Harold Finch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rlyprivateperson) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
sojournerdeep2016-11-15 05:18 am
rlyprivateperson) wrote in sojournerdeep2016-11-15 05:18 am
(closed) Settling In
He hadn't so much as invited John Reese to his temporary home as insisted on it, after that Incident at the plaza. (Incident was a nice word. Indicative while still being imprecise, euphemistic. 'Incident' was a safe word that didn't allow for things like panic.)
The place Harold Finch had chosen for himself was a place of curves, a domicile set into a long glass-roofed tube that itself snaked around a tower and became a gentle torus. It made him think of a hobbit-hole. (There was a book he hadn't read in ages.) But he'd chosen it for location and vantage more than nostalgia; it was near to the arrival plaza, it had a good view from its transparent sections of the bazaar and the people coming and going. There was an elevator allowing access, but not stairs, and Finch was of mixed feelings about this: should the power go out, he was going to find himself up in a rather hard-to-descend-from lofty nest... but conversely, that made it defensible too, he supposed. And-- and he-- well, he liked the height, anyway.
Still, he imagined John was likely to say some things about the lack of stairs.
But at the moment he was more concerned with things like making sure Jo-- Reese ate; accessibility concerns could come later. He ushered John in the round hatch door, and towards one of the curved sofa-like things that hugged the walls, and then busied himself at the collection of wires and scavenged equipment that was serving him as kitchen and work-center and various other things. Tea first. He set water heating.
The gun was still heavy in his jacket pocket. Finch took it out, gingerly, and set it.... down, away from John.
"I have oatmeal or something like it," he said crisply to Reese, "and a green soup that's sort of savory; which do you want?"
(Because you are going to eat one of them if he has to force it down you, John Reese.)
The place Harold Finch had chosen for himself was a place of curves, a domicile set into a long glass-roofed tube that itself snaked around a tower and became a gentle torus. It made him think of a hobbit-hole. (There was a book he hadn't read in ages.) But he'd chosen it for location and vantage more than nostalgia; it was near to the arrival plaza, it had a good view from its transparent sections of the bazaar and the people coming and going. There was an elevator allowing access, but not stairs, and Finch was of mixed feelings about this: should the power go out, he was going to find himself up in a rather hard-to-descend-from lofty nest... but conversely, that made it defensible too, he supposed. And-- and he-- well, he liked the height, anyway.
Still, he imagined John was likely to say some things about the lack of stairs.
But at the moment he was more concerned with things like making sure Jo-- Reese ate; accessibility concerns could come later. He ushered John in the round hatch door, and towards one of the curved sofa-like things that hugged the walls, and then busied himself at the collection of wires and scavenged equipment that was serving him as kitchen and work-center and various other things. Tea first. He set water heating.
The gun was still heavy in his jacket pocket. Finch took it out, gingerly, and set it.... down, away from John.
"I have oatmeal or something like it," he said crisply to Reese, "and a green soup that's sort of savory; which do you want?"
(Because you are going to eat one of them if he has to force it down you, John Reese.)