My name's H. This is my POI blog. I stalk slow tags, like, a lot, so I'm sorry if you get a bunch of notes on a random post about Carl Elias from like 2013. I follow from chiefofboatwatsonstittymug. ThisPolarNoise on AO3. Header by the marvellous quietsubway. No fucking nazis.
!: that classic collapse into someone’s waiting arms
Excellent choice. One of my favorites. 😈
Cut for stab wounds and blood. POI, number goes bad and Harold gets stabbed. Can be read as gen or Rinch.
Also, it’s longer than a drabble.
Slowly, Harold drags himself up off the floor.
The kitchen twists and turns and spins around him, dizzying and sickening, tearing at his exsanguination-addled brain and the wounds in his abdomen. He catches himself on the counter, biting back a shout, the jolt of pain in his hip paling in comparison to the sudden peak of the burn in his belly. Not going down again. He is not going down again. It would be so much easier, so much less painful to give in, to lie down and curl up around his wounds. But he will not.
Every step is carefully choreographed, this slow dance of avoiding the mess of blood and tea and shattered porcelain on the floor. Such a shame, he thinks. That teapot was an antique. But he has no time to mourn the small loss. "Keep moving," he whispers aloud. "Keep moving." John is on his way, and more help is set to follow. One hand grips the granite countertop at his side, the other his wet and painful middle, and he propels himself along through sheer force of will. They'd been wrong, so very wrong, their number was a perpetrator, not a victim, but he will not pay this price for their mistake. He will not let this be the end of him. Too many people need them.
But it hurts.
With every labored breath and every trembling footfall, survival becomes harder to believe. Oh, he is an incredibly stubborn man, yes, and, to his own surprise sometimes, a resilient one. But being stabbed is excruciating, and the knowledge that something vital inside him has been horribly damaged is even more painful. Each inhale and exhale is an ordeal, the movement of his muscles tearing at his wounds, ramping up the terrified hammering of his heart.
Halfway through the room, he doubles over, groaning and clutching his belly, gasping for air and regretting the need to breathe because all it does is worsen the pain. Thank goodness for his high tolerance, that stab wounds to the abdomen are not nearly as bad as having his spine utterly wrecked, that he's already on painkillers. But it's still agonizing to move, agonizing to not move. How he's supposed to keep going, he doesn't know.
How he's supposed to believe he's not going to die, he doesn't know, either.
He thinks of how much further he needs to go, and the distance from the kitchen to the front door seems insurmountable. Maybe...maybe he needs to reevaluate his target. Help is on the way. John, Shaw, Dr. Madani—they can all let themselves into the safehouse. There is no need for him to make it all the way to the door, surely. A chair at the dinner table would be acceptable. Or the floor in there—that might not be so bad. Less hidden than the kitchen. He just needs to get out of there first.
"One step at a time, Harold," he tells himself, and he takes another step forward. It hurts. His body refuses to let him ignore the damage inflicted upon it, the possibility that this is the end. But through gritted teeth, Harold repeats, "One step at a time," and keeps going, pushing through the slowly creeping cold in his quickly weakening limbs and the horrendous, relentless pain.
Outside the kitchen, he hears the front door bang open, and John yelling his name. Pure relief sweeps over him, growing with each of John's pounding footsteps, and he exhales loudly. John. It will be so good to see John again, he thinks, letting himself stop and lean against the counter. John won't fix this, can't fix the damage himself, but he will be of great help—first aid, comfort. John can put pressure on the wound, can get some blood into him, can prepare him for the inevitable surgery. There's no need to fight so hard anymore. John will save him.
It should distress him to be so reliant on someone else, should make his hackles and defenses rise. But the feeling simply doesn't come. Why would it? asks a part of his mind that he needs to examine closely later. It's John. John would do anything to save him.
Between seemingly one blink and the next—and, oh, that level of disorientation is worrying; how much of it is blood loss and how much is exhaustion from the pain, he cannot tell—John appears in front of him, eyes huge and frightened, even as he says, "Hey there, Harold," in such a kind, steady tone and slips his trembling hands under Harold's arms. His touch gentle, he holds Harold up, asking, "How are you doing?"
"I..." Harold begins, slow and sluggish. He sways on his feet, weakness building and building, and gets out, "I don't feel well at all," just as his legs give up on holding him.
"Whoa, hey!" John catches him before he goes far, swearing under his breath, then scoops Harold up with ease and cradles him in his arms. "I've got you. It's alright. You're gonna be okay, Harold, alright? Just stay with me. Okay? Stay with me."
It hurts to see so much terror in John's dear face. Harold finds the energy to give him what he hopes is a reassuring smile, just a small, brief one, and lets himself sag against John's strength and warmth, sparing only a fleeting thought of the ruination of another of John's white shirts. He should be railing against the indignity of being carried, of collapsing in John's arms, but that doesn't seem so important now. Not nearly as important as the comforting smell of John's skin from this close, the warmth of John's body, the care in his touch as he rushes Harold toward the safehouse's small surgical suite.
"You're gonna be okay," John repeats, over and over again, like he's trying to convince himself more than Harold. "You'll be okay."
"Yes," Harold says. Yes, he will be okay, he thinks, no matter what comes next. He's safe now.
I know I'm late to the Person of Interest party, and even later to the Rinch bandwagon, but better late than never!
I'm finishing up Season 1.
I can't stop thinking about the moment at the end of Season 1, Episode 5.
The way John opens up by thanking Harold for giving him the job and the serious tone he uses really struck me. It's that moment that makes Harold realise he wants to open up in return, even if it's just a small detail.
But for a paranoid guy like Harold, it's a big deal, and John knows it.
'Try the eggs Benedict, Mr Reese.'
Short pause.
'I’ve had them many times.'
Just those few words speak volumes.
I love how John is initially puzzled until he opens the menu and sees that it's empty. No next case. Just the menu.
He realises the implicit trust Harold has in him.
Seeing that smile and the look on his face made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. It made him so happy that he couldn't help but smile. The cute way he hides it.
I already love them so much.
To be clear, I’m not being meta; I’m just sharing what I see and feel. I’ll leave that to people with a talent for it.
People in a fandom who don’t post art/fics, but who reblog/like/follow/otherwise support artists and creators, my beloveds
If artists are the backbone of a fandom, then you all are the muscles. Connecting everyone and everything. Spreading fun and whimsy. That’s real neat, I think
High finch with john☹️☹️☹️☹️ "you don't wanna talk?☹️" "good night nathan"☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ harold finch the man you are underneath the secrecy☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️ Harold finch love of my life☹️☹️☹️☹️☹️
areudirty
titsay
romaincrisis
dailybridgerton
origamiaround
jacobvanloon
theartofmadeline
