Finch was up and dressed before her in the morning. He made tea for himself and coffee for Christine and waited for her in the kitchen.

She kissed him on the cheek, looked him up and down. "Insurance today?"

He nodded, adjusting his dark blue tie with the fine red and yellow stripes. His suit was plain gray, expensive and well-tailored but ordinary, without a waistcoat. A Wren suit. "Until the phone rings, anyhow." He pushed the coffee towards her.

She sat down at the breakfast bar and took a long drink. "Thanks. I feel like I didn't sleep at all."

"You didn't," Harold told her gravely.

Christine looked stricken. "I'm sorry, did I keep you awake?"

"You did, actually. But I don't mind. It was enlightening." He took a sip of his tea, choosing his words again, though he had already rehearsed them. "I need to say something. To tell you something."

"Is John okay?" she asked immediately.

He had not anticipated that her thoughts would go there. He could tell his grave expression was frightening her. "He's fine. I mean, as far as I know. I haven't spoken to him this morning." He sat down next to her, took her hand. "Christine. Let me begin by paraphrasing Mr. Darcy. What I have to say, I will say exactly once. And then one word from you will silence me on this subject forever."

Her eyes were very wide. "That phrase is in the context of a wedding proposal. We are already married."

"Yes, well. It will serve nonetheless." He considered their joined hands. Then he met her eyes. "You are not your mother. And she does not get to dictate whether or not you have children of your own."

Christine went perfectly still. She had not been moving before, and Harold could not have described the difference in words, but he felt it. She was still and wary, a doe ready to sprint into the woods and vanish. Her eyes went distant, as if she had retreated behind a wall.

He continued his speech, rapidly. "Your mother was abusive. She was cruel and violent, ignorant and careless and selfish. But you are nothing like her. You are kind and compassionate and generous. You are successful, and so, so intelligent. You have made yourself, by yourself, and you are nothing like her. Nothing. And you will be nothing like her as a mother, either. You will be who you are, not who she was."

Her eyes got wider, her hand colder, but Christine did not move or speak.

Harold drew her hand to his chest. "We both know that there are many, many reasons that we should not have a child. I don't think any of them are insurmountable. But whatever you decide, your mother, damn her to hell, does not get a vote." He bent his head to kiss her fingers. "I think you needed to hear that. I needed to say it. But as I began – I will not speak of it again unless you do."

There followed a space of about thirty seconds – certainly not more than that, though it stretched forever – when she remained completely frozen. Harold held her hand and waited. He wanted to speak, desperately, to prod for some answer, any answer, from her. He made himself wait.

Finally, gently, she drew her hand away.

"I need to think about it," she said, very quietly.

Then she left the apartment.

Harold exhaled, rolled his shoulders to release the tension. He had done the right thing. He was fairly certain of that. But it might still have been a terrible mistake.

He poured her nearly-untouched coffee down the sink and rinsed her cup. Then he threw his tea away, too. It tasted bitter and cold.

He looked around, uneasy, but nothing else needed doing. He straightened his tie, shot his cuffs, and headed out.

Christine was still standing in the stairway lobby.

"Oh," Finch said.

She moved to him quickly, held his face between her hands, and kissed him deeply.

"I still need to think about it," she said. "But you're right that I needed to hear it. Thank you."

They took the elevator downstairs together. She kissed him again at the door.

Finch stepped out into the city, equal parts relieved and bewildered.

Fusco was on the phone. As Joss Carter approached her desk, he looked up at her and grimaced. "Yeah, I'll be sure to let her know," he said. He put the phone down.

"That is never good to hear first thing in the morning," Carter said. "Should I bother to take my coat off?"

"You might as well. Good news and bad news. That obviously-not-suicide you had yesterday? Definitely a serial. FBI says they've got six others in four states."

She hung her coat up. "Can't say I'm surprised."

"They're sending some agents over to meet with you, go over the file. So I'm supposed to tell you, don't go anywhere." Fusco rolled his eyes in sympathy. "The good news is, they've already got a couple suspects. They just want to make sure this guy fits the pattern."

"Am I allowed to go as far as the coffee pot?"

"Yeah, but you better take your phone with you if you go to the Ladies. You know the suits don't like to wait."

Joss smirked. "Guess I better make sure there're no typos in my report."

Fusco glanced past her and up, at the camera in the corner. "Serials killers gotta plan things out, right? You ever wonder –"

"I do, and I asked," she interrupted quickly.

"And?"

"And, uh," she glanced over her shoulder, too, "apparently god works in mysterious ways."

"Well, great. Good to know."

She grabbed his mostly-empty cup on her way to the coffee pot.

Grace Hendricks Everett grabbed the mail from her box and raced across the yard back to the house. The wind was icy and powerful; she had to put her back against the door to get it closed. She stood there a minute, letting the wonderful even heat of the old house' registers wrap around her. "I have got to learn to start wearing a coat to do that."

Her step-daughter looked up from her sketch book. "Why don't you?"

"I don't know," Grace admitted. "When I lived in New York I just had to into the foyer to get my mail, not outside. I guess my brain just hasn't adjusted."

"I'd go get it for you."

"I know you would, honey." Grace kissed the top of the child's head. "But you don't even have shoes on."

Elizabeth leaned and looked down. "Neither do you. Those are slippers."

"They're moccasins." She shrugged. "You're right. They're slippers." She flipped through the mail. Two postcard coupons, for a drycleaner and for gutter cleaning; the gas bill; a newsletter from the school district. And a large thick teal envelope, addressed by hand to both her and her husband Gregg. She studied it, puzzled. The return address said it was from the Visual Arts Committee in Philadelphia. She'd never heard of them. The handwriting was neat and feminine, but the envelope was metered rather than stamped.

Inside there was a letter inviting both of them to display their work in adjoining booths at art show and conference the last weekend in March. It seemed like it was mostly a form letter, with some personalized details. It said that they'd had a cancelation, that an associate of theirs had recommended them. There was a brochure enclosed. The art show was in a huge indoor arena, and it looked like it drew large crowds.

"Is it good?" Elizabeth asked.

"I don't know." Grace passed her the brochure. "They're offering us booths there. Your dad and I both."

"For free?"

"Um … no. Five hundred apiece. But that's for three days."

"That's cheap, right?"

"Right."

"Are you gonna go? Can I go?"

"I don't know. To either of those."

Elizabeth took a breath. "I could stay with Sarah, if you'd rather have, you know, couple time."

Grace felt her cheeks warm. She and Gregg spoke of couple time on those fairly rare occasions when they didn't take Elizabeth with them somewhere – a romantic dinner, sometimes a more adult movie, once in a while dancing – and Elizabeth always took that in stride. But the child was nearly 12, and she likely knew there were other couple time activities as well. "It's a weekend. I'll have to see what's going on. Are you sure you'd want to go? Art shows are awful long days, and usually boring."

Elizabeth shrugged. "I could go look at the other art, right? And take my sketch book?"

"Of course." Grace set the letter and brochure on the counter when Gregg could look at them.

It was a bit curious, and fairly short notice, but she'd had odder invitations to art shows. Most large events were held in the summer. A chance to spend the weekend with other artists in dreary March was very tempting. Maybe some of her friends from New York would be there. They might have to take Elizabeth out of school for a day or two, but they could catch some historic sites in the off time, make up for education with experience. And the girl's grades were excellent; her teachers wouldn't mind.

Philadelphia in March. She shrugged and opened the gas bill.

Finch expected that his tirade would exacerbate Christine's sleep disturbances. He was pleased, if somewhat bewildered, when they largely stopped. Perhaps, he finally decided, what Christine needed to get rid of her abusive mother was for someone to tell the dead woman to go to hell.

Whatever the outcome, he was relieved that he'd eased some of his wife's pain.

He kept his word and did not mention having a child again.

Her name was Stephanie Higgins, and at first glance there was nothing remarkable about her. She was an administrative assistant at an upscale travel agency. She's been there for nine years. Her largest debt was a fifteen year old student loan. She was single; she's dated a young woman for several years, but they'd broken up two years before, without any apparent excess acrimony. She had a cat.

She was their fourth Number in five days.

Reese followed her wearily when she left her apartment on Sunday morning. She stopped at an ATM on the next block, which Finch said was routine for her, and then walked down three more blocks and got a half-dozen bagels and a cup of coffee. Reese got in line behind her and got a single bagel and coffee of his own. He crossed the street and walked parallel to her as she started for home.

Higgins made another stop, at a bodega. She picked up a newspaper and then moved further back, shopping. Reese waited across the street, leaning against a building, listening to Finch run through her social media accounts. But his attention was drawn to a man in a brown jacket who was looking through the bodega window.

There wasn't anything overtly threatening about him, but Reese listened to his instincts and moved back across the street. He walked down half a block, toward the Number's home, then paused, pulled out his cell phone, and held it to his ear. He angled his body so that he could see over his shoulder in the reflection of a shop window, but he also twisted around occasionally, as if he were listening to a boring lecture over his phone.

The man in the brown jacket stayed where he was, staring intently though the window. Then quite suddenly he stepped back and looked the other way. Higgins came out of the shop. She had a bright yellow plastic bag in one hand, her brown bagel bag in the other. She walked toward home.

Reese turned and watched the reflection. The man in the brown coat followed the Number, not more than five steps behind him. Both of his hands were shoved in his pockets.

As soon as the man moved past him, Reese put his phone away and followed him. He stayed close. The suspect was too intent on his quarry to notice.

Higgins had a key fob that unlocked her apartment building's front door. She juggled her shopping bags, opened the door, went inside. As the door swung shut, Brown Jacket grabbed the handle and held it open.

Reese grabbed him by the collar, yanked him off the steps, and shoved him face-first against the wall. He grabbed his right wrist and twisted his arm behind his back. The man tried to turn and Reese slammed him against the wall a second time.

"Who are you?" the man asked, rather too calmly.

"NYPD." John brought out his cuffs and linked the man's right wrist, then reached for his left.

When he pulled the man's left hand out of his pocket, he was holding a neat coil of piano wire.

The man giggled. "What took you so long?"

In the name of sanity, and because Valentine's Day inevitably brought one or more Numbers, Harold and Christine grabbed the opportunity to go on a Valentine-season date before the actual holiday. They saw the first preview of a new play with Bryan Cranston playing LBJ, and then had a late dinner at Sardi's. Finch was acutely aware of the cell phone in his pocket, but it blessedly did not vibrate.

They chatted about the show and the actors, about the various histories written about Johnson and Kennedy and Nixon, about the great reporters of the time.

And then, over dessert, Christine said, "About this baby that you have so graciously not mentioned again."

"You said you needed time to think," Harold answered. She raised an eyebrow; they both knew he had run right over similar requests in the past. "I am capable of learning."

"I appreciate that," she said sincerely. "But I think I'm to where we should talk about it. If you're willing." She raised her hand quickly. "But. You told me, one word and you would never mention it again. And that goes for you, too. If this is too impossible, if this is not something you want, all you have to do is say so."

Harold smiled gently. He had expected this conversation, if it ever happened, to be tense. But they were both relaxed. The reward, he supposed, of waiting until the time was right. "Thank you, love. I appreciate that. Now. What is your greatest concern?"

"Still my mother. I know. But it's there. I think it will always be there."

He nodded. "I suppose so." Carefully, he added, "Perhaps a bit of targeted talk therapy could help with that."

"That's probably a good idea. And thank you for saying it. I need – to know that you'll be that blunt with me."

"If I have concerns about your behavior with our child, I will certainly discuss it with you," Harold promised. "But for the record, I don't think it will be an issue. Oh, I think we'll have disagreements about minor things – at what age they can start to consume caffeine, for example," he gestured to her double espresso, "whether Fortran is still a necessary language for a well-rounded education, things like that. But I imagine we will find compromises fairly readily."

Christine nodded, accepting this reassurance. "What's your greatest concern?"

"That the government will discover my relationship with our all-seeing friend and use you and the child to try to force me to help them access it."

She stirred her espresso thoughtfully. "Oh."

"I don't think," he continued, "that my fear is any more realistic than yours. I think that now that the Machine is autonomous, it will do everything in its considerable powers to protect you." His thought flickered briefly to the "late" Agent Nicholas Donnelly, now safely embedded in the Den and able to oversee and derail any threat. He had no commitment from the former agent to actually act on their behalf, rather than continue his loyalty to the government, but his every instinct and understanding of the man's motivation let him comfortably assume that protection. Even without Donnelly, the Machine could take extraordinary action.

"Beyond that, my great fear is that I will be killed and leave you alone to raise a young child all alone."

"Not alone," she corrected.

"No. Not alone. With John, and with Will and Julie, and Joss and Lionel and Taylor. And others. And that is what makes it possible to consider."

Christine nodded. "I think I am more afraid that you would be killed when he was older. Old enough to be remember. To be hurt."

"As you were," Harold agreed. "As I was." And then, "I can't leave the Numbers."

"I know. I wouldn't ask you to."

"In another way. I would actually feel better knowing that I was leaving you with a child." He paused. "I told you about Lily Romanov and her children."

"Oh, yes, the other woman who held you at gunpoint. I remember."

"She held John. At knifepoint, I believe. She was rather lovely to me."

Christine growled.

"In any case, my point is that having a family made it somewhat easier for her to deal with the death of her husband. She wasn't left – alone."

"Hmmm."

Sensing her growing unease, Finch turned the conversation. "And as unfair as it is, realistically our current situation means that you will almost inevitably end up doing to majority of the childcare."

"That's true. I wonder what the functional limit of small children in the CEREI office is."

"Two is probably manageable. Beyond that? Perhaps a private daycare is in order."

"At CEREI?"

"Why not?" Finch shrugged. "It is the very model of the modern non-profit home office. You can do whatever you wish. "

"Huh." Christine took a bite of her dark chocolate dessert. "It's a possibility, I suppose."

"There's certainly no issue with funding it. You could open it to neighborhood children, perhaps. A nice supervised playgroup."

"You've given this some thought."

Harold shook his head. "I haven't, actually. I'm just sort of spitballing."

"It's a possibility," she conceded. "We'd need space. Maybe the building next door."

"That's an option."

"Traveling would be a pain in the ass."

"Not necessarily. Will can't travel commercial anymore anyhow. He's too well known. Julie, too. Private jets don't care how many passengers you have, within reason."

"We might need someone to look after them while we're working."

"A nanny?"

Christine sighed deeply. "I used to have a coffee shop. How exactly did I become a person who needs a nanny for her children?"

"Well," Finch explained gently, "one night a desperate man came into your coffee shop and you helped him and your life changed irrevocably."

She leaned across the table and kissed him gently. "And here we are."

"And here we are."

They talked. Through dessert, and at the table until their waiter oh-so-gently shooed them out. Through the car ride home. Through brandy in the library, with a black cat curled on each of their laps. They stopped talking, intermittently, while they made love. Then they cuddled under the covers and talked some more.

"Are you still thinking?" Harold asked sleepily, toward dawn.

"I am," Christine answered. "I'm thinking I should get my implants taken out. But I'm also thinking, eeeeeek."

"Eeeeeek, indeed." Against all logic, it felt like the right decision.

"Carter."

"Was it him?"

Joss growled at the phone. "Yeah. It was him. How'd you know?"

"Our friend pointed him out."

She twisted around and glared at the camera in the corner of the precinct. "Well. Thanks." To the phone, "Do you think we just needed to ask?"

"Might just be coincidence. I don't know."

"You know …" Carter stopped. There was no point in bitching at John about the things the Machine did and did not see fit to tell them. "You know. Anyhow, he's off the streets."

"See you later?"

"When I get out from under this paperwork."