Q had to confess he had been curious to meet the Macivraes. He had read everything there was about nuckelavee and hecate, but reality was always different. These were the people Bond had leased his land to, who had helped him make it out of the snowed-in town and back to Q, and who Bond seemed to be torn about liking.
Especially Moira Macivrae.
For his partner to dislike someone immediately it took some effort.
So on a Friday, the moment Q had logged off and left Q branch, Bond ushered him into a car he had probably taken from the company pool, and they were on their way.
Bond was driving. Of course he would be. Q didn't really mind because it gave him the freedom to experiment with whatever he had along for the ride, or to stretch his technopathic senses and brush along whatever tickled his fancy en route.
James watched him with a hint of amusement reflecting in his eyes. Q felt firmly anchored, was in no danger of slip-sliding somewhere he might not get out in one piece, and it was very good training. It helped to be able to switch and turn and log into another source within a fraction of a second, grab what he needed, make a dash, leave no trace.
And it was fun.
Yes, it was actually fun.
x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx
Arriving in the middle of the night had the advantage that there was no welcome committee to deal with after a long day at work and an even longer drive into the middle of nowhere. Q simply unpacked – pushing his clothes into the wardrobe without caring where things went – and then fell onto the bed.
James chuckled, slipping out of his black sweater and unbuttoning the crisp, white shirt. The man looked suave even in jeans and a t-shirt. And Q liked to watch.
"You'll regret that in the morning," his agent remarked, glancing at the wardrobe.
"Most likely, but I can't bring myself to care right now."
It was far more entertaining to watch Bond undress.
It came as no surprise that the preternatural chose only boxers as appropriate sleep wear. Q had been more surprised that he was actually wearing anything.
"Are you going to sleep fully clothed?" James teased.
"Hm, yes."
"I doubt it, Q."
Strong fingers slid under his sweater and pushed it up a little, stopped by Q's weight on it.
"Up," Bond commanded.
He groaned and did as ordered, sliding the sweater over his head without dislodging his glasses. They were plucked off his nose a second later and James kissed him softly.
"Don't need them," he rumbled.
No, he didn't; wouldn't. Nor did he really need to be fully dressed. He liked being naked with Bond.
That problem was quickly solved and when Bond drew him into an embrace, he came very willingly. There was only one blanket and Q knew that come morning he would be either wrapped up in it like a mummy, stealing it from James, or Bond would be wrapped around him, buried underneath the blanket.
x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx
If Q noticed a more possessive note to their encounter that night, he didn't mention it. Bond himself couldn't place the raw energy coursing through him, couldn't really keep it at bay, restrain himself. It was like a primal need to hold onto something, to Q, ride out the rush, and finally a last tremor passed through him.
He came hard, leaving marks on Q's skin, listening to the younger man's groans with dark satisfaction.
Mine, the phoenix crowed deep in his soul.
And for everyone to see and know.
He hadn't been thrilled to meet the Macivraes again, especially the hecate, but Q had wanted to meet the two people who had helped Bond get back home. And Bond knew it was good manners to accept the open invitation, finish what had started in late March.
Resting his head against Q's shoulder, panting softly, he enjoyed a rush that shouldn't end. Like taking a rollercoaster ride and plunging deep, only to stop and realize it was over. Adrenaline high. Sugar rush. Whatever it was called, it had been damn good.
Q scratched blunt fingernails over his scalp, down his neck, faint marks that would be gone soon.
"She really got to you," the technopath murmured.
Bond raised his head, eyes too bright to be human, too pale in color, and Q kissed him gently, teeth catching at his lower lip. The bite was so soft, it was barely felt.
Still, the phoenix reacted with a tremor deep in its nightmarish soul.
"I'm looking forward to meeting her," Q teased, lips quirking.
Bond snorted, then rolled off the other man to draw Q to him in an easy embrace. Mess and all, he didn't care. He didn't want to leave the bed.
Q complied, the knowing expression almost too much. This was the preternatural side acting, not the human mind, and he was being humored.
x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx
The library hadn't changed in the time John Reese had worked with Finch. It had been a dark, musty place with broken furniture, random piles of debris and malfunctioning lights when he had first stepped into it; it still was. The scaffolding seemed to never go away. No one was apparently interested into why the building was partially covered and no one ever worked there. The library was a derelict, forgotten piece of New York history, lost in the swamp of bureaucracy and a web Harold had woven to make the prominent corner building invisible.
Reese had prowled through the whole of the library several times, top to bottom and back up again. He knew all exits and entries. He knew what doors were locked for good and which would work as an emergency exit in case of discovery. He had mapped out the basement, had categorized rooms in his head, had spent hours just being alone in the twilight of once flourishing rooms, alive with people.
Sometimes he would poke through the debris, see what books had been lost to vandalism or overly enthusiastic workmen while the library had been in the process of being gutted. There were still thousands upon thousands of books. Finch had labeled only some of them to use as his Machine Decoder, and the rest was everywhere. The man was an avid reader and Reese had seen him go through all kinds of books, from science to poetry to fiction to obscure folk books.
Finch never called him on his patrols. But he knew. Reese was convinced that his partner knew and had always known. There were cameras, keeping an eye on things, giving The Machine access and Finch the knowledge he craved.
The small part of the library that had become habitable was almost warm and homey compared to the rest. The lights and heating worked. There was the scent of someone living here, the feeling that this was more than just an office for Finch, and Reese had smiled at first when the cipher had started to outfit their little kitchen – a hole in the wall with a microwave and fridge – with more than just basic appliances.
There was a bed in another room, off the main workspace, hidden behind more shelves, surrounded by equipment and books. The room with the numbers, the screens, the boards, was the heart of their little headquarters. The bed wasn't the most comfortable, but Reese had crashed on it in the beginning once or twice. He knew Finch would sleep here if he couldn't keep his eyes open long enough anymore to drive home; or call a service to get him home.
It was highly uncomfortable for him.
Reese took a gloomy corridor past what had probably been a reading room, then passed an ancient archive – now empty – and finally arrived back at the stairs leading to the more habitable places. He silently climbed up. He knew his way by heart.
x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx x X XX xx X XX xxx
Finch was in the main room, doing his own version of push-ups, when Bear sat up and took notice. His work-out regimen was something that suffered from too much work sometimes, but he had adhered to it quite strictly lately; even if it meant having to read while sweat was dripping on his reading material. That was one reason why he had switched from a tablet to paper again.
He stopped what he was doing and closed the book, then slowly got up.
"Nice read, Finch?"
The low, teasing tones had him scowl at the tall, lithe figure in the black suit. Reese looked impeccable, the smooth features reflecting amusement, the corners of his eyes crinkling a little. There was a tell-tale pull at his lips.
"I can't seem to finish a chapter due to repeating interruptions."
He shot Bear a narrow-eyed look. The dog snorted and picked up his toy, heading over to his bed.
"You forgot the Do Not Disturb sign."
"Ah, my mistake. I will think of it the next time."
Reese walked over to him, eyes alight with the faint silver sheen that spoke of his supernatural heritage. Finch had noticed how the other man dropped his guard around him lately, let himself be what he had been born as, and he thought of it as an incredible sign of trust, a privilege, to see him so… at ease.
And he wondered if any of the prior handlers or team mates had ever witnessed this change.
Probably not.
John Reese was a very private man, kept himself guarded, shielded, hidden under masks, and the hellhound was a trait that the CIA had known about but only used to their advantage.
Like Harold had in the beginning.
He pushed that thought away. Finch hadn't even been aware of what kind of supernatural Reese was until much later, and he hadn't chosen him because of his genetics.
"Still taking my advice seriously, I see."
Finch placed the book on the table and limped over to the chair where the towel was. He picked it up, wiping a little sweat off his face.
"Actually, my therapist's."
It got him a grin, a very knowing grin, and he gave up. Yes, he had taken Reese's remark from so long ago seriously and it had paid off. At least Finch blamed it on his work-out routine.
He had noticed a growing limberness when he went out to assist John, bugging a house, a computer, hacking into something, tracing a lead, following a number when his partner was incapable of doing so. Climbing stairs had become less of a feat. His muscles worked more smoothly, there were less cramps, and his therapist had remarked on it several times, assuming he was doing a lot more rehab work-outs than before, strengthening his musculature.
But he hadn't, really.
Nothing could be done about the fused vertebrae in his neck. Nothing could be done about his back injury. The limp and the limited mobility in his neck where there to stay, but the rest…? Finch was slightly afraid to really dig into the fact that he seemed fitter. The discomfort of working long hours, falling asleep at the desk, had lessened. His body seemed to be able to handle this kind of stress a lot better.
"Walking Bear seems to do you good," Reese murmured, eyeing him without trying to hide it.
The dog in question sat up straight and whined. Finch glanced at it and sighed.
"Yes, it might."
"As do our own work-outs."
He refused to be baited, to look into those dancing eyes and blush. Finch had outgrown blushing a long time ago. He simply scowled again, refusing to think of what their 'work-outs' had been like in the past two weeks.
They were still keeping a professional distance while working on a number, but the time between numbers was theirs. Reese was never pushing himself onto Finch, but he liked to tease. There was a kind of sensual closeness, something not quite visible to an outsider, and it sometimes came up in here as well.
"Nothing to be ashamed of, Finch," Reese added, voice dropping a little, the sensuous tones caressing Harold like an actual touch.
No, he wasn't ashamed. He never would be.
And then the touch was there, brief and fleeting, fingers brushing over his exposed neck. It was a preferred method of contact, a touch, a caress, that was fleeting and feather-light, barely there and gone again. But it drew a reaction within Finch that he hadn't thought possible.
With only a t-shirt and sweat pants covering him, still slightly sweaty, Finch bit back his response and simply shot the other man an exasperated look. John chuckled and retreated, completely unapologetic.
Sometimes Finch wondered how personal barriers could have fallen so quickly, how he could have fallen for this man so quickly, and how they actually worked so perfectly. This hadn't been a psychic link established by two counter-balancing souls, like Q and Mr. Bond. It wasn't something either of them needed, like Q and Mr. Bond. It was… simply there. It was there to stay, to work with, to evolve and grow.
"Did you sleep well?" he asked evenly.
Reese was suddenly next to him, moving as silently as a shadow, and then the touch was back; really back. A hand resting on his hip, lips brushing over one temple, the warmth of the taller, hard-muscled form leeching into him through the thin t-shirt. Something inside Finch responded to the nearness and while his analytical mind refused to assign the bond any deeper meaning, his more instinctive side knew that something was happening to them, that this was more than it had been before.
"Missed you, Harold," John murmured, emotions clear in his voice.
"You needed rest."
"I rest easier when I know you're there."
Dear god…
Finch briefly closed his eyes at the emotions the easy spoken words evoked. Yes, this was more than the bond, more than the attraction between them, the physical intimacy. It was something he was loathe to bring up, to talk about with Reese because there was this irrational voice that told him not to jinx it.
And maybe it was only him.
He clearly needed to read up on some matters, more detailed matters pertaining to the cerberus. They weren't really all that rare and others had formed life bonds. There had to be at least a few who had formed this bond with the person they had become intimate with, too.
Q's words came back to him, that hellhounds didn't seek mates like werewolves, that they didn't see a loyalty bond as foreplay to something much closer.
That this was only Finch and Reese's doing, their actions and reactions toward the other.
That their relationship had intensified before any of it had happened, before John had taken this last step.
Yes, yes, and yes. Their work relationship had turned into something a lot more personal and it had created little eddies of… something. It had been tension, sparks snapping to life between them, and it had been attraction. All before John had chosen Finch as his handler, the one he would always trust, no matter what.
The person in whose hands he had placed his life; his soul.
Finch drew a shuddering breath. He really needed to talk to Q again. This was quickly evolving into something that was fast slipping from Harold's control.
He hated loss of control.
As if he had felt the tension racing through the cipher's frame, Reese stepped back, breaking the intimate contact, and Finch opened his eyes to look at him. He felt slightly startled, thoughts derailing, and he wondered what had happened to have Reese break the connection.
Aside from the sudden flare of panic deep within Harold's soul. The panic that always rose when it came to them, to what Reese had done, what it meant, what it was for them and their future.
The hellhound felt it. He had sensed it in a way that would have been impossible a year ago.
John's smile was tell-tale; teasing and quirky and just this side of flirty, too. Yes, he had felt the shift, but he didn't ask, didn't demand, didn't even look disappointed.
"I'll keep that in mind," Finch simply said, fighting to get back on track with their conversation.
And he refused to acknowledge anything that had just happened, that was running through his mind like wildfire, going smoothly back to their conversation.
Reese's smile grew, eyes crinkling at the corners. "You do that. I like you with me, Finch."
"I'm not your security blanket."
The cipher grabbed the towel again and limped off toward the small bathroom, the only functional one in this building. It didn't have a shower, but since it was Finch spending most of the time in the library alone, it was enough.
Reese just smiled fondly. He picked up the tennis ball Bear loved and tossed it. The Malinois chased after the white ball with a happy bark.
Finch closed the door after him to freshen up and change. Only when the door was between them did he allow himself to let his own emotions flow. Masks fell and he knew he was smiling in a way that would probably embarrass him to no end.
John's simple confession had touched something that he had believed withered and close to dead after the explosion had taken his life, had killed him, had destroyed everything he had so painstakingly built. Reese had slowly peeled away the layers of protective scars. He was persistent and patient and stubborn and…
Finch shook his head.
He was Reese. And he wasn't giving up or turning his back on a challenge.
I like you with me, too, he thought.
tbc...