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meme_of_interest2013-03-28 06:03 pm
the_machine_mod) wrote in meme_of_interest2013-03-28 06:03 pm
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Prompt Post 01
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Finch/Reese, movie date... OH WAIT THAT REALLY HAPPENED
(Anonymous) 2013-04-07 02:47 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Finch/Reese, movie date... OH WAIT THAT REALLY HAPPENED
(Anonymous) 2013-04-10 08:11 am (UTC)(link)Fill: Dead Men Don't Date (Reee/Finch) [General] [No meme warnings apply]
"I realize my knowledge of firearms may be limited, but is there really a point in cleaning one four times?"
Reese rubs the rag through the inside of the barrel. Smell of gun oil, sound of typing; he's sprawled on the floor and Finch is huddled behind his monitors, the blue off the storm just past the windows giving the room a thin, wobbly quality. Reese throws Finch a sideways glance.
He spreads his hands. "Boredom-produced productivity being what it is..."
An oxymoronic phrase, likely, except Reese has found Finch very good at consolidating opposites. It's only a matter of time before they are.
"Want to be ready when the next number comes in." Reese says.
Three days. No numbers.
"I'm sure there'll be one soon." Finch says. And it sounds like a prayer.
Maybe it is.
The chair screeches as Finch stands, carefully shrugging into his coat. "Hier, Bear." The service vest goes on without fuss, Bear wagging his tail eagerly: all it takes is a quick scratch behind the ears, a slyly passed treat (we need to put him on a diet, Finch).
Reese shifts his legs out of the way, snagging an umbrella leaning against the wall. He extends it. "Where are you going?"
He takes it. "Out, Mr. Reese."
Reese listens to his footsteps, arrhythmic against the rain; the door clangs below. He waits for the echoes to fade before dropping the rag and following.
Reese's best guess? Maybe a hardware run or a day spent at one of his cover identities; possibly a visit to one of his safe houses. Any of his other undetermined activities, not all of which Reese knows (he wants to), since Finch knows how to lose a tail.
The rain should make it harder this time. It isn't. Reese manages to maintain a thirty-foot distance behind Finch's car, parking against the curb on the street.
The wind gusts, lifting his coat, slanting the rain sideways. Water is thick in the gutters and slick on the street, drafts batter in on both sides and Finch slips, twice.
Each time, Bear presses against his legs.
Each time, Reese feels his shoulders tensing up.
He flips his umbrella open, casing for computer stores or business firms. Instead, Finch heads towards the theater. Cinema Village, it says; Vintage Throwback, the board reads.
Finch stops several feet from the overhang. He's not reading the board-- his neck isn't tilted back far enough; he's waiting, for some reason, possibly in indecision over which movie to see or even more likely whether to see a movie. Bear's leash is wrapped tight around one hand and the umbrella is fighting to get loose in the other.
A hard skid of wind comes through. The umbrella tears out of Finch's hand: tumbling over the roof of a car, cart-wheeling past a couple hurrying past. Finch and Bear are giving it matching soaked looks when Reese reaches them.
"Mine's better anyway." Reese says, dangling it over them. "Big enough for two."
"Three, actually." Finch says, glancing at Bear. He revolves towards Reese. Water speckles his glasses; a droplet runs down the side of his neck.
Reese fights the urge to lick his lips. Rain drums against the umbrella.
"What do you think about Rashomon?" Finch asks.
The ease with which Reese had tailed him. The wait outside the theater. His non-surprise.
Oh.
"Is this a date, Finch?"
"How's your Japanese?"
"Won't there be subtitles?"
He reaches around Finch and holds the door open.
Reese can't remember the last time he's been in a movie theater-- years, probably. But the smell of butter and salt and popcorn and warmth, the slick floors and the bright yellow lights: he's forgotten the small precious treasure of civilian things.
Without the umbrella only one of Finch's hands is being occupied and the other is free to (be held) pull out his wallet. He counts twelve dollars.
Reese digs into his pocket and fans out six, half the fare.
"Really, Mr. Reese?" Finch says, affronted. He turns towards the ticket counter.
Reese shrugs, tucking the money back. "I'll buy the popcorn. You know," He adds, "compromise is critical in a relationship." leaving Finch sputtering long enough to saunter towards the concession counter.
"Do you have any idea how many artificial flavorings are in there?" Finch asks him, as they hand their tickets to the attendant.
The corridors are thin, claustrophobic, carpeted and muffled; Reese thinks that the most secure of the theaters is the one flanking the left corner, the best one to assault would be the last one on the right near the exit doors. He locks the thoughts away for another place and a different time. (He'd like to push them into another life, just for two hours, but even he isn't that good at compartmentalizing).
The theater is mostly empty, only a few weekday strays scattered across the seats. Candy, rattling in boxes. A low murmur of conversation. It's dim and it's stifling, and it's cozy; what it would be like, Reese thinks, to have normal.
Finch starts to take an aisle seat. Reese weaves in front of him, a neat little step that has his foot hedged against Finch's, placing them face to face. The aisle presses in, two feet across and formed by the rows of seats.
It occurs to Reese that in the dim and the gloom under the backlight of the screen, no one would see if--; he wouldn't even have to lean in, he's already close enough to--.
"I prefer aisle seats." Finch tells him, sternly, which is really the same thing as declaring proximity issues.
"I prefer to be able to protect you." Reese responds, and they're sharing the same breath.
Finch slides into the seat beside the aisle one.
It's black and white, of course, Reese wouldn't have expected anything less. A third of the way into the movie and juxtaposed against an undertone comment about the harms of diacetyl Finch skims a few kernels off the top.
It's a win.
And if Reese's hand brushes Finch's once or twice, that's okay; neither of them mention it, but neither of them need to. If Reese drapes his arm across the back of Finch's seat, that's also okay; because Finch leans back, and Reese cups his hand over the round warm point of Finch's shoulder.
Thunder rumbles as they leave the theater.
"I'm afraid we're going to have to wait and see what Stanton's employers have in mind for the future." Finch says, under the drumbeat of rain.
A payphone rings, to the right. He shadows Finch, listening to disjointed voices and feedback humming through the speaker.
"Nice of the Machine." Reese comments, as they walk away. "Letting us finish."
Finch stops. "The Machine does not have the capability to be nice. Nor can it differentiate between dates or otherwise."
Reese tilts his head. "So it is a date?"
Finch smirks, somewhere between pleased and surprised. "Never said it wasn't." He starts moving down the street.
Reese's long steps quickly return him to Finch's side.
Three days, a number. And this-- this is Reese's proof of normal. He lifts the umbrella, sheltering them from the rain.
Re: Fill: Dead Men Don't Date (Reee/Finch) [General] [No meme warnings apply]
(Anonymous) 2013-08-20 11:39 am (UTC)(link)Finch has a peculiar way of asking Reese out on a date, but it's a very fitting one.
I seem to love all your stories so far.
Re: Fill: Dead Men Don't Date (Reee/Finch) [General] [No meme warnings apply]