Fic: Material Culture (Chapter 14)
He should have known then and there. He should never have left her alone. He went up to the office, and he heard her name come out of Dominic’s mouth. They had run to the morgue, but she was already gone. The car ride was a blur of shock and information. The phone lines were cut. Surveillance heard nothing.
He went in first. He needed to go in first. He already knew what he would find.
She’d told him to go and solve his mystery. She’d told him to give her love to Dominic. Those moments in the morgue had been a goodbye. After so many years of drinks and laugher and discussion, that had been it. He burst into a bedroom he’d never been invited into and saw her sitting in the bed with a rose in her hands, just as she had in the morgue. In that moment, it didn’t matter what he’d known when. He had failed her, and Delia was dead.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
He takes the diary, of course. He could never resist a direct request from Delia, and this was obvious for her. He knew her well enough to tell. Only he really didn’t. She wasn’t even Delia, was she? A name a botanist would have picked for herself, it was. Not like ‘Diana Stanton’. He didn’t know that woman. She was the distance in Delia’s eyes. She was the evasiveness. Had he known Delia at all? Had Delia even existed? He’d joked with her about not existing himself and she’d accused him of being a philosopher, but all the while she was the lie.
He didn’t bother to bag the diary, just pocketed it and watched as her own people loaded her into a bag. Dominic took one look at him and took over the scene, watching over them as they took her out and SOCO came in. It was a blur. A mess of dark and light and voices that didn’t matter. Delia was dead. So was Diana Stanton, but it was the lie that Finch mourned, not the truth. He could see her so clearly, half expected her to open her eyes and wink at him, let him in on the grand joke at his expense. She had been a terrible practical joker when the mood struck, had Delia. She once injected hot sauce into an apple he was eating, and had laughed for hours. She’d look at him days after and start laughing again.
Dammit.
It’s only when he’s being bundled into the car that he realizes Dominic has led him out of Delia’s house. He starts to resist, feeling the need to go back and look over the scene one more time, but Dominic pushes. “Sit, Sir,” he says. “Eric, sit.”
Finch sags back into the seat, hit by the grief and the anger of this senseless death. Delia had seen it coming. She had to have done. Why didn’t she talk to him? They had been friends for so long, she had to have known he would help. He would have protected her.
Dominic climbs into the driver’s seat and Finch turns his head, lest Dominic catch sight of the tears that are beginning to streak his cheeks without his consent. They don’t speak on the drive, and Finch only realizes he’s home when Dominic parks his car, gets out, and then helps Finch out as well.
“Sir …” Dominic says, and then seems to think better of it. He shakes his head and asks, “I’ll see you in, then, shall I?”
Finch can’t muster a response. After a stretch of silence, Dominic goes around the car again. Finch expects him to climb in and drive away, pick Finch up the next morning. Dominic climbs in, but a second later the engine dies and the lights turn off. Dominic climbs out of the car, and now Finch expects him to try something daft like walk, or maybe radio for a squad car to give him a ride.
Dominic walks over, takes Finch by the elbow, and leads him into the flat. Without the couch, there is nowhere in the front room to sit, so Dominic leads Finch upstairs to the bedroom, pushes him into the chair near his window, and says, “Stay.”
He leaves, and Finch expects to hear the front door. After a few moments of silence, he gets up and starts making his way back downstairs. Dominic arrives at the bottom of the stairs when Finch is halfway down. He’s holding two glasses of scotch, and the sight of scotch, the reminder of Delia on all those nights at the pub, strike Finch like a blow to the chest. He sits hard on the stair.
“Shit,” Dominic hisses, and sets both glasses down on the floor before vaulting up the stairs. “Jesus Christ, Sir, can’t you ever do what you’re told?” He pulls Finch to his feet, leads him up the stairs and sits him down in the chair again. “Now stay there while I go and fetch the whiskey, yeah?”
“No.”
Dominic stops. He tenses, uncertainty crossing his face in a wave, trailed by suspicion.
“Don’t think I can look at scotch right now,” Finch said.
Dominic looks from side to side and runs his hand through his hair. “All right,” he says, “what do you need?”
The question strikes Finch as hilarious, and he starts to laugh. What does he need? He needs to rewind the world years back, to zig right when he zagged left. Maybe if he’d kept after Delia, maybe even married her, she would have trusted him enough to tell him about her past. Maybe if he’d done that Dominic wouldn’t have been attracted to him in the first place. It would have been perfect.
Only it wouldn’t. The rational part of him understands that Delia was a brilliant woman. Far more brilliant than he ever knew. She saw right through him. She had known-had to know-that he loved her, but he was never in love with her, and she wasn’t in love with him. The thing they’d both needed from the other was a friend. For that, she’d been perfect. No telling if he was perfect for her, or if he’d been something she’d settled for after she became someone else. He needs to read the diary, he knows. He just can’t bring himself to do so. He can’t shatter the illusion of Delia tonight. Tomorrow he can learn about Diana.
He hasn’t stopped laughing, and Dominic has transitioned through several expressions of worry, becoming increasingly less guarded.
Finch manages to stifle the laughter, and feels the immediate wash of grief in its wake. “You realize that’s a shit question, right?”
Dominic gives a half-shrug. “Yeah. Only thing I could think of, wasn’t it?”
“I want any number of things, but I don’t think you’re likely to be able to give me any of them.”
Dominic nods as though he’s been told something he expected to hear. “Right,” he says, “I’ll just go then, shall I?” He turns to do just that.
“No,” Finch says, and stands up. Dominic stops, but doesn’t turn around. If Finch were a more articulate man he would be able to think of a way to say what needed said. He would be able to explain that he had just lost one of his two friends, and he can’t lose the second. He would be able to explain that this chill between them isn’t doing either one of them any good, and nothing would make him happier than to have Dominic half-drunk and leaned up against him on the couch that isn’t there.
He would be able to explain that, from time to time, the one thing a man needs is a friend to lean on, and an hour after realizing a dear friend was murdered definitely qualifies as one of those times. What he actually says is, “I’m exhausted, I’m in shock, and I cannot come up with any sort of coherent argument but to ask you to stay. Your choice.”
Dominic’s shoulders slump. He turns and makes his way back into the room. The numbness Finch has been feeling eases a bit at the sight, which unfortunately makes room for more guilt and grief. He squeezes his eyes closed against the wave of pain and waits for it to pass.
A hand settles on his shoulder. Finch opens his eyes to see Dominic standing before him, awkward but determined. His arm is outstretched to touch Finch’s shoulder like they’re children at a dance.
They look at one another. Neither is good at comforting or being comforted. Dominic looks everywhere but at Finch, and Finch can’t think of what to do that might lessen the sense of vertigo about this situation. He knows what he wants, but really can’t stoop to being quite that undignified in front of Stone.
So instead of an embrace, he clasps Stone’s elbow. His voice is gruff when he says, “I shouldn’t have binned the couch.”
“What?” Dominic is looking at Finch like he’s insane. He stands rooted to the spot, and Finch tightens his grip on Dominic’s elbow, fearing he might bolt if not held in place.
“That night … I didn’t … I shouldn’t have binned that couch.”
“It’s been four years, Sir. It’s a bit of a moot point, isn’t it?”
Finch is already exhausted by the night’s events, and he has no desire to beat around the bush. The delicate dance they’ve done for years is too much, so he stomps right through all their neatly constructed boundaries. “Christ,” he says, “I hope not.”
Dominic freezes. His expression freezes; his entire body freezes. Finch can feel the tension in his hand. “Sir, I don’t-that is to say, I’m not-fuck, could you have picked a worse time for this?” Dominic wrenches himself away and drags both his hands through his hair. “I don’t even know what to say! You just … your friend’s dead, and that does things to people. I really can’t credit you with rational thought right now.” He crosses his arms over his chest and then uncrosses them, discomfort radiating from his shifting posture. “Look, I’m here. I need to help you, and God help me, I want to. But I can’t do more than that. I can’t talk about more than that. I just-no, I can’t.”
Finch holds up his hands. “Dominic,” he says, and the name brings his partner to a standstill. “I’m sorry. You’re right, my timing might not have been the worst ever, but it’s certainly ranking. I just want to mend this thing between us. This investigation, it’s like a rabbit hole, and wherever it leads I’m going to need more than a partner. I’m going to need a friend, and I think you will too.
He offers a hand, extended for a handshake, a clasp, anything to any degree. Dominic hesitates for several moments, but then he reaches out too. Finch feels something pass through their clasped hands like electricity, but won’t let himself dwell on it.
Next Chapter: Newspaper Articles
He went in first. He needed to go in first. He already knew what he would find.
She’d told him to go and solve his mystery. She’d told him to give her love to Dominic. Those moments in the morgue had been a goodbye. After so many years of drinks and laugher and discussion, that had been it. He burst into a bedroom he’d never been invited into and saw her sitting in the bed with a rose in her hands, just as she had in the morgue. In that moment, it didn’t matter what he’d known when. He had failed her, and Delia was dead.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
He takes the diary, of course. He could never resist a direct request from Delia, and this was obvious for her. He knew her well enough to tell. Only he really didn’t. She wasn’t even Delia, was she? A name a botanist would have picked for herself, it was. Not like ‘Diana Stanton’. He didn’t know that woman. She was the distance in Delia’s eyes. She was the evasiveness. Had he known Delia at all? Had Delia even existed? He’d joked with her about not existing himself and she’d accused him of being a philosopher, but all the while she was the lie.
He didn’t bother to bag the diary, just pocketed it and watched as her own people loaded her into a bag. Dominic took one look at him and took over the scene, watching over them as they took her out and SOCO came in. It was a blur. A mess of dark and light and voices that didn’t matter. Delia was dead. So was Diana Stanton, but it was the lie that Finch mourned, not the truth. He could see her so clearly, half expected her to open her eyes and wink at him, let him in on the grand joke at his expense. She had been a terrible practical joker when the mood struck, had Delia. She once injected hot sauce into an apple he was eating, and had laughed for hours. She’d look at him days after and start laughing again.
Dammit.
It’s only when he’s being bundled into the car that he realizes Dominic has led him out of Delia’s house. He starts to resist, feeling the need to go back and look over the scene one more time, but Dominic pushes. “Sit, Sir,” he says. “Eric, sit.”
Finch sags back into the seat, hit by the grief and the anger of this senseless death. Delia had seen it coming. She had to have done. Why didn’t she talk to him? They had been friends for so long, she had to have known he would help. He would have protected her.
Dominic climbs into the driver’s seat and Finch turns his head, lest Dominic catch sight of the tears that are beginning to streak his cheeks without his consent. They don’t speak on the drive, and Finch only realizes he’s home when Dominic parks his car, gets out, and then helps Finch out as well.
“Sir …” Dominic says, and then seems to think better of it. He shakes his head and asks, “I’ll see you in, then, shall I?”
Finch can’t muster a response. After a stretch of silence, Dominic goes around the car again. Finch expects him to climb in and drive away, pick Finch up the next morning. Dominic climbs in, but a second later the engine dies and the lights turn off. Dominic climbs out of the car, and now Finch expects him to try something daft like walk, or maybe radio for a squad car to give him a ride.
Dominic walks over, takes Finch by the elbow, and leads him into the flat. Without the couch, there is nowhere in the front room to sit, so Dominic leads Finch upstairs to the bedroom, pushes him into the chair near his window, and says, “Stay.”
He leaves, and Finch expects to hear the front door. After a few moments of silence, he gets up and starts making his way back downstairs. Dominic arrives at the bottom of the stairs when Finch is halfway down. He’s holding two glasses of scotch, and the sight of scotch, the reminder of Delia on all those nights at the pub, strike Finch like a blow to the chest. He sits hard on the stair.
“Shit,” Dominic hisses, and sets both glasses down on the floor before vaulting up the stairs. “Jesus Christ, Sir, can’t you ever do what you’re told?” He pulls Finch to his feet, leads him up the stairs and sits him down in the chair again. “Now stay there while I go and fetch the whiskey, yeah?”
“No.”
Dominic stops. He tenses, uncertainty crossing his face in a wave, trailed by suspicion.
“Don’t think I can look at scotch right now,” Finch said.
Dominic looks from side to side and runs his hand through his hair. “All right,” he says, “what do you need?”
The question strikes Finch as hilarious, and he starts to laugh. What does he need? He needs to rewind the world years back, to zig right when he zagged left. Maybe if he’d kept after Delia, maybe even married her, she would have trusted him enough to tell him about her past. Maybe if he’d done that Dominic wouldn’t have been attracted to him in the first place. It would have been perfect.
Only it wouldn’t. The rational part of him understands that Delia was a brilliant woman. Far more brilliant than he ever knew. She saw right through him. She had known-had to know-that he loved her, but he was never in love with her, and she wasn’t in love with him. The thing they’d both needed from the other was a friend. For that, she’d been perfect. No telling if he was perfect for her, or if he’d been something she’d settled for after she became someone else. He needs to read the diary, he knows. He just can’t bring himself to do so. He can’t shatter the illusion of Delia tonight. Tomorrow he can learn about Diana.
He hasn’t stopped laughing, and Dominic has transitioned through several expressions of worry, becoming increasingly less guarded.
Finch manages to stifle the laughter, and feels the immediate wash of grief in its wake. “You realize that’s a shit question, right?”
Dominic gives a half-shrug. “Yeah. Only thing I could think of, wasn’t it?”
“I want any number of things, but I don’t think you’re likely to be able to give me any of them.”
Dominic nods as though he’s been told something he expected to hear. “Right,” he says, “I’ll just go then, shall I?” He turns to do just that.
“No,” Finch says, and stands up. Dominic stops, but doesn’t turn around. If Finch were a more articulate man he would be able to think of a way to say what needed said. He would be able to explain that he had just lost one of his two friends, and he can’t lose the second. He would be able to explain that this chill between them isn’t doing either one of them any good, and nothing would make him happier than to have Dominic half-drunk and leaned up against him on the couch that isn’t there.
He would be able to explain that, from time to time, the one thing a man needs is a friend to lean on, and an hour after realizing a dear friend was murdered definitely qualifies as one of those times. What he actually says is, “I’m exhausted, I’m in shock, and I cannot come up with any sort of coherent argument but to ask you to stay. Your choice.”
Dominic’s shoulders slump. He turns and makes his way back into the room. The numbness Finch has been feeling eases a bit at the sight, which unfortunately makes room for more guilt and grief. He squeezes his eyes closed against the wave of pain and waits for it to pass.
A hand settles on his shoulder. Finch opens his eyes to see Dominic standing before him, awkward but determined. His arm is outstretched to touch Finch’s shoulder like they’re children at a dance.
They look at one another. Neither is good at comforting or being comforted. Dominic looks everywhere but at Finch, and Finch can’t think of what to do that might lessen the sense of vertigo about this situation. He knows what he wants, but really can’t stoop to being quite that undignified in front of Stone.
So instead of an embrace, he clasps Stone’s elbow. His voice is gruff when he says, “I shouldn’t have binned the couch.”
“What?” Dominic is looking at Finch like he’s insane. He stands rooted to the spot, and Finch tightens his grip on Dominic’s elbow, fearing he might bolt if not held in place.
“That night … I didn’t … I shouldn’t have binned that couch.”
“It’s been four years, Sir. It’s a bit of a moot point, isn’t it?”
Finch is already exhausted by the night’s events, and he has no desire to beat around the bush. The delicate dance they’ve done for years is too much, so he stomps right through all their neatly constructed boundaries. “Christ,” he says, “I hope not.”
Dominic freezes. His expression freezes; his entire body freezes. Finch can feel the tension in his hand. “Sir, I don’t-that is to say, I’m not-fuck, could you have picked a worse time for this?” Dominic wrenches himself away and drags both his hands through his hair. “I don’t even know what to say! You just … your friend’s dead, and that does things to people. I really can’t credit you with rational thought right now.” He crosses his arms over his chest and then uncrosses them, discomfort radiating from his shifting posture. “Look, I’m here. I need to help you, and God help me, I want to. But I can’t do more than that. I can’t talk about more than that. I just-no, I can’t.”
Finch holds up his hands. “Dominic,” he says, and the name brings his partner to a standstill. “I’m sorry. You’re right, my timing might not have been the worst ever, but it’s certainly ranking. I just want to mend this thing between us. This investigation, it’s like a rabbit hole, and wherever it leads I’m going to need more than a partner. I’m going to need a friend, and I think you will too.
He offers a hand, extended for a handshake, a clasp, anything to any degree. Dominic hesitates for several moments, but then he reaches out too. Finch feels something pass through their clasped hands like electricity, but won’t let himself dwell on it.
Next Chapter: Newspaper Articles