[Person of Interest] "Tech Support" (PG)
Author's Note: Written for comment_fic's Person of Interest, Reese/Finch,
Do you know how to give stiches?
I do not...this text concerns me
There were times when Finch wondered if keeping an open line on Reese's earpiece was such a bright idea. It helped him to keep track of his partner, but all too often, he ended up listening to a soundtrack of noises he'd rather not hear: gunshots, yells and gasps (usually belonging to a combatant who'd engaged Reese: Finch had yet to hear a yawp from his partner, no matter how fierce the fight, which somehow made the ex-CIA agent more unsettling to work with), the soft, meaty thud of punches connecting, the harder bangs and bashes of bodies slamming into walls or the floor, the crack and crunch of what might be furniture breaking.
And then it would go deathly quiet, with only the sound of Reese's breathing coming over the transmitter.
One time in particular, Finch noted something especially pained about that breathing.
"Mister Reese, are you all right?"
The pained huffing paused, and Reese's soft baritone replied, an edge to it that Finch did not like the sound of at all. "Finch, I could use you up here."
"I'm not sure I could help you, but that would depend on what you had in mind," Finch said, getting out of the car parked around the corner from Reese's location and making his way to join his partner, one eye on the GPS tracker on his smartphone.
Reese drew in a sharp breath. "Do you know how to give stitches?"
"I don't," Finch admitting, quickening his pace as much as he could between his bad spine and the rough terrain in the crummy apartment building where Reese had gone down. "Your message is giving me cause for concern."
"Can you at least make a tourniquet? I think you can spare your tie..."
Do you know how to give stiches?
I do not...this text concerns me
There were times when Finch wondered if keeping an open line on Reese's earpiece was such a bright idea. It helped him to keep track of his partner, but all too often, he ended up listening to a soundtrack of noises he'd rather not hear: gunshots, yells and gasps (usually belonging to a combatant who'd engaged Reese: Finch had yet to hear a yawp from his partner, no matter how fierce the fight, which somehow made the ex-CIA agent more unsettling to work with), the soft, meaty thud of punches connecting, the harder bangs and bashes of bodies slamming into walls or the floor, the crack and crunch of what might be furniture breaking.
And then it would go deathly quiet, with only the sound of Reese's breathing coming over the transmitter.
One time in particular, Finch noted something especially pained about that breathing.
"Mister Reese, are you all right?"
The pained huffing paused, and Reese's soft baritone replied, an edge to it that Finch did not like the sound of at all. "Finch, I could use you up here."
"I'm not sure I could help you, but that would depend on what you had in mind," Finch said, getting out of the car parked around the corner from Reese's location and making his way to join his partner, one eye on the GPS tracker on his smartphone.
Reese drew in a sharp breath. "Do you know how to give stitches?"
"I don't," Finch admitting, quickening his pace as much as he could between his bad spine and the rough terrain in the crummy apartment building where Reese had gone down. "Your message is giving me cause for concern."
"Can you at least make a tourniquet? I think you can spare your tie..."