It was an odd pair to say the least. Not that working at a New York hospital brought up normal people. Quite the contrary. And yet the nurse had a feeling these two weren't as unusual as the rest. That they were special. If that made any sense.
A somewhat tan man in a dark suit was pushing a wheelchair. The man had dirt patches all over him, almost as if he had been in a fight recently. In fact, if she wasn't mistaken, he even had a cut on his lip. Then there was the figure in the wheelchair. Their face wasn't visible, only the top of his (she assumed) head. The head bobbled as the pair approached, the fingers on either side of him remaining her of a dead squid.
The younger gentleman pushing the wheelchair fixed her with a cool stare. "He's been beaten fairly badly," he reported in a husky voice. Despite the stoic poker face, the light eyes had a hint of pleading in them. The nurse stooped down and lightly turned the drooped head of the unconscious man in the wheelchair upward. He looked a bit older than his…guardian, was really the only word that came to mind. His features could have been compared to a human version of a mouse. Unconsciously she found herself taking off his askew glasses. They were round and old fashion, similar to the sweater vest that someone had hastily slapped on his body.
"Black eye," She murmured, examining the rest of his face before tugging a bit at the battered army green vest. Then she paused and looked toward the younger man.
"And you are...?"
"Mr. Reese." He said shortly. A vein popping in his neck showed mild irritation.
"I meant your relation with this man." The New Yorker in her couldn't help thinking how odd this looked. A strong, healthy guy who had the look of a hit for hire and a frail beaten man. Didn't take a genius to add things up.
"He's a friend," Reese found himself saying, actually blinking in surprise at his own words. The nurse continued to look skeptical. "A close friend…my partner." He wasn't lying in fact. Finch was his partner. Ever since the baby carriage bomb incident, he had never quite seen him as an unfeeling boss but a caring equal. He was also Fin- Harold's, he told himself, friend. You had to be a friend to go through all the lengths he did to find him. And to suffer the guilt he felt at being unable to prevent this whole fiasco.
The hands of the nurse's hips had slacked and he had a feeling something must had shown on his face. "Get him on the bed then." She waved toward the stiff board of cotton that reeked of bleach. In one fluid motion, Finch was propped into the bed like a china doll. The nurse leaned over him and carefully felt his rib cage, reaching underneath his sweater.
"Two fractured ribs I think," she scrunched her face in concentration. Next, she tilted his head back and forth. Pulling an eyelid open, she checked his pupil dilation and found herself starting at a bloodshot blue eye. "Multiple cuts and bruises on his arms and hands," She took note of dried bloodstains that had leaked from his wounds upon the white Oxford shirt he had on.
"Gunshot to the shoulder?" She glanced at the first aid patch. Reese remained silent. He had cut a square of fabric away from Finch's shirt and put pressure on it for what seemed like hours before he had the guts to move him out of the hellhole where he found him. A small smirk feel o his face. He had a feeling Finch wouldn't mind the destruction of his clothing. The nurse was reaching for his pant leg when Reese spoke up.
"He's got a limp." His voice was flat and had a neutral tone to it. Nevertheless, she took her hands away from his companion's leg. Something told her he wanted her to stop.
"Well you did the right thing with the gunshot. We'll probably need an X-Ray to check his bones though." Reese nodded, too busy looking at the man she was talking about to really listen. He looked so…weak. Despite all their time together, Finch had never struck him as weak. He always had a sort of pride in his dysfunctional walk. He had the aura of a man that knew what he was doing despite the fact he most likely had no clue. Sometimes, John tilted his head, not all the time. More often than not, Harold had proven that he was quite brilliant at planning ahead and helping with missions. Not that Reese praised him a lot for it. Perhaps he should have.
"Mr. Reese?" He felt a clipboard and pen being shoved into his hands. "We're going to need a report on what happened and your friend's name and insurance. There are a couple more forms I'll just go get them real fast, ok?" She didn't wait for his answer and walked out of the room in her scrubs. She must have thought that he was in shock.
In truth, he had seen many agents who were the subject of torture during his time in The Company. Some of them he had been responsible for torturing. So why did this make him feel this way? Make him far so…emotional?
He pulsed his lip and looked down at the paper. The hospital smell was getting to him, he supposed.
A/N – I just can't help picturing this happening whenever Reese rescues Finch so I wrote it out. I may continue this a bit further if I get enough reviews. Otherwise this will just be a one-shot :)