"Stop fidgeting, please…and close your mouth…!"

Finch carefully applies a small blob of antiseptic on the laceration, careful to keep the material away from those sensitive lips. Inserting the ointment in the cut and ensuring it doesn't seep away with the trickling blood seems to be an almost herculean task.

"And stop whining; this can't be hurting that bad. Close your lips…there you go. " he murmurs softly. " It's just a scratch..."

Or at least he hopes it is. His gentle probing has revealed a shallow gash in the skin and blood continues to leach out of the cut, though very slowly. There doesn't seem to be any major blood vessel affected, but will it need stitches?

If it were him he would certainly consider having a medical professional look at it, but knowing Mr. Reese, the ex-op will no doubt nix that and want to stitch it up himself. Still, it is on the cheek, close to the corner of the lips…

"You know, this could be on the borderline of needing stitches." he starts tentatively, pulling at the tissue to check the depth of the cut. "If it's done properly, stitches may reduce the chance of scarring.

"…or maybe not." he continues, when the sudden head shake scatters droplets of blood on the floor.

A muffled snort is all the answer he gets, so he proceeds to dab more antiseptic on the oozing cut. While it isn't the first time he's had to administer first aid, it's not a chore he relishes. Particularly when he has to administer it to someone important to his well being.

And someone who keeps moving around…!

"Hold still!" Finch scolds, this time with a stern look. One that is of course patently ignored. He's never been very good at intimidation…that is mostly his employee's purview. And something Mr. Reese does very well.

Finch clamps his hand on his patient's neck and wipes the blood dripping slowly off the stubbled chin. He really doesn't like this. Never one to feel comfortable around injuries, in this case he's also hampered by a fear of doing more damage than already done.

And hurting his patient while probing, dabbing and wiping is making him very apprehensive.

"I really don't know what you were thinking…" he says, hoping conversation will relieve his tension and keep his attention off the blood on the floor.

"I know you don't like to walk away from a fight, but in this case don't you think it would have been the better part of valor?" He dabs some more.

"You know…as in Henry the 4th : 'The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have sav'd my life'.

The muscles under his hand tense and then relax as he moves to stroke the short hair. He's sure it's not the recognition of the quote that has caused this calming, but rather the soothing caress. The fidgeting diminishes. Much better. He needs his patient's cooperation for this next step.

"Now stay there. Keep your mouth closed and don't move. I need to get the glue."

He turns his body, easing his stiff leg to the side and stretches to reach the first aid kit on the desk top. It was something the ex-op had taught him: when stitching was not an option, and butterfly bandages not the appropriate choice, then some judiciously applied glue can hold the edges of a minor cut together.

Of course the ex-op would likely choose to use a home variety Super Glue, but the thought of putting a harsh chemical like cyanoacrylate on an open cut is frankly abhorrent to him.

He's stocked their first aid kit with a especially medical formulated form of the substance readily available at the local pharmacy. It will work like the industrial kind, but not cause skin irritation. And it is FDA approved. That makes him feel better, if he doesn't delve too deeply into some of the FDA fiascos of the past. As it is, he hopes his patient appreciates his foresight.

Now if he could only manage to do three things at one time with two hands…

He keeps up his monologue, feeling the need to fill the silence and keep himself relaxed. And since he's seldom afforded such a prime opportunity to lecture a captive audience, he doesn't pass up the chance.

"So we're walking down the street and you meet a potential enemy…you don't need to immediately get your hackles up! Even if you are in the right and your adversary is openly taunting you, there are…other options."

Squeezing the edges of the cut together, he places a short line of glue on the reddened tissue. It mixes with the blood and ointment and he feels himself getting a bit queasy. But no. He won't embarrass himself that way…John depends on him to do these things in an emergency. And he won't let him down.

So he continues his lecture. "Remember what Mahatma Gandhi said about fighting: 'First they ignore you, then they laugh at you, then they fight you, then you win.' Words to live by, don't you think?"

He holds his breath, keeping his fingers in place and hoping they won't also be glued to the tissue. That would be… very bad.

As the glue sets up, he continues to talk, attempting to drive out the sudden image of his fingers attached to the wound while Mr. Reese works to separate the chemical bond. Not a pretty picture, especially since his employee would likely be smirking the whole time while trying to dissolve the adhesive.

"We both know what Charlie is like. And frankly, given how much bigger you are, where would be the challenge in besting a cat?"

Finch smiles, successfully removing tensed fingers from the now closed wound as his patient responds with a lick to his hand, wagging his tail in agreement.

Mr. Reese should be proud of his handiwork…

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I was not going to write another Bear centric story until after the next episode (2.03) in order to see what the POI writers intend for Finch's relationship with the dog…but then I read this in a TV Guide interview:

"Reese winds up bringing him home, but he isn't the one who has to take care of him," says Emerson, laughing. Finch's relationship with the pooch, he adds, "is funny and it's dear, and coming together really beautifully."

And so, here we are…