Person of Interest Fic: Sweet Tweets
Title: Sweet Tweets
Author: radioshack84
Characters: Reese, Finch
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Not my usual brand of fanfic?
Word Count: ~3,100
Summary: He'd learned to dance in the CIA--not like this, of course, but it wasn't the first time he'd improvised for the sake of a number. It was definitely the last time he'd let Finch organize a stake-out, though.
A/N: This story is a product of a silly conversation with my sister, who wanted to see the Machine give Reese & Finch the number of one of the Chippendales. My apologies. =)
"Finch, I could use your help backstage," Reese's voice spoke softly through Harold’s earpiece, but he didn't immediately answer. His hands were occupied by a tray of champagne flutes--plastic ones, thankfully, for the weight was taking its toll on him after repeated treks around the room. This tray, at least, was for a specific table and not just whoever happened to be wandering by without a drink in their hand, which meant he could get rid of it much more quickly.
He approached the table in question, and was mostly ignored by the group of young ladies around it. They were busy chattering away about the impending nuptials of their friend, who was wearing a sparkly tiara and 'Bachelorette' sash and, frankly, seemed quite embarrassed to be there. Finch couldn't say that he blamed her, and when he reached her position at the table he set down a champagne flute as well as a double shot glass. She glanced up at him questioningly, but before she could voice any inquiry her friends burst into laughter over the very suggestive joke that had just been told. The bride-to-be blushed furiously, but Finch caught her eye and smiled kindly as he gestured to the extra drink. "On the house, my dear. Congratulations." The girl gave him a grateful look in return and quickly downed the shot as he finished passing out drinks to the others.
"Finch, do you copy?"
Lowering the now-empty tray to his side, Finch took a couple steps away from the table before tapping his earpiece. "I'll be with you momentarily, Mr. Reese."
"Hurry. If something's going to happen, it's going to be before the final round is over. I need an extra set of eyes on the competitors if I'm going to have any chance of stopping this in time."
From Reese’s tone, Finch could tell that John was just as uncomfortable being here as he was, and likely more so. If they didn't figure out who was after their newest number, and soon, Reese literally had a lot to lose. Harold set his serving tray on one of the side tables and hurried toward the bar. He requested two special imported beers from the bartender, grabbed a smaller serving tray, and headed for the stage entrance. Security let him pass without question. As soon as he was backstage, Harold disposed of the second tray, as well as his waiter's apron and nametag, and took a brief moment to straighten his tuxedo jacket. There were people everywhere, running back and forth, carrying costumes--if they could be referred to as such--and doing make-up on the fly. Someone shouted, "Three minutes!" at the top of their lungs, and the ruckus increased, leaving Finch to move about freely without being questioned. The real challenge was to avoid being trampled.
"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" he asked, straining to see through the throng of rushing people.
"Lining up." The words were said as though through clenched teeth, and Finch picked up his pace as best he could until he spotted the line in question. Reese was at the back, and doing everything in his power to stay there, but was quickly losing ground as the other contestants hurriedly took their places behind him. "We're out of time, Harold."
"Ladies, may I have your attention, please. Thank you all for attending this year's Sweet Tweets Valentine's Dance-off. It's been a lovely evening so far, and it's not over yet!"
Finch recognized the announcer's voice over the sound system, and looked around desperately for anything out of place, any hint to alert him to the identity of the person who had stabbed a man to death here a week ago, and was likely to try to do the same to their number, Mr. Phelps, before the night was over. He sidled as close to the line as he dared, but stayed just apart from the contestants.
"Before we get to our final round of the evening and introduce to you our wildcard contestants, please join me in a round of applause for the sponsors of tonight's event: The NYC Premium Mature Entertainment Guild, Hershey's for providing all the free kisses and Reese's peanut butter hearts you can handle, and of course Twitter, for making Sweet Tweets possible by hosting the voting process." The announcer paused while the audience clapped. "And now, without further delay, the final round. Nothing is certain yet, ladies. Don't stop voting for your favorites, or just maybe you'll find a new favorite among our wildcards. Here we go..."
The music started, the curtain retracted, and the first wave of dancers took the stage. Finch locked eyes with Reese for just a moment through the crowd, trying to convey his deepest apologies to his mortified friend. Reese just glared daggers at him as his group received the go-ahead and joined those already on-stage, to a round of whoops and cheers from the audience.
With just one more group of dancers left to go, the crowd had thinned considerably, and Finch edged closer in order to get a decent view of the stage, but it was difficult to gauge who was plotting murder with the dance routine that was being performed. The men were all over the stage, and the articles of clothing were already flying, making it even harder to see. He needed to--
"Hey, hey, what are you doing there? Places, my friend! Twenty seconds until competition commences!"
Finch turned warily and saw a man in a garish fuchsia tuxedo, arms held straight out, making shooing motions at him with his hands. Glancing back to the line, then back to the man he recognized from case photographs, Finch's eyes widened as it clicked what the other was suggesting. "Oh, no, Mr. Ganasi. I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm not--"
"Experienced? Pshaw." Ganasi made a dismissive gesture. "It does not matter. You cannot be worse than Mr. Tollin. I'm just thrilled that they were able to send an alternate on such short notice. When he disappeared ten minutes ago, I thought all was lost."
"But, I'm not..."
"Prepared? Of course you are. Step up here," Ganasi took Finch by the shoulders firmly and steered him into place at the back of the line, "and just follow their lead." Then he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "A man looking as handsome as you in a tux can only look better out of it, yes?"
Harold nearly had a conniption when Ganasi winked at him and swatted him on the behind, but he had no opportunity to protest the impropriety--and wasn't sure what good it would've done anyway--before he was being pulled out onto the stage by the dancer ahead of him. Somehow, despite the distraction of tuxedo jackets and tear-away dress shirts sailing through the air, Finch's mind was still firmly focused on finding the perpetrator. He tapped his earpiece. "Mr. Reese, I think it's Tollin. Ganasi said he dropped out of sight a few minutes ago." He glanced frantically around the stage, trying to get eyes on any of Tollin, Reese, or Phelps, all the while ignoring the annoyed and confused looks he was getting for his lack of participation in the routine. Harold had just barely caught a glimpse of Reese when he heard the scream.
-----
Reese couldn't for the life of him figure out how he'd wound up in this predicament. Following an exotic dancer around a club was a far cry from ending up on stage with him. But, if his training had taught him anything it was how to adapt, and so adapt he did.
He'd learned to dance in the CIA--not like this, of course. Ballroom-style--for the purpose of blending in at those fancy diplomatic galas that the least-diplomatic of nations were so fond of throwing. The basic concept was the same, though, and whatever parts of the routine he couldn’t follow he improvised, but it was getting down to the wire now and he still hadn't spotted anyone wielding a knife. He needed to find the culprit, fast. He'd already shed his jacket thirty seconds ago, and in three, two, one step to the left, and a spin...he gave a sharp tug and tossed his dress shirt into the front row of the audience. The sixty-something woman who caught it swooned, and Reese rolled his eyes as he spun back. He and Harold were going to be having words later.
"Mr. Reese, I think it's Tollin. Ganasi said he dropped out of sight a few minutes ago."
Speak of the devil. Reese touched his earpiece and murmured, "Copy that, Finch," but a piercing scream from the sixty-something in the front row drowned out his comment. He immediately stopped and looked to where her trembling hand pointed, and saw Phelps lying on the stage, eyes closed. Tollin was on top of him, holding a knife to his throat.
In less than three seconds, Reese was there, shoving Tollin away from Phelps, who wasn't moving but wasn't bloody either. In fact, Phelps groaned and reached to rub his head, apparently just dazed.
That momentary distraction allowed Tollin to switch targets, and he crooked an elbow around Reese’s throat, dragging him off-balance. Momentum carried them both to the floor before the sweet-smelling oil Tollin’s skin was coated in caused the dancer to lose his grip, both to Reese’s advantage and detriment. No longer being choked, Reese rolled away and to his knees, expecting to find Tollin doing the same. Unfortunately, Tollin had opted to close the distance between them instead of widen it, and was sweeping his blade down toward Reese’s neck. John deflected with his left arm and swung with his right, fist connecting with Tollin’s cheek instead of his jaw due to the awkward angle he’d been forced to employ.
Tollin, unfazed, returned the swing. Along with behaving unpredictably, he was also damn fast and managed to catch Reese partially in the eye with his knuckles. It wasn’t a solid blow, or even particularly painful, but the term ‘seeing stars’ still applied, and Reese was blinded long enough for the other man to shove him back to the floor and straddle him. He felt his skull connect with the poly-tiled plywood and throbbing momentarily overtook the sparks behind his eyes, but he got them open in time to see Tollin’s knife again sailing toward his carotid.
John raised his arm to deflect once again, but knew he wasn’t going to be successful the instant he made contact. Forearm slipped against oiled forearm, and Reese growled as the blade sank into his chest. He lashed out with his other arm, but instead of Tollin's throat he met only air. There was a yelp and a frustrated howl as someone--or more likely, a group of someones--hauled Tollin off of him. The knife slipped out of his flesh and fell away to the floor, and blood trailed after it, but Reese stayed down. The ceiling was spinning gently, and he was content to let it for just a moment while he caught his breath.
It seemed that the skinny, shirtless man who appeared above him was not nearly as calm, however. “Oh, man. Hey, are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up? Oh, man, you’re bleeding...hang on. Billy! Hey, Billy!”
Reese winced at the volume, and moments later another man appeared in his line of sight, this one clad in a white terrycloth bathrobe and shorts. “Oh, dear,” he said, stooping down to feel Reese’s pulse and then looking at his watch as if to time it. Reese made a face and grabbed Bathrobe’s wrist. Pulling it away from his neck, he sat up and glared at the newcomer.
The man sat back, startled, but not put off. “You shouldn’t get up, you could be in shock.”
“And you shouldn’t practice medicine without a license,” John answered, glancing down at his chest to survey the damage, then back to Billy, who had been in the competition earlier dressed as a doctor. “Even a fake one. Give me your robe and go find my friend.”
-----
Finch was bewildered. Somehow, the night had devolved from a discreet stake-out to...this. The audience was in chaos, half of them running for the exits while the other half strained to see what was going on. The dancers did a great job of blocking their view, and stood in a tight formation around the fray, in various states of undress, essentially wringing their hands. Phelps had managed to extract himself from the melee shortly after Reese had come to his aid, but was obviously not entirely unscathed, as he staggered drunkenly away from the crowd and would've fallen off the edge of the stage if Finch hadn't noticed and steered him in the opposite direction.
Backstage, they were met by Ganasi, who was apparently more concerned with Finch's horrible dance performance, or lack thereof, than with the man actually under his employment. Finch ignored his griping, giving up on pretenses now that Phelps was out of immediate danger, and made sure the dazed man found a chair. Then he called Fusco and Carter.
He'd no sooner hung up than five more of the contestants exited the stage, dragging a combative Tollin between them. Finch was about to ask Phelps, who seemed a bit more lucid, if there was any duct tape they could use to bind Tollin until the police arrived, but it seemed the other contestants had that under control. One of them broke off from the group and returned a minute later with two sets of handcuffs and a gag, which were expertly applied to Tollin within seconds. The group then picked him up and locked him in a tiny closet that Finch hadn't noticed before. Shrugging to himself, he turned to see another of the contestants hurrying toward him.
"You're John's friend, right? Harry?"
"Harold," Finch corrected. "And you are?"
"Billy," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I, uh...John, well, he’s..."
The stammering and the expression on the man’s face sent a feeling of dread racing through Finch. He hadn’t heard from Reese since shortly after the start of the round, and it appeared that the contestants had subdued Tollin, which begged the question, “Where’s John?” Harold headed for the stage without waiting for an answer, noting absently along the way that someone had had the good sense to close the curtains.
"Tollin got him good,” Billy replied, hurrying after Finch. “I told him not to get up and then he made me come find you."
That eased Finch's panic slightly as he made his way across the stage, at least until he saw the blood. Several large drops decorated the cheap tile and streaked Reese's skin and hands, but John was conscious and sitting up. He had a folded bathrobe pressed to his chest--presumably covering the source of the bleeding--and aside from a minor black eye didn’t look nearly as bad as Harold had expected from Billy’s report.
The dancer actually closed the remaining distance before Finch, and stooped down next to John. "I found your friend, but I still think you should go see a doctor about that," he said. "Are you sure you don't need anything else? I could call you a cab or something."
Harold observed the overly-solicitous comments, the annoyed expression on John's face, and the open concern and...something else...on Billy's, and decided he’d better intervene before the conversation took a turn for the worse for the young dancer. "A cab won’t be necessary. My car is just outside,” Finch said.
Billy acknowledged Harold’s warning look with a disappointed nod, and stood up. He and his friend Alex--the one who’d originally alerted him to John’s plight--helped Reese up and watched as he and Finch walked away.
"Bro, you do know that guy's not your type, right?" Alex said, throwing an arm across Billy’s shoulders.
"And he's that guy's type?" Billy said incredulously, gesturing at Finch’s retreating back.
"Didn't say that either, but I know one thing for sure. Those two aren't really in the biz."
"Why do you say that?"
Alex snorted. "The one in the glasses moves like he's about ninety, bro. No way he can dance, and his friend was out of step the whole time, even though he was good at covering."
Before Billy could answer, his phone pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the display, and sighed. "Figures."
"What's wrong now?"
"See for yourself." Billy handed over the phone and walked away shaking his head.
-----
"I don't know how many apologies you expect me to give you, Mr. Reese. I honestly did not plan for any of this to happen."
"That's the trouble of beginning an operation without a plan, Finch."
"It was the best I could do on short notice. I didn't have the time to put you in the system as a waiter, and with your training, I was sure you could pull it off...no pun intended."
"Harold..." Reese growled warningly.
In the driver's seat of the Lincoln, Finch smirked slightly, but a sidelong glance at Reese's scowl caused him to relent. "All right, fine. For the seventh and final time, John, I’m sorry. Now, can we please go and see to your injury before you get blood all over the upholstery? I’ll even give you a choice: hospital or Dr. Tillman.”
“Not much of a choice since she’s working the night shift,” John observed. He wondered how pissed she’d be to see them after last time, but at least tonight there were no pigeons or vodka involved. A beep from his pocket interrupted his musing and he reached to dig out his phone, then proceeded to stare at it for a long time. “Finch?”
“Yes, Mr. Reese?”
“Why am I listed on Twitter as the winner of the Sweet Tweets Dance-off?”
Reese’s voice had taken on that low, satiny-soft, murderous tone that always made Finch nervous when he heard it over his earpiece from miles away. Hearing it in person was downright disturbing. Harold cleared his throat as he processed the news. “I assure you, Mr. Reese, all traces of those results will be gone by morning.”
“And the audience’s photos?”
“A bit trickier, but I can set up an algorithm, backtrace the IP addresses on their phones...a day, two at the most.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Pardon?”
“You won second place.”
Harold’s mouth went dry. “You’re kidding.”
“Yes, I am.”
Now it was Finch’s turn to scowl. “Shall I tell Dr. Tillman exactly how you came to need patching up this evening, Mr. Reese?”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t if I were you, Harold.” The tone was back.
Finch swallowed. “As you wish.”
The remainder of the trip passed in silence, save for a few uncomfortable glances. It went without saying that they would never speak of this night again. Ever.
Author: radioshack84
Characters: Reese, Finch
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Not my usual brand of fanfic?
Word Count: ~3,100
Summary: He'd learned to dance in the CIA--not like this, of course, but it wasn't the first time he'd improvised for the sake of a number. It was definitely the last time he'd let Finch organize a stake-out, though.
A/N: This story is a product of a silly conversation with my sister, who wanted to see the Machine give Reese & Finch the number of one of the Chippendales. My apologies. =)
"Finch, I could use your help backstage," Reese's voice spoke softly through Harold’s earpiece, but he didn't immediately answer. His hands were occupied by a tray of champagne flutes--plastic ones, thankfully, for the weight was taking its toll on him after repeated treks around the room. This tray, at least, was for a specific table and not just whoever happened to be wandering by without a drink in their hand, which meant he could get rid of it much more quickly.
He approached the table in question, and was mostly ignored by the group of young ladies around it. They were busy chattering away about the impending nuptials of their friend, who was wearing a sparkly tiara and 'Bachelorette' sash and, frankly, seemed quite embarrassed to be there. Finch couldn't say that he blamed her, and when he reached her position at the table he set down a champagne flute as well as a double shot glass. She glanced up at him questioningly, but before she could voice any inquiry her friends burst into laughter over the very suggestive joke that had just been told. The bride-to-be blushed furiously, but Finch caught her eye and smiled kindly as he gestured to the extra drink. "On the house, my dear. Congratulations." The girl gave him a grateful look in return and quickly downed the shot as he finished passing out drinks to the others.
"Finch, do you copy?"
Lowering the now-empty tray to his side, Finch took a couple steps away from the table before tapping his earpiece. "I'll be with you momentarily, Mr. Reese."
"Hurry. If something's going to happen, it's going to be before the final round is over. I need an extra set of eyes on the competitors if I'm going to have any chance of stopping this in time."
From Reese’s tone, Finch could tell that John was just as uncomfortable being here as he was, and likely more so. If they didn't figure out who was after their newest number, and soon, Reese literally had a lot to lose. Harold set his serving tray on one of the side tables and hurried toward the bar. He requested two special imported beers from the bartender, grabbed a smaller serving tray, and headed for the stage entrance. Security let him pass without question. As soon as he was backstage, Harold disposed of the second tray, as well as his waiter's apron and nametag, and took a brief moment to straighten his tuxedo jacket. There were people everywhere, running back and forth, carrying costumes--if they could be referred to as such--and doing make-up on the fly. Someone shouted, "Three minutes!" at the top of their lungs, and the ruckus increased, leaving Finch to move about freely without being questioned. The real challenge was to avoid being trampled.
"Where are you, Mr. Reese?" he asked, straining to see through the throng of rushing people.
"Lining up." The words were said as though through clenched teeth, and Finch picked up his pace as best he could until he spotted the line in question. Reese was at the back, and doing everything in his power to stay there, but was quickly losing ground as the other contestants hurriedly took their places behind him. "We're out of time, Harold."
"Ladies, may I have your attention, please. Thank you all for attending this year's Sweet Tweets Valentine's Dance-off. It's been a lovely evening so far, and it's not over yet!"
Finch recognized the announcer's voice over the sound system, and looked around desperately for anything out of place, any hint to alert him to the identity of the person who had stabbed a man to death here a week ago, and was likely to try to do the same to their number, Mr. Phelps, before the night was over. He sidled as close to the line as he dared, but stayed just apart from the contestants.
"Before we get to our final round of the evening and introduce to you our wildcard contestants, please join me in a round of applause for the sponsors of tonight's event: The NYC Premium Mature Entertainment Guild, Hershey's for providing all the free kisses and Reese's peanut butter hearts you can handle, and of course Twitter, for making Sweet Tweets possible by hosting the voting process." The announcer paused while the audience clapped. "And now, without further delay, the final round. Nothing is certain yet, ladies. Don't stop voting for your favorites, or just maybe you'll find a new favorite among our wildcards. Here we go..."
The music started, the curtain retracted, and the first wave of dancers took the stage. Finch locked eyes with Reese for just a moment through the crowd, trying to convey his deepest apologies to his mortified friend. Reese just glared daggers at him as his group received the go-ahead and joined those already on-stage, to a round of whoops and cheers from the audience.
With just one more group of dancers left to go, the crowd had thinned considerably, and Finch edged closer in order to get a decent view of the stage, but it was difficult to gauge who was plotting murder with the dance routine that was being performed. The men were all over the stage, and the articles of clothing were already flying, making it even harder to see. He needed to--
"Hey, hey, what are you doing there? Places, my friend! Twenty seconds until competition commences!"
Finch turned warily and saw a man in a garish fuchsia tuxedo, arms held straight out, making shooing motions at him with his hands. Glancing back to the line, then back to the man he recognized from case photographs, Finch's eyes widened as it clicked what the other was suggesting. "Oh, no, Mr. Ganasi. I'm afraid you're mistaken. I'm not--"
"Experienced? Pshaw." Ganasi made a dismissive gesture. "It does not matter. You cannot be worse than Mr. Tollin. I'm just thrilled that they were able to send an alternate on such short notice. When he disappeared ten minutes ago, I thought all was lost."
"But, I'm not..."
"Prepared? Of course you are. Step up here," Ganasi took Finch by the shoulders firmly and steered him into place at the back of the line, "and just follow their lead." Then he leaned in conspiratorially and whispered, "A man looking as handsome as you in a tux can only look better out of it, yes?"
Harold nearly had a conniption when Ganasi winked at him and swatted him on the behind, but he had no opportunity to protest the impropriety--and wasn't sure what good it would've done anyway--before he was being pulled out onto the stage by the dancer ahead of him. Somehow, despite the distraction of tuxedo jackets and tear-away dress shirts sailing through the air, Finch's mind was still firmly focused on finding the perpetrator. He tapped his earpiece. "Mr. Reese, I think it's Tollin. Ganasi said he dropped out of sight a few minutes ago." He glanced frantically around the stage, trying to get eyes on any of Tollin, Reese, or Phelps, all the while ignoring the annoyed and confused looks he was getting for his lack of participation in the routine. Harold had just barely caught a glimpse of Reese when he heard the scream.
-----
Reese couldn't for the life of him figure out how he'd wound up in this predicament. Following an exotic dancer around a club was a far cry from ending up on stage with him. But, if his training had taught him anything it was how to adapt, and so adapt he did.
He'd learned to dance in the CIA--not like this, of course. Ballroom-style--for the purpose of blending in at those fancy diplomatic galas that the least-diplomatic of nations were so fond of throwing. The basic concept was the same, though, and whatever parts of the routine he couldn’t follow he improvised, but it was getting down to the wire now and he still hadn't spotted anyone wielding a knife. He needed to find the culprit, fast. He'd already shed his jacket thirty seconds ago, and in three, two, one step to the left, and a spin...he gave a sharp tug and tossed his dress shirt into the front row of the audience. The sixty-something woman who caught it swooned, and Reese rolled his eyes as he spun back. He and Harold were going to be having words later.
"Mr. Reese, I think it's Tollin. Ganasi said he dropped out of sight a few minutes ago."
Speak of the devil. Reese touched his earpiece and murmured, "Copy that, Finch," but a piercing scream from the sixty-something in the front row drowned out his comment. He immediately stopped and looked to where her trembling hand pointed, and saw Phelps lying on the stage, eyes closed. Tollin was on top of him, holding a knife to his throat.
In less than three seconds, Reese was there, shoving Tollin away from Phelps, who wasn't moving but wasn't bloody either. In fact, Phelps groaned and reached to rub his head, apparently just dazed.
That momentary distraction allowed Tollin to switch targets, and he crooked an elbow around Reese’s throat, dragging him off-balance. Momentum carried them both to the floor before the sweet-smelling oil Tollin’s skin was coated in caused the dancer to lose his grip, both to Reese’s advantage and detriment. No longer being choked, Reese rolled away and to his knees, expecting to find Tollin doing the same. Unfortunately, Tollin had opted to close the distance between them instead of widen it, and was sweeping his blade down toward Reese’s neck. John deflected with his left arm and swung with his right, fist connecting with Tollin’s cheek instead of his jaw due to the awkward angle he’d been forced to employ.
Tollin, unfazed, returned the swing. Along with behaving unpredictably, he was also damn fast and managed to catch Reese partially in the eye with his knuckles. It wasn’t a solid blow, or even particularly painful, but the term ‘seeing stars’ still applied, and Reese was blinded long enough for the other man to shove him back to the floor and straddle him. He felt his skull connect with the poly-tiled plywood and throbbing momentarily overtook the sparks behind his eyes, but he got them open in time to see Tollin’s knife again sailing toward his carotid.
John raised his arm to deflect once again, but knew he wasn’t going to be successful the instant he made contact. Forearm slipped against oiled forearm, and Reese growled as the blade sank into his chest. He lashed out with his other arm, but instead of Tollin's throat he met only air. There was a yelp and a frustrated howl as someone--or more likely, a group of someones--hauled Tollin off of him. The knife slipped out of his flesh and fell away to the floor, and blood trailed after it, but Reese stayed down. The ceiling was spinning gently, and he was content to let it for just a moment while he caught his breath.
It seemed that the skinny, shirtless man who appeared above him was not nearly as calm, however. “Oh, man. Hey, are you okay? How many fingers am I holding up? Oh, man, you’re bleeding...hang on. Billy! Hey, Billy!”
Reese winced at the volume, and moments later another man appeared in his line of sight, this one clad in a white terrycloth bathrobe and shorts. “Oh, dear,” he said, stooping down to feel Reese’s pulse and then looking at his watch as if to time it. Reese made a face and grabbed Bathrobe’s wrist. Pulling it away from his neck, he sat up and glared at the newcomer.
The man sat back, startled, but not put off. “You shouldn’t get up, you could be in shock.”
“And you shouldn’t practice medicine without a license,” John answered, glancing down at his chest to survey the damage, then back to Billy, who had been in the competition earlier dressed as a doctor. “Even a fake one. Give me your robe and go find my friend.”
-----
Finch was bewildered. Somehow, the night had devolved from a discreet stake-out to...this. The audience was in chaos, half of them running for the exits while the other half strained to see what was going on. The dancers did a great job of blocking their view, and stood in a tight formation around the fray, in various states of undress, essentially wringing their hands. Phelps had managed to extract himself from the melee shortly after Reese had come to his aid, but was obviously not entirely unscathed, as he staggered drunkenly away from the crowd and would've fallen off the edge of the stage if Finch hadn't noticed and steered him in the opposite direction.
Backstage, they were met by Ganasi, who was apparently more concerned with Finch's horrible dance performance, or lack thereof, than with the man actually under his employment. Finch ignored his griping, giving up on pretenses now that Phelps was out of immediate danger, and made sure the dazed man found a chair. Then he called Fusco and Carter.
He'd no sooner hung up than five more of the contestants exited the stage, dragging a combative Tollin between them. Finch was about to ask Phelps, who seemed a bit more lucid, if there was any duct tape they could use to bind Tollin until the police arrived, but it seemed the other contestants had that under control. One of them broke off from the group and returned a minute later with two sets of handcuffs and a gag, which were expertly applied to Tollin within seconds. The group then picked him up and locked him in a tiny closet that Finch hadn't noticed before. Shrugging to himself, he turned to see another of the contestants hurrying toward him.
"You're John's friend, right? Harry?"
"Harold," Finch corrected. "And you are?"
"Billy," he said, looking uncomfortable. "I, uh...John, well, he’s..."
The stammering and the expression on the man’s face sent a feeling of dread racing through Finch. He hadn’t heard from Reese since shortly after the start of the round, and it appeared that the contestants had subdued Tollin, which begged the question, “Where’s John?” Harold headed for the stage without waiting for an answer, noting absently along the way that someone had had the good sense to close the curtains.
"Tollin got him good,” Billy replied, hurrying after Finch. “I told him not to get up and then he made me come find you."
That eased Finch's panic slightly as he made his way across the stage, at least until he saw the blood. Several large drops decorated the cheap tile and streaked Reese's skin and hands, but John was conscious and sitting up. He had a folded bathrobe pressed to his chest--presumably covering the source of the bleeding--and aside from a minor black eye didn’t look nearly as bad as Harold had expected from Billy’s report.
The dancer actually closed the remaining distance before Finch, and stooped down next to John. "I found your friend, but I still think you should go see a doctor about that," he said. "Are you sure you don't need anything else? I could call you a cab or something."
Harold observed the overly-solicitous comments, the annoyed expression on John's face, and the open concern and...something else...on Billy's, and decided he’d better intervene before the conversation took a turn for the worse for the young dancer. "A cab won’t be necessary. My car is just outside,” Finch said.
Billy acknowledged Harold’s warning look with a disappointed nod, and stood up. He and his friend Alex--the one who’d originally alerted him to John’s plight--helped Reese up and watched as he and Finch walked away.
"Bro, you do know that guy's not your type, right?" Alex said, throwing an arm across Billy’s shoulders.
"And he's that guy's type?" Billy said incredulously, gesturing at Finch’s retreating back.
"Didn't say that either, but I know one thing for sure. Those two aren't really in the biz."
"Why do you say that?"
Alex snorted. "The one in the glasses moves like he's about ninety, bro. No way he can dance, and his friend was out of step the whole time, even though he was good at covering."
Before Billy could answer, his phone pinged. He pulled it out of his pocket, looked at the display, and sighed. "Figures."
"What's wrong now?"
"See for yourself." Billy handed over the phone and walked away shaking his head.
-----
"I don't know how many apologies you expect me to give you, Mr. Reese. I honestly did not plan for any of this to happen."
"That's the trouble of beginning an operation without a plan, Finch."
"It was the best I could do on short notice. I didn't have the time to put you in the system as a waiter, and with your training, I was sure you could pull it off...no pun intended."
"Harold..." Reese growled warningly.
In the driver's seat of the Lincoln, Finch smirked slightly, but a sidelong glance at Reese's scowl caused him to relent. "All right, fine. For the seventh and final time, John, I’m sorry. Now, can we please go and see to your injury before you get blood all over the upholstery? I’ll even give you a choice: hospital or Dr. Tillman.”
“Not much of a choice since she’s working the night shift,” John observed. He wondered how pissed she’d be to see them after last time, but at least tonight there were no pigeons or vodka involved. A beep from his pocket interrupted his musing and he reached to dig out his phone, then proceeded to stare at it for a long time. “Finch?”
“Yes, Mr. Reese?”
“Why am I listed on Twitter as the winner of the Sweet Tweets Dance-off?”
Reese’s voice had taken on that low, satiny-soft, murderous tone that always made Finch nervous when he heard it over his earpiece from miles away. Hearing it in person was downright disturbing. Harold cleared his throat as he processed the news. “I assure you, Mr. Reese, all traces of those results will be gone by morning.”
“And the audience’s photos?”
“A bit trickier, but I can set up an algorithm, backtrace the IP addresses on their phones...a day, two at the most.”
“Lucky for you.”
“Pardon?”
“You won second place.”
Harold’s mouth went dry. “You’re kidding.”
“Yes, I am.”
Now it was Finch’s turn to scowl. “Shall I tell Dr. Tillman exactly how you came to need patching up this evening, Mr. Reese?”
“Oh, I really wouldn’t if I were you, Harold.” The tone was back.
Finch swallowed. “As you wish.”
The remainder of the trip passed in silence, save for a few uncomfortable glances. It went without saying that they would never speak of this night again. Ever.