100 Cranes
Title: 100 Cranes
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Word Count: 767
Rating: R
John has to do something with his hands...
John sat at a table, putting away his cleaning instruments - all of his firearms and knives had been cleaned and reassembled during their current lull - a veritable Sargasso Sea of peace and good intentions in the Big Apple.
Finch sat, typing moodily, trying to decipher the encrypted software that was threatening to destroy the world as they now knew it. Bear sat at his feet, nosing against Harold’s wrist for attention.
He began crumpling up the old newspapers he’d spread before spreading out oily instruments and parts. He took a bottom sheet, more yellowed than spotted with grease and frowned, staring at the date - three years ago, February, when he’d found out that Jessica had died. He retrieved a pair of scissors from his toolkit and began cutting, a series of squares, ten in all. He glanced up at Finch before he settled down to folding.
He’d made ten cranes out of the unpleasant newspaper - headlines of murders and ads for liquor could be pieced together if you looked closely. He even went as far as to take a brown Sharpee, the color of dried blood, placing spots here and there. He shuddered as he carefully placed them on the bookshelf near his favorite leather couch. Newsprint was not the optimal paper for origami cranes and he was unpleasantly reminded of his appearance, hell, his over-all state when Finch first showed up. It was only luck that they were even standing. He caught Finch glancing in his direction, a small frown showing up mostly on his forehead, but neither commented on the new decorations.
The next ten cranes were folded during the following week, when things suddenly picked up and John was barely in the library unless they were waiting for vital clues to resolve the current case. He’d found black and white construction paper from the Library’s former children’s room - white squares slightly smaller than black and folded together with sharp creases. They looked almost cruel and efficient next to their dispirited brethren.
John found a red Sharpee and placed brighter dots of blood on the shoulders and torsos of half this flock.
Where Finch liked to stalk Grace, hiding behind trees and bushes like some sort of limping spy, John had urges, usually held in check, to haunt the used book store opposite the Bronx daycare in which Leila was enrolled. He was in the neighborhood and the day was warm and dry for early spring and he waited for the toddlers to tumble out of the building into the tiny play yard, which he approved of because there were soft, safety mats covering the tarmac - anything to keep the baby safe. He suspected that this small facility, with its innovative music program for even the youngest of children, nutritious lunches and first class instructors was financed by Finch, himself, who would also, if pressed, admit to starting and funding more than one trust fund to make sure that their girl had every opportunity she desired. As he passed a famous toy store on his way home, he snagged several of their catalogs, folding a dozen happy cranes out of the toy and baby covered paper he found there. Finch looked over his shoulder, smiling softly as John arranged them on a higher shelf, posed in whimsical pairings.
As weeks past, new cranes were added - some from stationary from the Texas motel or from paper from the pilot’s clipboard on their flight home. There were a half-dozen made from bearer bonds that John had filched from Leon’s stash - before Bear had his fill. More stationary, from Harold’s hotel and a special one from his trip to German, all interspersed with a new obsession - cranes of every shade of purple, deep violets to soft lavender, number one hundred even cleverly colored in to resemble Finch’s favorite tie and pocket square.
“Are you finished,” asked Finch, at John’s elbow as the taller man places the small folded bird next to its brothers.
“I hope so,” sighed John. “Depends on if I get my wish or not.”
Finch looked worried. “I heard the tradition calls for a thousand cranes for one wish,” he said with a sigh, his hand finding a trembling perch on John’s closest shoulder.
“Depends on the wish,” whispered John, taking Harold’s hand in his, sliding it against his rough cheek and pressing a soft kiss against the smaller man’s palm. Their lips met - shyly then hungrily, Harold pushing John against the bookshelf as their hips ground together, the paper birds flying from the shelves, flocking around their feet they began undressing.
Author: kmmerc
Pairing: Finch/Reese
Word Count: 767
Rating: R
John has to do something with his hands...
John sat at a table, putting away his cleaning instruments - all of his firearms and knives had been cleaned and reassembled during their current lull - a veritable Sargasso Sea of peace and good intentions in the Big Apple.
Finch sat, typing moodily, trying to decipher the encrypted software that was threatening to destroy the world as they now knew it. Bear sat at his feet, nosing against Harold’s wrist for attention.
He began crumpling up the old newspapers he’d spread before spreading out oily instruments and parts. He took a bottom sheet, more yellowed than spotted with grease and frowned, staring at the date - three years ago, February, when he’d found out that Jessica had died. He retrieved a pair of scissors from his toolkit and began cutting, a series of squares, ten in all. He glanced up at Finch before he settled down to folding.
He’d made ten cranes out of the unpleasant newspaper - headlines of murders and ads for liquor could be pieced together if you looked closely. He even went as far as to take a brown Sharpee, the color of dried blood, placing spots here and there. He shuddered as he carefully placed them on the bookshelf near his favorite leather couch. Newsprint was not the optimal paper for origami cranes and he was unpleasantly reminded of his appearance, hell, his over-all state when Finch first showed up. It was only luck that they were even standing. He caught Finch glancing in his direction, a small frown showing up mostly on his forehead, but neither commented on the new decorations.
The next ten cranes were folded during the following week, when things suddenly picked up and John was barely in the library unless they were waiting for vital clues to resolve the current case. He’d found black and white construction paper from the Library’s former children’s room - white squares slightly smaller than black and folded together with sharp creases. They looked almost cruel and efficient next to their dispirited brethren.
John found a red Sharpee and placed brighter dots of blood on the shoulders and torsos of half this flock.
Where Finch liked to stalk Grace, hiding behind trees and bushes like some sort of limping spy, John had urges, usually held in check, to haunt the used book store opposite the Bronx daycare in which Leila was enrolled. He was in the neighborhood and the day was warm and dry for early spring and he waited for the toddlers to tumble out of the building into the tiny play yard, which he approved of because there were soft, safety mats covering the tarmac - anything to keep the baby safe. He suspected that this small facility, with its innovative music program for even the youngest of children, nutritious lunches and first class instructors was financed by Finch, himself, who would also, if pressed, admit to starting and funding more than one trust fund to make sure that their girl had every opportunity she desired. As he passed a famous toy store on his way home, he snagged several of their catalogs, folding a dozen happy cranes out of the toy and baby covered paper he found there. Finch looked over his shoulder, smiling softly as John arranged them on a higher shelf, posed in whimsical pairings.
As weeks past, new cranes were added - some from stationary from the Texas motel or from paper from the pilot’s clipboard on their flight home. There were a half-dozen made from bearer bonds that John had filched from Leon’s stash - before Bear had his fill. More stationary, from Harold’s hotel and a special one from his trip to German, all interspersed with a new obsession - cranes of every shade of purple, deep violets to soft lavender, number one hundred even cleverly colored in to resemble Finch’s favorite tie and pocket square.
“Are you finished,” asked Finch, at John’s elbow as the taller man places the small folded bird next to its brothers.
“I hope so,” sighed John. “Depends on if I get my wish or not.”
Finch looked worried. “I heard the tradition calls for a thousand cranes for one wish,” he said with a sigh, his hand finding a trembling perch on John’s closest shoulder.
“Depends on the wish,” whispered John, taking Harold’s hand in his, sliding it against his rough cheek and pressing a soft kiss against the smaller man’s palm. Their lips met - shyly then hungrily, Harold pushing John against the bookshelf as their hips ground together, the paper birds flying from the shelves, flocking around their feet they began undressing.