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Indie Raymond "Red" Reddington from NBC's Blacklist. Private. Selective. Mun/Muse 21+. Dark Themes present. Please read rules/bio before following/interacting. Written by Erick

fatherofmachine:

Complete silence was what met the one who SPOKE on the other end of the line. Thin lips PRESSED together tightly, brows narrowing whilst blue eyes lowered—–Finch seemed to STARE down into the empty air, as if he could physically SEE the words that were being spoken within it. In any case, even if he’d WANTED to say anything, he wasn’t given a moment to ANSWER before the line abruptly went dead … but NOT before a sharp screeching sound nearly SEARED throughout Finch’s head entirely, which caused a momentary FLINCH. It was CLEAR that John’s earwig had been destroyed, but he’d been able to extract a LOCATION long before it had been ground beneath the speaker’s HEEL. He hadn’t any time to WASTE, thus Finch was up & moving to drag his suit jacket over broad, damaged shoulders as he made his way OUT of the library to meet his friends’ CAPTOR.

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The SOUND of Finch’s lurching gait reverberated throughout the SPACIOUS abandoned building; accompanying the SOUND was a somewhat short man, clad in a similarly far too EXPENSIVE suit & tie, all dark & rich in color. Black, rectangular glasses were perched in front of SHARP blue eyes—–especially regarding his obviously visible GAIT, Finch did not appear to be overly threatening, if at all, to MOST. Only a small few truly knew the POWER Finch was capable of wielding, at the tips of his fingers, if he ever DESIRED … albeit, they ALSO knew that he was not a violent person.

Expression was STEELED, one brow arching higher than the other, thin lips pulled TAUT … tightly controlled ANGER lurked beneath the surface of his features, LURKED within the shape of his brow, the TIGHTNESS of mouth. 

Harold Finch was not a VIOLENT person, but if looks could KILL …

Once Finch was within a few short strides of the man whom CALLED him here, he simply stood silently, hands hanging at his sides, chin LIFTED almost defiantly. He said NOTHING, instead opting to await the other to speak—–Finch hadn’t any idea how much this man knew, which lead him to tread CAREFULLY.

The limp is a little unexpected, but nothing crosses Red’s face but a smile. Of course, Finch had little choice but to acquiesce, he’d made that c l e a r, and he’d been hearing about this computer godhead —ᴡʜɪsᴘᴇʀs here and there for almost a decade. To see him, he doesn’t look like much, but Red is well aware that when it comes to computers, one’s looks have little to do with it. Genius minds inhabit the bodies of all sorts of people, and this limping megalomaniac was the best. He might even have ended up on the blacklist, depending on how this conversation went. 

He’s angry, it’s cute. “Mister Finch! You’re… shorter than I imagined,” Red says with a grin, “Don’t you worry about your ʙᴏʏ, Harold, he’s fine.” A bit of a grandiose gesture towards John, who was unconscious and tied to a chair, but, considering he’d fought both Red and Dembe, he looked pretty well-off, there weren’t any noticeable injuries, a bit of blood, but that was to be expected in a fight. 

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“Don’t look so sullen, Harold! I’ve taken the liberty of ordering dinner for us all, if you’d join me,” another motion, this time towards the table Dembe had taken such care to prepare. “Steak from Del Frisco’s, it should still be hot. I realize the circumstances are less than ideal, but I’m nothing if not hospitable. Come on, please? Come sit, I’m sure standing for long periods of time isn’t good for whatever it is that causes that — limp. Come, sit!” 

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