"So… How did you find Harold?"

The question is unexpected, both of them having been prone on the roof for the better part of an hour with not a full sentence spoken between them. It wasn't the first time they'd shared a stake out, and not the first time she'd tried prying information out of him.

Since he'd met Shaw, she'd tended to be far more taciturn than talkative. The woman was definitely not one to observe social niceties, her prior discussions usually adversarial and more akin to an inquest than the give and take exchange of a friendly conversation. In addition he is well aware of her rather low opinion of him. Finch's poorly socialized guard dog.

Of course what she feels is Bear's role then he isn't sure - other than she probably considers the dog better mannered and definitely a more acceptable a companion than is he. He gives a mental shrug. Her choice…

Though the sudden question has taken him by surprise, he still doesn't bother to glance at his colleague; he knows what he'll see: the trained assassin merges with the dusk, her slight body clad in all black clothing just another shadow on the weathered roof. She cradles the SSG against her shoulder like a lover, caressing the metal with her cheek as she peers through the scope, all the while her forefinger gently massaging the trigger guard.

Shaw does adore her weapons.

Not a remarkable occurrence. Most professional snipers become attached to the tools of their trade, often preferring one particular rifle over all others. Sometimes it has to do with a low grade superstition - one of course never verbalized – that the choice of weapon will influence the outcome of their mission, much like a ball player chooses to use the same 'lucky' bat each game to boost prospects for a win.

He shifts his position slightly to take pressure off the bruise on his left knee, compliments of his last Number who had connected with it in a savage kick. Doing so he's aware of Shaw's steady gaze as she waits impatiently for an answer.

What was it she'd asked? Oh, yes…

"I didn't." And he thinks briefly of leaving it at that; he's tired and in no mood to spar with her. But to forestall the next question, he decides to put a damper on the inquisition sure to follow. "He found me."

"Really. How convenient."

Not bothering to reply, he allows the quiet to blanket them once more, broken only by the muffled noises drifting aloft from the streets below. A city that never sleeps, he thinks, though the traffic has thinned out dramatically. As it should, considering the late, or more correctly, early hour. It's actually rather peaceful now...

Their mission this evening is one that he's unfortunately repeated ad nauseam since his employment with Harold: lying in wait for hours on end, watching for any activity involving their current target, one that would give a clue as to the reason Finch was given a particular Number. Good guy or bad guy? Victim or perpetrator? Protect or…?

It was so much easier in his former job when he'd been a mere weapon. The CIA pointed him in a direction, and gave clearly defined instructions. Terminate or vanish, usually both. Not his responsibility to analyze his quarry and decide whether the particular target was innocent or guilty. Find and kill. Easy peasy.

And suddenly Kara springs to mind.

"Ours is not to reason why…isn't that what you told me?"
"And I thought you weren't listening."

Of course the kind of unquestioning obedience Kara expounded can play havoc with one's conscience - assuming one has a conscience. And he wonders about the kind of moral code his co-worker may have adopted over the years…or if she has one at all.

But no matter. It is what it is, and here he is with this assassin-in-arms, one who would rather take a shot than give the benefit of a doubt...lying on a filthy roof top with her training a weapon on a third floor window of the building across the street, he focusing on the front door.

There's no assurance they will see any action at all this evening…morning…as their only mission currently is to gather evidence that will allow them to determine their next move. It's been a long, and thus far, boring stake out.

"I've been doing some digging, you know. To find stuff on you."

This time he does glance at her, raising an eyebrow not just at her comment, but the fact that she's continuing to talk to him. Shaw hasn't been working with them that long, but up until now she strikes him as conversationally challenged and definitely a loner. And if she sees him at all, it's as competition for control…of weapons, of cars, of assignments. Of his dog. Not as a partner.

He doesn't mind - after all, he's much the same. But her buzz-off attitude and reluctance to cooperate has been driving Harold crazy.

"Mr. Reese, we need to have a talk about Ms Shaw…!" The ex-op smiles at the memory.

But other than the rather persistent questioning - examination actually - he was subjected to about his relationship with Zoe and Carter, Shaw hasn't paid much attention to him. He doesn't take it personally. She likes Bear, but humans? None of them seem to hold much interest for her.

"And what did you find?"

"Nothing. There's nothing to find."

Reese allows himself a silent smirk. Game point to him. He knew the answer but it was still satisfying to hear her have to admit it. Harold is nothing if not thorough…there would be no evidence left of his past, just as there is none to reveal the older man ever set foot on this earth.

The most Shaw can uncover about John Reese, the black ops agent, are empty files or those with a single sheet indicating just one word: redacted. And without Corwin or Snow around, even those files will soon be discarded as new personnel will label his disappearance as an unsolved case left by the former administration….and not their problem. He remains a ghost.

"So what did you do? Before Finch "found" you?"

The ex-op sighs. To think he used to find surveillance missions boring, lonely. He even appreciates having Harold along on a few of these jobs, though the reclusive geek is usually short on words and long on silences, often falling asleep before the end of their surveillance shift.

But Shaw is revealing a side of her now that he hadn't predicted. This time she seems genuinely curious. And a Chatty Cathy. A curious Chatty Cathy.

No, that's wrong; more like a curious cat. He glances once more at the shadow several feet to his right. Dark hair, black outfit, sleek, sinuous…claws. Catwoman.

Huh…and what then does that make him?

He rummages through his memory for scraps of information on drawings, magazine articles, and films he may have tucked among his brain cells in the past. But it would have been a long time ago, his military missions and later CIA work not exactly promoting such frivolous activities as an interest in Hollywood personalities or movies.

Still, his younger self did have a rather admirable collection of comic books…

What he remembers is that the comic character Catwoman was a super villainess, a feline fatale dressed in black leather, carrying a wicked looking whip. The stories usually depicted her as an adversary of Batman…but was also shown as having a complex love-hate relationship with the Caped Crusader.

His pre-pubescent self, like most young boys, was far more interested in the action scenes and considered the possibility of his hero having Catwoman as girl friend as unbelievable…and stupid. He glances at Shaw again. Well, his view on that subject hadn't changed.

"Probably much the same thing as you, Shaw."

"Mmm. Surprises me. You're not the type."

"And what type is that?"

"Wait..!" She moves aggressively forward, tilting the rifle downward as she peers intently into the scope. Muscles tensed, she moves her finger into the trigger guard and he's reminded forcibly of a feline in hunting mode - crouching low across the roof top, moving slowly, fixated on prey.

If Shaw had a tail it would be twitching…

He shakes off the imagery and responds, making himself one with the roof as he raises his own scope level with his eyes. His focus is on the street below where he sees a male in a rather rumpled suit exit a taxi, then stand swaying slightly while paying the cabbie. The car moves away and the man staggers to the entrance of the building.

"He's drunk, Shaw. And from what I can tell, too young to be our Number."

"Stupid kid. Hope he throws up his guts." Her disappointment is palpable. If she'd had whiskers, they'd be vibrating…

Reese chuckles. "You're just disappointed there's no reason to shoot."

They both pull back from the roof's edge, and now that the possibility of overt action is gone, loosen muscles that had suddenly gone tight. Silence takes over, as he turns his head to and fro, attempting to relax the tension in his shoulders and neck. But after a minute or two he becomes aware of Shaw's scrutiny – again - and looks at her questioningly.

"You're not, you know."

He shakes his head and turns back to his scope. Evidently Shaw is going to continue to talk whether or not he participates, so he might as well just settle back and let her prattle on. She's clearly feeling the need to chat, filling in silence. And all he's feeling is exhausted.

"The right type. You're too much of a wuss. "No shots to center mass". Unbelievable!" She returns her eye to the rifle's scope again. Then continues, talking into the side of the rifle.

"If you really did get sent after terrorists, how did you ever handle the termination order? Or did you just shoot for the knees and hope the target would suddenly become a boy scout and change his mind about blowing up a school bus in the future?"

Reese tightens his lips to keep from responding. For Shaw that was long speech, but she doesn't know anything. She has no idea what he did, his termination stats. But he does. He was counted as one of Snow's golden boys, one that always found and successfully eliminated his target.

Paired with Kara, the two had a kill count that exceeded that of anyone else in the Company. And all the while the sheer horror of his actions was eating away at his very soul… Kara had enjoyed her job, and to keep him going, constantly reminded him of his changed status in society. "You can never go back. You're not like them anymore…you're not even the same species."

So he'd continued following her though it required clamping down on every feeling, every ounce of humanity as she repeatedly discouraged any sign of emotion. "Lock it down. I don't need this guy. I need the killer..."

He had become like Shaw is now, a revelation that disturbs him more than he cares to admit.

Would things have ever changed for him, would he have even attempted to modify his behavior had he not gotten that call from Jessie? It became a fork in the road, with billboard sized signs outlined in LED lights, clearly defining his destination.

And he wonders if Shaw has come to a similar crossroads yet.

"My past is none of your concern Shaw. Just as yours is none of mine. We're here to do a job, not exchange resumes."

Shaw raises her head from her precious gun and throws a glance his way, clearly annoyed with his answer, her expression one of uncertainty as to what it was Finch saw in him in the first place. He knew with her competitive nature she was attempting to study him, someone she views as an adversary.

Fine. Let her analyze away, if she'll just stop talking and leave him in peace.

Shaw resumes her position and a hush settles on them once more, the clock ticking slowly toward daybreak as a cool breeze flows over the roof top. It's a welcome relief from the stale atmosphere that has surrounded the tall buildings all evening.

Soon the sun will be up. He'll call in his report to Finch and be on his way to his condo, the prospect of a shower and slipping between the sheets becoming more appealing by the minute. Meantime he welcomes the tranquility of the early morning, the calm, the quiet…serenity.

"So… How did you find Bear?"

And Reese sighs. Catwoman is back...

.

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An article in Wikipedia prompted this fic… :)

"For many years Catwoman thrived, but from September 1954 to November 1966 she took an extended hiatus due to the newly developing Comics Code Authority in 1954.

These issues involved the rules regarding the development and portrayal of female characters that were in violation of the Comics Code.

Since the 1990s, Catwoman has been featured in an eponymous series that cast her as an anti-heroineclassy cat burglar rather than a traditional villain."