Present
JOHN:
It smells in the heat, a burning, sooty stench. Smoldering bodies. He remembers using some of them for cover, to keep from being found.
They kick his ribs, the back of his head. The voices are angry and loud, the words guttural. There's laughing too; one of the men grabs his right arm and yanks it to an awkward angle behind his back. This is fun for them, a game: let's teach the American kid why he shouldn't mess with us.
He curls in on himself, unable to stop a desperate gasp for air. There's sand in his mouth, his nose. He rolls, throwing an arm over his head, protecting his skull. Angry, foreign words are muffled above.
You gotta disconnect, he tells himself. Let it go.
There was a sergeant that used to tell him that, back when he was a PFC. Looking younger than he was, younger than he felt. Prone to fights and quick to temper.
Reese braces. He hears the gravel under steel-toed boots.
C'mon, Johnny.
He keeps his eyes shut, he works his jaw.
You gotta disconnect.
2011
He hears the gate lift, its rattle and clank.
Footsteps. The uneven echo of shoes on marble.
There's a pause that follows, a hitch in the halted gait, and Reese keeps his eyes on a folded newspaper. A partially filled crossword.
"Finch."
"Mr. Reese."
Reese can picture the frown that would accompany the flat greeting. The disapproving stare. He's early, and he is sitting in Finch's chair. While he hasn't been instructed not to do so, he gets the distinct impression the other man doesn't like it.
"A common falcon," he reads aloud. "Nine letters."
He's thinking partridge. He taps a pen on the desk with his left-hand. Keeps the right loosely cupped around a near-empty coffee. That hand trembles, just slightly-it's been three days since he's last had a drink-and he lowers it to his lap.
He turns his head. Finch's suit is bold again today: a paisley patterned tie, striped shirt and textured vest. An orange pocket square. The bright choice of threads doesn't match the reserved, tight lipped stare of the man wearing them.
Reese waits, holds the gaze with practiced ease as Finch looks him over. For defects, dress-code, posture; he doesn't know. Finch has mastered the art of looking unimpressed, Reese will give him that.
He blinks only when the other man takes a limping step forward.
A stack of paper drops onto the desk. Reese eyes the pages but can't make much of their print: it looks like code, but, maybe not. He pulls out some names from the lines. Tapping his pen, leaning forward slightly.
A throat clears.
When he looks up, Finch arches an eyebrow. The gaze behind the dark framed glasses is unblinking.
"Partridge?" Reese offers. He voices his guess with a lazy swivel of the chair.
Finch squints at him. He moves to the other room, but Reese hears the word, "Peregrine," distinctly uttered from behind the wall.
Reese swivels back to the desk and looks down at the puzzle. A tiny smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
Peregrine it is.
He pens it in.
"That could be a new one," he says when Finch returns. He keeps his eyes on the puzzle.
Twenty-three down. Bauxite or magnetite.
"A new what, Mr. Reese?"
"Alias..." Reese pens in ore and looks up as he pivots in the chair again. Giving his employer an amused smile, he adopts a teasing lilt. "All your aliases are birds, Harold."
Finch's mouth flattens into a small frown.
"Harold Peregrine." Reese enunciates carefully, like he's trying it out on the tongue, and Finch sends him a look, mildly reproving.
In the past week he'd uncovered three addresses appearing to belong to Harold Finch, each under a different feathered pseudonym: Swift, Robin, Wren.
While he'd considered this a win, the actual residences revealed nothing (other than there was more to Harold than Finch). The man was, just as he'd promised, a very private person.
"Has a ring to it, Finch," he says, and Finch, still frowning, does an exaggerated shoo-ing motion with his hands.
Reese relinquishes the chair, taking his coffee with him.
He leaves the crossword.
Finch sits. He turns his attention to his desk. Adjusting the keyboard, the mouse. He examines the penned-in crossword for a moment, then brings his gaze back to Reese. "Done with games?" he asks. There's a hint of testiness in his tone.
Reese just smiles. He takes a sip of lukewarm coffee.
"Robert Frank," Finch says. His voice is clipped. Purely business. "New number."
Present
HAROLD:
He wakes to a bright light, a rhythmic beeping.
He lays there a moment. It's delayed, the sudden burst of panic. But it comes, soon enough: the racing heart, the difficulty breathing. He's suffocating.
He rips at the mask on his face, one-handed. One of his arms is caught, shackled to the hospital bed. A pain floods through him.
He glances down, wonders what's hidden beneath the knitted hospital blanket.
He tries to remember.
The ferry.
Nathan-
No.
It hits him like a truck, and he rolls his head back, closing his eyes.
No.
John.
The pain that comes then, it's worse.
It crushes him.
"Hi there," comes a soft voice. A hand on his arm.
He squints at the blurry figure, taking shallow breaths. Focusing on their face. Unable to fill the hollow cavity that is his chest.
"Hello," he says, voice hoarse from disuse.
Even breathing hurts.
"Was wondering when you'd be back with us."
He stares at her outline. I'm sorry, he wants to say, but I'm not. You're mistaken. This is all a horrible dream.
"How's your pain?"
He closes his eyes. On a scale of one to I'd rather be dead, he would go with the latter. But it's not the physical pain. He prefers the corporal ache to this: the cold, unforgiving weight of the afterlife. The burden of consequence.
"Fine," he says finally. He opens his eyes and the nurse gazes back at him with a soft expression.
"There's some men here," she says quietly. "They have some questions."
He presses his mouth into a weak impression of a smile.
"I'll hold them off," she says. "A little longer."
He nods.
2011
They barely save her, number seventeen, the last in a string of endangered women.
It's back and forth, what to do. When to do it. He says right, Reese goes left. Stay, and Reese leaves.
Finch frowns in the solitude of the library; he sends an annoyed look to the glass board before the window, the series of photos from the course of the week.
And then, like that, it's over. She's safe. A quick exchange, an impassive back in twenty, and radio silence.
Finch doesn't know what to make of that; he calls, three times, checks the last known blip of the GPS.
Twice.
And then a third time.
He taps idle fingers on his keyboard's edge.
He turns to programming.
When Reese returns, it's late. Finch squints at the familiar figure in the dim glow of the library's auxiliary lighting. The ex-op moves slowly; his eyes sweep the expanse of the room.
"Harold."
Finch allows a brief stare, then steers his gaze back to the computer screen. I thought you weren't coming back, he wants to say.
Instead: "That was a long twenty minutes."
"Sorry," Reese offers. He's standing by the file cabinet, strangely still.
There's a pause.
"I just…" The words trail off. Sounding loose. "Yeah."
Finch tilts his head. Something's there, in the tone. The out of place sorry. He turns from the workstation and studies the figure more carefully.
"It's late, Mr. Reese."
Reese is silently rummaging in the top drawer of the cabinet. No response, no tongue-in-cheek reply. His stance wavers.
Finch feels a flutter in his stomach.
"Mr. Reese?"
Reese turns then and lets go of the cabinet, his jacket falling open. A flash of a crimson-stained shirt, a palm held to it.
"Reese."
"It's fine-"
By the time Finch reaches him, Reese is on his knees.
"It's fine," he repeats firmly. A side eye to Finch. Raising a bloody hand. Don't.
Finch frowns. He feels a little faint, but holds his composure. He keeps his voice even. It comes out sounding sharp, a reprimand. "It doesn't look fine."
He should have taken first aid, he thinks.
Did they cover this in first aid?
"Just needed to sit." Reese manages a wolfish smile from the floor as Finch stares and adds, "Maybe a stitch or two."
Finch's frown deepens. He gives a slight shake of his head.
Reese is breathing slowly. In and out. "Actually," he says. There's a pause. "Since you are here-" He ignores Finch's, Where else would I be, look. "-can you hand me, the first aid kit?"
Finch shifts his feet. A hospital would be the better option. His eyes dart from the file cabinet, to Reese, back to the workstation. He could use Reese's identity from the case-
"Harold," Reese says softly. A longer pause. For measured breathing. "It's fine." He shifts back, coming to an awkward sitting position. He's bleeding on an area rug. "Believe me, this is simple."
"Simple," Finch repeats. Raising his eyebrows.
"Finch."
Still considering the options, he moves to the cabinet. An awkward sidestep.
"Suture kit." The voice from the floor is soft. Even-toned.
Finch spares him a glance, another awkward shift of his body. He retrieves the requested item from the drawer.
He stares at Reese a moment and then kneels beside him stiffly. Back rigid, hiding a grimace.
Reese gives him an odd look.
"What," Finch says. He gives the younger man a stern frown, not appreciating the insinuation in Reese's expression. "I'm handi-capable, thank you."
Reese doesn't respond. He's shrugging off the suit jacket. Unbuttoning his shirt with one bloodied hand, holding out the other. "Here," he says.
It's uncommon to be this close, and Finch notes the aftermath of the last few numbers in Reese's features: the fading bruise along his right cheekbone, another shadowing a laceration at his hairline.
The now revealed bloodied torso.
He swallows.
"Here," Reese repeats. "I can do it."
Finch eyes the exposed wound along Reese's ribcage. He looks away from the gaping skin.
Looks back.
Swallows again.
Beneath the sheen of blood, there's a long scar on the flat of Reese's stomach. A shorter one flanking it. He wonders if either of the two were self-attended.
Reese is watching him, his jaw visibly clenched.
Finch makes a decision.
"I hardly think that's possible," he says. He presses his mouth into a resolute line. "Lay back."
He gets another odd look, so he repeats himself.
He waits for Reese to obey and then examines the kit in his hand, opening it with a slight tremble in his fingers. Watching Reese over the top of his glasses. He shifts on his knees and another twinge goes through his back.
When he starts to read the instructions aloud, Reese shifts to sit up again, pushing at the paper.
"Finch."
Finch gives him a look. "Lay back," he says. Reese is considering. "John."
The ex-op lays back again, resignedly. He gives Finch a wary eye and then flutters his lids closed. "Don't need... that." Breathing out audibly, he says, "I'll tell you how."
Later it's Finch who winces, each time he pulls a stitch closed, each time the needle punctures flesh.
The tremor never leaves his hands.
Reese's voice doesn't waver. Instructions soft and even. He lies on his good side, facing away as Finch slowly works. An indifferent profile.
"Alright," Finch says quietly. A snip of the surgical scissors just below the final knot. He pauses, breathing in through his nose, out through his mouth. Okay. Reese hasn't moved, and he gives the younger man's leg a stiff pat. Done.
There's an exhale.
A soft, "Good job, Finch."
Finch's hands are bloody. He stares at them.
Simple.
"Do they teach this in Boy Scouts, John?"
There's brief pause.
"I don't know." Reese rolls to his back. His face is blank and distant, he squints at the ceiling. He says something else, an incoherent murmur that sounds like, "Never was a Boy Scout," and then closes his eyes.
Finch studies the stoic face. For a moment he sees Nathan, bloody on a gurney.
He blinks, a shake of his head. Looks back at his hands.
Simple had been abandoned a long time ago.
Present
JOHN:
He jolts awake.
He blinks, twice, but the dark remains. The air is thick, with smoke billowing and the tangy, metallic musk of iron. Pain sets in with his second breath. This isn't the afterlife, he's pretty sure.
He has a free hand, his left, and he reaches awkwardly to tap a com in his right ear. A habit, the motion, but he doesn't speak. A growl sticks in his throat; he squeezes his eyes shut and then opens them.
Darkness.
His fingers come away wet. Sticky. Something warm dripping down his neck.
In a brief panic, he struggles to move and is caught. His left leg is trapped. His other arm. He can't feel them, even as the rest of his body slowly sets itself on fire.
This is when you're supposed to recall every single detail about the critical moments in your life, Reese realizes. But now, here, his mind is blank.
He feels the drunken weight of blood loss. The murky spin.
He squeezes his eyes, opening again to a shift of light in the darkness. A silhouette.
He'd recognize her anywhere.
"Jess," he says, voice hoarse. Whisper soft. "Jessie."
She turns, she smiles.
The world shudders, just as he smiles back. This is it, he thinks.
She disappears, and it all goes black.
FUSCO:
The thunderstorm clears by late afternoon but the breeze remains. Remnant clouds. A moody sky.
He watches Lee skip stones and toss seaweed onto rocks. He did the same when his father took him here, back when his Uncle Mike died. He remembers his dad staring off most of the time. Drinking a lot.
"Dad!"
Fusco looks down at the beer in his own hand, feels the sweat of it in his palm. Looks up. Lee is grinning, he's proud of something and Fusco forces himself to his feet. He feels heavy. Sluggish.
"Five skips," Lee boasts. His skinny arms crisscross his chest. He casts a wide smile at his dad. Eyes bright with pride.
Fusco grins back, but something in his gut twinges as he looks out at the sea, across the sound. A gull cries, its caw echoing above them.
Lee tosses a heavier rock into the water, it hits with a plop.
"Can we stay another night?"
Fusco rubs a hand down his unshaven cheek. It's been nine days since the missile strike, since he last heard anything. No news was good news, so they say, but this.
This had fixed a heavy weight in his chest. A sinking sickness in his stomach.
He checks his phone, a tick now, but its screen is blank.
"Dad?"
He looks up. Lee is staring at him. Brow furrowed.
"What, buddy."
"I said, can we stay another night?"
"Yeah." Fusco says it without thinking. Thinks of how he'll have to call Lee's mother after the fact. Fight for another day with his kid. He works on relaxing his face. Forces another smile.
A gull caws again. They both look up.
The air is still heavy after the rain, the salty breeze still thick with humidity.
"Definitely," he says, cementing the decision.
"Sweet!" Lee kicks up a cloud of sand with the toe of his sandal. He takes off toward the water, no pause in stride as he hits the surf.
Fusco watches him. Takes a swallow from his beer. He pulls his phone, looking at its screen before pulling up his ex's number.
He's not ready to go back either.
2012
"I gotta get back," Reese says.
Fusco blinks. He scans the shoreline: the burning vehicle, money fluttering in the breeze. "How do you…" Three suspects sprawled out on the earth, unconscious, limbs in awkward states of rest. He can't. "Seriously?"
"You're welcome, Lionel."
"Yeah?" He gives Reese a frustrated side-eye. "Thanks, guy. How am I gonna explain this?"
Reese's profile is impassive. "Money," he says slowly, gesturing absently to the rippling bills. Another motion to the stilled bodies. "Bad guys."
Right.
"And the explosion?"
The grenade?
There's a quirk at the edge of Reese's mouth; he turns his head, meeting Fusco's eye.
"You're the detective, detective." His voice is sing-song.
Fusco gives him a hard stare.
Reese's head tilts to the side, just a notch. Listening. For a second he looks mollified, but it's fleeting.
The pain-in-the-ass look is back.
"The security camera," Reese says. "The footage should be self-explanatory."
Fusco follows Reese's line of sight to the electronic eye atop a light pole. He finds himself gaping at the camera, eyes squinted in the glare of the sun.
The footage would be self-explanatory, yes; but it would also be incriminating. And not just for the "bad guys".
He looks back to Reese, who raises his eyebrows. Fusco wants to wipe the smug look off his face.
"You looking to add to your rap sheet?" he asks instead.
"Very funny, Lionel."
"Look. Unless you got up in there and did your black magic, uh, whatever it is IT thing, then-"
"It's clean, Lionel."
There's sirens then, a squealing tire. Fusco turns. His backup's here. Only six minutes late.
Thanks, guys.
When he turns back, Reese is nowhere.
"Thanks a lot," he mutters.
Present
JOHN:
There's a bird with darkened plumage, sitting on a broken pipe. Reese watches and whistles; it tilts its head. He squints.
It looks like a crow.
"It's a raven, John."
He twists, a rush of ice in his veins. His ears are ringing.
He stares.
"Harold." It comes out a whisper. A wheeze.
"Mr. Reese."
Through smoke, Reese makes out the familiar form. Fighting a haze of pain, his mind racing with fragments of any intelligible thought. Finch's suit is impeccable. The thin smile is comfortingly familiar. But something is off.
"Finch," he manages, "where are your glasses?"
"My glasses?" Finch's mouth slants slightly; he seems amused. Then, gently, "I don't need them."
Reese swallows back a sudden swirl of nausea. He raises his gaze a moment, skyward, then sets it back on Finch.
So, he thinks bleakly, they were dead.
There's a tightness in his chest. He takes a silent, ragged breath.
"John." Finch says his name cautiously. "I warned you from the start." As though Finch had heard the unspoken thought. "It was only a matter of time before..."
He trails off.
Reese closes his eyes. It hurts, really. A little more than he thought it might.
He never learns.
He sets his jaw. He's okay, being dead. It's just-
There's a fluttering. He looks to the bird.
"John-"
"It wasn't supposed to be both of us," Reese interrupts. He keeps his gaze on the raven. He hears the flatness in his tone. Feels Finch's stare. The raven flaps its wings again, agitated.
The world shudders before Finch responds; it begins to break into pieces.
Reese swings his gaze back; the bird lets out a throaty kraa.
"Harold?"
There's a searing pain that rips at him. He stifles a grunt. Fights to move again.
And then, he's falling.
The world erupts in noise.
"Harold!"
His shout is hoarse, useless. The sound of a freight train roars around him.
"John," he hears.
He can't respond, locked in stillness as he plunges. He struggles against whatever vice holds him there, darkness haloing his vision.
"Wake up, John."
The words sound more a distant echo. Each passing second, the roar more deafening.
"John."
Head pounding. He's paralyzed, lights flashing. He's not in his body.
He remembers suddenly, being in a cruiser. The blue and red and orange of the lights flashing through the windshield.
"Kid," the cop had said. Leaning over him. The look on his face.
He knew then. No one was coming.
Rain had peppered the glass.
"I'm sorry," the officer said.
"John."
Blue, red, orange.
He closes his eyes.
"Wake up."
Present
SAMEEN:
Shaw stares at Fusco when he says the name. She bites into her burger. Feels a drip of grease escape, the trickle down her chin. She wipes it with the back of a fist.
"Jeffrey Blackwell," he says again.
She gives him a tired look. Takes another bite.
He's not an idiot.
"We could have done it differently," he says finally, lowering his voice. He isn't happy.
Though a mouthful of beef she replies, "Cut the crap, Lionel."
He gives her a hard look.
When she doesn't react, he takes a long sip of his beer. Leans back in his chair, staring at the half eaten order of wings in front of him.
Yeah, Shaw thinks. Me too.
She stares; he notices. The look he gives her is clear: Don't. Last week, she'd voiced her surprise when he'd joined her in a round.
"What," he'd said, a little too defensively, "it's just a beer."
She dips a fry in ketchup.
"What's on the docket?" She reaches for the thick Manila folder he'd laid on the table when he'd first arrived. She's not that interested in it, but it breaks the lull.
"Nothing." Fusco pulls the file back, frowning at the ghost of greasy fingerprints on its edge. "Mitts off."
"Thought you were taking a break," she continues, ignoring the words and inching it forward again. She has enough time to briefly scan the file before he snags it back and lands her a glare.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Well."
She holds his stare. She knows it hasn't been easy for him, returning to the precinct. Even with the number of transfers, the reorg. The flurry of excitement surrounding the missile strike (an oddly contained explosion for something with the potential to be so catastrophic). But all the same.
People didn't forget.
"Time waits for no man." There's a hint of bitterness in his tone. A sarcastic smile. "Neither do jobs."
"Speaking of," Shaw says. She pretends to consult her nonexistent watch. Drains her own beer. "Gotta run, Lionel." She stands to leave, then hesitates.
He hasn't asked.
It's her turn, this time.
"Hey," she starts. Then, "Anything?"
Fusco catches her eye. He gives a brief shake of his head. A wistful smile. No.
She nods and makes for the exit.
2013
Shaw mutters a curse and tracks the crowd, her lost target.
She comes to an abrupt stop and swears under her breath. Glaring to a woman who elbows past, a flash of bangle bracelets and an alligator purse.
Scanning. Another look up the block.
Annoyed now, sensing defeat. Finch, stiff and limping, had somehow vanished on her. Gone. Down an empty side street.
"I told you." From behind comes a familiar voice. Soft and smug. "He does that."
And this one.
She turns, frowning. "You tailing me?"
Reese gives a small shrug and pulls his overcoat tighter around the neck. There's a quirk of a smile on his face: almost an apology.
Almost.
It's windy out, it whips around them and she annoyedly tucks back the strands of hair that wrap across her face.
"You're losing your touch, Shaw," Reese says mildly.
It's a busy intersection, a stream of pedestrians part around them. She narrows her eyes at the dig. Glances back in the direction Finch had disappeared.
The two made an unlikely pair: Finch with his meticulous three-piece suits and limping gait; Reese looking like mail-order ex-military for hire, always the same black-and-white.
Shaw looks back to him. Standing tall, always at attention. The dog is there, glued to his left leg. It sits, sensing a pause, and opens its mouth in a pant that looks like an amused smile.
Shaw shakes her head.
"Ridiculous," she says.
Reese exchanges a look with the canine. Says something that sounds German. (Dutch, she later learns.)
The dog rises.
She's about to tell him to get lost and make an exit. Behind them, the shrill ring of a telephone interrupts.
Reese's gaze flicks to the payphone, then up to a mounted camera, high on a pole. He hands her Bear's leash without asking. Steps to answer the call.
Shaw rolls her eyes and looks down, stepping out of the sidewalk's traffic. The shepherd heels and watches her expectantly.
"I think," she murmurs, "you're all nuts."
Bear lets out a low whine.
There's a moment she thinks about taking the dog and just, going.
She isn't sure where.
Reese is back. He holds his hand out but Shaw ignores the gesture, shifting the leash to her opposite hand. Giving him an expectant look.
"New number," he allows.
She glances to the phone booth. Back to Reese, who watches her with a guarded expression.
So this was how they got their numbers?
"Lead the way." She doesn't offer the leash, just stares at him. Waiting. He looks down at Bear.
He's bothered, she thinks. Just a little.
"You look hungry," she comments later, stopping at a curb, waiting for a lull in the traffic to cross. She steps off, not waiting for the Walk.
Reese is a step behind now. The Library just a block away. "I'm not," he answers bluntly.
Yep. He's bothered.
"I was talking to the dog, Reese," she says for good measure.
He blinks; she turns in time to catch it and then smirks, keeping her eyes forward.
Present
JOHN:
When he opens his eyes, he blearily registers the pale walls, the unfamiliar green curtains. There's a rhythmic beeping. A humming.
A hand on his arm.
"Hey there."
The voice is soft.
He blinks groggily, expecting darkness to return.
Hoping for it.
"Hi," she says. His eyes focus a little on the dark-haired woman. She's a nurse.
He's in a hospital.
He blinks again.
"Can you tell us your name?" There's a rustling, the clinking of metal instruments on a surgical tray.
"John," he murmurs, and shuts his eyes. His voice is hoarse.
He hurts.
"Welcome back, John… You've been away for quite awhile."
He squints his eyes open slightly. How long, he almost asks, but he realizes he doesn't care. His eyes flutter shut.
"John?" Her voice is still gentle. He hears muffled voices from the hall, the sound of soft footsteps.
The steady beeping.
He can feel his heart in his chest. The heavy, slow throb.
A dulled but ever present pain.
He's alive.
He flickers open his eyes. "Did anyone come?" he whispers, before he can think not to.
Did we win?
The nurse presses a sympathetic smile.
Reese accounts for his casted right arm and bandaged torso, the wires and tubes spilling out of him in a tangled disorder. He tries to adjust himself in the bed; he finds himself immobilized.
He grimaces, the attempt painful.
"Your legs," the nurse starts, and then she pauses. Reese stares blankly at the indeterminate shapes beneath the white knitted blanket covering his lower half, barely registering her, "You've come a long way."
He lets his eyes close again, their lids feeling heavy.
There's movement next to the bed, he can feel the presence of another person.
Whispers.
A rustle.
"John? Welcome back, buddy. What can you remember?"
He opens his eyes, just enough to see the face of the older gentleman behind the prodding words. He lets them slide shut again.
He imagines when he opens them, he'll be back in darkness.
He hopes.
Something of that must register on his face.
"Don't worry," the original nurse says, accustomed to giving false hopes. Reese feels gentle pressure on his arm. A soft squeeze. "You'll remember. It will all come back."
He starts to drift, giving in to the morphine-laced sleep.
The problem is, he never forgot.
