Chapter 2: Recovery
Summary: But now, for the second time in his existence he is truly thankful for the ability to command the best of everything mankind has to offer. And interestingly, it's under almost exactly the same circumstance: John Reese is injured.
If Fusco's talking to the ex-op that means John's alive, right? Yes. He's alive!
He can work with that. He did before, when Reese's former employer decided to "eliminate" the ex-agent. He'd barely held himself together then, switching to a cognitive state in which he acted without self-awareness, running through options that would give the man the best chance at life.
It was dicey there for a while, the ex-op's injuries were…severe. But he pulled John through, involved from start to finish in the ex-op's recovery, from hiring the best surgeon in the city to assisting through the painful therapy that would give Reese full function of his body once more. And when boredom and inactivity threatened to drive the ex-op to possibly some extreme, self-endangering action, he moved his employee into an apartment and found a way for him to assist with a new Number.
Taking care of an asset, he tells himself, is simply practicing good economy. After all, it will take time and a lot of effort to find another to take the place of John…Mr. Reese.
"Don't worry, Lionel. Still above ground…"
He jumps at the whispery voice coming over Fusco's ear piece, his relief so palatable he has to mentally restrain himself from participating in the exchange.
"Yeah. I figured. Only the good die young," he hears Fusco reply.
Finch frowns. These two have a relationship he has yet to understand. On one hand, the cop has become an asset and over these many weeks helped on a number of cases. But on the other, he always suspects only because of something…and he doesn't know exactly what…that John holds over the detectives head.
The snarky remarks that pass between them only underscore a working association much less than equal: Mr. Reese is always in the driver's seat on their particular track; Detective Fusco only reluctantly riding shot gun. But here he is, relying on that self-same detective to help save a person that the cop may sooner see permanently removed from this life!
"Detective! I'd like a report..!" Finch's voice is sharp, a purposeful reminder he's listening in on every word. So don't try anything to jeopardize John… He leaves the last unspoken, hanging like the sword of Damocles over this person who he has entrusted to save his employee.
At the prompt Fusco gives him a recap of the ex-op's injuries, and as the detective leans in to check the exit wound Finch can hear Reese panting. His experience with his employee has left him with the knowledge that the ex-op has high pain threshold. So just how bad is this injury?
Fusco mentions the need for a tourniquet and Finch makes a mental note to ensure there are sufficient units of blood on hand for his medical team. The image in his head adjusts, increasing the size of the blood puddle under his employee.
"Hey, the uni's are on their way. We need to book outta here, but I can't…"
"Way ahead of you, Detective. Just get him to the street."
"What about my car?"
Also not a problem. He's been doing that at which he knows he is most skilled: multi-tasking. Detective Carter, at last free from deposition duty immediately responds to his sparsely worded request and puts herself on the team answering the 911 call. In the melee, no one will notice if she picks up Fusco's black and white and drives it back; the other uni's will simply assume she is riding with someone else.
And Fermin, anxious to pay back a mountainous debt of thanks, is thrilled to be of assistance. Even more fortunate is that the cabbie has just dropped off a passenger on Waverly, thus is relatively nearby. Finch gives one last command to the cop, knowing it's intense, laced with worry and frustration - but this is certainly not the time to be concerned about phone etiquette.
"There should be a cab pulling up any minute. Get John out of that alley…now!"
Monitoring the progress through Fusco's com as Reese is stabilized and pulled to his feet, Finch makes several more calls to the medical team he has on retainer - a very sizable one - and to the realtor who will open one of his nearby condos for him.
Those arrangements made he's just in time to hear Fusco remark, "Yeah…but just so's you know: we still ain't dating!"
Finch raises his eyebrows and doesn't even want to know what that's about…
...
Finally! The doors of the garage open on a muffled rumble, barely missing the roof of the cab as Fermin speeds into the vast parking area. Finch, impatiently, fretfully, worriedly waiting on this arrival, hurries to meet the car, only just now conscious of his overwhelming need to see for himself that John…Mr. Reese…is indeed still among the living.
The two medical aides, executing perfectly choreographed moves, extract his unconscious employee from the cab, as he, Fusco, and Fermin hover nearby. It's testimony to his anxious state, he thinks, that he has the incongruous thought these husky aids must practice this type event in their spare time. As well they should, considering the handsome salary he pays them!
When all three men offer to help, the mountainous duo politely but firmly refuse, and with minimum fuss and economy of motion, maneuver John in position to lie on the gurney. The burly pair then gently stretch the ex-op out on the narrow mattress, and at that point the ex-agent seems to come out of his stupor, groaning in pain. Unable to school his expression quickly enough, Finch winces at the sound compelling John to turn to him. The ex-op attempts to sit but the feat is beyond the injured mans ability and he falls back onto the mattress, now truly unconscious.
Oh, God! Let me have been in time…
Finch shakes his head. For one who's never been much of a believer…well, not in anything beyond technology…he seems to be saying that a lot! But if there is such a thing as a divine being, he hopes he will be forgiven his inattentiveness and that John will be allowed to make it through this ordeal alive!
And there is Fusco, with an expression that reminds him of Bear on those occasions the dog is left at the library alone, watching his Alpha leave. In spite of all his misgivings, he has to admit that the detective has come through…again. And for that he owes the cop a debt of gratitude.
Tearing himself away from the gurney now being rolled gently across the parking space to the elevator, he limps quickly to the cop.
"Thank you Detective. I'm sorry I couldn't be there to help you but I had to arrange for the appropriate facilities for Mr. Reese." And with a calm he is far from feeling, he hurries to catch the elevator door before it closes.
He's very aware that there are big advantages to being rich, but it's not ever anything he's really analyzed before.
The company he and Nathan built is widely successful, primarily because of his ability to create technologies that are valued and sought after by others. But the money was never the driving force; it has always been curiosity, the challenge, a desire for more explanations that drove him.
If the result of all that made him a very rich man…well, he supposes that is icing on the cake.
But now, for the second time in his existence he fully appreciates the ability to command the best of everything mankind has to offer. And interestingly, it's under almost exactly the same circumstance: John Reese is injured.
When his employee was seriously wounded the first time, he had scrambled to assemble the expertise that would give the ex-op the very best chance at recovery. He should have just written a procedural manual for the event, since it seems likely now this will not be the last time he has to pull together these teams! But whatever the future, he has the process in hand, running smoothly.
Finch insists on being in the clean room while surgeons evaluate the wound and block the copious bleeders, but the medical staff stands firm: they will not risk the well being of their patient simply because a person close to having an anxiety attack wants reassurance. And thus a rather large nurse gently but firmly keeps him out of the way in the exclusive, well appointed waiting room, never leaving him alone other than to bring him terrible tasting tea and vending machine calories.
Brunhilda, he calls her in his mind.
Once Reese is back in a private room, the geek spends long hours simply sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to the hospital bed, glancing anxiously at the still form of his employee with every change in measured breathing. He hovers around the various nurses and doctors as they check vitals, poke, and prod while making copious notes on their clip board forms.
Which he scrutinizes the second they exit the room.
He even brings Bear into the room, with some vague thought that the presence of the dog will help accelerate his employees healing process. John is unresponsive for the first several days, and then even when finally conscious, meekly allows any and all personal to position, feed, and medicate him.
That is, until the pain meds are reduced. As the ex-op truly awakes and becomes more aware their surroundings, his employee also becomes more intractable.
"You didn't eat much of that lunch…" Finch says one particularly trying afternoon.
"Why…do you want it? I'll warn you though: the chicken tastes like shoe leather and the mashed potatoes like paste!"
"Oh, so you've now become a culinary expert on hospital food?" Finch responds, removing the tray before it can be shoved aside, with the distinct possibility of ending up on the floor.
"I've had better tasting K-rations…and that's saying something!"
Finch gives the ex-op an exasperated look. It's going to be a long day...