IMPORTANT NOTE: I have changed my penname from 'Lisa87' to 'TheHiddenMemory', to match my name on other sites. I apologize for any confusion this may cause.
A/N: Sorry for the delay. I had this chapter written, but the last part had only been written in my head and not on paper and seeing as what's in my head often takes on a mind of its own I had preferred to finish it before posting this part. Then I got sidetracked with other stuff. You know how it is. As it turns out, that last part, meant to be the epilogue to this, did in fact transform from what I'd originally intended. Go figure. Long story short, it ended up writing itself into a short standalone piece instead of an epilogue and as a result this is therefore the final chapter of 'Esoteric.' A long time coming - considering all 4 of these chapters were written prior to season 4 airing. Oops. Sorry everyone. The independent piece will act completely as a standalone in that it won't be at all necessary to have read 'Esoteric' prior. However, it will more or less act as an epilogue/sequel to 'Esoteric' if the reader is so inclined. I should be posting it in a few days or so if you would like to keep an eye out (note the penname change). In the meantime, enjoy, and thank you to everyone reading and reviewing.
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~O~o
"So what was it you said we were doing here again?"
They hadn't travelled far, and the venue hadn't changed much; this part of town was just as seedy and disreputable as the last.
"I didn't." The response was terse. Reese didn't spare the shorter man so much as a glance as he continued to do visual sweeps of their surroundings without seeming to.
"Right," Fusco muttered with a sarcastic edge of annoyance and a glare at the back of his increasingly taciturn companion before resuming following behind him.
The area for the most part looked dead and wasted. Many of the buildings were in serious disrepair or vacant—or both—or partially vacant. Subjects of foreclosures were plentiful. They past a rundown but still functioning pawnshop flanked by some gutted businesses with plywood nailed to their fronts. The streets were littered with trash and Fusco spotted a couple of druggies stumbling down an alleyway beside a four story apartment building that looked to be less than half occupied.
This neighborhood was known to harbor criminal elements with relish, Fusco was well aware. The general edict for those in neighboring vicinities who possessed half a brain and were at least somewhat respectable was as follows: stay away at night and try to avoid during the day. Particularly at night it wasn't prudent for one to venture out in unless you had the protection of one of the gangs that controlled this unfortunate little corner of civilization. Local law enforcements were by no means oblivious but tended to turn a blind eye. These weren't professional criminal entities with a long reach; they were merely street gangs with an operational arm that scarcely extended beyond a two-block radius and had little sophistication beyond cheap guns and knives.
Amateurs.
Fusco wasn't worried.
Certainly not about petty street criminals.
Least of all when he was with Reese.
No, it wasn't that that he was worried about.
"You at least want to tell me what we're looking for?"
Fusco's next attempt was met with silence. Reese had increased his pace slightly, and was paying little to no attention to his importunate companion. Daylight was waning as evening approached, further dulling the oppressed-looking streets.
And with it the tension in Reese's shoulders seemed to strengthen.
"How about the weather? You want to talk about that?"
Fusco wasn't expecting a response, and he didn't get one.
He eyed Reese as he slowed past a bar with a neon sign and a crooked awning—the same bar they'd past by five minutes ago. He fell into step beside the ex-agent. "You don't look so good."
"Should I?" Reese finally shot back. He came to a stop but his eyes were constantly moving, and Fusco got the distinct impression the biting response wasn't entirely directed at him. The ex-agent looked distracted and even more hassled and harried than before, though judging from his steadier step the bindings on his wound had helped. A breeze drew open his overcoat and Fusco noted some fresh blood had seeped through the bindings. He nodded at it.
"You still need to get that cleaned out, you know," he reminded him.
Reese glanced down at it with little interest before he started moving again, and Fusco almost had to sprint to keep up with the taller man's long strides.
"You really are incapable of taking it easy, aren't you?" Fusco grumbled. He saw Reese check his watch for the fifth time, and added, "We here to meet someone?"
"There are no limits to your insight, Detective."
Fusco ignored this. "You know, the way I see it, most folks just wait at the agreed meeting spot. So why the hell are we running circles around it?"
"You may not have noticed, Lionel, but this isn't exactly the friendliest part of town."
"What the devil does that have to do with anything? You know as well as I do that the trash 'round here take one look at my badge, heck, one look at you, and go running with their tales between their legs. Scumbags only go for those who can't fight back. So don't give me some bullshit about—"
Fusco broke off. Reese had abruptly glanced in his direction, as if it had just occurred to him that Fusco hadn't been aware, before he promptly directed his gaze forward.
That was when Fusco realized.
And of course it was quite obvious now. Knowing Reese as he did, knowing the man's propensity to maintain such a degree of calm, cool, measured pragmatism in just about any situation had left Fusco unsettled when reading anything less; the man's visible mounting anxiety as they circled the area numerous times had been leaving him more and more ill at ease.
But of course he'd been reading it all wrong. Hard, reticent, and undoubtedly lethal though he may be, John Reese was, in all matter of things, and behind an exterior built from circumstance unimaginable to most, a nature inborn protector.
Particularly of those who couldn't fight back.
Fusco breathed out audibly, somewhat relived by his misinterpretation. "Alright, Wonderboy, who is it we're supposed to be meeting?"
Reese cast a fleeting glance in his direction before studiously avoiding his eye. Features tight, he spoke the name in a low rasp. "Finch."
Fusco might have been somewhat expecting it by this point, but the unlikeness of it still took him off guard.
"Finch?" he barked in disbelief. "As in Mr. Vocabulary, boy genius, walks with a limp, tailored suits that cost a year's worth of my salary…that Finch?" Fusco was surprised by the intensity of his own reaction. But, really, the idea of it was quite absurd, not to mention extremely ill-advised. While Harold Finch may have possessed an intellect well above the comprehension of most, the reclusive billionaire was quite close to inept when it came to bringing himself down to the rest of civilization. Unlike his employee's skilled chameleon-like tendencies, Finch had little experience in dealing with the average scum of civilization. That, coupled with his aversion to violence, reduced physical capabilities, and much slighter appearance than Fusco's stout stature or Reese's imposing 6' 2'' made him a prime target for the type of street thugs that prowled the area.
Of course Reese was well aware of this.
"Can you say that a little louder, Lionel. I'm not sure they heard you over in the next state," he said icily.
"For God's sake, why are you meeting him here?"
Reese's tightening of jaw and sudden rigidness of shoulders was his only response.
"Forget it," Fusco begrudged. Having deciphered correctly that the answer was esoteric in nature, Fusco hadn't expected a response.
So he was startled when he got one.
Several paces later, Reese spoke.
"It's a dead zone."
Fusco glanced sharply away from the nearby convenient store he'd been sweeping, looking perplexed. "What?"
Reese stopped. Fusco followed.
Withdrawing his cell phone from his inside pocket, Reese tossed it to the detective.
Fusco caught it with both hands. "What's this?"
"The answer to your question."
"Not more damn riddles," growled Fusco. "This thing doesn't even have a signal," he said after looking at the screen.
"Exactly."
Reese's face was solemn and steady when Fusco looked at him. The detective had gathered the significance soon enough, as Reese knew he would.
And just like that the extent of Reese and Finch's sequestering from the rest of the world became startling stark indeed. The noticeable absence of Reese's earpiece—the normal mode of communication between the ex-agent and the reclusive—had suddenly taken on a much more sinister meaning. It shook Fusco more than he cared to admit. Because this unknown entity, undoubtedly esoteric in nature, yet no longer deniable in existence, possessed an arm with a reach that was just far too unfathomable to contemplate.
It was too much to hope that the reclusive billionaire had befallen to an entanglement that was no more than greedy, unskilled criminals seeking to cash in, and Reese had come to set the record straight. No, this was much more dauntingly chilling in its austerity. The pair had simply arranged to meet—here of all places. Fusco could only hope it had been more Harold Finch's aptitude for paranoia than necessity that had driven the selection of one of New York's scant few locations that were so doddery they lacked any form of surveillance as a rendezvous spot. Of course, given that Reese had at all agreed to the venue lent a fearful amount of weight to the necessity alternative. The ex-CIA agent was always in vehement protest to anything that required his employer to engage in a potentially dangerous situation on his own. Reese was fiercely protective of the older man.
Wordlessly, the ex-agent turned and resumed walking, taking several steps before Fusco moved to follow.
Daylight was disappearing rapidly.
They'd doubled back and re-canvassed the area twice more before they found what they were looking for.
Through the narrow, darkened alleyway between buildings and onto the next street, the group of them stood in front of the largest building that had once been a warehouse for the aging of bourbon whiskey; several empty, broken casks were scattered around the building's exterior. There were three of them. All male. The tallest was just over six feet, brawny and tan, with arms bare to show off forearms with cords of muscle. One was leaner, bald, a Latino. The third was younger than the other two, no more than twenty, average build but with thick tattoo-covered arms. They all had the look of street-roughened gangbangers and wore the accompanying sneer and over-confident expression as they descended on their prey, outnumbering their victim three to one.
Or so they thought.
While Fusco's earlier remark on the billionaire's inability to mingle held considerable weight, Harold Finch had at least disparaged somewhat. His suit, notably of lesser quality, was vaguely rumpled and creased. He was carrying a legal-sized shoulder bag and appeared commendably self-possessed as he went to withdraw something from it while the trio leered, the whole scene unfolding in a notoriously predictable fashion.
Fusco made no move to intervene. He wouldn't need to.
"Is there a problem here, Fellows?"
Finch tensed visibly; he needn't turn to locate the source of the voice.
John Reese stood like a bulwark behind the much smaller, bespectacled Harold Finch, having appeared seemingly from out of nowhere, his movements startlingly swift and silent for such a large man.
Finch's panic was forthcoming. He had severely hoped to avoid this enviable intervention the moment he'd found himself in the predicament. Of course it had been too much to hope he'd make it to the rendezvous spot without mishap. "It's all right, John," the reclusive quickly attempted—futile, though he knew it was, his hand fumbling to retrieve the bills from his bag and prevent the potential catastrophe about to unfold, "these gentlemen and I have come to an understanding."
"Have you."
The dangerously innocuous tone scorched with cynicism.
"Got that right," sneered Muscle, his limited attention span focused almost entirely on his next payday coming out of the bag. His first mistake.
Impatient, and evidently the leader, Muscle Man signaled to the other two, followed by a deliberate nod in Finch's direction, only to discover their path abruptly obstructed by broad, suited shoulders with appreciable height.
"I'd rethink that if I were you."
The tone was considerably colder this time.
"John," Finch implored, taking a step toward the solid wall that was John Reese that had appeared in front of him, "not here," he finished in a frantically hushed undertone. He sounded rather desperate now.
"I'd listen to your friend if I were you," said the leader, his attention now diverted to the obstacle standing in his way. His eyes roamed over Reese, sizing him up, calculating.
Reese's gaze didn't roam; he'd already taken in all relevant details long before. Hard, blue eyes leveled on the leader, keeping all else in the peripheral, missing nothing.
"And I suggest you and your friends here turn around and walk away."
Finch braced himself for the inevitable onslaught.
The three glanced at one another. Their second mistake.
Latino dropped his hand to the gun at his waistband. Only it wasn't there. Reese had already confiscated the weapon, disarmed the knife that Tattoo withdrew, and was in the process of slamming his fist into one of the stunned-looking Muscle's kidneys. Reese whirled around in time to block a blow from Latino and then laid him out with two quick punches, one to the gut, the other an uppercut to the jaw.
Not looking nearly as confident now, Tattoo hesitated. Reese decided to spare him if he picked the smart option. Reese turned back to Muscle. Apparently, however, the young gangster's intelligence was on short supply; his hand made a very obvious move to his back pocket. It never made it there. Reese kicked his legs out from under him, and the youngster landed on his arm at a very unfortunate angle, letting out a shriek of pain as he did so.
Recovered enough from the first blow, Muscle charged at Reese.
Reese sidestepped the attack and then slammed his elbow into the back of Muscle's neck, sending him sprawling to the pavement.
"Shit, what are you, a Ninja or something?" This came from Latino, who was holding his left side and had blood streaming from his nose.
Reese withdrew the pistol he'd pilfered—a bottom of the line Cobra—stripped it in a matter of seconds, pocketed the magazine and seated round, and tossed the empty weapon onto the pavement in front of its owner before swiftly confiscating Tattoo's from his back pocket and performing the same procedure. He'd kicked the knife well out of reach. "You really ought to take better care of your weapons," he said as he finished emptying the second pistol. "It's not balanced properly, it's rusted, the feed ramp needs cleaning." He tossed it back to Tattoo. "I wouldn't," he warned at Muscle's not so subtle movement.
With a grunt the gangster flew to his feet and charged.
Reese grabbed his arm and in one quick maneuver had bent it back around until he received a cry of pain for his efforts. Muscle fell to his knees with his arm still in Reese's iron grip. The ex-CIA agent confiscated the homemade shiv and held it against Muscle's thick neck.
The look he gave the other two was ice cold.
They visibly recoiled. "Hey, look, man, we're sorry, okay? This is our turf, we patrol it. Ain't got no choice."
Reese brought Muscle to his feet and pressed the blade with just enough force. "Message for your boss; we'll be sharing this turf. He stays out of my way, I'll stay out of his." He tightened the pressure on the gangster's arm. "That means my friend and I are off limits. Come near either of us again and I'll finish what I started." He twisted just a little bit further until the leader cried out. "Are we clear?"
"Yes!" Muscle cried out in a hissed whimper, while the other two nodded their assent with terrified vigor.
"Good." Reese released his captive with a hard shove, tossing the less than satisfactory blade into a nearby dumpster.
The trio scampered to their feet and took off as if a flame had been ignited beneath them.
Reese stood with his back to Finch, his tall frame thrown into dark silhouette, an imposing wraith of a shadow, to be sure. The dark had crept upon them. The only light now came from the faint pink glow at the horizon and that of two nearby streetlights, one of which was flickering feebly. Reese had appropriated the remaining discarded knife one of the gangsters had so thoughtfully left behind and was twirling it between his fingers before deciding it, too, was unworthy and pitching it into the dumpster with deadly accuracy. It landed with a resounding clang.
Once the gangsters had disappeared from sight—and Finch's aghast expression had mitigated somewhat—the reclusive pounced.
"Mr. Reese." His tone was one of fierce disapproval and agitation. "Need I remind you the importance of maintaining a low profile? The situation as it stands is extremely precarious. I've told you we simply cannot afford to—"
"And I told you to bring Bear with you."
Reese's tone was flat yet glacial in a way that only John Reese could accomplish.
Finch bristled, lips pursed. "I had the matter in hand," he said curtly.
Reese whirled around so fast that Finch actually fell back a step. The ex-agent bore down on the smaller man with a look that would have cowed even the most unshakable of opponents. "If you think for a second that they would have just taken the money and left it at that, then I suggest you get yourself better acquainted with—" Reese broke off.
Finch was no longer listening. He was staring up at Reese. Or rather, he was staring up at the cluster of yellow and purplish bruises marring the taller man's face.
Reese abruptly turned away.
"John!"
"I'm fine."
Fusco, who had been watching from the sidelines with a mixture of dubious amusement and complacence, wondered not for the first time if he would ever understand the relationship between the unlikely pair. Colleagues of a sort, certainly. Friends, as well—though while undoubtedly unusual and slow in formation—one could certainly attest to by now. But what was perhaps the strangest part about this unlikely comradeship was in fact that— given two complex individuals with a multitude of secrets—the long-formed but undeniable friendship was quite oddly simple. No expectations. No restrictions. No limitations. No concealed motives. No conflictions. Little to no acknowledgement. Yet quite unmistakable.
Perhaps that was the purest kind of all.
"John." Finch's anxious voice was of quiet admonishment. "What have you done to yourself?" He had stepped around and reached up to grip the taller man's chin and was angling it so he could better take in the damage.
If Fusco hadn't been sure from Reese's earlier odd and cryptic responses regarding his boss that the pair hadn't seen one another for quite sometime, he was now. Finch was as alarmed by Reese's appearance as Fusco had been. What was more, Fusco knew it wasn't merely the obvious recent combat injuries; the long-induced signs of exhaustion were plain, and Fusco was hard-pressed to believe the older man would've allowed Reese to get himself into such a state had he been aware. Finch was as attentive to Reese's wellbeing as the ex-agent was protective.
Reese made a halfhearted attempt to dislodge himself from Finch's ministrations, but the smaller man was having none of it. Fusco shook his head at the comical sight. Had it been anyone but Harold Finch—Fusco himself included—they surely would have lost use of an arm by now. Displeased with the attention though he was, the former agent would never use force on the older man, and Finch was nothing if not stubborn. It left them at an impasse of sorts that was indeed comical had one observed their drastically contrasting physical appearances.
Finch was now regarding Reese with a disapproving scowl.
"How many?" he demanded. "How many numbers since the last one?"
"As many as I had to."
Finch may have countered this response had he not then caught the brief twinge in Reese's features and quick, surreptitious placement of the larger man's hand before it dropped again. It was easily missed; Reese, after all, was a master of concealing anything that might reveal he was in anything less than supreme condition. But the truth of the matter was Reese was flat out exhausted and his normally exceptionally high pain threshold had apparently dropped from what would otherwise have been a superficial and minor irritation at best to quite a persistent deterrent. Indeed Finch had also become quite apt over the years—much to Reese's disgruntlement—at deciphering such signs from his less than forthcoming employee.
Finch's reaction was immediate; he reached out and pulled back Reese's overcoat—a bold move Fusco wouldn't have dared attempt for fear of the aforementioned probable loss of limb. Reese, however, allowed it from the smaller man, albeit with a disgruntled look.
Upon taking in the bloodstained suit jacket, Finch's whole body tensed, and the anxious lines etched into his face became dramatically more pronounced. "John!"
"It's not as bad as it looks."
"That's hardly reassuring!"
Finch's hands were already seizing the jacket with a frenzied tremor. Certainly, the dire nature of their recent situation had taking its toll on them both, amplifying an otherwise less dire one.
Reese recognized his former boss's rising state of distress as the latter struggled with the simple task of unbuttoning the single suit jacket button. After a minute, Reese spoke.
"Finch," he said softly. "I'm all right."
The reclusive froze, eyes flicking upward at him once before he resumed his efforts of peeling back the layers of clothing, intent on his task.
"I tried to get him to take it easy."
Finch's movements stilled once more. He had registered the detective's presence during Reese's less than pleasant method of dealing with the gangsters but hadn't yet been afforded the opportunity to give it a moment's thought and had promptly forgotten about it until now. He turned now but his gaze immediately moved from Fusco to Reese, his anxiety with the matter of the detective's presence now that he was addressing it clear. The accusing look of inquiry he gave Reese was plain too.
"Don't worry, Finch," Reese supplied, "Fusco knows…" The ex-agent glanced at the man in question, apparently considering just how much the detective did in fact know. "…enough," he settled with.
"Hold on to your panties, Glasses," Fusco added when Finch didn't look assured. "He's been the same old cryptic Jackass."
The corner of Finch's lip turned upwards at that. "It's good to see you, Detective," he said finally.
"Yeah, you know, it's been pretty boring without you two 'round."
A small smile passed across Finch's lips at the detective's usual sarcasm, but he'd turned back to his task and was now unbuttoning the lower buttons of Reese's shirt.
"It's fine," Reese insisted once more, but Finch's dark look had the taller man falling silent with a sigh that quickly became a sharp intake of breath when Finch peeled the shirt away from the wound.
The bindings were still secure; however, though it had ultimately been a one-sided fight, the maneuvers and blows the ex-agent had dished out had aggravated the injury such that a substantial amount of fresh blood had soaked through the layers of cloth.
Finch eyed it wearily, but his gaze was then moving over Reese's entire torso, pulling open the shirt further to take in the array of bruises in various states of healing. Finch was silent for a long moment as he took in the sight. He'd come to the same conclusion that Fusco had. While injuries were commonplace for the ex-agent, this volume of them at one given time was not. Not for someone as skilled as Reese.
Finch's face was grim. He still didn't speak for several more heartbeats. Finally, in a near whisper, "You're doing too much, John."
"What am I supposed to do, Harold?" Reese bit out. "Save some but not others because I have to catch up on my beauty sleep?"
Finch's face was pained. "You can't save them all." A pause. "Not anymore."
"So I'm supposed to just stop trying, is that it?"
Reese was expecting some form of resistance from the older man, some kind of avoidance or deflection of the question. What he got instead was not at all what he was expecting.
"Yes," was the steady response.
The one word reply told Reese more of just how much damage their current situation had inflicted on the world around them and, more importantly, his friend than anything ever had previously.
Finch wasn't looking at him. He was now gently prodding the bandage around the wound, looking for any signs of inflammation or infection.
Reese gritted his teeth, but a hiss of pain escaped him when a particular tender spot was pressed.
Finch's forehead creased anxiously. "Mr. Reese, have you cleaned and disinfected the wound? Was it a bullet?"
"It's fine," Reese repeated for the umpteenth time, impatient now.
"You haven't answered my question, Mr. Reese."
"I've been a little busy, Harold."
That was answer enough for Finch. "I've some first aid supplies in my vehicle just a couple of blocks away. I can retrieve them and meet you at the location—"
"No."
Finch, who had already started to move away, turned back to face Reese, startled by the ex-agent's abruptly harsh tone.
"You're not going off alone."
Finch stared to object, but then thought better of it after taking in the ex-agent's unrelentingly stony expression. Not to mention, he also didn't particularly fancy further acquainting himself with any more of the current vicinity's less than respectable individuals if he could avoid it.
"We'll do what we came here to do, and then I'll tend to this," Reese said as he pulled his shirt closed.
Fusco took that as his cue, deciding that Reese would no longer be a threat to himself now that Finch was in the picture. "You two have fun with that. If I don't get back to my day job, the Captain will chew my ass off. And thanks to Wonderboy here I've got my work cut out for me."
"Yes, about that," Finch said, removing a file from his bag. "I was going to give this to Mr. Reese to pass on to you, but seeing as you're here already…" He threw another pointed look at Reese before handing the file to the detective.
Fusco eyed the name on the front. "More dirt on Dixon?"
"I think you'll find you have everything you need now, detective," Finch said by way of an answer.
"Right. Thanks. I think." He eyed Reese again. "And keep Wonderboy here out of trouble." He started to turn.
"Detective," Finch stopped him. A pause. "Thank you."
Fusco blinked. "Okay, first Wonderboy and now you. Now I'm really starting to get worried. What the hell you thanking me for?"
Finch glanced meaningfully at Reese. "Despite Mr. Reese's abundance of skills, seeing to his own injuries has never been one of them." Reese shot him a glare at that which the reclusive promptly ignored.
"Oh, that. Yeah, sure," said Fusco, looking slightly uncomfortable by the unforeseen gratitude.
Remembering he hadn't returned Reese's cell phone, he held it out to the taller man now.
Reese looked at it for a moment before he seemed to decide something and shook his head. "Keep it."
"I thought you said I couldn't contact you."
"No, not for that." He shared a look with Finch. "That phone is virtually…untraceable. It may…come in handy."
Fusco could sense when they were reaching unchartered territory and resigned himself not to question further. He pocketed the phone, feeling an unfamiliar sense of dread.
There was an awkward silence as the three men stood in the dark of the evening in one of the most secluded locations of New York, and Fusco very much felt like he was an outsider.
The pair had always been clandestine in their activities, but the more and more that had been revealed to the detective—bits and pieces of a shocking reality—only further cemented in an ice-cold and grueling fashion that whatever it was they were caught up in was extremely grave and ruthless. Behind the words and unspoken truths Fusco knew what they were doing.
In a perhaps subtle, inexplicable way, they were issuing a farewell.
"We'll be in touch."
"Take care, Detective."
Fusco knew the words were empty.
When he turned around and walked away, he wondered if he would ever see either one of them again.
o~O~o
A/N: Just a quick comment because some of you commented in reviews, wondering what had happened to Reese. It was meant to be ambiguous. This story was my interpretation of what would happen after season 3 before we knew anything about season 4. My line of thinking that kind of inspired this was that these guys were suddenly going from being able to dedicate all their time to saving the numbers to not only having full time jobs but also working behind the scenes against Samaritan. The way I saw it, this would just be impossible to keep up with. We'd seen how working the numbers often required 24 hour surveillance, not to mention absolutely no operating schedule. How the heck do you even do that at all with a full time job? Yes, it would be quite impossible, I think (even with help from others). But Reese, being Reese, would still try, and it would keep wearing him down more and more. And Finch…well, we know what his reaction was. I'm actually quite pleased that my interpretation of how he would react ended up more or less following actual canon. Though to be honest I still find it a bit unrealistic how in season 4 they had them managing to keep up with saving numbers and working their jobs AND plotting against Samaritan so well.