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Oh my God, you guys, I am in too deep. Watching this scene over and over, breath catching. (Serious season 6 spoilers, but it's worth it if you want to see ME go all out. Without ever raising his voice, naturally.)
Luckily it will all be over soon at this rate, and then I can go back to a semblance of normality. Except I have two PoI fics on the slow burner (well, one I haven't started yet and I may not dare to, but the other is on the way).
*
He abandons critical, time-sensitive work without a qualm, and goes to Finch. "You all right?" he asks, sidling from darkness into light, startling the man standing by the desk with his face full of despair and his fists clenched by his sides.
"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch says with a reassuring twitch of a smile. He's anything but fine, but Reese accepts it, says, "Ten minutes," and goes back to the grenades. It's been half an hour since he said "half an hour," but they can afford to stretch his estimate a bit, since that's all it is. He'd known, instinctively, to give Finch a time frame. It's not the same as a clock ticking down to an explosion, everything that matters concentrated in cool precise taps of shaking fingers. But it's still numbers. Minutes are numbers; square inches of trunk space in the anonymous sedan parked outside are numbers. Numbers limit, and numbers open up infinite universes, and he knows which one of those he has to believe in right now; if he could hobble Finch's expansive mind into believing the same, he would.
*
Back to present tense for this one, hm. Also, Reese POV again, why do I do this to myself. They both are, if I write the other one.
Okay, gotta drive across the county to talk about edible landscaping now. It is bloody hot today and last week we were freezing; this is the year without a spring.
Luckily it will all be over soon at this rate, and then I can go back to a semblance of normality. Except I have two PoI fics on the slow burner (well, one I haven't started yet and I may not dare to, but the other is on the way).
*
He abandons critical, time-sensitive work without a qualm, and goes to Finch. "You all right?" he asks, sidling from darkness into light, startling the man standing by the desk with his face full of despair and his fists clenched by his sides.
"I'm fine, Mr. Reese," Finch says with a reassuring twitch of a smile. He's anything but fine, but Reese accepts it, says, "Ten minutes," and goes back to the grenades. It's been half an hour since he said "half an hour," but they can afford to stretch his estimate a bit, since that's all it is. He'd known, instinctively, to give Finch a time frame. It's not the same as a clock ticking down to an explosion, everything that matters concentrated in cool precise taps of shaking fingers. But it's still numbers. Minutes are numbers; square inches of trunk space in the anonymous sedan parked outside are numbers. Numbers limit, and numbers open up infinite universes, and he knows which one of those he has to believe in right now; if he could hobble Finch's expansive mind into believing the same, he would.
*
Back to present tense for this one, hm. Also, Reese POV again, why do I do this to myself. They both are, if I write the other one.
Okay, gotta drive across the county to talk about edible landscaping now. It is bloody hot today and last week we were freezing; this is the year without a spring.
