"I figured you'd be more of an abstract kind of guy, Harold."
Finch started at the unexpected voice. Out of a trance. He lifted his gaze from the magazine's cover art.
"Mr. Reese..."
"Finch." A curious look. Reese set a styrofoam cup a safe distance from the desk's mess of keyboards and slipped the publication from his boss's hand.
The Boroughs Magazine.
Two heavily inked figures under an watercolor umbrella stood on its front page, pochade style.
Reese's eyes wandered from the colorful sketch to the warning look on the face of his employer.
A second for scrutiny. He handed it back to the outstretched palm.
"Thank you." Finch's tone was clipped as he slid the magazine to the side of the table, cover down. He reached for the cup of tea and sent a pointed look in the younger man's direction. Outside, an ambulance wailed its passing. "You're early, Mr. Reese."
Reese sank into a chair and took a slow sip from his coffee. "Just trying to impress my boss."
Truth was, he had been awake since three. Too little action with their recent numbers-a good thing-but too much time on his own.
Too much time in his head.
At Finch's clearly unimpressed expression, he twisted back to look at the glass board in front of the window. At its center was a photo he didn't recognize.
"New number," Finch said, following his gaze. He turned stiffly. "Monica Lewis. Physical therapist at St. Luke's."
Reese studied the picture as Finch typed a short line of code.
Dark hair. Earnest eyes, cautious smile. Pretty.
"What do we know about Monica?"
"No outstanding debts… no criminal history. Volunteers her time, goes to church." There was little to go on. Not even a parking ticket.
"She sounds nice, Finch." Reese leaned his weight back in his chair. It creaked faintly.
"She does..." Slowly.
"Should we make you an appointment?"
"Already done," came the dry response. Finch looked up from the monitor, sensing the amusement behind Reese's even toned words. "Frankly I'd enjoy sending you for some therapy... I'm just not certain this is the appropriate venue."
Reese hid a small smile, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
"I'll check out her apartment then." He swiveled in his chair to catch Finch's eye. "While you get… realigned?"
Oh, he was going to enjoy this.
A quirk of an eyebrow. "Do be careful, Mr. Reese."
Reese kept his expression neutral. "Always." He unfolded himself from the chair, knowing full well Finch wasn't referring to the recon.
The satellite clinic was small, mutely decorated. There had been only one other patient in the waiting room when he arrived.
The staff had been friendly, courteous.
No tensions that he could note behind the plexiglass divide.
"Spinal fusion?"
Finch shifted, stiffly. Gave Monica a thin smile. "Yes... a few years back."
They stood in a open room, a range of exercise equipment and machines in the back, several padded tables, a barre stretching along the far wall.
He eyed the nearby weights and yoga mats, the stability balls. The odd pulley system to their left.
He had needed a distraction, what better way than to torture himself physically for a change.
If nothing else, he had been happy to note the lack of inspirational posters touting one-liners about Discipline and Strength and the like.
"Looks like C3 through C5 or so, if I had to guess. Judging by your range of motion." Monica watched him with a keen eye. "Molly was pulling in your records."
"Exactly right." Finch pivoted stiffly, following her motion. "Car accident," he offered, before she could ask.
"You're lucky." She gave him a small, embarrassed smile at the word choice. "Many patients with injuries in that part of the cervical spine have a much greater loss of overall function." She motioned for him to walk, observing his gait. "Pain level?"
"Today's a pretty good day."
A good day was relative.
She smiled again, sympathetic. "On a scale of one to ten, what's your normal level of activity?"
In his ear, muffled: "One… Maybe two?"
"Five."
There was a disappointed tut over the line.
Mr. Reese would regret that.
"Excellent." Monica nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She didn't seem to notice the firmness of his answer. "And had you done any physical therapy? After the accident?"
"Ah. Shortly after, yes, but I'm afraid I didn't keep up with it." Finch pressed his lips into a thin line. "I have a demanding work schedule."
"What is it you do again?"
"I work with numbers. Accounting mostly."
Monica nodded. She had pulled a clipboard from one of the padded tables.
He could see her thought process. Desk job, slave to work, unmotivated. He turned again, looking one more time around the modern day torture chamber.
What on earth was that contraption with the weights and slings?
"The ideal program for you would have a combination of stretching, strengthening, and aerobic conditioning." She looked up, following his gaze. "I know that sounds scary."
It did.
And he were wishing he had popped some extra pills that morning.
She continued. "Ideally we want to start working on two main things. Rotation… moving the head side-to-side, and flexion… moving the head backward. Sound good?"
Sounded painful.
"Sounds good," he said. A weak smile.
He was already beginning to regret not having Reese feign a limp.
Monica flipped through the chart and then set it down.
"Really it comes down to a long-term, self-directed approach." Her words were firm but her expression was encouraging. "I can help, but at the end of the day it's up to you to make the change."
"You should listen to the pretty lady, Harold."
Finch rolled his eyes to the ceiling as Monica turned away. He should have at least adopted a cane for his persona.
He could have used it on a certain associate later.
"Okay," Monica said brightly. She turned back, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Enough pep talk. Let's see what your baseline is."
Back at the library, five cartons of takeout and two dead ends.
A clicking keyboard. An occasional horn from the street.
"Maybe a patient couldn't handle her ruthless six-week program."
The typing paused.
"I don't have to feed you, Mr. Reese."
Reese twirled his chopsticks around a clump of lo mein. "You like feeding me."
An arched eyebrow. Finch picked through his own food, absently clicking at the keyboard. Hiding a grimace when Reese wasn't looking.
He was feeling every bone and muscle in his body. And not in the happy, endorphins toting way. Learning his baseline had been a brief lesson in modern torture.
And all for naught, apparently. Monica Lewis seemed friendly… well-liked by her staff. The small video feed he had bugged the clinic with hadn't offered any further enlightenment.
They were missing something. Something not at work.
"Apartment in Brooklyn didn't come up with much." Reese leaned back in his chair, glanced from Monica's photo to the computers. Finch's expression was pinched; he wasn't happy. "Married… one kid. A friendly Labrador."
All things Finch probably knew.
He stretched his legs out, the bottom of his shoes pressed against the table's legs. Picked out a single piece of shrimp from his takeout carton, chewing slowly.
When all else failed there was only one option.
Follow the number everywhere.
He glanced at his watch. Nearing six. "She finishes work soon?"
A short burst of typing. Finch was in the clinic's computer. "Yes," he confirmed. "Her last patient just arrived."
Finch considered deleting his next appointment from the system.
Reese was watching. He minimized the screen and turned in his chair.
"If Mrs. Lewis's day job didn't expose a threat, something in her personal life must have given the Machine a reason to flag her number."
Reese picked out another shrimp, popping it in his mouth. "What do we know about the husband?"
"Former army… Works at the recruiting office." Finch typed for a second, tilting his head. "Happy facade on the social networking sites." He turned the screen slightly so that Reese could see the image of a smiling Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, cheek-to-cheek.
Reese raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, Finch. Monica seems pretty happy. Maybe your machine just wanted you back in therapy."
"John."
"I'm just saying." Reese traded out his lo mein for a carton of General Tso's, unfazed by his employer's tone. "It might be good for you." He picked out a piece of chicken. "Getting out... Exercising... Socializing…"
Finch hummed something under his breath. Glanced to the edge of the magazine now hidden in the midst of takeout cartons. He leaned back in his chair.
It wouldn't be the first time the Machine had flagged a number for an alternative objective.
"Finch?"
He forced his train of thought back. Spoke before the questioning look on Reese's face went any further.
"If you're quite finished concerning yourself with my health and social life?"
The look on Reese's face was one of practiced innocence.
"I'll dig a little deeper on Mr. Lewis." Finch tapped a few lines on the keyboard. Bank records okay. Mortgage in good standing. While Reese was tailing Mrs. Lewis, perhaps he could find something of interest. He looked up. "As we both know, ex-soldier types can be a little… difficult."
"Difficult?"
"You prefer another word?"
A smile. Reese pushed the half-eaten carton of takeout onto the desk and got to his feet. He'd need the time to make it uptown.
"Don't forget to stretch, Harold."
Repeating overheard instructions from the physical therapist. He was making a quick retreat, tucking a pistol into his belt.
The metal gate jangled at his departure.
Finch pushed his own food back on the desk, rubbing his thumbs against his temples. The quiet settled around him.
A fluttering, cooing of pigeons that had taken up residence in the front fire escape.
A honk from the corner. Then, five seconds of silence.
Finch closed his eyes.
Saw a watercolor umbrella.
He opened his eyes and reached out, sliding the magazine slowly toward himself.
Traced the lines of the two figures. The cobblestone path.
He let out a slow breath. Septembers were hard.
She clearly felt the same.
A/N: Special thanks to Markath, for the guidance, enthusiasm, and keen eye!