New Fic

[aprilvalentine]

title: Sandy Is Not A Beach
characters/pairings: Finch/Reese
rating: NC-17
summary: Set during Hurricane Sandy. Hurt/comfort.
word count: 3,946
warnings/contents: I hope this doesn't feel "too soon" but since our characters live and work in New York City, they would be affected by this weather event too. This isn't about the broader tragedy, just how it affects Finch and Reese on the Monday night of the hurricane.
beta: The fabulous esteefee who reminded me about one particular symptom that I thought I couldn't include, but after discussing it with her, I decided I could.

ETA: now with a slight edit.



Sandy is Not a Beach

by April Valentine

"Mr. Reese! Where have you been?"

Finch stood up awkwardly as Reese finally re-entered the library. It had been over three hours since Finch had heard from him and during that time he'd been at his computer screens, trying to locate him despite many cameras being down due to power outages and the rain making visibility on the still-working ones tentative at best. Now, Finch found moving after so long was difficult.

It was nearly dawn and New York had been virtually shut down for hours due to Hurricane Sandy -- now Superstorm Sandy, Finch remembered from checking the weather channel a few minutes ago. He had told Reese he didn't think they needed to keep the latest number under surveillance during such a storm, but Reese wouldn't give up.

Reese seemed to stumble slightly as he moved forward. He looked exhausted. His hair was plastered to his head, his pants were wet and clinging to his legs and even his topcoat was soaked. Finch pulled a towel from the shelf and tossed it toward Reese.

He missed the catch and it fell to the floor. That surprised Finch even more than his appearance did.

"Are you injured?" he asked, limping closer to him.

Reese hesitated, looking a bit confused. "No," he answered after a moment.

When Reese made no move to pick up the towel, Finch bent to retrieve it for him. He straightened, finally getting a good look at Reese. He was pale and his lips looked blue.

"Mr. Reese, you've been out of touch for quite some time," he chided softly.

"I dropped my phone," Reese answered, his voice raspier than usual.

Thinking he meant he'd lost it, Finch was surprised when Reese pulled his cell from his coat pocket. Finch took it from him, noting that the man's fingers were icy. He tried to turn the phone on, but it was dead.

"The subway was flooded," Reese offered faintly.

"I see. And Mr. Evans?" Finch said, asking about the number Reese had been monitoring.

"I convinced his brother-in-law to change his mind," Reese said. He brought his hands up to unbutton his coat but couldn't seem to coordinate his movements. Finch wasn't sure if that was because he was so wet, so cold or... he noticed suddenly that Reese's hands were actually trembling.

"Let me," he urged. He gently pushed Reese's hands out of the way and undid the buttons himself. It wasn't easy since the coat was so saturated, but once he got the buttons open, he helped John out of the heavy coat.

“Thanks, Finch,” Reese murmured. “That’s nice of you.”

Underneath, Reese was soaked to the skin, as though the topcoat had done nothing to protect him from the storm.

"Were you underwater too?" Finch asked.

"The subway was flooded," Reese repeated. He shrugged as though that were explanation enough.

Finch shuddered at the image of Reese walking through deep water, confronting Evans' murderous brother-in-law, perhaps even falling in the freezing water. And then he would have had to walk all the way back to the library in the rain Finch realized that it wasn't inconceivable that Reese could be suffering from hypothermia. He was chilled through, somewhat uncoordinated and confused. Finch realized he needed to get Reese warmed up as quickly as possible.

"Come on, Mr. Reese," he said gently. "You need some dry clothes." He took Reese by the elbow and steered him toward the back room where they kept the first aid supplies and extra clothing.

“They closed the subways,” Reese announced, his voice a low rumble.

“I saw that on the news,” Finch responded, keeping his focus on Reese’s progress as they walked the short distance.

“But that jerk kept tryin’ to kill his own brother-in-law... even with the hurricane...” Reese muttered.

Reese continued talking as they walked the short distance, but Finch noted that he stumbled more than once. Seeing him move without his normal grace was very disconcerting.

Entering the side room, Finch first switched on the space heater, then turned on the electric tea kettle. He nudged Reese over toward the couch.

"Let's get these things off," he said worriedly. With John's help, he got the drenched white shirt undone and peeled it, along with his suit jacket, off Reese's shoulders. His undershirt was no drier, and he pulled it over Reese's head, dropping it, along with the other garments, on the floor. They landed with a squishy thud.

Finch draped the towel around Reese's shoulders, feeling awkward. He didn't know if he should allow Reese to first finish taking off his wet things, or if Finch should himself begin drying his shoulders and chest with the towel. Usually, Reese was quite capable of tending to the injuries he sustained in the course of their work, but right now he seemed less functional than when he'd been shot or stabbed.

"Mr. Reese, are you with me?" Finch asked, trying to keep his voice level.

"I'm right here, Finch," Reese answered, sounding a bit more normal. He shivered just then, and reached up to grasp the towel and pull it tighter around his shoulders. “S’cold.”

“I know.” Finch took hold of the towel then, rubbing it over Reese’s shoulders and down his arms.

Reese’s mouth curved in a lopsided smile. “That... feels good... Finch...” he breathed out.

Finch felt a twinge in his chest at the words. It was only a simple helping hand, but hearing Reese express his pleasure made him very glad he’d made the gesture. Reese did so much for him; sometimes Finch ached inside knowing he couldn’t provide even physical comfort for Reese in return.

"Good," Finch said. "If we get any more numbers during the hurricane, you’re not going out again. All right?"

"Whatever you say. It’s too cold outside.”

That remark alone showed Finch how ill Reese was.

When Reese made no move to remove any more of the wet clothing, Finch decided he'd better help. Realizing that the many times he'd fantasized about unbuckling Reese's belt it hadn't been for this reason, Finch proceeded, getting the leather undone and then, with a steadying breath, unzipping the wet suit pants. They were so wet they stuck to Reese's legs when Finch tried to pull them down.

Eventually, Reese seemed to realize what Finch was doing and began to actively help, stepping out of his pants and toeing off his shoes. When Finch hesitated over the inevitable next step, Reese took hold of the waist band of his boxers. He glanced down and then yanked the towel down as if attempting to cover himself.

"Uh-oh," he said, "shrinkage." He shivered again, but this time, Finch thought, it was for dramatic effect.

"I'm not looking at you, Mr. Reese," Finch offered dryly. At least John wasn't so far gone if he still had his sense of humor. Finch grabbed another towel and pushed Reese toward the couch.

Reese dropped heavily onto it, and keeping the towel over his lap, he leaned over to pull off his underwear, then bent further to remove his wet socks as well.

Seeing that Reese was managing, Finch moved to the table and poured hot water from the kettle into a cup, adding a bag of Earl Gray tea. He let it steep while he went to the small closet that held John's extra clothes. Along with a couple of extra shirts and suits, there was a folded set of sweats, light gray in color, something that Finch was now glad he'd thought to order for Mr. Reese. He reached up to grab them, along with a few more towels.

"Ohhh..." The sound of Reese's soft moan was followed by a thud. Finch turned, ignoring the twinge in his neck as he moved faster than he should. John had collapsed onto the floor.

Finch rushed over and bent down on one knees. "John. John!"

Reese was shivering uncontrollably. He looked up at Finch, seemingly trying to focus. "S-sorry," he stammered.

"It's all right," Finch soothed. Taking a deep breath, he got a grip under Reese's arms and heaved, managing to get him up without joining him on the floor. When Reese was again on the couch, Finch pulled the cashemere throw over his lower body and, using the towel to briskly rub over his chest and shoulders, tried to restore circulation. He then pulled the throw up higher, wrapping it around Reese's shoulders, and used the towel to roughly dry his hair.

Reese was trying to talk, but Finch couldn't spare enough attention to follow what he was saying.

"Do we have a new number?" John said, a bit louder than before.

"No. No new numbers, Mr. Reese. Nothing to worry about for now," Finch tried to calm him, wishing he'd never let Reese go out in this weather in the first place.

Now that his upper body seemed drier, Finch shook out the heavy sweatshirt and manhandled Reese into it.

"It's not usually this cold in September," Reese mumbled.

"It's October, Mr. Reese. Nearly November, actually."

"Oh." Reese wrapped his arms around his chest, still shivering.

Finch used another towel to dry Reese's lower body, rubbing it over his thighs, then bending to repeat the procedure on his lower legs. When he was at least somewhat dry, Finch held out the sweat pants.

"Can you help me get these on you?" he asked.

"What, you think I c-can't dress myself?" Reese said with a ghost of his usual smirk. He took the pants but fumbled when he tried to put his legs into them, and Finch ended up having to help again. He didn't mind, but it was troubling that John didn't seem to be getting much warmer or more coherent. After he got both legs into the sweat pants, Finch wrapped an arm around Reese's waist and pulled.

"Come on, up," he muttered, thinking how heavy the man was.

"The brother-in-law tried to shoot me," Reese stated suddenly, as Finch pulled the pants up the rest of the way. Reese relaxed and landed back on the couch, hands rubbing along his thighs. "Had a little Smith and Wesson. Six-shooter." He chuckled.

"Does the manufacturer really make a difference?" Finch asked, getting up to fetch the cup of tea he'd made for Reese. He stirred in some sugar.

"’You come into our house, brother,’" Reese was saying in an odd, gruff voice, "’you better be packing more than just a hand gun.’"

"What was that?" Finch asked, returning to his side and offering the tea.

"’Then I guess I'll get my work out in for the day,’" Reese went on in his normal voice, chuckling to himself at the statement. “Bear ended up doing most of the work, though.”

"Mr. Reese," Finch said, "I think you should drink this."

Reese shook his head, climbing off the couch abruptly. "I'm fine," he scoffed. He bent to pick his suit up from the floor. Shaking it out, he crossed to the closet.

"Mr. Reese, I really think the tea will help," Finch tried again, watching as Reese hung his suit up.

Reese turned, shaking his arms and shrugging his shoulders as though restless, then he reaching up and tugged at the neckline of the sweatshirt.

"Don't you think it's hot in here?" he asked.

"What? On the contrary, Mr. Reese, it's not warm enough. Especially not for you." Though Reese sounded lucid, Finch thought he was anything but.

"Bear... " Reese called the dog over and bent down to rub his head and ears, smiling. "Good boy." He looked up at Finch.

"I'll bet he wants to go out for a walk. Don't you, boy?" He patted the dog again. "Where's your leash?"

Bear trotted away and Finch knew he'd be back with the leash momentarily.

"I really don't think he needs to be walked right now," he said, trying to think of the best way to dissuade Reese. "He was just out to relieve himself a few minutes before you got here." It wasn't true but that hardly seemed important. What was important was that Reese didn't seem very concerned about his own state and instead was acting as if this were any other evening instead of one in which the entire East Coast was shut down by the huge storm he'd just been out in.

"Don't do that -- " Finch gasped.

Reese was actually pulling the sweatshirt off. Finch got up from the couch and moved toward the obviously confused man.

“I’m too hot,” Reese said.

Reese had managed to divest himself of the shirt and by the time Finch got to him, was bending to remove the sweat pants as well.

"John, no," he scolded. It did no good. Reese, now naked, turned to call Bear again.

"Mr. Reese!"

John turned questioning eyes toward him. Relieved that his officious tone had at least gotten Reese's attention, Finch took him by the arm. "This way. I need your help in here."

"All right. You don't need to yell at me."

Reese tripped as Finch nearly dragged him into the bathroom. It contained a shower that they occasionally used and Finch had never been more glad it was there. He kept one hand firmly around Reese's biceps as he used the other to twist the faucet, turning the water on to its hottest. Fortunately, the water heater was excellent, and in moments, the water was steaming. Finch added some cold though, thinking that it would be safer to make the shower warm instead of too hot.

Reese was uncooperative, but Finch managed to get him into the stall. Bear was whimpering, watching what was going on, leash in his mouth, but Finch ignored him, eyes on Reese as he stepped under the water.

He staggered, sagging back against the tile, knees bending. Realizing he might fall, Finch began yanking at the buttons of his waistcoat. It was awkward undressing while he tried to keep one hand on Reese, but as quickly as he could, Finch pulled off his things and, down to his shorts, climbed in.

"I just want to find my friend," Reese murmured, leaning his forehead against the tiled wall.

Finch reached up and turned him around, wrapping his arms around him at the waist and shoulders. "It's going to be all right, John," he said firmly, as much for his own benefit as Reese's.

Finch was truly scared. He'd seen Reese stabbed, bloodied, shot more than once, but he'd never seen him out of his head like this. Holding him, chest to chest, he could feel how cold Reese still was, despite the paradoxical symptom of thinking his clothes were making him too hot. His core temperature must be dangerously low, and Finch knew he had to get him thoroughly warmed up or.... He didn't want to think about 'or'.

He turned, easing them both into the shower stream, letting the water cascade over Reese's shoulders. Reese leaned into him, trembling all over, arms hanging at his sides, and Finch braced himself against the wall, taking the other man's weight, supporting him as the water drenched them both. He'd forgotten to take his glasses off and they fogged over, but he didn't let go of Reese. He kept both hands on him, rubbing the chilled flesh of his back and shoulders, trying to use his own body heat as much as the shower to warm him. He couldn't lose Reese. And he couldn't stand to see him like this either.

He'd thought of Reese as invincible. The man barely needed sleep, and seemed to shrug off gunshot wounds the way most people shrugged off hangnails. Even when the CIA had tried to kill him, he'd insisted on working before he was even out of the wheelchair. He'd been shot in the abdomen and leg and still had called Finch to say good-bye, to thank him for giving him his second chance. And he'd somehow been on his feet when Finch had arrived at the parking structure to get him.

Now, it wasn't a gun or a knife threatening to take him down. It was simple cold. The storm was taking lives all over the city. It wasn't going to take this one.

Finch kept rubbing his hands over Reese's chilled body, leaning back slightly to massage his chest. His fingers swept over his goosebumped flesh, noting the curves of the well-made chest, the strength of the man's muscles. He'd once said he knew exactly everything about John Reese, but that had only been what he knew from service records and surveillance tapes. Holding him like this, with Reese unresisting and unthinking, he could map the firm muscles and touch the scars of the man he'd only known on paper before.

He glanced down, noting the remains of the life-threatening wound on his lower belly, fingers tracing it reverently, eyes closing in relief that it had healed and Reese had still wanted to work with him instead of deciding to leave and go into hiding lest his old handlers find him and finish the job.
He'd helped with Reese's care when he'd been shot, but had managed to keep a professional distance then. This was different. Proximity, lack of clothing -- and the feelings that had Finch had been experiencing since his kidnapping by Root -- Finch realized that Reese wasn't the only one trembling in the shower stall.

It wasn't that he found the situation erotic and he wasn't about to take advantage of Reese's current state, but he couldn't deny the depth of his caring. Though he had no idea if Reese had reciprocal feelings and couldn't imagine how to go about finding out if he did, Finch quaked with embarrassment and concern, worry and long-buried desire. He shook his head, determined to keep his thoughts only on getting Reese warm and coherent again.

Reese leaned into him, resting his head on Finch's shoulder. That simple show of trust sent a pang to Finch's heart, and he embraced Reese more tightly, knowing that his body was connected wetly with Reese's from chest to knees. If he could transmit his own body heat into the other man, he would. If Reese needed to lean on him, he would stand here for the rest of the night. He continued stroking over Reese's broad shoulders and down his long back, massaging and soothing, hoping to feel him getting warmer.

Reese was still trembling intermittently, but after long moments, he seemed to be getting warmer. Finch's hands were still moving up and down, up and down from shoulders to hips, occasionally reaching up to caress his neck or run a hand through his hair.

Finally, Reese's arms came up and wrapped around Finch's shoulders. He seemed to be taking more of his own weight too. Finch didn't allow himself to feel relief quite yet though. He wasn't sure Reese was out of the woods by any means.

"I've got you," he whispered. "Just let the hot water do its job and get you warm."

Reese heaved a deep sigh. "Finch," he breathed, not as if asking in whose arms he was standing, but rather in acknowledgment, deep satisfaction.

"That's right." Finch stroked the back of Reese's neck. Water trickled down behind his glasses and he couldn't see a thing. He reached up to take them off.

And found Reese peering down at him. His eyes were clear, his expression soft.

Standing under the streaming spray, Finch felt his mouth go dry.

Reese took the glasses out of Finch's hand and placed them on the soap dish. Then he wrapped his arms more firmly around Finch's body, pulling him closer with graceful intent.

"John?" Finch asked. Do you know what you're doing? Are you all right now?

"Harold," Reese answered. There was so much gentleness in his voice, so much more in his eyes.

Finch gasped, the spray splattering over his face and into his eyes. "John -- you -- I -- "

"At a loss for words, Harold?" Reese said and it was heaven to hear his voice so full of that sexy flirting.

When he bent to meet Finch's mouth, it was clear that Reese was in full possession of all his faculties.

It was like being swept up in a hurricane, having John Reese rain kisses over his mouth and face and neck. He was an unstoppable onslaught, yet intent on giving as much as he took, warm now when he'd been freezing, sharing that warmth and making Finch hot.

They parted for a moment, leaning on each other, gasping for breath.

Reese returned to Finch's mouth, kissing him deeper than before, pulling him closer as if desperate. Then, breaking the kiss with a groan, he rasped, "You've got me right where I've wanted you. Let's do something about it."

Finch was so relieved -- and so aroused -- he could only murmur, "Yes," as Reese slid his hands down his back and under the clinging wet silk of his forgotten boxers. When Reese's hands closed over his bare ass, Finch saw stars and leaned into Reese's body. He hadn't gotten hard so fast in years.

Reese brought his hands around to Finch's front, claiming his erection, stroking him through the clinging fabric before pulling the soaked boxers down. He followed the garment, helping Finch step out of it, then moving back up and, pressing Finch back against the tile, took him in his sure, deft hands.

The sweet stroking was overwhelming. Finch lost himself in it, his concern giving way to delight. John's mouth, his open, deep, passionate kisses, John's fingers, stripping him down with expert pressure, John's presence... Finch closed his eyes and floated on the sensation John provided, dizzy with pleasure until he couldn't handle any more and, holding onto John's shoulders, came and came and came.

When he staggered, John easily shifted his grip to hold him, kissing his neck and mouth with softened, bruised lips. John turned off the cooling water and helped Finch out of the stall, reaching for towels to wrap him in.

Finch roused enough to dry Reese as Reese worked at drying him. He knew he was grinning in undisguised repletion, that he probably looked silly and well used. He remembered his glasses and dried them on some tissues, determinedly not glancing in the mirror. He pulled one last huge towel from the rack and wrapped it around Reese, who still seemed intent only on making sure Finch himself was dry, and urged him out of the bathroom and toward the couch.

"Are you sure you're all right?" he asked, finally deciding that he couldn't overlook his companion's health any longer.

Reese sank down lengthwise on the couch, pulling Finch with him. "Much better," he whispered, "really."

"You were hypothermic," Finch reminded him pointedly.

"You found the cure," Reese smiled, unrepentant. He pulled the throw over both of them, sighing in contentment. Finch knew the expensive cashmere would keep them warm enough, especially if they stayed this close together.

Finch stroked from Reese's shoulder down over his chest, sliding lower until he found his half hard cock. Reese sighed, arching his back. "I'm fine, Harold. I'm sorry, but I'm exhausted."

Finch ignored him, lazily stroking him anyway. "I want to keep you warm," he smiled against Reese's chest. He kissed his nipple, continuing to stroke. He couldn't let Reese get cold again. He'd stroke him all night if he needed to. If Reese would let him.

Outside, the storm continued, rain pouring, wind howling. Inside, Bear whined at being ignored. Finch continued fondling and stroking Reese, slow and patient, root to tip. At last, Reese sighed and came.

They fell asleep, warm at last.

Author's Notes: Read the Wikepedia symptoms of hypothermia here including the fascinating phenomenon of "paradoxical undressing." I'd read these when I told esteefee about the story idea and she sent me a symptom list too, with that one highlighted. I thought I'd plotted things out in such a way that wouldn't work for that... but as you can see, I did.

So because it's hard to see the entire name of a given tag when posting, I accidentally clicked "category: het" and after trying to edit the tags on this numerous times, I still can't remove that one. I'll have to request the mod do it for me, I suppose. This story is not het. I'm trying once more and if it goes away, I'll be happy.