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Finch didn't speak to Reese until the medic-- a competent woman who didn't ask questions and didn't object to Reese's insistence on staying awake through the procedure-- finished sterilizing and sealing the wound, then let Reese leave in the cab Finch sent. His com remained silent all the way to the spaceport, and the inside of the ship was still and dim as he entered the control room. Finch's body sat in pilot's chair, immobile and expressionless.
Reese sat down in the copilot's chair and waited.
When Finch finally spoke, it was through the ship's speakers. "Care to explain what happened out there today, Mr. Reese?"
"I got shot."
"A little more detail, if you please."
"I got shot by a panicky drug smuggler." Reese shrugged as freely as his shoulder would allow. "It happens."
"You've left out the key mystery of how you managed to get shot when the aforementioned smuggler wasn't even aiming at you."
"He was aiming at somebody," Reese pointed out.
"No, he wasn't." Icy wrath colored every word. "He was aiming at a thing. You took a bullet for an admittedly expensive but ultimately replaceable puppet, Mr. Reese. This is not the first time I have questioned your priorities, but this certainly takes the prize."
Finch's body remained still and silent, not even blinking, just to emphasize his point. Reese didn't let it faze him. "Guess it slipped my mind."
"Try again, Mr. Reese."
"What can I say, Finch? Your cover's damn near perfect. As long as someone doesn't shoot it full of holes."
"Are you telling me," Finch said slowly, "that you jumped between me and a gun in order to protect not my life, but my secrets?"
Reese raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they more or less the same thing?"
Finch, for his part, didn't try to deny that. "Being shot does not automatically mean revealing my identity as a shellperson," he said instead. "Cybernetic prosthetics are hardly uncommon these days."
"I don't think there are very many prosthetic heads on the market, Finch," Reese said.
A pause, while Finch presumably reviewed footages and calculated angles. "Be that as it may, your reaction was excessive. I am perfectly capable of repairing or replacing my cover identities as needed. Your life is not worth avoiding such an inconvenience!"
"Why, Harold," Reese said lightly, "I didn't know you cared."
Finch didn't respond for a long time, long enough for Reese to start doubting what response he'd expected. Vehement denial, or dry deflection, or awkward confirmation with a side of emotional manipulation. Perhaps even pointing out that he was not the only one who cared.
The silence stretched out, barely broken by Reese's breathing, and by the faint hum of the support systems that remained running even when the rest of the ship was powered down-- Finch's own pulse. It was tempting to let himself be lulled to sleep by that sound, soothing as a heartbeat.
"If you're going to fall asleep," Finch said abruptly, jerking Reese out of his light doze, "please do so in a proper bed. Those seats are not designed for recuperating from injuries."
Reese had slept in worse places, and stayed awake through worse injuries, but there was no need for either here. With a conceding nod, he pushed himself up (stiffly; Finch had a point) and started for the nearest cabin.
"Mr. Reese."
Reese stopped in the doorway and looked back. Finch had turned to face him, expression stern but with a vibrancy that only (always) came when Finch was inhabiting the body. "I will not thank you," he said, "if you throw your life away for my sake."
"I don't expect you to," Reese said honestly.
Finch nodded jerkily, in acknowledgement rather than acceptance. "Take the main cabin; the bed in there is a touch more accomodating."
Reese smiled. "All right." He patted the wall as Finch opened the door for him. "Good night, Harold."
"Sleep well, John." And in those three syllables Reese could feel the weight of all the words that meant too much to be said.
"I'll do my best." It was the most he could promise.