A/N: After Episode 1.21 “Many Happy Returns.”
WARNING: Smut ahead!
Finch had set up the loft apartment for Reese with care, hoping to give his operative a better degree of comfort – perhaps even stability – than the flea-infested motels and apartments at which the other man had chosen to stay, despite being able (now with his sizeable paycheck from Finch) to afford better places. Reese claimed it was to avoid attracting attention, but Finch wondered to himself if it weren’t to avoid the ubiquitous security cameras of the city, which were more numerous around the more expensive establishments.
Finch had selected sleek, modern furniture with solid frames, knowing how violence seemed to follow Reese like debris around a tornado and wanting to give the man every advantage in the event that the violence followed him home. Of course, Finch knew this would not be “home” for Reese – not really – but after working with the man for months, he felt justified in having recruited him to join his mission, and wanted him to know that he was not only appreciated, but needed.
Then Reese had gone rogue. Finch realized now what he had done to piss the former agent off: he hadn’t trusted his judgment. They had squabbled about methodology before, but this was different. Despite his best intentions – he had only wanted to spare Reese the pain associated with his worst memory – he had lied to Reese. Then, on top of that, he had sent Carter after Reese, to stop him from doing what he’d assumed he would do; and he had assumed the worst of Reese. No wonder the man had refused to answer his repeated calls. Finch paced the hallways of the library, waiting and hoping for a call, a text, anything. For many days, there was nothing.
The first glimmer of hope was when he overheard the phone call to Carter from the prison warden. Technically, it was not overhearing, it was eavesdropping, but Finch was starving for any news about Reese and – considering how things had been broken off between them – he guessed that Reese would be more likely to reach out to Carter. Realizing that the former operative had not killed Jennings (and possibly Benton, either) had plunged Finch into a pit of self-accusation and remorse. He now feared that he had lost the other man for good. And through a stupid slip-up, he had even missed his chance to present Reese with the new apartment. He had planned on giving him his oldest alias and contact information, too, as a sign of good faith, but had missed that opportunity also. He wondered now if it would have made any difference – if Reese would have been mollified at all by the gift (expensive, but of no consequence to a billionaire) and the information (not the whole truth, but a great deal more than Finch had been willing to give him up until now), or if he would have been just as angry. Finch tended to think the latter.
So it had been with tremendous relief that he’d found a text message on his phone: 4pm tomorrow, bench under the bridge. He hoped Reese understood why he had done what he had done; the other man acknowledged it, but countered with his own reasoning. Finch was willing to accept that. He was willing to swallow much more than he would have liked to admit, after having suffered through Reese’s long absence. He was simply relieved to have the man back.
Now that Reese had moved into the apartment, however, Finch had another moral dilemma on his hands. He had planted several microscopic cameras around the rooms (so small that he was sure they would go undetected, even by Reese) when he had first started to get the place ready for his employee. When he had been in the depths of remorse, he had returned to the apartment to remove them. He had been agitated, distracted, and unwontedly clumsy, so after a while he gave up on the ones that were hardest to reach. They were still there and fully functional.
He had once told Ingram, and rightly so, that any exploit was a total exploit. The feeds from the few remaining cameras were exploiting Reese, violating his privacy, and despite having been forgiven for tracking where the other man spent his off days, Finch was honest enough to admit that Reese would never forgive him for such a blatant invasion into his personal life (what little he had of it). And yet, when Finch sat alone at his computer late at night, the temptation became so strong…
Finally, he gave in to it. He rewound the feed (digitally recorded in one of his spare servers) to where Reese had entered the apartment that evening, then watched him slowly strip out of his clothes, depositing his guns and knives in the kitchen drawers before he crossed over to the wardrobe to hang up his suit jacket. Then he removed his trousers, grabbed a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt, and unbuttoned his dress shirt as he walked into the bathroom in his sock feet.
Finch swallowed, but barely hesitated as he switched the feed to the camera in the bathroom. Since it was hidden in the grate of the fan vent – glued into one of the screws that had been drilled for that purpose – it only gave him a bird’s-eye view, and a fishbowl-ish one at that. However, his jaw hung slack as he watched Reese deposit his shirt, underwear, and socks to stand in glorious nudity under the shower. From directly overhead, Finch could not get a clear view, but what he was able to see was quite enough. He felt the bulge in his own trousers growing, becoming ever more insistent.
As the shower began to spray hot water, Reese groaned in pleasure and relief. It had been a long, hard day, with several fistfights before the conclusion of their case. Finch’s jaw dropped even lower as he observed the other man washing his short hair and then lathering his body with soap. When Reese’s hands reached his privates, however, his groans became a different sort altogether. Even over the sound of the water, Finch could hear him panting and grunting, and despite the awkward angle, there was no mistaking the movements of the other man’s dexterous hands.
Finch pulled out his own manhood and matched the rhythm of Reese’s movements, noting somewhere in the back of his analytical mind that Reese liked it hard and fast. Finch preferred more of a slow and gradual burn, but after forcing his cock to ignore the twitches it felt every time Reese spoke into his ear with that teasing, plying voice, and watching the handsome man now pleasuring himself in the shower, Finch could not hold back any longer. With a strangled cry, he came all over his trousers and shirttails, one spurt leaping all the way onto his desk before dripping down to the floor.
Gasping for breath, Finch closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, he saw that there was something wrong with the feed – it had gone white, though not with the visual noise commonly known as the snowstorm. It took him a few moment to realize that the steam from the shower had fogged up the lens of the camera. The audio feed was coming in fine, however, telling him that Reese was close to his climax as well. With a few final moans, Reese’s voice raced up the scale—
Finch gaped, astounded, at the white screen. He must have heard wrong. He rewound the feed, then replayed it. He still heard his name escaping from the other man’s lips. Gulping, Finch replayed it again. There was no denying it: Reese had cried out his name as he had reached his release.
Of course Reese believed that he had done so in the privacy of his bathroom, in his own apartment. He could not have been putting on a show for Finch, could he? If he had found the bug there, he would have destroyed it – possibly even demanded an explanation – wouldn’t he? Or else, had he found it and decided to toy with Finch, knowing that the reclusive man would not be able to resist spying on him? Because of course, Finch could not breathe a word about this. If he so much as hinted at anything remotely reminiscent of such a scene, Reese would know for sure what he had done – and what if Reese truly didn’t know about the camera?
Finch heaved a deep sigh. Their game of one-upmanship seemed to be never-ending, and now his own voyeurism had led him into a torturous, convoluted trap.
“Serves me right,” he muttered under his breath, then began to adjust his soiled clothing.