"Sit."

The word hit him like a slap.

In some ways Reese imagined it would be better if Finch did just hit him. That look on his face, the mixture of doubt and annoyance and concern. And something else.

It was worse.

He sat.

It was silent in the Library. Even the clicking of the keyboard missing, a constant when Finch was there. Its absence was off-putting. The street seemed to be in on it, subduing the sounds of traffic and city noise.

Reese closed his eyes, rubbed a hand down his face.

Finch watched him. "Something you'd like to tell me?"

"Not particularly." Reese leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. Let his head drop, dragged fingers through his hair.

"John."

"Harold." He lifted his head.

A barely perceptible frown. "Where is Mr. Lewis?"

"He's at the safe house." Reese's face was a mask of trained blankness, a tone to match.

He had left Lewis, bound and silently screaming.

He was okay drawing things out.

"John." Finch sounded weary. His face, a flicker of a question he didn't want to ask.

"Don't, Finch."

Sometimes things had to be done, things ordinary people shouldn't have to see. Or think about.

Things people like Finch shouldn't have to even know about.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing." Reese's voice was soft. Measured.

Finch studied him. He had watched John Reese long before they had met. Knew he was a good man, despite things he had done. In spite of things he had done. Had come to learn he had underestimated him, if anything.

This. This was different.

They stared at each other a minute. Reese started to stand.

"Sit," Finch said sharply.

A look. Reese ignored the abrupt command. Moving toward the window.

A hollow hum clicked in from the air system.

"Do you sleep?" Reese asked. The street below was quiet, in a slumber of its own. He glanced back at the silence.

Finch was frowning. The desktop threw a pool of light around him but his face was partly shadowed. He looked worried, that pinched look he got when there was no clear string of code to fix something.

He could lie, Reese thought. Protect Finch from the harsh realities of what they had undertaken. The need to sacrifice one to protect many. The unwritten code.

To be fair, he could omit the truth. Isn't that what Finch did all the time?

In the manner of personal errands and real estate acquisitions.

After a beat of silence: "We won't have to talk about it."

"Yes, Mr. Reese, I imagine I called you here so that we might not talk about it."

Reese rubbed a palm down the side of his face, across his mouth. Watching Finch watch him.

He should have never called.

Looking back to the window, absently slipping his com bud out of his ear. Rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

He thought back to Frankie and felt a little nauseous. Remembering the old games. Hide, John. The desperation in her voice. Hide.

He had never been big on hiding.

"The Machine doesn't put us in the business of taking lives, Mr. Reese."

Reese turned. "It happens, Finch."

"It doesn't happen. It's premeditated."

Reese gave a sad smile. "You forget, Harold. That's exactly what I'm trained to do."

"I don't forget." Finch tilted his head slightly. Regarding him with a frown. "But it's not what I hired you for."

"You hired me to do what you can't."

"I hired you to stop violent crimes… Not add to them."

Reese held the stare, but something inside of him fluttered. "Let's call it a personal errand then," he said.

"John." A warning. There was a tightening around Finch's mouth now. Running the option strings through his mind, thinking of a way to manage. To manage Reese, who was usually more malleable. Stubborn, yes, but malleable.

They had been at the numbers together for awhile now. Perhaps it was unrealistic, their ceaseless response to each and every case.

But was there a choice?

"We've never discussed time off," he said finally, and the look he got in response was one of disappointment.

"Finch…" Reese shook his head. Time off? As though his decisions were the result of fatigue, of burning out. "I'll tell you when I want time off."

"And when you need time off?"

"I'll tell you." Softly.

Finch stared back, unmoved. He said nothing, drumming his fingers along the edge of the keyboard.

"Maybe you need time off, Finch."

He wasn't the one distracted, hardly invested in resolving the case. He could tell Finch didn't like that. His eyes flickered to the mix of screens, a tiny slip, but Reese saw it.

The numbers never stopped coming.

"There are other ways. A restraining order, perhaps. Therapy. If you do this-"

"He's hurting the kid, Finch."

Ah. Finch blinked.

There was a long pause.

Reese rolled the ear com between his fingers, waiting.

Exactly.

He moved away from the window, approaching the desk.

"You're not part of it, and that's okay." Voice soft and even, a matter-of-fact cadence. "You don't have to be." He dropped the com on the tabletop. Slipped his phone from his pocket, relinquishing that as well.

The message was simple.

"What are you proposing to do?"

Reese hung there a second. Gave a small twitch of a smile, no light of it in his eyes. Sorry. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Mr. Reese."

"You're a good person, Harold. Just know, this is right."

There was no point in continuing. He walked to the hall.

When the gate closed, its clatter jarred the silence. For a minute, Finch sat with his head bowed. His thumbs rubbed circles at his temples.

He glanced at the abandoned phone, sliding it forward. Leaning back in his chair and staring at the screen.

The blinking cursor on the middle monitor stared back.

His fingers landed on the keys.


A misplaced step, the knocking over of a neatly poured tumbler.

"John."

It works, the well-aimed distraction. He is not, by nature, a clumsy child.

He balls his fists tightly at his sides, ready to fight. Anything to get the attention away from her.

"C'mere, John."

He shuts his eyes.


It was easy, at one time. When the kill order came in his ear, the decision already made.

When Kara would tell him it was right, and even if it weren't, it was someone else's call.

"I'm sorry," Lewis had begged.

"So am I," Reese had said. Not without regret, though little of it bled into his tone.

Such was the way of the world.

The apartment was small. He was dragging Lewis' unconscious form into the main room when the sound of a key in the lock hit his ear.

He dropped the body, an unceremonious thud, and raised his firearm as the door creaked open.

It was morning now, albeit early. Enough time had been lost. He blinked as the sunlight forced itself in, surrounding the two figures like a halo.

They stared back at him and he slowly lowered his weapon.

It was Fusco who spoke first.

"Seriously?"

This wasn't what he had expected, when he called Reese's phone that morning. Getting Mr. Happy's boss instead, that was the first surprise.

Wonderful, Detective, I could use your assistance actually.

The long-suffering look from Reese now. The man in the suit, sans suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stubble and shadows, not a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

And the body at his feet. Fusco stared down at the unconscious form, releasing a silent sigh.

Seriously?

Reese's hardened stare was for Finch alone now and for a second Fusco decided he would wash his hands of whatever this was. Hang up his badge on this one, whatever the two of them had going on.

But then, the sirens in the distance.

"Oh good," Finch said, and both pairs of eyes shot to him. As explanation: "Your backup."

From Reese, a tilt of the head. A setting of the jaw.

"You'll need to be leaving," Finch told him, hardly stepping in the doorway. His eyes avoided the form of Lewis on the carpet, locking onto the stare instead. "As will I."

Still silent, Reese's fingers unconsciously tightened on the pistol still in his grip.

"I know you think this is right." Though spoken softly, Finch's words were deliberate. He held Reese's eye. "And maybe it is. But I ... cannot."

The siren grew louder. Reese glanced at the body at his feet. Something in his chest tightened. Clenched.

There wouldn't be time.

A part of him felt a sense of relief. The other part-

"Seriously?" Fusco repeated. He looked between them. Back and forth, eyebrows raised.

Finch glanced to him. Methodically: "I managed to spoof the NYPD database, Detective. Mr. Lewis received a DUI yesterday evening, but resisted arrest and managed to make it past the officer. Thankfully, the owner of this property called in reports of a drunken intruder." A pause. "I think you'll find the BOLO quite convincing."

Two sets of eyes stared at him.

"Forty-eight to seventy-two hours detainment, correct?"

Fusco blinked. What the hell? "Uh. Yeah."

"Excellent." Finch stepped unevenly from the doorway. A look to Reese. He'd thought it through only so far, taking a risk on the rest.

A couple of risks.

The siren sounded close. One block over, at most.

Fusco moved closer, squatting by the body. Checking for a pulse.

"He's alive," Reese said, speaking for the first time. His voice was flat.

"John."

There was a long, painful pause.

A car door slammed outside.

Fusco looked up. "If you're gonna go, now would be the time."

Finch glanced to Reese, opened his mouth to say something. He didn't get a word out before the ex-op slipped past him. Nothing more than a breeze.

He didn't attempt to follow.

As he made his own exit from the building, moving slowly, two uniforms streamed around him without a second glance.

Outside, he blinked in the sunlight and made his way up the street. Slowly, stiffly. A heaviness still in his chest.

Risk one, abated.


The crowd at Duff's was not the same mid-day. Empty pool tables, a single older gentleman eating his lunch at the side of the bar.

Jeremy froze mid-pour as Reese came through the door. Face stony, his hands flat on the bar top as the suited "detective" took a seat on the barstool directly in front of his post.

Evenly. "Jeremy."

"Detective…"

Reese let the sarcasm slide over him.

Jeremy kept him in sight as he delivered a pint to the one patron. Resuming his spot, he gave Reese a hard look.

"Look, unless you're here to to drink-"

"I came to say I'm sorry."

A stare. Jeremy shook his head in disbelief at the words. Who was this guy?

A beat.

Softly. "I was trying to protect Monica and Frankie. I thought you…" Reese paused. "I had it wrong."

Jeremy tilted his head. "How do you even know Monica?"

"I don't," Reese said, after a slight hesitation.

"Then why would you even… How did you even know?"

A pause. "A good source."

"A good source," Jeremy repeated. He studied Reese, a harrowed version of the man who had tried to detain him just the other day. "Who are you?"

Reese blinked. Good question.

He wasn't very sure about that anymore.

"Someone who doesn't like bullies," he said finally.

Jeremy gave a nod. It didn't answer the question, but he knew it was the truth. He pulled a washed glass from the sink, setting it on a drying rack. Wiping his hands on a cloth.

Reese rubbed the side of his face. "Anyway. Not sure how much help we were with the whole situation." His eyes went past Jeremy then. To the taps.

Maybe one beer.

"Are you…" Jeremy shook his head. "Monica texted me earlier. Apparently Anthony is getting shipped out again. In just a few days."

Reese frowned, his eyes back to Jeremy. What?

"Yeah." Jeremy smirked. "So, uh, if you had anything to do with that… Thanks."

Reese felt something twist in his stomach.

Finch. Had to be.

Apparently the NYPD wasn't the only database he had spoofed.

He shook his head.

"Glad it worked out."

Jeremy pulled two tumblers down from the rack of glasses and set the pair between them. Pulled a bottle of whiskey from the collection.

"I'll drink to that."

Reese hesitated, a microsecond. Accepted the drink, clinking the glass against Jeremy's proffered toast.

They swallowed the liquor and there was a pause.

"Thank you," Jeremy said finally, and Reese shook his head at the words.

"I'm John," he said, holding out his hand.

Jeremy smiled, accepting the handshake. "Jeremy." He nodded to their glasses. "Another?"

Reese pushed his tumbler forward.

Why not.


Later. Past the main desk, barely glancing at the glowing screens. The images pinned to the cracked glass board.

Running his fingers along spines as he slowly walked, deeper into the recesses, and then stopped.

There was dust on the shelves here, and it was good enough.

Back against the wall, Reese closed his eyes. Sinking, slowly. Hands clasped behind his neck.

Time passed. A humming in his head. Something spinning.

The sound of the gate. Reese opened his eyes, staring at a moted sunbeam. The floating particles of dust.

He heard the familiar gait, a dull thud of something dropping on the desk. A hesitation.

Finch would know he was here.

Seconds passed, traced by the even throb of the heart in his chest.

There was a clearing of a throat. A chair sliding back.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Reese closed his eyes.