Person of Interest Fic : In Fear, Resolve
Title: In Fear, Resolve
Author: radioshack84
Characters: Reese, Finch
Rating: K+
Summary: Another aftermath fic for 1.10 - Number Crunch. Reese whump.
Warnings: Spoilers for 1.10
Word Count: ~1,700
Reese wasn’t easily frightened. A man didn’t get into this line of work if he lacked a certain fortitude, but the last ten minutes had done more to rattle that fortitude than everything that had happened in the last ten months combined. Seeing Mark again, being betrayed and shot at his hands (again), even having a rather uncharacteristically-heartfelt conversation with Finch while bleeding his way down the stairs-Reese thought he had every right to his present level of anxiety.
He was shaking as he burst through the door on the ground level of the parking structure and would have fallen but for the railing blocking his path. It slowed his momentum and steadied him enough that after a moment he was able to push off of it. Another step or so, and he realized the quiet, half-choking, half-sobbing sounds he’d been hearing since the stairwell were coming from his own throat.
When a squeal of tires heralded Finch’s arrival, relief pressed the sobbing to overtake the choking, and even though his eyes remained dry, not giving away his emotion, Reese found a millisecond to be embarrassed. Then Finch was out of the car and at his side, his shoulder lending Reese the support necessary to remain upright. Completely dazed, cold sweat drenching his face and neck, Reese barely managed to lift his head as Detective Carter came through the door behind them with a shout, gun drawn. She had them. She could shoot them or arrest them now and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. He could do nothing at all, really, other than cling to Finch as he rode the waves of agony coursing through his gut and thigh. He blinked, and Carter’s gun was suddenly back in its holster. Before he knew what was happening, she took his weight and carefully maneuvered him into the back seat of Finch’s car. Head lolling against the seat, Reese met Carter’s eyes, but he was unable to discern a meaning behind her troubled expression.
“Go!”
The car door slammed shut to replace Carter’s face in Reese’s field of vision. Tires squealed once again, acceleration without a seatbelt yanking him to the side, and Reese’s breath hitched, on the verge of sobbing again. The pain was too much. Another blink of his eyes, and he knew only darkness.
-----
“John? John! Can you hear me?”
Reese stirred at the feeling of someone patting the side his face, and groaned as he tried to pull away. His stomach was on fire.
“John, look at me. You need to wake up. Help is on the way, but you need to stay with me for a few more minutes.”
“Ha-Harold?” Reese had intended to speak at a normal volume, but the broken whisper that came out instead startled him back to awareness. He found himself still in the back seat of Finch’s car, lying down as much as the space would allow, with Finch doing his best to stem the flow of blood from the abdominal wound. A belt was already buckled tightly around his right thigh, acting as a makeshift tourniquet.
“How far away is Christopher?” Finch inquired of the air.
“You should see the Nancy Hale’s lights in about five minutes. He has your GPS location. I sent Jason with him.”
Reese idly listened to the conversation and tried to breathe normally. The smell of saltwater wafted in through the open car door, and Finch’s phone on speaker glowed in the semi-darkness. Reese’s gut burned mercilessly. He wanted to throw up.
From somewhere, Finch produced a bottle of water and used it to soak a cloth, which he carefully drew across Reese’s face. “Would you like a drink?” he offered, holding up the remainder of the bottle. Reese grimaced and turned his head away.
“How’s he doing?” The voice on the phone asked.
“The bleeding has slowed a bit, but he’s getting weaker...and he looks a little green.”
“To be expected. Just keep him still, then. Jason can administer fluids en route. Do you see the Hale yet?”
Finch set the cloth aside and grunted as he stiffly turned his body toward the door. “Yes, they’re nearly here. Thank you, Frank.”
“Thank me later. We’ll be waiting at the dock.”
Finch’s phone went dark and a short time later Reese heard the rumble of an engine, but it wasn’t a car motor. Unfamiliar voices echoed eerily on the night air, and he realized that Finch was no longer in the vehicle with him. The strange voices drifted closer and a metallic clacking that he couldn’t identify traveled with them. Weapons? Surely Finch wouldn’t sell him out too, would he? Reese tensed, and summoned strength from somewhere to push up on one elbow. The pain in his gut was bad enough that he’d forgotten his leg was also hit until he tried using it to pull himself closer to the door. Reese groaned as he dropped back against the seat, only to see Finch’s worried face duck back into the vehicle through the front passenger door. A young, dark-haired man peered at him from just outside the back door, and Reese’s eyes darted between the two nervously.
“Take it easy, John. This is Jason Santori, he’s here to help,” Finch said, gesturing to the other man.
“I assist Mr. Finch’s personal physician, Dr. Frank Izard. He stayed behind to prep for our arrival. Can I take a look at your injuries before we move you, Mr. Reese?”
Reese coughed weakly, and after locking eyes once more with Finch and reassuring himself that Harold’s expression held nothing but concern, he nodded.
Jason was experienced, capable and careful in his examination, but the poking and prodding ramped up the discomfort once again until Reese found it difficult to focus. Lost in the haze, he failed to notice Jason preparing to move him, and the transfer from car to stretcher nearly caused him to lose consciousness again.
Shades of gray were Reese’s world for a good long while after that, and a dramatic reduction in pain made him suspect that he’d been dosed with something strong. Amidst the numbing fog were sporadic bouts of awareness, in which he pieced together that he was on a boat, a fast boat, skipping over rough water that surely had to be churning at least as much as his gut. He was lying on a gurney, and was hooked to an IV and another machine that was beeping rapidly. His shirt and jacket had gone missing, and something was applying uncomfortably firm pressure to his stomach. Jason was there taking his vitals and asking him questions. Finch was just there, a welcome constant.
Reese didn’t know how far they’d traveled, only aware of the change from bouncing waves to the gentler rocking of calm waters, to the rhythmic vibration of wheels bumping across the planks of a wooden dock. It was the latter that reawakened the twisting knife in his gut, and he was pretty sure he finally gave in to the urge to lose his lunch, but the world was a rapidly-spinning place, too dark and then too bright and loud, and he had to close his eyes against the onslaught.
Long into that painful and confusing night, the motion and the questions and the voices stopped. Reese awoke in a hospital bed, attached to even more monitors and equipment than before, mind still hazy with medication, but he was comfortable. More importantly, he was safe. Finch’s presence in the expensive-looking easy chair situated next to the bed and the view of the ocean through partially-drawn curtains, the horizon just turning hints of pink and orange, made him sure of it. “Where are we?” he asked, voice rough from sleep and the dryness of his throat.
“A private medical facility I purchased some time ago,” Finch answered. If he was at all startled by the sudden break in the silence, he didn’t show it, and continued to type on his laptop for a few moments before setting it aside. “How are you feeling, Mr. Reese?”
The corner of Reese’s mouth turned up in a slight smirk, and he relaxed a bit further. If they were back to formalities, perhaps the direness of the situation really had passed. In response to Finch’s question, he shrugged. “Can’t really feel anything, but I imagine that’s temporary. What’s the damage?”
“I’ll leave the detailed explanation to Dr. Izard, but in plain terms, you were lucky. The first bullet lacerated your stomach and penetrated your spleen. The other lodged against your right femur, but didn’t crack the bone. You’ve already been through surgery, and you didn’t lose your spleen, but Frank suggests that you find a less dangerous line of work.” Finch looked at Reese, humor somehow present on his face despite the total lack of a smile. “Not that he knows what we do, of course. Not exactly.”
“Speaking of which, now that Mark knows I’m alive he’s not going to stop looking for me. You may want to end our association if you’re going to continue your work.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Reese. No one knows you’re here except for myself, Jason, and Frank. That buys some time for you to recover, at least.”
“Do you trust them?” It was a stupid question really. If Finch didn’t, they wouldn’t be here, and both of them knew it. Still, Reese had to ask. By the way Finch regarded him silently for a moment and didn’t roll his eyes, he knew Finch understood that.
“I do, John.” Finch settled back into the chair and picked up his laptop, a steely glint coming to his eyes. “Get some rest. I may be able to secure our operations and lay a permanent little trap for our friend Mr. Snow, but I’ll soon be in need of your expertise to spring it.”
“The workings of your mind frighten me sometimes, Harold,” Reese said lightly, a hint of a smile playing at his lips as he sank deeper into the blankets cocooning him. Sometimes, he reflected, being frightened was a good thing. It could strengthen resolve, and to a man who was resolved, fear wasn’t weakness, but a very powerful tool. Mark had his work cut out for him.
Author: radioshack84
Characters: Reese, Finch
Rating: K+
Summary: Another aftermath fic for 1.10 - Number Crunch. Reese whump.
Warnings: Spoilers for 1.10
Word Count: ~1,700
Reese wasn’t easily frightened. A man didn’t get into this line of work if he lacked a certain fortitude, but the last ten minutes had done more to rattle that fortitude than everything that had happened in the last ten months combined. Seeing Mark again, being betrayed and shot at his hands (again), even having a rather uncharacteristically-heartfelt conversation with Finch while bleeding his way down the stairs-Reese thought he had every right to his present level of anxiety.
He was shaking as he burst through the door on the ground level of the parking structure and would have fallen but for the railing blocking his path. It slowed his momentum and steadied him enough that after a moment he was able to push off of it. Another step or so, and he realized the quiet, half-choking, half-sobbing sounds he’d been hearing since the stairwell were coming from his own throat.
When a squeal of tires heralded Finch’s arrival, relief pressed the sobbing to overtake the choking, and even though his eyes remained dry, not giving away his emotion, Reese found a millisecond to be embarrassed. Then Finch was out of the car and at his side, his shoulder lending Reese the support necessary to remain upright. Completely dazed, cold sweat drenching his face and neck, Reese barely managed to lift his head as Detective Carter came through the door behind them with a shout, gun drawn. She had them. She could shoot them or arrest them now and he wouldn’t be able to do a thing about it. He could do nothing at all, really, other than cling to Finch as he rode the waves of agony coursing through his gut and thigh. He blinked, and Carter’s gun was suddenly back in its holster. Before he knew what was happening, she took his weight and carefully maneuvered him into the back seat of Finch’s car. Head lolling against the seat, Reese met Carter’s eyes, but he was unable to discern a meaning behind her troubled expression.
“Go!”
The car door slammed shut to replace Carter’s face in Reese’s field of vision. Tires squealed once again, acceleration without a seatbelt yanking him to the side, and Reese’s breath hitched, on the verge of sobbing again. The pain was too much. Another blink of his eyes, and he knew only darkness.
-----
“John? John! Can you hear me?”
Reese stirred at the feeling of someone patting the side his face, and groaned as he tried to pull away. His stomach was on fire.
“John, look at me. You need to wake up. Help is on the way, but you need to stay with me for a few more minutes.”
“Ha-Harold?” Reese had intended to speak at a normal volume, but the broken whisper that came out instead startled him back to awareness. He found himself still in the back seat of Finch’s car, lying down as much as the space would allow, with Finch doing his best to stem the flow of blood from the abdominal wound. A belt was already buckled tightly around his right thigh, acting as a makeshift tourniquet.
“How far away is Christopher?” Finch inquired of the air.
“You should see the Nancy Hale’s lights in about five minutes. He has your GPS location. I sent Jason with him.”
Reese idly listened to the conversation and tried to breathe normally. The smell of saltwater wafted in through the open car door, and Finch’s phone on speaker glowed in the semi-darkness. Reese’s gut burned mercilessly. He wanted to throw up.
From somewhere, Finch produced a bottle of water and used it to soak a cloth, which he carefully drew across Reese’s face. “Would you like a drink?” he offered, holding up the remainder of the bottle. Reese grimaced and turned his head away.
“How’s he doing?” The voice on the phone asked.
“The bleeding has slowed a bit, but he’s getting weaker...and he looks a little green.”
“To be expected. Just keep him still, then. Jason can administer fluids en route. Do you see the Hale yet?”
Finch set the cloth aside and grunted as he stiffly turned his body toward the door. “Yes, they’re nearly here. Thank you, Frank.”
“Thank me later. We’ll be waiting at the dock.”
Finch’s phone went dark and a short time later Reese heard the rumble of an engine, but it wasn’t a car motor. Unfamiliar voices echoed eerily on the night air, and he realized that Finch was no longer in the vehicle with him. The strange voices drifted closer and a metallic clacking that he couldn’t identify traveled with them. Weapons? Surely Finch wouldn’t sell him out too, would he? Reese tensed, and summoned strength from somewhere to push up on one elbow. The pain in his gut was bad enough that he’d forgotten his leg was also hit until he tried using it to pull himself closer to the door. Reese groaned as he dropped back against the seat, only to see Finch’s worried face duck back into the vehicle through the front passenger door. A young, dark-haired man peered at him from just outside the back door, and Reese’s eyes darted between the two nervously.
“Take it easy, John. This is Jason Santori, he’s here to help,” Finch said, gesturing to the other man.
“I assist Mr. Finch’s personal physician, Dr. Frank Izard. He stayed behind to prep for our arrival. Can I take a look at your injuries before we move you, Mr. Reese?”
Reese coughed weakly, and after locking eyes once more with Finch and reassuring himself that Harold’s expression held nothing but concern, he nodded.
Jason was experienced, capable and careful in his examination, but the poking and prodding ramped up the discomfort once again until Reese found it difficult to focus. Lost in the haze, he failed to notice Jason preparing to move him, and the transfer from car to stretcher nearly caused him to lose consciousness again.
Shades of gray were Reese’s world for a good long while after that, and a dramatic reduction in pain made him suspect that he’d been dosed with something strong. Amidst the numbing fog were sporadic bouts of awareness, in which he pieced together that he was on a boat, a fast boat, skipping over rough water that surely had to be churning at least as much as his gut. He was lying on a gurney, and was hooked to an IV and another machine that was beeping rapidly. His shirt and jacket had gone missing, and something was applying uncomfortably firm pressure to his stomach. Jason was there taking his vitals and asking him questions. Finch was just there, a welcome constant.
Reese didn’t know how far they’d traveled, only aware of the change from bouncing waves to the gentler rocking of calm waters, to the rhythmic vibration of wheels bumping across the planks of a wooden dock. It was the latter that reawakened the twisting knife in his gut, and he was pretty sure he finally gave in to the urge to lose his lunch, but the world was a rapidly-spinning place, too dark and then too bright and loud, and he had to close his eyes against the onslaught.
Long into that painful and confusing night, the motion and the questions and the voices stopped. Reese awoke in a hospital bed, attached to even more monitors and equipment than before, mind still hazy with medication, but he was comfortable. More importantly, he was safe. Finch’s presence in the expensive-looking easy chair situated next to the bed and the view of the ocean through partially-drawn curtains, the horizon just turning hints of pink and orange, made him sure of it. “Where are we?” he asked, voice rough from sleep and the dryness of his throat.
“A private medical facility I purchased some time ago,” Finch answered. If he was at all startled by the sudden break in the silence, he didn’t show it, and continued to type on his laptop for a few moments before setting it aside. “How are you feeling, Mr. Reese?”
The corner of Reese’s mouth turned up in a slight smirk, and he relaxed a bit further. If they were back to formalities, perhaps the direness of the situation really had passed. In response to Finch’s question, he shrugged. “Can’t really feel anything, but I imagine that’s temporary. What’s the damage?”
“I’ll leave the detailed explanation to Dr. Izard, but in plain terms, you were lucky. The first bullet lacerated your stomach and penetrated your spleen. The other lodged against your right femur, but didn’t crack the bone. You’ve already been through surgery, and you didn’t lose your spleen, but Frank suggests that you find a less dangerous line of work.” Finch looked at Reese, humor somehow present on his face despite the total lack of a smile. “Not that he knows what we do, of course. Not exactly.”
“Speaking of which, now that Mark knows I’m alive he’s not going to stop looking for me. You may want to end our association if you’re going to continue your work.”
“Nonsense, Mr. Reese. No one knows you’re here except for myself, Jason, and Frank. That buys some time for you to recover, at least.”
“Do you trust them?” It was a stupid question really. If Finch didn’t, they wouldn’t be here, and both of them knew it. Still, Reese had to ask. By the way Finch regarded him silently for a moment and didn’t roll his eyes, he knew Finch understood that.
“I do, John.” Finch settled back into the chair and picked up his laptop, a steely glint coming to his eyes. “Get some rest. I may be able to secure our operations and lay a permanent little trap for our friend Mr. Snow, but I’ll soon be in need of your expertise to spring it.”
“The workings of your mind frighten me sometimes, Harold,” Reese said lightly, a hint of a smile playing at his lips as he sank deeper into the blankets cocooning him. Sometimes, he reflected, being frightened was a good thing. It could strengthen resolve, and to a man who was resolved, fear wasn’t weakness, but a very powerful tool. Mark had his work cut out for him.