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jimmyhkim21Title: Recycling
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: none
Summary: It was over, and all that was left for Reese to do is to take off the goddamn bomb vest.
Disclaimer: The Machine has filed this under the fiction category.
Reese didn’t want to call Finch. The man had been through enough for one night: he’d to have run up over twenty flights of stairs to get to Reese on time. And it was Finch who had disarmed the fucking bomb; not John and his how-many-years of experience in the military and the CIA.
John looked at the bomb vest still strapped to his chest and closed his eyes. He could do this. The goddamn Velcro straps were right under his left arm. All he had to do was reach across…
But Reese couldn’t. His hands were shaking so badly there was no way he could trust himself not to fuck it up.
Not that the explosives were going to fulfill their destiny after the phone had been disabled. Kara was many things, but she wasn’t a cheapskate. She had gotten the best in the market, which meant you would have to work to make these babies go boom.
Still, Reese couldn’t peel the vest from his body.
Feeling hot tears of frustration threatening to humiliate him even further, John caved in and reached for his cell.
Finch answered during the first ring. “Reese?”
“I need help,” John answered. “I can’t move very well.”
“Will be there in fifteen minutes,” Finch responded promptly.
John noticed Finch’s tread approach his loft in ten minutes. In spite of being crippled, Harold had one of the fiercest footsteps John had ever heard.
He opened the door without greeting and stepped aside to let Finch in. Reese wondered where Bear was. And if the Malinois had caught his scent off of Finch and had taken some comfort from it.
To Reese’s gratitude Finch didn’t say a word as he undid the Velcro, finally freeing Reese of the nightmare that had infected his life. Reese cautiously took it from him and placed it on the dinner table before taking a deep breath. He then dragged himself into the bathroom in order to take a shower. Reese wanted nothing more than to soak under the warm spray for an hour, but he had to consider the explosives in the loft, not seven feet from where he’d left Finch standing.
The five-minute ablution felt like heaven, though, and Reese was in a better mood when he stepped out into the living space.
He found Finch was sitting quite primly at the table, dismantling the vest as if he’d handled explosives for as long as Reese had.
Finch looked up at Reese and saw the speculative look in the man’s gaze. “You want to keep these, don’t you?” he asked flatly before throwing a pointed glance towards Reese’s ordnance closet.
Reese found himself grinning. “Stanton could be trusted to get the top of the line. And we’ll probably need them if Elias gets even more creative.”
“I am sorry to say I will have to claim them as I have a more urgent matter to discharge.”
Reese blamed Finch’s hard, glacial tone for the shiver that traveled down his back. He was only too familiar with fear, but it was not something he’d readily associate with Finch whose decency ran to the core.
“What are you planning to do with them?” Reese asked.
“From the initial reports I believe your previous partner had died in the explosion along with Agent Snow. However, if she had managed to escape, I plan to cram these down her throat before booting her off the Queensboro Bridge.
“So, if it is all the same to you, I will keep them.”
Reese sat across from Finch and quietly studied the man’s meticulous movements. It was a full minute before he burst out laughing.
Finch looked up in surprise and watched as Reese dropped his head on the table, laughing uncontrollably.
“May I ask what is so humorous about this situation?” Finch asked, outrage coloring his tone.
“It’s just that…” Reese burst out laughing again. “I can see you using your Christofle flatware to cut strips out of Semtex to turn them into something like pasta. And pour Stanton some expensive red wine so it’d go down easier. And then loading her into a trebuchet you probably have squirreled up somewhere in the City.”
The comical look of surprise on Finch's face only added to Reese’s hilarity.
“I don’t have a trebuchet,” Finch said. “What makes you think I have such a weapon in my arsenal?”
Reese just laughed harder.
Finch smiled. It was tight at first but then a full grin fought its way free. “My God, John. What do you think I am?”
“Have you ever seen a television show called Punkin Chunkin?”
Twenty minutes later both Finch and Reese were hysterically laughing as they discussed the merits of NYC bridges and which could hold the weight of a trebuchet without incurring structural damages.
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: none
Summary: It was over, and all that was left for Reese to do is to take off the goddamn bomb vest.
Disclaimer: The Machine has filed this under the fiction category.
Reese didn’t want to call Finch. The man had been through enough for one night: he’d to have run up over twenty flights of stairs to get to Reese on time. And it was Finch who had disarmed the fucking bomb; not John and his how-many-years of experience in the military and the CIA.
John looked at the bomb vest still strapped to his chest and closed his eyes. He could do this. The goddamn Velcro straps were right under his left arm. All he had to do was reach across…
But Reese couldn’t. His hands were shaking so badly there was no way he could trust himself not to fuck it up.
Not that the explosives were going to fulfill their destiny after the phone had been disabled. Kara was many things, but she wasn’t a cheapskate. She had gotten the best in the market, which meant you would have to work to make these babies go boom.
Still, Reese couldn’t peel the vest from his body.
Feeling hot tears of frustration threatening to humiliate him even further, John caved in and reached for his cell.
Finch answered during the first ring. “Reese?”
“I need help,” John answered. “I can’t move very well.”
“Will be there in fifteen minutes,” Finch responded promptly.
John noticed Finch’s tread approach his loft in ten minutes. In spite of being crippled, Harold had one of the fiercest footsteps John had ever heard.
He opened the door without greeting and stepped aside to let Finch in. Reese wondered where Bear was. And if the Malinois had caught his scent off of Finch and had taken some comfort from it.
To Reese’s gratitude Finch didn’t say a word as he undid the Velcro, finally freeing Reese of the nightmare that had infected his life. Reese cautiously took it from him and placed it on the dinner table before taking a deep breath. He then dragged himself into the bathroom in order to take a shower. Reese wanted nothing more than to soak under the warm spray for an hour, but he had to consider the explosives in the loft, not seven feet from where he’d left Finch standing.
The five-minute ablution felt like heaven, though, and Reese was in a better mood when he stepped out into the living space.
He found Finch was sitting quite primly at the table, dismantling the vest as if he’d handled explosives for as long as Reese had.
Finch looked up at Reese and saw the speculative look in the man’s gaze. “You want to keep these, don’t you?” he asked flatly before throwing a pointed glance towards Reese’s ordnance closet.
Reese found himself grinning. “Stanton could be trusted to get the top of the line. And we’ll probably need them if Elias gets even more creative.”
“I am sorry to say I will have to claim them as I have a more urgent matter to discharge.”
Reese blamed Finch’s hard, glacial tone for the shiver that traveled down his back. He was only too familiar with fear, but it was not something he’d readily associate with Finch whose decency ran to the core.
“What are you planning to do with them?” Reese asked.
“From the initial reports I believe your previous partner had died in the explosion along with Agent Snow. However, if she had managed to escape, I plan to cram these down her throat before booting her off the Queensboro Bridge.
“So, if it is all the same to you, I will keep them.”
Reese sat across from Finch and quietly studied the man’s meticulous movements. It was a full minute before he burst out laughing.
Finch looked up in surprise and watched as Reese dropped his head on the table, laughing uncontrollably.
“May I ask what is so humorous about this situation?” Finch asked, outrage coloring his tone.
“It’s just that…” Reese burst out laughing again. “I can see you using your Christofle flatware to cut strips out of Semtex to turn them into something like pasta. And pour Stanton some expensive red wine so it’d go down easier. And then loading her into a trebuchet you probably have squirreled up somewhere in the City.”
The comical look of surprise on Finch's face only added to Reese’s hilarity.
“I don’t have a trebuchet,” Finch said. “What makes you think I have such a weapon in my arsenal?”
Reese just laughed harder.
Finch smiled. It was tight at first but then a full grin fought its way free. “My God, John. What do you think I am?”
“Have you ever seen a television show called Punkin Chunkin?”
Twenty minutes later both Finch and Reese were hysterically laughing as they discussed the merits of NYC bridges and which could hold the weight of a trebuchet without incurring structural damages.
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2013-04-11 05:52 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-04-11 06:48 pm (UTC)Loved it!
no subject
Date: 2013-04-21 07:56 am (UTC)