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 Newspaper Articles oOo oOo

Finch refused to believe he'd done anything as daft as falling in love with Dominic years too late. The divots in the carpet where the couch used to be were gone, popped out by one ice cube apiece. Placed there by his own hands. Finch had Dominic well trained to never use his given name. He'd burned every bridge he could think of between them save those that were purely professional. Finch was nothing if not thorough.

The night of Delia's death had shifted them, but the gap between them was too wide to see any immediate change. Dominic would relax a bit, only to close up tighter than before. He would open up and close down in turns. Finch didn't dare reach too far for fear of Dominic closing down entirely. He was like a witness, Finch thought: push too hard, and he folds up and turns to stone; don't push enough and you never get results.

But Finch had made this situation, had forced it to come about, and he had to believe he could undo it. He needed to undo it. One night wasn't enough, even though Dominic had been as supportive as he was able, and Finch had respected the distance he seemed to need. But more would be needed to rebuild a friendship four years stagnant. He was trying, and between trying to reach out to Dominic and trying to crack the case, he was a bit worried the only thing cracking was him.

When he closed his eyes he could see Delia, peaceful and dead with the rose in her hand. He could see Dominic surrounded by angry people who wanted him dead. Sometimes he saw other things, stray imaginings that made even less sense, like a platoon of men firing on V while he stood his ground and didn't fall, or a mass of V's surrounding Parliament, or strangest of all, Miss Hammond serving him—or was it Dominic?—or was it neither?—whiskey while wearing an old-fashioned blue dress in a house filled with Scarlet Carsons. She smiled. She was free. He felt as though he was intruding on someone else's happiness whenever that particular imagining popped into his head.

He'd never claimed his imaginings made much sense, but they had been accurate in the past, his subconscious' way of organizing his evidence for him that his conscious was too slow to grasp. He tended to shake the imaginings until his conscious caught up. Once things settled, once the case was closed and Dominic was his friend once more, or however those situations resolved themselves, Finch could puzzle out the intricacies of his own mind.

So he worked. Finch asked Dominic to collect every newspaper article referring to Viadoxic Pharmaceuticals, Saint Mary's and Three Waters, and Dominic did it without question, placing them on the corner of his desk in a neat pile every day until Finch came in to collect them.

While Dominic ferreted out the conventional leads on Miss Hammond and tries to track down anyone else who might have information on the dwindling list of people connected to Larkhill, Finch was falling down a rabbit hole of information, discovering deeper and deeper layers. Things started to come into focus for Finch, and he knew for certain that he wasn't drowning. He had already drowned. But he was a cop. He had to know.

oOo oOo oOo oOo

Finch just keeps pushing throughout the hours, looking over article after article and sinking deeper and deeper into this madness. And it feels like madness. The entire situation is impossible, but it isn't. Because the facts fit. The trail of impossible coincidences is there, and all he has to do is follow it.

He needs to talk about this. He needs to get it off his chest. He hears the door to the office open and only half-hears Dominic's greeting, immediately followed by his concerned enquiry after Finch's health. Finch chokes down a laugh. No, he isn't well. His only meaningful relationship is with his secretly homosexual partner, who he could destroy with a word, who he tossed out on his ear when he found out, and now has the awful feeling he just might fancy. His own career and life are in the hands of Creedy, and one whisper of Irishness will crush him in entirety. The Party to which he's been a member for twenty-seven years just may be more monstrous than anyone was willing to believe. And he's decently certain he's developed an ulcer.

He isn't well at all.

He pulls out his suppressor, usually used for sensitive interviews with witnesses who would otherwise be detained by the Finger. He flips it open, and its low whine fills the room, blocking audio and video surveillance within twenty feet. The surveillance teams will break its field in about fifteen minutes, but that's enough.

Dominic stares at the device, and then drags his gaze up to Finch. Finch wonders what he thinks they'll be discussing. Obviously a sensitive topic, but he has the feeling Dominic's imagination has never strayed this far. He knows his own never has. Funny how Irishness and homosexuality and the conversation that didn't take place the night Delia died pale in the face of this.

Finch gets up then, feeling the clamoring need for a drink but suppressing it and getting water instead. "I want to ask a question, Dominic. I don't care if you answer me or not; I just want to say this aloud. But I need to know that this question will not leave this office."

Dominic looks scared now, but clings to professionalism the way any other man might cling to God. "Yeah, of course, Inspector, but … is this because of the terrorist?"

It forces Finch to bark something like a laugh. No, Dominic hasn't the imagination to reach his levels of madness. Bringing him into this particular fold suddenly seems cruel, but Finch needs someone on this raft with him, cast adrift of everything he believed in. And that night in his apartment, when he had reached out his hand, Dominic had taken it. "No."

Now Dominic's just cagey, but interested in spite of himself. "What is it, Chief? What's going on?" He'll go along willingly. He'll go wherever Finch leads because he's a cop too. After all these years, he's a cop too and they're both damned.

With this knowledge weighing down on him, he forces his words past lips that feel stiff and unwilling. "The question I want to ask," he says, "is about Saint Mary's and Three Waters. The question that's kept me up for the last twenty-four hours, the question I have to ask is what if the worst—the most horrifying biological attack in this country's history was not the work of religious extremists?"

"I don't understand," Dominic says, and he looks both more relaxed now that the subject has been established as professional rather than personal, and deeply confused. "We know it was. They were caught. They confessed."

"And they were executed, I know. And maybe that's really what happened. But I see this chain of events—these 'coincidences'—and I have to ask if that isn't what happened. What if someone else unleashed that virus? What if someone else killed all those people? Would you really want to know who it was?"

Dominic is catching up. His expression has turned grave, but determined. "Sure," he says.

"Even if it was someone working for this government?"

Dominic's gaze jerks to the suppressor, but it's still working its magic, and he looks back up at Finch, his shock barely concealed.

Finch goes on as though compelled. "That's my question. If our own government was responsible for what happened at Saint Mary's and Three Waters—if our own government was responsible for the deaths of almost a hundred thousand people—would you really want to know?"

Silence stretches between them almost to the point of breaking, and suddenly Dominic blurts out, "Jesus Christ, Eric." He looks away. "Sorry, Sir."

Finch's laughter is shaky after such an abrupt catharsis. They're reaching the end of the suppression, he's certain. "I think it's all right now, don't you?"

"No, Sir, I really don't," Dominic says. He learned that particular brand of stubbornness from Finch.

Finch looks at Dominic, the only person he's dared share this with, and he knows that he can't sit alone another night in his flat with nothing but his thoughts and that long string of conclusions. He can't push this far this fast, he needs to let Dominic come to him, to allow him to work through all the confusion and anger these past years must have caused him, but Finch is a selfish bastard at heart, and he can't be alone. "Come over tonight," he says.

The response is automatic. Dominic is better at shutting him out than ever he was at shutting Dominic out. "I can't," Dominic says.

Finch steps around Dominic's desk, and the newspaper articles flutter in his wake. Dominic stands abruptly, on the verge of bolting.

Finch takes his elbow, and with almost no pressure he roots Dominic to the spot. It's the same feeling he got the night Delia died, but something stronger. That was a mere jolt, but this is a steady, low-level tug. This is ridiculous and dangerous, but it's more sane than anything else he's experienced these past weeks. "Please come over tonight."

"I can't," Dominic says, less convincing and more pleading this time. They're on so many edges here, ready to fall with the smallest push. Creedy's watching them both, and Finch knows how it will look, but they have an established precedent. There is a major case. They need time to crack it.

And there is no surveillance in Finch's home. No matter how Creedy might push, he's the chief inspector and he gets some privileges. And just in case someone decides to try something, he checks for bugs every evening.

"Sir," Dominic says, looking at their hands and then at the suppressor. "Sir, the field's going to fall any minute."

"The whole world's cracking, Dominic," Finch says, needing this out without the Finger knowing about it. "Everything's turned upside down, and I don't have anywhere I can turn. I'm going to get lost if there's not someone to keep me here tonight. Come over."

Dominic looks down at him, scared and awkward. The suppressor goes dead and Dominic whispers, "Yes."