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_o\O/o_
Chapter Two: Elegance
Harold Finch had never understood men who hated wearing suits. Men who chafed at layers and double inseams and, above all, the tyranny of the necktie. Of course Finch realized that his own outright enjoyment of formalwear put him in the minority — personally, he would walk around in a cravat and stovepipe hat if he thought he could get away with it — but the petty whining of many men against the rank injustice of adult clothing was just... childish.
Finch had been wearing grey cashmere when the two thickset men plucked him off the street. The cufflinks: silver and onyx. The tie: 3.5-inch width, double Windsor knot, silk charvet in striking jewel greens (a sparse pattern of tiny blue-grey diamonds muted the color from a distance, but up close its peacock vibrancy was striking).
It was one of Finch's favorite ties. Moreover it had been a gift from Nathan. And Grace had said it brought out his eyes.
But at this particular moment he would have cheerfully hacked it from his neck with a chainsaw and set it afire if only—oh God if only—it meant he could breathe.
There was no telling how long he'd been strapped to the bed. Long enough to miss at least two doses of medication, he reckoned, which meant that now there no telling the temperature of the room, either, nor the brightness of its lighting, nor even the color of its walls. All his six senses registered now was pain. The brush of cashmere was sandpaper against his skin, the weight of his Italian leather Oxfords intolerable.
Some time ago he had first woken up to a catheter insertion: an all-but forgotten sensation that came screaming back to memory before he promptly passed out again. There was another brief awakening some time later. In the dim light, sans-glasses, he didn't even realize he was awake—until he was suddenly vomiting into a metal bowl held by a steady hand, another hand cool against the nape of his neck, holding him in place. His skin had prickled at the touch.
After retching up what felt like every ounce of spare fluid in his digestive tract, the strong arms had laid him back again against the hospital bed headrest and depressed its angle to a gentle 15 degrees. As he was lowered helplessly into a reclining position Finch noticed a brush of plastic — an IV tube running into his restrained left arm.
Expert fingers had replaced his glasses, adjusting them just-so on his ears. A face came into focus: close-cropped hair of indeterminate color; dark eyes whose gaze slid away from his own; a broad, bony nose. The man's arms, bare beneath the short sleeves of his green scrubs, were bony too — a surprise after feeling their steady steeliness. Finch immediately named him Armstrong in his head and choked out a hysterical laugh.
And that was when the shakes began.
_o\O/o_
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