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mtxref_ficAuthor's Note: Written for "fic_promptly"'s author's choice, any/any, don't judge a book by its cover. Set the morning after the events of "Identity Crisis". References to drug use.
To say that Finch woke up the next morning feeling more paranoid than usual was an understatement. Hearing a door somewhere in the old library open and close made him scramble off the couch where he'd been sleeping, nearly sliding to the floor before manage to haul his aching self to his feet.
Reese, carrying a plastic bag from a local pharmacy, entered the reading room which had been turned into a makeshift bedroom. "You're awake, Finch, that's an improvement," he said with that whisper of a smile he often had. What was that about, anyway?
"What happened last night?" Finch asked, puzzled, sinking back onto the couch, looking down at his now rumpled self. "It's all rather...disarranged in my memory."
Reese knelt before him, taking a small, purple-capped bottle from the bag. "Our last number drugged you on MDMA: you were chattering like a jaybird most of the evening and dancing like a lame stork, till you conked out on the couch. I sat by you, keeping an eye on you: guess you woke up sooner than I expected." He uncapped the bottle, removing the inner seal and the wad of cotton inside before he shook two whitish caplets out onto his palm. "I'd nipped out for something you'd need once you woke up."
"What is that?" Finch asked, eying the caplets nervously and edging away on the couch.
"5-HTP, L-hydroxytryptophan," Reese said, taking a bottle of orange juice from the bag and holding it and the caplets out to Finch. "It's a serotonin precursor: MDMA eats through the serotonin in a person's brain, so this will replenish that, get your feet back on the ground."
"You know an alarming amount about pharmacology and its antidotes," Finch replied. "Do I want to know where you learned that?"
"Dealt with a few types who used chemical measures to mess with a person, had to learn a few countermeasures for their tactics," Reese said.
Finch sighed and accepted the caplets, washing them down with the orange juice. "I have a feeling that I acted like a fool last night."
"No more than anyone else who'd been drugged by someone they trusted a little too much," Reese replied. "You're a smart man, Finch, but you're a little short on judgment when it comes to women. You should know better than to judge a book by it's cover," he added, with a hint of a teasing lilt, as if the cliche was meant to be a friendly jab.
"She knew how to get past my inhibitions and then, it would seem, she tore them down chemically from the other side," he admitted.
"Next time, don't accept a drink from a lady neither of us is sure about," Reese said.
To say that Finch woke up the next morning feeling more paranoid than usual was an understatement. Hearing a door somewhere in the old library open and close made him scramble off the couch where he'd been sleeping, nearly sliding to the floor before manage to haul his aching self to his feet.
Reese, carrying a plastic bag from a local pharmacy, entered the reading room which had been turned into a makeshift bedroom. "You're awake, Finch, that's an improvement," he said with that whisper of a smile he often had. What was that about, anyway?
"What happened last night?" Finch asked, puzzled, sinking back onto the couch, looking down at his now rumpled self. "It's all rather...disarranged in my memory."
Reese knelt before him, taking a small, purple-capped bottle from the bag. "Our last number drugged you on MDMA: you were chattering like a jaybird most of the evening and dancing like a lame stork, till you conked out on the couch. I sat by you, keeping an eye on you: guess you woke up sooner than I expected." He uncapped the bottle, removing the inner seal and the wad of cotton inside before he shook two whitish caplets out onto his palm. "I'd nipped out for something you'd need once you woke up."
"What is that?" Finch asked, eying the caplets nervously and edging away on the couch.
"5-HTP, L-hydroxytryptophan," Reese said, taking a bottle of orange juice from the bag and holding it and the caplets out to Finch. "It's a serotonin precursor: MDMA eats through the serotonin in a person's brain, so this will replenish that, get your feet back on the ground."
"You know an alarming amount about pharmacology and its antidotes," Finch replied. "Do I want to know where you learned that?"
"Dealt with a few types who used chemical measures to mess with a person, had to learn a few countermeasures for their tactics," Reese said.
Finch sighed and accepted the caplets, washing them down with the orange juice. "I have a feeling that I acted like a fool last night."
"No more than anyone else who'd been drugged by someone they trusted a little too much," Reese replied. "You're a smart man, Finch, but you're a little short on judgment when it comes to women. You should know better than to judge a book by it's cover," he added, with a hint of a teasing lilt, as if the cliche was meant to be a friendly jab.
"She knew how to get past my inhibitions and then, it would seem, she tore them down chemically from the other side," he admitted.
"Next time, don't accept a drink from a lady neither of us is sure about," Reese said.
