A/N: Hi guys, I wanted to say something poignant about the natural disasters and general upheaval in the world but I can't. All I can do is hope you escape for a little while.

Thanks for reading!

As always, enjoy x

Chapter 68: Magenta

Two weeks later, Tuesday 4th April 2017, 7.38pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

John Reese and his many aliases had seen many things and faced many challenges in his time, but he wasn't prepared for John H. Nichols and his wife to be invited to dinner with the wealthy older couple who lived on the 4th floor. There was no protocol to lean on, or guidelines to go against; for three or more hours, he had to be himself. Or at least a version of himself that went well with Beef Wellington and red wine. Joss thought it was funny to see him sweat – or at least think – about what he'd do next. "Cutlery from the outside in," She teased, wiping the smear off a wine glass.

"They seem…normal." He stated, avoiding eye contact.

"And how'd you know that? Did you sweep their condo?"

Always a Detective. "And their mail. Finch did the rest."

"Grandmaster Flash Drive." She said, shaking her head.

"I'm partial to the Cloud." Finch interjected, on speaker through the vibrating cell phone in her back pocket.

"I'll never get used to that. What's up, Finch?" She asked, because something was up more often than not.

"Wade and Deborah Fields are the genuine article." He confirmed, namely because the idea of John and fine dining was highly amusing.

"You mean they're normal." John gulped down the rest of the milk.

"I mean…you can proceed with your dinner plans. It might be useful for Mr Re—I mean Nichols to socialise."

"With normal people?"

"Would you stop calling them normal? We're normal." Joss insisted, because she liked to believe that.

"The homicide detective and the dead guy." John read Finch's mind.

"You're not a dead guy, John. You're just dead on paper…to the military…in some states."

"Same difference."

"Oxymoron."

"Nerd."

Joss's extended sigh made the eavesdropping more worth it. Finch loved their banter. "Did you want something Finch?" She asked.

"Just to inform you that Captain Noguerra's drug test came back inconclusive."

"Score." John said, wearing his crown as the King of Petty.

Joss felt like the only one with pangs of conscience. "Not you too, Finch. We can't tank him like this."

"We can, you just don't want to." John replied. "But I had nothing to do with it."

The last time she heard those words – uttered by Aunt Tullie – she ended up at an engagement party – hers – and it wasn't pretty. "I'm afraid Mr Reese is telling the truth. It appears Captain Noguerra had a noticeable level of Methylphenidate in his system."

"Ritalin. That explains a lot." Joss thought aloud.

"Like why he stays up all night thinking of ways to screw you over?"

"Like why he's so high-strung, John. And paranoid. Like someone's out to get him."

"I am." John confirmed, as if the dog, the drugs and the donuts weren't clear enough.

"I meant me, but anyway…we'll do it, Finch. You're right; someone needs to be socialised."

Friday 7th April 2017, 1.28pm, Heartland General Hospital, Manhattan Island

Harold had grown fond of Zoe over the months, from the secret French dinners to the privileged knowledge of her plans to conceive. And even thought her tactics were divisive, he was genuinely happy to see her succeed at her aim – with someone who wasn't John. There was something about walking through the pregnancy with her that drew them closer, perhaps the fact he would never do that again in this lifetime and not with his beloved, but Shaw was a betting woman who bet her gun collection on Zoe falling out of his graces eventually. And she was right. Zoe delivered the unintentional sucker punch with one word, that lit him up like a Christmas tree.

"What did you say?" He asked, as she rolled off names again.

"…Avery, Elizabeth, Grace." She repeated, wondering why his face went chalk white.

He shook his head vehemently. "No."

"Well, I'm not jazzed about any of the names either but Doreen said-"

"You. Can. Not. Name her Grace." He snapped.

Zoe has never seen that side of him. The Harold Finch she knew was mild-mannered and sober; this guy needed a Valium chased down with a V8. "What did I say? Where did that come from?"

Finch had no words to explain himself or the violent reaction coursing through his veins to the point he thought his head would explode. Ironically, she'd never seen him move so fast either; grabbing his top hat and cane, and making a beeline for the door.

6.34pm, Finch's Townhouse, Carnegie Hill, New York

Shaw wasn't built to be the helpful one. Or the stable one. Or the kind one. Or the understanding one. But it seemed The Machine required her to be all those things.

- Admin is unavailable.

"He's right here." She said, though Finch wasn't mentally 'here', 'there' or 'anywhere'. He was sitting in an armchair, staring out the window.

- Admin is unavailable.

"I get it. He's offline or whatever."

- Admin is unavailable.

"I know."

- Admin is unavailable.

"Shoot me now…"

6.43pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

If John's wife was anything, she was subtle. Two sprays of perfume were enough for a discernible scent of jasmine. A simple magenta pleated skater dress and chocolate brown heels were enough for an outfit. A pair of white gold studs and an envelope clutch were enough for accessories. He watched her get dressed from the doorway to the Master bedroom. Maybe that was why Taylor often asked, "When're you gonna take Ma out on a date?" So they could go somewhere that didn't involve guns, and do something that didn't involve ducking, and see some people who didn't have Numbers or prices on their heads. He was blissfully unaware of the state his friend was in or the trouble Shaw was having cracking a human code with the Machine. Joss was beautiful and she was his, so maybe a little forced interaction was worth it. "You ready?" She looked up knowingly, from rubbing her left leg with cocoa butter.

7.02pm, Finch's Townhouse, Carnegie Hill, New York

- Admin is unavailable.

Shaw tried bargaining. "Why can't you just gimme a few numbers and I'll be on my way?"

- Admin is unavailable.

She tried blackmail. "If you don't gimme the numbers, people die. You get that? They die."

- Admin is unavailable.

She tried manipulation. "You've done it before. You let John Malkovich do it, why not me?"

- Admin is unavailable.

"Crap!"

7.39pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

Wade and Deborah Fields were the right kind of new money. Having made a small fortune in dotcom and foreign exchange, a healthy property portfolio in the Midwest kept them in comfort in their late fifties while under the radar. Somehow the grey and yellow living room was modern enough to feel inviting. From the photos, it seemed they had two grown kids, three grandkids and a few deceased pet dogs – memorialised on the wall amongst ancestors from a different era. "…You see John, that's Pop Manfri – Manfred. Came here as an indentured servant from England, Romanichal, a misunderstood people." Wade explained, between courses.

"Fascinating." John replied, thinking of the short branch on his own family tree.

"Can't say the media helps, but do they ever?" Joss' nervous laugh didn't go amiss. "Probably shouldn't have said that to a cop."

"Actually, she's a Detective." John explained, thinking the less he talked about his work the better.

Deborah raised her eyebrows. "That's not something you see every day."

"I guess not. Can't see myself doing anything else though." Joss explained.

Wade nodded with respect. "Service. That's something that's missing these days. And you, John?"

John cleared his throat. His ten words or less strategy wasn't going so well. "I served. Couple terms in Iraq. That's all behind me now…except for the tats…"

7.46pm, Finch's Townhouse, Carnegie Hill, New York

Fusco was trying to be a better and more present partner to Vonnie, but it didn't help that Shaw's urgent yet profane 911 calls divided his loyalty. She wasn't used to dealing with the Machine, didn't know how to talk to it or what it was trying to say.

- Admin is unavailable.

"See? That's all it does." She protested. "Fix it."

"What'd I look like? Glasses?" He asked, surprised Finch didn't greet him in that old-fashioned, My Fair Lady kinda way.

- Admin is unavailable.

"Okay, let's think. What happened?"

"Zoe happened. She's like crack. And crack is wack."

He held back the laughter. "In English? Or Español por favor?"

"Zoe cooks up Grace for a baby name – then this. She broke his brain."

"Ouch. So that's what the message means. The error message. He can't operate it."

"Einstein." She called him, mockingly.

"That means someone's gotta be Admin 'til we put Humpty Dumpty back together again."

"Tag, you're it." She declared. "Obviously, it doesn't trust me."

"Gee, why not? What makes you think it trusts me?"

"Ask it." She goaded, as if the Machine was a Ouija board.

"Why don't you ask it since you're half-metal yourself? Where's Daredevil and Elektra? They're next in line for this…"

8.02pm, Galah Apartments, Washington Street, West Village, Manhattan

"Your love is King, crown you in my heart. Your love is King, never need to part. Your kisses ring…round and round and round my head, touching the very part of me that's making my sould sing, tearing the very heart of me; your love is King…"

The music, the ambiance, the company; it was all going too well. Joss swirled her second glass of red wine so it could breathe, though the next question might as well have taken the air out of the room. "So…how'd you meet?" Deborah asked, popping the cork on another bottle when the current one wasn't finished yet.

John looked for help, but her eyes were on everything but his. "In Brooklyn." That much was true. The whole suicide-attempt-on-the-bridge thing wasn't exactly dinner conversation. "Clover Club. She'd just come off a shift and I was there for the music. That was the first time I saw her. She's not the kind of woman you forget…"