Author's Note: This is the first fanfic that I've written in many years, but I love this show and these characters so much that I couldn't help myself. Just a random, smutty 'what if?' I hope I got the characterization right. Critiques and comments are very much appreciated. Warnings: M/M, voyeurism
Finch shifted in his chair, absently rubbing at his aching hip, the knotted cordage of scar tissue hard beneath his slacks. The fingers of his other hand tapped out a staccato rhythm on the table, his gaze not on the open book before him, but on the phone beside it. Reese had not replied to his text, nor had he answered when Finch had called. There was no new number, so Finch couldn't really justify being annoyed, but he was, just the same. Talking to Reese couldn't ease the pain in his battered body, but sometimes it helped him forget it, just for a while.
Unable to concentrate on his reading, Finch closed the book and slid it aside, pulling the keyboard over in front of him instead. Any distraction would be welcome. Fingers dancing over the keys, he quickly called up the location of Reese's cell, the GPS putting him inside a seedy bar in one of the shadier sides of town. Finch pursed his lips, remembering how many women he'd overheard hitting on Reese, almost desperate to be picked up by a tall, dark, and handsome stranger. No doubt Reese had remembered it, too.
What Reese did on his own time was not something Finch ever intended to discuss, unless it began to affect him, the Machine, or their work. He knew-most of the time-what Reese was up to, but he allowed the illusion of Reese's private life remaining just that. He suspected that Reese knew-he was smarter than the average human-but it appeared to be a leash he didn't mind wearing, so long as the man holding the leash kept out of sight.
Finch adjusted his body yet again, trying to evade the dull, throbbing pain, like someone striking his hip with a ball-peen hammer. It wasn't unbearable-rarely did the pain get so bad that he succumbed to pharmaceutical relief-but it did intrude terribly on his relaxing evening.
Reese's phone had begun moving and Finch watched curiously as it exited through the rear of the bar, instead of the front door. Was there a problem? The GPS blip entered the back alley and then stopped. Finch sat forward in his chair, a slight frown creasing his brow as he began to work the computer again, deft hands and brilliant mind forging a link to the bar's CCTV, hacking the system and gaining control of the camera positioned to watch the rear door.
Finch was prepared for a number of possibilities-Reese in a shootout or a brawl, lying in a dumpster with his throat cut or shot in the back, in a drunken stupor or shooting heroin or getting sucked off by a whore-but when he saw the image that appeared on his screen, he could only stare. Reese was swapping spit and grinding pelvises with a young man-twenty-something, probably a college student, short hair, and wire-rimmed glasses.
Finch adjusted his own glasses and licked suddenly dry lips as his heart-rate began to escalate, his breaths growing short and fast. His fingers twitched as the thought of turning off the feed crossed his mind, but then grew still. He was the father of the Orwellian nightmare, after all-watching one man was hardly a crime when his brainchild was busy watching everyone.
Finch raised his eyebrows as Reese suddenly grabbed a handful of his new friend's hair and forced his head back, attacking the side of the young man's neck with rough kisses and gentle bites. The nameless youth responded by running his hands back through Reese's hair, something Finch himself had been tempted to do on occasion.
Suddenly, Reese let go and stepped back, and Finch watched, breathless, as Reese began unbuttoning his trousers. The young man leaned back against the wall and said something, to which Reese responded by pulling a small square something out of his pocket. It glinted in the light above the door, like metal, like foil-
Finch gasped and leaned back in his chair, his slacks suddenly uncomfortably restrictive. He watched with a growing tightness in his throat and in his briefs as Reese tore open the foil packet and proceeded to use his left hand to roll the condom down over his hard cock. That strong hand, the long fingers that Finch had caught himself staring at on more than one occasion recently, moved slowly up and down the latex-wrapped shaft, drawing a low moan from Finch's lips. Thank God no one was there to hear him.
A movement within the frame drew Finch's attention and his gaze darted to the young stranger. He'd forgotten he was even there. The young man unceremoniously shoved his jeans down around his thighs and turned his back to Reese, bracing his forearms against the grimy alley wall and sticking his bare ass out. Reese pulled something else out of his pocket and Finch squinted at the screen, the grainy black and white image concealing this new surprise, but only until Reese held out his hand and began to drizzle lubricant on his fingers, the thick liquid making his skin wet and shiny looking.
"What the hell are you doing?" Finch whispered, as much to himself as to Reese as Finch hastily undid his slacks and freed his aching cock. His rational, analytical mind was gibbering something about turning off the feed before he sullied his self-respect and his trousers, but the rest of him wasn't listening. He fumbled across the desk for a box of tissues, unable to tear his eyes from the screen.
Reese began to prepare the young man, his slick fingers disappearing into the shadow between those round, tight cheeks, and Finch began to stroke himself as he watched the young man arch and writhe, at the mercy of Reese's more than capable hands. After a minute Reese spoke and the young man nodded. Reese stepped back, stroked himself a couple more times, and then seated the head of his cock at the young man's entrance. Finch found himself holding his breath.
His left hand guiding his cock, the other swept the right side of his jacket out of the way, giving Finch an unobstructed view as Reese sank his cock into the young man in one long, slow thrust. Drawing short, sharp breaths, Finch bit the inside of his lip, his movements quick and urgent, mirroring Reese's hard and relentless rhythm. The young man looked over his shoulder, said something, and Reese reached beneath him, his arm moving to match his thrusting hips. A moment later, the young man stiffened, throwing back his head.
"Fuck!" Finch gasped as his hips jerked, sudden and unexpected. He grabbed a handful of tissues, but not fast enough-semen splattered his shirt and dribbled down over his knuckles. Panting, he sat stiffly, then drew a great breath and slumped in his chair, watching the screen through a fog of endorphins.
Grabbing both of the young man's hips, Reese pounded away, his thrusts growing short and urgent. His tall, lean frame grew stiff and tight, and his eyes closed, his mouth dropping open. His hips jerked a few more times, then he grew still, quiet, his face, half turned toward the camera, wearing an expression of peaceful repose.
The afterglow fading, the young man straightened up and they began putting their clothes in order. He said something and laughed as he took off his glasses and handed them to Reese, then turned and went back into the bar. Finch expected Reese to follow, but the man just stood there. After a moment, Reese ran a hand back through his disheveled hair before looking up, straight at the camera. A small, slow, satisfied smile quirked the corners of Reese's mouth as the tiny, meticulous details gleaned by Finch's rational mind fell neatly into place-the glasses, using his left hand rather than his right to keep from obstructing the camera, pushing his jacket out of the way-
Reese winked, then turned and disappeared down the alley. Finch sat in the silence for a moment, stunned, then he coolly sat forward, wiped the tackiness from his hand, and saved the recording for further analysis. Two could play at that game. As he rose from his chair, he barely even noticed that pain in his hip as he went off to change his shirt.