed. A bit of wrestling later, and he had Dominic out of his jacket, tie, belt, and shoes, and had him under the covers. He checked Dominic's eyes, and the pupils were the same size. His pulse was steady.
Finch got the first aid kit out of his bathroom. He cleaned out the cut and then applied a gauze pad with a bit of surgical tape. He went to his kitchen, filled a plastic bag with ice, wrapped it in a dishtowel, and brought it upstairs. He laid it over the already-forming lump on Dominic's head in hopes of keeping the swelling down. Finch settled into a chair next to the bed to wait out the unconsciousness. He set his house key on the bedside table without thinking about it. It only took him five minutes of coming down from the adrenalin high of almost getting bombed, almost having his partner killed by a terrorist in a Guy Fawkes mask, almost losing him to Creedy, and almost not getting him all the way up the stairs for Finch to fall into an exhausted, fitful sleep.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
Finch is awakened by a soft noise. Dominic is stirring, making muzzy noises in the back of his throat. Finch blinks open his eyes and sees Dominic's hand raise toward his bandaged head. Finch can see the struggle through layers of unconsciousness play out in the lines around his eyes.
He gives himself a mental reprimand for falling asleep. Dominic could have slipped into a coma while Finch slept in an armchair not three feet distant. He pulls himself up and crosses the space between chair and bed to perch on the edge and feel the lump that's showing its rather spectacular self even through the gauze.
Dominic groans a bit and his eyes flutter open. For a moment he smiles, unguarded, before he blinks and tries to draw back. Finch has never seen the resulting shade of green on him. He makes a grab for the bin, and the now-melted cold pack falls to the floor with a thump. Finch reaches to pick it up, but Dominic must have mistaken the gesture for something else and waves him off.
"No," Dominic wheezes, "I'm okay. Where am I?"
"My flat."
Dominic looks about, and Finch wonders if the perspective is different from the bed. The only times Dominic has needed to come upstairs were to use Finch's shower. The room perhaps looks different supine after several months of absence. The memory distorts after that long. Any copper worth his salt knows not to trust eyewitness testimony after several months.
When he speaks again, Dominic sounds careful. "Sir, why am I in your flat?"
There was a time when that question would have been laughable, but they both know that time is passed. If perhaps doing the sensible thing was the wrong course of action. Maybe for once in his cautious life, Eric Finch should have taken a risk. Since the dream, and after clutching his unconscious partner and seeing parallels to himself in a terrorist, he's felt terribly skewed. As though this 'V', rather than coming off as a madman, struck a chord. A chord that soured when Finch saw the bodies of his lads and the almost-body of his partner, but it struck nonetheless. Struck and stuck. There's a deep chasm that's not so wide between them.
Finch tries to shake off his odd mood. He mightn't be the dew-eyed innocent who believes everything the Party tells him without question, but by and large Norsefire's done all right by England. Crime is down, and they've been protected from biological attacks since St. Mary's and Three Waters. That has to make some difference. Finch dislikes the plaintive way that thought rings in his head.
"Sir?" Dominic asks, quieter, more worried.
"I didn't want to give Creedy a crack at you while you were out. I thought he'd be at the hospital."
"So you took me to your flat?"
"Safe enough," Finch says, and shrugged. They both ignore how similar and yet how different this is to the last time it happened.
Dominic's expression shutters. "Of course, Sir. Thank you. I'll just—" He tries to lever himself up, and immediately curls up, groping for the bin that Finch presses into his hands. Dominic dry-heaves into it, shaking, and Finch puts an awkward hand on his back. "Son of a bitch," Dominic groans between retches.
"Easy," Finch says, as gentle as he can make his voice. "I think you may have concussion."
Dominic groans a miserable agreement, and finally stops heaving. He leans over, wrung out. Finch can feel the tremors running through him. He picks up the cold pack. It's barely cool now.
"You're not going anywhere for a bit," he says. "I don't know much about concussion, but I know you shouldn't be walking about. You stay here while I go and fill this bag with ice again, right? I'll get you a glass of water."
Dominic grits his teeth and has the good sense not to nod. Finch hurries downstairs, changes out his ice, gets a glass of water, and, after a second's thought, two extra-strength painkillers. He takes his things upstairs and finds Dominic in much the same position.
He knows he's fussing when he places the cold pack and gets Dominic to swallow down the two pain tablets. Dominic is giving him furtive glances, obviously trying to suss out what Finch is about. Finch, who has no real desire himself to examine his motives, says, "I need to call a doctor. I know a man who'll come, and who won't ask questions."
"Backstreet doctor, Sir? Aren't you worried about the surveillance catching you?"
Finch shrugs. "Something tells me they'll be looking elsewhere right now," he says, and he goes for the phone. His contact agrees to come, particularly in light of the nausea, and he understands about not taking Dominic to hospital straight off. Most of his clients aren't the sort who can step foot anywhere that would get their IDs swiped.
He settles back in next to the bed after he's made the call. Dominic has relaxed a bit as the drugs kick in, and Finch is relieved to see that he's kept them down. Surely that's an encouraging sign.
Dominic still isn't looking him in the eye. "I'll clear off out of here as soon as I can, Sir," he says.
"Don't worry about it," Finch says. "I'll have you running files from bed until you're mobile, and I'll need more than a bit of help then. You can stay—"
"The couch is gone, Sir," Dominic says, curt and almost angry. He slips back into neutrality with only that brief stutter. "I'd have nowhere to sleep. I'll go home. I can review files there."
Finch feels as if he's reaching out over a very long drop, with a crosswind tearing at his balance. "The bed is large enough for two."
Dominic looks at him, really looks at him, his dark eyes very wide. For a moment there is no way he could be a shadow in Finch's periphery, and Finch understands how Dominic could look at their hands and think them to be the whole world.
Dominic shutters himself again and looks away. "No, Inspector," he says, "I really don't think it is."