Chapter 8 – John Reese, Part 2

2011/12/16, 08:49:07 – Finch Estate, Southampton (Village), New York


I woke up with my senses on high alert – there had been some noise or movement that had awoken me. I saw that the double doors of the unfamiliar room were open a crack and caught a glimpse of someone standing outside, watching me. When my stomach muscles reflexively tensed at the potential threat, my memories of the night before came flooding back with the pain: I’d been shot and brought to Finch’s house; I’d fallen asleep holding Finch’s hand; and it was probably one of Finch’s people checking on us.

I looked over at Finch, discovering that he had let me sleep all night with his hand still clasped in mine. He was snoring peacefully in his chair, looking uncharacteristically unguarded and… innocent. Childlike, even. I was glad that he was resting so well, but a whiff of bacon came in with one of the bodyguards – Mr. Doherty, I remembered – who asked in a low voice how I was doing.

“Not bad, all things considered,” I told him, then ran my finger lightly over the back of Finch’s hand and up his arm. He stirred and snorted, blinking as he gained his bearings, and I couldn’t quite stifle the smile that crept into my face as a long-forgotten warmth flooded my chest.

“Breakfast is ready, Sir, if you are,” Doherty said.

“Ah! Thank you, Mr. Doherty,” Finch responded, then noticed the older woman at the door (a grandmother figure with her gray hair done up in a neat little bun) and called her in, hastily removing his hand from mine in embarrassment.

The woman, whom he called Mrs. Stuckley, pushed a cart loaded with covered plates ahead of her, bringing the tantalizing aroma of breakfast nearer. After Finch introduced us and as she bustled about chatting and pouring tea for him, I was struck by her sincere concern for not only her employer but also for me, and realized that she was probably the single most important factor that made this house a “home” for Finch. She offered me tea or coffee, and I gratefully asked for coffee – my mouth felt like I’d had cotton balls stuffed in it all night, no doubt from Finch’s medication.

“Preferably decaf,” Finch put in. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese, but you need to rest as much as possible.”

“Of course. Although you do realize, painkillers work better with caffeine…” I hinted, craving my morning fix.

“Let’s not start mixing your drugs just yet,” he said, a gentle reproof hidden in his words. “But that reminds me, you’re probably ready for another dose…”

He struggled to stand up before giving me two more pills, one of which I palmed. Call it a compromise – I didn’t want to be completely knocked out, but I didn’t want to deal with the full force of the pain, either. And I knew (better than Finch, even though he claimed to know “exactly everything” about me) that some pain was good – it kept me from overexerting myself when I needed to rest, as was the case now.

At the moment, though, I had a more pressing issue on my mind (or actually, another part of my anatomy) since Doherty had raised the bed so that the upper half of my body was in a near sitting position. Mrs. Stuckley left the room to make my coffee and I seized the opportunity, seeing that Doherty was inspecting the almost empty IV bag.

“I think I’ve been hydrated quite enough, Mr. Doherty,” I remarked. “Can you disconnect me now?”

“Oh!” was the response, not from Doherty but from Finch. “I’m so sorry – where are my manners… Mr. Doherty, would you please give us a moment and watch the door so that Mrs. Stuckley doesn’t come in here before we’re ready?”

Finch hobbled over to the cupboards lining the far wall as he spoke and pulled out a plastic urinal from the section below the sink, cluing in Doherty as to his intentions – much to my relief. He had picked up on my subtle hint immediately. Doherty nodded and moved to the doors, and I couldn’t help smirking as Finch approached me with the container.

“Are you going to help me with that?” I teased.

“Only if you need me to; but I believe your arms and hands are still fully functional,” he returned in his usual dry tone. “The wet wipes are flushable, so you can just stuff them in here when you’re done. And if you’ll excuse me, I’ll give you some privacy and attend to my own toilet…”

He disappeared through a separate door in the wall with the cupboards, and I caught a glimpse of a shower curtain – this bedroom must have its own bathroom as well as the kitchenette stocked with medical supplies. I longed for the day when I could stand in a shower on my own again and revel in a spray of hot water; until then, I supposed sponge baths and wet wipes would have to do. But if Finch were going to help me with those, they wouldn’t be entirely un-enjoyable, either.

I slipped the extra pill into my pillowcase (for lack of a better hiding place within reach) and gratefully relieved my bladder. Long nights on stakeouts had made me pretty efficient at urinating into empty bottles, so the urinal was luxurious by comparison. I’d cleaned up with a wipe and set the container down on the floor by the time Finch limped back out, carrying a plastic basin. I felt bad to see how stiff he was, knowing that sleeping in the chair had made it worse for him.

“You know, Harold… this bed is rather large,” I began, softly so that Doherty couldn’t hear me through the doors. “I could move over and give you enough space to stretch out on.”

“Do you expect me to keep vigil over you every night, now?” Finch said, his eyebrows rising (though I detected a note of humor) as he gave me a sidelong glance. He set the basin down on the table that fit over the bed.

I shrugged. “I could take a turn for the worse at any time… run a fever from an infection, pull out my stitches in my sleep… and I don’t know how safe I would be in the care of Mr. DeYoung…”

He sighed at my little barb as he rolled the table over to me and said, “You should wash your hands with water – the wipes are convenient and anti-bacterial, but they leave a chemical residue. Your face, too, if you’d like.” He pulled out a washcloth from one trouser pocket and a travel case with bar soap from the other. “As to your proposal… we shall see how you’re faring by the evening.”

I smiled to myself at his choice of words – “proposal” after his embarrassing slip (possibly Freudian?) last night about my asking for his hand. “It’s just a suggestion, Harold. It’s not like I’m asking you to sing me to sleep with lullabies.”

“Which is just as well – you would have nightmares if I did,” he said with a wry grin hiding in one corner of his mouth, then bending over with some difficulty to pick up the urinal.

“I wouldn’t mind staying up if you kept me company,” I said to his retreating back.

I heard the toilet flush a moment later and realized that he’d dumped my urine in with his own, which (in a perverted way) actually stimulated my vague morning erection. The thought of our bodily fluids being mixed together made me think of other bodily fluids that could be swirled around together, given the right circumstances… but it just seemed like such an intimate thing to have him taking care of me like this, and after playing our game of cat-and-mouse for so long, it felt good to lay everything out in the open: my weaknesses and limitations as well as Finch’s home life. Maybe it wasn’t “everything” quite yet, but it was a start.

Finch opened the double doors to let in both Doherty and Mrs. Stuckley, and I was finally revived with a cup of coffee – decaf, but still soothing to my dry throat. Mrs. Stuckley opened the curtains after serving us breakfast, and I caught her looking at me. No doubt she was as curious about me (the mystery employee that used to be a bum) as I was about Finch’s past. Perhaps if I could get her alone, sometime, we’d be able to swap stories.

Doherty asked Finch what he needed him to do today, and although I was glad to know that he would be collecting my stuff from the hotel room, I cautioned against checking out just yet – I knew Mark and his cronies would be on the lookout for that sort of activity. As Doherty pulled out my wallet from my trousers in order to get the passkey, I saw anew what a sorry state my clothes were in after getting shot through, bled on, and cut open by the doctor. Even my wallet was soaked in blood. Poor Mrs. Stuckley gasped in horror, but Doherty calmly wiped it off before putting it on the table, retrieving the passkey. The efficiency of his movements also reinforced my first impression of him that he’d been in the Service.

“My clothes are either hanging in the closet or in the top drawer,” I told him. “My… spare tools, are between the box spring and mattress. I have a few toiletries in the bathroom, but if they won’t fit in the bag, don’t worry about them.”

“Duly noted,” Doherty replied unflappably, knowing right away what I’d meant.

“I had another wallet – a billfold – tucked into an inside pocket of the jacket,” I mentioned. It was the one with my various aliases, but I made light of it by adding, “I suppose that’s ruined, too…”

“Never mind your suit, John – we can go shopping for new clothes once you’re better,” Finch promised.

“Of course it had to be my favorite suit,” I whined with a dramatic sigh.

“But they’re all the same,” Finch protested, slightly annoyed. They were, but I wasn’t about to admit it.

“There are subtle differences… nuances,” I insisted, although if he pressed me to name them, I’d be backed into a corner.

“Here’s your billfold,” Doherty said, tossing it onto the bed and inadvertently rescuing me. “At least you didn’t bleed on that.”

“Small favors,” I mumbled, and poured some strawberry jam into my oatmeal. The red goo made me think of blood, too, which naturally reminded me of getting shot. “Oh, my gun is still in the car, under the passenger seat,” I alerted Doherty.

“I’ll unload it and bring it in before Sam has a cow,” he replied, “although he’ll have a cow anyway if you bled all over the seat…”

“Afraid so… mostly on the back seat. Not that I wanted to, you know. And speaking of cars—”

“Mr. Reese, don’t worry about it – Mr. Doherty is quite capable of taking care of it,” Finch interrupted.

“I don’t doubt that he’s capable, Mr. Finch, but they might be hanging around,” I said with a pointed look. “He’s going to need a cover story – one that checks out.”

“I’ll get to work on it,” Finch said, leaving his breakfast with the intention of taking care of it immediately. Mrs. Stuckley put her foot down, though, and I couldn’t keep a smirk from spreading across my face as he obeyed her and sat back down to finish his food.

“I’m glad that you make sure he eats properly, Mrs. Stuckley,” I said in a confidential tone. “If it eases your mind at all, I do try to get him to eat at normal hours, but when we’re busy, sometimes the best we can do is Chinese take-out.”

Chinese? All that sodium!” she cried out, scandalized. “Mr. Finch, you know how bad that is for your blood pressure! And mine…”

She continued to rant for a minute and promised to take good care of both of us with a wholesome diet.

“I’m relieved to hear you say so, Mrs. Stuckley,” I said as earnestly as I could without cracking up. “I was worried that I’d lose my girlish figure while I was laid up… and it’s so much harder to get back in shape, now… I’m not a spring chick anymore…”

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” she declared while Finch tried not to choke on his toast. “We’ll have you back on your feet and ship-shape in no time!”


After Finch gave Doherty a back-story for being at the hospital, we both dozed for the rest of the morning, although Finch pretended to be reading his book. He was definitely snoring a good bit of the time, his book propped up on his tray table, though he wasn’t so loud as to bother me. In fact, it was rather comforting to hear him right next to my bed. I was still exhausted from everything – getting shot can take a lot out of you, not to mention hobbling down several flights of stairs on an injured leg – so it was reassuring to know that one word would get Finch’s attention if I needed it.

Mrs. Stuckley woke us up by carting in a simple but delicious lunch, with a home-made chicken soup that nearly reduced me to tears. Maybe it was because of the medication, or maybe because the pain was increasing as the drugs wore off, but I sensed that my emotions were closer to the surface than I’d allowed them to be in a long while. I knew that I had to be on my guard; however, when Mrs. Stuckley scolded Finch for not having invited me over for Thanksgiving, I jumped in before Finch could defend himself.

“It’s all right, Mrs. Stuckley – I already had plans,” I told her. “I don’t know if you’ve heard, but I’d been living on the streets, homeless, before Mr. Finch gave me this job. I wanted to go back and help at the shelters where I’d been fed and cared for when I was down-and-out. It felt good to be able to give back…” The smile that formed on my face was entirely genuine, and I wanted Finch to know it. “Thanks to Harold, I’m in a position to give back to them now. You’ve no idea how good it feels to be able to help… to have one’s dignity back…”

Finch actually blushed, making my heart skip for a split second. He looked so adorable when he was flustered! (Which is, of course, why I can’t seem to stop myself from teasing him at every opportunity.) Mrs. Stuckley seemed pleased to hear how appreciative I was of our employer, and when I asked for seconds of her wonderful soup, I knew I’d won her over – which was a good thing, as she’d already won me over with her cooking!

After lunch, Finch tried to give me another dose of the painkillers, but this time I rebelled to his face and took only one pill.

“John, you know that you’re safe here, don’t you? I have the best security system in the world monitoring the perimeter,” Finch said – although I’d already assumed that.

“I know, Finch; but I’m just not comfortable with being knocked out completely. The last time that happened, I woke up in a strange hotel room, handcuffed to the bed,” I replied with a straight face.

He gave up and swallowed the other pill himself, so I said “Cheers!” before swallowing mine.

“We do make a pair,” he said with a faint smile before settling back into his chair.

“Or a couple,” I amended. “The offer’s still good on this prime real estate, you know. And I promise I won’t hog the covers…”

He looked at me askance as I patted the bed invitingly.

“How generous of you,” he said in a monotone, then pulled over his little tray table with the laptop. “But I have a few things to attend to. Why don’t you get some rest like a gunshot wound patient should? And if the time seems to drag by too slowly, I can always give you another pill to knock you out – unconsciousness does have its benefits, you know…”

“No thanks. Just don’t work too hard yourself, Harold,” I cautioned, tugging the pillow into a more comfortable spot. I fell asleep to the familiar rhythmic tapping of his fingers on the keyboard.


When I opened my eyes it was to almost total silence. Even the furnace in the house must have shut down for the moment. I found Finch staring back at me with a contemplative look – as though he’d been studying my sleeping face as the backdrop to something more complex going on in his mind. Even after all this time working with him, I still didn’t hold the key to unlocking every one of his expressions, but my closest guess right now was… regret. I decided to go out on a limb and test my theory.

“Buyer’s remorse?” was my opening gambit.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Are you having second thoughts about hiring me?” I explained, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“Why would you say that?” Finch’s forehead creased in sincere confusion.

“Because now that my ‘friends’ at the Agency know I’m alive, they won’t give up until they find me.”

“Oh, I was aware that they would become a threat sooner or later – although this is somewhat sooner than I had hoped,” Finch stated evenly. “The moment you allowed yourself to be taken into police custody, I knew they would run your prints, which would in turn trigger a search by your old ‘friends.’ If I had considered that too great a risk to our enterprise, I wouldn’t have approached you in the first place. But I knew that they wouldn’t be a match for your evasive skills, Mr. Reese; and in fact, they would never have gotten so close if Ms. Carter hadn’t handed you over to them – after you’d saved her life, no less!” He grimaced in distaste as I digested what he was telling me. “No, if I have any regrets, it’s that I hadn’t been able to… recruit you, for this job, before you were taken by the police. But your evasive skills made it quite difficult for me to catch up to you as well. I’d been watching you as best I could for some time, and I’d actually sent Mr. DeYoung to one of the shelters where I thought you were staying, but for whatever reason you had left the premises by the time he arrived. It was only because you were in police custody, ultimately, that I was able to speak to you.”

“I was trying to make it difficult – if not impossible – for them to find me,” I responded. “I have to admit, I was impressed that you’d been able to find me at all.”

Finch’s lips quirked to one side as he checked a smile. “It wasn’t easy, John. For a long time I wondered if you weren’t a figment of my imagination – a ghost, if you will, created by my desperate need to find you. I questioned my own judgment… wondered if it weren’t just wishful thinking to believe that you were still alive. But then I’d catch another glimpse of you on some security camera – like the time you beat off the thugs who were trying to steal a homeless man’s shoes. You disappeared as soon as the patrol car pulled up, but there was enough footage of the fight (even though it was a grainy, low-quality picture) to give me hope that it was you, roaming the streets of New York.”

I remembered that incident now – the poor guy was schizophrenic or something, constantly muttering about the centipedes in his clothes, but he’d just gotten a decent pair sneakers from a rescue mission. Without them, I knew he would get frostbite and eventually lose his toes since he refused to sleep at any of the shelters (claiming that the Communists would assassinate him) so I hadn’t had a choice – I’d broken a couple of bones and punched out several teeth before the beat cop had shown up. That seemed like a lifetime ago…

“Harold, even if I play it smart and manage to evade them in the future,” I pointed out, getting back to the problem at hand, “it will still put a crimp in our operation. Now that they’re on to me, things will be… more complicated.” I took a deep breath, hoping that my reluctance wouldn’t show. “It’s also going to take me a while to recover from this. Like I told Mrs. Stuckley, I’m no spring chick – I can’t rebound as fast as I used to. So if you need to find someone else for this job, I understand.”

Harold opened his mouth as if to speak, but nothing came out for a long moment. Then unexpectedly, he sat up in his chair and leaned forward to grab my hand.

“John, I would never consider replacing you, unless you were truly so injured or… burned out, that you felt like you couldn’t go on,” he said, his eyes searching out mine with a warmth and kindness that I hadn’t seen in them before last night. “If you want out, I want you to be honest with me and say so; but as long as you’re willing to continue, I’d rather wait for you to recover than to take my chances on someone else – who might have a similar level of skill but not the same degree of conviction. I need someone who will make this cause his own, who is dedicated to helping people, and who is committed to making the world a better place, even if it doesn’t seem like we’re making much progress sometimes. I’ve found that man in you, John… and I couldn’t ask for better. In fact, I don’t think any of the other candidates would have even come close. So don’t worry about the Numbers that come up while you’re recuperating. I’ll do what I can with anonymous tips and other means at my disposal – maybe you can help me with some ideas, too – but I’d rather know that the job is being done right than risk bringing in someone else who might botch things horribly… even compromise our security.”

It was hard not to let my emotions get the better of me, especially after Finch described the qualities that he had been looking for and which (apparently) I had filled. I latched on to his last few words, though, and forced a grin onto my trembling lips.

“All that flattery… when you’re just worried that making it a threesome would ‘compromise security’,” I joked.

“Safety first, Mr. Reese,” he deadpanned. “It’s a dangerous world out there, and I don’t like to take chances.”

“You took a chance on me,” I remarked, more surprised about it now that I knew Finch better.

“Yes. A calculated risk, of course… but one that I haven’t regretted. Even if you can be a pain in the ass, sometimes.”

I was glad to have something to laugh over – or at least chuckle. The ache in my gut was a constant reminder that any strenuous exertion would be punished by waves of searing, nausea-inducing pain.

“I think I’ll take that other pill now,” I murmured, reaching into the pillowcase and pulling out the one from this morning.

“John! What the hell…” Finch trailed off.

“I was saving it for later. Can you hand me the water?” I asked with aplomb. “I told you, I don’t like to be knocked out – whether it’s by pills or by sharp blows to the head.”

“So I see,” he sighed with resigned irritation, handing me the water bottle so I could drink the pill more easily. Our fingertips touched as he took it back, and I had to repress the shiver that ran through my body. Perhaps he felt it, too, since he was slightly more guarded as he sat down and regarded me again.

“I don’t have any ‘buyer’s remorse’ about having hired you, John,” he said softly, “but I will admit that I have some regrets about this whole… project. I know that you’re quite capable in what you do, but still… you’re only human. You’re not indestructible. And this incident has made me acutely aware of the danger that I’m sending you into with every case. Granted, the worst threat has been posed (and probably will be in the future as well) by your former associates with the Agency, but even when you’re investigating the Numbers… you’ve been exposed to a great deal of risk. And I want to be sure that… that you’ll know when to quit – that you won’t endanger yourself more than necessary, and that you’ll let me know when you’ve reached your limit. That you’ll be honest enough with me to tell me, as well as honest enough with yourself to admit it.”

I blinked a couple of times as I considered this, while Finch’s gaze never left my face.

“I think I can promise you that,” I finally answered. “I don’t particularly like getting shot… and I don’t think I’ve taken unnecessary risks, even if I’ve made some… poor choices.” Not that I really regretted telling Carter about the two assassins who’d been out to get those girls – just the timing of my call. “As for knowing when to quit… I hope I’ll be able to recognize it, although I’m not sure where exactly that line is… I’d like to think I’ll know, anyway. If you think that I’m beginning to slip, though, or lose my touch, I need you to be honest enough to tell me, too.”

“Agreed,” Finch said, his expression softening somewhat. “And here’s something else to keep in mind: if things get too ‘hot’ here in New York and your ‘friends’ start closing in on us, we can always relocate to some other major city. The Machine sends me the Numbers for citizens around the country – around the world, in fact – but I’ve been narrowing them down to those in the New York area. I chose this city as the base of my operations because it’s the most populous and has the highest rate of crimes per capita, which statistically gives us the opportunity to do the most good; however, there are plenty of other cities where we would be almost equally busy.”

I processed this novel concept as I continued to study his face, feeling rather overwhelmed by what he was willing to do – how much he was willing to sacrifice – for the cause. “But Finch… what about your people? This house, your companies…”

He waved a hand dismissively. “It’s just a house, John, and I can run my companies without physically being here – this is the Twenty-first Century, after all! Although some of my staff I may ask to relocate with us…”

“You have to ask Mrs. Stuckley to come, of course,” I pointed out. “She’s too good of a cook!”

He smiled at that – a wonderful, unfeigned smile that warmed me down to my toes. “Yes, of course. She has no family, either, so I’m sure she would be willing to make the move. But speaking of Mrs. Stuckley’s excellent cooking… I would really rather not deprive you of the joys of eating… solid food…”

There was something hesitant, almost apologetic in his demeanor that immediately put me on guard.

“What do you mean… ‘solid food’?” I asked testily.

“Well, with your abdominal injury… if you were in a hospital, they would of course put you on a liquid diet so as to not strain your injured muscles when you’re… defecating…”

Finch stood up as he said so and made his way to the wall of cabinets, where he pulled out a bed pan and some rubber tubing. My jaw dropped and I stared at him, speechless, comprehending what he intended to do. He shuffled over to another cabinet and pulled out a bag – much like the IV that Doherty had hooked me up to last night. I guessed it contained saline.

“I know this is a rather… uncomfortable procedure,” Finch went on in a placating tone, “but in the interest of your quick recovery, as well as your ability to continue enjoying Mrs. Stuckley’s cooking, I hope you can appreciate the necessity of doing this.”

My mind was just beginning to come out of shock when I heard the floorboards creak – not over by Finch, but on the other side of the double doors, out in the hallway. From the weight of it, I knew that it had to be DeYoung. Finch was still rummaging in the cupboards for something and must not have noticed. In a split second, I made my decision: I would rather not be fed via blender for the duration of my recovery, so I would have to go through with this; if I had to endure an enema at Finch’s hands, I would rather milk it for all the entertainment it was worth; and what better entertainment than to turn it into a series of sexual innuendos and embarrass Finch (who would be annoyed but oh-so-adorable) and his big bodyguard (who had a monster-sized crush on him) at the same time?

Finch brought over all the paraphernalia and set them down on the table. I simply kept staring at him with a look of horror on my face, my mouth agape in a silent scream.

“All right… I’ll roll you onto your side so you don’t pull anything,” Finch began in a gentle tone.

“Harold, no! For the love of God and all that’s holy!

My outburst caught him completely by surprise.

“Calm down, Mr. Reese. You’re overreacting,” Finch said, calling me by my surname in an effort to make me realize how unprofessionally I was behaving.

“Overreacting? You think this is overreacting? Here I am, helpless as a new-born infant, and you’re proposing to shove tha—that thing up my ass, and you think I’m overreacting?

“Well, you’re certainly acting like a baby! It’s not that big, and it will hardly hurt at all – especially compared to getting shot.”

“Easy for you to say – you’re not the one getting that… that monstrosity shoved up your ass!”

Finch looked at the half-inch diameter tube in his hand (it even had a nice, rounded end) and then back at me in disbelief.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, John! It’s not like I’m going to stuff it in, willy-nilly,” he said in exasperation. “I’ll open you up with my fingers first, and use plenty of Vaseline – look, I have a whole, brand-new jar that I can use just for you! And for your information, I’ve had this done to me, many times, so I think I know what I’m doing. I’ll be very careful not to hurt you, and even if there is some… slight discomfort, I can assure you that it will be well worth it in the end.”

I switched my gaze, back and forth, between him and the tube, biting my lip as though to keep it from trembling. I swallowed hard before venturing in a small, wavering voice, “Promise?”

“Promise… what?” he asked, nonplussed.

“Promise you’ll be… gentle? It’s my… first time…”

Of course, John! You know I would never hurt you. You just need to trust me on this.”

“I recall someone saying… ‘Trust isn’t something I come by easily’…”

“I believe… I hope, anyway, that we’ve come a long way in establishing our relationship since then, John.” He was trying to be patient, I could tell – and after all, he had no way of knowing if I did have an irrational fear of tubing, or of having foreign objects shoved up my down chute.

“All right… Just… please… go slowly,” I begged, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes.

“I will, I promise. Try to relax… Think of something else… Think of something… pleasant,” he said, helping me roll onto my side.

“Like what?” I asked, clenching the rail on that side of the bed with both hands.

“Whatever makes you feel calm and relaxed,” Finch soothed as he pulled up my bathrobe (his, actually) and pushed down the boxers (also his) to expose my ass. “What about the ocean? The waves rolling in, the water lapping at your feet, the sand between your toes…”

“That does sound nice… I can’t remember the last time I was on a beach,” I said with a sigh. I could hear him pulling on some surgical rubber gloves as he moved behind me.

“Once you get a bit better, John – well enough to sit in a wheelchair – we can go down to the beach,” Finch promised, and I felt a slimy finger worm its way between my ass cheeks. “The water is frigid, so we’ll have to bundle up against the wind, but… I find the fresh sea breeze invigorating, even in the winter…”

His finger was gently rubbing Vaseline onto and around my anal opening, then slipped inside, where it continued to slide around, getting my muscles to accept the intrusion.

“Mmm,” I murmured. “That would be… lovely…”

“How am I doing so far? Does it hurt at all?”

“No… It’s a bit… uncomfortable, but I’m all right,” I panted, trying to sound sexy.

“I’ll add some more Vaseline, just to be on the safe side,” Finch said, and I felt another greasy digit join the fray.

“Oh! Ow…” I groaned as it pressed in alongside the other. I was rather surprised that he was using more than one – the tubing wasn’t that thick, so it wasn’t really necessary…

“I’m sorry, did that hurt?” Finch asked, pausing his movements.

“A little… Is that… just your finger?” I asked in return, although I knew the answer. I was beginning to suspect that he was actually enjoying this… or maybe he was just playing along with my sexual innuendos… or rather, punishing me for them?

“Well, yes, but… two fingers, actually,” he replied without explanation. “How are you holding up?”

“All right, I guess…” I answered, and his fingers resumed their exploration of my anus. At any rate, it allowed me to ham it up for the eavesdropper outside the doors. “Mmm… I’ve never been… touched like this… before…” I moaned.

“Not even by your proctologist?” he countered dryly as he found my prostate and rubbed his finger in a tiny circular motion against it. The response of my body was immediate and strong.

“That’s a… different sort of touch, Harold,” I informed him, needing no effort to sound sexy right now. I was as turned on as a damn power generator!

“I suppose… I think you’re ready now, John,” Finch said, withdrawing his fingers.

“Oh… All right.” I couldn’t help but be disappointed, but figured that he was tantalizing me by moving on to the actual enema – it felt more like torture.

“Take a deep breath…”

I felt the tube being inserted and let my groans spill out uncensored.

“Ohhh… Harold…”

“Too much? Shall I pull it out?”

“No… No, I’m fine. It feels so… huge, though…” I wailed for the benefit of Mr. DeYoung. The sad thing was, even though I knew it was only a tube and could feel its smooth, Vaseline-lubricated surface sliding in against my sphincter, it wasn’t too hard to imagine that it was Finch’s cock, and the thought made my own exposed cock stand ramrod stiff at attention.

“Well, that’s to be expected – your body isn’t used to having foreign objects placed in it,” Finch said matter-of-factly. “Are you all right? Can I put it in deeper?”

“Yes… Oh, yes, Harold… You can put it in all the way… I want to feel it… completely inside of me…” I moaned, wishing it really were Finch’s cock but trying to at least embarrass him with my insinuating expressions.

There was a slight noise on the other side of the double doors – Finch gasped, realizing for the first time that we had an audience. He might have been fine with playing along with me in private, but having one of his people listening in… that was a different matter.

“Deeper, Harold… please… I can take it, don’t worry,” I said in an effort to distract him.

“All right, then,” Finch sighed. It was too late now, and he knew it.

“Oh! Ohhh… so hot…” I vamped, although the tube was only as warm as my internal body temperature.

“I’m going to pour this into you now, John,” Finch said with a hard edge to his voice. “Try to curb your excitement, if you can.”

Of course I wasn’t about to stop now, as he opened up the valve and let the saline (which felt cool, almost cold, since it was only room temperature) spill into my colon.

“I can’t… Oh! Oh, Harold… so hot… I can feel it… you’re filling me up… all that hot, wet stuff… Mmm, Harold… Harold!

I made my voice crescendo with each word as though I were feeling the full force of his climax. Finch pulled the tube out as soon as it had deposited all of the saline and plugged my lax hole by stuffing one of his gloves in it.

“I’m done, John… That wasn’t worth all that fuss, was it? You were worried over nothing,” he said wearily. “Now, I want you to hold it until I get back – try not to make a mess, please.”

“I won’t. I promise,” I told him in a happy simper.

Finch threw away the empty saline pouch and tubing (Doherty had emptied the wastebasket of my clothes before he’d left) and replaced his one glove before returning to place the bed pan behind my ass.

“There… if you can just roll back… That should be just about right.” He noticed my erection, but chose to ignore it. “Now you can let it all out, John – I’m sure it’s been hard to wait,” he said with a menacing glare. He knew damn well that I had played him.

“It has. But Harold… I need you to… squeeze me, with your hands…” I said, extending my hands to him and batting my eyelashes, unabashed by his wrath. “Your wonderful, warm, gentle hands…”

Finch sighed deeply before taking my hands in his and squeezing them with all of his strength. I knew he was trying to communicate his frustration at this situation, but there was still something warm – something affectionate – about his grip.

“Oh! Oh, it’s coming…” I panted, as all that fluid moved around quite determinedly inside my intestines. “Oh, Harold… It’s all coming out… every last drop of it… Oh! Oh! Oh! OHHH!

I hadn’t eaten much yesterday, since I’d been so busy chasing down the girls and keeping them from getting killed – just a couple of the energy bars that I kept in the glove compartment – but I’d had a rather sizeable breakfast today as well as a second serving of soup at lunch, so whatever had been in my system had been pushed down fairly rapidly. Now it all left quite rapidly after getting doused and diluted. Of course it was a messy, smelly affair, but at least it hadn’t taken much effort by my damaged stomach muscles to get the ball rolling. I smiled up innocently at Finch.

“You do nice work, Harold.”

“I suppose you’re pleased with yourself,” he retorted gruffly, still miffed that he hadn’t caught on sooner to the eavesdropper. Speaking of which, I could no longer sense the presence outside in the hall. I was a bit disappointed, but then again, I could only keep up the charade for so long.

“I’m pleased with your performance, Harold,” I told him, not letting go of his hands.

“I’m not done yet, John,” he said with deliberate emphasis. “I still have to wipe your ass and take care of your shit.”

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine,” I said, releasing him in order to pull myself over towards the railing. He wordlessly helped me before plucking two wet wipes from the container. Although he had every right to be irritated with me, his hands were gentle as they wiped my dirty ass, cleaning meticulously even into my crack. He chose to roll the table with the bed pan on it over to the bathroom – which had to be easier than trying to carry it without spilling its contents – and I listened to him dispose of my refuse while my naked ass dried off. I didn’t have the energy right now to jack myself off, so I decided to let it go. It wouldn’t be the first time I got blue balls and probably wouldn’t be the last.

Finch re-emerged from the bathroom and started rummaging in the cupboards again. I watched curiously, then with increasing consternation, as he pulled out a black tube attached to a large device and rolled it over on the table.

“Well, since you’re all cleaned out, anyway,” he announced, “I might as well give you a colonoscopy and check for any polyps or irregularities. This is a state-of-the-art colonoscope with a ‘third eye’ retroscope – I just purchased it a couple of months ago and have been looking forward to using it. You get to be my first patient, John.”

I stared at him with undisguised horror. The tube on this thing was well over an inch in diameter. “A third eye what?

“Retroscope,” he calmly answered. “Everybody on my staff has a very good health care plan, but as I unfortunately cannot offer you the same level of care – and I do suspect that you wouldn’t take advantage of it, even if I could – I’ll have to monitor your physical condition myself.”

I buried my face in the pillow. He really was getting back at me for all of my teasing…


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11 Comments

  1. deliacerrano

     /  2012/07/28

    I never thought I’d find an enema funny but that was funny…except poor DeYoung but he wouldn’t fit as well with Finch as well as Reese. Pls update soon as it’s too good to not read more immediately.

    Reply
    • Thanks! This got shoved onto a back burner when I had a huge project for work and has stayed there… I’ll try to get back in the groove!

      Reply
  2. T'LIRA

     /  2015/01/08

    Have re-read your story again for about the 20th time. Is there any chance of you writing a follow up to the colonoscopy Harold gives John (lol). I love this story. Thanks for writing!

    Reply
    • Thanks so much! It turns out that a colonoscopy would be SUPER bad for someone with a stomach wound, so I have to rewrite this whole chapter. 😛 But eventually I want to write about him recovering, with Harold reading to him or just the two of them sitting side-by-side, discreetly holding hands, while they watch the sunrise. 😉

      Reply
  3. Jessica

     /  2015/02/07

    Yeah, please, please, write more about him recovering! You have great observance skills I must say! Just small details but you get them absolutely right! 🙂 Keep up for a good work ;^)

    Reply
    • Aww, thank you so much! Now if only I could get the medical parts right… 😉

      Reply
      • Jessica

         /  2015/02/07

        You wellcome 🙂 Well, you can always apply to meds… 😀 or buy Grey’s Anatomy (the book)… but I get it, it’s always a struggle to get all these specialized details right. My compliments to you again 🙂

  4. A chapter that never gets old ! Just reread it again…did you ever write of ohn recovering ?

    Reply
    • I got stalled at this point when I realized it was medically impossible. What I need to do is rewrite this chapter (post the new one separately) and keep going. I’ve had to work extra hours lately, though, so it probably won’t be for another few months at least that I can get back to this… Thanks so much for reading and reviewing, though! 🙂

      Reply
  5. This is great story, pretty funny and kinda sweet. Feel sorry for Dr Young, poor guy. Hope you can get back to it. I would love to see how it ends. Thanks for sharing your talent for us to enjoy.

    Reply
    • Thank you so much! I haven’t given up on finishing it, but my muses have not been cooperative for a long time. I appreciate your kind words — may they fuel my Rinch muse!

      Reply

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