I Care--A Person of Interest Fanfiction

I Care

Inside the car, the only sounds were the tapping of fingers on computer keys as Harold Finch looked up the driver's license for a Ms. Abby Quigley. According to the machine, she was their latest number in need of protection, and Finch was doing all he could to gather as much information as possible.

The car door opened and closed, as John Reece slid in the adjacent passenger seat. Finch eyed him, not completely turned away from the computer.

"What have we got?"

"Ms. Quigley is a student advisor in a private school in Brooklyn. She has been on the job for the past five years with no complaints from the school." Finch reported to his partner.

Reece tilted his head. "Not even one?"

Finch angled his chin in a sideways glance. "That is what I said."

Reece looked onward, over the car's dashboard and sighed. "What's eating you?"

Finch resumed his typing. "Nothing has been "eating" me, as you so eloquently stated Mr. Reece. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to our work."

"You haven't been the same lately."

Finch paused, fingers finally still. "Whatever gave you that impression?"

Reece looked back at him. "Just a hunch. How's the hand?"

The hand which John was referring to was Finch's left hand, which was currently wrapped in clean, white bandages concealing the scar which...she...had given him.

Finch's hand muscles involuntarily twitched, as he remembered the thin slice of plastic splitting apart his skin, effectively drawing blood. Root had cut him in the first place to slip behind a pharmacy counter while a kind employee badged Finch's wound, distracted.

Harold licked his lips, nervous. "Perfectly fine."

He positioned himself to resume his typing, when John suddenly reached over and folded the laptop closed. Finch sighed--apparently his answer hadn't been satisfactory to what Reece had wanted to hear.

"I think you're lying Finch. You're damn good at it, but it's there in your voice." Reece kept his eyes trained on his partner. 

Harold stared down at the closed laptop. John's hand was still resting on the metal case; a silent warning for him to stop and listen.

"Harold." Reece spoke. 

Finch was surprised. Reece had never addressed him in such a casual manner before. Since they started working together it had always been "Finch" and "Mr. Reece." Never John or Harold.

"I would like to get back to work now." Finch's voice had lost its commanding edge. He was fighting a losing battle.

"Harold." John repeated. "You need to listen."

"I am listening. You aren't saying anything." Finch snapped, finally losing his patience.

Surprise flashed briefly across Reece's face, before settling back into his usual poker-face stare.

"Just let me talk, Harold. I'll say what I want to say and then you can get back to your work. if you want, I can leave afterward to give you some air." He motioned to the car door. "I know you value your privacy."

"If you knew that, then you also know I don't want to talk about what happened." Finch looked away.

"Harold, what did she do to you?"

Same old John. He was beautifully, yet painfully blunt. There was never this game of double-meanings or ambiguity  with his words. Straightforward and blunt--two traits which Harold admired in the ex-CIA agent.

Now, he was starting to resent those features.

He weighed his options. He could lie again. He hated doing so, but at least he would maintain his privacy and avoid revealing the unpleasant details of his kidnapping.

On the other hand...he could lose his trust. Harold could lose John's trust.

The job with the numbers and the Machine was a dangerous one, and the two men had agreed that death and pain were inevitable factors--not a question of how but when.

In between the gun fights and the hired killers and the entanglements with the occasional mob or gang, trust was the duo's saving grace. In combination of John's tactical training and Harold's technological skill, the two could take on Hell and more if they so wished. But it couldn't last.

They would get caught. They almost certainly would be killed. 

Harold exhaled, making his decision. "She tortured me. Manipulated me."

He could feel John's eyes boring into him. Finch continued.

"She knew my weakness. She threatened to hurt random civilians if I dared to escape or defy her." 

Harold could feels his hands--including the bandaged one--curl around the cold laptop surface in disdain. How he had hated those days, shuffling around as a prisoner in his own right. 

But what choice had he? What could he have done?

When he'd realized he had gone silent, Harold continued.

"Those were dark days Mr. Reece. I hope you can understand now why I didn't wish to discuss them with you earlier." 

"I do." Reece said, with a tenderness Finch couldn't believe he was capable of.

The ex-agent glanced at him, his face hardening. "I'm going to find her."

"I wish you wouldn't."

"And I'm going to make her pay."

"John--no!"

Now it was Reece's turn to look surprised. "Why not?"

"She is dangerous. Besides, unlike her, we help people, not hurt them." Finch turned back to his laptop.

"That, Mr. Reece, is a full-time job."

"I know. I was there when you woke me up at three in the morning."

"Duty calls; the Machine waits for no one Mr. Reece." Finch opened the laptop and resumed typing. Settling back into routine once more.

They sat there for moment before John spoke once more.

"Harold."

"Hmm?"

"Thank you for telling me."

Finch paused. "You're welcome, John."