Disclaimer: Credit to Jonathan Nolan, Greg Plageman, and the POI writing team. Bolded sections are straight from the episodes.


QUEENSBRIDGE PARK

Chapter 22: beginning of, after 4C


Mr. Reese is not the most loquacious person, but after he leaves for parts unknown, Harold is surprised at how keenly he feels the absence of his partner. No, his friend.

"Sorry, Bear. I'm not the best company right now," he says as they both sit aimlessly in the Library.

To resist the temptation of tracking down Mr. Reese, he decides to check on how Miss Cassidy is faring. He pulls up her social media sites, but there's not much activity there.

Except a Facebook post about some furniture for sale or for free, if the taker could arrange for the pickup.

Bear props his front paws on the table and barks at Pretty Lady's photo.

"I know, I know," Finch says, beginning to do a more illegal search of her digital footprint.

Her house is for sale, under contract. She'd canceled all her subscriptions, alerted the utilities, and provided a forwarding address to the post office.

"But why?" Finch mutters. A startling thought occurs to him. "Surely not Mr. Reese ...?"

Oh. No. She'd been accepted into a master's program for art history at a university in Rome. She had mentioned a few times that she had not been able to do anything with her art history degree. Good for her.

And yet ...

He remembers the way she had looked at John when he had been recovering from his injuries, the way she had donated blood — more than he's sure is medically advised — to help him.

She was also one of the few people who could have an actual conversation with John without any effort at all. He doesn't know how she had wormed her way past Mr. Reese's considerable defenses, but she had succeeded where no one, not even Finch, had.

And now she was running. Just like John.

His phone rings.

"Yes?"

"Finch?"

"Mr. Reese, where are you? And why are you calling over VoIP?

"You tell me. You're the one who put me here. We can't keep doing this, Finch."

Finch is at a complete loss. "Put you where? Doing what?"

"Overbooking my flight, changing my seat."

Finch is slowly putting the pieces together. "Are you on a plane?"


The next day

"Miss Cassidy? Elena Cassidy?"

Elena looks up. She's sitting in the first-class lounge, waiting to board her flight to Rome. She's never flown first before, and probably never will again, but the tickets for her and Ken's honeymoon had still been valid, so she'd put them to use.

"That's me," she says to the flight attendant.

"Miss Cassidy, will you please come this way?"

Confused, Elena grabs her carry-on. "Is something the matter with the flight? My ticket?" she asks, hurrying to catch up to the fast-walking attendant. "Aren't we supposed to be boarding soon?"

There's an airport transport waiting outside the lounge. The driver picks up Elena's carry-on and holds out a hand to help her into the vehicle.

"I'm sorry, there must be some mistake. I'm supposed to be boarding this flight to Rome in ten minutes —"

The attendant hands her a business card. "Mr. Wren said he would explain everything to you when you get there."

Elena looks down at the business card of Harold Wren, Universal Heritage Insurance. She hesitates only for a moment longer before she hops up on the transport.

"Get where?" she asks the attendant, but they're already zipping away.

'Where' turns out to be the private charter terminal of JFK. Harold is waiting for her in one of the hangars.

"Harold, what on earth is going on?" she asks.

"I need to take a quick trip to Rome, and I ... discovered that you are headed there yourself."

"How ... coincidental," Elena says skeptically.

"Isn't it?" he agrees. "I understand you've been accepted to a master's program at a university there. Congratulations, Miss Cassidy."

"I'm not even going to ask how you know that," Elena mutters. She looks past him, at the plane undergoing its final checks. "Harold, this is a private jet."

"And I happen to know the pilot." He gives her a significant look.

Her eyes widen. "You're joking."

"I rarely do, Miss Cassidy. An eight and a half hour flight is quite a long one to make without a companion."

"Are you planning to move to Rome too? Because even if I agree to this, your return flight is going to be pretty lonely."

"You see, I'm hoping that the person I'm meeting in Rome can be persuaded to return with me."

Realization crosses her face. "John." It's not a question. She looks from him to the plane. "You sure you know how to fly this thing?"

"Miss Cassidy," he admonishes. "Where is your sense of adventure?"

She throws her hands up with a laugh. "Oh, why the hell not? If I'm going to go down over the Atlantic, might as well go down in style, Captain ... You know, I'm about to fly halfway around the world with you. Don't you think it's time I knew your real name?"

"It is Harold," he says. He hesitates only slightly before adding, "Harold Finch."

She gives him another skeptical look. "Is it?"

"That's how my friends know me, few as they are."

She smiles brightly. "I'm honored to be counted among them, Captain Finch."

"The honor is mine, Miss Cassidy."


After saying goodbye to the flight attendant who had helped him thwart an international incident during their flight to Rome, Reese looks up and sees a familiar figure seated at a sidewalk cafe. He walks over and takes the seat opposite him.

"She seems nice," Finch observes without looking up from his newspaper. It's in Italian, Reese notes.

"You track me down, Harold?"

"Just flew in to get Owen situated with a new identity and destination," Finch explains. Owen was their unexpected Number who had been on Reese's flight.

"Is that it?" Reese asks.

"Grazi," Finch says to the server, folding his newspaper to make room for his cappuccino. He stares down at the drink for a moment.

"Mr. Reese, I understand your frustration with the opacity of the Machine," he finally says. "But there's a reason I chose to make it that way. The Machine only gives us Numbers because I would always rather that a human element remain in determining something so critical as someone's fate.

"We have free will, and with that comes great responsibility, and sometimes great loss. I miss her dearly, too."

Reese rubs his chin at the mention of Carter and clears his throat. "When are you leaving?"

"Soon. I thought I would go see this exhibit at the Giorgio de Chirico House Museum. An artist that Grace was very fond of."

Reese stares at Finch, surprised at the little bit of personal information the very private person had just shared.

"You're welcome to join me," Finch offers.

"I'm not sure I can, Finch," Reese says, playing hard to get just a little bit longer.

Finch nods in resignation.

"While I'm in Italy, I thought I'd get fitted for a new suit."

Finch looks up in realization. "Oh, of course! We should call my atelier in the Via Palestro. See if Gianni could fit you in after lunch. He's the best."

"I thought maybe I could hitch a ride back with you," Reese continues. "I'm not quite ready to fly commercial yet, so ..."

Finch smiles.

"But I need to get back to work," Reese adds seriously.

"Certainly, Mr. Reese. I know the pilot. I think we could delay that flight."

As they walk away from the cafe together, Finch hands him a brand-new phone. Reese takes it with a slight eyeroll — so Finch had been so sure, had he?

He slips the phone into his pocket just as a flash of blue and wavy brown hair catch his eye across the piazza.

"Elena?" he says in confusion.

In the midst of a call to Gianni, Finch looks up. "Oh, Mr. Reese —"

But he's already hurrying after her.

Even though it's early, there are plenty of tourists, and he keeps losing sight of the head of wavy brown hair bobbing among the masses. Just when he thinks he's lost her for good — which would make twice that she's done that ... which would be remarkable for anyone, spy or not — he sees the edge of her blue dress as she turns left, and he quickens his pace to follow her.

He has to pull up short to avoid running into her, since she's waiting patiently for him just around the corner.

"John!" she greets brightly. She waves her phone at him. "Harold said you were coming, and that I should just stop and let you find me."

"Harold?" he repeats in confusion.

"I flew over with him, didn't he tell you? I was supposed to be meeting him now, but I got a bit lost." She takes in his casual attire and his unshaven jaw. "Still on vacay, then?"

"It's just about to come to an end," he says truthfully.

"Oh, really?" her eyes light up in surprise ... and something else he can't place.

She notices a few women nearby ogling John, so she loops her arm in his. "I take it you can reunite us with Harold?"

He does better than that. He reunites them, takes them to an excellent cafe for breakfast, and then navigates the way to the museum.

To Reese's relief, the museum isn't one of those sprawling ones that would take an entire day to get through. As they work their way through the little boutique museum, Elena alternates between discussing technique and cultural significance with Harold, and trying to keep a straight face at John's irreverent observations and blatant misuse of art terms.

Over her head, Finch gives Reese an unimpressed look. Mr. Reese might like to pretend he pays no mind to the arts, but an international spy of his caliber had to have at least a working knowledge of such things. Reese gives him an innocent look.

"Well, it seems you won't be flying back solo after all," Elena observes as she and Harold stand together in front of a painting. John had been cornered by an overly enthusiastic female docent on the other side of the room.

"Should I add a third name to the flight manifest?" Finch asks.

Elena looks toward John, who's trying to politely fend off the docent's advances. Finch can clearly see the emotions playing across her face. How torn she is at the question. The yearning.

"You ... seem to care for John very much, Miss Cassidy," he ventures to say.

She smiles ruefully. "Is it that obvious?" Her smile fades. "It doesn't make any sense. When it comes down to it, I barely know him, either of you really, and yet ..." She trails off, cocking her head curiously as her gaze drifts to John again.

"Yes?"

"And yet I trust both of you. Implicitly. You know, I don't hop onto private jets with just anyone, Harold."

"And John?"

"John ... oh, John gets me in a way I don't think anyone ever has, not even Ken. And I ... I think I understand him, too ... as much as someone like him can be understood, or allows himself to be."

The way she says it is proof by itself of how much she understands John, Finch muses. He impulsively takes her hand and squeezes.

"I would just give him time, Miss Cassidy."

"Honestly, I need some myself," she admits. "I've been with Ken for so long that I think I need to be just by myself for some time." She squeezes his hand back. "So, no, Harold. Don't add my name to the manifest. But thank you for this."

"Well, what's this?" Reese asks, having finally shaken off the docent. His eyes flick to their clasped hands.

"I was just thanking Harold for taking me on my honeymoon," Elena teases.

"We have just enough time for lunch before your appointment," Finch says hurriedly, trying not to blush as Reese gives him a look. "John's seeing my tailor at 2," he explains to Elena.

"Are we giving John a makeover?" she asks, casting a critical eye over Reese that makes him stand just a bit taller.

"Just replenishing the uniform," Reese says, with a warning look at Finch.

"Good," Elena says brightly as she takes both their arms. "I like your usual look, John. It's ..." she takes a moment to find the right word. "Classic," she decides.


"I have a tux," Reese points out a couple of hours later.

"It's from last season," Finch dismisses.

Reese sighs as Gianni continues to measure him for a dinner jacket, but he doesn't protest too much. After all, a perfectly tailored tuxedo is an essential part of an operative's arsenal. And he hadn't missed the appreciative look Elena is giving him from across the shop.

Elena and Harold amuse themselves with picking out ties and pocket squares to supplement Finch's own wardrobe as Gianni makes his final measurements. She holds up an extra satiny black bowtie, but Reese shakes his head before nodding at the plain black one in her other hand.

She smiles as she walks over with it and loops it around his neck.

"Like I said, classic," she says.

He watches their reflection in the mirror as she proceeds to tie it expertly for him.

"Oh, well done," Finch praises, surveying her work.

"I've had a lot of practice," she explains. "You won't believe how many mayor's aides can't tie one on straight. I could probably do it blindfolded."

Before Reese's thoughts can wander too far down the road of what else Elena Cassidy can do blindfolded, Finch pulls his attention toward the selection of neckties.

"Yeah, I don't ..."

"You might have to wear one someday," Elena points out.

Finch is sighing over the more flamboyant reds and purples, but Elena shakes her head at them as her eyes run over the options.

Eyes flicking over to John a few times, she finally makes her selections: a thinly striped black, grey and white one, a blue-grey one with a subtle geometric pattern, and a bolder striped one of navy and bright blue.

He doesn't mind the first two, but he raises his eyebrows at the last.

"It brings out your eyes," she informs him.

And so it's included in the multiple parcels they leave the shop with.


It's raining, so Finch arranges for a car service to drive them to the airport. The airport is about an hour away, but the car starts to slow down only a few blocks from the Via Palestro.

Reese looks in askance at Finch, but Finch is looking at Elena. Her hands twist nervously in her lap, like they used to twist around Bailey's leash.

The car stops in the middle of a residential street. It's near a university, based on the 20-somethings dashing in and out of the buildings in the pouring rain.

"Well, this is me," Elena says brightly. She holds out her hand to Finch, who grasps it warmly. "Thank you, Harold. For everything."

"The same to you, Miss Cassidy."

It takes Elena another moment to turn to John and meet his eyes.

"Elena, what ...?"

"Take care of yourself, John."

She darts out of the car and through the rain. There is just the slimmest hope that he isn't following her, but Elena is not anything if not hopeful.

She actually makes it all the way up the front steps before he catches up, his longer legs making up the distance in half the time.

"Elena, what is going on?" he asks. He looks up at the building they're now standing in front of. "What is this place?"

"My new apartment building," she explains, looking up at him. The overhang over the front door is tiny, so they're standing very close to each other to stay dry. "I've enrolled in a program at the university here."

"You're staying?" he asks blankly.

She shrugs. "I'm trying my hand at art history again, get my master's degree. I earned a few credits before I had to drop out of the program at NYU, and there's really not a better place to study art history than Italy. So, yes, I'm staying, a least for a little while."

"HR shouldn't be a problem now. Even if they are, we'll make sure you're safe. I'll make sure," he promises.

"I'm sure you would. But it's not HR I'm afraid of."

His eyes lock onto hers. "What then?" His jaw tightens. "Me?"

"No. Well, not exactly," she amends, when he continues to look at her. "I'm afraid I would let you take care of me. And I'm trying out this new thing where I don't play the damsel in distress all the time."

"That's not ... why ..."

He's not sure how he's going to finish that sentence. Not why he's drawn to her? Not why he wants her to come back home with them? Not why he can't stand the idea of leaving her here, half a world away?

Suddenly she throws her arms around him, hugging him so close that it nearly hurts.

"I think, if I let myself, I'd fall terribly in love with you, John Reese," she whispers, one cheek pressed against his chest.

She feels him stiffen, but he doesn't pull away.

"Why ... don't you?" he finally asks.

She lets out a long breath as she listens to the steady beating of his heart and tries to gather the will to step away. "Because I don't think either of us is ready for that."

"El."

She looks up, tilting her head at just the perfect angle, and then he's kissing her.

The kiss barely lasts any time at all, because the front door opens and two young men come running out, nearly knocking them over. The only reason they avoid catastrophe is Reese manages to swing her out of the way and takes the hit on his shoulder instead.

"Find a better place to make love, Romeo!" one of them calls out in Italian as they dash down the steps.

"Elena, are you all right?"

She's laughing, helplessly, as they both stand in the rain.

"Elena," he begins again.

"I know, John. That wasn't to start something."

"This isn't goodbye," he says quickly.

She looks up at him, wistful. "Isn't it?"

He reaches out, and somehow her phone is in hand.

"You'll always be able to reach me," he says, adding his new number to her contacts. "If you ever need anything, or want to come home, or are in any kind of trouble, day or night, call me."

"You're going back to the saving-people thing with a vengeance, huh? Well, this is one damsel you don't have to worry about anymore."

"I mean it, El," he insists.

"Me too, John." She takes back her phone with a sad smile. "Goodbye."

And she disappears inside, leaving him standing in the rain.