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We have been to the panto! Which is not something you get to say often in this country, and in fact I had never been to one before, but it turns out that there is a company of British Players (one of J's co-workers belongs to it, not British himself though many of them are, he played the villain, boo, hiss) who do one every year, and it was great fun.
Lewis Secret Santa posting has been delayed a few days while people get their assignments in (I can sit here and feel virtuous for having mine done early). Stories will probably start going up Wednesday or Thursday; I will try to post a link but am going to be traveling so that may be delayed. It's anonymous until the reveal, so no too-public guessing, but I suspect it's going to be painfully obvious which one is mine.
I will keep working on the songfics. Here is![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
yunitsa's, under a cut because she hasn't seen the latest episode yet and I don't want to spoil the Moment of Finchly Delight.
She wanted Finch/Reese, #7, which was Paul McCartney, Driving Rain. (Set unrealistically soon after the episode ends, in an alternate universe and weather pattern.)
*
It wasn't that he'd survived the explosion, that Carter had braked and thrown herself out the door and that he had followed her in time; it wasn't that they were both alive running from the burning car in the driving rain; and it wasn't that a suspiciously timely motorcycle had just pulled up next to him. It was that Finch was riding it.
"Well, jump on, Mr. Reese; we haven't got all day!" snapped the demanding voice, and then he could believe it, and move on without a second's hesitation, swinging his leg over the seat and his still-manacled hands over Finch's head to settle at his waist. He barely had time to nod goodbye to Carter before the bike took off, swerving a little at the corner.
"Do you actually know how to drive this thing?" he shouted into Finch's ear.
"No!" he got back, and then something about a learning curve, and then, proudly, "It's a Ducati! Do you like it?"
"Yes, very much," he said, not expecting that Finch could hear him over the noise of the engine and the rain, and didn't bother to add When the hell did you manage to buy it? Or steal it; in either case, it looked like a showroom model, not that it would much longer. The rain was relentless; he'd been soaked to the skin five seconds after landing on the road, so that hardly mattered, but handling a machine like this was tricky enough in good weather, and Finch had no experience, though at least he had a helmet and goggles; Reese had neither, and he couldn't see a thing, and the roads were horribly slick, and…
And since when did you care about safety or risk, or doubt Finch's ability to handle any sort of machine? His partner had been right; this was exhilarating. Not least the part where he was snugged up against Finch's back with his arms around him, a powerful engine growling under his thighs, with no excuse or reason to be otherwise, even if they were both extremely wet; or the part where he was no longer a prisoner. He wasn't sure if Finch had a plan or knew where they were going, or if they were just going to ride until they ran out of gas. He didn't care. He could ride straight through a hurricane if he had Finch to show him the way.
"It would be nice to get the handcuffs off at some point," he yelled.
"We'll see about that, Mr. Reese," and being up against Finch's back suddenly became about ten times more attractive. He didn't suggest a motel bed and a shower; Finch was practical if sometimes staggeringly impulsive, and they were riding off into the suburbs. There'd be motels soon, and a big-box store where they could buy dry clothes and a hacksaw and food and anonymity and some hope for the future. Though for now, in the rain and the wind and with the spark of human contact warming him, the present was enough.
Lewis Secret Santa posting has been delayed a few days while people get their assignments in (I can sit here and feel virtuous for having mine done early). Stories will probably start going up Wednesday or Thursday; I will try to post a link but am going to be traveling so that may be delayed. It's anonymous until the reveal, so no too-public guessing, but I suspect it's going to be painfully obvious which one is mine.
I will keep working on the songfics. Here is
yunitsa's, under a cut because she hasn't seen the latest episode yet and I don't want to spoil the Moment of Finchly Delight.She wanted Finch/Reese, #7, which was Paul McCartney, Driving Rain. (Set unrealistically soon after the episode ends, in an alternate universe and weather pattern.)
*
It wasn't that he'd survived the explosion, that Carter had braked and thrown herself out the door and that he had followed her in time; it wasn't that they were both alive running from the burning car in the driving rain; and it wasn't that a suspiciously timely motorcycle had just pulled up next to him. It was that Finch was riding it.
"Well, jump on, Mr. Reese; we haven't got all day!" snapped the demanding voice, and then he could believe it, and move on without a second's hesitation, swinging his leg over the seat and his still-manacled hands over Finch's head to settle at his waist. He barely had time to nod goodbye to Carter before the bike took off, swerving a little at the corner.
"Do you actually know how to drive this thing?" he shouted into Finch's ear.
"No!" he got back, and then something about a learning curve, and then, proudly, "It's a Ducati! Do you like it?"
"Yes, very much," he said, not expecting that Finch could hear him over the noise of the engine and the rain, and didn't bother to add When the hell did you manage to buy it? Or steal it; in either case, it looked like a showroom model, not that it would much longer. The rain was relentless; he'd been soaked to the skin five seconds after landing on the road, so that hardly mattered, but handling a machine like this was tricky enough in good weather, and Finch had no experience, though at least he had a helmet and goggles; Reese had neither, and he couldn't see a thing, and the roads were horribly slick, and…
And since when did you care about safety or risk, or doubt Finch's ability to handle any sort of machine? His partner had been right; this was exhilarating. Not least the part where he was snugged up against Finch's back with his arms around him, a powerful engine growling under his thighs, with no excuse or reason to be otherwise, even if they were both extremely wet; or the part where he was no longer a prisoner. He wasn't sure if Finch had a plan or knew where they were going, or if they were just going to ride until they ran out of gas. He didn't care. He could ride straight through a hurricane if he had Finch to show him the way.
"It would be nice to get the handcuffs off at some point," he yelled.
"We'll see about that, Mr. Reese," and being up against Finch's back suddenly became about ten times more attractive. He didn't suggest a motel bed and a shower; Finch was practical if sometimes staggeringly impulsive, and they were riding off into the suburbs. There'd be motels soon, and a big-box store where they could buy dry clothes and a hacksaw and food and anonymity and some hope for the future. Though for now, in the rain and the wind and with the spark of human contact warming him, the present was enough.
