Finch/Reese, explicit towards the end, no like, no read!

All the excuse of a plot in the first part is so that it can lead to the unrepentantly, sickeningly sweet and fluffy second part, so you are warned. Written pre-S2 finale, will definitely be jossed by canon. But before then, why not? 3

The Final Frontier

"Cabin in the woods," Reese says. "Somewhere far upstate."

"No," Finch replies.

"The only green spot left in the country," Reese tries again. "Where Alicia Corwin went."

"They will be expecting just that," Finch says, not bothering to stop typing.

"Somewhere far far away then," Reese says, pacing around, "You must have an island somewhere. Or some remote country where they have no reach. Haiti, maybe. Nobody knows what goes on there, much less the Machine."

"It won't work, Mr. Reese," Finch says in a sing-song voice, looking for all his part, remarkably unperturbed. Reese bristles.

"Finch," he says, voice low with warning.

Finch looks up. "You don't think I'm taking this seriously," he says, fingers hovering lightly over the keyboard. Reese scowls. Finch merely smiles.

"I appreciate your concern, Mr. Reese - "

"My concern," Reese cuts him short with a vaguely intimidating step forward, "Is that you make out of this alive, Finch, and you are not helping!"

Finch flinches; Reese's face soften imperceptibly and he backs away. "I'm sorry," he says, running a hand through his hair. "Finch, I can't -"

"The Machine gave us my number, Mr. Reese," Finch says, quietly, "It's not a death sentence."

A muscle jumps at Reese's jaw. Finch studies him for some more, unperturbed by his glare; then he drags his gaze towards the board, where Harold Wren smiles down from his graduation photo from MIT.

"They have infected the Machine to turn it into a weapon," Finch says, staring at the board with a strange look of detachment, "So that they can use it to track down any individual of their choosing. It just happens that I am their first target, Mr. Reese..." he trails off, eyes fixed on his own photo, youthful, less betrayed, echoing the small smile of his younger self.

Reese eyes him warily but makes no reply. Finch promptly snaps out of his reverie and turns around, stalking back to the computer, "One fortunate aspect of our predicament, Mr. Reese, is that the backdoor I left is still functioning, and it is alerting us of their move." He brings up the screen he had been monitoring since Kara uploaded the virus, "Thirty days until the virus goes online. We may have some time yet."

"Which brings me back to my original proposal," Reese jumps in, equal parts smooth and dangerous, "An island, Finch."

"It really would not work," Finch says, eyeing him with faint amusement. "I built the Machine, I know of its capabilities. There is quite literally nowhere left to run."

The jumping muscle is back in Reese's jaw. "So what do you suggest?" He says, voice low and vaguely menacing, the curl of his lips more annoyance than sarcasm.

"A plan," Finch replies, simply.

"Care to invite me into it?" Reese prods, feeling more angry than he ought to, because this is Finch, dammit, if he was going to sit and watch or be dismissed -

"Unless you have somewhere else you prefer to be," Finch says, frowning a little. "What makes you think I can pull it off alone?"

Reese stills. His mind, the anxious, fraying mind that has been in hyperdrive ever since Finch got the phone call after they finally went and saw Once Upon a Time in the West; the mind that refuses to consider possibilities of Finch being hunted, hurt, dying, but must; it stills too. He reevaluates the situation at hand, Agency protocol, calm, detached, control, which he does not feel like he have, but he must anyway. Then it dawns on him.

"A contingency plan," Reese says, each word striking a cord somewhere deep. "You've thought this through."

"Once or twice," Finch says, dismissively. Then he looks at Reese with eyes that spoke of many sleepless nights and meticulous detailing. "Don't tell me you never thought this day would come," he adds, softly.

"Of course," Reese murmurs, as he begins to see the acceptance in the faded lines around Finch's eyes, the quiet determination. "I apologise."

Finch studies him for some more; his eyes narrowing imperceptibly as he makes another decision, a braver one this time. "Before we begin I want to get one thing straight," he announces, with a strange levelness in his voice that is not conveyed by the tight features on his face, "Time will likely to be of essence in our next move. So I will not insult you by repeatedly asking, John, but at any point you wish to leave - "

"So don't insult me," Reese says, crossing his arms.

"At any point you wish to leave," Finch continues, completely undeterred and one hundred percent calm, "A deep, well maintained cover with sufficient funds is always set aside for you."

Reese says nothing but arches an eyebrow.

"If you wish to stick with me until the bitter end, as they say," Finch tells him, a ghost of a smile lingering on his lips now, "The emergency supplies will be arriving soon at your apartment, so if you would...?"

Reese doesn't need telling twice. He is more surprised, however, when he reaches his apartment and realises the aforementioned emergency supplies were surgical, instead of survival. He is most surprised, though less worryingly so, when Finch shows up at his doorstep moments later, a small suitcase behind his step.

"So we are sticking together, then," Reese says with a vague smirk, closing the door behind his guest. Finch gives him an unimpressed look and proceeds towards the window, whereby he stood, studying the street below.

"It sees everything," Finch says, finally. Reese is about to offer to check the loft for surveillance equipment when Finch adds, almost as an afterthought, "Perhaps I really ought to buy you some curtains."

Reese nearly laughs, and it takes the tension out of the moment. Finch smiles too, offering to make him tea and moves about in his kitchen with more familiarity than Reese could afford himself. It all starts to look very domestic when Finch unpacks the suitcase and requisitions an empty drawer for his pyjamas, evidently staying for more than one night, then the doorbell rings. An alarmingly huge package - discreet delivery - the size of a man comes for Reese, and Reese opens it; things take a turn for the strange.

"Okay," Reese says slowly, staring at the content of what he had just opened, "You really have to explain this one, Finch."

Finch's mouth twitch. "What does it look like to you?" he says.

"Like you are getting way too much fun out of this," Reese replies. "A cadaver? Really? With two extra hands and a leg?"

Finch makes no straight answer but pushes the bag of surgical supplies towards him. "How good were your surgical skills in the field?"

Reese glances at him sarcastically.

"Right," Finch says. "Well. I think it's safe to say it'd be risky to outsource our problem as of this moment, so we'll have to make do with ourselves."

"Whoa," Reese begins, stopping Finch's hand at grabbing a surgical knife, "Sticking together, remember? Rule number one of partnerships: always tell each other what's going on."

Finch's lips twitch at that. "And when has that ever applied to us, Mr. Reese?" he murmurs, a glint in his eye.

For a brief moment Reese is torn between being scandalous and being amused, and he settles on being vaguely affronted. "Perhaps it's time for a strange of strategy," he says, sarcastically.

To his surprise, Finch agrees. "Remember how I said our knowledge on one another is woefully imbalanced?" he asks, all too innocently for Reese's liking, "Perhaps it is time for the scale to be tipped towards in the middle."

Reese blinks. "I'm going to listen to your childhood story over a dead guy?" he asks, highly suspicious, not least because Finch is looking entirely too untroubled, even for someone who has accepted the eventuality of their fate.

"No, Mr. Reese," Finch says, patiently, soft. "I'm going to tell you the real extent of my injuries, and we are going to replicate it on our cadaver friend."

Faking injury, it turns out, was much more difficult than he had imagined. Finch had been remarkably unruffled the whole time, making surgical incisions shadowing his own scars, each one echoed by an internal flinch that never makes to Reese's face. Then he goes and asks the impossible.

"If you would kindly break the C2 to C4 vertebrae," Finch says, conversationally, as if he was asking Reese to pass the salt. "Not completely. Fracture it, if you can."

Reese gapes. "No," he says, voice coming out a little less steady than he had hoped, "Finch, that's - I won't do it."

Finch scrutinises him for a few moments. "Alright," he says, finally, without argument, and the knot in Reese's stomach doesn't quite loosen, not yet, because Finch calmly picks up a hammer. "I shall see to it myself."

"Jesus," Reese snatches the hammer away from him just in time, scowling. "Finch, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Bar your sentiment for just one moment," Finch says, in a strangely authoritative voice, eyes intent. "I know you can do it, and we need these exact injuries to be replicated in the off chance that someone goes looking."

Reese stares at him for some more, face rearranging into a formulated mask, then wordlessly reaches out. His fingers find their way behind the cadaver's neck, eyes locked with Finch's the whole time. Finch stares back; neither of them says anything, their faces blank, but they both know what little there is to be said. Three distinctive cracks, and suddenly the cadaver's head flops to the side. Reese's face remains passive; his mind roaring to be silent.

"Thank you," Finch says, graciously. "Perhaps I will tell you that story over dinner."

Reese lets out a breath he did not know he was holding. "It won't be easy with just a cadaver," he says. "Unless -"

"Yes," Finch throws him a significant glance, already at work with the next step, "Unless."

The explosives arrive three days later. Reese doesn't ask where Finch is getting his ammunition, or the textbook knowledge of how much explosive is needed to annihilate a one block radius so that two bodies can possibly be confused as one, since Finch seems to have a textbook understanding of everything. He names the cadaver Frank, much to Finch's distaste, and proceeds to stack the explosives in the closet, much to Finch's chagrin. Otherwise they get on fine, aside from the fact that Finch has suddenly requested him cook a high-carb, high protein menu, which is one aspect of the plan that Reese hasn't been able to figure out.

"Don't think I don't know what you are doing," Reese murmurs one day, as they sit down to dinner. Despite an impending act of violence, Finch is getting better colour in his cheeks, looking healthier, less pale, and Reese takes satisfaction in knowing that he had helped. Finch arches an eyebrow.

"Now what is it you think you know, Mr. Reese?" He says, angling a piece of beef into his mouth, table manners always intact.

"Whatever it is you are planning, you think I won't approve," Reese says, casually, dragging some asparagus around in the sauce. "That's why you won't tell me what it is."

Finch raises another brow in lieu of saying, 'When have I needed your approval for anything, Mr. Reese?' But it lacks conviction and Reese pays no regard to it. He peers at Finch, pointedly, and cuts a piece of the steak in half with clean precision.

"So that you won't find yourself insulted," Reese says, in the same casual tone that he keeps whenever he's feeling particularly predatory, "I should tell you now that if you do anything stupid, especially on your own, I will spend the rest of my life finding you, or avenging you, whichever need comes first."

For a moment Finch looks taken aback, the eyes blank, then the oceans come together amidst the searing blue and a wry smile appears on his lips. "I'm sure this is not on the employment contract we signed, Mr. Reese," he says, voice soft.

Reese throws him a sideway glance and a sly smile that is much too flirtatious and says nothing. Finch's lip twitch some more, then he stands up.

"Alright, if you insist on approving," he says, and goes over to the surgical bag to extract a syringe, a rubber band, disinfectant, some cotton pad and two cylinder tubes. "Then you can do the honours."

Reese watches wordlessly as Finch rolls up his sleeves and presents the arm to him, looking expectant, then his face slowly draws into shock.

"That's what you had planned?" Reese asks, incredulous, "To bleed yourself dry?"

"The case of George Foyet," Finch says, calmly, because one of them must, "He drew his blood regularly so that when the time came, it can be used to fake his own demise."

"Foyet was beaten to death," Reese hisses.

"Nevertheless, a remix of strategy can sometimes work," Finch says, tapping his vein. "300ml to begin, if you will."

"You are insane," Reese says. He picks up the syringe anyway, and dabs some cotton pads in the disinfectant. For all his part, Finch looks serene, which should be worrying; but Reese has long since gone past the stage of active worry, from the moment Finch showed up at his door. He finds the vein and inserts the needle carefully, with a level of new precision that was never warranted on the field, and extracts exactly 300ml, as requested.

"You have a good hand at this," Finch murmurs at the end, replacing Reese's hand at firmly pressurising the tiny wound. "Perhaps you missed your calling."

"My calling is right here," Reese says dismissively, discarding the used needle without so much as a glance up. "You do realise there is a limit to how often you can do this?"

"4 times in 12 months for men with a 12 week interval, 16 week interval for women," Finch replies, and there it is, the textbook understanding of everything. Reese scowls. Then Finch goes on and says, "I've seen you lose nearly two pint of blood and survive, Mr. Reese," his voice soft and face softer, almost a sense of reverie, and Reese nearly snaps.

"You are not me," Reese says, low and dangerous, "I'm trained to function even when there is blood loss, used to pain -"

Abruptly he stops. Finch merely peers at him, face impassive, injured neck crooked slightly to the side, the furthest it will go. Reese backs down.

"I'm sorry," he says. "But it's not the same."

"I know," Finch says, with just a hint of regret and clear, defiant determination. "But circumstances have rendered us more similar than you realise."

Deep down Reese knows it's true, so he goes and readjusts the menu in the next few weeks to ensure maximum nutrition and fastest body regeneration. Finch asks him to extract blood with a five day interval, no more than 200ml at a time, storing them in the fridge, and every time Reese opens it he sees the wine of Jesus, and he is struck with an inexplicable urge to laugh and sob at the same time. He breathes, in and out, in and out, and reins in the roaring beast in his chest, trying to enjoy what little of normality he has left with Finch, cooking, eating, resting with a cadaver in a nearby freezer.

Then the phone calls come at closer intervals, and the urgency makes itself apparent. Reese knows the formulation of Wren's social security number off by heart now, and he knows the books that it corresponds to - Stress Fractures of Titanium being one of them, curiously enough - he doesn't let himself dwell on the fact that he brushed with Finch's first and foremost identity numerous times when he first started. What is important, he decides, is that Finch is here now, the real person with his little quirks and moments of seeming insanity (complete with extraordinarily composed demeanour), real identities be damned. They sleep in the same bed; Reese keeping a handgun under the pillow and Finch wearing a full set of pyjamas that will not deter an effort to escape should the need arise, and that is all they do. Strangely he sleeps well, each night turning out the light and saying good night, listening to Finch's long, even breathing, letting it reassure him of the fragile reality that he holds on to with tooth and nail, and letting it finally carry him away. It goes on like this for precisely three weeks, when there is enough blood in the fridge to fake a particularly gory crime scene, and despite his best efforts Finch is looking paler and haunted again, much like when they first met, and Reese swallows the bitter sentiment of things coming around in a full circle this time, finally.

Finch tells him to pack up Frank on a Tuesday, cleans out his closet on a Thursday, and removes the contents in his fridge on a Friday. They are all shipped off to an unknown location, the final frontier, Reese presumes, and he says nothing, the acceptance and denial rolling into one, preventing him from asking questions for answers he does not yet want to find. It reminds him eerily of being back in the Service, following orders without dispute, with wanton trust that he once had, and the kind that was pieced together by Finch, one fragment at a time.

He doesn't sleep on Friday night. New York City doesn't sleep on Friday nights, the street below his loft bustling with tipsy white collar workers and merry laughing college students, sirens coming by and past, cabbies shouting, honking their horns. It feels alive, one of the most lively cities in the world, and it is a stark contrast to the dead quiet in his apartment, dark, laminated only by moonlight. The phone calls come at 15 minute interval now, frantic and undeterred, so they had to disable all cameras and electronic equipment in the house to get a moment of silence. Radio silence, and strange peace, the calm before a storm.

"John," a soft voice calls him, and he realises Finch isn't asleep either, too wound up for tomorrow. He shifts.

"Yeah?"

Finch is quiet for a few moments. "What are you thinking?" he asks, finally, voice thin like a thread.

"Just contemplating life," Reese says, which isn't entirely untrue. He can feel Finch smile at that.

"And what wisdom have you found?"

"Who says there's any wisdom to be found?" Reese replies, voice low and face shielded by the shadow. "What about you?"

"Nothing," Finch replies, with surprising level honesty, "I can't seem to think about anything."

Reese smiles a little at that. "Try reciting the first hundredth digits of Pi," he says, half a joke and half a suggestion. Finch snorts quietly.

"Not challenging enough to keep my mind occupied," he says. "First five hundred and eighth to seven hundred and sixteenth, perhaps, but -"

Reese chuckles, and the sound reverberates through the sheets. Finch falls silent again. They lie next to each other, just breathing, being alive, for the moment, in the moment, but neither of them find sleep.

"Would you like me to recite something for you?" Finch asks finally, soft. "To help you sleep."

"I'm not keen on sleep at the moment," Reese says, turning his head a little. His eyes are sharp, sharper than the light, and Finch stares back at him with slightly narrowed eyes, as if blindsided. "But it's a nice offer. Perhaps we can talk," he says, in the end.

"Hoping to hear my childhood story?" Finch says, quietly with a hint of amusement, lacking the usual conviction and sarcasm, strangely tender. For a completely insane moment Reese's heart aches, and his fingers twitch, but he clamps down on the need to reach out and grab the other man's hand. He smiles instead.

"Tell me what you want," Reese says. "Or recite to me your favourite part of Pi."

Finch ponders this for a moment, then recites a long string of numbers, almost too quickly for Reese to follow. Reese is certain that it is a section of Pi, but he doesn't have time to wallow in his disappointment, because Finch turns to him and says, "My original social security number is in there, Mr. Reese," and a single breath catches in his throat. Finch's face is impassive, the lines around his mouth relaxed, as if this is a moment that he had foreseen in many of his sleepless nights, but the eyes betray him; Reese sees in his eyes the quiet uncertainty, the gentle affection and the firm determination that says no more regrets.

"Harold," Reese murmurs, at last finding Finch's fingers and squeezing them, hard, and Finch doesn't flinch, he squeezes him back.

"There is one other thing," Finch adds, quietly now and averting his eyes, as if it had been one single confession and this is the difficult part. Reese perks up with a gut feeling; his mind preparing for a revelation of all the secrets and the past, of what he had guessed and hoped, but all Finch says is, "The twelve-thousand and fifty-eight digit of Pi to the twelve-thousand and sixty six."

Reese blinks and scowls. "Your real birthday?"

"Not quite," Finch glances at him, a ghost of a smile upon his lips now, "It's Harold Wren and John Warren's anniversary."

Reese is stunned; he wants to do a hundred things at once and say a hundred things at once so he does nothing and says nothing at all, and it takes full three seconds until he realises he has abruptly sat up against the headboard, staring down the other man in disbelief. Finch is looking at him calculatingly, with a small frown.

"Should I apologise?" Finch says, too quick to be able to hide the emotions, "I just thought it would make -"

"We are married?" Reese interjects, in a hushed whisper, and the muted wonderment must be stark frank in Finch's eyes because Finch relaxes, fractionally.

"Well, yes," Finch says, slower, more cautiously. "As I said, it would make -"

"When were you going to tell me?"

Finch blanches. "I - " The answer is obviously never, if he can help it, and Reese is hit again with the inexplicable urge to laugh and sob at the same time.

"You are insane," he says, clutching at his chest, trying to control the beast clawing against his heart in vain. "Batshit crazy."

Finch bristles. "Now, Mr. Reese -"

"You couldn't even have given me the chance to say something?" Reese rasps, blinking back tears from dubious emotions that rises beyond all his restraint, "Let me get down on one knee, propose?"

"Well I - What?"

Finch frowns, utterly bewildered; the most ridiculously hilarious expression Reese has ever seen to grace the man's features, and he finally laughs, laughs so hard that the tears roll down his cheek, and he bends over to add to the surprise with a kiss. Finch's mouth go slightly slack against his, lips soft and breath quickening, still in shock, and Reese prods him gently with his tongue, patient, waiting; finally Finch begins to respond, hesitantly, tentatively, and Reese eases the uncertainty with all the affection and fondness that Finch has showed him, and they meld together, perfectly, flawless, no more regret.

"You see, you had it all wrong," Reese murmurs when they finally break apart, Finch looking a little dazed by the sudden turn of events, so he nudges Finch's cheek with his nose affectionately just for the sake that he can, "You put on my profile that I am a traditional man. Usually a proposal to marriage begins with courtship, not afterwards."

He watches with amusement as Finch blinks blearily, once, twice, then replies, "Circumstances sometimes dictate otherwise, Mr. Reese," and chuckles again, kissing away the formal address.

"So when exactly is our anniversary?" Reese asks afterwards, long afterwards, when the night is deep and tomorrow seems far, and Finch says simply, "Live and find out, Mr. Reese," in the same wry tone that he always used when he wanted Reese to stop prying, only not really.

And that is motivation enough.

They arrive at an abandoned building little after noon, Frank the cadaver already waiting with a three piece suit, pair of extra hands, a leg, the exact amount of explosives needed to take down the building and little over three pints of blood. Reese glances around; the place is completely derelict except for a few abandoned computer workstations and, strangely enough, a dusty treadmill.

"This building once belonged to IFT," Finch says, explaining promptly for once. "This is, as they say, Ground Zero."

"This is where you worked on the Machine?" Reese says, making a round again in reverence, "Alone?"

"Mmmhmm," Finch responds, rather absently. He stalks over to one of the workstations and presses a button, miraculously, it powered up. "This is also the only place, in lieu of the physical location of the Machine, where I can access the backdoor."

Reese's face goes blank. "So you can," he says, carefully, every muscle of his body tensing in anticipation, though of what, he doesn't quite know.

"I can," Finch says, calmly, "I can log in from here and shut down the backdoor, seal the system, delete the admin privilege, and -"

"Delete admin?"

"- And the Machine will revert back to its original state, for its original purpose," Finch continues, unwavering. "It will no longer evolve and grow, alas, and it will be much less powerful, but it will still serve a purpose, a purpose it is originally built to serve." He casts a glance at Reese, who is standing close with a completely blank expression, and sits down in front of the workstation. "As soon as I start the process, they will no doubt be notified. And they will come for us, which is where our prepared plan comes in."

"You are going to kill your creation," Reese states, quietly. Finch flinches.

"The main objective is to kill us," Finch says, in a feeble attempt to deflect, "They will unlikely stop until they know for certain that we are - "

Reese stares at him, not backing down. "You are going to kill it," he says. "They are after the Machine because they know it can evolve and be moulded into what they want it to be, a weapon. And you are going to kill it."

Slowly Finch meets his eyes, and Reese sees, knows, for the first time, the deep regret and sorrow that the man bears silent, all these years. "Yes," Finch whispers, barely audible, "I'm going to kill my creation so that it doesn't become a new military toy."

A dark shadow of pain flits across the tired, worn lines of Finch's face, and Reese feels a pang in his chest, an anger of indefinable origin, remorse for what he has not done and cannot do, a deep frustration without relief. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the night, the solace of the dark, Finch's face betraying a glimmer of unexpected happiness and he looks almost surprised, as if he himself did not know he is capable of such emotions under such circumstances, and Reese's heart aches so much the pain is almost bone deep.

"John," Finch calls him softly and he opens his eyes again, face stoic, and feels a firm hand on his arm. "We will have about fifteen minutes until their men arrive. This is -"

"The final frontier," Reese supplies, smiling a little, forlorn. The same smile is echoed in Finch's eyes, and he murmurs,

"Yes, of which we will stand close."

It takes little under an hour for Finch to finish the code, during which the phone rattles off almost incessantly, and Reese has to pull out the battery so that it is one less distraction to what is going to come anyway. Finch works with the coding with a level of precision that Reese does with his firearms, undeterred, undistracted, hyper alert, and Reese can't help but wonder how long this particular contingency plan had been in place. After Root? After Kara? Before all of this? He doesn't ask, only sits down next to Frank and watches the dusty, reinforced door that leads to a dimly lit corridor.

At last Finch finish with a flourish, a final tap on the enter key, with more force than necessary, and the screen begins to roll at a faster speed than human eyes can capture, a constant stream of consciousness in the cloud. It has begun, and it has ended.

Finch turns and joins him next to Frank, whom they have propped up against one of the pillars. Finch glances down at the cadaver for a few moments, then looks up again, searching Reese's face.

"You'll have to let them shoot me somewhere that isn't immediately fatal," he says.

Reese scowls. "Bullets don't have eyes," he replies sarcastically. "I'm not Neo, I can't redirect them with my willpower."

"We are both wearing bullet proof vests," Finch remarks, brushing away the Matrix comment with a wry glance, "Do your best. It would be rather strange to see evidence of tremendous blood loss, if no shot was made."

"So you are trusting your life to me in a shootout?" Reese says, a little incredulously. Finch merely eyes him.

"I have trusted my life to you ever since I offered you a job under the Brooklyn Bridge," he says, calmly. "I see no reason why I shouldn't now, at the end."

Reese blinks, and exhales. "You know, Finch," he murmurs, locking the magazines in place, "You really know how to give a guy prep talk."

Finch's lips twitch despite himself. "Speaking of prep talk," he says, as distant commotion circles ever closer, "There is one more thing you should know..."

"Don't tell me," Reese says, lips curving into a mischievous smile, "We have a daughter."

"...Not quite," Finch glances at him, amused, then his face softens. "I bought a dual plot in the city cemetery under Wren and Warren's name. I thought," he says, slowly, dragging his eyes across Reese's face to search for a clue to his reaction, "Since we both don't have any family left, and after what we had gone through, perhaps you wouldn't mind my company, even in the great beyond."

For a moment Reese doesn't speak, and Finch looks slightly worried, then he stares across in a strange mix of naked terror and exhilaration and pleading, and Finch looks startled. "Harold," he rasps, fingers shaking slightly as he sets down the gun, "Don't do this to me now."

Finch says nothing, but lets his confusion show on his face. Reese inhales sharply, once, twice, keeping the tide at bay, and finally says,

"You tell me this, and I'm not afraid to die," he stares into Finch's eyes with burning imploration, "Don't make me look forward to -"

"Then I must tell you about Plan C," Finch interjects forcefully, locking eyes with him all the while, "An island. Like you said, somewhere in the Pacific, mostly radio silent. Temperate weather with good land resources and some under the radar development, enough to tide us over until the organisation breaks. Then we choose what we do next, where we go - " a shadow of smile crosses his lips now, gentle, promising, and Reese's heart leaps impossibly to his throat, "The world, as they say, will be our oyster, Mr. Reese," Finch finishes, smiling.

Reese says nothing, his eyes hooded by the shadows of his lashes. In the distance that is far too near for their liking a fire door is being forced open, and alarms wailed throughout the building. The final frontier, two men against a nameless organisation, faith against betrayal, trust against malicious intent. Reese is silent, seemingly unaware of the small army that is about to burst through, and Finch does not hurry him, they stand next to each other, assured, confident, all there is to be done, nothing left unsaid, hope against hope. Reese inhales, once, twice; when he looks up again, the old John Reese is back, staring down death with a nonchalant smirk; he stands up, finding Finch's fingers and holding on.

"You really do know how to give a guy prep talk," Reese murmurs, as bullets began to pellet down the door. Finch straightens.

"Only for you," he says, brushing away the crease on his suit.

"Stay with me through the final frontier?" Reese asks, one last sultry, flirtatious glance in his direction, and Finch smiles.

"Always," he says, and the words drown in the fire.