Fic: Material Culture (Chapter 16)
Title: Material Culture
Fandom: 'V for Vendetta' (movie)
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: NC-17 to be safe. Here thar be sex, at any rate.
Summary: Every object has significance. The goal of study is to determine what it is.
Pairing: 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.
Previous Chapter: Newspaper Articles
oOo oOo Chapter 16: Couch oOo oOo
Dominic cleaned up his desk before he left, each piece of evidence grouped by lead. He packed up his file and took it with him as he went, giving Finch only one glance of confirmation.
Finch stayed behind, tying up loose ends on a few avenues of investigation, then setting his own desk in order and looking at Dominic’s. It was careful, now. There was little more personality than when it was completely blank. Everything there was about work. Finch wondered where all his things got to, particularly the clocks and the paper tiger.
He picked up a sheet of printer paper and folded it, but got little more than a jagged mess. He’d never bothered with anything like origami. Now it seemed a shame.
He pocketed his half-formed creation and made his way out, his own case file tucked under his arm.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
There is a knock at the door at five, an hour before curfew. Finch opens the door, and Dominic is standing there, freshly shaven and nervous with his files in his hands. “Sir?” he asks.
“Come inside,” Finch says.
Dominic does. He’s awkward as he shrugs out of his overcoat and hangs it on the front hall tree. His suit is rumpled, and his hair looks like he’s run his hands through it too many times for product to entirely hold it. Finch leads him into the front room, and Dominic stops dead.
“You got a new couch,” he says.
“The front room seemed bare without one.”
“I don’t really know what to say,” Dominic says, sounding gruff and uncertain.
“Say you’ll sit. I’ll get us some whiskey.”
“I shouldn’t, Sir,” Dominic says, his strain evident. “Not if we want to go through this file tonight.”
He’s standing in the middle of the room. The curtains are drawn over the windows, and not even their silhouettes will be visible outside. They are as alone as it is possible to be in this world.
So Finch takes the case file from Dominic’s hands, drops it on the coffee table with his own, and touches the side of Dominic’s face. He wants to say something profound or witty. Something to break the frozen look on Dominic’s face. He can’t think of a thing. He’s well off the map in his upside down world, after everything that has happened to him and everything he knows. There is nothing right anymore, but this feels as right as it did before he knew about Dominic. There is a small, furious part of him that wants to tear down everything he ever believed in, but he doesn’t want to hurt his partner.
He wants to kiss him. It’s been longer than he cares to think since he had that simple anchor to the land of the living, and drifting as he is he craves it. Their mouths are close, and he notices that Dominic brushed his teeth before coming over.
And then Dominic stumbles back and blurts out, “They executed Gordon Deitrich today.”
Finch knows. Everyone in the country knows. It was a fucking shock to find out Deitrich had been arrested for possession of Muslim artifacts and homosexual erotica. Finch knew what would happen, even before he’d heard Sutler hand down the expected orders, but it still came as a shock to read about it on the Interlink this morning. He knows this is a warning of sorts, the most Dominic can muster. And it’s well taken. What Finch has in mind right now is stupidly dangerous.
But Gordon Deitrich, who is already being deified by every budding revolutionary in the country, was not executed for his homosexual erotica. It was the Q’uran that had guaranteed the death sentence. And if Finch is also going to be killed, he expects his sentence to come from his current investigation. Sex with his partner will only be icing on a cake that’s already frosted.
“I know,” Finch says.
“Creedy would bag us, and every lad who’s ever worked with us. The Met has to stand apart from the Finger, or there’s no point.”
“Creedy’s got his own concerns,” Finch says. He thinks of Creedy growing more and more still during their recent meetings with Sutler. Creedy is taking more and more of the blame for the situation, even as Finch feels himself dismissed as unworthy of attention.
Dominic is not deterred. “We haven’t even talked about how stupid it is to sleep with someone in your chain of command. We can’t afford conflicts of interest here.”
Finch smiles at that. He realizes his cynicism has actually come full-circle into optimism. “You’re smart and you’re good in the field. You take orders when I give them, and you’re not afraid to debate me once we’re back at the office. How long’s it been since you had sex that you think it’s going to change any of that? I appreciate the compliment, but I can guarantee to you, it’s not going to be that earth-shattering.”
Dominic laughs, and Finch lets himself be drawn in by the sight. Dominic has smiled so rarely these past few years, and Finch knows he’s largely to blame. Seeing this smile, and hearing Dominic laugh as they stand next to the new couch makes Finch feel as if he’s been allowed to reset the entire situation. Without meaning to this time, Finch draws in until he can feel Dominic’s fading laughter on his mouth. Dominic goes quiet and still again.
Dominic will not make this move. He’s spent his whole life resisting this move. Finch runs his hands through Dominic’s hair and watches those dark eyes flutter closed. “Please say yes,” Finch says.
Dominic mouths the word. Finch kisses him.
Dominic lights up, and Finch feels a hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pulling him in close. The differences are obvious: the hands too big, the chest too flat, the waist too broad. Dominic isn’t aroused yet, but Finch imagines that will be more different than anything else has been. Finch’s hands settle on too narrow hips and he drags his thumbnails against the crest of bone he can feel through Dominic’s trousers.
The kiss is harsh and clinging, tongues demanding, hands grabbing. They are too far-gone to be gentle or hesitant now. Finch knows that his legs can’t take this sort of strain long, but there’s a couch in the room again, and surely that means something. He backs up until the backs of his legs hit the cushions, and when he lets himself sink back against it Dominic comes with.
The weight of him is different, and Finch toys with the idea of being intimidated, but dismisses it after little consideration. Dominic has been many things to him over the years, but never intimidating. This is losing himself, giving into temptation in the only way that isn’t also giving up.
When they come up for air Finch blinks up at Dominic, who blinks down at him. “Well,” Finch says after a moment’s consideration, “that was significantly less shocking than I thought it might be.”
Dominic laughs. “Speak for yourself. Spent all day with my guts tied in knots, didn’t I?” His grin is wide. Finch lays back and admires the view. “What?” Dominic asks when he notices the attention.
Finch shrugs. “Not actually sure what to do now. Or what I want to do. Or what you want to do.”
“Right,” Dominic says. He looks between them at rumpled ties and half-divested suit jackets. He seems to consider their position on the new couch. Finch knows his bemused, puzzled look from enough cases, but in this context it seems particularly accurate. It’s not that Finch hasn’t given thought to this, and certainly his dreams have had their way with the situation, but he is practical enough to know that what happens in dreams is rarely what happens in reality. Dominic has clearly come to the same conclusion, because he says, “You do know I’ve spent the majority of my life trying very hard to not think of exactly this, right?”
“I had guessed as much, yes.”
Dominic shoots Finch an irritated look. “Well, what about you? Unless I missed something, this isn’t exactly your usual, either. Or your ever. I was convinced there was something between you and Delia.”
Finch laughs, but the mere mention of her still hurts. “Oh, she was too smart by half for anything like that. We needed friends far more than lovers, the two of us.”
“But you were attracted.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The alternative to being attracted to Delia isn’t the sort of thing that lets a man get along in the modern police force, so it just wasn’t there. I don’t know if it’s caught your notice, but I’m rather good at ignoring things outside work for an improbable amount of time.”
Dominic nods. Finch touches the side of his face to still him, to analyze the complex expression. It isn’t regret, but there are wistful shadows there, and some small traces of bitterness around his edges sketched into chiaroscuro by an equally small amount of hope. Between these deep patches of emotion Dominic is blank, waiting.
Finch sighs. “You’re not just convenient, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ve never been sodding convenient.”
It earns him a chuckle. “Okay. That’s … this is all … right, fuck it. Fair warning, Eric: if you turf me out in another panic tomorrow, so help me Christ I will set fire to this couch.”
Finch opens his mouth for some sort of rejoinder, but he’s stopped by another kiss. Which is fine, too. He groans softly and allows his mouth to fall open and his hands to tangle in Dominic’s hair.
It’s still different, but not the worlds apart Finch had feared. It’s more a step sideways, enough strength to pin him down but nothing new in technique. He disentangles one hand and drags it down Dominic’s back, feeling his shoulder blades moving under the rough texture of a cheap button-down. His hand gets tangled in Dominic’s jacket, and Dominic breaks away to sit up and strip it off. His shoulder-holster is stark against pale blue cotton, and would look good if Finch hadn’t investigated several accidental shootings in his career. Guns are only fun to play with before you know what they can do to you.
He reaches up to undo the buckles, and Dominic helps him shuck the holster. Dominic hesitates before giving it up, and the realization that they are doing this in the front room, with only a curtain between them and discovery, hits Finch hard. So does the strain of the couch’s arm compressing his head down toward his body.
“Can we continue this upstairs?” he asks. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself, mind, but I got too old for sex on the couch about twenty years ago.”
Dominic climbs off him, pulling off his tie as he goes. Finch stands up and shucks his coat and tie as well. He takes more care with his holster, laying it to the side. He considers taking the gun up with him, but knows better. If the Finger comes for him, he won’t have a chance of fighting them off. Creedy’s wanted to bag Dominic and him for years for no reason other than being there. Giving Creedy an actual reason only feels like vindication. Finch lays his gun on the coffee table and walks away.
Dominic precedes him up the stairs, and Finch trails behind. He watches his partner’s back, trying to memorize the play of light and shadow across him, trying to pin down the ‘why’ of this situation for himself. He’s been so busy thinking of doing this since the dream that he hasn’t bothered asking himself why he might want it. He just assumed he did and went from there.
Dominic isn’t built like a woman. He’s sleek and powerful, but is all straight lines and angles instead of curves. His face is classically handsome, but what Finch likes most about him are the lines around his eyes and mouth. Dominic has lived a life, both before Finch met him and in the years since. Some of that time they were close, and some of it they weren’t, but even at their most distant, Dominic has been alive to Finch in ways only Delia was for a long time. And there’s a quality to their interactions that wasn’t even there with Delia. It isn’t as comfortable, but it’s something that burns hotter, that gets Finch’s blood pumping. He’d thought it to be the thrill of the job kicking in after so long dormant; maybe his young partner infecting him with enthusiasm. And it is that, certainly. There’s no way to discount their partnership or their once-friendship in the face of this burgeoning attraction. It’s just another layer.
Maybe the reason he’s having such a hard time pinpointing the ‘why’ of this situation is how inevitable it all feels.
Dominic opens the door to the bedroom. Finch follows him. The bed is a sea of white, and only a few weeks ago Dominic turned down an invitation to stay. Finch turns in time to see Dominic tug off his second shoe and work to strip away the sock. “Nothing worse than socks and sex,” he says.
Finch is smiling when he pulls off his own shoes and socks. Dominic is fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, and Finch is seized by the need to undo them himself. It’s been years, but he can still remember enjoying that part.
He steps into Dominic’s space and bats away his hands. He hears Dominic suck in a surprised breath as he goes to work, but doesn’t look up from the task at hand. He works his way down, tugging the shirt out from Dominic’s trousers to get at the last button, and then runs his hand up against Dominic’s undershirt. His stomach is smooth, and Finch spares a hope that Dominic doesn’t mind terribly that his has long since lost that sort of tone. His chest is firm where Finch was used to soft, and the soft catch of nipples farther apart than a woman’s. Dominic hisses between his teeth, and Finch pushes Dominic’s shirt down his arms to tangle at his wrists. It’s like some bizarre form of handcuffs, and Finch takes advantage of the situation before he can think not to.
He has to reach up to kiss Dominic, and he lets his hands explore Dominic’s sides and his back, more clearly defined with only his vest on. Dominic is struggling to shuck his shirt, and Finch pulls his undershirt from his trousers while he’s distracted. Dominic goes quite still when Finch explores him again under the cotton. He bends down and mouths at Dominic’s exposed collar bone as he traces vertebrae.
A shudder runs through Dominic and he almost tears out of his shirt. His fingers shake as they unbutton Finch’s shirt in turn, shoving it off with none of his usual grace and tugging at Finch’s vest. They break away from one another just long enough to strip down to the waist and then Dominic is grabbing Finch and dragging him back in again.
His kisses have heated, and his hands rasp against Finch’s skin. The callouses are lovely, and Finch grabs Dominic around the waist. They press together, and, Dominic is hard against him now. Yes, that’s new. That’s very new and very strange. Finch finds his lack of shock equally strange, but welcome.
This, he decides, would be a good time to relocate to the bed. He backs up and Dominic comes with him. His knees bump against the side of the bed, and he’s more than willing to let Dominic push him down.
He is less willing when the back of his head finds no support at the foot of the bed and swings back hard only to crack against the baseboard. He sits up, clutching at the back of his head and snarling, “Son of a bitch.”
He blinks open his eyes when he hears what sounds like stifled laughter. Sure enough, Dominic has a hand clapped over his mouth and his shoulders are shaking.
“Ha bleeding ha,” Finch grumbles. “Nearly gave myself concussion thanks to you.”
“Not my fault we aren’t terribly good at all this.”
Finch sighs. This is not the way he intended this night to go. He tries to think of some way to rekindle the mood, but it’s gone with the throbbing in his head. “What do you say we just go to sleep instead?” he says. “Something we can’t get wrong.”
Dominic looks at him hard. He’s still kneeling on the bed in his trousers and little else. The part of Finch that isn’t busy nursing a rather impressive skull-and-ego-bruise is taken by the sight. Dominic keeps himself trim, Finch has known for years, but he’s never had the chance to admire the results so close.
“It’s been four years, Eric,” Dominic says, “four fucking years of being torn between wanting this and wanting to shoot you for holding my secret over my head. Four fucking years of mixed signals.” He moves fast, catching Finch and throwing him onto his back with Dominic straddling his hips. “The last thing I want to do with you right now is sleep.”
“You will show me how you did that just then, right?”
“In the morning, Sir. As much as you’d like.”
“Right.” Finch pulls Dominic down to him, and kissing horizontally is even better than vertically. Dominic rubs against him hard, and Finch twists one hand in Dominic’s hair to pull his head to the side and kiss his way down his neck.
They aren’t gentle. They’re four years past gentle. Finch finds his hand at Dominic’s belt and doesn’t pause before he’s unbuckling. He doesn’t bother pulling it out, just tackles the next obstacle in between nips at the muscle running down the side of Dominic’s neck. He can hear Dominic’s breath harsh in his ear, and can feel Dominic’s hands at his own waist.
They shove clothing out of the way as soon as possible and are pressed together again without bothering to get shot of it completely. Finch can’t be arsed to deal with trousers and pants around his knees when he’s processing the feeling of Dominic’s cock slick against his own.
It strikes him then, rutting against his partner, and getting jerked back up into a sloppy kiss that nearly splits his lip, that neither of them have the first clue what they’re doing. This is pure instinct. Finch flashes back to the pornography that had started this whole mess, but can’t pick out any particularly instructive imagery. There was sex, and it had seemed rather penetrative to him, but he has no idea how to translate that into convincing the human body that anal sex is a physiological possibility.
Oral sex. That was another popular theme, and more manageable. But while Dominic’s cock isn’t so bad rubbing against his stomach, Finch isn’t certain that sort of thing would hold if he crawled down and got close.
That, and given how the night has gone thus far, he’ll probably choke himself. Better to stick with something he’s certain about. He slides a hand between their bodies and closes it around Dominic. It isn’t an altogether odd feeling. He’s done this to himself all his life. He knows the texture, and having this cock the wrong way round doesn’t make much difference to his hand.
Dominic is all approval. He throws his head back and whisperes, “Shit,” fervently enough it might as well be a prayer to God.
That sight drives Finch to do right by this act. He might well fail the case, might even be killed because of it. He can easily fail this relationship in the long term, but he can damn well get this one moment right.
He uses his shoulder and hip to roll Dominic under him. His partner is sprawled across the pillows and Finch watches his face as he wanks him, focusing on the play of expressions. Dominic catches his lower lip between his teeth, but loses it in a loud gasp. His eyes are squeezed closed, but when Finch uses his free hand to stroke Dominic’s disheveled hair back he opens them. They both stare at one another, gasping, and Finch can see the moment Dominic’s orgasm start to build. His eyes go wide and Finch can feel his hips spasm hard, driving them together in such a way that Finch is abruptly reminded of his own arousal.
Dominic’s mouth clamps shut and his eyes close as his entire body arches. His groan is muffled in his mouth, and Finch can feel a familiar stickiness all over his hand. The reach for the towel in his bedside table is automatic, and as he wipes his hand clean he looks Dominic over.
His eyes are slow to blink open, his mouth lax as he gasps his way into aftermath. Sweat has popped up all over him, and he has a faint sheen in the moonlight that spills in through the window. Some consideration is in order, and he towels Dominic off as gently as he would himself. He should feel less accustomed to seeing this man naked in his bed, he thinks, but Dominic seems as though he’s always been there.
“I seem to have left you a bit behind, haven’t I?” Dominic murmurs. His voice is gravelly, and it makes Finch close his eyes against the sudden rush of want.
And then he’s on his back again, and Dominic is wanking him harder than he might handle himself, and with a much harsher twist against the head. The feeling is like the world has been pulled out from under his feet. He’s groaning softly, under his breath, grasping Dominic’s sides. He’s going to make enough noise to be heard by drive-by surveillance if he’s not careful, and he can’t imagine what this might be like with Dominic’s mouth on his cock. The image itself makes him quake and thrust harder into his hand.
He kisses Dominic to muffle himself, and the vibrations of his moans are met by Dominic’s own. They are frantic against one another again, Finch running his hands down Dominic’s back until he finds himself grasping at his arse. He kneads at it, and Dominic breaks the kiss to pant against his neck, “Christ, Eric, I’m not up for another go quite yet. Give us some time.”
Finch has no concept of time, and squeezes. His cock rubs against Dominic’s stomach every time it emerges from his hand, and he’s not going to last against this closeness. Dominic ducks his head and mouths at Finch’s nipple. It’s a bizzare sensation, and not one he expects to tip him over into orgasm, but the sudden, sharp application of teeth drags a bark of sound from him without his consent, and all he can feel for the next ten seconds are the waves of pleasure crashing him into near-catatonia.
When he wakes up enough, Dominic is toweling them off. Finch is sensitive all over, and wants to draw back, but then it’s done and Dominic falls to his side like a felled tree. He struggles out of his trousers and pants as an afterthought, and Finch does the same with what little remains of his strength.
“Well,” Dominic whispers, “that was …”
“It was,” Finch agrees, not caring what he’s agreeing to. His body is going to go to sleep whether he wants it or not, and Dominic appears ready to do the same. The next morning will come, and bring with it the case, and conspiracies, and an endless tunnel of lies that Finch can’t hope to see the end of. This night, he wants something warm.
He tugs at Dominic’s arm, and feels his partner obligingly drape himself half-over Finch. Their legs are tangled, Dominic’s limp cock pressed against Finch’s hip, and Dominic’s arm wrapped around his middle. Finch fumbles at the covers and drags them up. They share the pillow, and at this close range Finch can almost see color in Dominic’s eyes.
“See you in the morning?” he asks, half-asleep already. His arm curls under Dominic and wraps around his back.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Next Chapter: Suppressor
Fandom: 'V for Vendetta' (movie)
Author: Nemo the Everbeing
Rating: NC-17 to be safe. Here thar be sex, at any rate.
Summary: Every object has significance. The goal of study is to determine what it is.
Pairing: 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.
Previous Chapter: Newspaper Articles
oOo oOo Chapter 16: Couch oOo oOo
Dominic cleaned up his desk before he left, each piece of evidence grouped by lead. He packed up his file and took it with him as he went, giving Finch only one glance of confirmation.
Finch stayed behind, tying up loose ends on a few avenues of investigation, then setting his own desk in order and looking at Dominic’s. It was careful, now. There was little more personality than when it was completely blank. Everything there was about work. Finch wondered where all his things got to, particularly the clocks and the paper tiger.
He picked up a sheet of printer paper and folded it, but got little more than a jagged mess. He’d never bothered with anything like origami. Now it seemed a shame.
He pocketed his half-formed creation and made his way out, his own case file tucked under his arm.
oOo oOo oOo oOo
There is a knock at the door at five, an hour before curfew. Finch opens the door, and Dominic is standing there, freshly shaven and nervous with his files in his hands. “Sir?” he asks.
“Come inside,” Finch says.
Dominic does. He’s awkward as he shrugs out of his overcoat and hangs it on the front hall tree. His suit is rumpled, and his hair looks like he’s run his hands through it too many times for product to entirely hold it. Finch leads him into the front room, and Dominic stops dead.
“You got a new couch,” he says.
“The front room seemed bare without one.”
“I don’t really know what to say,” Dominic says, sounding gruff and uncertain.
“Say you’ll sit. I’ll get us some whiskey.”
“I shouldn’t, Sir,” Dominic says, his strain evident. “Not if we want to go through this file tonight.”
He’s standing in the middle of the room. The curtains are drawn over the windows, and not even their silhouettes will be visible outside. They are as alone as it is possible to be in this world.
So Finch takes the case file from Dominic’s hands, drops it on the coffee table with his own, and touches the side of Dominic’s face. He wants to say something profound or witty. Something to break the frozen look on Dominic’s face. He can’t think of a thing. He’s well off the map in his upside down world, after everything that has happened to him and everything he knows. There is nothing right anymore, but this feels as right as it did before he knew about Dominic. There is a small, furious part of him that wants to tear down everything he ever believed in, but he doesn’t want to hurt his partner.
He wants to kiss him. It’s been longer than he cares to think since he had that simple anchor to the land of the living, and drifting as he is he craves it. Their mouths are close, and he notices that Dominic brushed his teeth before coming over.
And then Dominic stumbles back and blurts out, “They executed Gordon Deitrich today.”
Finch knows. Everyone in the country knows. It was a fucking shock to find out Deitrich had been arrested for possession of Muslim artifacts and homosexual erotica. Finch knew what would happen, even before he’d heard Sutler hand down the expected orders, but it still came as a shock to read about it on the Interlink this morning. He knows this is a warning of sorts, the most Dominic can muster. And it’s well taken. What Finch has in mind right now is stupidly dangerous.
But Gordon Deitrich, who is already being deified by every budding revolutionary in the country, was not executed for his homosexual erotica. It was the Q’uran that had guaranteed the death sentence. And if Finch is also going to be killed, he expects his sentence to come from his current investigation. Sex with his partner will only be icing on a cake that’s already frosted.
“I know,” Finch says.
“Creedy would bag us, and every lad who’s ever worked with us. The Met has to stand apart from the Finger, or there’s no point.”
“Creedy’s got his own concerns,” Finch says. He thinks of Creedy growing more and more still during their recent meetings with Sutler. Creedy is taking more and more of the blame for the situation, even as Finch feels himself dismissed as unworthy of attention.
Dominic is not deterred. “We haven’t even talked about how stupid it is to sleep with someone in your chain of command. We can’t afford conflicts of interest here.”
Finch smiles at that. He realizes his cynicism has actually come full-circle into optimism. “You’re smart and you’re good in the field. You take orders when I give them, and you’re not afraid to debate me once we’re back at the office. How long’s it been since you had sex that you think it’s going to change any of that? I appreciate the compliment, but I can guarantee to you, it’s not going to be that earth-shattering.”
Dominic laughs, and Finch lets himself be drawn in by the sight. Dominic has smiled so rarely these past few years, and Finch knows he’s largely to blame. Seeing this smile, and hearing Dominic laugh as they stand next to the new couch makes Finch feel as if he’s been allowed to reset the entire situation. Without meaning to this time, Finch draws in until he can feel Dominic’s fading laughter on his mouth. Dominic goes quiet and still again.
Dominic will not make this move. He’s spent his whole life resisting this move. Finch runs his hands through Dominic’s hair and watches those dark eyes flutter closed. “Please say yes,” Finch says.
Dominic mouths the word. Finch kisses him.
Dominic lights up, and Finch feels a hand pressed between his shoulder blades, pulling him in close. The differences are obvious: the hands too big, the chest too flat, the waist too broad. Dominic isn’t aroused yet, but Finch imagines that will be more different than anything else has been. Finch’s hands settle on too narrow hips and he drags his thumbnails against the crest of bone he can feel through Dominic’s trousers.
The kiss is harsh and clinging, tongues demanding, hands grabbing. They are too far-gone to be gentle or hesitant now. Finch knows that his legs can’t take this sort of strain long, but there’s a couch in the room again, and surely that means something. He backs up until the backs of his legs hit the cushions, and when he lets himself sink back against it Dominic comes with.
The weight of him is different, and Finch toys with the idea of being intimidated, but dismisses it after little consideration. Dominic has been many things to him over the years, but never intimidating. This is losing himself, giving into temptation in the only way that isn’t also giving up.
When they come up for air Finch blinks up at Dominic, who blinks down at him. “Well,” Finch says after a moment’s consideration, “that was significantly less shocking than I thought it might be.”
Dominic laughs. “Speak for yourself. Spent all day with my guts tied in knots, didn’t I?” His grin is wide. Finch lays back and admires the view. “What?” Dominic asks when he notices the attention.
Finch shrugs. “Not actually sure what to do now. Or what I want to do. Or what you want to do.”
“Right,” Dominic says. He looks between them at rumpled ties and half-divested suit jackets. He seems to consider their position on the new couch. Finch knows his bemused, puzzled look from enough cases, but in this context it seems particularly accurate. It’s not that Finch hasn’t given thought to this, and certainly his dreams have had their way with the situation, but he is practical enough to know that what happens in dreams is rarely what happens in reality. Dominic has clearly come to the same conclusion, because he says, “You do know I’ve spent the majority of my life trying very hard to not think of exactly this, right?”
“I had guessed as much, yes.”
Dominic shoots Finch an irritated look. “Well, what about you? Unless I missed something, this isn’t exactly your usual, either. Or your ever. I was convinced there was something between you and Delia.”
Finch laughs, but the mere mention of her still hurts. “Oh, she was too smart by half for anything like that. We needed friends far more than lovers, the two of us.”
“But you were attracted.”
“Maybe. I don’t know. The alternative to being attracted to Delia isn’t the sort of thing that lets a man get along in the modern police force, so it just wasn’t there. I don’t know if it’s caught your notice, but I’m rather good at ignoring things outside work for an improbable amount of time.”
Dominic nods. Finch touches the side of his face to still him, to analyze the complex expression. It isn’t regret, but there are wistful shadows there, and some small traces of bitterness around his edges sketched into chiaroscuro by an equally small amount of hope. Between these deep patches of emotion Dominic is blank, waiting.
Finch sighs. “You’re not just convenient, if that’s what you’re worried about. You’ve never been sodding convenient.”
It earns him a chuckle. “Okay. That’s … this is all … right, fuck it. Fair warning, Eric: if you turf me out in another panic tomorrow, so help me Christ I will set fire to this couch.”
Finch opens his mouth for some sort of rejoinder, but he’s stopped by another kiss. Which is fine, too. He groans softly and allows his mouth to fall open and his hands to tangle in Dominic’s hair.
It’s still different, but not the worlds apart Finch had feared. It’s more a step sideways, enough strength to pin him down but nothing new in technique. He disentangles one hand and drags it down Dominic’s back, feeling his shoulder blades moving under the rough texture of a cheap button-down. His hand gets tangled in Dominic’s jacket, and Dominic breaks away to sit up and strip it off. His shoulder-holster is stark against pale blue cotton, and would look good if Finch hadn’t investigated several accidental shootings in his career. Guns are only fun to play with before you know what they can do to you.
He reaches up to undo the buckles, and Dominic helps him shuck the holster. Dominic hesitates before giving it up, and the realization that they are doing this in the front room, with only a curtain between them and discovery, hits Finch hard. So does the strain of the couch’s arm compressing his head down toward his body.
“Can we continue this upstairs?” he asks. “Not that I’m not enjoying myself, mind, but I got too old for sex on the couch about twenty years ago.”
Dominic climbs off him, pulling off his tie as he goes. Finch stands up and shucks his coat and tie as well. He takes more care with his holster, laying it to the side. He considers taking the gun up with him, but knows better. If the Finger comes for him, he won’t have a chance of fighting them off. Creedy’s wanted to bag Dominic and him for years for no reason other than being there. Giving Creedy an actual reason only feels like vindication. Finch lays his gun on the coffee table and walks away.
Dominic precedes him up the stairs, and Finch trails behind. He watches his partner’s back, trying to memorize the play of light and shadow across him, trying to pin down the ‘why’ of this situation for himself. He’s been so busy thinking of doing this since the dream that he hasn’t bothered asking himself why he might want it. He just assumed he did and went from there.
Dominic isn’t built like a woman. He’s sleek and powerful, but is all straight lines and angles instead of curves. His face is classically handsome, but what Finch likes most about him are the lines around his eyes and mouth. Dominic has lived a life, both before Finch met him and in the years since. Some of that time they were close, and some of it they weren’t, but even at their most distant, Dominic has been alive to Finch in ways only Delia was for a long time. And there’s a quality to their interactions that wasn’t even there with Delia. It isn’t as comfortable, but it’s something that burns hotter, that gets Finch’s blood pumping. He’d thought it to be the thrill of the job kicking in after so long dormant; maybe his young partner infecting him with enthusiasm. And it is that, certainly. There’s no way to discount their partnership or their once-friendship in the face of this burgeoning attraction. It’s just another layer.
Maybe the reason he’s having such a hard time pinpointing the ‘why’ of this situation is how inevitable it all feels.
Dominic opens the door to the bedroom. Finch follows him. The bed is a sea of white, and only a few weeks ago Dominic turned down an invitation to stay. Finch turns in time to see Dominic tug off his second shoe and work to strip away the sock. “Nothing worse than socks and sex,” he says.
Finch is smiling when he pulls off his own shoes and socks. Dominic is fiddling with the buttons on his shirt, and Finch is seized by the need to undo them himself. It’s been years, but he can still remember enjoying that part.
He steps into Dominic’s space and bats away his hands. He hears Dominic suck in a surprised breath as he goes to work, but doesn’t look up from the task at hand. He works his way down, tugging the shirt out from Dominic’s trousers to get at the last button, and then runs his hand up against Dominic’s undershirt. His stomach is smooth, and Finch spares a hope that Dominic doesn’t mind terribly that his has long since lost that sort of tone. His chest is firm where Finch was used to soft, and the soft catch of nipples farther apart than a woman’s. Dominic hisses between his teeth, and Finch pushes Dominic’s shirt down his arms to tangle at his wrists. It’s like some bizarre form of handcuffs, and Finch takes advantage of the situation before he can think not to.
He has to reach up to kiss Dominic, and he lets his hands explore Dominic’s sides and his back, more clearly defined with only his vest on. Dominic is struggling to shuck his shirt, and Finch pulls his undershirt from his trousers while he’s distracted. Dominic goes quite still when Finch explores him again under the cotton. He bends down and mouths at Dominic’s exposed collar bone as he traces vertebrae.
A shudder runs through Dominic and he almost tears out of his shirt. His fingers shake as they unbutton Finch’s shirt in turn, shoving it off with none of his usual grace and tugging at Finch’s vest. They break away from one another just long enough to strip down to the waist and then Dominic is grabbing Finch and dragging him back in again.
His kisses have heated, and his hands rasp against Finch’s skin. The callouses are lovely, and Finch grabs Dominic around the waist. They press together, and, Dominic is hard against him now. Yes, that’s new. That’s very new and very strange. Finch finds his lack of shock equally strange, but welcome.
This, he decides, would be a good time to relocate to the bed. He backs up and Dominic comes with him. His knees bump against the side of the bed, and he’s more than willing to let Dominic push him down.
He is less willing when the back of his head finds no support at the foot of the bed and swings back hard only to crack against the baseboard. He sits up, clutching at the back of his head and snarling, “Son of a bitch.”
He blinks open his eyes when he hears what sounds like stifled laughter. Sure enough, Dominic has a hand clapped over his mouth and his shoulders are shaking.
“Ha bleeding ha,” Finch grumbles. “Nearly gave myself concussion thanks to you.”
“Not my fault we aren’t terribly good at all this.”
Finch sighs. This is not the way he intended this night to go. He tries to think of some way to rekindle the mood, but it’s gone with the throbbing in his head. “What do you say we just go to sleep instead?” he says. “Something we can’t get wrong.”
Dominic looks at him hard. He’s still kneeling on the bed in his trousers and little else. The part of Finch that isn’t busy nursing a rather impressive skull-and-ego-bruise is taken by the sight. Dominic keeps himself trim, Finch has known for years, but he’s never had the chance to admire the results so close.
“It’s been four years, Eric,” Dominic says, “four fucking years of being torn between wanting this and wanting to shoot you for holding my secret over my head. Four fucking years of mixed signals.” He moves fast, catching Finch and throwing him onto his back with Dominic straddling his hips. “The last thing I want to do with you right now is sleep.”
“You will show me how you did that just then, right?”
“In the morning, Sir. As much as you’d like.”
“Right.” Finch pulls Dominic down to him, and kissing horizontally is even better than vertically. Dominic rubs against him hard, and Finch twists one hand in Dominic’s hair to pull his head to the side and kiss his way down his neck.
They aren’t gentle. They’re four years past gentle. Finch finds his hand at Dominic’s belt and doesn’t pause before he’s unbuckling. He doesn’t bother pulling it out, just tackles the next obstacle in between nips at the muscle running down the side of Dominic’s neck. He can hear Dominic’s breath harsh in his ear, and can feel Dominic’s hands at his own waist.
They shove clothing out of the way as soon as possible and are pressed together again without bothering to get shot of it completely. Finch can’t be arsed to deal with trousers and pants around his knees when he’s processing the feeling of Dominic’s cock slick against his own.
It strikes him then, rutting against his partner, and getting jerked back up into a sloppy kiss that nearly splits his lip, that neither of them have the first clue what they’re doing. This is pure instinct. Finch flashes back to the pornography that had started this whole mess, but can’t pick out any particularly instructive imagery. There was sex, and it had seemed rather penetrative to him, but he has no idea how to translate that into convincing the human body that anal sex is a physiological possibility.
Oral sex. That was another popular theme, and more manageable. But while Dominic’s cock isn’t so bad rubbing against his stomach, Finch isn’t certain that sort of thing would hold if he crawled down and got close.
That, and given how the night has gone thus far, he’ll probably choke himself. Better to stick with something he’s certain about. He slides a hand between their bodies and closes it around Dominic. It isn’t an altogether odd feeling. He’s done this to himself all his life. He knows the texture, and having this cock the wrong way round doesn’t make much difference to his hand.
Dominic is all approval. He throws his head back and whisperes, “Shit,” fervently enough it might as well be a prayer to God.
That sight drives Finch to do right by this act. He might well fail the case, might even be killed because of it. He can easily fail this relationship in the long term, but he can damn well get this one moment right.
He uses his shoulder and hip to roll Dominic under him. His partner is sprawled across the pillows and Finch watches his face as he wanks him, focusing on the play of expressions. Dominic catches his lower lip between his teeth, but loses it in a loud gasp. His eyes are squeezed closed, but when Finch uses his free hand to stroke Dominic’s disheveled hair back he opens them. They both stare at one another, gasping, and Finch can see the moment Dominic’s orgasm start to build. His eyes go wide and Finch can feel his hips spasm hard, driving them together in such a way that Finch is abruptly reminded of his own arousal.
Dominic’s mouth clamps shut and his eyes close as his entire body arches. His groan is muffled in his mouth, and Finch can feel a familiar stickiness all over his hand. The reach for the towel in his bedside table is automatic, and as he wipes his hand clean he looks Dominic over.
His eyes are slow to blink open, his mouth lax as he gasps his way into aftermath. Sweat has popped up all over him, and he has a faint sheen in the moonlight that spills in through the window. Some consideration is in order, and he towels Dominic off as gently as he would himself. He should feel less accustomed to seeing this man naked in his bed, he thinks, but Dominic seems as though he’s always been there.
“I seem to have left you a bit behind, haven’t I?” Dominic murmurs. His voice is gravelly, and it makes Finch close his eyes against the sudden rush of want.
And then he’s on his back again, and Dominic is wanking him harder than he might handle himself, and with a much harsher twist against the head. The feeling is like the world has been pulled out from under his feet. He’s groaning softly, under his breath, grasping Dominic’s sides. He’s going to make enough noise to be heard by drive-by surveillance if he’s not careful, and he can’t imagine what this might be like with Dominic’s mouth on his cock. The image itself makes him quake and thrust harder into his hand.
He kisses Dominic to muffle himself, and the vibrations of his moans are met by Dominic’s own. They are frantic against one another again, Finch running his hands down Dominic’s back until he finds himself grasping at his arse. He kneads at it, and Dominic breaks the kiss to pant against his neck, “Christ, Eric, I’m not up for another go quite yet. Give us some time.”
Finch has no concept of time, and squeezes. His cock rubs against Dominic’s stomach every time it emerges from his hand, and he’s not going to last against this closeness. Dominic ducks his head and mouths at Finch’s nipple. It’s a bizzare sensation, and not one he expects to tip him over into orgasm, but the sudden, sharp application of teeth drags a bark of sound from him without his consent, and all he can feel for the next ten seconds are the waves of pleasure crashing him into near-catatonia.
When he wakes up enough, Dominic is toweling them off. Finch is sensitive all over, and wants to draw back, but then it’s done and Dominic falls to his side like a felled tree. He struggles out of his trousers and pants as an afterthought, and Finch does the same with what little remains of his strength.
“Well,” Dominic whispers, “that was …”
“It was,” Finch agrees, not caring what he’s agreeing to. His body is going to go to sleep whether he wants it or not, and Dominic appears ready to do the same. The next morning will come, and bring with it the case, and conspiracies, and an endless tunnel of lies that Finch can’t hope to see the end of. This night, he wants something warm.
He tugs at Dominic’s arm, and feels his partner obligingly drape himself half-over Finch. Their legs are tangled, Dominic’s limp cock pressed against Finch’s hip, and Dominic’s arm wrapped around his middle. Finch fumbles at the covers and drags them up. They share the pillow, and at this close range Finch can almost see color in Dominic’s eyes.
“See you in the morning?” he asks, half-asleep already. His arm curls under Dominic and wraps around his back.
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
Next Chapter: Suppressor