Work Text:
It was pain at first, because of course it was.
He'd been shot. What else was there to expect on waking up?
On the plus side, he had a little waning morphine from a drip in his arm to take some of the edge from the blade, and the pillow tucked behind his head was a pleasant touch. He could feel oxygen in his nose, leads and wires on his skin, an oximeter clamped to his finger. This was a hospital then or at least a bed somewhere, which meant there was someone here with him working to keep him alive.
Finch.
Finch had done this. He'd found a way.
Reese opened his eyes to find himself lying in a hospital gurney standing incongruously in the middle of an unfamiliar upper class living room. Was this the same bed from the morgue? He hoped not. He'd bled all over that one.
Four tracks ran across the pale plush carpet from the doorway to his bed. He had been rolled into a room decorated in that tasteful and bland model home way that makes it almost impossible to discern any actual personality in the owner. Finch's safehouses tended to be more interesting since they were not made to convince, which made it more likely this was the home of one of his various identities instead. Reese wondered if this particular bird was a real estate agent.
The man himself slouched in the corner of the sectional couch at the back of the room. On his knees sat the plastic remnants of a frozen microwave dinner, now scraped mostly clean. His fork was down on the floor where it had fallen just as Harold's head was crammed awkwardly against the side of the sofa where it had fallen. He was deeply asleep.
Had he done all this himself? Impressive work if so for a man John had previously known only to dutifully tape bandages and fill ice packs. Of course, he had never needed to do much past that before. Everyday injuries for Reese were bruises from others' fists, abrasions to his own, and the occasional knife slash, minor stabbing, or small caliber graze. The hole torn by a professional sniper's rifle bullet required a bit more work.
Finch had found him a discreet surgeon exactly when he needed it, another of the magic tricks Harold was capable of when he used his celestial power of near limitless cash. John did not recall much past the panels of the ceiling above Finch rolling by as he hurried him down the corridor to the morgue, but he did remember how his stitches were purchased. Dozens of bound green blocks tumbling down with a clatter onto shining stainless steel. It was a hell of a way to find out about the employee health care plan.
Reese knew he was not going to make it to talk to Finch, at least not now. That could be hours away if the just audible snoring emanating from the couch was any indication. John would be lucky if he could stay awake ten minutes. He was exhausted already, and pain was rapidly draining away what little strength he had left. He settled his shoulders against the down pillow behind him and closed his eyes to let the drugs lingering in his system sink him back down beneath the dreamless waves to rest. They both clearly needed it.
The next time he woke, it was to a curious sensation of weight. Through the thick sedative haze, he could feel a gentle pressure on him in the center of his chest. The weight moved with his breath, warm and spread against his skin. A hand.
He blinked his eyes open to see Finch's above him, closed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, thinking, frowning. All that mind's brilliance concentrated into the single sense of touch.
"Harold."
The word, scratchy and raw, reverberated through them both. Finch's startled eyes flashed open and he dashed his hand away to stand, stiff and straight.
"Mr. Reese. You're awake."
"Mmm. So are you. The last time I saw you, you were asleep."
"What? Oh, yesterday. Yes, I dozed off after I ate and missed your injection. Of course. I didn't know you'd awoken." Harold looked down at his hand and balled it into a fist that he stuffed into his pocket, hiding it from sight. "I'm sorry."
Reese wasn't sure if he was sorry for falling asleep or making a mistake or daring to touch someone he was concerned about. Maybe all of the above. It didn't matter.
"You don't have to apologize for being human, Finch."
Harold sucked in a breath but didn't answer. He looked pale to Reese, half-sick. He wondered if that time he ate and slept yesterday was the only time he had since the morgue. Probably.
Finch changed the subject.
"How do you feel? Are you in pain?"
"Maybe less than you. I've had some medication."
John could feel that medication, a cocktail of the good stuff, dragging out his words and slowing his thoughts.
"I've had a job to do. It isn't finished."
"Have we had any numbers?"
"Two. Fortunately both relatively simplistic. Fusco took one, the incautious philanderer, and I paid off a debt to a bookie today for the other. That solution more than likely only delays the inevitable, but hopefully by the time the compulsive gambler's number comes up again, we'll be fully staffed."
Fully staffed. Dry as a desert as always. John chuckled a little at the perfectly stilted language and then winced at the stab in his gut he got for it.
There was that frown again.
"You should try to go back to sleep, John. You'll recover faster if you sleep and I need you back at work."
"Don't worry. The second I close my eyes I'm going to pass out again. Your dosing is impeccable, Doctor."
Finch couldn't quite avoid a satisfied snort.
"Well, I've been doing some reading. You may have noticed I'm a swift learner. From what I've seen, you seem to be a swift healer. So do your part and get to it."
"Eat something while I'm resting, Harold. Take a nap. If I was going to die on you, I would have already done it."
Reese tried, but he simply could not keep his eyes open any longer, not even to see Finch's surely nonplussed reaction to that. As expected, the chemicals in his system atomized his coherent thoughts immediately, leaving behind only emotion and sense memories blended together in that way that happens in the falling dusk of consciousness.
The pressure of Finch's hand held firm against his skin, absorbing the triplicate heartbeat that kept Reese alive.
The worn and weary quality of Harold's voice, stripping his meaning bare of all deflection.
The resonance of three words, all that he said that mattered, repeating endlessly within John's chest and echoing in the space between them.
I need you
I need you
I need you
I need you