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Saturday morning started with a rain shower of epic proportions that lasted for about twenty minutes. It became a drizzle, the sky leaden gray, the sun in hiding.
Q had found waking up to the rain beating against the window a rather calming experience. James was already awake, though from his general drowsiness, it hadn't been for more than five minutes prior to Q's descent from dreamland.
Meeting Moira Macivrae was… entertaining. Q realized almost right away why she and Bond clashed. She was the most direct person he had ever met. The moment she walked into the room, the phoenix seemed to bristle without prior agitation and Bond's expression grew cooler, more distant, almost like facing an enemy, not a potential ally.
The meeting place was a rustic looking pub called The Myth's Well. It was already open, though it didn't look like they would be serving anyone just yet. Someone was busy cleaning out the debris of the night before, the floors glistening wetly. Q would have thought there was a leak somewhere since whoever was cleaning had actually left puddles on the wood and stone.
Not that it mattered. There were puddles outside as well from the rain, which was still not over. The sky had opened a little more, letting faint blue peek through the clouds, but it wasn't going to be a very dry day.
An old woman, clearly way past eighty, came around the corner, mop and bucket in hand, giving them a once-over, but she only nodded a short greeting.
Bond raised a corner of his mouth into a smile, then proceeded into the pub. Q simply followed.
James introduced him to Paul, the owner of the place, then simply sat down to wait. Paul placed two mugs of coffee in front of them and while Q preferred tea, he wouldn't say no to more caffeine.
They didn't have to wait long.
Q rose politely and smiled at the hecate and the nuckelavee who had come in after her. Ewan Macivrae was the more easy-going of the two, Q judged. Probably the physically more dangerous due to his supernatural status, but the elementary witch had wrestled down a semi-stunned phoenix, which was a feat all of its own. Q knew how instinctive his partner was, how survival always came first, how he had been trained to fight under the most dire of circumstances, injured or drugged or bound, and she had probably put a dent in his pride back then.
Yes, he realized where Bond's cold distance came from.
"Mrs. Macivrae, Mr. Macivrae, I'm delighted to meet you in person."
"Call me Ewan," Macivrae simply said, shaking his hand firmly.
Q acknowledged the offer with a nod. "Kieran Whitmarsh," he used one of the aliases for himself.
Whittmore had become almost the default setting for his presumed last name, just like his predecessor had preferred Boothroyd. For the Macivraes, Q had decided on the Whitmarsh identity, with a variation of his first name.
"So you're the one who tamed a phoenix," Moira said, lips curling into a smile as she mustered him quite openly. "I wouldn't have thought that possible, especially seeing you're not even close to what he is. Or to what I imagined a handler of a man like Mr. Bond to be."
Oh yes, quite straight forward. Q suppressed a chuckle. James had tensed even more.
"I wouldn't say tamed," he replied amicably.
"Looking at his murderous expression and the fact that I'm still breathing, I would."
The challenge was clear in her eyes and Q wanted nothing more than to roll his own eyes in response. Bond was almost literally thrumming with tension and if he had been able to change shape, there would be claws and fangs right now. Q had never been more relieved that James was only a preternatural.
"I would call it civil behavior," he pointed out, voice a little sharper now. "Due to the fact that we are all grown people."
She laughed, easing up a little. "I like you, Kieran Whitmarsh." She tilted her head. "If that is your name."
"Why wouldn't it be?"
"I believe Mr. Bond told you I'm a hecate?"
Q nodded.
"We tend to be in tune with the land around us. It helps seek out truth from lies sometimes. It helps in seeing the supernatural and sensing the preternatural. When I see you, I sense the connection between you. And I sense there is more."
Bond's tension could have filled the whole room by now. Ewan simply glanced at his wife, brows rising, but she wasn't deterred.
"Kincade has no idea about either what Mr. Bond is, that he is connected on a soul-deep level to a preternatural as rare as he is, nor does he know what you really do. You told us you serve Her Majesty and your country, Mr. Bond. I can add two and two together." Moira shrugged. "You might be James Bond, but he is not Kieran Whitmarsh. A name is simply a name. There is no power in knowing yours, Mr. Whitmarsh." He smile grew taunting again. "That's all I need to know."
"Good," Bond ground out, sounding like he was close to spitting glass.
Q shot him a frown.
"Since we couldn't do so last time," Ewan spoke up, voice calming, a peace offering clear in his tone, "I would like to introduce you to my clan, to those you leased the land to. We are all very thankful for what you did. I'm also relieved you accepted my – our – invitation to return."
Bond rose, all sinewy, dark grace, eyes still frosty. "My pleasure."
It sounded like he wanted nothing more than to leave. There was the, to Q, well-known serrated edge, the rough timbre.
Fifteen minutes in a hecate's presence and he was ready to throw everything into the wind and leave. A man who had faced impossible dangers, regularly went against all odds, had brought down mad men and governments, had diffused dirty bombs and thrown his life on the line for his country; had died for his country and the mission already.
Q was truly intrigued.
And he inserted himself neatly between Moira and James, smiling easily at her.
She caught his move and smiled back knowingly.
Q decided then and there that to get some answers, he would have to talk to her alone.
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Reese no longer made it a habit to follow Finch whenever he could – or have Fusco tail him. That hadn't really gotten him that many more pieces of information about the secretive man who had hired him. He had caught glimpses of a life that might or might not be the real Harold's, but it had never made sense.
He had stopped spying into Harold's private life, trying to discover who he really was, because he knew him now. Instinctively. The connection between them had changed some things.
Profound things.
Almost everything.
Reese hadn't really been aware of how deeply rooted the bond was, what it would mean to connect himself to the preternatural. He hadn't met too many hellhounds in his time as a soldier. Their bonds differed from each other and greatly from what he was experiencing with Finch. It might be because he had both a handler and a partner in Finch. None of the others had had both in one person. One had been married to a very nice woman, had three kids, and his handler was his bonded.
Or it might be because Finch wasn't even his own kind or simply human. He was a preternatural and his mind was the most fascinating place.
Or it might be something completely different.
Whatever it was, Reese didn't want to change a thing. He wanted the deeply rooted contentment, the calmness he felt with Finch, the ease of their relationship. John had never been this at peace with himself, the world, his life, everything, since the day he had to leave Jessica behind.
She was an old pain, a scar he would always carry with him, on his soul, never completely healed. But it was no longer this dark, sucking hole of agony. He could handle it now, could continue living.
He was no longer hollow inside, exhausted from life, nightmares tearing his soul apart.
The death wish was gone.
Reese smiled a little. He was actually clinging to life with such fierceness, it had surprised him.
Currently, John was in what Finch had once called his Arsenal of Death. John simply called it a weapons room, a place to store all the goodies he acquired from somewhere; or which Finch got him by request. The cipher never hesitated, but he did have a slightly misgiving crinkle around his eyes and lips. He didn't like guns, but he understood and accepted the necessity of them around the library rooms.
A feeling of unease washed over him while John was cleaning his Sig-Sauer. He stopped, almost froze, trying to uncover where it came from.
He was alone in the building. Finch was not here yet. There was nothing to alarm him, nothing to merit such unease.
Reese turned back to the Sig, but the sensation came back. Stronger this time. More intense. Strong enough to have him stop completely, breath catching a little, tension creeping through his frame. The hellhound rose to the surface, an almost overpowering sensation that had him fight for control, and his protective instincts screamed.
"Finch," he murmured.
He knew where this feeling came from. There was only one source, and while it should unsettle him that he even experienced it, something a lot stronger snarled softly, defensively.
Protectively.
It was a reaction that had grown around Finch within a few weeks of knowing the man. He hadn't really been aware of it that strongly at first, but then it had become clearer. It had culminated in Reese's hostage negotiations with The Machine over Finch's life against all the other irrelevant numbers. He had put everything on the line for the man who had saved him, the man he wouldn't leave to his fate.
The man without whom he wouldn't do this. He would never be the contingency, whatever The Machine had been programmed to believe or whatever Finch wanted him to be.
Now the assessment of the emotional flare was easy; straight-forward and simple.
Finch's emotions were never all over the place, but this was strong and harsh and self-flagellating. It hurt the other man as much as it disturbed Reese.
He reassembled the Sig, then pushed the ammunitions clip inside. The gun was smoothly slipped underneath his suit jacket, then Reese rose and walked quickly out of the room, down the corridor, heading for the exit.
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He didn't know why he had come here; again. He should stop; should stop making himself look and feel the pain, but it was that famous car wreck about to happen. He couldn't look away.
Finch had walked to Washington Square Park, standing behind the shrubbery and trees, behind the black, iron fence, watching the row of Greenwich Village houses opposite the park.
Bear was at his side, tongue lolling, ears pricked attentively, and he was waiting for any sign or command. He had obediently walked alongside the limping man, an impressive guardian.
It wasn't really longing Finch felt.
It was something else, something undefined.
He needed to make sure.
It had become part of his routine and it was so hard to break.
This was his past. At least a part of his past, linked to one of his many identities, and one of the moments in his life when he had been ready to go back and become the real Harold again. He had been ready to risk it all for a moment of happiness.
This past was dead; as dead as every past he had lived in. The person, this Harold, had died to keep himself alive, had reinvented himself once more, assumed yet another persona.
Harold Finch had been born.
And Harold Finch kept revisiting this place, this memory, because it was the hardest decision he ever had to make: die to keep her safe. Die to continue living. Erase yet another part of him; a part that had wanted someone in his life to be happy with.
Grace was home, probably painting, working on a new commission a well-paying client had placed with her. A client she knew nothing about, but who Harold knew very well.
People walked past him. Families, men or women with their dogs, their children, their partners. Some pushed a stroller, some talked on their phones.
Normal. Everything and everyone around him seemed so normal. Finch felt he stood out like a sore thumb, but no one looked at him twice. He was an ordinary guy, dressed in a suit, a light coat, the glasses giving him a bookish air. No, no one really gave him another look.
Harold felt someone approach, take a place at his side, slide into an empty spot he hadn't noticed that acutely before. It was something he had noticed lately, how the other presence was actually welcome, how the fact that he was no longer alone was a good change.
He had never been good with people. Nathan had been about the only one he had let close – until Grace. He wasn't a social animal. He wasn't a pack person. He liked solitude, the work with computers and programs and only himself for company. It had been enough for so long, but things had changed fast.
Everything had changed.
"Mr. Reese," he said softly.
"Finch," was the reply, tinged with warmth. "Enjoying a spring day?"
"It is rather nice outside," he replied neutrally.
The door of the house he had been covertly surveilling opened and a red-headed woman stepped out, wearing a light brown coat over blue jeans, carrying a painter's materials and chair. Finch watched her, feeling the old longing, but no longer as intensely as before. It was strangely muted, like acceptance had settled in where regret had resided before.
Grace Hendricks.
His past.
The Machine had chosen her as his partner and he had let himself be guided, had let himself be happy, carefree, fun-loving. Human.
Because of his own creation he had lost this humanity again. Because he had been careless, egotistical in a way, pushing Nathan away and keeping too many shields between them.
Why hadn't he listened back then? Why hadn't he let his old partner, his only friend, the only person to know who he really was, tell him more about what he was doing.
The irrelevant list.
Nathan had been possessed by it, had fought for people he hadn't even known, and he had saved lives. Harold hadn't been interested in any of it, and he had paid. With everything.
Now, three years after his loss, he was doing the very same thing Nathan had done: fight for the irrelevant numbers; saving lives.
A hand rested against Finch's back, warm and heavy and reassuring. It wasn't pushing, it wasn't demanding or possessive, it didn't stake a claim. It was just reminding him that John was there.
John Reese. His partner, His asset.
His present and hopefully his future.
"Why are you here?" Finch asked, not looking at the taller man.
"You called."
That had him stop abruptly. Reese compensated immediately, without running into him.
"I did no such thing."
The smile was patient, almost amused. "I sensed your distress, Harold. It was loud enough."
Finch knew he was staring, the shock coursing through him almost like a physical blow.
"I… I'm very sorry for that," he managed.
The pressure against his back increased a little, Reese leaning a little closer. "Don't. I'll always be here."
Finch's stomach clenched and he tried to breathe normally. How could a loyalty bond become so… intense? How could his emotional upheaval reach Reese and call him here? How?
"Harold, breathe."
He shot the hellhound a glare.
It was answered with a little smile.
They continued walking and Finch tried to digest the latest fact about their relationship. Reese was at his side, barely any room between them, his stoical silent self. Letting Finch think.
The cipher appreciated it. He needed to think, to get his brain back in order.
"Can you still feel me?" he asked after a moment.
"No," was the unruffled answer.
"So it was… a flare?"
"Most likely."
"Because of Grace," he murmured.
Reese didn't answer.
"I don't… I know I'm dead," Finch said softly. "But I can't stop protecting her."
"I understand."
Because he had done the same for Jessica. She had been dead, but he had taken revenge, had risked everything, had taken a life for hers.
Because hellhounds were natural protectors, guardians, fierce fighters.
The cipher glanced at him, head turning a little. "John…"
"I understand," Reese repeated firmly, meeting the emotion-filled eyes.
He leaned in briefly, brushing his lips over Finch's temple, a fleeting contact that was barely felt, then he chose distance again.
"Never doubt that I don't," he rumbled.
Harold tore himself away from watching the woman he had been ready to marry years ago, the woman who believed he was dead and gone and who hadn't gone on herself, the woman he tried to protect and who he sought out jobs for. He would always provide for her; it was his duty. Grace would always have a steady stream of income, enough to pay for a house that cost more rent a month than many people could actually afford as a freelance illustrator, and more than enough to have her live without lacking.
They walked silently back through the park, Reese a steady presence at his side.
"It shouldn't be so hard," Finch said after a while, eyes firmly ahead.
"Just because you understand the necessity doesn't mean your feelings have changed."
"But they have, Mr. Reese," was the quiet reply.
"Not for her."
"I feel I have to make sure she… she can live, that she has work, that there is money. I don't feel…" He stopped, knowing it was a lie.
"Harold."
He stopped and looked at his partner. Reese's eyes were filled with more than understanding, with so many emotions they seemed to flood with them. It was one of the things he had discovered quite early about his asset, about the man he had hired and who he had seen as a business venture: John Reese was very empathetic.
It was such a contrast to the cold-blooded, ruthless assassin he truly was. And it was even more in contrast to the instinctual creature he had been born as, though a hellhound looked rather tame to some of the other supernaturals out there.
Like James Bond.
Finch put a lid on those thoughts right away.
"I'm not going to leave," Reese now said, voice a quiet, low rumble. It was more than a promise. "And I could… sense what you feel sometimes already. When we're together. When you're close. I know and I understand."
He drew a shaky breath and continued walking again.
Connector. Q had once called John his connector. The man who would put everything back together, who would heal Finch's soul and who would be healed by his acceptance of the connection, too.
This was far more now.
This was so much more!
The connection was deeper than any surface bond. It was more than a loyalty bond. It was healing ancient scars, making them so much more aware of the other, and Harold was too weak, too comfortable with it, too content and needy, to fight it. He didn't want to fight any more. He didn't want to push away what he needed.
Here he was, talking about his fiancée with the man who had become his partner now; intimately. The man he was sleeping with, who he trusted implicitly. The man who took no offense at the presence of Grace Hendricks in Finch's life, who wasn't jealous or demanding he cut all ties. The man who had this endless patience.
"I don't want you to leave," he whispered, not looking at Reese.
He didn't want to look into those intense eyes; eyes that had promised death and destruction, eyes that had looked at him with emotions Finch was too afraid to name right now.
Reese didn't say anything, but Finch could almost hear the pleased rumble from deep within.
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They caught a cab and Reese gave the driver an address only a block down from his loft apartment.
Finch didn't object, simply shot his partner a brief look. Reese refused to comment his choice.
Finch also wasn't surprised when Reese was crowding close again when they were inside the spacious, airy loft that Harold had given John for his birthday. It had been an incredible gift at the time, though money meant nothing to Finch. He had wanted John happy; for once in his life. He had wanted him to have this, to show him that he meant more than a simply employee.
The place had meant everything to Reese.
It was his. It was where he returned to, where it was safe, where he could relax.
And it was completely free of electronic eyes or ears. Finch had made sure of that.
It was also a place where Harold had been quite often lately.
They rarely interacted intimately outside or while at work. The small show of closeness in the park had been the hellhound's reaction to the distress he had seen and felt from his partner. Having him so close now was a sign of shields dropping, of guards coming down, and Harold didn't fight it.
He shed his coat and hung it on the appropriate hook, then turned into a tall, dark wall of muscle that stopped him.
"Mr. Reese."
The empathetic blue eyes seemed to draw him in, reflecting so much it had him almost breathless. He had seen this often before, when they had lost a number, when John had had to kill to stay alive, to take a life he hadn't planned on ever taking. He had seen it when they had failed to protect Dr. Nelson and Reese had decided to relieve the man of his pain in the end.
He had never talked about it.
But Harold had known.
"Do we have a new number?"
"If we had, we wouldn't be here," he replied, putting a small amount of scolding into his words.
Reese twitched a smile. "Good. Did you have any plans?" The voice had dropped to that sensuous level again. That private, sensual one that touched Finch on a level few things had before.
Finch reflected the smile. "The usual updates to the data base, Mr. Reese. Maybe a routine diagnostic. I know you know that, too."
"I do."
"It's nothing particularly exciting. Not even for me."
"Good."
"Are you planning on simply looking at me the whole time?"
The blue eyes shimmered slightly. It could be a trick of the light, but Finch knew better. The silver was a clear indication of just how much John's guard was down. It was a testimony to their ease, to his state of mind.
"Nothing wrong with that." The voice was faintly raspy, almost too low to catch.
"It seems rather too stalkerish even for you."
Reese moved that last step closer, sliding a hand under Finch's suit jacket, over his waist coat, until it rested on the small of his back. Then his lips brushed over Harold's, soft and slow and as deadly in their aim and purpose as the whole man was.
"You know me, Harold," he murmured. "I see everything. Every little detail." He nuzzled against his temple. "And I can feel your response."
The kiss was soft, without demand, just nipping gently at his lips.
"I've never felt more balanced than now," John whispered, trailing the kiss down his jaw, gently biting against his neck without leaving a mark.
Harold shuddered. "Mr. Reese…"
Whatever he had wanted to say, and Harold wasn't even sure what it was, was silenced again, the kiss deeper this time, leaving him reeling.
"I want you," John said, voice low and rough.
Dear god…
It wasn't the first time, but it felt like it over and over again. Finch had never experienced closeness like this before; this intensely.
"You have me," he replied.
There seemed to be no rush to get past the kissing, the taller man trapping him effectively against the wall, surrounding him without making it seem like a trap at all. Harold let John explore, doing the same in turn.
Sometimes it felt like two teenagers testing the waters, trying out different things, as if they still wanted to see what the other liked. It was slow, it was intense, it was wonderful, and it was them.
No hurry.
A pace they were comfortable with, a pace that didn't tear at old scars or reopened barely scabbed wounds.
It wasn't just Harold any longer who needed to adjust to the changes around them; even John was trying to take deep breaths and understand what it was he had done with his loyalty bond; with wanting Finch so badly, so completely, that he had given up everything else.
Finch smiled at the soft whine he heard, barely there, coming from deep within his partner, and didn't flinch from the feeling of claws on deadly fingers brushing over his body.
"You have me," he repeated, voice rougher than he had expected. "Always," he added a bit shakily.
Reese response was almost his undoing as those talented fingers cupped him, squeezing gently, while the next kiss stole his breath.
"You never ask," Harold murmured when they parted for breath. "You leave the initiative up to me."
"Is that a problem?"
"You either presume I won't ever say no, Mr. Reese, or you fear rejection."
Reese smiled, open, warm, amused. "Rejection is part of every partnership."
He gazed at the taller man, took in the easy lines, the silent grace, the deadliness hidden under an expensive, dark ensemble and a handsome exterior.
"You don't always have to leave the final decision up to me," Finch said. "I'm an adult. I know how to say no:"
"Your pace, Harold," was the gentle reminder.
"Pushing helps sometimes, Mr. Reese. To get back on the right track, to continue a journey."
"I think we're already on the right track," was the rough reply.
Yes, maybe they were.
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Being together with John Reese had yet to lose its novelty, the shine, the feeling of amazement and wonder. Finch understood that there was a difference between the loyalty bond and their personal relationship, but it had started to mesh right from the beginning. It had always been there and the attraction had built slowly, simmering under the surface, and he had never dared to jump at the many opportunities that had presented themselves before.
Stroking over the warm skin, along old scars and those that had been added within the last two years, Finch let his fingers explore, let them trail over the hard muscles. He enjoyed the reactions he got to his ministrations, be it simple caresses or the more forward moves. Giving pleasure to John was… something wonderful.
And Finch was a quick study.
He might not have been with anyone since the explosion had taken his life in more ways than one, but he wasn't an innocent either. Harold had quickly learned what John liked, what he really enjoyed, what he preferred.
Blue eyes, the iris surrounded by a silver ring, gazed at him, lazy and pleased and with the shields down. There was a growing shimmer of more silver as Finch placed a kiss onto one shoulder, wishing he had more flexibility sometimes, then trailed his lips up the neck and finally to the mouth. John pushed himself up a little from his prone position, meeting the kiss, open-mouthed, hungry, with a hint of fang.
He was still rather passive, letting Finch play.
He liked playing.
It was an incredible sensation to feel this strong supernatural under his hands, his fingers, his lips. To feel the shift of muscle and sinews, the movement of long, powerful limbs. Finch could tell when the hellhound was straining to change shape, to let the more animalistic traits rise, but John had himself under such tight, perfect control, it wouldn't simply happen.
It was even more incredible to be allowed to be… himself. To be Harold. Not anyone else but Harold.
Lately they had gone further than before. Finch had allowed himself to let go of some of his wariness concerning their more physical interaction and had taken several leaps. Finch knew what he liked, wanted John's lips over his cock, wanted to feel the teasing scrape of teeth, the long, hard suction that never failed to bring him off. Reciprocating was a matter of courage and thinking around his limited mobility in some regards.
But they had found ways.
He had no words for what this was, between them, was barely able to express what he felt, but John felt it, too.
Soul-deep, intense, intimate beyond belief, and just them. He let it happen, wash over him in gentle waves as they lay together. Lazy movements, sloppy kisses, warm skin against warm skin. It didn't end in sex, both hovering at the fringes without the pressing need to reach completion.
It was nice.
Wonderful.
It was the first time for them again and again, able to experiment, to find the limits of their compromises, or go beyond.
Little steps.
John turned on his back, looking at him, eyes caught between supernatural and human. One hand came up, free of claws, sliding over Finch's shoulder, then curling around his neck to slowly pull him into a kiss.
Harold slipped a hand between them, rubbing over the straining erection.
Reese's eyes flared with want and need.
The cipher smiled, curling his fingers around the hard length, squeezing a little as he set a slow rhythm.
"You don't have to keep up the pretense, Mr. Reese," he said softly. "I know what you are."
Silver eyes flared and a groan escaped the hellhound. "Harold…"
He smiled. "Give me a moment," he murmured, slowly sliding down the naked length, far from smooth and limber, but also not too stiffly.
"Harold," John started, then bit his lower lip as Finch licked over his prize.
Harold felt rather smug as claws popped through the mattress.
Yes, little steps. And right now, it was a step in the right direction.
tbc...