Finch: Dead Tissue To Cover The Wounds (NSFW)

His supplier’s prices had gone up, what with the apocalypse happening outside. Finch glared at him across the counter, but he was a burly goliath fuck who stood a couple feet taller and looked down at him dispassionately.

“Look, you think I’ve got any fucking money either?” Finch demanded. “Not a lot of work for thieves when the whole city’s gone to looting.”

Maaki shrugged. “Not my problem.”

“You want any fuckin’ gold today and you’ll let me have it for the regular price,” he tried.

Same unconcerned stare. Finch growled at him. He’d put on boots and chanced going out in the city for this shit, and he was just going to have to walk away empty-handed. He needed invisible ink and the solution to develop it, and trap parts, and more fucking locks for the door because those goddamn things had woken him up banging on it and jiggling the doorknob last night. Fucking Jonn had slept right through it and he’d spent hours pointing a crossbow at the door even well after they’d stopped. His eyes were burning from both the sleep loss and the smoke outside, now.

Jonn had come with him, of course, because he wasn’t leaving that fucker in his bunker alone, and had been tooling absently around the shop while Finch bickered with Maaki. But in the lull, he came up beside Finch and draped an arm across his shoulders, sighing impatiently.

“What the problem?” he asked.

“Motherfucker won’t give me what I already committed to paying for,” Finch grumbled. “We’re leaving.”

He made to turn, but Jonn corralled him, looking up at the goliath innocently. “I’m sure we could come to some sort of arrangement.”

Maaki seemed amused.

“Maybe we could talk in the back room?” Jonn said, and pulled away from Finch to circle around the counter, lightly putting a hand on Maaki’s arm.

Before Finch could say anything, the shopkeep had scoffed and led Jonn away. He opened his mouth and raised a hand as the door shut behind them. Wait. What? *What?* Was Jonn --

He kind of wanted to slink closer to the door and press his ear against it. Maybe they were just … talking. In private. For some reason. Right. What the fuck? He knew Jonn had been a prostitute before he’d started working for the guild, and still used those -- *skills* from time to time when money was thin, or, presumably, he was bored, but why now? Well, he did keep complaining that he was bored, actually, and Finch usually just told him to get out and find something to set on fire or whatever the fuck else he did for fun, but most of the time he stayed inside and sulked and lounged around on Finch's bed, playing with that compass he had. Or came over to the desk and antagonized him more directly, always leaning on him and clinging to him and shit.

And now … this. Finch tapped his fingernails on the counter nervously and glanced towards the door, the heavy bar keeping it closed. All of the shops that were still open only were because their owners had barricaded themselves in. Maaki had been trapped in here, probably not with much company, for -- well, actually Finch wasn't entirely sure how long this had been going on now, because he hadn't been leaving his bunker unless he had to even before. Unless he had to, or unless Jonn had literally dragged him out.

Jonn was pretty fucking small, was the thing. Finch had at least a head on him. (And the size of that goliath -- shit.) He hadn’t even really *had* to go anywhere with Jonn, that was all. He could’ve dug his heels in at any point and without pulling a knife on him, Jonn couldn’t’ve done shit about it. Ever since -- what had happened -- Finch knew he’d been letting some of his skills slip, but Jonn was only a touch taller than Larkin. He could probably just hold him at arm’s length, if he’d wanted to.

Why hadn’t he?

He kept bitching about Jonn. He had ever since the guild had paired them up. But then --

Against his better judgement, Finch circled around the counter, quietly, and leaned close to the door to the back room. Muffled voices, words he couldn’t make out. Right. They were talking. Then a sudden high-pitched noise and a spat of Jonn’s manic laughter, the kind Finch had heard him do when he’d been winged by an arrow trap one time. Fucking creeped him out, then, that the weird little fuck laughed when he got hurt.

He realized his hand was on the doorknob and he backed away, retreated to the other side of the counter to pace around the shop. This was ridiculous. Fucking absurd. Jonn could’ve just pitched in a bit of extra gold. Goddamn Maaki could’ve just let him have his order for the price they’d already agreed on. He could have just let it go, skimped on the traps this time, gotten what he could for what he had. Fuck. Fuck. What the fuck were they doing. He had left the bunker with a specific plan and goddamn Jonn just had to fucking keep ruining his plans, distracting him, throwing him off.

More time passed, he was sure, than he had actually been aware of when the door opened again.

Maaki came out alone and jerked his head towards the back, looking real fucking pleased with himself in a way that made Finch feel slightly sick. “You can get you girlfriend and your shit.”

“He’s not -- either of those things,” Finch snapped. He realized he’d been running his fingers through his hair anxiously while he paced, and stopped himself, then hesitated before brushing past Maaki.

The back room was dark -- without the fancy night vision that other races had, he could only make out the shapes of shelves and crates vaguely by the oil lamp by the door. But he could hear Jonn’s heavy breathing, and that helped him pick out his shape and move, cautiously, towards it. He was on a table, slouching limply back against the wall, with his eyes closed and his legs open. He didn’t realize Finch was there, and Finch knew he needed to say something to keep this from turning intensely creepy, but when he opened his mouth no words came out. Just -- the sight of him --

Jonn opened his eyes and jerked suddenly, straightening and whipping a hand to his side, to the hilt of a knife. Finch raised his hands and started to back away, not sure if he was supposed to apologize, or -- what the fuck -- but at the sight of him Jonn actually relaxed. And then laughed.

“Fuck, I thought you were that goddamn goliath coming back for round two or some shit.”

Finch stared at him -- making sure he was staring at his face, not that Jonn seemed to care. “Fuck, Jonn. What the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You ask me that a lot and it’s starting to hurt my feelings.” Jonn leaned his head back against the wall, closing his eyes again. “Hey, he said your stuff is in this crate. I made him show me first.” He gestured next to him on the table. “And I got him to give it to you for free. That’s good, right?”

He was still hesitant to come closer -- not that he thought Jonn was going to snap and shank him or something, he just -- he wasn’t sure why. It was just an awkward fucking position and Jonn didn’t even seem to fucking realize that. He made himself do it, looking pointedly away from Jonn and focusing on digging through the box, making sure everything was there.

“Yeah, I -- I fucking guess,” he muttered. “It’s good. Yeah.”

It was impossible to be sure everything he’d requested was in the crate without more light, so as much as he didn’t want to, Finch snapped his fingers to summon a small dimly-glowing orb, placing it in the crate itself to keep too much light from spreading. Still, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jonn’s pleased grin for a moment before he winced at the light and turned his head away.

“I’m not gonna lie,” he commented, like they were just having a casual conversation, “we just scammed the *fuck* outta that guy. Motherfucker must’ve been lonely.”

“We?”

He paused. “Yeah, just me, really, huh.” A grin spread across his face. “You fuckin’ owe me, now.”

“I don’t owe you shit.” Finch automatically turned to him to make his annoyance more clear, then abruptly turned away again. Jonn would see the blood rushing to his face. There was absolutely no goddamn way in all nine hells Finch was going to let him catch on to where else his blood was rushing -- he dismissed the little light silently.

Jonn laughed. He’d probably seen Finch’s face, but that would give him something to latch onto and not think about it any further. “You fuckin’ owe me,” he singsonged, and straightened again, shifting forward. “Whatever. You can pay me back by helping me get home, because *fuck*. Not sure I can walk after that.”

Finch turned part-way towards him again, hesitating before he asked -- he wasn’t sure if he’d seen what he thought he’d seen. “Are you … bleeding?”

“He’s a fucking goliath.” Jonn shrugged. Completely un-fucking-concerned. Finch remembered the sharp sound he’d heard through the door, and the laughter, and felt ill again.

“You didn’t have to fuckin’ -- do that.”

The guilt he’d been trying to deny finally caught up with him, and he made himself move to help Jonn shift off of the table and onto his feet. Jonn’s legs nearly gave out -- or he just acted like they did for the excuse to grab onto Finch for stability, but it was accompanied by another one of those laughs, which he swallowed back quickly. Finch wasn’t sure if he realized it was a tell or not. That and the thing he did with his fingers.

“We just got free shit. Who’s complaining?” he said, propping against the table instead to refasten his pants.

He wasn’t wrong about the not complaining, but Finch still felt the need to say, “It’s not fucking free if you’re bleeding over it.”

Jonn shrugged again. “I’ll heal.”

“Yeah, but --.”

He didn’t have anything else. It just made him … uncomfortable. But Jonn didn’t fucking feel things like normal people did. He’d noticed that. Not emotions, and not pain either. So if it didn’t bother him, there was no goddamn reason for it to bother Finch. He didn’t even like Jonn. The little fuck was annoying, and distracting, and the way he was always hanging off of Finch was just -- fucking -- he didn’t *know*. He was running his hand through his hair again and clenched his teeth and stopped. He didn’t know if Jonn had picked up on that yet. Sometimes it felt like Jonn was studying him, but he seemed to be so fucking out of his depth when it came to normal goddamn human behavior most of the time that hopefully he wouldn’t realize Finch did it when he was stressed.

“Whatever,” he said finally, and grabbed the crate. “Let’s just fucking go before it gets any darker. Those things are always out more when it’s night. You know they kept me up all night banging on the fucking door, last night?”

“I’ll keep you up all night banging,” Jonn said, linking an arm through his and putting some weight on him as they started towards the door. Mask, he was actually fucking limping. Finch growled and wanted to shrug him off, but -- goddammit.

Goddammit.

###

They made it back to the bunker while it was still light enough. Finch kept wondering how there was always smoke in the air, how the fire kept burning, wherever it was. Fucking Jonn had figured out that the things didn’t like light, so he assumed that somewhere, they just kept fucking finding shit to burn, to cut the daylight. He could swear the nights were getting longer out of season, though. More reasons to stay inside. Stay safe.

Against his better judgement -- again -- Finch got Jonn home and then left him there, going back out for a quick supply run. They needed booze, and food, he supposed. It was getting harder to find anything that hadn’t spoiled, and Jonn was better at it, and Finch would never fucking say that to his face. But he wasn’t afraid and he was in better shape, and by contrast, Finch found himself out of breath and shaking on a rooftop, looking down at an entire fucking swarm of the things moving down the street. Most of them were just people, just corpses, but one of them was different -- a woman in armor, moving with more purpose, dead in the center of the horde.

They were on some kind of mission. Something big was happening, or about to happen -- he could feel it. It put an anxious tremor in his chest. They could go another few days without food. And booze, maybe. He just had to get back to the bunker. Back to safety.

Fuck, he wondered where Larkin was.

###

Jonn seemed to be asleep when he got back, which was a minor blessing. He locked all the locks and double-checked them, and just had the presence of mind to press his hands against the door and push a spell into it before turning and sinking down to curl his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around himself. It was quiet here. He was safe. Nothing --

Fuck, what if something had gotten in while he was out?

He bolted upright again and snapped his fingers for lights, launching them across the room and drawing his dagger. Nothing immediately visible. Jonn was still. Slept like the fucking dead. He checked all the corners, checked behind the couch, under the bed, in the wardrobe. Only after he’d done all that did it occur to him to check Jonn -- he’d seen what those things could do, infecting people, turning them into more of whatever the fuck they were. One could have gotten in, infected Jonn, then left to let him lay in wait.

Slowly, he stepped towards the bed again. Jonn was covered up in his cloak, hadn’t taken off his boots. Finch could just see his shoulder moving to indicate that he was still breathing. The things didn’t need to breathe, did they? A lot of them looked like they were dead, but he didn’t know anything about necromancy. He couldn’t be sure.

So he flipped his dagger in one hand and moved to shake Jonn awake with the other. Just had to see his eyes. He called all of his little lights over and reminded himself that Jonn had dark eyes, anyway, but if there was still any white to them, he was safe. If there wasn’t -- then --

Jonn blinked up at him sleepily and hoarsely mumbled, “A knife? Really?”

Finch almost collapsed in relief on the spot, managing to just sit heavily on the bed. He couldn’t figure out how to explain what had been going through his head right away. Jonn pushed himself up, rubbing at his face, and seemed to wake up a bit more. He had that expression he got sometimes -- the one that usually made Finch feel like a bug under a magnifying glass.

“What the fuck?” he said. “Were you going to fucking stab me? That’s not cool.”

“No, I thought --.” Now that it was over he thought it would sound fucking insane, out loud. On the other hand, this was Jonn. He didn’t work like sane people worked. “I thought one of those things might’ve fucking gotten in here while I was gone and -- you know -- made you one of them.”

“Oh.” He was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, that makes sense, then.”

Fuck. What was he doing with himself that his actions made sense to fucking Jonn? Finch leaned forward to put his head in his hands. He’d been closed up in here for too long. But he couldn’t go outside. It was too fucking dangerous. It was better to go goddamn crazy in here with his maps and his lists than to go back out there again.

After another beat, Jonn said, “It’s fine. A lot of people want to kill me and they don’t even think I’m a host. My dad’s crew. Maybe him, too.” He paused. “I don’t really care if you do wanna kill me.”

“You always have to say the weirdest fucking shit.”

He flinched as Jonn leaned against his back, chin on his shoulder, and when he didn’t move away, arms snaking around him. He expected some comment, something suggestive or just something else fucking bizarre and uncomfortable, but instead he felt Jonn sigh against him like he was settling into the position.

He didn’t trust Jonn at goddamn all. Didn’t want to -- didn’t want to trust anyone. The idea of waking up to his partner holding a knife over him and then admitting that he didn’t care if that partner actively wanted to kill him --

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” And before Jonn could say anything: “What the fuck is wrong with me?”

It was rhetorical, and he regretted saying it as soon as it’d come out. Still, Jonn answered.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with you.”

“Fuck off.” He sat up straight and made to shrug Jonn off, but without much effort.

One of Jonn’s hands slipped up to touch his face, lightly -- the scars -- and he twitched away instinctively, but no further. When Jonn tried to touch him again, he let him. The scar tissue was dead, now. Better than when it had first happened, and the mildest breeze made it ache.

“I think,” Jonn said slowly, “bad shit happened to you, and you changed because of it. Right?”

He shifted on the bed until he sat beside Finch, facing the other way. His eyes met Finch’s, and there was a sharp, intense look to them -- normally they had this vaguely amused air, or when he thought no one was looking at him, they were completely blank, staring off into space like a cadaver’s. Dead.

When he leaned in to kiss the mottled skin on Finch’s cheek, Finch didn’t stop him -- pulled away, a little, but didn’t commit to it. The door was locked and locked and locked and alarmed. There was nothing dangerous in here. Nothing but Jonn, and he had fucking let that one in.

“How many times do I have to tell you I’m not fucking interested?” He tried to snap it, but it came out weak.

“A few more.”

He let Jonn slip around into his lap, cup his face and kiss his lips, thumb stroking his cheek, and his hands automatically fell to Jonn’s waist. Then he tried to pull away again. “I don’t -- I don’t sleep with men.”

“You don’t?” Jonn’s armor rippled until it looked like a gauzy blood red gown.

“That’s not what I meant --.”

“Look, whatever makes it easier for you. I don’t care.” Jonn leaned back enough to look him in the eyes again. His fingers tapped idly at Finch’s shoulders; he knew that was a tell, he just hadn’t figured out what it was a tell *for*. “I just need the distraction.”

Distraction. Sounded -- no, he needed to stay vigilant. He had to pay attention. The door. It was dark. There were -- so fucking many of those things outside, so much fucking danger, now, that it justified his paranoia. That didn’t make him feel better about it. It only made things worse, only made it harder to tell himself he needed to leave the bunker sometimes, needed to see other people, remind himself that they existed and wouldn’t all kill or hunt or betray him.

*Motherfucker must’ve been lonely,* Jonn’d said.

And he wasn’t being pushy, now, or making shitty suggestive jokes, he was just waiting for Finch to do something. Just watching him have a fucking internal crisis with those dead eyes.

“One time,” Finch said. “One fucking time.”

Jonn shrugged, because they both knew that it was empty and that he’d won.