Work Text:
For most of his life John Reese hated rain. Hated the lack of it that meant he was behind enemy lines in a foreign country. Then hated it as a reminder that he was behind enemy lines in his own.
Now, rain often meant a break from the numbers, as criminals stayed in and crime rates dropped. It meant sitting in the Library listening to the storm outside and the gentle tapping of Finch’s fingers on his keyboard.
It meant companionable silence and a chance to settle his thoughts as he cleaned his guns.
It meant not being alone anymore.
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For most of his life Harold Finch liked rain. Liked sitting inside reading, listening to it against the glass. Liked watching it fall as he worked on the machine. Liked the solitude it created.
Now, rain meant aching pain. The damp weather working its way into his bones, making him stiff.
But occasionally it meant John pausing as he passed behind him and reaching out. It meant strong, sure fingers placed just so against his spine with gentle pressure. It meant a temporary surcease from pain as John silently moved on. It meant touch.
Sometimes, Finch still liked the rain.