Bounce - definition
2. Restarting a Computer
The term "bounce" can also describe the process of rebooting or restarting a computer. For example, a workstation may need to be bounced after installing new software.

Thanks to CeeBee for the case!

Notes:

This is a continuation of the Chaos AU. There are Numbers. There will also finally be relationships moving forward. There's a fair amount of fluffy. I know that's not everybody's cup of tea, and if you want to jump off here, I understand completely.

Chapter 1

What if she wasn't on the plane?

John Reese stood near a column at the side of the Arrivals waiting area, out of the way, unobtrusive. His face betrayed none of the questions that churned in his mind.

The cops just on the other side of the gate had given him the once-over, seen his neat dark suit and his cap and the neatly-printed cardboard sign in his hand, decided he was a limo driver, and then ignored him. One of the other real drivers had raised an eyebrow at him, nothing more. Of the roughly two hundred arriving passengers who had passed since then, only a handful had given him more than a casual glance. None had aroused his suspicions. He waited, apparently bored, his sign down at his side.

It was easy to tell the domestic from the international arrivals. Domestic flights disgorged their passengers large group. But passing through Customs broke up the international fliers into a steady trickle. It was nearly half an hour after the Heathrow arrival was announced before the first few wandered through. They all moved with a peculiar stiff gate that indicated a long flight; most had large bags; many had non-American accents. But they arrived and departed and none of them were her.

Reese tapped the sign against the side of his leg.

He wasn't entirely sure she would be glad to see him.

Airports, Jessica. Of course he was uneasy. Completely logical. Not about Christine at all.

The number of international passengers dwindled.

He grew more concerned.

Then the passengers with big bags stopped coming altogether and John admitted to himself that he was genuinely worried.

There were two possible explanations. The first was that Christine Fitzgerald hadn't gotten on the plane in London. She might have changed her mind about coming home at the last minute; she might simply have missed her connection. Either way, there was an easy fix. Reese had a clean passport with him. He would simply book his own ticket and go get her. He could persuade, cajole, reassure or incapacitate as needed once he got there.

But the other possibility …

… the other possibility was that Christine had gotten on the flight, and somewhere between there and here, most like at the Customs gate, the government or some other enemy had taken her.

Reese eyed the two cops at the exit-only gate. They seemed like a soft target, but he knew they had a small army of back-up on hand. If Christine was somewhere in the terminal, his best chance of getting her back was when they moved her out. But he needed more information. As much information as he could get.

First and foremost, he needed to know whether she'd actually gotten on the plane. That shouldn't be hard for Finch to find out – if he didn't already know.

John reached up to touch his earpiece, then paused.

There was a couple standing in the middle of the waiting area, looking past the gate and down the concourse. They'd been there when Reese arrived. Now they were openly impatient. They looked as worried as John felt.

They were civilians. They had the luxury of not concealing their feelings.

His instinct told him to wait. John lowered his hand and paid closer attention to the couple.

They were both roughly sixty years old, and obviously married to each other. The man was mostly bald, with a neatly-trimmed fringe of black and gray. He wore khaki pants and a blue polo shirt. His wife wore a white sleeveless cotton top, a denim skirt and flat shoes. She carried a very large cloth shoulder bag. Perfectly ordinary, middle class. Apparently.

Reese never took people at face value.

"What's taking her so long?" the woman complained.

John replayed the previous ten minutes in his head and realized that she'd said the same thing twice.

"You know she doesn't move very fast anymore," the man answered.

"They'll get her a wheelchair, won't they? They have wheelchairs."

"Maybe."

They both stared down the concourse.

"Or one of those carts," the woman continued. "Those golf cart things."

The man nodded.

"Maybe we should ask someone."

The man glanced around uncertainly. "In a minute."

"We can't just wait here all night." The woman turned her whole body to look around the concourse. She met Reese's eyes, then moved on. "We should ask someone to check at the gate."

"There she is."

The woman spun. "Oh God. Is that her?"

John turned his head.

There were a number of people moving around the concourse, but two caught Reese's eye immediately. They were women, very close together, their arms entwined. They walked slowly towards the waiting area.

Very slowly.

Faster arrivals parted around them and hurried past like a stream flowing around a rock. Or a turtle.

"Oh my God." The woman's voice was full of impatience. "Why didn't she get a wheelchair?"

"Peggy …" her husband said.

"We've been waiting for her for … does she even think about us waiting for her? Does she care that we're just standing out here waiting while she … why didn't she get one of those carts to bring her?"

Reese looked back at them. The man's shoulders were hunched nearly to his ears and his mouth was pressed in a tight line. He never took his eyes off the approaching women.

"You know why she did this, don't you? She doesn't want to have to tip a driver. She's just too damn cheap for that. That's it. She doesn't care how long we have to wait, as long as she doesn't have to part with a precious dollar."

"Peggy," the man answered, half-pleading.

The women were closer now. Close enough to identify. A very old woman, white-haired, thin, but with proudly straight posture. And Christine Fitzgerald, walking beside her, holding her arm.

Reese felt relief flow like cool water through his veins.

He took two steps forward and brought his sign in front of his body, though he still kept it low.

"I cannot believe this," the woman sputtered.

"You didn't have to come," the man countered. "I told you you could wait at home."

"And I never would have heard the end of it from her," she shot back. "I flew half-way around the world," she mimicked, "and you couldn't be bothered to drive out from Brooklyn to meet me."

"Peggy."

Behind the two women, Reese noted, a skycap dragged a fully-loaded luggage cart. Except for him and the bickering couple, no one paid the slightest attention to the two.

"She just didn't want to tip," Peggy said again. "All that money she has and she didn't want to tip someone for wheeling her out here."

Reese took several more steps toward the center of the waiting area and held his cardboard sign up in front of him.

He could see now that Christine was thinner than she had been. Her hair was barely past her shoulders; she's gotten it cut after all. She moved very slowly, keeping pace with the old woman, supporting her. Her body language, under the circumstances, didn't tell him anything.

A new wave of anxiety hit Reese. She truly might not want to see him. He couldn't blame her. She'd run from him. From other things, too, but from him, undeniably. She'd flown across the ocean, she'd cut off contact, she'd …

Christine looked up, saw him, smiled politely. A guarded acknowledgement, nothing more.

John clenched his teeth, but kept his face expressionless. He raised the cardboard sign and showed her the neatly printed "Fitzgerald" on one side. Then he flipped it over to show her the back, which read "Kitten".

She grinned broadly, then quickly hid it and dropped her eyes back to the old woman at her side.

"Hmmm," Reese said to himself. She wasn't upset to see him, then, but she was keeping her response under wraps. Curious. But play along. He lowered his sign and resumed his at-ease posture until they were closer.

"… damn wheelchair," Peggy continued to complain, too quietly for the old woman to hear.

"Mom!" the man said. He hurried toward them. The cops stirred, but he stopped just outside the security gate.

Reese stayed where he was. The women cleared the gate. The man hugged the old woman carefully, warmly. Christine started toward Reese, but the old woman stopped her and introduced her to her son. His name was Henry, but he urged her to call him Dutch. Then they got Peggy in on the introductions, too.

"You didn't have to come out," the old woman told her. Her accent intrigued Reese; it was part Brooklyn, part Ireland, and a whole lot of travel blended together. "I know you're so busy with your … your hobbies and what not."

John could see the woman seething behind her smile. "You've come all this way, Mother Hanover. Of course I came out to meet you."

"Well, you didn't have to."

The two women hated each other, Reese decided, and probably had for decades. But they plastered smiles on and dared the other one to admit it.

Christine caught his eye and raised one humorous eyebrow, fully aware of the tension between the women. Reese gave her a brief smirk in return, but kept his distance.

"The car's just outside here," Dutch said. He settled his arm around his mother's waist and helped her toward the door.

"I don't know why you didn't have them bring you a wheelchair," Peggy added as they walked.

Reese fell in beside the skycap.

"Why would I need a wheelchair?" the old woman answered brightly. "I walk perfectly well. And Scotty helped me."

Peggy dropped back to walk beside Christine. "I am so sorry," she said in a stage whisper.

"We had a wonderful visit," Christine answered, with her own grating brightness.

She had acquired, Reese noted, just the tiniest hint of an Irish lilt.

"Where are the boys?"

"We left them home," Peggy answered. "We didn't know how long we'd have to wait for you."

"You left them home alone? Oh, dear."

"They're old enough, Mom," the man said desperately. "They're fine."

"I hope you left them some dinner." The old woman turned to Peggy. "You left them some dinner, didn't you?"

"We'll be home in time for dinner," the younger woman snarled. "At least I hope we will. Are all of these bags yours, Mother Hanover?"

"I'm going to be here until October. Did you expect me to bring just a satchel? A little bundle on a stick like a hobo?"

"Well no, but …"

"Some of them are mine," Christine told her.

The little procession stopped at the curb, next to a newer minivan. "Here we are," Dutch said. He opened the passenger-side door. "Let me help you."

"Maybe she'd be more comfortable in the back," Peggy suggested.

"Oh, no, this is fine." The old woman turned. "Good-bye, my dear! I so enjoyed our talk!"

"Me, too." Christine moved closer and kissed the woman on the cheek. "You still have my card? Call me if you need anything at all."

"I will. And good luck with your windmills."

The old lady got into the van. Dutch shut the door.

"You can deal with the luggage," Peggy snarled. She got into the back seat.

Dutch sighed and moved to the back of the van. The skycap pushed the luggage cart to the curb beside him.

"Let me help," Reese said. He handed the cardboard sign to Christine. He and Dutch loaded two huge bags and three smaller ones into the back of the van. One carry-on and one very large suitcase remained on the cart; Christine indicated that they were hers.

"Thanks so much," the man said. He shook John's hand, then belatedly reached for his wallet. "Here, let me …"

"Give it to him," Reese said, nodding toward the skycap. "I've got everything I need."

The man turned to Christine. "I can't thank you enough …"

She shook her head. "I had a great time talking with your mother. I mean that, sincerely."

He started to say something more.

"Let's go!" his wife shrieked. "I'm baking in here."

"I have to go," Dutch said. He closed the hatch, slipped a bill to the porter, and hurried toward the driver's seat.

John gestured to the skycap to follow him to the town car, parked two spaces back. He walked close to Christine, still confused by her reserve. "And here we were afraid you'd try to bring home kittens," he murmured. He popped the trunk and reached for the big suitcase.

"Don't drop that," she said quickly.

Reese froze, convinced for an instant that there actually were kittens in the big case.

"Kidding," she said.

John smirked and thudded the unexpectedly heavy suitcase into the trunk.

"They're in the carry-on, of course," she added, handing it to him gently.

He simply stopped and looked at her until she grinned. Then he dropped the case into the trunk with grudging chagrin.

The redcap grunted, smiled at the tip Christine handed him, and trundled away.

"No kittens?" Reese prompted.

"No kittens." She watched until the porter was out of earshot. "I could have taken a cab into town."

"Why?"

She gestured to his cap. "Aren't you working?"

"Ahhh." Reese finally understood that she'd assumed he was undercover. It felt weird that they were so out of synch. "No, I'm not working. Just goofing around." He tossed both the cap and the cardboard sign into the trunk and slammed it.

"So nobody's after us?"

"Not at the moment."

"Good." Christine threw her arms around his waist, and squeezed, hard.

John wrapped his own arms around her and held her very tightly.

It was enough, for a moment, just to hold her like that. To feel her safe and warm – and too thin – against his chest. She smelled like stale air and too many hours in the same clothes, and also of strongly floral perfume, probably the old lady's. He didn't care.

"I am so sorry," he said against her hair. "Everything I put you through that night …"

Christine looked up at him. "The night Chaos burned down?"

"Yes."

"That's all I remember about it," she said firmly. "I shot Dominic Delfino, and then Chaos burned down."

John was surprised by the pain in her eyes – not that it was there, but that she let him see it. She would have tried to hide it before. "I remember the rest," he told her quietly. He'd been out of his mind, drugged by Root, hallucinating. He'd kissed her passionately. He'd cried like a child in her arms. He'd been idiotic, nonsensical. Frightened. He'd screamed about bombs falling and enemies coming for them. And frightening, too. He'd been violent, monstrous… he'd been terrified. "I wouldn't have gotten through it without you."

"Yes, you would."

Reese shook his head. He would have killed someone, or gotten himself killed, or both. He'd hit Harold and very nearly killed him. He could imagine much too well what might have happened if she hadn't been there, with her own specific set of skills.

"I'm sorry you remember," Christine continued. "I know that must hurt."

John swallowed. "It's okay … as long as you're okay with me."

She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then tightened her hug again. "You're not why I left, John."

He held her. She was like Harold in this: John thought many things he'd done were unforgivable, but neither of them even thought there was anything to forgive. Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in. She was his home. And Harold, too.

And neither of them had to take him in. They wanted to. Always. No matter what.

One of the airport cops looked toward them, glanced pointedly at his watch. Another minute and he'd shoo them along. Reluctantly, Reese broke the hug and opened the passenger door. "C'mon."

She got in the car. John closed her door, gave a little wave to the cop, and got behind the wheel.

They traveled less than a hundred yards before they had to stop in traffic.

"You have two options for this evening," Reese said. "Plan A, I drive you home, go get the carry-out of your choice while you grab a shower, we eat, and I tuck you in to bed."

Christine squinted at the still-bright skyline. "Isn't it like, five o'clock?"

"Yes."

"What's Plan B?"

"Plan B, I drive you home and wait while you grab a quick shower, and then we round up Carter and Fusco and go have a big steak somewhere before I take you home and tuck you into bed."

"I thought Joss was in Hawaii."

"She got back yesterday morning."

"What about H— "

John caught two things in that sentence: That she stopped herself before she even said his name, and that she'd been going to call him Harold and not Random as she usually did. He glanced over and saw the misery on her face before she hid it.

Oh, really? "Harold?" he finished for her. "He's unavailable."

"Oh."

Just oh, small and sad. What the hell is that about? Reese remembered Finch that night, wearing a white t-shirt but no dress shirt or tie or waistcoat or jacket. Despite his pants and shoes, he'd seemed naked.

Something had changed between Christine and Harold that night. But in the aftermath, with Chaos a smoldering ruin and Christine emotionally the same, John had never learned exactly what.

Now, he thought, might be a good time to ask. Harold the Very Private hadn't let anything slip all summer; Christine the Newly Expressive might. But it seemed more important at the moment to put a halt to her misery. He reached into his pocket and handed her the note.

He pretended not to see how her fingers trembled as she took it.

The note had been simply folded in half when Finch handed it to him, which Reese took as permission to read it. He would have read it anyhow.

My Dearest Christine,

I'm deeply sorry I cannot be on hand to greet you this evening. I am unfortunately previously committed to joining the Ingrams, together with Olivia and Mrs. & Mrs. Robert Carson Junior, for dinner. Please believe that I would much, much rather be with you. Or anywhere else, for that matter. I'll join you if I'm able to make my escape apologies early, but that does seem unlikely. Until my liberation –

HF

"Oh," Christine said again, in a completely different tone.

"He's not going to tell them you're back," Reese assured her, "so you won't get roped in, too."

She made a thoughtful little noise and tucked the note into her shirt pocket.

John pulled forward another five car lengths before he had to stop. "You want to tell me about it?"

Christine shook her head.

"He's not upset because you left," Reese told her gently. "He was upset because you had to leave, but he understood. Before I did, actually."

She looked over at him.

"Wounded introverts retreat." John shrugged. "Badly wounded introverts retreat to the other side of the world, apparently."

She ducked her head. "I'm so sorry …"

"No." He reached across and took her hand. "You did what you needed to do. I know it was hard. And I'm really proud of you."

"The running … that was good advice."

"It's always worked for me." More or less.

Christine went quiet for a moment. Then finally, inevitably, she asked, "Is she dead?"

John didn't have to ask who she was talking about. Root, of course. "The government has her in custody."

Finch had said he would tell Christine about their latest encounter with Root. He thought she might be quite upset. John was certain she would be flat-out furious. He'd been more than willing to let his partner take the hit. But now there was this strange uneasy distance between her and Finch, and Reese changed his mind. "Short version," he said briskly, "Root took Finch again. She briefly gained full access to the Machine. Carter and I caught up with them and got Harold back safely. The government snagged Root. And the Machine is now fully autonomous."

Christine stared straight forward, motionless. Reese could hear how fast her breathing became. Traffic opened up and he focused on driving for a moment, gave her a little space.

His guilt rose fresh. Root should be dead. He'd had a clear shot. At the time, with Root injured, helpless, and clearly insane, it had seemed right to let her live. But here, now, with Christine fighting down panic beside him, remembering all that Root had done to her …

Her hand remained in his. John felt suddenly like he didn't deserve it.

"You didn't call me," she finally said.

That was not the first objection he'd expected her to have. "There wasn't time."

"Harold told you not to call me."

John glanced over. The expression on her face was unguarded and absolutely devastated. He squeezed her hand. "He wanted to protect you. So did I."

Christine pulled her hand away gently and folded it in her lap. "I should have been here."

And that's Christine, John thought, right to the core. Taking responsibility for something that she'd had nothing to do with. For John's choices, for Harold's, for all the evil that Root had instituted – Christine felt guilty because she hadn't been able to stop it.

Rather like someone else you know, Finch's voice supplied in his head.

Reese finally managed to navigate out of the airport complex. "I had the Machine in my ear," he said firmly. "I didn't need your talents. If I had, I would have called you."

"She talked to you?"

"The Machine? Yes. The virus forced it into God Mode, and both Root and I had access. It helped me find Harold."

"What did she sound like?"

"Not female. Mechanical. And terse." John nodded to himself, pleased that he'd distracted her, if only momentarily. "But it told me what I needed to know when I needed to know it. It was very precise."

"Why didn't she talk to Random?"

Because he was Root's captive at the time. Not helpful to say so. It was a great relief to hear her call him Random again. "You'll have to ask him. But I got the feeling he didn't want to talk to it. That there was a standing order of some kind."

Christine considered. "What did you mean that the Machine is autonomous?"

"It doesn't need an Admin. It's independent." Reese frowned and steered swiftly around slower traffic. "It still gives us Numbers. Apparently it still gives the government relevant Numbers. But Harold thinks is could stop any time it wanted to. That it can re-write its own programming. And it moved itself."

"It what?"

"It had its servers shipped out, one at a time. When we got there, there was just a big empty warehouse."

"Where did it go?"

"It bought itself a dairy farm in Wisconsin. It's making small-batch artesianal cheeses."

"What?"

John grinned uneasily. "We have no idea. Neither does the government."

"They think Root can find it?"

"I suppose."

"Can she?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Reese hesitated. "Finch is sure."

Christine made an unhappy noise.

"After the twenty-four hour God Mode period, it went silent. For both of us."

"Hmmm."

He focused on driving again, giving her time to process all the new information he'd just dumped on her. His patience held for almost three minutes. "Where's your head, Kitten?"

"I should have been here," she answered without hesitation.

"Christine …"

"If anything had happened to any of you because I wasn't here …"

"You are not responsible for Root's actions."

"I'm responsible for mine. And I wasn't here."

Reese considered for a long moment before he spoke. "You would have made it worse."

"What?"

"She took Harold. I went after him. But if you'd been here, I'd have had to look out for you, too. And maybe she would have got to you. She knows who you are, where you are. She would not hesitate to use you to get to Finch. That hasn't changed."

"I can …" Christine stopped with a half-choked little sob.

I can take care of myself, she'd been going to say, and then, Reese knew, she'd remembered that she'd had a complete break-down.

He held his hand out. After a long moment, Christine took it. "Us in a car talking about Root again. It's like we can't get away from her."

"She's locked up," John answered firmly, "and believe me, the government is not going to let her get away. She's only in your head if you let her be."

The young woman looked out the window again, but she kept holding onto his hand.