disclaimer: not mine
chapter one
"May I have this dance?" he asks, raising to his feet and offering his hand. "Honey," he adds a bit hesitantly. Through his ear piece he can hear John discreetly clear his throat to stifle a laugh.
But it's not discreet enough.
You'll be fine, Harold, he told him earlier this evening. After all, it's a charity ball with some of New York City's wealthiest and most sophisticated in attendance. He should fit in - in theory at least -, and he agreed to go. In retrospect, he should have thought it through. But what's a billionaire without a trophy girlfriend almost half his age? John mused and his gaze landed on Shaw. According to her, the answer to that particular riddle was: alive. And given her death glare, Harold was inclined to side with her, but John was right: showing up alone could have drawn unwanted attention. Ms. Shaw, however, didn't hesitate to voice her misgivings. Some people belong in the van, she remarked at some point, then looked straight at Harold. He isn't sure what she meant by that but he suspects it has something to do with her limited faith in his capabilities out in the field.
He can't entirely blame her for it but none of them could come up with a better plan and time was - and still is - of the essence. Now he's here, asking his "trophy girlfriend almost half his age" for a dance, so they can keep a closer eye on their latest number. Shaw anchored herself down near a lavish platter packed with smoked salmon, onion slices, tomato, and kalamata olives, and she appears rather hesitant to leave it behind.
She throws him a look that's halfway between surprise and doubt. "It's a slow song," he tries to reassure her in case she also has doubts about his competence as a dance partner.
She glances at the other guests seated at the table, then back up at him. "Of course, dear," she squeezes it out with a fake smile and takes his hand.
He escorts her to the dance floor, trying to get as close to their latest number as possible. They move through the glittering crowd, eyes searching. She snags a glass of champagne from a passing waiter - who just happens to be Reese -, downs it in one gulp, then casually leaves the empty glass on a table.
Harold gives her a sideways glance. "Are you enjoying the party, Ms. Shaw?"
"I am trying to."
"How's our good doctor doing?" Reese asks, trying to divert their attention back to the mission as he continues to scan the ballroom for any sign of trouble.
Dr. Allen Murphy, one of the city's top plastic surgeons, is dancing with his wife and seems blissfully ignorant of the fact that he might be targeted. The Machine produced his number two days ago but he hasn't shown any suspicious behavior neither since, nor before - as far as they can tell. It is much more likely that something is going to happen to him, and this ball seemed like a good setting for it.
"So far so good," Shaw answers, glancing around. "This room seems to be filled with his handiwork and they all look quite pleased," she remarks. "I don't think our guy's among them."
They stop near the couple and Harold turns to face her. They stare at each other for a short moment. "While I'm aware that you're not comfortable with it, for our cover's sake I'm going to ask you to let me lead."
"For our cover's sake?" she repeats, arching an eyebrow.
He blinks. "Yes. ... Please."
She briefly mulls it over. "Alright, Harold," she says, stepping closer and draping her hand over his shoulder. "I'll leave you confident in your maleness tonight... but only because you said 'please'."
He gently places his hand on her waist. "Thank you."
They begin to sway to the music and for a while neither of them speaks. They slowly turn but their movements are rather tense. They keep their eyes off each other, surveying the room. One thing quickly becomes apparent: they stick out like a sore thumb among the other couples.
Her hand suddenly slips from his and slides up around his neck. He looks at her, his gaze slightly alarmed and questioning.
She leans in. Her lips are inches from his ear. "For our cover's sake, Harold," she says and he can hear that small, menacing smile in her voice.
But she has a point. His hand goes around her waist, cautiously drawing her into a full embrace. This new position takes a little getting used to. It's been a while since he experienced such intimacy - even if it's just for show -, and after he manages to relax a little, her close proximity starts to become increasingly and disturbingly pleasant. He swallows dry, then clears his throat. "Do you see anything, Mr. Reese?" he asks, talking into her ear piece.
He sees them. From a distance, they do look like a couple whispering sweet nothings into each other's ear. "I'll let you know when I do, Finch," John replies with a smile.
Then she starts fiddling with the hair at his nape. She's probably bored. She might not even be aware of what her fingers are doing but he can't seem to focus on anything else. Her touch sends a wave of pleasant chills through his body and his eyes close for a brief second. Soon he finds that he can't take it anymore. Cover or no cover, he starts to pull away and that's when he sees something from the corner of his eye.
A glare.
Given off by a scope attached to a sniper rifle.
"Mr. Reese. In the balcony," he calls out but there's no time.
It's already too late.
He looks at Shaw. She can see fear creeping into his eyes as he suddenly turns them around on the spot.
A single shot rings through the room.
The music stops, and there's a long moment of absolute stillness before the panic sets in.
His ears are ringing and he feels his left shoulder burn.
They look at each other. His eyes shift to her upper arm. It's bleeding slightly but it's not serious. The bullet just grazed her skin.
Her gaze meets his again.
His suit jacket feels warm and wet under her fingertips and there's a frayed hole in it. "Harold..."
"I'm..." His voice falters.
Suddenly, he feels cold and light-headed. His arm goes numb. His knees buckle and he staggers towards her. She tries to hold him up but they both crumple to the floor.
More shots are fired. He hears shouting and screaming but they sound increasingly muffled and distant - as if he were submerged in cold water. His eyes drift shut. He feels being pulled upwards, then he hears his name. He opens his eyes and sees Dr. Murphy. He's kneeling by his side, talking, phone pressed to his ear. He didn't run. "Shaw..." he tries but he can't say more. "I'm here." His eyes find her. She's upside down now. Her hair has come undone. He prefers it that way but he will never tell her that. He can't see Reese but he must be near, too. He always is. He can smell his aftershave. He can hear his voice and it calms him. Somebody takes his hand briefly. People are still screaming somewhere far away - it's a dull noise in the back of his mind. There's sounds of buttons popping and fabric being torn. A giant Regency style chandelier hangs from the ceiling right above him. He watches the light playing on its glass beads but his eyelids start to feel so heavy. And then there's darkness. It's soft, peaceful, light and quiet.
After all these years, all those numbers, he can finally rest.
But somebody slaps him - hard. He sucks in air and his eyes flutter open again. He squints. Everything is bright and blurry and heavy and painful again. "No sleeping on the job, Harold," Shaw tells him, her voice firm. "Keep breathing." His confused gaze locks on her again. Her eyes are fixed on the task at hand - bandaging his shoulder as fast as possible -, but she meets his gaze briefly. "Don't you dare fall asleep," she warns him. She looks angry. He hopes he has a chance to tell her that he's grateful for that sharp anger. He should have told her sooner. Now he's cold and so incredibly thirsty. She and the doctor are still trying to control the bleeding. Her right cheek is smeared with blood. Everything is. "You hear me?" He tries to nod.
"He's in shock," Dr. Murphy says, then his eyes meet Harold's. "The ambulance is on its way. You'll be fine, Harold," he promises. He is a good liar. Murphy pulls the phone he used to call for help out of his pocket, puts it on the floor, then bundles up the jacket and uses it to keep pressure on Finch's shoulder.
You'll be fine, Harold. The words echo in his head. That's what John had said before the shooting started. Before all the blood and pain. You'll be fine, Harold. He looks at the doctor's phone on the floor. It's white with messy red fingerprints. He glances back at Shaw. Some people belong in the van. She was right. "Phone..." he tries to tell her but his voice cracks. His mouth is so dry. She leans closer. "What?" He tries to repeat it. He can't. There's so much pain. It burns him, pierces him, shakes him. It's eating him alive and he just wants to go where it can't follow, where it cannot reach him anymore.
He just wants to sleep.
Just a little bit.
"Harold!"
TBC