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Junkyard

“Harold?”

Finch blinked, his ears ringing, the rain sheeting down around him, drumming on rusted roofs and dented hoods, a sharp gust whipping the stinging drops into his face, moaning through broken windows. When had it started raining? He looked down at the body on the ground in front of him, skin ashen, eyes wide and staring. He looked familiar.

“Harold, are you all right?”

Finch turned, peering through the water drops on his glasses as Reese approached, his hair slicked down, his clothes soaked. What were they doing in the rain?

“You’re in shock,” Reese said quietly, reaching out toward him. Finch let him take the gun, his hands suddenly cold and empty without the weight of the weapon. What was he doing with a gun? He hated guns. He looked down at the body again. Agent Snow.

Finch drew a sharp, shaking breath and took a step back, his injured leg almost buckling beneath him. Reese caught him, holding him up.

“It’s all right,” Reese said, turning him bodily and leading him away, through the maze of wrecked cars. “You didn’t have any choice.”

“I…I shot him…” Finch whispered, the memories crushing in on him, making it hard to breathe. Snow had surprised them, Reese leading him away, letting Finch make it back to the car. He knew Reese kept an extra gun under the seat. He’d grabbed it, he’d gone back to provide a distraction, to let Reese escape. Snow had Reese trapped in the wrecking yard, pinned down, out of ammunition. Snow had smiled, gloating, and Reese had just stared back, hopeless and resigned. Finch remembered raising the gun, releasing the safety, squeezing the trigger…

He stumbled, pulling away from Reese as he fell to his hands and knees and vomited on the ground, his whole body shaking. A hand touched his shoulder and he flinched.

“Come on, Finch,” Reese said softly. Finch let Reese pull him to his feet and help him into the back seat of the car. He didn’t notice that Reese had climbed in with him until he heard the door close and looked over at the man seated beside him. Reese shrugged out of his coat, using the inside to wipe his face and towel the rain from his hair. Finch supposed he ought to do the same, cold water trickling down his neck and under his collar, but he couldn’t make himself move. Shock. Reese had said he was in shock. That was probably a fair assessment.

Finch tensed as Reese leaned toward him, large, sure hands carefully working his wet suit jacket off. “I killed him…” Finch stared past Reese, out the tinted window, at the body lying in the rain. A warm hand pressed against his cheek, drawing his attention back inside the car.

“You saved my life,” Reese said, “and I’m sorry that you had to. Harold, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to know what this felt like.” His hand lingered on Finch’s face for a moment, long enough that Finch missed it when it was suddenly gone. “Here, my coat is a little dryer than yours,” Reese said, settling it around Finch’s shoulders. “You need to stay warm until we get back to the library.” Reese gently took his glasses, dried the lenses on the sleeve of his shirt, and carefully placed them back on Finch’s face. He started to open the door and an irrational panic filled Finch’s chest, making it hard to breathe.

“Don’t go,” he said, grabbing Reese arm.

Reese turned back. “Somebody’s got to drive the car, Finch,” he said softly.

Finch swallowed hard, a sour, metallic taste in his mouth, and nodded. “I know, I just…don’t leave yet.”

Reese nodded his head and closed the door again. For a moment, they just stared at each other. It was Finch who reached out first, just extending his fingers toward Reese, his arm barely moving, but Reese’s sharp eyes missed nothing and he grasped Finch’s hand, holding it tight. Neither said a word as Finch leaned against Reese, the shaking inside him easing as Reese draped an arm lightly around his shoulders.

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3 Comments
  1. managerie76 permalink

    “You saved my life,” Reese said, “and I’m sorry that you had to. Harold, I’m so sorry. I never wanted you to know what this felt like.”

    Reese will be kicking himself and hovering over Harold for months.

  2. ““Oh, c’mon,” Finch said, pushing himself up off the sofa, “I may look like a genius billionaire recluse, but in bed I’m an animal, like a wildebeest…or a marmoset. Rawr.”
    You’re the queen of lol. Ahahahah… poor John! XD

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