Title: Material Culture

Author: Nemo the Everbeing

Rating: PG-13 for canon dead people

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 12: History Books oOo oOo

Weeks passed and the country started to think that V had indeed disappeared or been killed. Finch couldn't blame them. The madness of those few days faded quickly enough, lulled by the repetitive propaganda and tightly controlled message put out by the Party. The difference now, though, was that the seed had been planted. Everyone had seen the broadcast, and if those thoughts took root in even a quarter of the population the Party was looking at a problem.

Dascombe and the others seemed to relax after a while, their conferences with Sutler (perhaps the most difficult part of being the chief inspector was attempting to keep faith in the Party while talking to a giant, angry head) forgotten in the every-day bustle and business. But Finch didn't forget. He couldn't help but think that they were all sitting on a powder keg, and even as they acclimatized to it, the fuse was running short.

So he kept investigating. He set Dominic on researching Guy Fawkes, and planning out contingencies. He had to pull several strings, but the Ministry of Objectionable Material finally lent him several old textbooks that covered the subject extensively. They were delivered in discreet manila envelopes, which Dominic promptly tore open and settled his case materials in a neat stack at the corner of his desk. Finch considered inviting him over for research and drinks, but he didn't.

He spent his time digging into Prothero's background, and uncovering not only a penchant for pharmecuticals, but a connection to Viadoxic and some detention facility called Larkhill. A facility that, conveniently enough, had no extant records. They had chased their leads to the army, but only uncovered something useful when they'd found a hardcopy of the tax records of the place. Prothero had been in charge, and the highest paid member of staff had been a preist. Bloody strange, that, and even stranger with the connection to Viadoxic. Finch had a sinking feeling he'd only felt once or twice in his career, and each time right before he stepped into a case so deep he had to get out before he drowned. Finch was finding it harder and harder to back out.

Then they got the call that a priest, now Bishop, called Lilliman was dead. Finch grabbed his coat and Dominic, and left his papers and Dominic's history books in a heap on their desks.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

Another day, another body. Another streamer of white foam, vomit and blood next to another head. Father Lilliman, this time. Priest once, also at Larkhill, and then Bishop. And now just another ugly corpse splayed out on the ground. Forensics found a small derringer near him, and confirmed it had been fired. He tried to defend himself before the end, but there is no sign of blood, nor of the bullet. It's a mystery, and one Finch suspects he has an answer to. V had been carrying himself stiffly in Jordan Towers, and Finch would bet his pension it had been body armor that had caused such rigid posture.

"Run every name in that file," he says, still staring at the body. "I want the whereabouts of all of them tonight."

"Yes, Sir," he hears Dominic say, and can feel more than hear his shift to leave. He stills. When he leans in it causes Finch to keep himself from startling, but all Dominic does is whisper, "Pucker up. Here comes the Finger."

One look confirms that it's not only the Finger, but Creedy himself come to see the body. Again, Finch feels that drowning sensation. One look to Dominic reveals a clamoring panic behind a rigid mask of indifference.

It's time for damage control on more than one front. Was there ever a time he considered shopping Dominic to Creepy Creedy and his boys? He can't even imagine it now as he mutters, "Yeah. Get going. I'll handle him."

Dominic, still obviously not past being terrified of Creedy and the threat he represents, doesn't object. He just takes himself off to run down that list and try and stop the next killing. Finch straightens himself up as much as he can as Creedy glides in. He doesn't comment as Creedy brushes past Dominic, his eyes finding and staring at him for one long second before finally transferring to the body. There's a threat there. Finch knows it. The tension in Dominic's shoulders says he knows it too.

"Creedy," Finch says, and it finally drags Creedy's attention back to the scene, "what are you doing here?"

"Several important Party members have been murdered, Chief Inspector," Creedy says. His gaze doesn't leave Lilliman's body. "This is no ordinary situation, and requires more than your ordinary attention. The Chancellor demanded my immediate involvement."

Finch knew what Creedy's 'involvement' would entail. "It'll be hard to run an investigation if you're detaining all my witnesses," he says. He does not mention his partner, but the knowledge of Dominic's continued precarious position hangs over them both, making Finch bold and angry.

Creedy doesn't bother looking at Finch. "The security of information is paramount. In these volatile times, mistakes like Jordan Tower cannot be tolerated." He turns like a striking snake. "If indeed Jordan Tower was an accident."

Everything in Finch stills at that. Creedy wouldn't dare. "What does that mean?"

"The terrorist seems to have a rather intimate understanding of our system. The Chancellor suspects there might be an informer."

"Are you saying I'm under surveillance, Mr. Creedy?" Finch asks.

"At this time it would behoove you to cease any investigation of matters that have long since passed and concentrate on the concerns of our present."

"You mean Larkhill," Finch says. Creedy already knows. The office must be bugged. Creedy's seen the papers, the history books, the files they dug out of the tax records. Finch won't deny and he won't flinch under this particular gaze.

"Major Wilson is a friend of the High Chancellor," Creedy says, which at least gives Finch an idea of when the surveillance likely started. "His loyalty is not in question."

"But mine is."

"Your mother was Irish, wasn't she?" Creedy asks. He sounds casual. Finch stiffens at the implications. It has never been said to his face, never thrown at him like this. He thought he had long since reconciled his past, had put it all behind him. He was wrong. Creedy sounds silky as he says, "Terrible what Saint Mary's did to Ireland, wasn't it?" and all the insinuations in that statement, the knowledge that a fluke of his birth could bring his life to an abrupt halt hit Finch so hard he could barely breathe with fury.

"I've been a Party member for twenty-seven years," he grates out, furious and, worse still, helpless against such a vague accusation.

Creedy smiles, and Finch knows he's lost, knows Creedy can destroy him with a word. He has a newfound respect for his partner. The sort of anger and fear that has suddenly blindsided him has been a fact of Dominic's life ever since he realized his tastes cut closer to home than was approved of by society. To live with that day after day and to do your job regardless … he'll have to tell Dominic what an excellent copper he really is one of these days, presuming they aren't both bagged and shot first.

"If I were you, Inspector, I'd find the terrorist. I'd find him soon."