Fic: Damaged - Part 33
Title: Damaged - Part 33
Author: Katica Locke
Pairing/Characters: Reese/Finch
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What happens when Reese can't be in two places at once?
Warnings: Slash, possible spoilers for all episodes, WIP
Word Count: 4000 words
Damaged - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18
Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27
Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31 - Part 32
Author's Note: The next chapter will be from Finch's POV. I believe this story is finally coming to an end, although there may be ten chapters left. Or more. Or fewer. I don't know for sure, but I think it's time to wrap it up. I've been writing nothing but fanfic for almost a year now and it's time to get back to my own original stories, so when Damaged is done I will be scaling back my fanfic writing. I'm not going to quit, but I won't be posting as often. That won't be for a while, though. This is just a FYI.
It took almost an hour to get out of the hospital, which was fifty-eight minutes longer than Reese wanted to spend in there, but they were able to get Dr. Tillman to discharge them. She gave Reese a bag full of antibiotics, pain pills, cream, gauze, ointment, and bandages, and a stern warning to take care of themselves. He promised he'd try.
They drove away from the hospital with night falling over the city, Finch lying across the back seat of the stolen car, and Reese's knee aching every time he had to depress the clutch to shift. Next time, he'd make sure to steal an automatic.
"Where are we going?" Finch asked, his voice tight with pain.
Reese hesitated. "I had thought somewhere upstate, or even out of state, but I'm not sure you should travel that far so soon. Do you have a place nearby?"
"I do," Finch said, sounding relieved. "Head for Central Park."
Following Finch's directions, Reese parked near the west entrance and helped Finch into the wheelchair they had 'borrowed' from the hospital, propping his leg up to try and take some of the pressure off of his thigh wound. Even so, his knuckles were white as he gripped the arm rests, taking measured breaths through his teeth as Reese pushed him into the park.
"Do we have to take the scenic route?" Reese asked, his senses on high alert as they wound down curving paths through the natural, wooded areas.
"We're almost there," Finch gritted out. "Trust me. Agent Snow will never find us here." Reese tried to have faith in the man, but there was a chance the pain medication was still affecting his cognition. Reese was about to suggest they find a motel instead when Finch pointed ahead of them. "There. That maintenance shed."
Off to one side of the path stood a small, cinder block building, about seven feet on a side with a heavy, reinforced steel door and no windows. "It certainly looks...secure," Reese said, "but not very comfortable. Are you sure?"
"Just push me over there and give me your phone."
Reese fished the cell out of his pocket and handed it to Finch. "At least tell me there's a cot inside. You need to lie down and take the weight off that wound."
"Just trust me, John," Finch said again, keying in a long string of numbers into the cell. It made a strange, electronic sound and the nearby streetlight went dark.
"What was that?"
"Red alert precautionary measures," Finch said, tapping on the keypad again. "It shuts down all lights, cell phones, and security cameras within a fifty foot radius. I try not to use it much, as it might draw unwanted attention." He finally hit the send button and the door of the maintenance shed popped open a few inches. "Inside, quickly. The measures only shut everything off for thirty seconds."
Reese pulled the door open, exposing a black, gaping maw, and tentatively pushed Finch into the darkness. He pulled the door closed behind them and it latched with a noisy series of clicks - an electronic lock engaging. He felt the inside of the door, but there was no handle.
Feeling slightly claustrophobic, he cleared hit throat, the sound loud and hollow. "Nice place you got here, Finch," he said, unable to see his hand in front of his face.
Finch pressed a button the phone, the screen lighting up and casting its blue-white light around the small room. "Better?"
"Not really," Reese said, frowning. The shed was empty.
"Push me into the center of the room, please," Finch said. "And lock the wheel brakes." Not sure what else to do, Reese did as he was told, securing Finch. "All right, now step over to the wall and open that access panel." Almost the same color as the cinder block walls, Reese hadn't noticed the small, electrical panel. He opened it, surprised to find a number pad. "Now, key in the code nine-five-seven-one-three-zero-two-five-eight and press the star key. Then step back."
Reese tapped out the code, pressed the star, and moved over to Finch's side. For a moment, nothing happened, then the floor began to shudder, a low rumbling sound filling the room, and they began to descend. The entire floor of the shed moved down, the cinder block replaced by a smooth cement shaft, a vertical groove in each wall containing a cable that worked to lower them smoothly into the depths of the earth.
Reese guessed they were fifty or sixty feet underground when the platform stopped before another reinforced door, this one with a recessed number pad beside it. Finch gave Reese another code and he opened the door, releasing Finch's brakes before pushing him into another dark room. Behind them, the platform began to move again, rumbling quietly back up to ground level.
"There should be a switch beside the door," Finch said, his voice echoing. Reese felt around until he found it. The lights came up and he blinked, squinting in the sudden brightness until his eyes adjusted. When he was able to see again, all he could do was stare.
"Wow, Finch," he said finally. "Forget the library, this should be our secret hideout." It was larger than Reese's loft, and except for the lack of windows, resembled any other expensive New York penthouse. There were two sofas, a giant TV, several comfortable looking chairs, and a coffee table in the ambiguously defined area nearest to them. A dining table stood farther back, with a fully appointed kitchen beyond that. Across from the kitchen, the walls were lined with bookshelves, with more comfy chairs nearby.
There was a short hall between the kitchen and reading nook, leading to what Reese assumed would be the bedroom and bathroom.
"This is a refuge of last resort," Finch said. "No one even knows this place exists, except you and me, and the less often we come and go, the more likely it is to stay that way."
"And that-" Reese nodded toward the door. "Is the only way in or out?"
"Of course not," Finch said. "Behind the bookshelf is a passage that leads to an abandoned subway tunnel, but I didn't think the wheelchair would fit. And now, if you don't mind, I need to lie down."
"Jesus, Finch, why didn't you say so sooner," Reese said, pushing the chair toward the hall. "Which door?"
"On the left."
Reese opened it and wheeled him inside, pausing to turn on the light. It was a simple, yet elegant bedroom, with a sturdy, king sized bed taking up most of the floor space. The covers were cold and a little dusty as Reese turned them back, but everything seemed in excellent condition.
"How long has it been since you've been down here?" he asked, kneeling down to remove Finch's shoes and socks before helping the man to the edge of the bed.
"I come down every couple of months," he said, his voice tight again as Reese hurried to help him out of his jacket and dress shirt. "I dust and vacuum, and make sure everything is all right." He lay back, stubbornly pushing Reese's hands away as Reese tried to unbuckle his belt. Reese stood over him, waiting, letting him undo his own trousers, and then he helped ease the torn and bloody garment down Finch's injured leg.
Finch was sweaty and gasping for breath by the time Reese gently drew the covers back up over him. Finch shivered. "It's cold in here," he said.
"Where's the thermostat?"
"There isn't one. There's a small, electric heater in the closet, though." Reese found it and plugged it in, setting it in the middle of the open space beside Finch's side of the bed, where it wouldn't accidentally catch anything on fire.
"There we go," he said, turning it on, the coils slowly brightening to a dull orange. "Give that a few minutes. I'm going to go through the bag that Dr. Tillman gave us and see what pills need to be taken now. Are you hungry?"
"A little," Finch said. "There are lots of cans of soup in the kitchen cupboards."
"Sounds good," Reese said. "I'll heat some up and be back with your meds."
He closed the bedroom door behind him to keep the heat in, making his way into the kitchen and taking the bag of medical supplies out of his coat pocket. He opened a can of hearty chicken and noodles, dumped it into a pan, and placed it on the stove, then emptied the contents of the bag onto the counter. He lined up the little bottles, sorting them into his and Finch's. He filled a glass at the sink and swallowed down one of his antibiotic pills and the stool softener. He carried the glass and two of Finch's pills in to him.
"Antibiotic and pain pill," he said, handing them to him. Finch peered at each one, then set the pain pill on the bedside table. "Harold..."
"I'll take a half of one, after I eat," he said, and swallowed down the other pill. Reese set the glass of water beside the pill, then picked the pill up and snapped it in half. "Thanks."
"No problem. Is it warmer in here?"
"A little. It'll be better when you come to bed."
Reese chuckled. "And I thought you said I was the insatiable one." He headed for the door. "I'll be back with the soup."
"There are crackers in the cupboard beside the fridge."
"Anything else?"
"Did the doctor give you a cream for your burns? I seem to remember hearing her say something about it."
"Yes. Why?"
"Bring it with you. After we eat, I'll help you put it on."
"I think I can manage on my own," Reese said, not sure if it was a good idea for Finch to be touching him when neither of them was in the physical condition to do anything more.
"I know, but it'll make me feel better, like I'm not completely useless."
"Yeah, all right," Reese said. "Soup first, though." He returned to the kitchen, moving surely around the room, taking the crackers out of the cupboard, putting the tube of cream into his pocket, searching until he found bowls, spoons, and napkins. Even though it was a strange place, he felt very comfortable, very safe. No one knew where they were. Mark would never find them. Just that knowledge was enough to make him feel normal again. He divided the soup between the bowls, then carried them into the bedroom, using his foot to push the door closed behind him.
Setting the bowls down on the nightstand, he helped Finch into the middle of the bed, using all the pillows to prop him up in an almost upright position. Kicking off his shoes, Reese sat down on the bed next to him, his back against the headboard, and handed him a bowl of soup. Setting the box of crackers between them, Reese kept a close eye on Finch, making sure his arms were steady before picking up his own bowl.
"This is good, thank you," Finch said, dipping the edge of a cracker into the broth. Reese just crumbled a handful into the bowl, letting them get soggy before he started eating.
"Thank you," Reese said, absently stirring his soup as he stared down into the bowl, "for bringing me here, and for leaving the hospital, even though I know it hurt."
"I'd do anything for you," Finch said softly. "Do you feel safe here?"
"I do. This place is amazing. It's our own private fortress."
Finch chuckled. "I'm glad. And as long as you don't get tired of soup and other canned entrees, we could stay down here for at least two weeks, if we had to."
"Two weeks..." Reese repeated. "Our wounds should be healed by then, mostly, anyway. You'll be able to stand a longer car ride."
"Where are we going?"
"I was thinking south or west. Your Machine keeps a watch on the entire world, right?"
"Anywhere with cameras, yes."
"So we don't have to stay in New York. It could give us Numbers for people in Dallas or Los Angeles, or Seattle. Or am I wrong in assuming you have it screen out anyone not in our area."
"No, you're correct in that assumption." Now it was Finch's turn to stare down into his bowl. "I just...I guess I have a lot of sentimental attachment to this city. Nathan and I made a fortune here, we built the Machine here, I fell in love with Grace here, I fell in love with you..."
"It's not for forever," Reese said, "just until Mark stops looking for us."
"You said he'll never stop."
"I'll make him stop," Reese said. "I just need some time - six months, maybe a year - and then I'll be ready to face him again." And next time, there would be no warning shot, no flesh wound, just two in the chest and one between the eyes.
"I don't want you to," Finch said, his voice quiet. "Holding on to this, planning your...revenge, is never going to let the wound heal. John, please, just let it go."
"I'm not planning 'revenge', Finch," Reese said, his words clipped. "I'm making sure he can't hurt you- can't hurt us again. That's not vengeance, that's practicality."
"It's unnecessary," Finch said. "You know the CIA better than I do - do you really think they're just going to forgive and forget after what he did? He disobeyed a direct order. He's going to be buried in paperwork, behind a desk, for the rest of his life. They won't let him near a letter opener, let alone a gun. We're safe, John. We're safe now. Please..."
But Finch didn't know Mark like Reese did. Reese couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, at that moment, looking for them, that he'd never stop, never rest-
Reese took a deep breath and nodded. "All right, Harold, you make a good point, but...Mark isn't the type to sit quietly behind a desk. We're going to take precautions. We're going to be careful. But I'm not going to spend all my time thinking about how to kill him."
"I can live with that," Finch said, tipping his bowl up to finish off his soup. He handed the bowl to Reese, who set it on the nightstand. Reese took a couple more bites, then stacked his bowl in Finch's. He picked up one half of the pain pill and offered it to Finch, who sighed, but took it, tossing it to the back of his throat as Reese handed him the glass of water.
"All right," Finch said after he'd swallowed it down, "now it's your turn. Where's that cream? And don't dawdle, I want to get this done while I'm still in full control of my faculties."
Reese wanted to argue, but he supposed it was only fair. He climbed off the bed and took the cream out of his pocket, handing it to Finch before shrugging out of his clothes. He dropped his jeans, stripped off his socks, and turned to Finch.
"All right, go ahead."
Finch gave him a stern look. "Lie down, Mr. Reese."
Reese could suddenly feel the heat from the electric heater against his legs and he turned away. "I think it's warm enough in here now," he said, crouching down and adjusting the knobs. He was dawdling, as Finch had put it, and he knew it. But why? He wasn't angry, he wasn't afraid that Finch would hurt him, he wasn't embarrassed to have Finch touch him. He just...he wanted to do it himself. He needed to do it himself.
"John?" His voice was soft, patient, understanding. Slowly, Reese stood up, but he couldn't face him.
"I don't want to let you," he said. "It's stupid, but I feel like...like I need to take care of myself so you'll know that I can take care of you, too. I need you to know that you're safe with me."
"I do know that," Finch said, and Reese nodded.
"I know. I said it was stupid."
"It's not stupid. It's completely understandable after what you went through." He seemed to hesitate. "You were tortured and raped," he said finally, and Reese winced at the words, momentarily angry at him for saying it, but it needed to be said. Just like when he had broken down in front of Dr. Tillman, he needed to acknowledge the truth before he could heal.
"I know," Reese said again. After a moment, he returned to the side of the bed and sat down, his back to Finch. A cool hand slid down his spine and he sighed. "I guess when you put it that way, I can't really argue, can I?" he said, glancing over his shoulder and giving Finch a small smile. He stretched out on his back, scooting up beside Finch and spreading his legs.
"Thank you for letting me do this for you," Finch said, taking the cap off the tube and squeezing out a dollop of thick, white cream onto his fingertips, "because you need to know that I'm here for you, that I can take care of you, too. You're safe with me."
Reese didn't know what to say, or if he'd be able to speak around the lump in his throat, so he just reached out, cupping Finch's cheek in his hand, trying to express his love and gratitude without words. The smile that Finch gave him said he'd been heard loud and clear.
Finch reached between Reese's legs, back behind his scrotum, and began applying the cream to his burned skin. Being touched didn't hurt any more than the constant, hot, throbbing pain he did his best to block out, but as Finch smeared the cream over his balls and on the insides of his thighs, he could feel a subtle cooling, the pain easing. He sighed in relief.
"Is it helping?" Finch asked.
"Oh, yes," Reese breathed. "So much better." It was so effective, in fact, that when Finch began spreading up the underside of Reese's shaft, he couldn't stop himself from letting out a low moan as he started to harden.
"Looks like I better quit," Finch said. "We don't need a repeat of this afternoon."
Reese felt a flash of anger, but this time, it wasn't irrational. He wasn't a victim, he wasn't broken, he didn't need to be treated like he was some fragile thing. "Don't stop," he said, his voice low.
Finch hesitated. "Are you sure? John, we don't have to rush these things."
"Never mind," Reese said, pulling away. "I can do that myself, too." He started to get up, but Finch grabbed him by the arm.
"You're angry again."
"Damn right."
"Tell me why. Talk to me."
"Because you're treating me like I'm- like I'm...damaged. Like I'm broken. You don't have to be so damn careful with me all the time."
"I'm careful because I care about you, because I don't want to hurt you. If you want me to stroke your dick, then fine, I will. If you want me to suck on it, I will. I'm just worried that you're pushing yourself too hard too fast because you feel you need to prove something to me. You don't. All right? You have nothing to prove to me."
Reese felt the anger start to ebb away, bleeding out of him. His shoulders sagged. "Maybe I'm trying to prove something to myself..." He shook his head. "You don't have to, but sooner or later I'd like to find out if everything still works properly."
"That I can do," Finch said, wiping his hand on his T-shirt to remove the excess cream from his fingers. Reese started to lie down, but Finch motioned for him to sit against the headboard instead. "It'll be easier on my neck," Finch explained, and Reese felt his heart rate elevate as Finch shifted the pillows and rolled more onto his stomach, placing his mouth even with Reese's crotch. "Tell me if anything hurts," Finch said, and then his lips were on Reese's cock, his tongue bathing the head, lapping at the slit. Reese dug his heels into the mattress, pushing himself back against the headboard, his hands opening and closing on empty air as Harold Finch sucked his cock.
Reese felt a little tightness in his shaft as he swelled to his full length and girth, but the cream seemed to be helping. It wasn't the same nauseating pain as before. His breathing grew rough and ragged as Finch used his fingers to stroke along the upper side of the shaft, avoiding the injured areas, his lips sealed tight around the crown as he alternated between licking and sucking. It was a highly unconventional blow-job, but Reese couldn't think of a better one he'd ever gotten. At that moment, it was hard to think at all.
He tried to stay still to keep from hurting Finch, but he couldn't stop his muscles from tensing, trying to lift his hips off the bed, to thrust into Finch's wonderful wet mouth. That hurt, the injuries to his leg and rectum prohibiting movement. When he was still and relaxed, everything was fine, but as the pleasure mounted, like a heavy knot tightening inside him, the urge was almost unbearable.
Finch seemed to sense his distress, or maybe his tongue was just getting tired, because he began to work harder, faster, sucking until Reese cried out, the euphoria of orgasm soured by the sharp pain between his legs as his muscles tensed with each ejaculation, the burned skin on his scrotum tightening as his balls drew up. When it was finished, he leaned back against the headboard, panting and waiting for the ache to ease.
Finch sat up and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. "I'd say everything works just fine. How did that feel?"
"What you were doing was amazing," Reese said, "but I think I can wait until I've healed to try it again. Coming was a little painful."
"Translation: it hurt like hell," Finch said, adjusting his glasses. Reese didn't argue. Finch didn't seem surprised. Had he known it would hurt? Had he made sure it did to teach Reese a lesson? Reese gave himself a mental shake. God, what was wrong with him? Finch would never hurt him. Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. "Tired?" Finch asked, taking off his glasses and reaching across Reese to set them on the nightstand.
"I shouldn't be," Reese said, watching as Finch settled himself more comfortably amongst the pillows. "I can't remember the last time I slept this much, but I'm still exhausted."
"It's been a long day," Finch said, as though none of the past five minute had happened - or rather, like it hadn't been strange and awkward and painful.
"I'm sorry," Reese said, his voice low.
Finch looked up at him, his face softer, younger without his glasses. "I know," he said, "but you don't have to be." He placed a hand on Reese's forearm and gave it a squeeze. "Now, would you mind turning off the light?"
Author: Katica Locke
Pairing/Characters: Reese/Finch
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What happens when Reese can't be in two places at once?
Warnings: Slash, possible spoilers for all episodes, WIP
Word Count: 4000 words
Damaged - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18
Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27
Part 28 - Part 29 - Part 30 - Part 31 - Part 32
Author's Note: The next chapter will be from Finch's POV. I believe this story is finally coming to an end, although there may be ten chapters left. Or more. Or fewer. I don't know for sure, but I think it's time to wrap it up. I've been writing nothing but fanfic for almost a year now and it's time to get back to my own original stories, so when Damaged is done I will be scaling back my fanfic writing. I'm not going to quit, but I won't be posting as often. That won't be for a while, though. This is just a FYI.
It took almost an hour to get out of the hospital, which was fifty-eight minutes longer than Reese wanted to spend in there, but they were able to get Dr. Tillman to discharge them. She gave Reese a bag full of antibiotics, pain pills, cream, gauze, ointment, and bandages, and a stern warning to take care of themselves. He promised he'd try.
They drove away from the hospital with night falling over the city, Finch lying across the back seat of the stolen car, and Reese's knee aching every time he had to depress the clutch to shift. Next time, he'd make sure to steal an automatic.
"Where are we going?" Finch asked, his voice tight with pain.
Reese hesitated. "I had thought somewhere upstate, or even out of state, but I'm not sure you should travel that far so soon. Do you have a place nearby?"
"I do," Finch said, sounding relieved. "Head for Central Park."
Following Finch's directions, Reese parked near the west entrance and helped Finch into the wheelchair they had 'borrowed' from the hospital, propping his leg up to try and take some of the pressure off of his thigh wound. Even so, his knuckles were white as he gripped the arm rests, taking measured breaths through his teeth as Reese pushed him into the park.
"Do we have to take the scenic route?" Reese asked, his senses on high alert as they wound down curving paths through the natural, wooded areas.
"We're almost there," Finch gritted out. "Trust me. Agent Snow will never find us here." Reese tried to have faith in the man, but there was a chance the pain medication was still affecting his cognition. Reese was about to suggest they find a motel instead when Finch pointed ahead of them. "There. That maintenance shed."
Off to one side of the path stood a small, cinder block building, about seven feet on a side with a heavy, reinforced steel door and no windows. "It certainly looks...secure," Reese said, "but not very comfortable. Are you sure?"
"Just push me over there and give me your phone."
Reese fished the cell out of his pocket and handed it to Finch. "At least tell me there's a cot inside. You need to lie down and take the weight off that wound."
"Just trust me, John," Finch said again, keying in a long string of numbers into the cell. It made a strange, electronic sound and the nearby streetlight went dark.
"What was that?"
"Red alert precautionary measures," Finch said, tapping on the keypad again. "It shuts down all lights, cell phones, and security cameras within a fifty foot radius. I try not to use it much, as it might draw unwanted attention." He finally hit the send button and the door of the maintenance shed popped open a few inches. "Inside, quickly. The measures only shut everything off for thirty seconds."
Reese pulled the door open, exposing a black, gaping maw, and tentatively pushed Finch into the darkness. He pulled the door closed behind them and it latched with a noisy series of clicks - an electronic lock engaging. He felt the inside of the door, but there was no handle.
Feeling slightly claustrophobic, he cleared hit throat, the sound loud and hollow. "Nice place you got here, Finch," he said, unable to see his hand in front of his face.
Finch pressed a button the phone, the screen lighting up and casting its blue-white light around the small room. "Better?"
"Not really," Reese said, frowning. The shed was empty.
"Push me into the center of the room, please," Finch said. "And lock the wheel brakes." Not sure what else to do, Reese did as he was told, securing Finch. "All right, now step over to the wall and open that access panel." Almost the same color as the cinder block walls, Reese hadn't noticed the small, electrical panel. He opened it, surprised to find a number pad. "Now, key in the code nine-five-seven-one-three-zero-two-five-eight and press the star key. Then step back."
Reese tapped out the code, pressed the star, and moved over to Finch's side. For a moment, nothing happened, then the floor began to shudder, a low rumbling sound filling the room, and they began to descend. The entire floor of the shed moved down, the cinder block replaced by a smooth cement shaft, a vertical groove in each wall containing a cable that worked to lower them smoothly into the depths of the earth.
Reese guessed they were fifty or sixty feet underground when the platform stopped before another reinforced door, this one with a recessed number pad beside it. Finch gave Reese another code and he opened the door, releasing Finch's brakes before pushing him into another dark room. Behind them, the platform began to move again, rumbling quietly back up to ground level.
"There should be a switch beside the door," Finch said, his voice echoing. Reese felt around until he found it. The lights came up and he blinked, squinting in the sudden brightness until his eyes adjusted. When he was able to see again, all he could do was stare.
"Wow, Finch," he said finally. "Forget the library, this should be our secret hideout." It was larger than Reese's loft, and except for the lack of windows, resembled any other expensive New York penthouse. There were two sofas, a giant TV, several comfortable looking chairs, and a coffee table in the ambiguously defined area nearest to them. A dining table stood farther back, with a fully appointed kitchen beyond that. Across from the kitchen, the walls were lined with bookshelves, with more comfy chairs nearby.
There was a short hall between the kitchen and reading nook, leading to what Reese assumed would be the bedroom and bathroom.
"This is a refuge of last resort," Finch said. "No one even knows this place exists, except you and me, and the less often we come and go, the more likely it is to stay that way."
"And that-" Reese nodded toward the door. "Is the only way in or out?"
"Of course not," Finch said. "Behind the bookshelf is a passage that leads to an abandoned subway tunnel, but I didn't think the wheelchair would fit. And now, if you don't mind, I need to lie down."
"Jesus, Finch, why didn't you say so sooner," Reese said, pushing the chair toward the hall. "Which door?"
"On the left."
Reese opened it and wheeled him inside, pausing to turn on the light. It was a simple, yet elegant bedroom, with a sturdy, king sized bed taking up most of the floor space. The covers were cold and a little dusty as Reese turned them back, but everything seemed in excellent condition.
"How long has it been since you've been down here?" he asked, kneeling down to remove Finch's shoes and socks before helping the man to the edge of the bed.
"I come down every couple of months," he said, his voice tight again as Reese hurried to help him out of his jacket and dress shirt. "I dust and vacuum, and make sure everything is all right." He lay back, stubbornly pushing Reese's hands away as Reese tried to unbuckle his belt. Reese stood over him, waiting, letting him undo his own trousers, and then he helped ease the torn and bloody garment down Finch's injured leg.
Finch was sweaty and gasping for breath by the time Reese gently drew the covers back up over him. Finch shivered. "It's cold in here," he said.
"Where's the thermostat?"
"There isn't one. There's a small, electric heater in the closet, though." Reese found it and plugged it in, setting it in the middle of the open space beside Finch's side of the bed, where it wouldn't accidentally catch anything on fire.
"There we go," he said, turning it on, the coils slowly brightening to a dull orange. "Give that a few minutes. I'm going to go through the bag that Dr. Tillman gave us and see what pills need to be taken now. Are you hungry?"
"A little," Finch said. "There are lots of cans of soup in the kitchen cupboards."
"Sounds good," Reese said. "I'll heat some up and be back with your meds."
He closed the bedroom door behind him to keep the heat in, making his way into the kitchen and taking the bag of medical supplies out of his coat pocket. He opened a can of hearty chicken and noodles, dumped it into a pan, and placed it on the stove, then emptied the contents of the bag onto the counter. He lined up the little bottles, sorting them into his and Finch's. He filled a glass at the sink and swallowed down one of his antibiotic pills and the stool softener. He carried the glass and two of Finch's pills in to him.
"Antibiotic and pain pill," he said, handing them to him. Finch peered at each one, then set the pain pill on the bedside table. "Harold..."
"I'll take a half of one, after I eat," he said, and swallowed down the other pill. Reese set the glass of water beside the pill, then picked the pill up and snapped it in half. "Thanks."
"No problem. Is it warmer in here?"
"A little. It'll be better when you come to bed."
Reese chuckled. "And I thought you said I was the insatiable one." He headed for the door. "I'll be back with the soup."
"There are crackers in the cupboard beside the fridge."
"Anything else?"
"Did the doctor give you a cream for your burns? I seem to remember hearing her say something about it."
"Yes. Why?"
"Bring it with you. After we eat, I'll help you put it on."
"I think I can manage on my own," Reese said, not sure if it was a good idea for Finch to be touching him when neither of them was in the physical condition to do anything more.
"I know, but it'll make me feel better, like I'm not completely useless."
"Yeah, all right," Reese said. "Soup first, though." He returned to the kitchen, moving surely around the room, taking the crackers out of the cupboard, putting the tube of cream into his pocket, searching until he found bowls, spoons, and napkins. Even though it was a strange place, he felt very comfortable, very safe. No one knew where they were. Mark would never find them. Just that knowledge was enough to make him feel normal again. He divided the soup between the bowls, then carried them into the bedroom, using his foot to push the door closed behind him.
Setting the bowls down on the nightstand, he helped Finch into the middle of the bed, using all the pillows to prop him up in an almost upright position. Kicking off his shoes, Reese sat down on the bed next to him, his back against the headboard, and handed him a bowl of soup. Setting the box of crackers between them, Reese kept a close eye on Finch, making sure his arms were steady before picking up his own bowl.
"This is good, thank you," Finch said, dipping the edge of a cracker into the broth. Reese just crumbled a handful into the bowl, letting them get soggy before he started eating.
"Thank you," Reese said, absently stirring his soup as he stared down into the bowl, "for bringing me here, and for leaving the hospital, even though I know it hurt."
"I'd do anything for you," Finch said softly. "Do you feel safe here?"
"I do. This place is amazing. It's our own private fortress."
Finch chuckled. "I'm glad. And as long as you don't get tired of soup and other canned entrees, we could stay down here for at least two weeks, if we had to."
"Two weeks..." Reese repeated. "Our wounds should be healed by then, mostly, anyway. You'll be able to stand a longer car ride."
"Where are we going?"
"I was thinking south or west. Your Machine keeps a watch on the entire world, right?"
"Anywhere with cameras, yes."
"So we don't have to stay in New York. It could give us Numbers for people in Dallas or Los Angeles, or Seattle. Or am I wrong in assuming you have it screen out anyone not in our area."
"No, you're correct in that assumption." Now it was Finch's turn to stare down into his bowl. "I just...I guess I have a lot of sentimental attachment to this city. Nathan and I made a fortune here, we built the Machine here, I fell in love with Grace here, I fell in love with you..."
"It's not for forever," Reese said, "just until Mark stops looking for us."
"You said he'll never stop."
"I'll make him stop," Reese said. "I just need some time - six months, maybe a year - and then I'll be ready to face him again." And next time, there would be no warning shot, no flesh wound, just two in the chest and one between the eyes.
"I don't want you to," Finch said, his voice quiet. "Holding on to this, planning your...revenge, is never going to let the wound heal. John, please, just let it go."
"I'm not planning 'revenge', Finch," Reese said, his words clipped. "I'm making sure he can't hurt you- can't hurt us again. That's not vengeance, that's practicality."
"It's unnecessary," Finch said. "You know the CIA better than I do - do you really think they're just going to forgive and forget after what he did? He disobeyed a direct order. He's going to be buried in paperwork, behind a desk, for the rest of his life. They won't let him near a letter opener, let alone a gun. We're safe, John. We're safe now. Please..."
But Finch didn't know Mark like Reese did. Reese couldn't shake the feeling that he was out there, at that moment, looking for them, that he'd never stop, never rest-
Reese took a deep breath and nodded. "All right, Harold, you make a good point, but...Mark isn't the type to sit quietly behind a desk. We're going to take precautions. We're going to be careful. But I'm not going to spend all my time thinking about how to kill him."
"I can live with that," Finch said, tipping his bowl up to finish off his soup. He handed the bowl to Reese, who set it on the nightstand. Reese took a couple more bites, then stacked his bowl in Finch's. He picked up one half of the pain pill and offered it to Finch, who sighed, but took it, tossing it to the back of his throat as Reese handed him the glass of water.
"All right," Finch said after he'd swallowed it down, "now it's your turn. Where's that cream? And don't dawdle, I want to get this done while I'm still in full control of my faculties."
Reese wanted to argue, but he supposed it was only fair. He climbed off the bed and took the cream out of his pocket, handing it to Finch before shrugging out of his clothes. He dropped his jeans, stripped off his socks, and turned to Finch.
"All right, go ahead."
Finch gave him a stern look. "Lie down, Mr. Reese."
Reese could suddenly feel the heat from the electric heater against his legs and he turned away. "I think it's warm enough in here now," he said, crouching down and adjusting the knobs. He was dawdling, as Finch had put it, and he knew it. But why? He wasn't angry, he wasn't afraid that Finch would hurt him, he wasn't embarrassed to have Finch touch him. He just...he wanted to do it himself. He needed to do it himself.
"John?" His voice was soft, patient, understanding. Slowly, Reese stood up, but he couldn't face him.
"I don't want to let you," he said. "It's stupid, but I feel like...like I need to take care of myself so you'll know that I can take care of you, too. I need you to know that you're safe with me."
"I do know that," Finch said, and Reese nodded.
"I know. I said it was stupid."
"It's not stupid. It's completely understandable after what you went through." He seemed to hesitate. "You were tortured and raped," he said finally, and Reese winced at the words, momentarily angry at him for saying it, but it needed to be said. Just like when he had broken down in front of Dr. Tillman, he needed to acknowledge the truth before he could heal.
"I know," Reese said again. After a moment, he returned to the side of the bed and sat down, his back to Finch. A cool hand slid down his spine and he sighed. "I guess when you put it that way, I can't really argue, can I?" he said, glancing over his shoulder and giving Finch a small smile. He stretched out on his back, scooting up beside Finch and spreading his legs.
"Thank you for letting me do this for you," Finch said, taking the cap off the tube and squeezing out a dollop of thick, white cream onto his fingertips, "because you need to know that I'm here for you, that I can take care of you, too. You're safe with me."
Reese didn't know what to say, or if he'd be able to speak around the lump in his throat, so he just reached out, cupping Finch's cheek in his hand, trying to express his love and gratitude without words. The smile that Finch gave him said he'd been heard loud and clear.
Finch reached between Reese's legs, back behind his scrotum, and began applying the cream to his burned skin. Being touched didn't hurt any more than the constant, hot, throbbing pain he did his best to block out, but as Finch smeared the cream over his balls and on the insides of his thighs, he could feel a subtle cooling, the pain easing. He sighed in relief.
"Is it helping?" Finch asked.
"Oh, yes," Reese breathed. "So much better." It was so effective, in fact, that when Finch began spreading up the underside of Reese's shaft, he couldn't stop himself from letting out a low moan as he started to harden.
"Looks like I better quit," Finch said. "We don't need a repeat of this afternoon."
Reese felt a flash of anger, but this time, it wasn't irrational. He wasn't a victim, he wasn't broken, he didn't need to be treated like he was some fragile thing. "Don't stop," he said, his voice low.
Finch hesitated. "Are you sure? John, we don't have to rush these things."
"Never mind," Reese said, pulling away. "I can do that myself, too." He started to get up, but Finch grabbed him by the arm.
"You're angry again."
"Damn right."
"Tell me why. Talk to me."
"Because you're treating me like I'm- like I'm...damaged. Like I'm broken. You don't have to be so damn careful with me all the time."
"I'm careful because I care about you, because I don't want to hurt you. If you want me to stroke your dick, then fine, I will. If you want me to suck on it, I will. I'm just worried that you're pushing yourself too hard too fast because you feel you need to prove something to me. You don't. All right? You have nothing to prove to me."
Reese felt the anger start to ebb away, bleeding out of him. His shoulders sagged. "Maybe I'm trying to prove something to myself..." He shook his head. "You don't have to, but sooner or later I'd like to find out if everything still works properly."
"That I can do," Finch said, wiping his hand on his T-shirt to remove the excess cream from his fingers. Reese started to lie down, but Finch motioned for him to sit against the headboard instead. "It'll be easier on my neck," Finch explained, and Reese felt his heart rate elevate as Finch shifted the pillows and rolled more onto his stomach, placing his mouth even with Reese's crotch. "Tell me if anything hurts," Finch said, and then his lips were on Reese's cock, his tongue bathing the head, lapping at the slit. Reese dug his heels into the mattress, pushing himself back against the headboard, his hands opening and closing on empty air as Harold Finch sucked his cock.
Reese felt a little tightness in his shaft as he swelled to his full length and girth, but the cream seemed to be helping. It wasn't the same nauseating pain as before. His breathing grew rough and ragged as Finch used his fingers to stroke along the upper side of the shaft, avoiding the injured areas, his lips sealed tight around the crown as he alternated between licking and sucking. It was a highly unconventional blow-job, but Reese couldn't think of a better one he'd ever gotten. At that moment, it was hard to think at all.
He tried to stay still to keep from hurting Finch, but he couldn't stop his muscles from tensing, trying to lift his hips off the bed, to thrust into Finch's wonderful wet mouth. That hurt, the injuries to his leg and rectum prohibiting movement. When he was still and relaxed, everything was fine, but as the pleasure mounted, like a heavy knot tightening inside him, the urge was almost unbearable.
Finch seemed to sense his distress, or maybe his tongue was just getting tired, because he began to work harder, faster, sucking until Reese cried out, the euphoria of orgasm soured by the sharp pain between his legs as his muscles tensed with each ejaculation, the burned skin on his scrotum tightening as his balls drew up. When it was finished, he leaned back against the headboard, panting and waiting for the ache to ease.
Finch sat up and wiped his mouth with the side of his hand. "I'd say everything works just fine. How did that feel?"
"What you were doing was amazing," Reese said, "but I think I can wait until I've healed to try it again. Coming was a little painful."
"Translation: it hurt like hell," Finch said, adjusting his glasses. Reese didn't argue. Finch didn't seem surprised. Had he known it would hurt? Had he made sure it did to teach Reese a lesson? Reese gave himself a mental shake. God, what was wrong with him? Finch would never hurt him. Wearily, he rubbed a hand over his face. "Tired?" Finch asked, taking off his glasses and reaching across Reese to set them on the nightstand.
"I shouldn't be," Reese said, watching as Finch settled himself more comfortably amongst the pillows. "I can't remember the last time I slept this much, but I'm still exhausted."
"It's been a long day," Finch said, as though none of the past five minute had happened - or rather, like it hadn't been strange and awkward and painful.
"I'm sorry," Reese said, his voice low.
Finch looked up at him, his face softer, younger without his glasses. "I know," he said, "but you don't have to be." He placed a hand on Reese's forearm and gave it a squeeze. "Now, would you mind turning off the light?"