FIC: Thirty-Two (1/1)
New story! Not at all connected to my previous forays into fiction. I hope you like.

Title: Thirty-Two
Author: skinny_bacon
Rating: PG-13 descriptions + adult implications = R rated story
Summary: Thirty-two vignettes describing moments between Evey and Finch, movieverse. Told in alternating POVs.
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. I am a poor person. Well, not that poor…


Notes: Inspired by watching the amazing movie Thirty-Two Short Films About Glenn Gould starring my favourite actor Colm Feore. The style of that movie seemed a perfect way to explore the relationship between Finch and Evey.
These scenes are not in chronological order. Oh, and I know I promised this would be fluff, and it is, but I couldn’t help some downer bits. Just work through them. There are a LOT of fluff moments, much more…*ahem*…mature than I have ever written. Oh, and a lot of the stories deal with food. Not sure why.




~o~

The End

The last time Finch and Evey made love, it had been raining. Evey showed up at his door long after the sun had gone down, drenched to the bone. He invited her into his home, and into his bed, and she said yes to all three.

It was, after all, her birthday.

They woke together in the morning, tangled limbs. She joined him in his morning shower where she stood once again under cascading drops, this time locked in a comforting embrace with the man she loved more than she had ever believed possible. She buried her head in his chest, his chin on her hair, their arms around each other with the water flowing down their skin, each knowing that what they had was finally over.

Breakfast had been an oddly cheerful affair, with both of them bumping comfortably in Finch’s small kitchen. When it came time for Evey to leave, they stood by the door tightly wrapped around each other, each fearing that neither of them would ever have this feeling again. Finch kissed her goodbye, watched as she descended the stairs and walked out the front door, and felt a deep part of his heart die. She never entered his home again.

~o~

The Day With Excessive Amounts of Needless Groveling

They would never say who started the groveling first, although factually it was Finch. They would never say why they both happened upon their favourite park bench, although in reality each of them had been miserable and sorry and each wanted to somehow connect to the person they had thought they lost.

They would never say why they had parted, and in truth neither remembered.

They would never say why they wanted to stay together, although they were pretty sure love might have had something to do with it.

~o~

Super Louie’s Naked Fish Bar and Grill

We stayed just long enough for the waiter to come to our table. He was dressed head to toe in a glimmering multi-coloured material that I presume was supposed to resemble fish scales. He wore a large stuffed fish on his head, and spoke with a rough, indistinguishable accent. I looked at Evey, she looked at me, and we ran out of there before he could read the list of daily specials. She laughed all the way to my car, and I remember thinking it was nice to get away with her and laugh.

We drove two blocks over and ate at The Mad Hatter, a dependable buffet. She laughed when I ordered the fish platter.

~o~

Almost

There are moments when I can almost imagine eternity. Do you ever feel like that? Do you ever feel that you are able to comprehend all the mysteries of the universe? Do you ever feel like the world has been opened and for a split second you know all there is to know? What usually follows after this feeling is an intense emptiness, when you realize how little you really are, and how much you will never comprehend.

As a child, I used to say I could understand eternity. I used to believe I was gifted, and that if I closed my eyes and concentrated, I could enter a place where time did not exist - where there was no middle or end. There was only the beginning, and what you did after the beginning.

I used to be able to believe that I was above and apart from all life on earth. I used to be able to look down on it, and see it for what it was. I used to tell myself that if I stood just right, I could see the curvature of the earth.

But these moments of brilliance are fleeting. Sometimes if feels like genius taunts you. It flashes its face, then turns and laughs at you. Always, it’s almost. I almost understand. I almost see. I almost feel.

These feelings left me as I grew older. The loss of my brother, my mother, my father, my freedom. The loss of V. All these losses robbed me of my childlike brilliance. But as I sat in the diner that day, I felt those feelings again.

He had just left. As he left, I followed his form with my eyes. The sun was shining too bright and his body seemed to disappear in its radiance, only to reappear a few paces away. In that moment, I felt it again. Brilliance. The universe opened up and for a moment time ceased to exist. No traffic, no noise. No beating heart, no air in my lungs. For a moment, I understood eternity.

And then he got into his car, never once turning around to look at me.

I deliberately went to the diner early that day, hoping he would be there for his breakfast before beating Dominic to the office. We had been there before and I knew he liked the food. I wanted to have breakfast with him.

I walked in purposely, trying to appear calm. He saw me, waved me over to sit with him. I removed my sunglasses, smiled, asked him what he was having. He smiled back, ordered breakfast for me.

His phone was quiet. We didn’t notice it till the third ring. He was short on the phone. Curt. His explanation to me was even shorter. Another emergency. He had to go.

And then he was gone.

And I’m left.

Almost understand. Almost feel.

A second of eternity, then an eternity wishing the moment would come back

~o~

Final Order

Evey Chef’s Salad, Ranch £4.95
Evey Lasagna, Half Order £10.95
Evey and Finch Combo Platter £10.95
Finch Linguine Tetrazinni £15.95
Finch Bruschetta (side) £8.95

They walked away from the restaurant arm in arm, stomachs full.

“That wasn’t really that good, was it?”

“I’ve had better.”

~o~

Images

There is a certain moment that each recalled with absolute confidence in its realism: their first kiss.

In Evey’s mind, it went like this. He stood in the kitchen of the Shadow Gallery, a dishtowel slung over his shoulder, cutting onions. She had offered him the apron and he had vehemently refused, which she found amusing. It was nineteen months after V’s death. The weather outside had been unseasonably cold and dark and it was Evey who suggested they take refuge in the Gallery. Finch had been startled but ultimately accepted. As he stood there cutting the onions, his eyes reddened and a small tear fell down his cheek. Evey found this instantly endearing. She had taken the towel from his shoulder, intending to use a corner to wipe the moisture from his face. He had stepped back, said he was fine, he was not crying, he never cried when he cut onions. Laughing, Evey stepped forward with him backing up more and more until she had him cornered against the wall. Leaning against him heavily, she used the towel to wipe at his eye. As her face came close to his, her eyes scrunched in amused concentration, Finch had lashed out his arm, grabbing her wrist tightly and pulling her even closer to him. Wrapping his other arm around her waist, he had kissed her, his tongue gliding along her lips instantly seeking access. She opened her mouth to him immediately, their tongues dueling. She pulled at his hair in a desperate attempt to get even closer still, his hands moving along her spine and squeezing her backside. Stopping for a breath, Finch had rested his forehead against hers, their breath mingling. Evey licked her lips, Finch eyeing her hungrily. She smiled and whispered, “Crybaby.”

In Finch’s mind, it went like this. He stood in the kitchen of the Shadow Gallery, V’s ridiculous apron tied around his middle. It was only at Evey’s insistence that he had put the stupid think on, vehemently refusing to loop it around his neck. It was eighteen months after V’s death. The weather outside had been unseasonably warm and bright and it was Finch who suggested they take refuge in the Gallery. Evey had been startled but ultimately accepted. As he stood there cutting the onions, Evey standing next to him, he noticed her eyes had reddened and a small tear fall down her cheek. Finch found this instantly endearing and had lifted the corner of the apron to wipe at the moisture on her face. She had wiped at her eye quickly, saying onions never make her cry. Finch laughed, stepping forward, causing her to back up against the table, lifting a little to sit on the edge of it. Leaning against her gently, he used the apron to wipe at her eye. As his face came close to hers, his eyes scrunched in amused concentration, Evey had lashed out her arm, grabbing his wrist tightly and pulling him even closer to her. Moving her arm to grip his hair tightly, she had kissed him, her tongue gliding along his lips instantly seeking access. He opened his mouth to her immediately, their tongues dueling. He wrapped his arms around her waist lifting her body to get a better angle, her hands moving down his spine before finding their way to his backside. Stopping for a breath, Evey had rested her forehead against his, their breath mingling. Finch licked his lips, Evey eyeing him hungrily. He smiled and whispered, “Crybaby.”

~o~

Crossword by Proxy

ACROSS
1. City where I was born
2. City I live in
3. Mother’s name
4. Father’s name
5. Age when I joined the police
6. Number of ways to get out of a boring meeting
7. Model of first car I owned
8. Favourite cricket team
9. Length (in years) of longest partnership
10. Favourite meal

DOWN
1. Age I was when my father left
2. Name of my mother’s funeral home
3. Best childhood friend
4. Month of my son’s birth
5. First girl I ever loved
6. Number of days I wish I could have with my son
7. Kisses I shared with my wife before she died
8. Name of woman sitting next to me at dinner
9. Name of woman I love
10. Name of woman who doesn’t love me, not matter what she says

~o~

Senses

See - I see him before he sees me. I see his hand run through his hair, graying slightly at the ends. I see his eyes meet mine. I see the change in him, the lightness come upon him. I see him face me. I see his smile, sometimes so rare it’s hard to recognize.

Smell - I smell his cologne from several feet away. I smell the slightest trace of alcohol on his breath. I smell his sweat after his long day of work. I smell my own perfume duel with his intoxicating scent.

Hear - I hear him say my name. I hear the word fall from his lips dripping with want. I hear the rustle of fabric as his arms wrap around me. I hear his heart beat against my chest. I hear my own heart struggle to match his pace, wanting to become one with him.

Touch - I touch his face with my hands. I touch his eyes, his lips. I touch his tongue as it darts out of his mouth. I touch his back under his shirt. I touch his neck, fumbling to undo buttons.

Taste - I taste him. I taste his lips on mine. I taste the alcohol on his breath. I taste the cologne on his neck. I taste the sweat on his chest. I taste him everywhere. I taste him on me.

~o~

Piccadilly
aka
I Can Walk and Eat at the Same Time. Can You?

He indulges her. She indulges him. So much compromise early in their relationship, doing what they think the other wants. That is how they found themselves in Piccadilly Circus, walking amongst the throng of people on a Friday night, past the fountains, statues and shops, no particular destination in mind. They passed a street vendor and Finch paid for two ice cream cups. Evey moved to sit on a nearby bench and Finch looked at her quizzically.

“What?” Evey asked, taking a bite of the cool dessert.

“Well, I can walk and eat at the same time. Can you?”

Evey cocked her head to one side, a smile pulling on her lips as a reward for his brave teasing. Never breaking eye contact she stood, walking side by side with him as they ate. As Finch scraped the last spoonful from his cup and brought it to his mouth, Evey stuck out her foot, tripping him. He stumbled and the spoon hit his face, the melting ice cream dripping from his nose.

A loud laugh, some stares from passer-bys.

“Oh yeah,” Evey teased. “You’re really good at walking and eating at the same time.”

~o~

Questions Without Answers

“Who are you?”

“Would you really want to know?”

“Do you like music?”

“What will you do now?”

“Would you like to go out sometime, for dinner maybe?”

“Why do you like me?”

“What do you want me to do?”

“When can I see you again?”

“Did you love V more than you love me?”

“Why did you think this would be okay?”

“How could I have ever thought this would work?”

“Stay?”

~o~

Organ Grinder Grill

The food was good but expensive, the décor welcoming and unique. The waiter had a certain Ramsay-esque quality to him which neither Finch or Evey found very appealing, except for later when they laughed over the whole tirade that had resulted in the neighbouring tables’ candles being knocked over and a small fire starting.

It had been a good meal, a good night out, and they were grateful for the opportunity. He kissed her cheek goodbye as he dropped her off at her home and Evey smelled the curry on his breath, lingering long after he left, offering a hushed whisper of his presence.

Evey wondered when it was that she could no longer imagine life without him in it.

~o~

Truck Stop

It wasn’t really a truck stop. It was a jewelry store. But when she asked where he had been that had taken him so long, he had said he had a call to a truck stop.

He didn’t really spill anything on his jacket, but when we walked in the door that is what he told her so he could rush quickly to his room without looking suspicious. He tucked the bag containing the delicate box in the back of his bottom dresser drawer.

It wasn’t really Valentine’s Day, but he said it was anyway two weeks later as they sat in his candle-lit dining room. He pulled the box from his pocket and watched her face light up as she opened it.

It wasn’t really love. They said it over and over again. They couldn’t afford love; companionship was what they had. But when he stepped behind her to clasp the diamonds around her neck, resting his hand on her shoulder, it sure did feel a lot like love.

And to be honest, they both felt that way even when there weren’t any candles.

~o~

Yesterday

I lost her yesterday. I let her walk out of my life. And I can’t remember why.

It had been raining. She had shown up at my door. Even though we had fought viciously earlier and I was angry, I let her in. I couldn’t refuse her even if I wanted to. So far her birthday had been miserable.

She was cold. She didn’t have to say anything for me to see her body shivering as she sat on my couch, a towel draped around her shoulders. So I offered her some of my clothes, just until hers dried, just so she wouldn’t get sick. She hesitated before accepting.

After that, it didn’t take much for me to make some tea, for both of us to find comfort and familiarity standing next to each other in the kitchen sipping from the warm liquid. Knowing it might not be the best idea, I had asked her to stay.

She dropped her eyes a moment, studied the floor. She said yes without looking at me but when she finally did, I knew that no matter what had happened and what would happen, her staying would be the right thing.

She followed me as I walked to my room and she sat on the bed automatically, as if she had done it many times before, which, of course, she had. I disrobed in front of her and she never turned away. No shyness. No hesitation. We both knew what we were doing. We were good at it.

She stood up and walked over to me, her hair still wet. I helped her out of her clothes and I helped her into my bed. And in the morning she joined me in my shower and I felt like it was raining again, even through these drops were more painful in their deception. The warmth of the water helped make us forget that this was the end. We could never be like this again.

Our forgetfulness extended to breakfast as we fell into our morning routine of cooking and eating together. I smiled with her, laughed with her, pretended everything was aright.

And when I kissed her I meant every second of it, every feeling. I wish it didn’t have to be goodbye. But we both knew it was.

I watched her walk out the door and I watched her walk out of my life.

And I can’t remember why.

~o~

Roses

It started with an image. Him in his living room, blue shirt, sleeves rolled up, comfortable. Glass in hand. Her standing up, hair long and luxurious, arranging roses on the mantle until a sound draws her away.

It was the image that comforted him for years. An odd memory of an event that hadn’t even happened. When he would close his eyes, the image would be there. The familiarity of it soothed him through many dark nights. The hopefulness of it warmed him through many shadowy winters. And the idea of it inspired him whenever he saw her in person.

When it actually did happen, he didn’t recognize it until after. It had been like many other days for him. He sat on the couch, a little tired after his day at work. Evey had shown up at his door, greeted him with a kiss. He had known she was coming over and had bought flowers on his way home from work. She found them sitting on the table and had thanked him in her own very special way.

He poured himself a drink and watched her flutter around his home. They had been close for a while, both of them unsure what word to use to describe their relationship. But whatever it was, it was comfortable, familiar, and well liked by those involved. They kept separate homes and even separate lives except for the times when they were together. Evey was very consumed with political life. Finch was very involved in police work. And their time together was valued, adored.

The doorbell rang, drawing Evey away from the mantle; their dinner had arrived. They ate, conversations flowing easily, his home warmed by her presence. As he lay in bed that evening his mind had drifted to that image that had comforted him for so many nights. The realization that it had come true brought a smile to his face.

Everything was connected. He had seen what was going to happen. Sighing, he rolled over, sleep overcoming him and granting him an extension of infinite peace.

~o~

Him

I smiled as I looked out my office window at the lightly falling snow draping the city. The first snowfall of the season was several weeks ago and now the snow that fell was light, fluffy, and inviting. I was glad he had convinced me to go out for lunch. Pulling on my coat, scarf and gloves, I walked out onto the street, heading to a nearby park where he said to meet.

I walked slowly, enjoying the crispness in the air, the fresh energy, and the sight of my own breath as it crystallized in front of me. The world seemed infinitely tranquil at that moment so it was inevitable that my thoughts turned to him.

When was it that ‘him’ turned from V to Finch? When I though of him, it was always V; his memory, his life, our time together. But without me even realizing it had happen, Finch had become the him of my mind.

I could never really say specifically what it was about him that interested me so. Perhaps it was his determination, his tenacity. Or perhaps it was his seemingly immeasurable capacity for compassion, his diligence, his integrity. Maybe it was his smile, his voice, the way he obviously cared for me. Or maybe that it was the fact that he stuck around, bothered to listen, to find out more.

Maybe he became him because it was the only way it could be.

Whatever the reason, I felt myself brighten when I saw him standing in the park, snow brushed on his shoulders and in his hair. He smiled when he saw me and I felt warmth and fondness and I was glad that it came from him.

We started our walk, not in any real hurry, both of us content to stroll and wander, the snow finding its way in my collar and on his neck, reminding us that we were alive and together and it was a beautiful, perfect day.

He amazes me. He astounds me. Listening to him speak with such passion that is so characteristically him inspires me to do better. But how to show him my affection? How to say thank you for being a friend?

Without waiting for an excuse, I stretched my gloved hand towards his, taking hold of his pinkie finger and holding it in my hand. He looked at me, moved his hand more fully in mine, and smiled. And we kept on walking, not stopping, our hands enclosed in each other’s, his fingers lacing between mine. And we walked around the park, and then around one more time, simply because we wanted to and there was no reason to stop.

He held my hand as he walked me back to my office, did not release it until the last possible moment as I passed through the door he opened for me. And I knew that the next time I held his hand, I wanted it to be without the barrier of a glove.

It didn’t occur to me until later that we had not even eaten.

~o~

Hold the Onions

Evey had ordered for both of us. This was fine with me as it gave me ample time to study her face as she studied the menu. Finally she came to her decision, waving the waiter over to our table. After ordering the food she quickly called out to him before he could get away.

“Oh, and can you hold the onions? They make him cry.” She pointed at me.

The waiter chuckled, smiling at Evey. One look at me and he quickly left.

I leaned forward taking Evey’s hand in mine. Under the table I moved my foot next to hers, tapping her leg lightly.

“Onions do not make me cry.”

She licked her lips.

“Crybaby.”

~o~

All Connected

What’s that silly nonsense some people say - you are connected to everyone in the world by only six people? While out to supper one night, Evey and Finch tried to figure out their connection before V. After two hour of amused conversation and speculation, they gave up, realizing it would be far too difficult and they were far too sober for such an endeavor.

If they would have thought just a few minutes longer, this is that they would have come up with.

Finch’s childhood friend had been a boy named Casey Trainer. Casey Trainer went on to, ironically enough, become a shoe salesman, selling a pair of patent leather high-healed boots to a drag queen named Betsy Boo. One of Betsy Boo’s most frequent clients at his/her upscale club had been a market researcher named Phil Conston. Phil Conston lived next door for a time to a doctor named Cheryl Lynds. Cheryl Lynds had been the doctor who removed Evey’s tonsils when she was eleven years old.

That was the connection.

~o~

Whisper

The hush and thunder of a delicately spoken whisper sends chills down my spine. He turned it into an art form, removing all other ideas I previously had about that particular method of speech.

When I stood with him on the roof, his voice was low but it wasn’t until he left that he leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Take care,” that I first realized how stunning a whisper could be. I never knew such a sound existed.

Then there was the night of my first speech, his voice echoing in my ears as I walked to the podium. I nearly forgot the words I had prepared because all I could remember was the deep sound of him, everywhere in my head, over and over. “I’m right behind you.”

Sometimes I can feel it before I hear it; the murmuring growl from his lips, the vibrancy reverberating against my eardrum, his breath hot against my skin. It’s tantalizing subtlety ruptures my sensibilities and I feel myself drifting, drifting, wanting only to go to him, come to him.

Many whispers followed at odd and random times, times of comfort, of support, of humour, of connection. “You surprise me.” “That was amazing.” “Thank you.” “Don’t forget me.”

It took me a long time to admit what his whispers did to me, nearly two years of rough, near-erotic tones before I realized that it was him that I desired, him that I wanted to hear, not simply a whisper but everywhere, all the time, in me.

The first time we made love, he whispered in my ear, sweet and gentle words that sent a shiver through my entire body, tingling areas already keenly sensitive.

And the words he said were the most beautiful words I have ever heard and he whispered them over and over again and I clung to him, holding his face against my neck so I could feel his lips against me as he whispered. And what he said was so perfect and pure that I kissed him over and over again, not stopping until once again we were one.

~o~

Hope There's Someone

Song by Antony & the Johnsons

Hope there's someone
Who'll take care of me
When I die, will I go

Hope there's someone
Who'll set my heart free
Nice to hold when I'm tired

There's a ghost on the horizon
When I go to bed
How can I fall asleep at night
How will I rest my head

Oh I'm scared of the middle place
Between light and nowhere
I don't want to be the one
Left in there, left in there

There's a man on the horizon
Wish that I'd go to bed
If I fall to his feet tonight
Will allow rest my head

So here's hoping I will not drown
Or paralyze in light
And godsend I don't want to go
To the seal's watershed

Hope there's someone
Who'll take care of me
When I die, Will I go

Hope there's someone
Who'll set my heart free
Nice to hold when I'm tired

~o~

The Science of Tears

There are three main types of tears: basal tears, reflex tears, and emotional (or crying) tears. The production, secretion, and shedding of tears is a process known as lacrimation.

Basal tears lubricate the eye and keep it clear of dust. It is estimated that the body produces between five and ten ounces of basal tears each day. Reflex tears wash out and protect against irritants that may come in contact with the eye. This includes protecting against onion vapors. Emotional tears, commonly associated with crying, have a different chemical make up than lubrication tears and contain 20-25% more protein. They result from increased lacrimation due to strong emotional stress or physical pain.

It was an odd occurrence indeed when all three types of tears were shed in the span of a few hours.

“Your eyes are red,” Finch remarked as he entered her new home. He hung his coat on the rack and followed Evey down the long hallway to the kitchen.

“It’s this stupid house!” Evey complained, donning oven mitts and pulling the roasting pan from the oven. “It is so dry in here; my eyes always sting.”

“You’re just not making enough tears,” Finch smiled as he pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Wetting the corner of it at the sink, he took hold of Evey’s chin and carefully dabbed at the corner of her eyes. Evey stood still, placing her arms on the counter behind her for balance.

“Will this help?” she asked, her eyes closed as he continued his attentions.

“I have no clue,” Finch admitted as he pulled back the handkerchief. “I was just using it as an excuse to touch you.”

Evey beamed and slapped at his arm lightly. After a moment, she said, “You know you don’t need to fabricate an excuse. If you want to touch me…touch me.”

Finch’s smile vanished and he took a step forward, pushing her up against the counter and placing his hands on her waist. “I want to touch you,” he said, a playful tone tinting his voice.

Evey ducked out from his advances. “Too bad,” she laughed. “It’s time to eat!”

They ate, flirted, joked, talked. After dinner, as he was carrying dishes back to the kitchen, Finch suddenly stopped, hurriedly putting the dishes on the counter and covering his eye.

“Argh,” he pitifully moaned. Evey rushed to his side grasping his arm.

“What is it?”

“Oh, nothing. I’ve just got something in my eye.” He pulled his hand back to reveal a red and watery eye.

“It’s probably just an eyelash,” Evey commented as she pulled his handkerchief from his pocket. Pushing against him slightly, she commanded him to open his eye. As she dabbed at it with the cloth, Finch gripped her waist and pulled her close.

“Another excuse to touch me?” she asked, swiping at the errant eyelash.

Finch dropped his lips to hers. “I thought you said I didn’t need an excuse.” Evey responded in kind, pulling his hips tightly against hers, moving slowly but deliberately, knowing exactly how to torture him the most.

Later they cuddled in Evey’s grand master bedroom, watching the sunset out the window. Evey lay nestled in Finch’s warm arms, his body wrapped around hers. Without even knowing it, a tear fell from her eye and streaked down her face.

“Hey,” Finch said softly. “Are you crying?”

Evey smiled, pulling his hand to form a pillow by her cheek. “No, I’m just…happy.” Finch moved to kiss her face, mopping up the salty tear with his lips. Evey sighed and snuggled further under the blankets.

~o~

Passion According to Finch

Is this how is starts? The sparkle of first love? It’s been so long since I even thought about it that the concept almost seems foreign.

Passion is what I understand. A passion for work. A passion for justice. A passion for the hunt, the pursuit, the prey, the kill. A passion for doing everything you can always knowing that it would never be enough.

She introduced me to a different kind of passion and it took me a long time before I was able to differentiate in my mind the subtleties between the two. The passion Evey taught me is delicate, strong, raging, comforting, exciting, calming, completely intoxicating.

Now passion, to me, is a park bench. It is sitting next to the person you most want to be with in the world as you sit together watching the world go by. Passion is putting my arm around her shoulder just because I want to, pulling her head to rest on my shoulder.

Passion is the knowledge that I’m never going to be alone again, that she’s never going to be alone.

Passion is her smile, her eyes, her heart.

Passion is sitting with her here, right now, this very moment, and realizing that we have started a new beginning. That we will never be the same. That somehow, in the small moment between sitting down on this bench and her leaning against my shoulder, we have somehow stopped being separate individuals, stopped being two hearts, two bodies.

Passion is knowing that I am only a half, that I was probably never a whole until I met her.

~o~

Two-Minute Meals

You want me to say it? Fine. I’ll say it. But only because you asked very nicely.

Yes. I am a workaholic. I can say it. I, Evey Hammond, am a workaholic. There, happy? You better be happy, because I only said that because you asked.

I’m not a workaholic.

The fact that I can only devote five minutes to my lunch is not evidence of anything. I don’t care if you are chief of police!

Well, Mr. Chief Inspector, you have just wasted one minute of my lunch break. Happy?

Because if anyone’s a workaholic here, it’s you. Yes, you, Eric Finch. You who spends thirty-seven hours a day at work, and yes, I know that if technically impossible but you are such a workaholic, you make it happen, you are really absolutely crazy.

See, if you hadn’t been such a fanatical slave driver, I’d have more time to eat. As it is, I only have three minutes for my lunch.

Don’t you smile at me. Don’t smirk. And stop laughing!

Oh, I’m glad you find this funny. What keeps you so busy; I’d like to know! It’s not like you’re out there everyday trying to run a country! Oh, sure, police work is so tough, but at least you have a partner.

The fact that I have a staff team is irrelevant. Oh, you are so annoying some times! I don’t know why I bother putting up with you.

…. Eric… stop… Stop! We’re in my office!

Okay, so maybe I remember why I put up with you. I can admit it. You are very…very good at what you do.

But are you happy now? I only have two minutes left to eat my lunch. You are going to pay, Mr. Finch.

Yeah, I’ll come by later. I promise. It may be late though.

I have a tonne of work to finish.

~o~

Three’s a Crowd

“If only he was alive…”

“It would never work.”

“How can you be sure? We could make it work, Eric. Even with the three of us. I know he wouldn’t mind.”

“But I would. Three’s a crowd, Evey.”

After that, they couldn’t remember what they said. All they remembered was that it hurt, badly.

~o~

Left Wrist

After several months together, Evey discovered her favourite part of Finch’s body. It was his left wrist. Some may consider that to be an unusual erotic zone but to Evey, it was heaven.

She couldn’t quite recall when she had started to get so turned on by his left wrist. Perhaps it was the first time he rested it on her bare skin. It was nearly summertime, her shirt had cropped up in the back and Finch had placed his arm there to guide her down a hallway in the new Parliament building. The second his wrist touched her bare back, a course of electricity ran through her body. She nearly stumbled the reaction was so strong and she tugged her shirt down in embarrassment.

Perhaps it was when she had massaged his hands. He had a terrible workday, spending almost the entire time typing reports. He met her at her flat complaining of sore wrists and when she looked at them they were obviously enflamed. So she got some oil out of her bedroom, sat him on the couch and, warming the oil in her fingers, she massaged his hands. She had started with his palms, moving to pay individual attention to each finger. It was when she rubbed her fingers over his left wrist that he moaned, his eyes closing of their own accord. She stared at him, her breath increasing rapidly, suddenly wanting nothing more than to push him back on the couch and ravage him senseless.

But that was before they discovered kissing.

Now her attention to his left wrist had become such a prominent part of their foreplay that all she had to do was lightly run her smallest finger across that patch of skin and he would instantly be ready, often immediately pushing her against a wall to steal her lips forcefully. She touched his wrist often for that very reason, often teasing him by doing it in public. His eyes would go dark, he would get an odd, strained smile on his face and she would get very anxious to be alone with him, now, please, yes, Eric, yes.

Afterwards, when they would lay in bed tired but infinitely content, she would sometimes take his hand in hers, drawing patterns on his left wrist with her finger before bringing it to her mouth. The skin there was soft and she could feel his blood pumping just beneath the skin. She would kiss more, just to feel his blood quicken.

This usually led to them being more tired and more content, but neither of them ever thought of complaining.

~o~

Potatoes or Rice

“Does it really make a difference?”

“Of course it makes a difference, you ugly mug! They are completely different flavours!”

“Ugly mug. Nice.”

“Don’t be obtuse. Which do you want? Potatoes or rice?”

“Evey, I think whatever you choose will be absolutely perfect and I have every faith in your abilities.”

She sighed dramatically. “You are so annoying sometimes,” she laughed.

“That’s why you love me.”

There was a pause and Finch could practically see her blush and shy smile over the phone. It was the first time any of them had said the word aloud.

~o~

The Day Robbie Williams’s Ghost Serenaded Me

It was a dream, brought on, no doubt, by the disgustingly rich meal he had bought and made her eat.

But yet, what an odd dream!

They way she tells it, it went like this. Like most dreams it was illogical, irrational, and completely wonderful. And this one started with music. She was sitting on her favourite park bench, the one that made her think of Finch, and instead of a park before her there was an auditorium. On the stage, a brash and energetic singer screamed his music to thousands of screaming people also present.

Was it the curry that made her dream of screaming people? She wasn’t sure. Maybe it was the pickle. Or maybe the pickle is what conjured up the singer.

Either way, she sat there, her feet tapping to the infectious beat, not sure why this particular dream was occurring but enjoying it nonetheless.

And then, a result of the wine no doubt, the crowds vanished and it was just Evey and this singer and he held her hand and sang her a sad song. Then after the song was over the singer kissed her hand and vanished and once again it was just a park, just another night. She turned to her bench and there was Finch, sitting there, legs crossed, waiting for her. So she sat down beside him and he pulled her into his lap and just when the dream was getting really, really good, she woke up.

~o~

The Idea of Love

She told me once that she believed in God, that she knew God had a plan for her. She told me that God had known what hell her childhood would be like; that to protect her, He had taken half of her heart and put it in the body of another person, so that when she went through her heartache, her grief, that some part of her would still be pure.

The person who held her heart would not live a perfect life but would be strong, would learn how to love and experience love. She knew that when she met this person, her heart would once again be complete and she would no longer have such infinite sorrow. She said that person was me, that when she met me, something in her changed, brightened, that she was able to feel again.

I didn’t tell her that I believed exactly the same thing about her protection of my own heart.

~o~

Happy Birthday Evey

We fought, both of us violent in our verbal attacks, equally chaotic and cruel. I knew exactly where it would hurt him the most and I went after it again and again, not caring about his response, not caring if it hurt him, wanting it to hurt him. He did the same, his words crushing me, bruising me.

But no scars. We could never scar each other, even if we tried. I do know that I hated him then, although now, I can’t remember why.

I kicked him out of my home, told him never to come back, yelled and screamed. He left willingly, never turning around. I can’t even remember when it started raining. But I do remember that when I heard that first crack of thunder I felt free.

I walked through the rain eagerly, not noticing when it got dark, not noticing my clothes becoming drenched, not noticing where I was headed. It didn’t surprise me when I found myself at his door. It did surprise me when he let me in.

It was his eyes that convinced me.

He had given me a towel, offered me clothes, made me some tea. I barely heard it when he asked me to stay. But I had already known that’s what would happen. I knew the moment I found myself at his door. I knew the moment I saw his eyes when he let me in, so I accepted without looking at his face. I followed him to his room, the path so familiar to me. I sat on the bed, mine as much as his, and never let my gaze leave his body as he uncovered himself to me.

Vulnerable, open, naked. I urgently wanted the same and let him help me, loving the touch of his fingers on my skin. He helped me into bed and together we forgot our violent words, our years of experience making up for the fact that we both knew this would be the last time, our expertise with each other making the moment deliciously drawn out.

When we awoke, my body was intricately tangled in his and I knew my heart was similarly fashioned. Without even speaking, I joined him in his shower, the warm drops reminding me of the rain before. But this water was not cleansing, was not liberating, and I buried my head in his chest, trying to block out the sadness of the watery tears.

His kitchen helped us forget. We bumped comfortably, eagerly, wanting that contact. When it came time for me to leave I ran my finger over his wrist one final time and he pushed me up against the door, branding his lips against mine. His kiss was searing, burning, and I drank it in, wanting every second to be forever.

And then I left. I don’t remember why. And all I want now is to be in a place where I would be able to return.

~o~

Lasting Impressions

They lay on the floor in front of the warm fireplace, a soft blanket covering their skin. Evey sat up slightly, twirling her fingers in his hair while Finch kissed her other arm.

“You know,” she remarked, “you’re pretty hearty for an old man.”

He looked up at her, his eyebrows scrunching slightly as his mind worked. “I hope that was a compliment,” he said after a long pause.

She slid her body further under the blanket to rest on his, her hand drifting to his sensitive left wrist. “It was.”

~o~

Lost

I love her. I love her and sometimes I hate her. But mostly it’s love.

I lose myself in her. I lose myself and find myself in her very being. But mostly, it’s lose myself.

Everything about her attracts me, appeals to me, compels me. From the moment I saw her face on the surveillance camera to now, I can’t think of her without my heart twitching and a lightness shivering through my brain.

I always thought that by a certain age, love would no longer be necessary. That one could survive without it, that it was something youth needed to build the body, just like one would need milk.

An odd analogy, but I have never been accused of being a sensible man.

When I first saw her, when I first held her hand, when I first kissed her, when we first made love: each of these moments has made me lose a bit more of myself in her. Sometimes I wonder if I even exist on my own, if there is anything left of me when she is not near. But then I realize that it doesn’t matter, because the more of my heart she holds the more astonishing it is; I never want to part from her.

I have lost myself in her. I have found myself in her. And I love it. Sometimes I hate it, but mostly I love it.

~o~

V

They lay atop Evey’s bed. Some of their best moments would be like this; at the end of a long day just coming to her room and crashing on the bed, fully clothed on top of the covers. They would lie in various positions of comfort, usually involving physical connection of some kind.

Today, it was hands.

There they were, next to each other on the bed, comfortably propped up against the pillows. Finch’s right hand held Evey’s left, their fingers intertwined loosely. With her thumb, Evey absently stroked his fingers, soft and soothing, the contact so necessary to her she didn’t acknowledge or even realize it.

His breathing was still and even but she knew he was still awake. The warmth of his hand seemed to radiate from his fingers and travel through Evey’s body, warming her from her head to her toes, each part of her strengthened.

“Do you think I should miss it?” she asked.

He breathed deep then answered sleepily, “Miss what?”

She rolled on her side, their hands still connected. “My fear. The idea of being afraid of something, anything. Is it natural to live without it?”

Finch’s eyes were still closed, his face an expression of complete relaxation. “Some may wonder if doubt is a form of fear,” he said, a small smirk stretched on his lips.

She lay back down against the pillow, a grin pulling at the corners of her mouth. “I guess so. But sometimes I wonder if I’m even the same person I was before. It’s been so long.”

He opened his eyes, turning his head to look at her, his fingers tightening around hers. “You’re the most courageous person I’ve ever met. And I love you for you, all of you, even the fears you may hide inside.”

She smiled at him, not surprised that he was able to find so quickly the heart of what she was trying to say. “But does it make me a hypocrite, to tout these ideals, to promote the ideals of a man who accomplished them when I wonder if I have myself?”

“V’s ideals may have just been that, Evey. Ideals. You’re better than you think and you don’t need to compare yourself to him.”

“What do you mean?”

Finch sighed before rolling on his side to look down at her. He moved his left hand to smooth her hair from her face. “I think V’s ideals were ideals for him as well. I know you told me he moved beyond his hate and his fear, but I think it was something he still struggled with. The absence of fear is not what defines us, Evey. It’s not what defines you. It’s how you respond that makes you who you are. What V helped you discover was your own ability to respond without resorting to the fear while at the same time, not denying its presence.”

He leaned to kiss her softly. Evey moved up into the kiss, drawing from it his love for her, giving to him her love in return.

“A life without fear doesn’t exist,” Evey concluded after their lips parted.

“Exactly.” He pecked her lips again.

“But what about a life without hate?”

“That doesn’t exist either. Even V still harbored hate. He mixed his own vendetta in with the revolution.”

Evey breathed deeply and closed her eyes, feeling Finch shift on the bed to again lie next to her. Sometimes it was still awkward for her to talk to Finch about V. Even after all their years together, she still had a tendency to keep the two apart. Sometimes she thought Finch was too critical of him, which often led her to wonder why she got so defensive.

“I wonder if he was alive,” she said softly, “I wonder if he would still hate after everyone he hated was dead.”

Finch tensed slightly, his shoulders tightening and his grip on Evey’s fingers becoming more forced. “You mean after everyone he hated was murdered, by him.”

Evey sighed, then silently took her hand from Finch’s. An argument was on its way.

Whenever V was mentioned, an argument was on its way.

~o~

The Beginning

Is it possible to begin again?

They both wondered, pondered, contemplated, hoped. Could they do it? Could they forget the bad times and remember the good times and put both on a scale and weight the outcome? Could they go beyond they obstacles and the deterrents and simply remember that when they were together everything was alive?

Is it possible to begin if there was never an end?

Evey once told him that as a child, she imagined there was no end, no middle, there was only a beginning, and what you did after the beginning.

Finch wanted to ask her is it was possible to make a new beginning, and if it was possible, did it mean for certain that whatever happened before was over?

He went to the bench that day to be near a memory of her. He wanted to drown in memories, thinking they were all he had left.

She went to the bench that day to be near a feeling. She wanted to close her eyes and feel him all around her, not knowing if she would ever feel anything again.

They never remembered who apologized first, although technically it was Finch.

They never told each other why they happened to be there, even though each was miserable alone.

They never spoke about why they parted because neither could remember.

They never said why they wanted to stay together, although love was the only word on their minds as he pulled her in his arms, not caring if anyone saw.

She never entered his home again.

He moved into hers.

They never made love again because they both felt the phrase was too common and did not adequately describe their expressions of adoration.

But they did have sex. And lots of it.

~o~

FINIS

Why do I insist on writing depressing stories?? I can’t figure it out? But I still like this one, and hope you do too. And it’s not all depressing. I told you the end would be worth it. But a good chunk is depressing. I take perverse enjoyment in writing depressing, tragic drivel.

Ideas for the vignettes came from many places. Almost was inspired by watching Stephen Rea’s film Copenhagen. Images was inspired by a House story I once read. Whisper comes from the last scene of Lost in Translation. All Connected has a hint of Kinky Boots in it. Many of the titles come directly from Thirty-Two Short Films About Glenn Gould. And I listened to a lot of melancholy music, including Hope There’s Someone by Antony and the Johnsons.