In the morning, Finch came back, and Reese saved the life of a poet.
The poet's case was, even by Reese's standards, absurd and amazing. And it said far too much about the world of publishing.
His name was Foster Mackenzie, and he'd - not to put too fine a point on it - lived under a rock for the past twenty years. He'd been lucky enough to have a wealthy patron who'd left him a small apartment in his will, together with a tiny allowance, and he'd since become, in essence, a hermit. A hermit with some friends, and a bit of a cult following among students (they came to him for advice), but a hermit all the same. He didn't even read the newspaper.
So he had no idea that an unscrupulous soul had been shamelessly plagiarizing his work. For years. In the New Yorker, no less.
That is, he had no idea until a few days ago.
The poor man had confronted his plagiarist, a Mr. Robert Cunningham, the day before, and Mr. Cunningham was planning to strangle him and make it look like a suicide. It would probably have been believable, even - just leave a few Gérard de Nerval quotes in the suicide letter, and remove any evidence of the plagiarized originals - and no one would have been the wiser.
Thankfully Reese had made it there first, and he hadn't even needed to make any threats. All he'd needed to do was make a few copies of some poems, and call the police. Cunningham wouldn't be charged with attempted homicide, but he'd never work again, and Foster Mackenzie was safe.
Fusco was particularly bewildered by the case. "Just when I start to think I've seen it all," he said, shaking his head.
"Truth is stranger than fiction, detective."
Reese was about to join Fusco for lunch, when his phone alerted him: Finch's glasses - the ones with the tracker - had just moved.
Reese's heart lurched. Finch was back. Had to be.
He excused himself from lunch (catch you later, Lionel) and practically raced to the library. A jumble of thoughts crowded his mind - he saw Finch telling him they'd been drugged ("do you recognize this handkerchief?") and Finch's handwritten note ("I will be away for a few days"), but also Finch whispering in his ear ("I trust you, John") and Reese didn't know if he was hoping for Finch to pretend it had all never happened, or... Or what?
He found his inner calm as he walked past the bookshelves, towards the library office. It had been five days since he'd found Finch's note. Five days without Finch's voice. But there, there Finch was, and for the first time since he'd left the CIA, Reese thought, maybe there were some upsides to being emotionally numb. Because there Finch was - Finch with his glasses, and his hair, and his waistcoat - and Reese felt a little bit undone. CIA-era John Reese had misplaced his sense of morality, but at least he didn't get fucking heart palpitations just from seeing someone's face.
Nonetheless, Reese walked up to the Finch's desk, and barely paused before saying: "Finch." Like he hasn't spent the entire week waiting to see him. Not at all.
Bear whacked his tail on the floor, over and over, with the purest canine happiness.
FILL: all the things we don't talk about, Reese/Finch, 15/?
The poet's case was, even by Reese's standards, absurd and amazing. And it said far too much about the world of publishing.
His name was Foster Mackenzie, and he'd - not to put too fine a point on it - lived under a rock for the past twenty years. He'd been lucky enough to have a wealthy patron who'd left him a small apartment in his will, together with a tiny allowance, and he'd since become, in essence, a hermit. A hermit with some friends, and a bit of a cult following among students (they came to him for advice), but a hermit all the same. He didn't even read the newspaper.
So he had no idea that an unscrupulous soul had been shamelessly plagiarizing his work. For years. In the New Yorker, no less.
That is, he had no idea until a few days ago.
The poor man had confronted his plagiarist, a Mr. Robert Cunningham, the day before, and Mr. Cunningham was planning to strangle him and make it look like a suicide. It would probably have been believable, even - just leave a few Gérard de Nerval quotes in the suicide letter, and remove any evidence of the plagiarized originals - and no one would have been the wiser.
Thankfully Reese had made it there first, and he hadn't even needed to make any threats. All he'd needed to do was make a few copies of some poems, and call the police. Cunningham wouldn't be charged with attempted homicide, but he'd never work again, and Foster Mackenzie was safe.
Fusco was particularly bewildered by the case. "Just when I start to think I've seen it all," he said, shaking his head.
"Truth is stranger than fiction, detective."
Reese was about to join Fusco for lunch, when his phone alerted him: Finch's glasses - the ones with the tracker - had just moved.
Reese's heart lurched. Finch was back. Had to be.
He excused himself from lunch (catch you later, Lionel) and practically raced to the library. A jumble of thoughts crowded his mind - he saw Finch telling him they'd been drugged ("do you recognize this handkerchief?") and Finch's handwritten note ("I will be away for a few days"), but also Finch whispering in his ear ("I trust you, John") and Reese didn't know if he was hoping for Finch to pretend it had all never happened, or... Or what?
He found his inner calm as he walked past the bookshelves, towards the library office. It had been five days since he'd found Finch's note. Five days without Finch's voice. But there, there Finch was, and for the first time since he'd left the CIA, Reese thought, maybe there were some upsides to being emotionally numb. Because there Finch was - Finch with his glasses, and his hair, and his waistcoat - and Reese felt a little bit undone. CIA-era John Reese had misplaced his sense of morality, but at least he didn't get fucking heart palpitations just from seeing someone's face.
Nonetheless, Reese walked up to the Finch's desk, and barely paused before saying: "Finch." Like he hasn't spent the entire week waiting to see him. Not at all.
Bear whacked his tail on the floor, over and over, with the purest canine happiness.
Finch looked up. "Mr. Reese."