POI FanFic: "The Care and Maintenance of a Valued Asset”
Author: Chimera_12
Character: Harold Finch, John Reese, Bear, Fusco
Rating: PG 1
Word Count: 1824
Disclaimer: I don’t own any of these characters. Such a pity.
Summary: A Library Vignette…in which Finch observes, Reese evades, and Bear has Chinese take-out. Oh, yes…and Fusco is given an order. (POV Finch)
NOTE: Many POI fanfic stories involve Reese getting nurtured back to health…likely because in the series he does seem to get wounded rather frequently. This is my version of such a scenario…
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Dinner’s served, Finch!”
The aromas escaping the carryout bag precede Reese’s announcement as he strides into the library chamber, Bear close at his heels. Finch fixes his attention on his employee as Reese balances plastic cups in one hand while cradling a large paper bag in the other. But Bear, dancing at his Alpha’s side, has his interest fixed firmly on the bag with the dragon logo.
The dog’s entire demeanor telegraphs his faith that somehow, against all odds, this particular bag will slip from the human’s hands and manna will fall from heaven. Or in this case, Chinese food from the takeout restaurant…
“Did you get the Kung Pao?”
“Yes… “
“Chicken, not shrimp?”
“Yes…”
“Won Ton soup?”
“Yes…”
“Extra wontons?”
“Yes…”
"Egg rolls, veggie only?”
“Yes…”
“Well…good.” Finch replies, pushing back from the computer station as Reese places the items on the auxiliary table. Opening the bag immediately releases a plethora of aromas of the various dishes packaged therein, Asian flavors quickly dominating the chamber’s atmosphere.
“Bear, Foei…!” Reese scolds, as the dog slides his nose over the edge of the table. Then turning to his boss, “So aren’t you going to ask what I got for myself?
Finch is busily unpacking the bag. “Don’t have to. Your choice is very predictable, Mr. Reese. It’s always Lo Mein Chicken.”
“I like Lo Mein. And Bear…don’t do that again!” The last is sharply spoken…which causes the dog to install his most put-upon expression as he removes his nose from the table and takes up sentry duty directly behind his Alpha.
“You know that’s your fault, Mr. Reese. If you wouldn’t feed him from the table…”
“He’s family, Finch”
“He’s a dog, Mr. Reese”
Reese shrugs and Finch sees the wince in the periphery of his vision. It is all but indiscernible, and Finch doesn’t know if he catches this imperceptible movement because of his familiarity with the ex-agents mannerisms… or because fear for his employee’s safety is always lurking just below the surface of his conscious, primed to leap to the fore.
In any case, he watches more closely now as the ex-op re-arranges the food containers on the table using the right hand for every movement. It’s a billboard sized announcement of impairment as Finch is aware that while Reese may be ambidextrous in the use of firearms, the ex-op is left hand dominant in almost all other tasks. He frowns briefly. This certainly requires more investigation.
He waits until Reese pulls up the extra chair and the two attack the various containers, Finch unwrapping the chopsticks before placing a set in front of his employee. He knows from his extensive research on the ex-CIA agent that Reese is proficient using these eating utensils from extensive time the ex-op spent in the Asian territories during his previous employment.
And he notes with interest that Reese reaches for the sticks with his right hand, not his dominant left…
“How did it go with Mr. Morrison this afternoon?” Finch asks mildly, pulling the top off a small Styrofoam bowl.
Reese glances up. Seeing Finch absorbed in counting the wontons in his soup, he snags a piece of chicken out of his own container, tossing it with a deft motion to the dog behind him. With all the skill of a professional juggler, Bear shifts his weight, lengthens his neck and snags the morsel out of the air in mid-flight. Reese hastens to answer before the slight movements register with his boss.
“Fine. Nothing out of the ordinary. He just needed a little persuasion to give up the documents. I delivered them to his mother.”
“So…is it a knife wound this time, or gunshot?” Finch asks nonchalantly, spearing a wonton and letting it drip broth prior to popping it into his mouth.
The ex-op stills, staring at him and Finch fights not to grin. He has evidently taken his employee by surprise…but really! Did Reese think he could get away with this? To his credit, the ex-agent doesn’t try to dissemble.
“Knife. But in my defense, I was trying not to hurt him. He’s only seventeen. Young, hormonally overloaded, and phenomenally stupid…”
“Not stupid enough. I gather he managed to cut you. On your left shoulder I suspect.” Finch pins him with his serious-business glare, made all the more piercing through the thick lens. And before Reese can protest, he continues. “Take off the jacket.”
“It’s nothing, Finch. Just a shallow cut. I had Fusco take care of it.”
“Fusco!” Finch drops the wonton back into the bowl, heedless of the broth splashing onto the table. “Since when has your pet detective become your first-aid provider?”
“Since I couldn’t reach it myself and all that blood was ruining my favorite shirt.”
“You can’t have a favorite…they’re all white. And beside the point. Take off the jacket!”
With that final command, Finch stands and lurches to the back of the chamber to retrieve the first aid kit, obviously intent on making his own evaluation of the ‘nothing’ cut.
“Can’t this wait until after we eat?” Reese raises his voice and directs his question to Finch’s retreating back.
“No.” comes the muffled reply.
Reese groans. Then slowly eases out of his jacket. He has been careful not to turn his back on his boss and though Fusco had been helpful in applying duct tape to the inside of the jacket, pulling the cut edges together so as to make the damage less visible, it will take a small miracle to repair properly. The flesh wound itself really isn’t anything to worry about, but the dried blood sticking the shirt to the wound makes him hyper-sensitive to every shoulder movement.
By the time his benefactor is back, Reese has managed to discard the jacket and is in the process of unbuttoning the now not-so-white shirt. Rusty streaks across the shoulder and down the left sleeve confirm the “nothing” cut bled like a stuck pig. Finch swallows. He knows he’s never going to get used to dealing with bloody flesh, but he resolutely pulls his chair around next to the ex-agent.
“Sit sideways on the chair”, he commands. “I’ll need your back unobstructed.”
Reese silently does as ordered, allowing Finch free access to his left shoulder as the reclusive geek positions the first aid kit among the Chinese take-out containers. Pulling gently, Finch lifts the collar and now crusty fabric away from the injury and pushes the shirt down the ex-op’s torso…to reveal a blood soaked surgical pad tapped, albeit somewhat haphazardly, over a shoulder wound.
Bear is confused by the progression of events and the smell of blood. He sidles closer to his Alpha. It was dinner time, and now suddenly it’s fix-up time. He was anticipating his Alpha tossing him some more tasties… and what is to become of all the delicious food in those small containers? He glances at a little white box now pushed perilously close to the edge of the table by the arrival of the first aid kit.
“Fusco did this?”
“Yes”
“Ummm…”
As Finch starts to remove the tapes, he is aware of the ex-op flinching, however miniscule the involuntary movement. He grits his teeth against any comment, knowing it won’t be appreciated. It’s always problematic trying to apply first aid to his employee, as John spent so many years taking care of these issues alone, the ex-op finds it difficult to allow someone else to take control
Finally loosening the pad, he carefully removes it, wincing himself every time the gauze sticks to the wound and needs to be pulled loose. He lets out a relieved sigh. It’s not a bad cut; long but very shallow…and Fusco evidently had access to some decent medical supplies as there are several butterfly strips holding the edges together. He thinks about suggesting stitches but in the end decides the argument is probably not worth it. A shallow cut as this is will heal nicely with just the butterfly strips, though it will most likely leave it’s mark.
Finch gently wet-wipes the area around the cut, removing the dried blood and trying hard not to focus on the scars that already landscape his employee’s back. Not that he’s unfamiliar with them. The dossier he built on John gave him a full account of the where and circumstance of every injury, every mark, imprinted on the ex-op’s body.
Of course there are a few more now, accumulated in his, Finch’s, service. These can be labeled with the Numbers they’d worked in the past: a cut hand for Theresa Whitaker, a shoulder wound for the Judges son; scarred wrists for Baby Leila. The more serious injuries, leg and torso…compliments of the CIA. The numerous bruises sustained during fights and shots to the protective vest didn’t leave any permanent scars, but there had been plenty of those too, fading through a rainbow of colors on the way to healthy skin.
“Did Fusco put antiseptic on this?”
“Don’t know. He was grousing the whole time while working back there. I can only hope he knew what he was doing…” Reese replied.
“It doesn’t matter, I suppose. Even if he did, it wouldn’t hurt to add some more. This may sting…” And he proceeds to spray the area liberally, before tapping a clean gauze in place. He pantomimes for Reese to remove the desecrated shirt completely and tosses it negligently unto the file cabinet behind him. The shirt will join the trash tomorrow, along with the suit jacket.
Returning the spray to the kit with one hand, he hands Reese a freshly laundered shirt with the other.
“Here. I brought you a clean one from the back. It’s bad manners to come to the dining table without one.”
Reese grins. With all that they went through, all they did, his boss is still worried about good manners? He dutifully dons the shirt and re-positions himself at the table as Finch clears away the first aid kit.
“Finch? Where is the Lo Mein?”
Finch doesn’t answer but suddenly, in unison, both men turn around. And there, lying on his bed, the take-out container securely held between his paws, Bear is licking the last of the Lo Mein flavor from the box.
“Told you. Don’t feed him from the table...”
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BUZZZZZ.....
“Fusco here…”
“Hello, Detective. I understand you took care of Mr. Reese yesterday.”
“Hey, no problem! It wasn’t that bad…but I gotta say, it’s a bitch getting your boy to sit still for medical treatment.”
“Yes, I can empathize. But Detective, while I do appreciate your help, and certainly don’t want to discourage it in the future, I must make a demand of you.”
“Okaaay…sure…”
“The next time you are aware Mr. Reese has been injured, I want you to call me immediately...even if he doesn’t approve.”
“Not a problem… Worried about Wonder Boy, are you?”
“Simply the care and maintenance of a valued asset, Detective. Thank you…”
CLICK…