Work Text:
The drugs the IV line was feeding Reese had the pain tamped down to a scratchy, distant haze, and Harold's voice seemed far off, too, fading in and out between the turning of one page and the next. Reese figured that was why the story was so weirdly paced: obviously he was losing more time than it felt like he was.
Then Harold stopped reading in the middle of a passionate defense of true love and sighed.
"You know, as romantic as this all seemed when I was a boy, at the moment I just keep thinking how young they are. But I seem to recall that a little farther on, Morgenstern gives a fascinating analysis of the economy of interbellum Florin--yes, here it is. The importance of mercery in Florin at this time rested on three things, only two of which were self-evident. First, and least notably, the local wool production..."
Because everything moved a little slowly through the drugs, it took Reese a minute or two to compose his thoughts, but this was important and he stuck to it doggedly, tuning out the dissertation on improved colorfastness and esoteric sumptuary laws that flowed endlessly past him.
"Harold," he said finally, "if you don't stop skipping the good parts, I'm going to throw you off the Cliffs of Insanity."
When he dragged his eyes open to evaluate the ensuing silence, Harold was blinking at him. "I'm sorry, does that mean you don't want to hear about the political significance of tariffs on silk imports?"
"Maybe later, Finch," Reese said, as insincerely as he could.
"Well." Harold looked back down to his book--what was it called, The Royal Wedding? A Prince's Bride? Something like that--not quite quickly enough to hide a smile. "As you wish, Mr. Reese."