Author's Note: Hi! So, here am I with another story. This one, a hurt-comfort two-shot, is totally my whumpy-muse's fault.
It's set at the very beginning of season 1, when our boys are still trying to figure each other out, before S1E05 (Judgment).
I was sort of wondering what happened the first time John got hurt in Finch's employ, and this is what my mind came up with. I hope you enjoy!
Rated T for blood/injury, but it's not overly graphic.
As usual, many thanks to DancingInTheDark85, invaluable beta-reader and good friend. Her insight is always priceless.
Chapter 1
He knew it was bound to happen sometime. He's known it from the start, for it was obvious that the kind of job Finch was offering him could be described in many ways, but safe just wasn't one of them.
Quite on the contrary, it involves using fists, knives, guns, rifles, grenades even, and all on a daily basis – more than once a day, on most weeks. The odds of always getting out of fights completely unscathed were slim at best – it's an occupation hazard John is well aware of - but, up to now, it had always been injuries of little significance.
A few cuts, many bruises, a couple of sore ribs, two or three split lips. All things that he could take care of by himself – all things for which a band-aid, a couple of steri-strips and a change of clothes were just enough. And so he has done.
But this time, he muses, a band-aid and a change of clothes are just not going to cut it.
First of all, because it's not a few drops of blood we're talking about. There's a lot of it on his shirt sleeve and though it's not clearly showing on the dark fabric of the jacket he's wearing as usual, he can feel it running down his arm, soaking the once-white sleeve and making the wet, warm material cling uncomfortably to his skin, painfully chafing on the open wound with every smallest movement. He's losing a lot of blood – not enough to make him pass out, probably, hopefully, but definitely enough to cause dizziness and make his hands tremble.
And, trembling hands or not, he's fairly sure he's not going to be able to stitch it on his own anyway. Stitching requires two hands and the position of the wound – the inside of his left forearm, running from the wrist up to the crook of his elbow – is going to make it very hard to do so. Impossible, probably, even if he manages to wrestle his right hand fingers into steadiness.
He'd cut himself on some broken glass – a shattered window on which he'd accidentally landed deadweight during the fight with the last number. If he closes his eyes, the scene will replay in his brain in full detail – the punch, the dumb luck of the number crashing to the floor right next to where his gun had previously landed, lunging at him to prevent him from getting the weapon, losing his balance, then both of them toppling on the broken window, John unfortunate enough to land first. He can vividly recall the sickening feeling of the glass slicing through clothes and flesh, the warm rush of blood, the sudden, burning pain.
In all likelihood, there must be some slivers of glass embedded in the wound, and this is the third reason he's going to need someone's help – Finch's help, to be exact. Closely examining the injury site and extracting debris from it is better done with the aid of a magnifying glass – again, something more easily doable if you have the luxury of having both hands available.
It takes him a while in his long walk back to the Library to realize that he's actually missing the constant connection the earbud usually provides. If it was there, he'd send Finch's way some dry remark to distract himself from the pain and fatigue, a remark that would with no doubt be rewarded by an equally wry comment from the older man. None of them is overly loquacious, quite the contrary in fact, yet their banter has felt natural and engaging right from the start.
He shifts his hand until it rests in his pocket, partly to keep the arm still and partly to hide the blood. Even without looking at it, his hand feels wet and sticky and he wouldn't be surprised to find out he's leaving a trail of blood on his wake – definitely not recommended if you wish to go unnoticed.
In hindsight, it's partly his fault – he's the one who's broken the window to begin with, and clearly should have paid more attention to it, he detachedly considers.
Well, that and quite a bit of bad luck. Bad luck that this morning promised to bring an unexpectedly warm day, and so he's left his coat at the motel he's staying in. A shame, for it would have offered a far more consistent protection from the sharp glass than just the shirt and jacket he's actually wearing. Not to mention the fact that he's now beginning to feel chilled despite the cold sweat drenching his hair, neck and back. Or, perhaps just because of it.
Either way, laying blame and cursing bad luck is not going to help. What would help now would be to be already in the Library and to have Finch ready to help him, which John is not so sure is a given.
There is a first-aid kit in their HQ – Reese has located it the first time he has found himself alone and taken the chance to freely scour the Library. And it's quite an extensive one – not the kind you usually find on most workplaces (but, then again, this thing he's doing with Finch is far from being a regular job.)
It has everything – and everything comes in every shape and size. Several kinds of antiseptics, several bottles of different medications, alcohol wipes, butterfly strips and bandages and band-aids and Vet wraps and sterile pads and whatever. Including, much to the ex-op's surprise, an ambu-bag, even if Reese wonders how Harold plans to use that. Or, more to the point, he wonders if the older man realizes that, should they actually find themselves in need of an ambu-bag, they'll probably be in some serious trouble – so serious that the ambu-bag itself will most likely not be enough. Not even close.
So, if the availability of medical equipment is clearly not a problem, Harold's willingness and ability to administer first aid is not equally obvious.
John doesn't know much about Finch – as he's been told many times during the few weeks of their uneven partnership, his boss is a private person, and finding info about him or details about the other man's past is a painstakingly hard work. Despite several tailings and stakeouts, John has yet to unravel the mystery that is Harold Finch.
But it's rather obvious that Reese's world – in which blood and injuries and violence are common occurrences and you simply have to learn how to deal with them – is not Finch's world.
Until now, whenever John has turned up to the Library with a new bruise, or a cut on his forehead or a bandage on his hand or freshly changed clothes, Harold hasn't said anything. He notices, sure – it's clear from the fleeting narrowing of his eyes or the brief tightening of his lips – but he's never asked about such injuries nor offered assistance in treating them. Which, incidentally, is perfectly fine with John. He's used to dealing with problems on his own.
He tries to move his hand in his pocket, to make a fist, but even such tiny motion hurts so bad he almost sways. No, this time he's not going to be able to patch himself up alone, whether Finch likes it or not.
John suspects his boss might disapprove his tendency to resort to violence (hence, perhaps, the tight expression whenever he ends up a little worse for wear?) but, seriously, what else did he expect from him? That's the reason why he's been hired to begin with, that's the way he works.
But, even if it's the case, up till now, Finch has always refrained from openly commenting or expressing his dissent, and this is something else John is perfectly happy with. It's a mutual understanding, of sorts. Reese knows that Finch would probably prefer less rough methods, but they have tacitly come to an agreement that keeps the victims count to a minimum and yet gets the job done.
But the problem is, he ponders as he finally reaches the Library side entrance, how will he react to this?
He gets inside. He has no doubt that Finch already knows he's there - he has probably spotted him in some of his webcams as soon as he's set foot in the Library hall. Maybe even before. It's a habit of his – monitoring his whereabouts when working a number – and the older man usually gets upset when he loses track of his employee (Reese is still not completely sure why, but he suspects that Finch fears the he will do something he wouldn't approve of). And it happens quite often. Somehow, John's cell phones have the inconvenient habit of dying prematurely, usually of violent deaths.
It has happened today, too, during the same messy fight that has resulted in the painful injury to his arm. And that's why Reese hadn't been able to forewarn Finch about the fact that he is in need of first aid.
He tackles the stairs. His arm has started to throb and burns with every tiny movement he makes, and he's looking forward to getting to the top, then to the main room of the Library and finally to sitting down somewhere – preferably somewhere comfortable, but really, anywhere would be fine. Even the dusty steps look goddamn inviting right now, but he forces himself to trudge on.
Not for the first time he wonders about Finch's choice of headquarters. Or, more precisely, why he insists on using the stairs and doesn't somehow get the lift to work again. Because there is one, at the North end of the building – another one of the things John discovered the first time he's the chance to roam the place. It's out of order, but John doubts that's the real issue. He doesn't really know why, but he has the feeling that, if Finch really wanted, he would be able to power it on again, probably without even having to involve a third party and jeopardize the Library's secrecy.
No, there must be something more, of that the ex-op is sure. Sheer stubbornness, maybe, or refusal to let his handicap be a hindrance. Or maybe something else entirely – after all, Reese doesn't know Finch that well.
When he finally reaches the first floor he's more winded than he expected – the injury isn't that serious, is it? – and he decides it must be due to the previous day's lack of sleep.
The Library is pleasantly warm and silent, save for the usual tapping sound of Finch's hands flying on the keyboard. Predictable, reassuring sounds – Finch hasn't offered him just a job, he's given him a new normalcy. A weird kind of normalcy, perhaps, made of secrets and standoffishness and boundaries that Finch likes to remark upon and John loves to test. A predictable, reliable pattern in which they work the numbers together, with surprisingly good results, both in terms of success rate and teamwork performance - mostly. Nothing more than a business partnership maybe, since Harold is steadfastly reluctant to share with John anything that's not strictly work-related – information, dinners, free time – and can be cutting as glass whenever Reese pushes too much. (But no, better not think about glass right now.)
But, in truth, Finch isn't the only one in their two-men team to be wary. Reese has learned years ago not to give away his trust easily, and it's a deeply-engrained habit that is hard (and unsafe) to break. Besides, the billionaire has his secrets – tons of them, actually – something that makes it even harder for John to entrust him.
But, as cautious and bizarre as it might be, theirs is a normalcy nonetheless, and one that, even in such a short time, the ex-op has already learned to appreciate and cherish.
A normalcy, though, that John is also about to break. He shifts his hand again his pocket – blood is seeping through the inner lining of the jacket, he feels the wetness on the front side of his shirt too.
Reese turns the corner and Finch is there, sitting at his usual spot behind the monitors. The older man doesn't look up from his work, but just says something about cell phones and carelessness John doesn't quite understand. He doesn't have a comeback at ready – in truth, he's not really listening. He's actually doing his best to rein back the dizziness that threatens to make him lose the battle against gravity, and he leans a shoulder on the wall to remain upright in what he hopes is a subtle way. Not that subtlety is a major concern right now.
Now he can only hope Finch isn't afraid of blood.
To be continued...
The next (and last) part will be posted in a couple of days. In the meantime, why don't you let me know your thoughts? :)
