AN: I wrote this back when the season 3 finale had just aired but got insanely busy with work and didn't get around to finishing it. I'm posting it now because I wanted to have it done before the season 4 premiere. It should be three chapters. This first chapter and most of the second were done a while back. Now I just need to get the third down on paper. My plan is to have it done before the S4 premiere, but we shall see how that goes. Note that this was written before all the S4 spoilers. Though, I'm actually quite impressed with myself because it ended up following in line with most of the spoilers anyway. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended.

~o~

The air was warm and crisp in lower Manhattan that day, the sun bright and exuberant, and yet its residents appeared strangely impervious to nature's generous benefactions. With the exception of the occasional tourist—the number of which also appeared oddly low—the people of Greenwich Village seemed almost too eager to reach their destinations for such a favorable day. Between Waverly Place and West 3rd Street, on the section of MacDougal Street thus named Washington Square West, a police cruiser pulled up against the curb. Out climbed a short, stout man, gun and badge briefly visible beneath his suit jacket before he straightened.

Detective Lionel Fusco was less than pleased, the door to the cruiser slamming shut so loudly in his wake that one might have feared it would become unhinged; its owner, after all, was clearly on the verge of doing just that. Tugging at his neckline and loosening his tie against the warm air he glanced around furtively as if suddenly realizing that announcing his arrival in such a ruckus manner probably hadn't been the best course of action. His attempted reversal of tactics was perhaps nonsensical on his part, however, considering he was in one of the most heavily surveilled parts of the city; attempting to hide in such an area was an entirely laughable prospect.

Fusco muttered darkly under his breath, daring someone to object to his parking in a no parking zone, something of which, of course, wouldn't happen. The perks of the badge and driving a police cruiser, and Fusco was damned if he didn't deserve some of those perks right about now. If he received any more calls from rookies today—or his boss, for that matter, Fusco was going to toss his phone into the river. Becoming the illustrious detective Fusco following Simmons' arrest wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that was for sure, especially not now during the dismal like times they were all facing.

He stormed across the street, heading for Washington Square Park, cursing even the sun for shinning, convinced it was simply mocking him. Because, it wasn't only the chaos of his job that had him in such a mood today. No, today it was his job, and now this. Whatever this was. As usual Fusco had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he was pretty darn sure he had correctly identified the source of the less than cryptic message telling him to meet here, and if he was right—which he was ninety-nine point nine percent sure he was—he was going to give the son of a bitch a piece of his mind. What he didn't acknowledge—because he'd shoot himself in the leg with his own gun before ever admitting it—was the relief he'd felt upon receiving the message earlier that day.

But right now, Fusco was about as far from relieved as one could get. No, right now Fusco was fuming mad. After entering the park from its west side he now stood at the base of one of its monuments.

Where the hell was he then? What did he think? That Fusco had nothing better to do than stand around here waiting?

A kid on a bicycle zoomed past, nearly taking Fusco's arm with him. "Hey! Watch it!" Fusco yelled after him.

Just bloody brilliant. Just great. Just how he wanted to spend his afternoon. As usual the park was bustling with activity; kids on bikes, rollerblades, and skateboards; people walking their dogs, jogging, running; people chattering away on cell phones etc, etc. In addition to the usual buzz of activity fitting for Washington Square Park on a sunny summer day, however, was the sense of heightened anxiety that had gradually grown over the city in recent months. It was rarely acknowledged aloud, but you'd have to be near dead to be completely oblivious to it. Fusco, as an NYPD homicide detective, had a front row seat. What was it…double? Triple? Triple the number of homicides and unexplained deaths in this past month alone. Ever since the blackout something had shifted, something sinister, and while Fusco couldn't even begin to explain exactly what it was, he was far from oblivious to it.

He scanned the crowds of people, his irate mood mounting. The man should be easy to spot, given that he towered over the average person in height. If he was here, Fusco should be able to spot him. Then again, if he didn't want to be seen…

Someone's cell phone rang loudly from nearby.

And continued ringing.

Until Fusco realized.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, pulling out the foreign phone from his pocket and glancing around him in a futile attempt to determine how it had ended up in his suit pocket. The cursed thing kept up its incessant demand to be answered, much to Fusco's consternation. He shook his head, incredulous. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly how it had gotten there. If he hadn't already been certain with whom he was dealing with, he was now. This had one person's name written all over it.

Well, maybe two. There was never one without the other, after all. At least not in Fusco's experience.

"Hello, Lionel."

The low voice that came through the line was all too familiar, and the completely languid tone and elementary greeting, as if the bastard was simply calling to discuss the weather, was the last straw for Fusco.

"Hello, Lionel?" Fusco echoed, with a great deal more gusto injected into his tone. "Three months,"—his fingers flew up and jabbed at the air for emphasis—"three months and I don't hear nothing from you—from any of you—no call, no text, no email. Nothing, nada, zip, not a peep. It's as if you'd just dropped off the face of the earth, the whole damn lot of you, and all you've got to say is, Hello, Lionel?"

There might have been some kind of reply from the other end of the line, possibly in the form of a long sigh, but Fusco was loath to hear it.

"I mean, I know we weren't exactly The Brady Bunch," he went on, "but I should think we were at least a team. How many times have I laid my ass on the line for you and your four-eyed friend, huh? How many times have I saved your sorry ass? And did I ever get any thanks? Oh, no. It was always just do this, Lionel, do that, Lionel. Or call Fusco because he doesn't have anything better to do than to play sidekick to a bunch of—"

"I don't have time for this, Lionel," the voice on the other end of the line interrupted. "And I need you to do two things for me."

A sound escaped Fusco that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"I rarely kid."

"You don't have time for this?" Fusco barked, and this time he did laugh, bitterly. "Oh, that's good, that's real good." He laughed again in utter contempt. "You were the one that told me to come all the way down here. And— where the hell are you, anyway? We here to meet or what? Because, you know what—"

"We are here to meet, detective. Just as soon as you stop scanning the park for me every five seconds."

Fusco opened his mouth, closed it. Made an indignant sound of disbelief, and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder and look for the man he had deemed to call Bane Of My Existence.

"That's better. We really need to work on your fieldwork skills, detective. Merge and mingle. Survival 101."

Okay, if he wasn't already, Fusco was really, really starting to get pissed off.

"And I need you to take out your phone, destroy it," the voice added.

"Destroy my…" Fusco made another abject sound. "Destroy my phone," he repeated dubiously. "You want me to destroy my phone. You gonna pick up the tab on that, because I doubt 'my dog ate it' will go over well with my boss."

"Just do it, Lionel." The voice on the other end of the line was notably losing patience.

Fusco was shaking his head, muttering "unbelievable" under his breath, and looking more than a little furious, yet still he did as bid, something that from an outsider's perspective was perhaps quite surprising.

The detective was certainly making it no secret of his displeasure, however. After grudgingly stomping on his phone and discarding it in a nearby waste bin, he straightened and caught the foreign phone he'd been holding up to his ear with his shoulder in his hand again. "You know what," he began, "never getting any thank yous, I can live with, but if you're not even going to—"

Fusco's ultimatum died on his lips. When he turned back around to face the park, the man was striding toward him, footsteps and movements marked with such dexterity that Fusco had heard nothing of his approach.

The drastic change in demeanor when the detective caught sight of the taller man was telling. It was an odd partnership, to be sure, but if one was paying close enough attention, particularly in that moment, one would see that, while unconventional in a multitude of ways, and, judging by the belligerent wordplay between the two, denied by both, the two men could be none other than friends.

"Christ, what the hell happened to you?" Fusco's anger had evaporated from one second to the next, and there was a note in his voice that, if he wasn't careful, almost sounded like concern.

He lowered his phone, eyes remaining trained on the approaching figure of John Reese before him.