Fic: Damaged - Part 29
Title: Damaged - Part 29
Author: Katica Locke
Pairing/Characters: Reese/Finch, the Machine, Mark Snow, Carter, Fusco
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What happens when Reese can't be in two places at once?
Warnings: Slash, possible spoilers for all episodes, WIP
Word Count: 5300 words
Damaged - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18
Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27
Part 28
Author's Note: Don't blame the author; the plot-bunnies made me do it! Lol, apologies in advance for more angst. Oh, and the next chapter switches back to Reese's POV. Enjoy! ^_^
Lunging to his feet, Finch flew into the restroom, drawing up short at the sight of Reese, his head bowed, both hands braced on either side of the sink, the long mirror on the wall shattered, glittery shards of broken glass littering the floor and counter. Finch immediately searched for blood, but didn't see any.
"John?" he said softly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry, Finch," Reese whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't know...I just...I'm sorry..."
"It's okay," Finch said, pieces of mirror underfoot squealing against the floor tile as he stepped farther into the room. "Come on, let's get out of here before you get hurt." He reached out toward Reese, but hesitated to touch him. He waited, allowing Reese to take his hand, a terrible ache filling his chest as he felt the ex-operative trembling, gripping Finch's hand as though for dear life.
The door to the men's room burst open behind him, and for an instant, Finch started to let go and pull out of Reese's grasp, but instead tightened his grip on Reese.
"Oh, my God! Are you all right?" their waitress asked as Finch turned to face her.
A tall man in a grease-spotted apron stood behind her, frowning as he looked down at the shards of broken mirror on the floor. "What happened?" he asked.
"We're fine," Finch said. "I'm terribly sorry for the damage. I'm not sure what happened-"
"I tripped," Reese said, his death-grip on Finch's hand relaxing, but he didn't let go. "It was my fault."
"We're very sorry," Finch said. "Let me leave you my information; I can pay whatever it costs to fix it."
"That's very generous of you, sir," she said, looking relieved. "We're just glad no one was hurt." They filed out of the men's room, the cook heading back into the kitchen. "Are you sure you're okay?" the waitress asked, her gaze dropping to their clasped hands.
Finch felt a bit of heat rise into his face, but he didn't let go. "I'm just relieved he wasn't hurt. It's our anniversary."
"Oh! Congratulations," the waitress said with a smile - a genuine one, not some forced facsimile. "How long have you been together?"
"A year," Finch said, glancing up at Reese, "although it feels like longer, sometimes."
"Sometimes it feels like just days," Reese added, giving Finch a small, strained smile, and Finch was finally able to take a deep breath, the pressure in his chest easing. He reluctantly let go of Reese's hand and reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a business card for Harold Crowe, Private Investigator.
"Here," he said, handing it to the waitress. "It's an old card - I'm no longer in the business - but it has my number, e-mail, and mailing address so the owner can send me a bill for the repairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Crowe," she said, tucking it into her pocket as the cook returned, carrying an Out of Order sign, which he hung on the door of the men's room. "Charlie, could you reheat their meals? I'm sure their dinner has gone cold."
"Sure," Charlie the cook said, but Finch shook his head.
"Thank you, but that's not necessary. We actually have to go fairly soon; we have tickets to a Broadway show-"
"Oh? Which one?"
"It's a surprise," Finch said with a playful smirk. Truth be told, he couldn't think of a single current Broadway play. "So, if you could bring us a couple of boxes for the leftovers, that would be great."
"Right away," she said. She started to leave and they started to return to their table, but after only a few steps, she turned back. "Would you like me to box up the gulab jamun for you?"
"Oh, I almost forgot about dessert," Finch said. "Yes, please."
They sat down and Reese picked up his fork, his gaze fixed on his plate as he speared one of the shrimp and brought it toward his mouth. Finch reached across the table, placing his hand on Reese's arm.
"You don't have to eat it if it's something you don't like. I'm sorry, I should have asked, or let you order for yourself. And you're right, you are so much more than just information in a file, but that's how I'm used to interacting with people. It might take me a while to change."
"It's all right, Finch," Reese said, but he still wouldn't look up, his gaze rising no higher than Finch's shoulder. "You don't need to change. You didn't do anything wrong. I...I don't think I'm...handling what happened very well. I felt safe in the motel room, but outside and in here...I feel like people are watching us, like Mark could be hiding around any corner...I thought I saw him in the mirror and I didn't think, I just hit it. I tried to hide it, I tried to act like everything was normal, but it just kept eating at me and I took it out on you. There's nothing wrong with the food." He took the bite of shrimp off his fork, chewed, and swallowed. "It's very good, actually. Would you like to try some?"
Reese was trying again, trying to act like everything was all right, even though they both knew differently, but Finch supposed that some denial was unavoidable. Finch had had shrimp madrasi before - that was one of the reasons he'd thought Reese would like it - but he smiled and nodded. He picked up his fork, but before he could reach back across the table to Reese's plate, Reese stabbed a shrimp and held it out to him. Finch hesitated, casting a darting, sideways glance out into the restaurant, but the handful of other patrons were across the room, near the windows, and not paying them any attention.
Finch leaned forward and took the shrimp off of Reese's fork, the curry and coconut blending nicely with the flavor of the shrimp. "Very good; thank you," Finch said. "Would you care to try mine?"
"Lamb, wasn't it?" Reese asked, peering at Finch plate. "I haven't had lamb in a while." Finch used his knife to cut one of the tender cubes of meat in half before offering Reese a bite of lamb, bell pepper, and tomato. "Mmmm," Reese said as he chewed. "Excellent."
"I'll pass on your compliments to the chef," their waitress said, smiling as she approached with two Styrofoam containers for the leftovers. She handed them to Reese, then set a folded plastic bag on the table and placed the small box of gulab jamun on top of it. "I just spoke to the owner and he wishes he could come down in person to apologize for the trouble, but he's in Connecticut at the moment visiting family. He also told me to comp your meal, so this one's on the house."
"That's really not necessary," Finch said, but she shook her head.
"No, that's what the boss said, so if I let you pay, he's going to fire me," she said with a laugh. "Is there anything else I can get you?"
"No, we're good, thanks," Reese said, reaching across the table and stealing another bite of Finch's lamb and peppers.
The waitress smiled. "All right. You two have a happy anniversary."
"Thank you," Finch said. As she walked away, he said to Reese, loud enough for her to hear, "What a sweet girl. I'm still leaving her a tip." They fell silent as they worked on transferring their uneaten meals into the containers. When Finch was finished, he closed the box and looked across the table at Reese. "When we get back to the motel, I want to talk," he said, watching the muscles in Reese's jaw tense. "We don't have to talk about...certain things, but you need to talk. Please."
After a moment, Reese returned to scraping his plate. "All right. And then we need to think about moving to a new location. Fusco knows where we are, and while I'd like to trust him, I don't, and I'll feel better if we're someplace more secure."
"Another hotel, or do you think it'd be safe to go to one of the safe houses?"
"Maybe one not registered to any of your known aliases. We can't be sure how much M- the CIA knows about you."
"Right," Finch said, noting the way Reese faltered over Agent Snow's name. "I have a couple of places that I've been saving, but-" He made a face. "They make our current lodgings look like the Ritz."
Reese chuckled, but it sounded forced. "I'm sure it won't be for long. Just until we're certain no one is after us. Just because Keane said I had been declared dead again, doesn't mean that it's true."
"Once I can get back into the Library, I'll check," Finch said. He stood up, arranging their boxes in the provided bag, and pulled out his billfold, taking out a crisp hundred, folding it over, and tucking it under the edge of one of the plates so the denomination couldn't be seen. "I can also check to see if-"
His cell chirped in his pocket, a strange sound he hadn't known it could make. It did it again as he was pulling the phone out.
DANGER
Finch's heart climbed up into his throat.
"Harold, what is it?" Reese asked, surging to his feet and stepping over to look at the screen. As soon as he did, the message changed.
THREAT DETECTED:
SPECIAL AGENT SNOW, MARK
Beneath the message appeared a video feed, the picture grainy, black and white surveillance footage showing a figure lurking in the shadow between two buildings. The bald head and dark eyes could only belong to Agent Snow. Finch tensed as Reese grabbed him by the arm, fingers digging into the muscle.
"We'll go out the back," Reese said, his voice low and his gaze sweeping the restaurant. "Call a cab; have them meet us at the northwest corner of this block."
"What if he's waiting in the alley?" Finch asked, peering at the tiny, distorted image. It could have been an alley. That was the logical place to plan an ambush, in Finch's opinion.
"He doesn't know that we know he's out there," Reese said. "If we didn't know, we'd go out the front door, right?"
"Right," Finch said. "All right, I'll call." He tried to dial, but the Machine refused to give up control of the phone. "Reese, I'm going to need your cell-"
REMAIN AT CURRENT LOCATION
REFORMATTING THREAT
SENDING ASSISTANCE
"What does that mean, reformatting?" Finch asked, but the screen went back to his menu page, no answer given. "I guess that's all the help we're going to get." He sighed.
"Are you going to call a cab now?"
"The Machine said to stay here, that it was sending assistance."
"Who?" Reese asked with a frown. "And what are they going to do? Mark has CIA credentials and the same training I have. Anyone who would help us will either be outranked or shot. We're going to do this my way. It's what I'm good at." He grabbed the bag of leftovers and headed for the kitchen. Finch limped after him, the muscles in his damaged leg aching as he hurried to catch up.
"Do you need something?"
They stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned as their waitress approached. Reese spoke up first. "We were wondering if we could slip out the back," he said. "I think I saw my ex out front and he's the type of guy I don't want to run into ever again."
"Oh, I'm sorry, but the alley is completely blocked right now. They're doing renovation on the building behind us and it's full of scaffolding and fencing and pallets of bricks. I could call you a taxi and you could wait in here until it arrives. Maybe he'll be gone by then."
"Thank you. I think that's the next best option," Finch said when Reese looked ready to push his way through the kitchen. "I'm not dressed for scaling fences." They both chuckled and she left to make the call.
"I don't like just waiting here," Reese said, leaning close to speak quietly in Finch's ear. "We're sitting ducks."
"You said yourself, he doesn't know we know about him, so he's not going to come after us and risk all these witnesses and possible casualties. He's going to wait. And that's what we're going to do. Just...just try to stay calm-"
"I am calm," Reese said, turning away. He was angry again, irritable. Finch hoped he wouldn't have to pay for any more broken mirrors.
"John, come here," Finch said, catching at the sleeve of his jacket and pulling him over to a bench seat against one wall where people would sit to wait for an open table. It was empty, and more importantly, screened from most of the restaurant by a wall of fake-looking palms. He took the bag of leftovers from Reese and set it on the end of the bench, then tugged Reese down beside him. "We're going to be fine. We have the advantage."
"But how did he find us?" Reese asked. "Fusco is the only one who knew where we were."
"I don't think he'd sell us out." Not willingly, at least. Again, he found himself unexpectedly concerned for the detective's safety, just like the night Reese barely managed to keep Fusco from being shot in the back of the head. "Besides, how would Agent Snow have known we were here? Did he follow us from the motel? Why didn't he take us then? And why didn't the Machine warn us sooner? There's something else going on here, John. I don't think it's Fusco."
"Well, for his sake, it better not be," Reese said.
"You're doing it again," Finch said, deciding it was probably best to call it to Reese's attention before it got worse. "I understand that you're under stress right now, but you need to stop being so angry about everything. I don't like to see you this way." He reached out and took Reese's hand - the one he'd used to break the tiles in the motel bathroom. His knuckles were bruised, the cuts scabbed over, and Finch placed his other hand lightly over Reese's. "These hands are very important. You need them to hold me, and to touch me, and to make love to me. So you need to take better care of them."
Reese gave a slow nod, taking a deep breath and letting it back out in a long sigh. "You're right, Harold. I'm sorry-"
"You don't have to be sorry," Finch said. "None of this is your fault. Now, let's just wait for the taxi. Maybe the Machine will come up with something before then. Who knows, maybe help will come."
"I wouldn't hold my breath," Reese said, staring down at their clasped hands. "We're all alone, and no one is coming to save us."
"We're not alone," Finch said firmly. "We have each other." He leaned forward, catching Reese by the back of the neck and pulling him into a kiss, his eyes sliding closed as Reese kissed him back.
"Taxi'll be here- Oh!"
Finch jerked back, his face heating up as he turned on the bench to look back at their waitress. She smiled at him like the two of them were cuter than a basket of puppies.
"Sorry, I was just saying, the guy at the cab company said they have a car in the area and will be here in about five minutes."
"Thank you," Finch said. She smiled again, glancing back and forth between them before turning and hurrying off. Finch gave Reese a sideways look, his lips curling into a wry smile.
"Slash fangirl, I bet. She's about the right age."
"A what?"
"Never mind," Finch said with a wave of his hand. "Something I read about online. I'll show you later. What I meant was that society sure has changed from when I was in college, when a gay man lived in fear of being drug into the street and beaten to death."
"Yeah, we've come a long way," Reese said, reaching out and taking Finch's hand again. Their waitress walked back past, leading an older couple to a table across the room. The gray-haired woman glanced at them as she passed, her lip curling.
"People are trying to eat here," she said to no one in particular. Reese's grip on Finch's hand tightened.
"Apparently, some have come farther than others," Finch said. He watched the waitress seat the couple, then begin to clear the table he and Reese had vacated. As he'd hoped, she tucked the folded hundred into her pocket without looking at it. He wanted to be far away from the building before she noticed, because he had a feeling she'd try to give it back. She carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen, then returned, craning her neck to see out the front doors.
"Looks like your taxi is here, gentlemen. I hope you have a good evening. Enjoy the show."
"Thank you," Finch said, still holding Reese's hand as they stood up. Reese grabbed the bag of leftovers and they headed for the door. Finch felt extremely self-conscious as they walked hand in hand, but he didn't want to be the first to let go. He checked his cell again, but there was no new message from the Machine. That had to be a good sign. If they were walking into danger, it would have warned them.
At the door, Reese finally released Finch's hand and held out the bag to him. "I need to have both hands free, just in case," he said, reaching back beneath his jacket, where Finch knew he had his gun tucked into his waistband. Finch nodded, trying to stay calm, trying to appear relaxed, because if Agent Snow suspected they knew he was waiting for them, there was no telling what he'd do.
Reese took a slow breath, then let his hand fall back to his side, leaving the gun where it was. "Wait five seconds, then come out," Reese said. "I'll have the taxi door open, you get in, scoot across, I'll get in and we'll get out of here. It shouldn't take more than thirty seconds."
"And if Agent Snow tries to stop us?" Finch asked. "I'm not leaving without you."
For a moment, Reese looked ready to argue, but Finch squared his jaw, his shoulders stiffening. This was not up for debate. Reese sighed and leaned over, planting a quick kiss on Finch's lips. "All right. If Mark tries anything, I'll cover you, but I won't make you leave without me."
Finch's heart was pounding as Reese pushed open the restaurant door and stepped outside. He could hardly breathe, watching Reese walk across the sidewalk. He kept waiting for the gunshot, the blood, waiting for Reese to fall. He forgot to count five seconds. As Reese neared the taxi, Finch shifted the bag of food to his other hand and followed, his shoes loud on the cement as he limped toward Reese. There were sirens wailing in the distance, but it was New York. It would have seemed strange not to hear them. He could feel Snow watching them, could feel the weight of a sniper's sight between his shoulder blades. Any second and there would be a shout, Don't move! Hands up!
There was no shout. Finch reached the open taxi door and swung the bag of leftovers inside, onto the seat. He glanced up at Reese, the op's blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadows across the street. The pop made them both jump, but Finch's initial thought wasn't gunshot. It sounded more like a balloon breaking, or a car backfiring. His leg buckled beneath him and he fell, hitting the pavement beside the back tire of the taxi. It didn't even hurt, at first.
Finch stared up at Reese, the smell of car exhaust washing over him as the taxi sped away, the squealing tires throwing bits of street debris into Finch's face. Everything was happening so slowly. Reese pivoted, his jacket fanning out as he reached for his gun.
Then the pain hit. Finch squeezed his eyes shut, fighting not to throw up as the throbbing fire seared through the muscle of his upper thigh.
"Drop it, John, of the next one goes thought your gimp boyfriend's head."
Snow. Finch forced his eyes open, the lights brighter, colors painfully vivid. He was going into shock. Above him, Reese stood, weapon only partly drawn. Reese didn't look at him, but Finch could see the fear and hopelessness in his eyes. He let his arm hang at his side, gun held loosely.
Don't do it! Shoot him! The words didn't want to pass his lips, though. The only sound Finch could make was a faint whimper. Reese let the gun drop to the ground between them.
"Now step away from it," Snow said, his voice taking on a tinny quality, like he was speaking into a can. The sirens were getting louder, but Finch didn't know if they were getting closer, or if his hearing was being affected by the blood loss. He couldn't look, but he could feel the warmth, the wetness spreading along the leg of his pants, the material heavy and clinging. At least, he thought it was blood. He didn't think he'd pissed on himself. He hoped not.
Reese stepped sideways, moving away. Finch had a hard time bringing him back into focus. "You got me, Mark," Reese said. "Do what you want to me, just don't hurt my friend."
"You're in no position to make demands," Snow said. Finch could hear his footsteps on the street. He could tell they were getting closer. The sirens seemed to be fading. "Get on your knees, John."
As Reese went to his knees, Finch rolled onto his side, gasping in pain as the wound on his thigh pulled, a fresh wave of wetness creeping down his skin. He raised his head, looking back at Snow, standing with his gun pointed at Reese.
"You have been a smudge on my record for far too long," Snow said. "I should have killed you myself instead of trusting Kara to do it. That's what I get for being sentimental. Now it's all over, John. I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to make your little friend watch, and then I'm going to kill him, too."
"No!" Reese shouted.
"Yes," Snow said, "because your gimp boyfriend has become as big of a pain in my ass as you ever were. I don't know how he convinced the director to call off the mission, what dirt he dug up, how much he offered him, but I had to go off the rails to find you. They're after me now. They've even got my partner looking for me. Of course, I knew he'd turn on me eventually, that gutless sack of shit."
"H- how?" Finch asked, his voice hoarse. "H- how did you...find us?" Not Fusco. Please, not Fusco.
"I suppose I have you to that for that," Snow said, his tone smug. Finch felt cold, his limbs leaden. The sound of the sirens was gone. "That phone I took from you has some nifty apps on it. I especially like the one that tracked Reese's cell. Did that come standard?"
Finch closed his eyes. It was all his fault. They were going to die, and it was all his fault. Why hadn't he remembered the phone Snow took? Why hadn't he disabled the GPS transmitter in Reese's cell? He stared up at Snow as the man gloated over Reese, dark eyes filled with sadistic mirth. Snow wasn't looking at Finch, wasn't paying him any attention. Finch wasn't a threat.
Reaching out, Finch felt the cold metal of Reese's gun under his hand. He picked it up, arm shaking as he pointed it at Snow and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. It took him a moment to remember the safety. He didn't like guns, but he knew enough about them to find the button and slide it into the off position.
"Good bye, John," Snow said.
"See you in hell, Mark," Reese replied, closing his eyes.
Finch squeezed the trigger, the shot ringing out. The recoil nearly sent the gun flying out of his hand, but Snow let out a satisfying roar. He didn't fall, though, and he didn't drop his gun. He clutched at his forearm, a red stain spreading across the white shirt sleeve. With a snarl, he turned the gun toward Finch.
Reese lunged forward, hitting Snow in a flying tackle. The gun went off, shattering a window in the nearby apartment building, and then Reese knocked it away, sending it skittering across the pavement. He and Snow crashed to the street, fists, elbows, and knees flying.
The sound of roaring engines and squealing tires filled the air, a dozen police cars converging from both directions, lights flashing but sirens silent. Doors flew open, men and women in dark blue uniforms leaping out, guns drawn.
"Police! Freeze!" someone yelled. Finch set the gun back down, pushing it away from himself. Many, many feet in loud, shiny black shoes rushed past. A pair of scuffed brown shoes stopped in front of Finch, the cuff of a cheap brown suit riding too low on the top of the shoe. A thick-fingered hand reached down and picked up the weapon. Finch looked up as Fusco quietly wiped the fingerprints of the gun and tucked it inside his jacket.
"Hang in there, Finch," Fusco said, crouching down beside him. "The ambulance is on its way." Finch's vision whited out for a moment as Fusco applied pressure to the wound, the pain so sharp and severe that he could hardly breathe. Finch gasped, his whole body shaking.
"Wh- where's John," he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice.
"He's okay," Fusco said. "He's right over there."
Finch strained to look past Fusco, to focus so far away, where a pair of uniformed officers were struggling to pull Reese off of Snow. As they dragged him back, half a dozen more rushed forward, weapons leveled at Snow.
"Don't move," one of the officers said as Snow started to get up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, wiping blood off his chin from a split lip. "I'm a government official. These men are fugitives and terrorists-"
"Oh, shut up," Carter said, striding up. "Michael Kirkland, you're under arrest for impersonating a CIA agent, espionage, murder, attempted murder, trespassing, and for making me look like a fool. Now, face down on the pavement, hands behind your head."
"Carter, are you out of your mind?" Snow asked. "You know who I am."
"I know you fed me a line of bullshit, thanks to the official CIA and FBI files we got this afternoon."
"Files? What files-" Snow turned, looking over at Finch. "You did it. He did it," he said to Carter. "He fabricated this Kirkland, he's trying to frame me."
"Right, because it's so easy to fake official records from government agencies," Carter said, pulling out her handcuffs. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Personally, I'm hoping we can add on a little resisting arrest to the list of charges."
Snow looked ready to kill them all, but he rolled over onto his stomach and put his hands behind his head. Carter cuffed him and let two of the uniforms lift him to his feet.
"I'll have your badge for this, Carter," Snow hissed. "When I'm through with you, you won't be able to get a job working security at the mall."
Carter just jerked her head, motioning for the officers to take him away. She looked over at Reese, regarding him for a long moment, then gestured for the two cops still hanging on to his arms to let him go. As soon as he was free, Reese rushed over and crouched down beside Finch, opposite Fusco.
"Harold? Are you all right?"
"I think so," Finch said, summoning enough strength to raise his hand, his whole arm trembling until Reese took it.
"You hand is cold," Reese said, clasping it tightly.
"He's lost quite a bit of blood," Fusco said. "I ain't a doctor, but I think it was a through and through, no arteries, just muscle."
"And he was considerate enough to- to shoot me in my bad leg," Finch added, giving Reese a brief smile. Reese glanced away as the wail of a siren echoed from the faces of the tall buildings that lined the street.
"The ambulance is here," he said. "You're going to be fine, Harold. You're going to be fine now."
"I know," Finch said, then drew a shuddering breath. "I- I sh- shot him."
"I know," Reese murmured, reaching up to brush Finch's hair back from his brow. "You saved my life. But if the police ask, I shot him, okay?"
Finch nodded, the movement making him dizzy.
"Speaking of which..." Reese said, glancing at the ground around them. "Where did my-"
"Somebody must have walked off with it," Fusco said. "Damn rookies are always losing things."
Reese met his gaze, then gave a slow nod of acknowledgement. "Thanks, Lionel."
"Hey, you finally managed to say my name without sounding like you're my creepy, stalker ex-boyfriend." He chuckled and moved aside as the paramedics arrived. Finch found himself staring at Fusco's hands, at the blood on his skin, so bright red and slick looking, but dark and brown near the edges where it had started to dry. He cried out as one of the EMTs pressed a gauze pad against his wound and taped it in place. They brought over a backboard and gently slid him onto it, then lifted him up onto the gurney. Reese never let go of his hand the entire time, answering questions that Finch found hard to concentrate on. He was suddenly so tired.
They took his blood pressure as they wheeled him over to the ambulance, the cuff squeezing his upper arm until it hurt. The numbers that one paramedic gave to the other seemed awfully low, but Finch couldn't remember what his blood pressure usually was. He glanced up at Reese, who looked grim as he walked beside the gurney.
"I'm sorry, sir, but only family is allowed to ride along," one of the EMTs said as Reese prepared to climb into the ambulance beside him. "Besides, there's not really enough room."
"Where are you taking him?" Reese asked, giving Finch's hand one last squeeze before letting go.
"Mercy General."
"All right, Harold, I'll be waiting at the hospital for you," Reese said as they loaded Finch into the back of the ambulance.
"I'm going to be fine, John," Finch said, wincing slightly as they inserted an IV into the back of his hand. "There's no need to break every traffic law in the book."
"If you say so," Reese said. Finch could just barely see him if he lifted his head off the gurney, but he didn't have the strength to do it for long. He met Reese's gaze, staggered by the worry and fear held in those blue eyes. Reese drew a shaking breath. "Harold...I..."
"I know," Finch said. "Me, too." He let his head fall back against the gurney, the effort of keeping it up leaving him out of breath and sweaty. One of the EMTs hooked him up to a saline drip as the other closed the rear doors and thumped on the wall. The engine rumbled to life, the sirens began to wail, and the ambulance sped away, leaving Reese behind.
Author: Katica Locke
Pairing/Characters: Reese/Finch, the Machine, Mark Snow, Carter, Fusco
Rating: NC-17
Summary: What happens when Reese can't be in two places at once?
Warnings: Slash, possible spoilers for all episodes, WIP
Word Count: 5300 words
Damaged - Part 1 - Part 2 - Part 3 - Part 4 - Part 5 - Part 6 - Part 7 - Part 8 - Part 9
Part 10 - Part 11 - Part 12 - Part 13 - Part 14 - Part 15 - Part 16 - Part 17 - Part 18
Part 19 - Part 20 - Part 21 - Part 22 - Part 23 - Part 24 - Part 25 - Part 26 - Part 27
Part 28
Author's Note: Don't blame the author; the plot-bunnies made me do it! Lol, apologies in advance for more angst. Oh, and the next chapter switches back to Reese's POV. Enjoy! ^_^
Lunging to his feet, Finch flew into the restroom, drawing up short at the sight of Reese, his head bowed, both hands braced on either side of the sink, the long mirror on the wall shattered, glittery shards of broken glass littering the floor and counter. Finch immediately searched for blood, but didn't see any.
"John?" he said softly. "Are you okay?"
"I'm sorry, Finch," Reese whispered. "I'm so sorry. I don't know...I just...I'm sorry..."
"It's okay," Finch said, pieces of mirror underfoot squealing against the floor tile as he stepped farther into the room. "Come on, let's get out of here before you get hurt." He reached out toward Reese, but hesitated to touch him. He waited, allowing Reese to take his hand, a terrible ache filling his chest as he felt the ex-operative trembling, gripping Finch's hand as though for dear life.
The door to the men's room burst open behind him, and for an instant, Finch started to let go and pull out of Reese's grasp, but instead tightened his grip on Reese.
"Oh, my God! Are you all right?" their waitress asked as Finch turned to face her.
A tall man in a grease-spotted apron stood behind her, frowning as he looked down at the shards of broken mirror on the floor. "What happened?" he asked.
"We're fine," Finch said. "I'm terribly sorry for the damage. I'm not sure what happened-"
"I tripped," Reese said, his death-grip on Finch's hand relaxing, but he didn't let go. "It was my fault."
"We're very sorry," Finch said. "Let me leave you my information; I can pay whatever it costs to fix it."
"That's very generous of you, sir," she said, looking relieved. "We're just glad no one was hurt." They filed out of the men's room, the cook heading back into the kitchen. "Are you sure you're okay?" the waitress asked, her gaze dropping to their clasped hands.
Finch felt a bit of heat rise into his face, but he didn't let go. "I'm just relieved he wasn't hurt. It's our anniversary."
"Oh! Congratulations," the waitress said with a smile - a genuine one, not some forced facsimile. "How long have you been together?"
"A year," Finch said, glancing up at Reese, "although it feels like longer, sometimes."
"Sometimes it feels like just days," Reese added, giving Finch a small, strained smile, and Finch was finally able to take a deep breath, the pressure in his chest easing. He reluctantly let go of Reese's hand and reached into his inside jacket pocket, pulling out a business card for Harold Crowe, Private Investigator.
"Here," he said, handing it to the waitress. "It's an old card - I'm no longer in the business - but it has my number, e-mail, and mailing address so the owner can send me a bill for the repairs."
"Thank you, Mr. Crowe," she said, tucking it into her pocket as the cook returned, carrying an Out of Order sign, which he hung on the door of the men's room. "Charlie, could you reheat their meals? I'm sure their dinner has gone cold."
"Sure," Charlie the cook said, but Finch shook his head.
"Thank you, but that's not necessary. We actually have to go fairly soon; we have tickets to a Broadway show-"
"Oh? Which one?"
"It's a surprise," Finch said with a playful smirk. Truth be told, he couldn't think of a single current Broadway play. "So, if you could bring us a couple of boxes for the leftovers, that would be great."
"Right away," she said. She started to leave and they started to return to their table, but after only a few steps, she turned back. "Would you like me to box up the gulab jamun for you?"
"Oh, I almost forgot about dessert," Finch said. "Yes, please."
They sat down and Reese picked up his fork, his gaze fixed on his plate as he speared one of the shrimp and brought it toward his mouth. Finch reached across the table, placing his hand on Reese's arm.
"You don't have to eat it if it's something you don't like. I'm sorry, I should have asked, or let you order for yourself. And you're right, you are so much more than just information in a file, but that's how I'm used to interacting with people. It might take me a while to change."
"It's all right, Finch," Reese said, but he still wouldn't look up, his gaze rising no higher than Finch's shoulder. "You don't need to change. You didn't do anything wrong. I...I don't think I'm...handling what happened very well. I felt safe in the motel room, but outside and in here...I feel like people are watching us, like Mark could be hiding around any corner...I thought I saw him in the mirror and I didn't think, I just hit it. I tried to hide it, I tried to act like everything was normal, but it just kept eating at me and I took it out on you. There's nothing wrong with the food." He took the bite of shrimp off his fork, chewed, and swallowed. "It's very good, actually. Would you like to try some?"
Reese was trying again, trying to act like everything was all right, even though they both knew differently, but Finch supposed that some denial was unavoidable. Finch had had shrimp madrasi before - that was one of the reasons he'd thought Reese would like it - but he smiled and nodded. He picked up his fork, but before he could reach back across the table to Reese's plate, Reese stabbed a shrimp and held it out to him. Finch hesitated, casting a darting, sideways glance out into the restaurant, but the handful of other patrons were across the room, near the windows, and not paying them any attention.
Finch leaned forward and took the shrimp off of Reese's fork, the curry and coconut blending nicely with the flavor of the shrimp. "Very good; thank you," Finch said. "Would you care to try mine?"
"Lamb, wasn't it?" Reese asked, peering at Finch plate. "I haven't had lamb in a while." Finch used his knife to cut one of the tender cubes of meat in half before offering Reese a bite of lamb, bell pepper, and tomato. "Mmmm," Reese said as he chewed. "Excellent."
"I'll pass on your compliments to the chef," their waitress said, smiling as she approached with two Styrofoam containers for the leftovers. She handed them to Reese, then set a folded plastic bag on the table and placed the small box of gulab jamun on top of it. "I just spoke to the owner and he wishes he could come down in person to apologize for the trouble, but he's in Connecticut at the moment visiting family. He also told me to comp your meal, so this one's on the house."
"That's really not necessary," Finch said, but she shook her head.
"No, that's what the boss said, so if I let you pay, he's going to fire me," she said with a laugh. "Is there anything else I can get you?"
"No, we're good, thanks," Reese said, reaching across the table and stealing another bite of Finch's lamb and peppers.
The waitress smiled. "All right. You two have a happy anniversary."
"Thank you," Finch said. As she walked away, he said to Reese, loud enough for her to hear, "What a sweet girl. I'm still leaving her a tip." They fell silent as they worked on transferring their uneaten meals into the containers. When Finch was finished, he closed the box and looked across the table at Reese. "When we get back to the motel, I want to talk," he said, watching the muscles in Reese's jaw tense. "We don't have to talk about...certain things, but you need to talk. Please."
After a moment, Reese returned to scraping his plate. "All right. And then we need to think about moving to a new location. Fusco knows where we are, and while I'd like to trust him, I don't, and I'll feel better if we're someplace more secure."
"Another hotel, or do you think it'd be safe to go to one of the safe houses?"
"Maybe one not registered to any of your known aliases. We can't be sure how much M- the CIA knows about you."
"Right," Finch said, noting the way Reese faltered over Agent Snow's name. "I have a couple of places that I've been saving, but-" He made a face. "They make our current lodgings look like the Ritz."
Reese chuckled, but it sounded forced. "I'm sure it won't be for long. Just until we're certain no one is after us. Just because Keane said I had been declared dead again, doesn't mean that it's true."
"Once I can get back into the Library, I'll check," Finch said. He stood up, arranging their boxes in the provided bag, and pulled out his billfold, taking out a crisp hundred, folding it over, and tucking it under the edge of one of the plates so the denomination couldn't be seen. "I can also check to see if-"
His cell chirped in his pocket, a strange sound he hadn't known it could make. It did it again as he was pulling the phone out.
DANGER
Finch's heart climbed up into his throat.
"Harold, what is it?" Reese asked, surging to his feet and stepping over to look at the screen. As soon as he did, the message changed.
THREAT DETECTED:
SPECIAL AGENT SNOW, MARK
Beneath the message appeared a video feed, the picture grainy, black and white surveillance footage showing a figure lurking in the shadow between two buildings. The bald head and dark eyes could only belong to Agent Snow. Finch tensed as Reese grabbed him by the arm, fingers digging into the muscle.
"We'll go out the back," Reese said, his voice low and his gaze sweeping the restaurant. "Call a cab; have them meet us at the northwest corner of this block."
"What if he's waiting in the alley?" Finch asked, peering at the tiny, distorted image. It could have been an alley. That was the logical place to plan an ambush, in Finch's opinion.
"He doesn't know that we know he's out there," Reese said. "If we didn't know, we'd go out the front door, right?"
"Right," Finch said. "All right, I'll call." He tried to dial, but the Machine refused to give up control of the phone. "Reese, I'm going to need your cell-"
REMAIN AT CURRENT LOCATION
REFORMATTING THREAT
SENDING ASSISTANCE
"What does that mean, reformatting?" Finch asked, but the screen went back to his menu page, no answer given. "I guess that's all the help we're going to get." He sighed.
"Are you going to call a cab now?"
"The Machine said to stay here, that it was sending assistance."
"Who?" Reese asked with a frown. "And what are they going to do? Mark has CIA credentials and the same training I have. Anyone who would help us will either be outranked or shot. We're going to do this my way. It's what I'm good at." He grabbed the bag of leftovers and headed for the kitchen. Finch limped after him, the muscles in his damaged leg aching as he hurried to catch up.
"Do you need something?"
They stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned as their waitress approached. Reese spoke up first. "We were wondering if we could slip out the back," he said. "I think I saw my ex out front and he's the type of guy I don't want to run into ever again."
"Oh, I'm sorry, but the alley is completely blocked right now. They're doing renovation on the building behind us and it's full of scaffolding and fencing and pallets of bricks. I could call you a taxi and you could wait in here until it arrives. Maybe he'll be gone by then."
"Thank you. I think that's the next best option," Finch said when Reese looked ready to push his way through the kitchen. "I'm not dressed for scaling fences." They both chuckled and she left to make the call.
"I don't like just waiting here," Reese said, leaning close to speak quietly in Finch's ear. "We're sitting ducks."
"You said yourself, he doesn't know we know about him, so he's not going to come after us and risk all these witnesses and possible casualties. He's going to wait. And that's what we're going to do. Just...just try to stay calm-"
"I am calm," Reese said, turning away. He was angry again, irritable. Finch hoped he wouldn't have to pay for any more broken mirrors.
"John, come here," Finch said, catching at the sleeve of his jacket and pulling him over to a bench seat against one wall where people would sit to wait for an open table. It was empty, and more importantly, screened from most of the restaurant by a wall of fake-looking palms. He took the bag of leftovers from Reese and set it on the end of the bench, then tugged Reese down beside him. "We're going to be fine. We have the advantage."
"But how did he find us?" Reese asked. "Fusco is the only one who knew where we were."
"I don't think he'd sell us out." Not willingly, at least. Again, he found himself unexpectedly concerned for the detective's safety, just like the night Reese barely managed to keep Fusco from being shot in the back of the head. "Besides, how would Agent Snow have known we were here? Did he follow us from the motel? Why didn't he take us then? And why didn't the Machine warn us sooner? There's something else going on here, John. I don't think it's Fusco."
"Well, for his sake, it better not be," Reese said.
"You're doing it again," Finch said, deciding it was probably best to call it to Reese's attention before it got worse. "I understand that you're under stress right now, but you need to stop being so angry about everything. I don't like to see you this way." He reached out and took Reese's hand - the one he'd used to break the tiles in the motel bathroom. His knuckles were bruised, the cuts scabbed over, and Finch placed his other hand lightly over Reese's. "These hands are very important. You need them to hold me, and to touch me, and to make love to me. So you need to take better care of them."
Reese gave a slow nod, taking a deep breath and letting it back out in a long sigh. "You're right, Harold. I'm sorry-"
"You don't have to be sorry," Finch said. "None of this is your fault. Now, let's just wait for the taxi. Maybe the Machine will come up with something before then. Who knows, maybe help will come."
"I wouldn't hold my breath," Reese said, staring down at their clasped hands. "We're all alone, and no one is coming to save us."
"We're not alone," Finch said firmly. "We have each other." He leaned forward, catching Reese by the back of the neck and pulling him into a kiss, his eyes sliding closed as Reese kissed him back.
"Taxi'll be here- Oh!"
Finch jerked back, his face heating up as he turned on the bench to look back at their waitress. She smiled at him like the two of them were cuter than a basket of puppies.
"Sorry, I was just saying, the guy at the cab company said they have a car in the area and will be here in about five minutes."
"Thank you," Finch said. She smiled again, glancing back and forth between them before turning and hurrying off. Finch gave Reese a sideways look, his lips curling into a wry smile.
"Slash fangirl, I bet. She's about the right age."
"A what?"
"Never mind," Finch said with a wave of his hand. "Something I read about online. I'll show you later. What I meant was that society sure has changed from when I was in college, when a gay man lived in fear of being drug into the street and beaten to death."
"Yeah, we've come a long way," Reese said, reaching out and taking Finch's hand again. Their waitress walked back past, leading an older couple to a table across the room. The gray-haired woman glanced at them as she passed, her lip curling.
"People are trying to eat here," she said to no one in particular. Reese's grip on Finch's hand tightened.
"Apparently, some have come farther than others," Finch said. He watched the waitress seat the couple, then begin to clear the table he and Reese had vacated. As he'd hoped, she tucked the folded hundred into her pocket without looking at it. He wanted to be far away from the building before she noticed, because he had a feeling she'd try to give it back. She carried the dirty dishes into the kitchen, then returned, craning her neck to see out the front doors.
"Looks like your taxi is here, gentlemen. I hope you have a good evening. Enjoy the show."
"Thank you," Finch said, still holding Reese's hand as they stood up. Reese grabbed the bag of leftovers and they headed for the door. Finch felt extremely self-conscious as they walked hand in hand, but he didn't want to be the first to let go. He checked his cell again, but there was no new message from the Machine. That had to be a good sign. If they were walking into danger, it would have warned them.
At the door, Reese finally released Finch's hand and held out the bag to him. "I need to have both hands free, just in case," he said, reaching back beneath his jacket, where Finch knew he had his gun tucked into his waistband. Finch nodded, trying to stay calm, trying to appear relaxed, because if Agent Snow suspected they knew he was waiting for them, there was no telling what he'd do.
Reese took a slow breath, then let his hand fall back to his side, leaving the gun where it was. "Wait five seconds, then come out," Reese said. "I'll have the taxi door open, you get in, scoot across, I'll get in and we'll get out of here. It shouldn't take more than thirty seconds."
"And if Agent Snow tries to stop us?" Finch asked. "I'm not leaving without you."
For a moment, Reese looked ready to argue, but Finch squared his jaw, his shoulders stiffening. This was not up for debate. Reese sighed and leaned over, planting a quick kiss on Finch's lips. "All right. If Mark tries anything, I'll cover you, but I won't make you leave without me."
Finch's heart was pounding as Reese pushed open the restaurant door and stepped outside. He could hardly breathe, watching Reese walk across the sidewalk. He kept waiting for the gunshot, the blood, waiting for Reese to fall. He forgot to count five seconds. As Reese neared the taxi, Finch shifted the bag of food to his other hand and followed, his shoes loud on the cement as he limped toward Reese. There were sirens wailing in the distance, but it was New York. It would have seemed strange not to hear them. He could feel Snow watching them, could feel the weight of a sniper's sight between his shoulder blades. Any second and there would be a shout, Don't move! Hands up!
There was no shout. Finch reached the open taxi door and swung the bag of leftovers inside, onto the seat. He glanced up at Reese, the op's blue eyes narrowed as he scanned the shadows across the street. The pop made them both jump, but Finch's initial thought wasn't gunshot. It sounded more like a balloon breaking, or a car backfiring. His leg buckled beneath him and he fell, hitting the pavement beside the back tire of the taxi. It didn't even hurt, at first.
Finch stared up at Reese, the smell of car exhaust washing over him as the taxi sped away, the squealing tires throwing bits of street debris into Finch's face. Everything was happening so slowly. Reese pivoted, his jacket fanning out as he reached for his gun.
Then the pain hit. Finch squeezed his eyes shut, fighting not to throw up as the throbbing fire seared through the muscle of his upper thigh.
"Drop it, John, of the next one goes thought your gimp boyfriend's head."
Snow. Finch forced his eyes open, the lights brighter, colors painfully vivid. He was going into shock. Above him, Reese stood, weapon only partly drawn. Reese didn't look at him, but Finch could see the fear and hopelessness in his eyes. He let his arm hang at his side, gun held loosely.
Don't do it! Shoot him! The words didn't want to pass his lips, though. The only sound Finch could make was a faint whimper. Reese let the gun drop to the ground between them.
"Now step away from it," Snow said, his voice taking on a tinny quality, like he was speaking into a can. The sirens were getting louder, but Finch didn't know if they were getting closer, or if his hearing was being affected by the blood loss. He couldn't look, but he could feel the warmth, the wetness spreading along the leg of his pants, the material heavy and clinging. At least, he thought it was blood. He didn't think he'd pissed on himself. He hoped not.
Reese stepped sideways, moving away. Finch had a hard time bringing him back into focus. "You got me, Mark," Reese said. "Do what you want to me, just don't hurt my friend."
"You're in no position to make demands," Snow said. Finch could hear his footsteps on the street. He could tell they were getting closer. The sirens seemed to be fading. "Get on your knees, John."
As Reese went to his knees, Finch rolled onto his side, gasping in pain as the wound on his thigh pulled, a fresh wave of wetness creeping down his skin. He raised his head, looking back at Snow, standing with his gun pointed at Reese.
"You have been a smudge on my record for far too long," Snow said. "I should have killed you myself instead of trusting Kara to do it. That's what I get for being sentimental. Now it's all over, John. I'm going to kill you, and I'm going to make your little friend watch, and then I'm going to kill him, too."
"No!" Reese shouted.
"Yes," Snow said, "because your gimp boyfriend has become as big of a pain in my ass as you ever were. I don't know how he convinced the director to call off the mission, what dirt he dug up, how much he offered him, but I had to go off the rails to find you. They're after me now. They've even got my partner looking for me. Of course, I knew he'd turn on me eventually, that gutless sack of shit."
"H- how?" Finch asked, his voice hoarse. "H- how did you...find us?" Not Fusco. Please, not Fusco.
"I suppose I have you to that for that," Snow said, his tone smug. Finch felt cold, his limbs leaden. The sound of the sirens was gone. "That phone I took from you has some nifty apps on it. I especially like the one that tracked Reese's cell. Did that come standard?"
Finch closed his eyes. It was all his fault. They were going to die, and it was all his fault. Why hadn't he remembered the phone Snow took? Why hadn't he disabled the GPS transmitter in Reese's cell? He stared up at Snow as the man gloated over Reese, dark eyes filled with sadistic mirth. Snow wasn't looking at Finch, wasn't paying him any attention. Finch wasn't a threat.
Reaching out, Finch felt the cold metal of Reese's gun under his hand. He picked it up, arm shaking as he pointed it at Snow and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened. It took him a moment to remember the safety. He didn't like guns, but he knew enough about them to find the button and slide it into the off position.
"Good bye, John," Snow said.
"See you in hell, Mark," Reese replied, closing his eyes.
Finch squeezed the trigger, the shot ringing out. The recoil nearly sent the gun flying out of his hand, but Snow let out a satisfying roar. He didn't fall, though, and he didn't drop his gun. He clutched at his forearm, a red stain spreading across the white shirt sleeve. With a snarl, he turned the gun toward Finch.
Reese lunged forward, hitting Snow in a flying tackle. The gun went off, shattering a window in the nearby apartment building, and then Reese knocked it away, sending it skittering across the pavement. He and Snow crashed to the street, fists, elbows, and knees flying.
The sound of roaring engines and squealing tires filled the air, a dozen police cars converging from both directions, lights flashing but sirens silent. Doors flew open, men and women in dark blue uniforms leaping out, guns drawn.
"Police! Freeze!" someone yelled. Finch set the gun back down, pushing it away from himself. Many, many feet in loud, shiny black shoes rushed past. A pair of scuffed brown shoes stopped in front of Finch, the cuff of a cheap brown suit riding too low on the top of the shoe. A thick-fingered hand reached down and picked up the weapon. Finch looked up as Fusco quietly wiped the fingerprints of the gun and tucked it inside his jacket.
"Hang in there, Finch," Fusco said, crouching down beside him. "The ambulance is on its way." Finch's vision whited out for a moment as Fusco applied pressure to the wound, the pain so sharp and severe that he could hardly breathe. Finch gasped, his whole body shaking.
"Wh- where's John," he asked, hardly recognizing his own voice.
"He's okay," Fusco said. "He's right over there."
Finch strained to look past Fusco, to focus so far away, where a pair of uniformed officers were struggling to pull Reese off of Snow. As they dragged him back, half a dozen more rushed forward, weapons leveled at Snow.
"Don't move," one of the officers said as Snow started to get up.
"What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, wiping blood off his chin from a split lip. "I'm a government official. These men are fugitives and terrorists-"
"Oh, shut up," Carter said, striding up. "Michael Kirkland, you're under arrest for impersonating a CIA agent, espionage, murder, attempted murder, trespassing, and for making me look like a fool. Now, face down on the pavement, hands behind your head."
"Carter, are you out of your mind?" Snow asked. "You know who I am."
"I know you fed me a line of bullshit, thanks to the official CIA and FBI files we got this afternoon."
"Files? What files-" Snow turned, looking over at Finch. "You did it. He did it," he said to Carter. "He fabricated this Kirkland, he's trying to frame me."
"Right, because it's so easy to fake official records from government agencies," Carter said, pulling out her handcuffs. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. Personally, I'm hoping we can add on a little resisting arrest to the list of charges."
Snow looked ready to kill them all, but he rolled over onto his stomach and put his hands behind his head. Carter cuffed him and let two of the uniforms lift him to his feet.
"I'll have your badge for this, Carter," Snow hissed. "When I'm through with you, you won't be able to get a job working security at the mall."
Carter just jerked her head, motioning for the officers to take him away. She looked over at Reese, regarding him for a long moment, then gestured for the two cops still hanging on to his arms to let him go. As soon as he was free, Reese rushed over and crouched down beside Finch, opposite Fusco.
"Harold? Are you all right?"
"I think so," Finch said, summoning enough strength to raise his hand, his whole arm trembling until Reese took it.
"You hand is cold," Reese said, clasping it tightly.
"He's lost quite a bit of blood," Fusco said. "I ain't a doctor, but I think it was a through and through, no arteries, just muscle."
"And he was considerate enough to- to shoot me in my bad leg," Finch added, giving Reese a brief smile. Reese glanced away as the wail of a siren echoed from the faces of the tall buildings that lined the street.
"The ambulance is here," he said. "You're going to be fine, Harold. You're going to be fine now."
"I know," Finch said, then drew a shuddering breath. "I- I sh- shot him."
"I know," Reese murmured, reaching up to brush Finch's hair back from his brow. "You saved my life. But if the police ask, I shot him, okay?"
Finch nodded, the movement making him dizzy.
"Speaking of which..." Reese said, glancing at the ground around them. "Where did my-"
"Somebody must have walked off with it," Fusco said. "Damn rookies are always losing things."
Reese met his gaze, then gave a slow nod of acknowledgement. "Thanks, Lionel."
"Hey, you finally managed to say my name without sounding like you're my creepy, stalker ex-boyfriend." He chuckled and moved aside as the paramedics arrived. Finch found himself staring at Fusco's hands, at the blood on his skin, so bright red and slick looking, but dark and brown near the edges where it had started to dry. He cried out as one of the EMTs pressed a gauze pad against his wound and taped it in place. They brought over a backboard and gently slid him onto it, then lifted him up onto the gurney. Reese never let go of his hand the entire time, answering questions that Finch found hard to concentrate on. He was suddenly so tired.
They took his blood pressure as they wheeled him over to the ambulance, the cuff squeezing his upper arm until it hurt. The numbers that one paramedic gave to the other seemed awfully low, but Finch couldn't remember what his blood pressure usually was. He glanced up at Reese, who looked grim as he walked beside the gurney.
"I'm sorry, sir, but only family is allowed to ride along," one of the EMTs said as Reese prepared to climb into the ambulance beside him. "Besides, there's not really enough room."
"Where are you taking him?" Reese asked, giving Finch's hand one last squeeze before letting go.
"Mercy General."
"All right, Harold, I'll be waiting at the hospital for you," Reese said as they loaded Finch into the back of the ambulance.
"I'm going to be fine, John," Finch said, wincing slightly as they inserted an IV into the back of his hand. "There's no need to break every traffic law in the book."
"If you say so," Reese said. Finch could just barely see him if he lifted his head off the gurney, but he didn't have the strength to do it for long. He met Reese's gaze, staggered by the worry and fear held in those blue eyes. Reese drew a shaking breath. "Harold...I..."
"I know," Finch said. "Me, too." He let his head fall back against the gurney, the effort of keeping it up leaving him out of breath and sweaty. One of the EMTs hooked him up to a saline drip as the other closed the rear doors and thumped on the wall. The engine rumbled to life, the sirens began to wail, and the ambulance sped away, leaving Reese behind.