Finch sat back in his chair, his face turning the color of beets as his mouth opened and snapped shut several times. The former-agent took a chance and covered Finch’s hand with his own, holding it there while they waited for the genius to collect himself.
“This is highly embarrassing,” Finch finally managed.
“As embarrassing as it was when you took on the challenge of changing my catheter and emptying my bedpans?”
Reese had a point but Finch, who remained glued to the computer table, his belly pressing against the edge, decided to argue.
“That…that wasn’t your fault,” he protested.
“But whatever is going on now is your fault, Harold?”
“Yes,” was the terse reply. Finch’s breath quickened and might have quickened into hyperventilation if Reese hadn’t started counting, one two three, slowing the older man’s respiration back to normal.
“Thanks,” whispered Finch. “I suppose I’ll have to share my discomfort, but you must promise not to tease me about it. EVER!”