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


QUEENSBRIDGE PARK

Chapter 40: beginning of Point of Origin


John Reese associates certain colors with certain people.

Harold is purple. Rich. Regal. Intelligent.

Fusco is brown. Like the suits he wears. Solid. Useful. Dependable.

Shaw is black. Uncompromising. Unflinching. Straight to the point.

Root is yellow. A hazard. Strange. Crazy.

Zoe is red. Flashy. Passionate. Confident.

Iris is green, a jade. Patient. Soothing. Calm.

Reese himself is gray. Like the moral code he operates on.

And Elena ...


Reese exits the training facility of the NYPD Police Academy and catches sight of Dr. Iris Campbell standing in the lobby.

He's temporarily serving as a weapons and tactics instructor at the Academy, which is convenient since their current Number is a recruit.

A recruit who managed to hit him during the latest training exercise.

"Apparently, even an expert marksman like you still has a thing or two to learn about tactics," Iris says, catching sight of the bright spatter of red on the back of his right knee.

"Iris, are you stalking me?" he asks as he walks past her.

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, following him. "I just finished teaching a class on the importance of mental health to some new recruits. Maybe you should sit in sometime," she suggests as they turn to face each other.

"That reminds me, thank you for the endorsement of my instructor position."

"Well, given the ongoing IA investigation and your recent firing of a weapon inside a police precinct, I figured it couldn't hurt to get you reacquainted with the rules. We making progress on the excessive force front?"

He cocks the training gun he's holding, and it ejects a shell casing.

"Yes, we are," he assures her.

She gives him a skeptical look. "I'll see you tomorrow for your appointment?" she reminds.

"Bright and early, Doc."


Reese frowns again at the bright splatter of red on his pant leg as he walks up the stairs of his and Elena's apartment building.

He'd handed off the Number to Fusco and Shaw for the night. Technically he has to grade the written tests of the new recruits, or at least that's what he told them. But it's also Thursday, which means poker night with Elena.

He's teaching Elena how to play. She's a quick study, but her poker face is nonexistent. He can guess her hand just by glancing at her expression.

And he doesn't want her to change. Ever.

They don't play for money, they play for truth, testing each other on the trivia of their own lives. The first to win five hands tries to stump the loser.

It's the unspoken rule of the game that they never touch on the Important Things.

So they ask random things, like what they think the other scored on the ACT or their go-to drink order or what position they played on their high school's softball or baseball teams.

She's rarely ever able to stump him, former international spy and all, but the reverse is true as well. He supposes it should bother him, how much he's let slip around her ... or how much she's figured out ... or how much she just knows him. He supposes he should stop whatever game it is they're playing beyond poker.

But he pushes those concerns aside as he heads straight for her door, not even bothering to change.

"Shoot — coming!" Elena calls out after he knocks on her door, and he makes a mental note to remind her not to do that before she knows who is standing outside.

The door jerks open, and he feels a flash of alarm at the sight of red dripping down the front of her shirt ... before he realizes it's paint, too.

"The tube got away from me," she explains, waving him into her apartment. She catches sight of his pant leg. "You, too?" Her eyes light up. "A recruit got you?" she asks in disbelief.

"Lucky shot," he half-lies.

"Sure, John," she drawls.

He glances around her apartment as he walks over to the fridge and pulls out two beers from the six-pack he'd stashed there this morning, but whatever she was working on when he arrived is hidden under an old sheet. She gives him a chiding look.

He frowns at the shirt she's wearing as a smock. "That's mine."

"One of your old ones," she explains, shrugging out of it. She holds it up to show him a rip near the side from where a bullet had torn through, barely missing him. "I'm going to pretend that's just a rip, and not a bullethole," she informs him, as she takes the beer he's handing her.

"Cheers," he says as they clink bottles.

"Don't you have homework to grade tonight, Instructor?"

"I'll just say Bear ate it."

She gives him a disapproving look.

"What?" he says, pulling out a card deck from ... somewhere. "I'm going to give them all F's anyway."

She shakes her head. "You're terrible. I don't know why they let you near the recruits at all."

"Iris recommended me."

"Oh." Elena pauses. "Iris, is it?" she clarifies.

Apparently shuffling the deck takes all his concentration, because he doesn't answer.

He also wins the first hand decisively.

And the next four.

He's had his question ready all day.

"What's my favorite color?" he asks, already smug.

Elena rolls her eyes as she stands to grab a couple of fresh beers from the fridge. "Oh, please, that one's easy, John. It's blue."

Her head's in the fridge so she misses the look of complete and utter surprise that crosses his face at the correct answer.


Because if he is gray, and Harold is purple, and Fusco is brown, and Shaw is black, and Root is yellow, and Zoe is red, and Iris is green, then —

Elena is blue.

Still water that runs deep.

Loyal.

True.