A/N: Thank you so much for reading, reviewing and following, it's really appreciated and you all are very kind! I hope you'll enjoy this second part as well. I look forward to hearing what you think!
Just War
Chapter 2
Harold realized he was squeezing his eyes and panicking. His ears were buzzing, his hip hurt and he was dizzy. It took him a couple of minutes to regain his bearings, heartbeat slowing down and pain just above the daily level he had been forced to endure three years from then.
He cautiously opened his eyes, putting himself in a sitting position with no little difficulty. There were no flames, no smoke but the dizziness peaked.
John was lying on the floor. He was just besides him. His eyes were closed, his suit was covered in grime and he wasn't moving.
Harold panicked again. They were surrounded by debris, he himself was all dirty and John wasn't moving and was that a piece of metal?
There was a piece of metal near John's face - who still wasn't moving - and Harold reacted without thinking: he grabbed the object, successfully eliminating the danger and successfully scorching his right hand.
He hissed in pain, and then the ceiling started spraying water on them. Obviously there had been smoke, in the other room - where John had thrown the exploding device, which had triggered the facility fire sprinklers.
"John!" Even muffled by falling water Harold's exclamation sounded a bit too loud and enthusiastic, but he really didn't mind at the moment.
John had opened his eyes and was now sitting up in auto-pilot, while keeping water away from his face. He looked as dizzy as Harold felt but more or less in one piece.
"Harold, I'm right here." He noticed a slight note of grumpiness in his friend's voice, and then Harold almost fidgeted under the following scrutiny.
"Are you okay?"
And of course the man who had just regained consciousness was the one asking if Harold was okay.
"I'm fine, Mr. Reese. I already took a shower this morning but I guess we're never too clean."
He surprised himself with his attempt of humor, which denoted a detachment and a composure Harold wasn't feeling at all. He also gained a dirty look from the ex-operative, who didn't look particularly inclined to joke, at the moment.
"If you say so, Finch." Harold watched his friend straighten up a little stiffly, but accepted John's help to get up from the floor. He felt really stiff himself and being soaking wet certainly didn't help. Plus, his hand was throbbing mercilessly.
John left his side without a word to explore the ruined place. Harold didn't really know what to do, considering their location it was quite unlikely that someone had heard the explosion, but surely they couldn't linger too long.
Water finally stopped and John was back. Harold noticed for the first time there was blood on his white shirt. He opened his mouth to say something but his friend anticipated him.
"I know, Finch. I'll take care of it in a moment. What happened to your hand?"
Only then he noticed he had cradled it on his abdomen, in the weak attempt not to jostle it too much. It had been quite foolish of him to grab that piece of metal; he could have used a handkerchief or come up with any other sensible solution, he mentally chastised himself.
And Harold had disarmed a bomb vest with all the composure of the world; yet still found himself panicking because of explosions. He also remembered the feeling of utter helplessness in front of that stroll, then his rambling speech to John, back at the Library, when he couldn't find any connection between the four numbers the Machine had spit out that day.
It had happened almost two years before, and that night had seemed endless.
He averted his eyes from John's intent gaze before replying. "Nothing, Mr. Reese, it's just a burn."
"Mh."
Harold thought the uncharacteristic mumble that had escaped his friend's lips meant that the ex-agent didn't believe he was telling him the truth, but when he looked at John again he saw him moving his suit jacket aside, revealing a two inches metal fragment embedded into his side.
Shocked, he called out his friend's first name louder than he intended for the second time.
"John! When were you supposed to take care of that?!" Harold watched with wide eyes as the ex-CIA probed the piece, fingertips already covered in blood and a slight wince marring his features.
"Harold, calm down, it doesn't even hurt. See if you can find a pair of scissors and some adhesive tape in the desk drawer."
He stopped midway from reaching his friend, doing as he was told. He supposed that hadn't they been drenched, John could have just torn his garments, but there was no way he would try that now without further injuring himself.
His friend did show some self-preservation, now and again, Harold was glad to recognize.
Fortunately they were in an office, or what was left of it, so he found the objects of his hunt almost immediately, among dust, debris and scattered sheets.
John had settled on a small couch and taken his jacket off. When Harold approached him the operative was doing the same with his shirt, revealing an undershirt as soaked and bloodstained as the item he had just discarded. He accepted the scissors from Harold then started to cut just below the fragment of metal.
After making sure the undershirt friction wouldn't pull the fragment out of his abdomen in a very unpleasant way he took off that as well.
John's entire torso, Harold noticed, was covered in cuts and small wounds. They didn't look too serious and he was sure the younger man would ignore them without a second thought. Maybe he could coax him into cleaning them when they were back, safe and sound, at the Library.
The two inches metal was a completely different matter though, because it needed immediate treatment.
"John, I'd feel much calmer if I was the one performing this operation."
The taller man regarded him for a moment, then started to cut a large square out of his undershirt.
"I don't think it's a good idea, your hand looks pretty roughed up. Mind telling me how that happened, Finch?"
Along with the enquiry he received also a pointed look. Harold had wrongly assumed that the current situation would have averted any attention from his foolish action, but once again he had underestimated his partner nosy tendencies.
"Actually, I do mind, Mr. Reese."
The same partner sent him an amused look, lifting an eyebrow as to solicit a real answer.
"I grabbed a piece of metal, which happened to be white-hot." He explained as logically as he could.
John glanced at him for a moment, looking mildly interested in their conversation. Harold suspected the former soldier was simply trying to keep himself busy with something else beside the delicate task he was about to perform.
He had arranged a makeshift pad with his undershirt and now looked ready to extract the fragment. His fingers were slick with blood, but his grip was firm and steady.
"And why on earth would you do that, Harold?"
"Because, John," Harold nothing but blurted out, "that piece of metal was lying mere centimeters from your left eye!"
The ex-soldier had already started to pull the fragment. At his declaration, Harold noticed a slight jerk of John's hand and an incredulous look crossing his face, followed then by a grunt of pain.
"Mr. Reese, are you okay?!" John had visibly paled, but had promptly covered the hole in his side with the makeshift pad. Blood was now freely oozing from the wound and the pad became quickly red-soaked.
Instinctively Harold found himself gazing at the incriminated piece of metal, which was now manifesting itself in its 5 inches entirety, but was abruptly distracted by John's grumbling.
"Damn, Harold, next time warn a guy, would you?" The ex-operative sounded genuinely astonished, his raspy voice lacking the usual poise. "I might think you're eccentric but I still have a high opinion of you. You can't go and shatter one of the few certainties I've left in life just as I'm extracting metal from my body!"
It took Harold a moment to fully digest the implications of the sentence. Then he couldn't control the suddenly surge of embarrassment and irritation.
"Well, sorry to disappoint you, Mr. Reese, but I do act without thinking now and then!"
It wasn't really true, Harold couldn't remember the last time had done something without wholly thinking it through - well, except ten minutes before - but he kept going all the same.
"I must admit that grabbing a white-hot piece of metal with bare hands hasn't been my brightest idea, but should I remind you that the same piece of metal was dangerously lying mere centimeters from your left eye?"
"You certainly can, Mr. Finch, but mere centimeters still remain the operative words of the sentence."
The former CIA had arranged another pad and covered the first one, mouth still curved in disappointment. The bleeding was slowing down though and Harold felt a bit calmer in spite of everything.
"As I told you before, it's just a burn. In fact you could have just as well let me do that "extraction". Maybe you wouldn't have sputtered profanities and absurdities afterwards."
Reese seemed mildly pacified himself and Harold mentally sighed. The former agent never ceased to puzzle him. He would shield him from an explosion like it was the most natural thing in the world, collecting pieces of metal through his body along the way, then display absurd and out of proportion reactions at the tiniest hint of consideration. Well, foolish hints of consideration, in this case.
Also, Harold hadn't forgotten that John had come to even point a gun at him for the exact same reason. His consideration hadn't been foolish at all though, back in that rooftop.
"I'm sorry, Harold, you know I've done this plenty of times though" was the reply he received after a brief pause. "The fact that these days I let you do it for me means only that I'm getting too comfortable. This was regular agenda during my time at the Agency."
And of course good old CIA times should be brought up. Harold almost, almost, rolled his eyes in exasperation.
"I thought we were past beyond that period, Mr. Reese. Also, I've always assumed you didn't wake up in the morning taking a while to identify unexpectedly pleasant feelings, back then."
John wasn't the only one with brilliant mnemonic capabilities and Harold was particularly proud of his retort. That's why his exasperation rose beyond mild point at Reese's following amused tone.
"Harold, I can assure you that taking care of my own wounds, once in a while, won't undermine the evident improvement of my working conditions."
He watched his friend probe the bandage he had managed to fix into place during their ongoing banter, mouth curving in a slight grimace but overall satisfied with his work.
However, relief didn't stop Harold from irritably counter back.
"Yet I'm sure the general improvement of your working condition is based also on little details like that."
His friend regarded him with a small smile then, carefully slipping into shirt and jacket again. They were bloody and dirty, not to mention dripping, but they didn't have many fashion alternatives at the moment.
"Harold, if I'm conscious enough to do it, I don't mind, really. It just seemed the most reasonable solution to me."
John looked almost apologetic then, his tone was back to the usual soft and reassuring modulation. Harold couldn't really argue with that and was about to let John win, just this time, when the ex-operative continued.
"Unless you're implying you'd wanted me to ignore that there was metal in my body and jump back into action. But, I must warn you, it could have led to unpredictable shifts of the fragment, aggravation of muscular damage and severe internal bleeding. It wouldn't have been the first time, but that would have most certainly made a dent on my recently improved working conditions."
Finch glared at John and the sardonic grin he was wearing with an incredulous expression, speechless for a second.
"Your sense of humor never ceases to appall me, Mr. Reese."
John's grin broadened. He didn't even try to hide how much he had enjoyed pushing Harold's buttons.
Then his expression softened and Harold observed him cutting another bandage from his undershirt, now torn into pieces.
"Give me another minute, Harold, then I'll see to your hand."
"What the hell happened here?"
"Don't know, don't care. Make sure to eliminate any threat; the mission still stands. Bring me that damn prototype or no one of you is leaving this facility alive."
TBC