POI FanFic: "For His Private Viewing Only"
Author: Chimera_12
Character: Harold Finch, John Reese, Bear
Rating: MATURE!
Summary:(Written in PRESENT TENSE)
“Reese is more than surprised, he’s dumbfounded! Is this the formal, reserved man he’s come to know over the last couple of years? The man who has made privacy an art form, who keeps himself apart from all, eschewing any overt signs of emotion..." (S4; John Reese, Harold Finch, Bear; POV Reese)
------------------------------
Finally! A little down time!
It’s been a long, hectic week with a rash of activity born out of the Machine’s number, sandwiched between the precincts two new murder cases. He’s exhausted, damn near sleep walking through the precinct these last several hours...and if that isn’t bad enough, he had to respond to another summons from his shrink!
Given that he just left one of those sessions, he can unequivocally state her persistent hammering to get him to define his “emotional valence” - whatever that means - drains him more than all the other activities put together! He’s already offered her what he thinks she wants to hear, and if he has to sit through one more lecture on the importance of processing feelings he’ll simply start wearing earplugs…since his Captain won’t let him skip these meetings, and offing the doc is not an option!
“Ah, well, Finch will be here soon,” he informs Bear, as he absently reaches out to caress the dog’s ears. “Then we can discuss something other than me!” The canine agrees, as always, and is quick to accommodate the Alpha, turning his head one way then the other to take advantage of the human’s talented fingers.
Meanwhile, the subway car still has at least one bench left intact...
Reese removes his jacket and folding it into a makeshift pillow, stretches out his long length as Bear lays down next to the bench. When the Leader naps, so does the pack… But as he feels himself drifting off the sudden rattle of the outside gate brings him fully alert and scrambling to a sitting position.
“Finch…?”
And Harold Finch it is indeed, standing at the entrance of the car, looking worse for wear. Gone is the spiffy, stylish professor and in his place a somewhat familiar individual - but with glasses perching crookedly on his nose, a tie almost undone, and whose whole demeanor is one of slovenly nonchalance. Definitely un-Finch like!
“Harold! Are you alright?”
Reese is up and moving as Finch laboriously straightens his glasses frame while emitting what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. The effort to adjust his spectacles causes the smaller man to weave in the doorway, seemingly ready to faceplant before the ex-op catches him by the elbows and steers him to the bench.
Satisfied his charge is no longer in danger of falling, Reese kneels down in front of the geek for a careful inspection of his part-time employer. No scratches, no cuts, no bruises. No torn or dirty clothing. But there is definitely a problem here as Finch seems to exhibit all the signs of being inebriated. Or is it maybe meds related?
“Harold, did you have a mix up in your pills? You seem a little…unsteady.”
“Oh… You have such blue eyes…!”
“Finch! Answer me!” Reese snaps, more than a little unsettled by that response and the bleary-eyed stare accompanying it.
“What…? Oh, pills. No pills. Just a little drinky-drinky!” Finch touches the ex-agent on the nose. “D’ya know…handsome is simply a matter of symmetry? ‘n you’ve a beautiful symmetrical face…”
Reese blinks at the unexpected comment, then forcing himself to focus on the problem at hand asks, “Where did you go Harold? What kind of drink?”
“A bubbly drink. Just a little one…” Finch replies, offering a visual measurement with thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and in a conspiratorial whisper continues, “Nice young lady brought it to me.” A hiccup, then another giggle. “She had red hair. An’ likes d’Chiri…(hic)…de Chirico paintings…”
“A student, Finch? Some girl took you to a bar?” Reese feels his anger begin to rise.
“No…no! ‘course not!” replies Finch, pulling up straight, his affront evident. “Students are too young…” He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “An’ I don’t go to bars! T’was an art event...”
This is getting him nowhere. Finch is obviously in no shape to have a lucid conversation, and he has no intention of dragging information out of the man a word at a time. What he can conclude now is that some red head had gotten under Harold’s radar by appealing to his love of art - then offered the older man a drink. With the powerful pain killers he knows Finch to have been prescribed, it doesn’t take much alcohol to achieve this effect.
Or…maybe that “nice young lady” conveniently slipped something into his glass!
But whatever, however, it’s been administered, Finch’s mental functioning is definitely impaired! And he’s willing to bet that if he checks the older man’s pockets he will probably find his wallet missing…Reese glances at Finch’s bare wrist…along with his expensive watch.
Well, he’ll pursue the perps for that later! What Finch needs now is a lot of water and to sleep off…whatever this is. With that decision made, Reese assists his benefactor into a standing position and with one arm around the smaller man’s shoulders pulls him into his more substantial frame and starts moving toward the second car, snagging a couple of bottles of water on the way.
In this car, the benches have all been removed to make room for the several cabinets that house first aid supplies, computer paraphernalia, and their weapons stash. And at the rear of the car, a cot large enough to hold even his tall frame. He steers Finch toward the bed and thrusts a bottle into the older man’s hands.
“All right. Here’s the water…yes, the whole thing,” he orders, pushing the plastic bottle back at the geek when it’s returned after only a couple of sips. “Now sit down and take off the tie...”
“Can’t. Drinkin’ water.” Finch tips his head back and takes another swallow - which immediately causes him to sway on his feet once more. Reese sighs and steps in behind his boss to brace him by the shoulders while Finch finishes the last of the water.
“There…” Harold declares proudly, tossing the empty bottle to the side and turning to face his employee. “All gone. Now y’can do the tie.”
There’s this thing about people impaired by liquor or drugs, Reese thinks. There’s really no point in arguing with them as that logical part of the brain temporarily takes a hiatus. So the ex-agent shakes his head in resignation, thankful that at least Finch isn’t going to fight him concerning the need to sleep, and proceeds to undo the half fastened tie as the genius-geek hangs onto his suit lapels for balance.
But as Reese removes the expensive strip of cloth from his boss’s neck, Finch slips his hands inside the ex-op’s jacket, plastering his full length against the taller man’s body.
“Harold…?”
“You’re so…so…tall!” Finch slurs, his hands drawing lazy circles on his employee’s back.
Well, this is unexpected! And for several seconds Reese stands in motionless confusion before he gently removes his boss’s arms from around his middle. The geek doesn’t resist but immediately grabs the ex-op’s lapels again - apparently for support - while he huddles once more against his employee’s chest.
“Uh…Harold? I really think you need to lie down,” says Reese, gently grasping the older man’s wrists to remove the grip from his suit. He takes a step back and proceeds to pull Finch in the direction of the cot.
“ ‘Kay...” With that pronouncement the older man suddenly leans forward, and catching Reese off balance, follows the taller man down to the bed.
Reese is more than surprised, he’s dumbfounded! Is this the formal, reserved man he’s come to know over the last couple of years? The man who has made privacy an art form, who keeps himself apart from all, eschewing any overt signs of emotion - well, other than where Grace is concerned…
That same man who normally avoids any physical contact is now curled comfortably against him…and beginning to snore lightly, if he isn’t mistaken in the sound emitting from those slack lips.
Reese is baffled and turns on his side in preparation to crawl over the sleeping form and remove himself from the cot. His intentions are of the purest, but he gets no further: for some inexplicable reason his muscles have stopped responding to orders from Operation Central!
He should get up, even if it means waking Harold. He really should. The reclusive geek would be severely embarrassed if he were sober. Or if, when he sobers up, remembers any of…of this. But Harold is fast asleep already. And it is comfortable, with that pleasant weight pressed snugly against his chest, his stomach. Groin.
With a start he realizes his body is reacting to their intimate position. He needs to move, needs to push Finch away from him - needs to put space between them!
But instead of responding to that rational command, his arm instead drapes around the slighter body, pulling it closer into an even more comfortable position, as he rests his chin on the short hair. So what is wrong with this anyway? He’s relaxed, Harold’s relaxed - and if he is responding in a...intimate…way to another male? Well, it isn’t the first time.
His past employers made full use of every weapon at their disposal, and Reese and Kara were effective weapons in every sense of the word - not just in the use of various hardware. If gathering intel, or simply getting close to their prey meant having to use sexual appeal, encouraging some pillow talk...then that’s what happened. It mattered little if the target preferred males or females; that only determined which of the pair was chosen for the mission.
Both he and Kara were utilized frequently in such a manner, to the point where the expected arousal response became simply a matter of applied mental control and learned behaviors. Both became experts at it…and didn’t that just make them a successful pair of porn stars..!
Only one problem with this rationalization: he isn’t currently in control of this…this reaction!
He lets that realization sink in for several minutes, acknowledging its significance while taking pleasure in its existence. He knows this…situation…presents a considerable and unique problem for him, because it‘s not one he can put to any empirical testing. Or want to. Take advantage of a friend who is impaired by drink or drugs...no. That’s not going to happen. But then, what should be his path going forward?
“Mr. Reese?”
The support is suddenly removed from under his arm, and to the sound of an audible huff, disappears entirely. Reese rolls on his back. He turns his head, confused, blearily making out the form of his part-time employer standing over him, Bear at his side.
Slowly the brain fog dissipates and as he continues to stare at Finch, his gray matter resumes its functioning. So when did Harold get dressed? He’s wearing a tie now, and in his perfectly styled, perfectly pressed conservative suit, looks every bit the professor he is.
“You asked that I wake you after 2 hours, John. And we’ve got a new Number.”
Reese nods absently, running a hand over his face as he attempts to wipe the remaining cobwebs from his brain. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rises to a sitting position, pulling the coat out from under his head as he does so and placing it nonchalantly - or so he fervently hopes - to cover his lap. Raking fingers through his hair, he wrestles for physical control.
What would his shrink make of all this? Likely she wouldn’t be shocked, he answers himself, but she’d want him to talk it about it, define his “emotional valence” once more and explore the “nuances of his suppressed feelings”.
But this little episode, this memory, will remain his own, to be retrieved for his private viewing only...
Harold stands waiting on him.
“And Mr. Reese, I really wish you wouldn’t let Bear sleep on this cot with you!”
End
Character: Harold Finch, John Reese, Bear
Rating: MATURE!
Summary:(Written in PRESENT TENSE)
“Reese is more than surprised, he’s dumbfounded! Is this the formal, reserved man he’s come to know over the last couple of years? The man who has made privacy an art form, who keeps himself apart from all, eschewing any overt signs of emotion..." (S4; John Reese, Harold Finch, Bear; POV Reese)
------------------------------
Finally! A little down time!
It’s been a long, hectic week with a rash of activity born out of the Machine’s number, sandwiched between the precincts two new murder cases. He’s exhausted, damn near sleep walking through the precinct these last several hours...and if that isn’t bad enough, he had to respond to another summons from his shrink!
Given that he just left one of those sessions, he can unequivocally state her persistent hammering to get him to define his “emotional valence” - whatever that means - drains him more than all the other activities put together! He’s already offered her what he thinks she wants to hear, and if he has to sit through one more lecture on the importance of processing feelings he’ll simply start wearing earplugs…since his Captain won’t let him skip these meetings, and offing the doc is not an option!
“Ah, well, Finch will be here soon,” he informs Bear, as he absently reaches out to caress the dog’s ears. “Then we can discuss something other than me!” The canine agrees, as always, and is quick to accommodate the Alpha, turning his head one way then the other to take advantage of the human’s talented fingers.
Meanwhile, the subway car still has at least one bench left intact...
Reese removes his jacket and folding it into a makeshift pillow, stretches out his long length as Bear lays down next to the bench. When the Leader naps, so does the pack… But as he feels himself drifting off the sudden rattle of the outside gate brings him fully alert and scrambling to a sitting position.
“Finch…?”
And Harold Finch it is indeed, standing at the entrance of the car, looking worse for wear. Gone is the spiffy, stylish professor and in his place a somewhat familiar individual - but with glasses perching crookedly on his nose, a tie almost undone, and whose whole demeanor is one of slovenly nonchalance. Definitely un-Finch like!
“Harold! Are you alright?”
Reese is up and moving as Finch laboriously straightens his glasses frame while emitting what sounds suspiciously like a giggle. The effort to adjust his spectacles causes the smaller man to weave in the doorway, seemingly ready to faceplant before the ex-op catches him by the elbows and steers him to the bench.
Satisfied his charge is no longer in danger of falling, Reese kneels down in front of the geek for a careful inspection of his part-time employer. No scratches, no cuts, no bruises. No torn or dirty clothing. But there is definitely a problem here as Finch seems to exhibit all the signs of being inebriated. Or is it maybe meds related?
“Harold, did you have a mix up in your pills? You seem a little…unsteady.”
“Oh… You have such blue eyes…!”
“Finch! Answer me!” Reese snaps, more than a little unsettled by that response and the bleary-eyed stare accompanying it.
“What…? Oh, pills. No pills. Just a little drinky-drinky!” Finch touches the ex-agent on the nose. “D’ya know…handsome is simply a matter of symmetry? ‘n you’ve a beautiful symmetrical face…”
Reese blinks at the unexpected comment, then forcing himself to focus on the problem at hand asks, “Where did you go Harold? What kind of drink?”
“A bubbly drink. Just a little one…” Finch replies, offering a visual measurement with thumb and forefinger. He leans forward and in a conspiratorial whisper continues, “Nice young lady brought it to me.” A hiccup, then another giggle. “She had red hair. An’ likes d’Chiri…(hic)…de Chirico paintings…”
“A student, Finch? Some girl took you to a bar?” Reese feels his anger begin to rise.
“No…no! ‘course not!” replies Finch, pulling up straight, his affront evident. “Students are too young…” He pushes his glasses back up his nose. “An’ I don’t go to bars! T’was an art event...”
This is getting him nowhere. Finch is obviously in no shape to have a lucid conversation, and he has no intention of dragging information out of the man a word at a time. What he can conclude now is that some red head had gotten under Harold’s radar by appealing to his love of art - then offered the older man a drink. With the powerful pain killers he knows Finch to have been prescribed, it doesn’t take much alcohol to achieve this effect.
Or…maybe that “nice young lady” conveniently slipped something into his glass!
But whatever, however, it’s been administered, Finch’s mental functioning is definitely impaired! And he’s willing to bet that if he checks the older man’s pockets he will probably find his wallet missing…Reese glances at Finch’s bare wrist…along with his expensive watch.
Well, he’ll pursue the perps for that later! What Finch needs now is a lot of water and to sleep off…whatever this is. With that decision made, Reese assists his benefactor into a standing position and with one arm around the smaller man’s shoulders pulls him into his more substantial frame and starts moving toward the second car, snagging a couple of bottles of water on the way.
In this car, the benches have all been removed to make room for the several cabinets that house first aid supplies, computer paraphernalia, and their weapons stash. And at the rear of the car, a cot large enough to hold even his tall frame. He steers Finch toward the bed and thrusts a bottle into the older man’s hands.
“All right. Here’s the water…yes, the whole thing,” he orders, pushing the plastic bottle back at the geek when it’s returned after only a couple of sips. “Now sit down and take off the tie...”
“Can’t. Drinkin’ water.” Finch tips his head back and takes another swallow - which immediately causes him to sway on his feet once more. Reese sighs and steps in behind his boss to brace him by the shoulders while Finch finishes the last of the water.
“There…” Harold declares proudly, tossing the empty bottle to the side and turning to face his employee. “All gone. Now y’can do the tie.”
There’s this thing about people impaired by liquor or drugs, Reese thinks. There’s really no point in arguing with them as that logical part of the brain temporarily takes a hiatus. So the ex-agent shakes his head in resignation, thankful that at least Finch isn’t going to fight him concerning the need to sleep, and proceeds to undo the half fastened tie as the genius-geek hangs onto his suit lapels for balance.
But as Reese removes the expensive strip of cloth from his boss’s neck, Finch slips his hands inside the ex-op’s jacket, plastering his full length against the taller man’s body.
“Harold…?”
“You’re so…so…tall!” Finch slurs, his hands drawing lazy circles on his employee’s back.
Well, this is unexpected! And for several seconds Reese stands in motionless confusion before he gently removes his boss’s arms from around his middle. The geek doesn’t resist but immediately grabs the ex-op’s lapels again - apparently for support - while he huddles once more against his employee’s chest.
“Uh…Harold? I really think you need to lie down,” says Reese, gently grasping the older man’s wrists to remove the grip from his suit. He takes a step back and proceeds to pull Finch in the direction of the cot.
“ ‘Kay...” With that pronouncement the older man suddenly leans forward, and catching Reese off balance, follows the taller man down to the bed.
Reese is more than surprised, he’s dumbfounded! Is this the formal, reserved man he’s come to know over the last couple of years? The man who has made privacy an art form, who keeps himself apart from all, eschewing any overt signs of emotion - well, other than where Grace is concerned…
That same man who normally avoids any physical contact is now curled comfortably against him…and beginning to snore lightly, if he isn’t mistaken in the sound emitting from those slack lips.
Reese is baffled and turns on his side in preparation to crawl over the sleeping form and remove himself from the cot. His intentions are of the purest, but he gets no further: for some inexplicable reason his muscles have stopped responding to orders from Operation Central!
He should get up, even if it means waking Harold. He really should. The reclusive geek would be severely embarrassed if he were sober. Or if, when he sobers up, remembers any of…of this. But Harold is fast asleep already. And it is comfortable, with that pleasant weight pressed snugly against his chest, his stomach. Groin.
With a start he realizes his body is reacting to their intimate position. He needs to move, needs to push Finch away from him - needs to put space between them!
But instead of responding to that rational command, his arm instead drapes around the slighter body, pulling it closer into an even more comfortable position, as he rests his chin on the short hair. So what is wrong with this anyway? He’s relaxed, Harold’s relaxed - and if he is responding in a...intimate…way to another male? Well, it isn’t the first time.
His past employers made full use of every weapon at their disposal, and Reese and Kara were effective weapons in every sense of the word - not just in the use of various hardware. If gathering intel, or simply getting close to their prey meant having to use sexual appeal, encouraging some pillow talk...then that’s what happened. It mattered little if the target preferred males or females; that only determined which of the pair was chosen for the mission.
Both he and Kara were utilized frequently in such a manner, to the point where the expected arousal response became simply a matter of applied mental control and learned behaviors. Both became experts at it…and didn’t that just make them a successful pair of porn stars..!
Only one problem with this rationalization: he isn’t currently in control of this…this reaction!
He lets that realization sink in for several minutes, acknowledging its significance while taking pleasure in its existence. He knows this…situation…presents a considerable and unique problem for him, because it‘s not one he can put to any empirical testing. Or want to. Take advantage of a friend who is impaired by drink or drugs...no. That’s not going to happen. But then, what should be his path going forward?
“Mr. Reese?”
The support is suddenly removed from under his arm, and to the sound of an audible huff, disappears entirely. Reese rolls on his back. He turns his head, confused, blearily making out the form of his part-time employer standing over him, Bear at his side.
Slowly the brain fog dissipates and as he continues to stare at Finch, his gray matter resumes its functioning. So when did Harold get dressed? He’s wearing a tie now, and in his perfectly styled, perfectly pressed conservative suit, looks every bit the professor he is.
“You asked that I wake you after 2 hours, John. And we’ve got a new Number.”
Reese nods absently, running a hand over his face as he attempts to wipe the remaining cobwebs from his brain. Swinging his feet to the floor, he rises to a sitting position, pulling the coat out from under his head as he does so and placing it nonchalantly - or so he fervently hopes - to cover his lap. Raking fingers through his hair, he wrestles for physical control.
What would his shrink make of all this? Likely she wouldn’t be shocked, he answers himself, but she’d want him to talk it about it, define his “emotional valence” once more and explore the “nuances of his suppressed feelings”.
But this little episode, this memory, will remain his own, to be retrieved for his private viewing only...
Harold stands waiting on him.
“And Mr. Reese, I really wish you wouldn’t let Bear sleep on this cot with you!”
End