Chapter Text
The news stations had been working themselves into a frenzy for the past few days over 'The Nor'easter of the Century' and 'Snowmageddon.' There were dire warnings about flashlights and bottled water, advance school and business closures, and the usual stripping of grocery store shelves that went along with the hype.
It was background noise to Harold Finch and John Reese as they worked their latest number, a high-school principal targeted by one of his students. Reese had gone undercover as one of the school's security guards, and Finch had hacked the boy's computer, retrieving records of the bomb-making materials that the teenager had purchased over the Internet using his mother's credit card. The only difficulty in the case had been slight: making sure the evidence was both unequivocal and easy to find for the police unit that would be investigating once Reese pointed the bomb squad to the boy's locker. Smart kids do remarkably stupid things, sometimes.
The snow was falling steadily the next day as Finch and Reese sat in the library, Reese reading a book on the history of the Island of Malta, and Finch tapping away at his computer. Bear snored softly from his bed.
"I'm going to go get some air, and walk Bear around the block - do you want anything, Mr. Reese?"
Reese glanced up from his reading.
"Do you want me to come with you?" In the weeks after Finch's captivity by Root and the resulting agoraphobia, Reese had gotten into the habit of making the offer, leaving Finch to accept or decline based on how well he was coping that day, or indeed, if he just felt like having the company.
"Thank you, that won't be necessary. Coffee?"
"I'm fine, thanks. Have a nice walk."
Reese knew that Finch was going out to walk past a public pay phone, to see if there was a new number for them or not.
After Finch left with Bear, Reese got up and walked restlessly around the library, stopping to look out a window at the falling snow. Maybe this storm was going to be serious after all. Mentally, he reviewed the library, then his loft apartment: Emergency back-up power, check. Food and water, check. Communications, check, so long as the cell towers still had power. That was something he should discuss with Finch. They used cell phones almost exclusively for their anonymity, and traceability, but they were much more vulnerable to power outages than landlines. They had the emergency dead drop land line, of course, but using it would slow down communications in a serious situation. Radios, maybe - something military and rechargeable; range would be the major limitation, of course, though they could easily and discretely install a few extra antennas, one here on the roof of the library for a start...
Reese was still working on the problem in his head when he heard Finch returning with Bear. He turned to see his partner shaking the thick snow off his overcoat.
"Well?" Reese asked.
"No new number," Finch said, knowing full well what the question meant, "and it really is getting quite nasty out there."
Finch went over to his desk but didn't sit down. He tapped a few keys and pulled up the National Weather Service website. Reese followed and stood behind him to look over his shoulder at the screen.
"Sever Winter Storm Warning for New York City and Surrounding Area" blazed a red headline. "Severe winter storm predicted to last more than 48 hours and drop 24 inches or more of snow. Persons in or near the affected areas are urged to stay indoors and not travel unless absolutely necessary. Roads will be dangerous or impassable. All trains, subways, and ferries cancelled. Federal employees have been sent home and Emergency Services are on standby. Widespread power outages are possible. Click here for emergency preparation guidelines for homeowners."
Finch did not click the highlighted link, but instead brought up a radar map of New York. Reese whistled low through his teeth as he saw the large purple mass just off the coast, and looked at the wind speed indicators on the sidebar of the radar map.
"That is one hell of a storm," Reese said.
"I think we should get out of here while we still can, then, Mr. Reese. I'll call you if anything comes up."
Reese waited while Finch shut down his computers, packed his laptop into a bag, and turned off the generator for the library.
"Come on Bear," he said, snapping on the dog's leash, "We're going home."
The two men and the dog left the building together, but paused on the sidewalk. Reese hunched into his overcoat and Finch winced at the snow blowing into his face. The streets and sidewalks were already nearly deserted.
"See you after this blows over, I guess," said Finch.
"I hope you don't have far to go in this." Reese said, partly playing his usual game of trying to discover where Finch lived, but mostly out of actual concern. Walking very far through this heavy snow was going to be rough on his friend, and there weren't any taxis around.
"I'll be fine, Mr. Reese, thank you for your concern. However, I think I will ask you to take Bear home with you. If it does get as bad as they are predicting, I might have difficulty getting out later to take him for walks."
"Sure, he can stay with me for a couple of days. See you later then."
Finch handed over Bear's leash, and nodded, then turned to go. Reese stood there, watching him limp away through the snow. He felt uneasy about letting Finch go in this weather; worried that he might have trouble making it safely to wherever it was he was going. Reese felt the urge to insist on going with him, to keep him safe, but shoved it aside. Besides, Finch had said to Bear, 'We're going home.' If Finch's destination was the place he thought of as 'home,' he definitely would not want Reese accompanying him there.
"Finch!" he called through the falling snow. The retreating figure stopped and turned, "Call me if you need anything."
"I will," Finch shouted back, then gave a little wave, and turned back into the blizzard. Reese watched until he turned a corner, considered for a minute trying to follow him, then decided against it and said to Bear, "Come on, then."
~~~
Knowing that Reese's eyes were on him, Finch kept up the fastest, strongest pace he could until he had turned the corner. Then he slowed considerably and drew in a heaving, ragged breath. And then coughed as he inhaled a lungful of snowflakes. He cursed his own pride for making him stride confidently away from Reese.
'I don't want him to worry about me,' he tried to convince himself, when the truth was that he hated feeling weak and incapable around Reese. He hated it in general, of course; it frustrated and frightened him, but his limitations bothered him more when Reese was around and watching. Not that Reese ever drew any attention to his limp or lack of mobility; Reese was even courteous, or perhaps compassionate and understanding enough never to try open doors or carry things for him. No, Reese just let him get on with it, trusting he'd ask for help when he needed it.
Which he did. When he absolutely had to, but only then. He needed his autonomy, and much as he might like to, he couldn't afford to start relying on Reese's help for everyday difficulties. Finch needed to be able to get by on his own, otherwise he was lost. But, he admitted to himself, mostly it was pride. He didn't want Reese to think of him as weak, incapable, a cripple. He wanted Reese's respect.
The wind was stronger here, blowing straight at him and freezing the tips of his ears already. He tried to hunch lower into his coat, and started moving again, setting a pace slow enough not to over-tax his bad leg, but fast enough to keep warm.
"Damn good thing I stepped up the exercise program otherwise I'm not sure I'd actually be able to do this." He had started exercising more when it became clear that he was going to be taking a more active role in some of their cases than he had originally envisioned, and then again after his recent captivity. He was never going to regain the lost mobility, but he could be stronger, faster, better prepared. How far he still had to go quickly became clear.
His home was ten New York City blocks from the library, which was normally an easy fifteen-minute walk, even for him, but now he would be fighting the dragging snow and driving wind for all ten. As he struggled forward, he reviewed his options. He could try calling a cab, but considering how few he'd seen, most of them weren't running and the ones that were must be booked solid - even if he played the millionaire card, and offered to make it worth the driver's while, he would probably be waiting hours in the snow - not an option. He could stop at a hotel and book a room. There were two problems with that idea - first, the closest hotel was still four blocks away, and second, he hated the idea of being on unknown territory during this weather. He was already feeling vulnerable; letting himself be trapped in a building he didn't know would make matters worse. There was one other option he had: one of the limousine hire services he used regularly had a fleet of Hummer-Limos. Under normal circumstances he thought they were ridiculous, but this might just be the time and the place for an absurd vehicle. If he couldn't make it home, he would call the limo place, and have them send out a Hummer to get him.
~~~
Back at his apartment, Reese hung up his wet coat, then got a towel from the kitchen to wipe as much of the melted snow as he could off Bear. Of course, as soon as he finished, Bear gave himself a shake, sending a fine spray into Reese's face.
"Thanks, like I wasn't already wet enough."
He put out food and water for the dog, and then spent the next twenty minutes double-checking all the emergency gear and preparations in the apartment. The building had an emergency generator and gas heating, and Reese's apartment had a gas stove, so warmth wouldn't be a problem. He put a flashlight and some candles near to hand, double-checked his stock of bottled water and canned food, and checked the batteries in a small portable radio. Satisfied with the state of the apartment, he went on a recce around the building, noting how much snow was building up at the various exits, and making sure he could get into the super's store-room for a shovel, if he needed to.
Building secure and escape routes still passable, he went back up to his apartment and cooked himself dinner.
~~~
Four blocks of painful struggle later, Finch stopped for breath in the lee of a building doorway. There was a hotel across the road and he again considered going in, putting his black American Express card on the reception desk, and asking for their best suite. But his usual paranoia had been ratcheted into high gear by the storm and the impassability of the roads, and he couldn't face the thought of being trapped, helpless, on unknown territory. He needed to get home. Home was safe, home had locks and bars and cameras and alarms and a generator and food and water and his bed. He pulled out his phone and dialed the number for the limo service, and got a busy signal. He obviously wasn't the only one who had thought of the Hummer Limos as a solution. He looked up into the storm and set himself a goal - halfway up the block from where he was there was a yellow-and-blue blinking neon sign for a Ukrainian restaurant. He would stop and try calling the limo service again when he got there.
To distract himself from the snow, cold, pain, and tiredness, he mentally reviewed his emergency preparations: Emergency back-up power, check. Food and water, check. Communications, check - the house had a landline as well as a cable-telephone service, even if a power failure knocked out the cell towers, he would be able to call... Reese. If he needed help, he would call Reese and Reese would come, no matter what. The certainty of it stood like a granite pillar in his consciousness. And his pride kept him moving when the number for the limo service was still busy.
When he finally made it to the gate that guarded the short, narrow front courtyard of his townhouse, he was shaking from cold and exhaustion. With trembling hands he unlocked the deadbolt, and then punched the alarm code into the electronic lock. He struggled to pull the gate open wide enough against the snowdrift so that he could step through. Once inside the courtyard, he forced himself to slowly and carefully lock it behind him. The dozen steps through the snow up the walk to the door felt like a mile, and the three stairs up to the door left him panting for breath. It took all the self-discipline he had to calm his shaking hands enough to unlock the two deadbolts and second electronic lock. He stepped into the entryway, and shut the door behind himself. Fighting an urge to collapse onto the floor, he carefully locked the door and re-set the security system. That done, he dragged in a huge sigh of relief and leaned against the wall of the hallway, catching his breath. He'd made it. He was home. He was safe. The thought crossed his mind to call Reese to let him know, but he dismissed it. Instead he took off his heavy wet coat and hung it on the coat-tree to dry.
'Tea, then dry clothes, then check the emergency preparations, and the security system, then bed,' he decided, discarding the idea of a hot shower only because, good as it would feel, it would involve standing on his aching left leg for another ten minutes.
~~~
After he had eaten, Reese stood staring out the big loft windows. The snow whipped by like something he hadn't seen since he got stuck in a cave in the mountains of northern Afghanistan in '98. It was so thick he couldn't see the trees in the park across the street, and could barely make out the red and green glow of the nearest streetlights. He wondered if Finch was all right, and assumed he must be, given that he hadn't heard otherwise, but that didn't stop him worrying, just a little. OK, maybe more than a little. He had come to care deeply for his friend, and that made him want to protect and take care of the man who had saved his life, and given him something to live for.
A whine from the corner reminded him of his other new responsibility.
"You need to go out before we settle in for the night, don't you?" Reese opened a closet and considered his clothing choices. They would probably only be walking around the block, but still, his training and paranoia wouldn't let him set foot outdoors in this weather unless he was dressed for winter survival. He got out his thermal long johns and sock liners, a pair of wool socks, black combat pants, paratrooper’s boots, a black wool sweater with a high zippered neck and a warmly lined nylon bomber jacket. A pair of insulated leather gloves and a black knitted watch cap completed the outfit. Dressing only took a couple of minutes, and then he picked up Bear's leash and snapped it to the dog's collar.
"Let's go see what this storm can do, right buddy?"
Quite a lot, it seemed. Reese had seen a lot of bad weather in a lot of places, but he had to admit that this was pretty impressive. The snow drifts were over four feet high in places, and the roads were completely impassable, for the most part. A few streets over he could hear the rumble of a plough, and further away, faintly, the whine of a fire truck siren. There was at least a foot-and-a-half of heavy, wet snow on the sidewalks which didn't seem to bother Bear too much. Reese slogged through it, keeping an eye out for any kind of threat coming at them through the blizzard, but the streets were deserted. It seemed everyone in this neighborhood, at least, had taken the warnings to heart and were holed up indoors. They went around the block once, and Bear sat down, panting, as soon as they got back to the front of John's building, so he took that to mean the dog had had enough.
Back in his apartment, he undressed and carefully laid the clothes out over a couple of chairs near the radiators to dry; he would need them the next morning to take Bear out again. He turned on the radio and listened to the news reports about the storm for a few minutes - the airports and most of the roads were closed, accidents abounded, unlucky motorists were trapped on the freeways and in the tunnels, the ploughs were being dispatched only with the ambulances and fire trucks to clear the way for emergency vehicles. The 911 lines were jammed and citizens were being exhorted to 'Please only call in a serious emergency.'
Reese switched the radio off, read for an hour, and went to bed.
~~~
Harold Finch climbed gratefully, painfully into bed and burrowed under the covers. It was only 9:30 pm, but he was sure he'd be asleep almost instantly after the day he'd had. He took off his glasses, put them on the bedside table, lay back, and utterly failed to fall asleep. His nerves were still frayed, his muscles were taut, and his bad leg ached. He forced himself to relax, to take deep, slow breaths. He ran through a basic mediation in his head, which left him feeling slightly calmer, but nothing more. He wished Bear were here with him, curled up at the foot of the bed, snoring softly. Having Bear around was almost as good as having Reese around; both made him feel safer, and less alone. He thought again about calling Reese, ostensibly to check on Bear, but really, just because he wanted to hear his friend's voice. Finch knew what that really meant and deliberately turned his thoughts away from John Reese. He could hear the wind whistling outside, and thought about the storm, the snow, the deep drifts outside his front and back doors. 'I'm safe here,' he told himself. 'It's OK.' But the whistling wind continued to play on his frayed nerves, no matter how firmly he told himself that he was over-reacting to the stress of the day, that the house was perfectly secure, that nothing was going to happen.
After almost an hour of failing to sleep, Finch got back out of bed and stepped into the en-suite bathroom. He opened the medicine cabinet and looked at his options. His hand wavered between two bottles, the one that did little for the pain, but left him completely alert, and the one that would manage to dull the worst of the ache, but leave him slightly dopey.
"If the goal is to fall asleep..." he thought to himself, but he couldn't shake the paranoia he was feeling. Finally he came to a decision, took the bottle of strong opiate out of the cabinet, and set it beside the sink. Then he put on a robe and a pair of slippers and went through the house from basement to attic, again, hobbling painfully up and down two flights of stairs, re-checking every door, every window, every lock and alarm.
Satisfied, he went back to his room, swallowed two of the pills with a gulp of water, and went back to bed.
He lay on his back, waiting for relief. Waiting for sleep. Unbidden, Reese's face came to mind. The strong jaw, the graying hair, the big, deep blue eyes. Oh, those eyes. Usually hooded, cold, wary - but sometimes, only sometimes when they looked at him, warm and caring, and once, just the once, happy.
'I shouldn't,' Finch thought to himself. 'I can't afford...' and tried to push the image from his mind, as usual. But the fog of the narcotic was intruding, and his usually ordered mind wouldn't quite do his bidding. Reese's face swam in front of his eyes.
'Maybe just this once. I need to relax, to sleep.'
Harold gave himself over to the vision in his head. He let himself think about Reese, Reese's face, Reese's body, his strength. The feel of Reese's strong arms around him as the man half-carried him out of the train station after his abduction by Root. He thought of the warm comfortable companionship they had shared a week later, Reese talking him through his response to the incident, over glasses of single-malt whiskey, never once making him feel weak or helpless for reacting the way he did. Sharing some of his own past traumas to make Finch feel better. But always it came back to the face, the eyes. Lying in the dark, Finch for once let himself imagine that he was looking into those deep blue eyes and seeing a reflection of his own desires. Not just for friendship, caring, love - he already had those, he knew, but for more, for intimacy. Finch let himself imagine that Reese was there, in his room, in his bed, leaning over him, supported on one powerful arm, looking deep into his eyes and touching him.
Finch snaked one hand up under the t-shirt he was wearing and brushed a fingertip across a nipple. Imagining Reese's hands - so strong, and yet so precise. Finch knew they would be gentle. With the other hand he pushed the waistband of his sweatpants down past his hips, wrapped his fingers around his engorged penis and started to stroke himself. He imagined Reese touching him, running those strong, gentle hands up and down his body. Reese kissing him on the lips, the neck, the shoulders, dipping his head to suckle a nipple. Reese spooned behind him, his big, meaty cock buried deep in Harold's ass, stroking him, wanting him, needing him, taking him, fucking him, loving him. Harold came with a cry and a sob, the shudders of ejaculation wracking his tired body. He sighed, rolled over, and fell into a fitful, and anything but restful, sleep.