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His search had been long and arduous but in the end his choice had been obvious. Reese was an intelligent, highly competent, utterly ruthless man who had performed irredeemable acts with the most altruistic of intentions; his imperfections made him the perfect weapon.
He had told Reese that sooner or later they would probably both end up dead but privately he had considered Reese indestructible, given his comprehensive knowledge of what Reese had already survived. Snow’s failure to kill Reese had just strengthened his belief.
Finch shifted in his chair, muscles stiff in a way he would pay for later, straining his ears against the usually welcome sound of silence.
He was not given to obfuscation so could not quite comprehend how, in the days after the events at the parking deck, he had been deeply concerned with Reese’s recovery and survival yet still able to explain his concern away in terms of what a loss Reese would have been to the mission to save the Irrelevants. He had never acknowledged in any way the devastating personal loss Reese’s death would have been to him.
Finch rubbed at his aching neck, determinedly not looking at the clock knowing it couldn’t have been more than ten minutes since he had last looked.
He imagined that if he were to ever speak of his feelings of inadequacy it would be erroneously assumed that he was speaking of his physical disabilities, but his sense of self-worth had fortunately never been reliant on the physical.
He smirked at the mere thought of discussing any such thing with other people.
No, he understood his true weaknesses all too well: his lack of trust, his faith in only his own intelligence, his hubris that had killed one love, exiled him from the life of another and endangered… John.
The indomitable Mr. Reese, his body now lying motionless in a bed, unresponsive, vulnerable, diminished without John’s quiddity to animate it.
Finch’s breath hitched before he forced himself to focus, breathing slowly in and out; he might be needed at any time.
No, Reese was still Reese and far less damaged in fact than after his encounter with Snow. It was only his perception of John’s… value that had been irrevocably changed, love an agonizing ecstasy he had gratefully considered behind him until he had been unable to deny his emotional response to John's most recent injuries.
He should think about changing his clothes. He picked absent-mindedly at Reese’s dried blood on his shirt cuff.
He was a creature of habit and, predictably, his response to this unwelcome new self-awareness had been the compulsion to flee, to increase the distance between them as he had done with others in the past. But despite his wish to protect John as much as himself, he could not leave, not this time.
It was time to check on his patient. Finch rose carefully to his feet, making sure his leg would take his weight before slowly crossing the living room towards the bedroom.
If he’d had the energy left to do so he would have laughed at his own idiocy. Evasive action would not be necessary because John would never desire him to come closer.
Cold comfort perhaps, but comfort nonetheless.
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