Disclaimer: Credit to Jonathan Nolan, Greg Plageman, and the POI writing team. Bolded sections are straight from the episodes.
QUEENSBRIDGE PARK
Chapter 7: after In Extremis
Reese walks out onto the portico of a country club, where he had helped their latest Number, a doctor dying from radiation poisoning, give his killer a literal taste of his own medicine.
"... I love you, too, sweetheart," Dr. Nelson says into the phone from where he's sitting overlooking the snow-covered lawn. "Goodbye."
After he hangs up, Reese hands him a tumbler. "'62 limited edition, your favorite."
"Cheeky bastard," Nelson says as they clink glasses. He takes a sip and sighs. "And thank you," he adds.
"For what?"
"For giving me another shot." He waves a hand vaguely. "At all this."
Reese stands next to him as Nelson takes his last breaths. Finally, the glass drops from his hand.
Reese sets down his own glass and straightens the body on the chair. He touches his earpiece.
"We lost Dr. Nelson, Finch."
"He was a good man," Finch says from the Library.
"We arrived too late to save him."
"Seems to be a common occurrence of late. First Szymanski, then Beecher, now Dr. Nelson."
"Is something wrong with the Machine, Finch?"
"I don't know," Finch whispers, almost to himself.
"Then who else are we missing?" Reese demands as he walks away.
Reese heads back to the Library, not exactly ready for another Number but hoping for one all the same, one they can get to in time. But nothing is taped on the broken Plexiglass board when he gets there.
"Any word on Fusco?" he asks, trying to spot Bear. He has a vague notion of taking the Belgian Malinois to the park despite the weather.
"Off the hook, for now," Finch says. "My chess partner in prison says Azarello had a change of heart and recanted."
He'd never doubted that Finch would persuade Elias to silence the HR goon who had tried to squeal on Fusco. "Checkmate," he compliments. "Good to hear."
"That storm on the horizon that I mentioned?" Finch continues. Reese feels a weight drop in his stomach as he glances at the screen Finch has dedicated to monitoring the status of the virus Kara had uploaded. "I'm afraid it's arrived."
Even as he speaks, the amount of the Machine's affected nodes reaches a critical 85%. The monitor beeps ominously as the bar changes from yellow to red.
There's something also ominous about the empty dog bed that Bear usually occupies. Too much time has passed since he entered the Library for the canine not to have made a bounding appearance.
"Finch, where's Bear?" Reese demands.
Finch closes his eyes momentarily, knowing Reese isn't going to be happy with the answer. "Oh, yes, that's ... the other matter that we need to discuss."
It's snowing when Reese gets to the deserted park. When Finch had told him that Bear had helped Carter find and move Detective Stills' body in Oyster Bay so Internal Affairs couldn't trace it back to Fusco, he'd turned and left without another word, and went to the park anyway.
He heads straight to the isolated spot practically beneath the Queensboro Bridge. It's where he met Finch for the first time, when the billionaire roped him into this increasingly bleak rehabilitation program.
The only thing he's accomplished this time is ending another life instead of saving one. When they're foiling murder plots before breakfast and gift-wrapping perpetrators for the police before lunch, it's easy to ignore the questionable morality of what they do. But now he feels the old doubts creeping up. How can they justify their methods when they can't save anyone at all? When they're leading Fusco and Carter into danger, too?
Reese grimaces when he recalls how he'd lost his temper at Carter over the phone the night before, throwing her self-righteousness back in her face over her uncompromising stance on Fusco's old HR sins — sins he's done penance for twice over since Reese had roped him into this increasingly bleak rehabilitation program. But Reese had wanted Carter to just interfere with the investigation, like she had so many times before, not literally dig herself closer to HR.
And if she knew that he was the one who had killed Stills? That he'd pointed a gun to Fusco's head and blackmailed him into burying the body out in Oyster Bay? She'd been prepared to leave Fusco to the law for being a dirty cop once upon a time. If she knew about all the people he has killed, both for the CIA and the Machine, would she have left him to the FBI? Perhaps she should have.
A familiar bark pulls him out of his thoughts and heralds the arrival of a golden retriever. And Reese could lie to himself and say he's forgotten it's Sunday, but he knows perfectly well what day it is and who is supposed to be at the park at this time.
Bailey bounds up and turns in confused circles around his legs, looking for Bear. Elena strolls in his wake, her blue coat bright against the grey backdrop of the city, her wavy hair somewhat contained by a matching knit cap. She looks so ... separate from the awful things he's seen and done in the last 24 hours. Finch was right: The only dangerous thing in Elena Cassidy's life is himself, and every moment he spends with her, he risks tainting her by association.
But it's too late to leave. She plops down next to him with a grin of greeting, though her carefree smile fades as she takes in his tired expression, which seems to go beyond just physical exhaustion.
"Is everything ... ? No, obviously not," she answers her own half-finished question.
He expects her to ask what's wrong, but she doesn't, and he's glad he doesn't have to make up a story about an insurance deal not going through. Having let Finch spin their cover, he has yet to tell her a lie, and he finds himself more and more reluctant to tell her anything that isn't, to some extent, true.
She reaches out a mittened hand and brushes off the snow that has accumulated on his shoulder. "How long have you been sitting here?"
"A few minutes."
Her eyes linger on his very cold-looking ears. "'Few' is a rather vague term," she notes. "Harold and Bear not here to take care of you?"
"They're busy."
It's an odd reason for a dog, but she suppresses the need to satisfy her curiosity about the still-mysterious, still-fascinating relationship that extends into weekends and shared pets.
Bailey, having accepted that Tall Man isn't hiding Bear in his coat, morosely puts his head down on John's knee and whines softly. Elena gives her dog an bemused look, having never seen him do this with Ken. Reese absently scratches the golden retriever between his ears.
"Are you okay?" she finally asks. "You look ..."
His curiosity is piqued when she doesn't finish the sentence, and he quirks an eyebrow at her hesitation.
"Sad," she decides simply. "You look really sad, John."
He blinks, thrown off by the unexpected response. It takes him another moment to realize she's right.
"Someone I knew died today. A good man," he adds, echoing what Finch had said earlier.
Her lips form an 'O' of faint surprise. But she can't find the right thing to say. The words of condolence that come to mind sound just like the dozens of generic sympathy cards she's sent out for her boss over the years.
Her hand slips into his. He goes still, unaccustomed to being on the receiving end of comfort, no matter the dozens of times he's done the same for distraught Numbers. He can't remember the last time he's held hands with someone he hasn't had to pull to safety a few minutes later.
"Did you know him well?" she asks, expecting at any moment he'll pull away. Instead, he adjusts his hand to accommodate hers more comfortably.
"I only met him yesterday. But I was with him when he died."
He's inviting dangerous questions, but if she's curious or confused, she hides it well. "Everyone deserves to have someone with them when they die, to know that in the end, they aren't alone. I'm sure he was glad you were with him."
In the end, we're all alone and no one's coming to save you.
"How do you know I wasn't the one who killed him?"
It's a brave attempt at his usual banter. Though it falls flat, she decides to humor him.
"Did you?"
He wants to say 'yes,' to see how she will react, to make her run in the other direction, as fast and as far away from him as she can get.
"No."
There's no sense of relief, no betrayal of momentary doubt. Just a resolute nod. "Didn't think so."
He's struck by the calm confidence of her tone, equal parts dismayed and touched by her trust in humanity. He feels a sudden and troubling urge to protect her from anything that would break that trust, or anyone who would take advantage of it.
"You know, I could be a killer," he points out. "Or a stalker. Or a ... government-trained assassin."
The little voice in his head that sounds annoyingly like Finch demands to know what the hell he's doing. He ignores it.
"Oh, stalker has definitely crossed my mind," she assures him. "But the other two? Not so much."
He allows himself a small smile at that.
She senses some of the gloom lift from him, but there's still something hovering underneath the surface, weighing him down. He changes the subject before she can ask what else is bothering him.
"How's, uh ... Ken?" he asks politely.
She makes a face. "Oh, we're fighting again," she says blasély.
"Let me guess: He left the seat up?"
"That was argued to death ages ago. No, he wants to go away for Easter, but I don't really want to leave the city."
"Because of your grandmother?"
Her cheeks pink slightly at the memory of last week's rather epic fight that John and Harold had front-row seats for.
"He never seems to get that my grandmother practically raised me. I'm not going to forget her just because she can't remember me sometimes."
"Need help getting through to him?"
It's difficult not to take him up on his offer when he's being all heroic and chivalrous. "Maybe next time. After all, I do love you, you know." A moment of shocked silence. "Him!" she corrects frantically. "Him. I do love him. Ken."
Absolutely and completely mortified, she snatches her hand from his and begins winding Bailey's leash around her fingers, a nervous habit of hers he's noticed before. "I — I think my brain's gotten frostbite or something," she laughs, and it's just a little too high-pitched and forced. "I should get going before I say something else utterly ridiculous."
Reese knows he should let her go, let her embarrassment overcome her, use it as an excuse to fade out of her life. She's not a Number. He doesn't need to save her or persuade her not to do something bad. She's ordinary, unexceptional — no anomalies, to use Finch's technical term. Her life, unlike theirs, is perfectly, absolutely, yearningly normal.
He doesn't know exactly why he does it. For one crucial moment, his iron resolve is weakened by a multitude of things: his increasing sense of uselessness and helplessness, the problems with the Machine ... the snowflakes melting in her hair and clinging to her eyelashes as she looks at him with a mixture of vulnerability and, yes, desire.
It lasts ten seconds or ten minutes or, more likely, somewhere in between. It's an instant of insanity and weakness and refuge from the chaos crashing down around them.
They slowly part, and it still hasn't quite registered for Elena that John had just kissed her.
His eyes are still closed when she opens hers, and he looks so beautiful and so tragic that she suddenly has an absurd yearning to take him into her arms and tell him everything's going to okay, no matter that it would be a lie.
His eyes finally open, and she sees the wall come up again.
"I'm sorry —"
"No, it's —"
"I shouldn't have —"
"John —"
He stands, dislodging a startled Bailey. "I should go."
"Don't."
He looks down uncomprehendingly at the hand that has slipped back into his.
"Please."
After a moment, his knees bend, and he takes a seat once more. She can feel his gaze burning on her profile, but she determinedly looks out on the grey, churning waters of the East River, and after a while, he follows suit. But their hands remain intertwined, resting on the bench between them, and neither makes a move to disentangle them, to remove their one source of warmth in the swirling cold.
