Work Text:
It begins with the end.
That's how it seems anyway. It's almost 9 pm. John is at some nondescript, blue-collar bar a few blocks from the library. He's not hiding but he is drowning his sorrows in cheap whiskey. He's not proud of being here with his employer in such close proximity since the library is only a few blocks away, and he's definitely not proud of imbibing. He has to, though. Otherwise he'll do something crazy like leave or pathetically beg Finch for another chance. No, getting drunk is the lesser of those particular evils. Until it isn't. Until he notes a presence beside him.
“I thought you said you wouldn't partake anymore, Mr. Reese.”
“I'm off the clock, Finch.” He turns his head. The older man's uneasy in an unfamiliar environment. He's learned to read the signs by now. Still, he eyes him coldly, protecting himself instinctively. “What do you want?” Facing the bar again, his head dips toward his tumbler.
“We need to talk,” Finch says, inadvertently throwing his words back at him.
He huffs bitterly, thinking nothing else needs to be said. He'd gone out on a limb, only to have it crack and break beneath him. “Talk.”
“Mr. Reese...”
John faces the recluse again with a raised eyebrow. His expression is completely closed. Self-preservation. John never thought he'd have to worry about it around Finch. But he's been wrong before. Hell, he's used to having to adapt. He'll carry on working for Finch as long as he can, or until he can find someone to replace him. Yet, for some reason he's angry. At himself, at their circumstances, at Finch. Mostly at Finch. He has no right to be. Finch can't help being who he is.
Finch sighs. “You left before I could explain.”
As if it's John's fault. “Explain what? That I shouldn't have kissed you? That you hated it? Thanks but no thanks. Really, Finch, what do you need to explain? I told you how I felt and you rejected me.”
Finch's eyes track other patrons of the bar cautiously. “Can we not have this conversation here, Mr. Reese?”
John smirks. “No one's paying any attention to us. That's why I come here.”
Finch blinks, outfoxed. “Alright then. First of all, I didn't reject you. You just...caught me by surprise-.”
“Like I said. You rejected me,” he repeats, interrupting. He gulps the amber liquid and orders another.
“Mr. Reese, please. I'm not done.” The tone is demanding, effectively shutting John up. An automatic response when his handler gives an order. For the first time in a long while Finch is taking advantage of it. “We both have done things in our past that would fell any other man. We're ghosts walking among the living. Of course we have a connection. I don't deny that. But I wasn't expecting this. I never would have even considered it within the realm of possibility. Can you blame me?”
John's gaze falls to the cherry wood grain of the bar. “No. I wasn't expecting it either,” he admits, defeated.
“I, I'm not... Social interaction has never been one of my virtues, Mr. Reese. I've been fortunate to find people over the years who've had the ability to look beyond such faults. And, well, I was hoping to count you as part of that group.”
John's head swiftly lifts of its own accord. “Harold, you're a brilliant man so you know my brain doesn't work the way yours does. Spell it out for me.” His eyes, as intense as the sky on a summer day right when a storm rolls in, pin Finch to the floor.
Rising to the challenge, Finch takes the untouched drink from John's hand and places it on the bar, boldly stating, “It'd be best if I did that away from others, don't you think, Mr. Reese?”
John flashes a genuine smile at him. “I assume this means we've come to an understanding then?”
The smile is contagious. Finch returns it easily, his affection for John obvious now. “Yes.”
John pulls a fifty out of an inside jacket pocket and places it on the bar. He's unaware that he's still smiling, but he feels it. Contentment settling over him like a warm blanket on a cold night. He gets up from his stool to follow the older man out the door. As they walk down the street he quietly, silently folds Finch's hand into his own. A swell of satisfaction fills his chest when the recluse allows the contact. Seconds later Finch adjusts their grip to lace their fingers together. John closes his eyes for a brief moment, his heart beating loud in his ears. He inhales and exhales slowly, concentrating on his breathing to calm himself. As long as they're out in the world he needs to be alert, ready. Soon enough John is his old self again, his senses open to take in everything.
“Shall we go home, Mr. Reese?” Finch asks softly, suddenly into the darkness.
A simple, sweet, “Yes,” is the only reply. It doesn't matter where home is, nor how they get there. For John it's about getting there together.