PoI: Fractured
Disclaimer: Don't own.
Pairing: Reese/Finch pre-slash
Summary: Finch gets shot.
A/N: Just a short little ficlet. I tried to write something fluffy, but the plot bunnies revolted against that idea. Damn it.
Finch had been right, he had always been right. Reese had known it to, somewhere in the back of his mind that they could never have done this forever that their skill, their irrefutable luck of always coming out on top would eventually fail. That one day Harold’s all-seeing Machine would send them a number simply beyond their ability to save or stop. Because despite Reese’s unquestionable skill in espionage and combat and Finch’s brilliance with anything that had wires and a mainframe he could hack, they had always been and always were, just men.
Human beings with flaws and weaknesses despite their training and paranoia to having none, but they had never once counted on their connection to each other to being their Achilles heel. In the end, they were both old men, relics the world had been all too happy to bury and forget. This task, this self-imposed job had never been about redemption, they had both known that they could never clean their hands of their damaged pasts, but bit-by-bit, number after number they felt themselves feeling a little more human, to be able to look into a mirror and not see a monster, a failure staring back at them.
And that had been worth everything. Except this.
Reese couldn’t stop the blood, he couldn’t make his hands stop trembling and he cursed his body’s inability to listen to his fucking commands when he needed them to.
For the second time since Finch had hired him, he had killed a man, emptied an entire magazine into his chest until it resembled Swiss cheese, bits of flesh soiled the floor and the walls were gruesomely painted with splatters of slick blood.
But Reese paid no attention to the corpse in the corner, his eyes looking helplessly (fucking helpless) at the man struggling for breath in his arms, with a lead bullet buried in his stomach, blood running out of his body like water, ruining his expensive three-piece suit he had always been so fond of wearing.
“Harold,” his voice shook and he hated it, his breath coming in short, broken pants as he looked around the dead, desolate alleyway, but the street seemed so far away and the hospital could never be an option for two men believed to be long dead from this world.
His car was a block away and it would take at least ten minutes to get them back to his apartment. He swallowed thickly; pulling Finch tightly against his chest, feeling his heart crack at the pained whimper that escaped Finch’s clenched teeth.
“Hold on Harold,” he begged quietly; he carefully got his feet, doing his best to not jostle the shorter man as he hurriedly walked towards the parked car. “Hold on Harold, just a little longer.”
.
The drive seemed to take forever and Reese found himself breaking more traffic laws than he could remember in a single night and considering all he had done while in the employment of the CIA and Harold Finch, it was saying quite a lot.
If the cops wanted to pull him over, they could follow him all the way back to his apartment. He wasn’t stopping.
Taking a brief second, he glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Finch stretched out in his backseat, his own jacket acting a tourniquet, tied around the bullet wound. The backseat was already wet with blood.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
Finch wasn’t going to die. Reese wasn’t about to let him.
.
Finally, finally they were back in his apartment, the curtains drawn, blocking out the city lights and any curious eyes.
As Reese drugged up Finch with painkillers and slowly extracted the bullet, feeling his chest twist with guilt and agony over every choked whimper and stifled cry; even drugged out of his mind, Finch still tried to hide all traces of pain and weakness.
His hands were slick with blood as he tied off the final stitch; his eyes burned with exhaustion as he looked down at the glazed, sweating face of the shorter man. He swallowed, breathing a sigh of relief; he would live. Finch was safe.
“You’re fine now Harold,” he reassured him softly, his hands aching to touch him, but he didn’t dare as they were still stained with the man’s blood.
“John,” his name came out in barely a whisper, but Reese heard it all the same, straightening up from his bowed position.
He watched those glazed, drugged eyes finally close shut, his breathing evening out as the medicine finally did its job, blocking out the aching burn of his newly stitched flesh.
Reese, however, couldn’t find it in himself to rest, instead finding comfort in watching over Finch, making sure his chest continued to rise and fall and to soothe his worried brows when the nightmares began to set in.
He sat with him long after the night had given way to the sun.
-fin.
Please review.
Pairing: Reese/Finch pre-slash
Summary: Finch gets shot.
A/N: Just a short little ficlet. I tried to write something fluffy, but the plot bunnies revolted against that idea. Damn it.
Finch had been right, he had always been right. Reese had known it to, somewhere in the back of his mind that they could never have done this forever that their skill, their irrefutable luck of always coming out on top would eventually fail. That one day Harold’s all-seeing Machine would send them a number simply beyond their ability to save or stop. Because despite Reese’s unquestionable skill in espionage and combat and Finch’s brilliance with anything that had wires and a mainframe he could hack, they had always been and always were, just men.
Human beings with flaws and weaknesses despite their training and paranoia to having none, but they had never once counted on their connection to each other to being their Achilles heel. In the end, they were both old men, relics the world had been all too happy to bury and forget. This task, this self-imposed job had never been about redemption, they had both known that they could never clean their hands of their damaged pasts, but bit-by-bit, number after number they felt themselves feeling a little more human, to be able to look into a mirror and not see a monster, a failure staring back at them.
And that had been worth everything. Except this.
Reese couldn’t stop the blood, he couldn’t make his hands stop trembling and he cursed his body’s inability to listen to his fucking commands when he needed them to.
For the second time since Finch had hired him, he had killed a man, emptied an entire magazine into his chest until it resembled Swiss cheese, bits of flesh soiled the floor and the walls were gruesomely painted with splatters of slick blood.
But Reese paid no attention to the corpse in the corner, his eyes looking helplessly (fucking helpless) at the man struggling for breath in his arms, with a lead bullet buried in his stomach, blood running out of his body like water, ruining his expensive three-piece suit he had always been so fond of wearing.
“Harold,” his voice shook and he hated it, his breath coming in short, broken pants as he looked around the dead, desolate alleyway, but the street seemed so far away and the hospital could never be an option for two men believed to be long dead from this world.
His car was a block away and it would take at least ten minutes to get them back to his apartment. He swallowed thickly; pulling Finch tightly against his chest, feeling his heart crack at the pained whimper that escaped Finch’s clenched teeth.
“Hold on Harold,” he begged quietly; he carefully got his feet, doing his best to not jostle the shorter man as he hurriedly walked towards the parked car. “Hold on Harold, just a little longer.”
.
The drive seemed to take forever and Reese found himself breaking more traffic laws than he could remember in a single night and considering all he had done while in the employment of the CIA and Harold Finch, it was saying quite a lot.
If the cops wanted to pull him over, they could follow him all the way back to his apartment. He wasn’t stopping.
Taking a brief second, he glanced in the rearview mirror, seeing Finch stretched out in his backseat, his own jacket acting a tourniquet, tied around the bullet wound. The backseat was already wet with blood.
His grip on the steering wheel tightened.
Finch wasn’t going to die. Reese wasn’t about to let him.
.
Finally, finally they were back in his apartment, the curtains drawn, blocking out the city lights and any curious eyes.
As Reese drugged up Finch with painkillers and slowly extracted the bullet, feeling his chest twist with guilt and agony over every choked whimper and stifled cry; even drugged out of his mind, Finch still tried to hide all traces of pain and weakness.
His hands were slick with blood as he tied off the final stitch; his eyes burned with exhaustion as he looked down at the glazed, sweating face of the shorter man. He swallowed, breathing a sigh of relief; he would live. Finch was safe.
“You’re fine now Harold,” he reassured him softly, his hands aching to touch him, but he didn’t dare as they were still stained with the man’s blood.
“John,” his name came out in barely a whisper, but Reese heard it all the same, straightening up from his bowed position.
He watched those glazed, drugged eyes finally close shut, his breathing evening out as the medicine finally did its job, blocking out the aching burn of his newly stitched flesh.
Reese, however, couldn’t find it in himself to rest, instead finding comfort in watching over Finch, making sure his chest continued to rise and fall and to soothe his worried brows when the nightmares began to set in.
He sat with him long after the night had given way to the sun.
-fin.
Please review.