Chapter Text
“Mr Reese!”
John inhales sharply against the pain in his left shoulder. Both the gang members that had him and Shaw pinned down are kneecapped on the floor but his attention is now completely on the breathy silence coming from his earpiece.
“Shit, you got a deathwish or something?” Shaw’s voice is low, as if she’s trying to keep the conversation between them. It doesn’t matter. Finch has ears and eyes on them, he already knows John’s action was impulsive and reckless. “You know as well as I do that their chambers were almost empty.”
Any excuse he could come up with would sound hollow, so he decides to ignore her, push back the sense of guilt, hope Finch wouldn’t be too pissy. He leaves the corridor with quick long strides.
The sun is scorching when they get outside, Shaw hot on his trail, the earpiece still eerily silent. Their little hold up in the warehouse was long enough for their number to have already disappeared, of course, but they know where he is going to be that evening.
John takes out the plus one invitation from his suit’s inside pocket and sends Finch a picture.
“We found this in Verner’s office. With a bit of luck, he’ll turn up at the dance tournament and we’ll be able to corner him there. Do you think you could get us an invite?”
By way of reply, Shaw’s phone buzzes and she holds up a registry with her alias added to the dance competitors. He pushes down his worry at Finch’s silence and starts walking towards their car. He can barely hear Shaw mutter “Well that’s not awkward at all,” before climbing in the passenger’s seat.
When she comes in, she plucks her earpiece out and gestures for him to do the same. John is apprehensive to cut the connection to Finch but he decides, if he’s going to get chewed up by her, he’d rather it stayed private. As he goes to take out his own earpiece, the movement is halted by the pain radiating from his left shoulder. He’s managed to forget that he got shot.
He picks out the earpiece with his right hand instead, already dreading the moment where they will have to go back to the subway to get the first aid kit. He contemplates asking Shaw to take care of his gunshot wound right there, or at least in a safe house so that he could hide it from Finch, but that would only delay the inevitable; Harold obviously saw him get shot from the hall monitors he hacked that same morning.
“Would you care to explain why you ignored your training and put yourself in unnecessary danger?” Shaw asks.
John grunts softly. He doesn’t really know, if he’s being honest with himself. The urge always takes him whenever time is of the essence. He can’t help but think, in a corner of his mind, that he doesn’t really matter. Not as much as the mission. He knows it’s an old habit instilled in him from his time in the CIA; the thought of being nothing more than a ghost, already dead and good only to kill or get killed.
Harold has been painstakingly trying to change that mentality by showing him that everybody matters, even him. And most of the time, after years of working with his partner, he believes it…at least a bit more than he has in a long time. But in these moments of split second decisions, these instances where he feels like he’s back on the field, his Stanton™ training usually takes prevalence and he acts recklessly in the interest of the mission above all.
Shaw is still waiting for an actual answer, though.
“The number was getting away?” He almost cringes at his own voice, trying to force a sarcastic tone. Shaw shoots him an unimpressed look.
“You know if you die you can’t help any more numbers right?” The question is rethorical and he feels like she wants to go on, so he lets her. “Look, mental health is like any other injury. You need to take care of it or it will continue affecting your work. How do you think you can help others if you’re in no condition to actually help because you’re too busy hurting yourself? You should listen to Harold more.” He must look a little bit surprised, because she goes on to explain, “With the number of times I’ve patched you up in secret, I know he must be constantly telling you to be more careful and consider your own safety. Hell, I’m sure you must have frequent arguments about it. You should listen, he cares about you. Otherwise he wouldn’t be so hurt every time.”
The silence that follows is almost awkward. They don’t usually have these kinds of serious talks, so neither of them know how to keep it going.
Shaw ends up starting the car, begins to put the earpiece back in to call Finch back…but hesitates, like she wants to say something more.
She must reach the conclusion that it’s better said than not, because she turns towards him again with a sigh. “Harold cares about you. But his reaction today, the silence…it’s not like him and it could actually put the mission in danger. You better find a way to get him to forgive you fast ‘cause I’m not going back into the field today without knowing I can fully rely on him.”
Not waiting for an answer, she puts the earpiece back in and starts driving away. John mindlessly does the same, relieved to hear Finch’s steady breath in his ear again. He really screwed up this time. He hopes the talk with Finch will go as well as possible but he knows it’s going to be a painful one.
–
Once back at the subway, John and Shaw find the desk empty, Finch having closed himself in the wagon, checking information on the machine’s drives, probably avoiding them.
Affection overcomes John, as it usually does whenever he sees Harold. Today it is tinted with shame and guilt and he swallows his feelings. He’s tried to smother them time and time again since realizing; even if there was ever a way John could do something about it, he doesn’t deserve this. He might have, at some point, but people like him didn’t get happy endings…and definitely not with someone as brilliant and generous as Harold.
Shaw makes him go towards the cot in the alcove, sits him down, and wordlessly takes out the first aid kit. John starts taking his vest off, wincing in pain, glad at least that the shot seems to have been pretty straightforward. He clearly hasn’t lost too much blood, or he would feel a lot more light headed, and the soaked black vest, riddled with two holes, indicates that the bullet went cleanly out the other side. This shouldn’t take too long, nor keep him benched for the rest of the mission…if Finch allows him to get back out.
Shaw waits for him to open his shirt and expose the wound, then starts working on disinfecting the area, cleaning and needling away at his flesh, knitting him back together once more. John thinks she must be angry too in some way, even though she doesn’t show her emotions, as always. She seems to be perpetually cleaning up his messes by being his unofficial medic. He tries to convince himself that he only wants to hide his multiple injuries from Finch to save him the trouble and worry, that he doesn’t need more creases on his forehead and could use less stress in his life, but he knows from arguments that this line of thought is mostly wishful thinking.
He hopes today’s argument will blow up soon. Finch is still rummaging in the subway carriage. It usually would have already come to pass by now, Finch not being one to waste time on petty silent treatment. This does make John all the more anxious and, as Shaw finishes dressing his wound, he wonders if he should be the one to go to him this time. Shaw gives him a pointed look, reminding him of their previous talk and convincing him. He dresses back up and goes towards the carriage.
Feeling his presence, he watches as Finch’s back becomes more rigid. John stops to gather his thoughts, knowing he should apologize, trying to keep his self-deprecating comments at bay. They would only make everything worse.
Slowly, he slides the doors of the wagon open. Harold’s hands stop fiddling with the drives and hold still. The air itself seems to be holding its breath.
“How is the shoulder?” Finch asks.
John closes his eyes and lets the wave of shame pass through him. Even in a moment where it was clear that he should be the one starting the conversation, he still can’t respect Harold enough to acknowledge his wrongdoings first. Finch is always the one redirecting the conversation, leading, and being the bigger person. John can’t give him that, even now.
He wishes nothing more than to fall on his knees, arms around Finch’s legs, begging for forgiveness, hoping to still be enough to be kept around…but he knows this is his insecurity talking. Harold has never been anything other than forgiving towards him.
“I’m sorry it happened again. I broke my promise.” Again, his brain supplies. The words scrape against his tongue like sand paper. He forces them out anyway; he owes Harold this at least.
“I don’t care about your promises, John, though I’d appreciate it if you stopped making them, knowing you might regret them later.” His back remains tense, still turned away from him, hands frozen in place. He’s barely moving. “I care more about your well being.”
John hesitantly walks inside the wagon. He’s vaguely aware, from his corner vision, that Shaw is walking out of the subway, leaving them to talk, but he can’t afford to move his attention away for one second.
As he approaches, Harold’s tension seems to slowly bleed from his shoulders. He sighs and suddenly, the only tension left is his normal levels, plaguing his back and neck. Not for the first time, John wishes he could put his warm hands there, slowly massage away as much pain as he could, feel Harold relax the way he never could during a mission.
Finch’s hands finally lower and he slowly turns towards John. Finch’s eyes still don’t meet his own, but they move from his figure to his shoulder and back again, almost unconsciously, like he’s trying to downplay his worry. The lines of his face are carefully smoothed as well, but John knows him.
He tries to talk, say something, an explanation, an open window on his soul and worries and psyche; he wants for Harold to know him, on a deep level, one nobody’s ever seen. But the words don’t come. He wishes his face could transmit his deeper thoughts but Harold isn’t even looking at his face, so there’s that.
He thinks as loudly as he can though. He tries to send his thoughts towards Harold directly. You’re right, I am fucked up, Finch. I have nightmares about it every night. I spent so many years of my life getting told that I wasn’t a real person that I internalized it. I wish I could tell you I won’t ever put myself in danger anymore…but you’ve heard my promises before and they’re worth nothing. You know it’ll probably happen again. And when that happens, please, I need you to look at me and tell me I’m worth it. That you’ll forgive me as many times as I need. One day, I might change. I want to change. Don’t abandon me today. Please, look at me.
When Harold interrupts his thoughts, it’s clear that he didn’t hear him. Of course he didn’t, we’re not psychic, and you’re incapable of saying them out loud.
“Do you think I like seeing you like this?” Finch’s eyes still ignore him and John irrationally feels like he’s been rejected. “I know this is supposed to be the job and I can’t expect you to always be safe, but I can’t continue like this. I’ve told you time and time again how much I worry; we’ve discussed this regularly for years now. I won’t be discussing it anymore, I think, Mr Reese. If you wish to, you know where to find me, but I can’t make you believe that you deserve to take care of yourself unless that’s what you wish to hear. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak to Shaw about tonight. I think it would be best, in your state, to stay here but, as we discussed, do as you wish.”
Finch moves past him, grazing John’s left hand casually, as if not even noticing the contact that blazes a fire in John’s gut. Once out of the carriage, he suddenly stops as he notices the distinct absence of Shaw.