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comment_fic
Title: Superstitions
Rating: PG
Fandom: Person of Interest
Characters/Pairings: John Reese, Harold Finch. Reese/Finch
Summary: It surprised him to turn at the door, en route to a mission, and find himself asking in dry amusement: "No kiss for luck, Finch?"
Wordcount: 551
Warnings/Notes: Something small and playful
Disclaimer: Not mine
comment_ficTitle: Superstitions
Rating: PG
Fandom: Person of Interest
Characters/Pairings: John Reese, Harold Finch. Reese/Finch
Summary: It surprised him to turn at the door, en route to a mission, and find himself asking in dry amusement: "No kiss for luck, Finch?"
Wordcount: 551
Warnings/Notes: Something small and playful
Disclaimer: Not mine
Superstitions
John had long accepted that the playful desire to provoke reactions from Finch was no longer rooted in either contrariness or a desire to pressure the man into revealing himself. Instead, it had become simply a part of their partnership, a constant gentle test to make sure all was still right between them.
It still slightly surprised him to turn at the door, en route to a mission, and find himself asking in dry amusement: "No kiss for luck, Finch?"
The sight of Finch's eyebrows shooting upwards, however, was more than enough to counterbalance the vague alarm at his own incautiousness. He carefully controlled the twitch of his mouth, and did his best not to outright smile at the sheer bemused alarm in Finch's face. The urge to provoke a reaction may no longer have been rooted in perversity, but it was still very amusing when it drew results.
"I'm not much given to superstition, Mr Reese," Finch answered, stiff and careful, still with that frown of vague confusion. "'Luck' is a fool's concept. I tend to prefer planning."
The smile spread beyond his control, at that. Not even for the stiff, almost affronted way Finch said it, but for the fact that, of all parts of that question, that was what Finch had taken offense to. Not the intimacy, but the irrationality.
John shook his head, and tried to at least keep his smile to inoffensive levels. "Of course," he murmured, and yes, there was some perversity in the touch of doubt he let slip into his tone, some childishness, maybe, in the vaguely needling edge. John refused to apologise for it. The fact of his own playfulness, and Finch's allowance of it, was too closely valued for that.
There was a pause as he turned and started down the corridor. Just a second, as John turned with the smile still on his face and Finch stared after him, expression still fixed in that faintly worried bemusement. And then ...
"Mr Reese!"
John blinked, startled at the edge of urgency in the tone, and turned back to Finch. Who had levered himself somewhat painfully to his feet, and stalked stiffly to the head of the corridor after him. John moved instantly back, now frowning in some worry himself.
Finch glared at him, stiff and disgruntled, and something else John wasn't sure he recognised. Not that he had much time to wonder, before Finch asked: "May I see your hand, please?", and he was too busy staring to worry about it.
"What?" he asked. Intelligently, and it occurred to him there that this might be some small vengeance, but Finch just shook his head impatiently and repeated the question.
"Your hand. May I see it?" He maintained the glare until John, now definitely confused, cautiously held out his right hand, palm up, and looked at him expectantly.
And then stared, in something very close to shock, as Finch impatiently took the hand in his, turned it the other way, and drew it up to press his lips to the back of John's knuckles in a dry and bizarrely courtly kiss.
"I'm not much given to superstition," Finch said again as he lowered it, smiling faintly at the open shock John knew was on his face. "But it occurs to me that I shouldn't tempt unknown forces into proving me wrong." He smiled, patting John's hand gently before letting it go. "Do be careful, Mr Reese?"
"... Sure," John managed, still staring incredulously as Finch let his own smile slip somewhat wider, a glint of amusement and that strange, other thing in his eyes as he turned carefully away.
And for some reason, though it may have been little more than a playful return of fire on Finch's part, John found his mood much improved for the rest of the day, and a strange, psychosomatic warmth lurking in the back of his right hand.
John had long accepted that the playful desire to provoke reactions from Finch was no longer rooted in either contrariness or a desire to pressure the man into revealing himself. Instead, it had become simply a part of their partnership, a constant gentle test to make sure all was still right between them.
It still slightly surprised him to turn at the door, en route to a mission, and find himself asking in dry amusement: "No kiss for luck, Finch?"
The sight of Finch's eyebrows shooting upwards, however, was more than enough to counterbalance the vague alarm at his own incautiousness. He carefully controlled the twitch of his mouth, and did his best not to outright smile at the sheer bemused alarm in Finch's face. The urge to provoke a reaction may no longer have been rooted in perversity, but it was still very amusing when it drew results.
"I'm not much given to superstition, Mr Reese," Finch answered, stiff and careful, still with that frown of vague confusion. "'Luck' is a fool's concept. I tend to prefer planning."
The smile spread beyond his control, at that. Not even for the stiff, almost affronted way Finch said it, but for the fact that, of all parts of that question, that was what Finch had taken offense to. Not the intimacy, but the irrationality.
John shook his head, and tried to at least keep his smile to inoffensive levels. "Of course," he murmured, and yes, there was some perversity in the touch of doubt he let slip into his tone, some childishness, maybe, in the vaguely needling edge. John refused to apologise for it. The fact of his own playfulness, and Finch's allowance of it, was too closely valued for that.
There was a pause as he turned and started down the corridor. Just a second, as John turned with the smile still on his face and Finch stared after him, expression still fixed in that faintly worried bemusement. And then ...
"Mr Reese!"
John blinked, startled at the edge of urgency in the tone, and turned back to Finch. Who had levered himself somewhat painfully to his feet, and stalked stiffly to the head of the corridor after him. John moved instantly back, now frowning in some worry himself.
Finch glared at him, stiff and disgruntled, and something else John wasn't sure he recognised. Not that he had much time to wonder, before Finch asked: "May I see your hand, please?", and he was too busy staring to worry about it.
"What?" he asked. Intelligently, and it occurred to him there that this might be some small vengeance, but Finch just shook his head impatiently and repeated the question.
"Your hand. May I see it?" He maintained the glare until John, now definitely confused, cautiously held out his right hand, palm up, and looked at him expectantly.
And then stared, in something very close to shock, as Finch impatiently took the hand in his, turned it the other way, and drew it up to press his lips to the back of John's knuckles in a dry and bizarrely courtly kiss.
"I'm not much given to superstition," Finch said again as he lowered it, smiling faintly at the open shock John knew was on his face. "But it occurs to me that I shouldn't tempt unknown forces into proving me wrong." He smiled, patting John's hand gently before letting it go. "Do be careful, Mr Reese?"
"... Sure," John managed, still staring incredulously as Finch let his own smile slip somewhat wider, a glint of amusement and that strange, other thing in his eyes as he turned carefully away.
And for some reason, though it may have been little more than a playful return of fire on Finch's part, John found his mood much improved for the rest of the day, and a strange, psychosomatic warmth lurking in the back of his right hand.
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