Finch stops typing and with a frustrated sigh looks heavenward.
He would be ever so grateful if only the solution to this current predicament were to rain down on him from up high…or from anywhere actually.
He's not choosey.
But no, it isn't happening. Clearly this is yet another problem, like all the others, he will have to solve without divine intervention.
He turns stiffly in his chair, addressing his employee...who has just made a third circuit of the library chamber.
"Mr. Reese? Shall I fix you a nice cup of tea? A Chamomile perhaps…or Jasmine?"
"I don't drink tea, Finch."
"Well, I'm not going to offer you coffee. Too much caffeine. Makes a person jumpy…"
"I'm fine." comes the clipped reply, from somewhere near the periodicals.
But I'm not... thinks Finch, turning back to the keyboard. He's been trying for the better part of an hour to finish a rather elegant piece of coding, but with little success. Ever since his employee showed up, he's been interrupted, disturbed, and bothered.
And the need for some peace and quiet is becoming more imperative by the minute as complete concentration at this stage is critical. This code is not going to write itself..!
Not that John Reese has interrupted, disturbed or bothered him with conversation. Beyond ascertaining that the Machine has provided no current number the ex-op has ignored him. No, it is Reese's incessant pacing that is driving him nuts.
Even Bear, who trailed the tall man up and down the book aisles for the first five minutes, has given up trying to keep pace with the Alpha. The dog is now simply lying on his pad, mournfully following Reese with his eyes alone.
Finch scowls as he hears his employee turn down the hallway to the back of the chamber…again. He raises his voice a notch.
"It's a library, Mr. Reese. Perhaps you would like to try reading a book? I could recommend a few…."
No answer. He can hear the ex-op round the shelving units, heading once more toward the front.
"Or maybe take Bear for a walk?" he suggests hopefully.
"It's cold, Finch. And raining. And I took him out not twenty minutes ago." The words are chipped ice, the intonation distant and cold.
Reese stops at the computer station and flips through papers neatly stacked on the desk. Evidently finding nothing of interest, he palms a disk, twirls it around and drops it again. Rolls a pencil back and forth. Picks up and puts down the tea cup…and Finch wants nothing so much as to slap his employee's hands away from the objects on his desk.
"Well, don't you have a gun…or something…that needs cleaning?" he finally asks in desperation.
"Hum…" It's a non-answer, but Reese stills, then turns and retreats to the rear of the chamber once more.
Within minutes ex-op is back, several pistols cradled in one arm, the cleaning kit in the other. Finch sighs his relief while Bear raises his head, hopeful the appearance of guns is a precursor to some action. But the weapons and kit are dumped on the nearby table.
The dog grunts, lays his head back down and sighs as the tall man sits and proceeds to dismantle the weapons.
Thank God… Finch watches Reese meticulously start cleaning the metal parts and pieces. Now maybe I can get something done!
Mercifully, for the next thirty-seven minutes the only sound accompanying the keyboard is rain sluicing off the library windows and various weapons being taken apart, cleaned, and reassembled.
Finch begins work on the second sub-routine, opening a third window on his screen while mentally tallying the lines of instructions still to be coded. Completely immersed in his task, he vaguely senses Reese reloading the cleaning kit and rising to return it, and the guns, to the weapons stash at the rear of the chamber.
Bear, recognizing a conclusion to the activity, leaves his bed and pads after his Alpha, tail held high in anticipation.
But now it starts again: a re-enactment of the morning traffic pattern. The ex-op paces to the front, stares out the window. Paces to the gate, looks down the stairs. Paces to the storage area, inspects the Hot Pockets and Ramen Soups - though without taking any. Turns around and paces back to the computer station.
At that point Bear gives up escort duty once more and with a dramatic sigh plops down on his pad. Dropping his head onto his paws he gives all the appearance of being thoroughly disgusted.
"Did you sleep well last night Mr. Reese?" Finch asks, his attention still on the monitor though his concentration has been shredded.
"Well enough, Finch. Why do you ask?"
"Just curious. You seem a bit…agitated."
"Not agitated…bored." His employee slumps into the chair next to him.
Finch purses his lips. Not entirely true he thinks, glaring at Reese who is now fidgeting with the pen holder.
The Number resolution the previous day had been particularly unpleasant. Their person of interest the perpetrator in a number of crimes…many of them involving violence against defenseless women. Sensitive to his employee's reactions, Finch had continually monitored Reese via the earwig and repeatedly advised restraint. But much to his alarm, Reese had become more and more detached as the day wore on, and in the end the ex-op had been brutal in his handling of the thug.
Finch had never been more thankful for the timely arrival of the NYPD…and the intervention of Detective Carter. In such cases, she seemed the only one able to leash the rogue operative and was kind enough to run interference with the other authorities.
He reminds himself to send her a pair of tickets to next week's Knicks game …
As for his employee, he knows what's causing this restlessness, having spent far too many sleepless nights himself reliving past nightmares; a worm of conscience keeps the same hours as an owl.
He can sympathize…but this has to stop! The current maintenance task is still incomplete and the critical software section offline too long already. It's essential the sub-routines be up and running by this evening at the latest. Too bad he can't just tell John to "ontspan"…relax…and send him to bed. It works with the dog!
But how does he get his wolf to settle down? He needs to find a pacifier, a de-stressor…
"I have some video games here, Mr. Reese. You'll like them…they're full of guns and shooting and action. All sorts of mayhem staged in Iraq."
"Really Finch? You want me to shoot virtual terrorists, with virtual weapons, in some virtual Middle Eastern country?" The disdain in the ex-op's voice is unmistakable, as another paper clip is launched from across the room into the trash basket...where it joins the dozen or so already piled at the bottom.
"I see your point." Finch replies softly. Of course. He should have been aware that someone who experienced first-hand the horrors these games emulate would not be interested in repeating them in a virtual sense. They would surface far too many memories better left buried.
He stares at the ex-op and reaches a decision.
"I do have something you might like better. It's a bit of an antique, but sometimes the oldies are still the best…" He stands and motions Reese to follow him.
Finch makes his way to a storage area piled high with boxes of various sizes. Moving to the corner of a stack, he carefully pulls a dust cover off a rather large appliance, meticulously folding it back over the top. Stretching his stiffened leg to the side, he reaches around the back and plugs the device into the wall.
"Here you go Mr. Reese," he says, laboriously getting to his feet. "I will assume you can handle it from here."
He watches closely as Reese approaches the outdated equipment. The ex-op gives him a questioning glance, but after just minutes of carefully scrutinizing the equipment, presses a button and is soon fully engaged with the device.
"Hey, Finch. This is not half bad! A bit clunky, but not bad..." offers Reese, in a much lighter tone than Finch has heard all morning. Reese's hands deftly manipulate the buttons and joy stick. "What's this called?"
Finch smiles. "Pac Man."
Pac-Man is 32 yrs old this year and is one of only three video games showcased at the Smithsonian in Washington, D.C. (along with Pong and Dragon's Lair).
I didn't know this, but its original name was Puck-Man, and only when the game was picked up for manufacture in the United States was it changed to Pac-Man. Obviously an effort to avoid…um…alterations to the letter 'P'. No doubt a wise decision...^_^
The internet reveals there currently 117 versions of the Pac-Man game.
Finch owns an original (of course!) arcade game…a collector's item currently worth upwards of $800.