"Any developments?" Reese asked as he walked briskly into the library.
Left somewhat flustered after his lunch with Carter, he hadn't accomplished much during the day. He had craftily gotten close enough to Mr. Alger to sync his cell after foolishly forgetting to do so during their meeting, but the man seemed not to use the basic flip phone much. So, preoccupied with the day's frustrations, he almost didn't notice Grace when he walked in.
"Hello, John," she said politely,
He took note that her usual easy smile appeared forced, and worry flickered in her eyes. Turning his eyes toward his coworker, he could almost see the anger radiating off of him.
"Everything alright, Finch?" Reese asked hesitantly.
"Just dandy, Mr. Reese," he said dryly without turning his face from his monitors.
Moving closer, John noticed that only one screen was lit up, and all it contained was a picture of Peter Alger. Perplexed, he wasn't entirely sure what to say. Finch was more visibly disturbed than Reese had ever seen him.
"I received some interesting news from detective Carter earlier," Finch continued in the even tone he seemingly struggled to maintain, "a bit about Mr. Alger's accident."
"Yes?" John asked, urging him to continue.
"It would appear Mr. Alger became horribly disfigured on the same day I faked my death – the day I became somewhat disfigured as well."
Finch ceased talking and pursed his lips, furrowing his brow at Mr. Alger's picture.
"And I'm going to assume you don't think this is a coincidence?" John said, rubbing a hand across his chin.
"No, I don't," Harold said with anger, "I may even have proof that it isn't. I followed a hunch and did some more digging into records – some that most people wouldn't have access to – and found Mr. Alger's original place of employment."
"Which was?" Reese pressed.
"IFT," Harold said, making eye contact with John for the first time.
John felt his mouth slip open a little, taken aback by Harold's statement. Peter's accident being coincidental had roughly the same chance as a snowball in hell, but that didn't mean John had any understanding of how he was connected.
He didn't even know what Harold's accident was.
"I have some business to take care of," Finch said as he rose, quickly turning his back and exiting the room.
Grace let out a monumental sigh as soon as he was out of earshot, and John looked at her sympathetically.
"I guess you don't know what business that might be?" he asked.
"No," she answered, "but I'm worried about him, John. When he noticed the date, it was like, I don't know – he became a whole different person."
John nodded with understanding. Grace was much closer to Harold than he was, but that didn't mean the man wasn't still a mystery.
"Do you know the details of his accident, Grace?"
Normally, he wouldn't encroach upon their privacy, but he had to ask her.
"Not everything," she said with honesty, "but I know it involved cars. I tried to ask him once and that's all I could really get out of him. He did say it was the same accident that killed his business partner."
"Nathan," John mumbled, thinking.
"Yes, that was his name," Grace confirmed as she remembered, talking to herself more than John, "Harold seemed so distant when he was talking about it."
"I wish I knew more," John shook his head with frustration.
"Be careful what you wish for," Grace said sadly, "I'm afraid we might not want to know."
John nodded at her, but he knew he needed to know. He needed to know why his partner was so distant and pained. He needed to know why Peter Alger's number was up, especially if there was some connection to Finch again. He needed to know a lot of things.
"Are you ok, John?" Grace asked kindly, placing a hand on his arm.
"Just overwhelmed," Reese answered with a half-smile, admiring Grace's aptitude to determine when something was wrong.
Then again, something was almost always wrong.
"You? Overwhelmed?" she jested, "I don't see how that's possible."
John gave her a small smile, then became sober again.
"Have you ever felt like you've made a mistake so large nothing can fix it?" John asked.
He felt strange sharing his feelings with Grace, but it was so easy. Harold understood computers. John understood guns. Grace understood people.
"Maybe once or twice, why?" she asked in return, tilting her head a little.
"I just think I may have made one too many in this lifetime," he answered grimly, frowning.
"You know," Carter had said, "you don't have to shovel that down like you haven't eaten in three weeks."
John stopped ravishing his soup long enough to give her a grin.
"It feels like I haven't eaten in four – it's not my fault you won't give me substantial food."
"Just be grateful for your soup," she said, smirking at him, "I'm not going to give you 'real' food until you can handle it. You throw up on my couch and I'm putting you on the street."
"I could probably handle that street better than your cooking," he teased, receiving a shove on the shoulder as she passed by.
Her cooking was, in fact, very good – he would never admit that, of course. After a day and a half or so of teetering in and out of consciousness, John was regaining his strength and composure. Granted, he hadn't actually tried walking and could barely sit up, but he was eating. He considered it an achievement – plus, he liked the couch too much to move anyway.
As he was placing his empty bowl on Carter's coffee table, she had reentered the room.
"I'm going to change those bandages on your forehead, and the ones on your side," she said, medical supplies in hand.
Most of the scrapes on his body had been left alone, or covered in small bandages, but Carter must have sealed the two larger gashes with heavy duty bandages immediately after finding him. Her concern for him drew his admiration, and curiosity, to no end.
She took a seat next to him and began with his forehead. He winced a little during the process, but it didn't actually hurt too badly. The worst part, he began to notice, was being able to feel her breath on his neck. Carter was an attractive woman – he had always known that – but he had never been so damn close to her.
"Let me help you get your shirt off," she said, breaking him out of a trance, as she finished her work on his head.
"No," he stopped her, "I've got it."
Pulling his t-shirt off with the little dignity and strength he had left, he wondered where the t-shirt had even come from. Had she bought him a new one? Maybe he would ask sometime.
"This is probably going to sting quite a bit," she warned him as she slung one of his arms over her back to get it out of her way.
John watched as she delicately removed his old bandage, enjoying having his arm around her shoulders. He had never noticed how small she was – her personality made up for physical demeanor. Feeling his gash begin to burn as she cleaned it, he tightened his grip around her. He suspected she knew he didn't truly need support throughout the minor process, which made it all the more surprising when she pressed further into his arm – comforting him with the return of pressure.
She aligned the new bandages with both her hands, pressing down the ends. One of her hands began to slide along it to smooth it out, but her other found his abdomen to lean on for support. John felt his breath catch in his throat a bit. Her hand was soft and cool against his solid core, and for the first time in a long time he felt a burning desire in his stomach. The location of the feeling was so close to her hand he feared she might feel it, that it might singe her skin, but he kept his poker face. She had been smoothing the bandage for far too long now, and when he risked a look he noticed her eyes weren't particularly focused on anything. And then, if he wasn't mistaken, the hand on his abdomen was moving now – sliding every-so-slightly lower down his abs –
He let out a groan, somewhat involuntarily, that he hoped she mistook for one of pain.
"Sorry!" she exclaimed, pulling away too quickly, "that should do it."
He watched her quickly rise from the couch to discard the old bandages, taking note of the surprise in her voice. And that breathless tone.
Had she felt something too?