"Mr. Ingram." The voice was very quiet.

Nathan snapped awake in a cold panic. It had been a dream, he was back in his cell – in his own goddamn basement – chained to the wall, dying of thirst … he grasped for the hard collar on his neck, felt only soft bandages.

"It's Christine. You're safe."

He looked up at her. The room was still dim, but her face was calm and pretty and definitely not Root.
"Oh." And then, 'Where's Harold?"

She nodded to the other side of the room. Harold was on a chaise, tucked under a blanket, a pillow under his head, still wearing his glasses, a book open on his chest. He was asleep.

"What time is it?"

"Five-thirty. I'm sorry to wake you, but you were starting to sound pretty uncomfortable."

As soon as she mentioned it, he realized that his feet ached, right on the verge of actually hurting. "Uh-huh."

"I brought a pain pill, but I can do an injection if you'd rather. It'll hit faster."

He grunted. "No. Pill's okay."

"Okay. Let's sit you up."

She pushed the button and raised the head of the bed again. He didn't remember it being lowered, or Harold climbing out of the bed. Moving made the pain worse. "I'm sorry, Mr. –"

"Stop. If I wake up next to a beautiful woman, I expect to be on a first-name basis with her."

Christine smiled, a little surprised. "Somebody's feeling better."

"A little." He took the pill she offered and swallowed it with some water. She gave him a second one, which she said was an antibiotic. Then he drank the rest of the water. She reached down to the floor and brought up a protein drink. He shook his head. "No. I never want to taste one of those again."

She put it back, brought up a single-serve cup of applesauce instead. "You need to eat something. At least a few bites, to keep that down."

"You got a whole pantry down there?"

Christine picked up cardboard box and set it on the bed beside him. "Just a few snacks. I have crackers, if you're prefer. Goldfish."

"No, let's go with this."

She dug around and came out with a plastic spoon in a clear wrapper. She opened the spoon and then the applesauce and scooped up a bite for him.

He put his hand over hers. "There's nothing wrong with my hands."

Christine gave up the spoon immediately. "I've heard that about you."

"Hmmm." Nathan smiled at her, pleased that she would flirt back, however playfully. She gestured and he ate. It was just common grocery store applesauce, the kind thousands of school children ate every day, but the flavor seemed to explode on his tongue. It was delicious.

"Once the pill takes hold," she said, "I'll change your dressings. And then you can see how you feel about real breakfast."

"Eggs?" He checked how his stomach felt about that. Eggs sounded okay.

"We might even get all radical and try toast on the side."

"Bacon," he added with great relish. His stomach immediately rebelled. "No. Maybe not bacon."

"Maybe tomorrow," she answered encouragingly.

Tomorrow. Because he would still be here tomorrow. He would still be safe. Harold would still be with him, and Harold's partner with the gun, and Harold's wife … "You're Harold's wife."

"I am."

"You could have told me that to begin with."

"You wouldn't even believe he was alive. Why would you believe he'd be married to someone like me?"

The words were calm, but the way she dropped her eyes away reminded him sharply of the shy little Red Shirt she'd been years before. "Oh, I'd have believed that. He's always had the devil's own luck with women who were way out of his league."

She looked up at him. A little reassured smile played around her mouth. "Thank you." She took the empty cup from him. "What else can I get you? Or do you want to go back to sleep for a while?"

He wasn't going back to sleep. His feet actually hurt now; he silently urged the pill to work faster and half-wished he'd gone for the shot instead. Also, he needed to take a leak again. He didn't want to say that to her. He'd need to wake Harold. "I don't suppose there's any chance of coffee."

"I could make you some coffee." She stood up.

"Black's fine."

She shook her head. "White, for today."

"I don't suppose there's any point in asking you to throw in a shot of Irish, then?"

"Not today. But when you're better, I've got an Irish coffee recipe that will make you regret every other cup you've ever had."

"I look forward to it."

She bent down beside the bed and came up with the plastic urinal jug. She didn't comment, just put it beside him and went out.

Ingram was mildly embarrassed and greatly relieved at the same time. She'd been a clever child. She was a clever woman.

He and Harold's wife were going to get along just fine.

Harold didn't drink coffee, but Nathan had been an addict since high school. He held the mug that Christine brought him in both hands and inhaled deeply. It had been a very long time since he'd had any, and this smelled like it was very, very good. From its color he guessed it was about half milk, but he knew the woman was probably right; black coffee would have hit his stomach like a brick. It would still be good. When he couldn't stand to savor the smell any longer, he raised the mug and took a sip.

It was like sipping Heaven.

Christine sipped her own coffee – black, he noted – at the same time. She immediately scowled. "I'm sorry. This tastes like crap." She put her mug down, reached for his.

"No," Nathan snapped playfully. "It's fine. It's good."

She grunted is displeasure, but let him keep his coffee.

"Really," he promised. "It's fine."

"Must be the water. I'll get a filter pitcher today and try it again."

"Do you think …" Nathan hesitated, drank more coffee. "Could you get me a newspaper while you're out?"

"Sure. Which one?"

"I don't care."

"Okay. Or I have them all on my tablet. The big ten."

"I'd rather … have paper copies."

She simply nodded. "I'll get them."

Ingram looked down at his coffee. His stomach churned, just for an instant. Of course the coffee wasn't poisoned. Why would they bother? He looked back up at her. She was watching, patient. She knew exactly why he wanted real newspapers: because Harold was fully capable of building an entire fake internet to make Nathan believe what they told him, if he had some reason to. Of course, he was perfectly capable of reproducing physical newspapers as well. "I'm sorry."

"Mr. … Nathan. It's okay."

"It's not. I don't know why I can't just …"

"You helped build the Machine. You know what it's capable of. Your government tried to murder you, and you thought they succeeded in murdering your friend. You were hunted by them, and you were imprisoned and tortured by a psychopath. And then you were rescued by a man you've never met and a woman you barely remember. It's not surprising that you're suspicious and paranoid right now. It's actually completely predictable and normal."

"I can't go on like this. It's exhausting."

She took his hand. "You're up to applesauce. You'll get there."

He turned his hand over to grip hers. She was relaxed, warm, comfortable. She was very good at this. "You've dealt with damaged people your whole life, haven't you?"

"I've been a damaged person my whole life," she corrected easily.

Nathan sighed. "What happened to you? Why didn't you come back to IFT? Where did you go?"

Christine went silent for a moment. Her eyes dropped away, but finally she spoke. "My father killed himself. In front of me. So I wouldn't have to take care of him anymore."

"Jesus."

"I stuck a needle in my arm that afternoon and left it there for three years."

He tightened his grip on her hand. Both his instinct and his memory of her told him that she was only volunteering this information because she wanted to reassure him. Harold's wife was very much like Harold: deeply private. But she was working to be open with him. "You should have called me. I would have helped you. I could have done … I don't know. Something."

"I know." She looked up, smiled tightly. "I know. Now. It just … took me years to figure that out. And, um, reading through your journal."

Nathan grunted. "You found the CD's."

"Yes."

"And decrypted them."

"Yes."

She had only volunteered that, too, as a means of reassuring him. He glanced toward Harold, who was still asleep. "Does he know?"

"Yes."

"It's no wonder he had to marry you."

Christine chuckled. "I suppose it was that or kill me."

"I think he made the right choice." He squeezed her hand reassuringly. "Hard to believe, though. The last time I saw you, you were just a little kid reading a book at a picnic while everybody else played softball."

"That's not …" She paused, then shrugged. "That's not actually the last time you saw me."

"Sure it is. The company picnic, Labor Day …"

Christine shook her head. "Do you remember, right before the Towers came down, IFT's servers got hacked?"

Nathan reflected. "No, not really."

"The junkie in the pizza shop."

"Oh, her." Nathan nodded. "I remember now. Harold was so pissed. He took it very personally. She was wasted out of her mind, and she was so good. And she was …" He stopped dead. "You. She was you."

She looked down, grinned shyly. "Yup."

"Ohhhhhh. But … I sat right across the table from her. You. I didn't even recognize you."

"I had contacts. And I was … anyhow, I was glad. I was so glad you didn't recognize me."

"But Harold did?"

"He'd tagged all the laptops you gave to the Red Shirts. And I used that laptop to hack the servers. So he knew who I was before he found me."

"And he didn't tell me. That son of a bitch."

She glanced across at Harold. He was still sleeping, not quite snoring.

"He always looks so innocent when he's sleeping," Nathan complained. He looked back to the woman. "You knew, that night. That he was the real brains of the company."

"Yes."

He shook his head slowly. "Nobody knew. Nobody understood – Harold. Me and Harold. And you just saw right through us. You scared the hell out of me."

"Sorry."

"And out of him. I don't think I've ever seen Harold that angry, or that frightened. He was so smart, we were both so cocky, and then this dirty skinny little … sorry."

"Junkie is the word you're looking for."

He shook his head. "We were the kings of the industry. The smartest men in the room. Any room. And you were just this skinny little girl who saw right through us. It was – humbling."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean any harm. I was just screwing around."

"That makes it worse, you know." He drained his coffee mug. "You probably did the world a big favor."

"I did?"

"After the Towers came down, when we – Harold – came up with his idea for the Machine? He never forgot. That as good as he was, he'd been matched by a teenage girl with green hair. It made him careful. Paranoid."

"More paranoid," Harold corrected softly.

"Good morning, Sunshine," Nathan called cheerfully.

Harold started to move, then didn't. He was obviously stiff. "What time is it?"

"Almost six," Christine answered.

He grunted. "Are you alright?"

"She made me coffee," Nathan announced happily.

"Of course she did."

"The tea kettle's hot, too," she added.

Harold sat up, slow and stiff. "Tea. Yes." With effort, he hauled himself off the chaise and stalked out of the room.

"He's never been a morning person," Ingram said consolingly.

"That's one of his best features."

Harold made his way blearily to the kitchen. He turned the stove on under the tea kettle, then used the half-bath while it re-heated. He washed his hands and splashed some water on his face, then ran damp fingers through his hair. He studied his reflection. His face was gray with fatigue; his shirt was badly wrinkled and was beginning to smell. It would have to do, for the moment.

His hip hurt fiercely. His neck was not too bad, but sleeping on the firm chaise next to Nathan's bed –

He stopped and shook his head. It didn't matter how much temporary pain he was in. Nathan was alive. Alive and safe and here. Miraculous and impossible, but true.

The kettle whistled and he returned to the kitchen to make his tea. While it steeped Bear came in and nuzzled his hand. Finch let him out through the French doors. He put his hands flat on the table and stretched gently until the dog was ready to come back in. The yard was nearly a full acre, contained by a high wall, but the dog was more interested in breakfast than in exploring. There was already a mixing bowl half-full of water on the kitchen floor. Finch found another and put down a scoop of kibble. He'd brought dog food and human basics, assuming, correctly, that the refrigerator would have been emptied before the Zaccardis left for Europe.

He did not understand how Nathan could be alive. Or where he'd been in the years since his death. Or how Christine and John had found him. But he was here. He paused for long moment, just catching his breath mentally. Nathan was alive. All the things he should have done – the things he would have done, if he'd was full of grief and guilt. Regret. But also – Nathan was alive.

He took his tea and returned to the bedroom.

Christine was sitting on the chair from the dressing table at the foot of the bed. The blankets were peeled back and she was in the process of unwrapping the dressing on Nathan's left foot. Beneath the gauze, the foot was badly swollen and bruised, purple and black and sickly yellow, and there were multiple ugly cuts, some with heavy black stitches. He wished he had lingered longer in the kitchen. Then he squared his shoulders and put away his cowardice. "How can I help?"

"Could you bring me the kitchen trash can? And make sure it has a bag in it?"

"Of course." He set his tea down and hurried out and back.

She nodded to her left. There were two pans of clear water there, and she had a box of supplies on the bed. He put the can down, and she dumped the first round of bandages into it. "Sit over there and distract him."

"Alright." He sat back on the chaise with his tea. For the first time he noticed that in addition to the friction wound around Ingram's neck, he also had places on each wrist that were rubbed raw. "How are you feeling?"

"Better than I felt yesterday, that's for damn sure."

Bear came into the bedroom and sniffed at Nathan's foot. "Go," Christine said gently.

"Bear, here," Finch called. The dog reluctantly went and sat by his feet.

"Who's this guy?" Nathan asked.

"This is Bear," Finch explained. Nathan extended his hand, relaxed and palm open. The dog sniffed it, then licked it once and let him scratch his ears. "He's part of the team."

"He's a beauty."

Christine moved steadily, seemly unperturbed by the damage before her. She washed the foot gently, then patted it dry. She changed the pad underneath it, then changed her gloves and applied antibiotic ointment all over.

Nathan flinched, and Harold realized he was failing at his assigned task. "I'm almost afraid to ask, Nathan, but who in the world cut your hair?"

"That would be me," Christine volunteered.

"You should have seen it before," Nathan said. "It was an unholy mess. My own fault, I suppose. After I got to Green Bank I thought I'd grow it out. It was down to my shoulders."

"As a disguise?"

"Partly. Mostly just because I didn't bother getting it cut. You should have seen it, all these gorgeous long flowing curls."

Christine snorted.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"It was beautiful," Ingram insisted, "when it was clean."

She left the foot unbandaged for the moment and turned her attention to his other foot.

"Maybe we can get some decent scissors and clean it up some. And a shave wouldn't hurt."

"There's scissors in the bathroom," John announced. He was leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug cradled in his hands, as if he'd been there for quite some time. "But the beard helps as a disguise."

"We could tidy it up, at least," Finch protested.

Reese shrugged and sipped his coffee.

"What are you frowning about, darlin'?" Nathan asked.

Christine was indeed frowning, but she smiled quickly, reassuringly. "I'm just …" She glanced over her shoulder, nodded John over. "The swelling's gone way down, which is good, but now all the stitches are getting loose."

Reese looked over her shoulder at the exposed feet. "Yeah, and that's just gonna get worse."

"I could re-stitch them," Christine ventured.

"Oh, that sounds delightful," Nathan answered.

"Maybe," Harold countered, "we could use surgical glue instead?"

John shook his head. "We don't want to seal them until they're done oozing."

Harold grimaced. So did Nathan.

"We could butterfly them," John continued. "If he's not going to put any weight on them, that should hold."

"I like that idea better," Ingram confirmed.

Christine nodded. "I'll grab some while I'm out."

"We could all use a change of clothes, as well," Harold said.

"We'll start a list." She started putting new dressings on his feet. "These will be okay until this afternoon."

"So," Nathan said, "about those eggs."

"I'll cook," John offered.

"The dog's been out," Harold said, "and fed, no matter what he tells you."

Reese and Bear left the room. Christine continued to quietly fuss over Nathan's dressings.

Harold sipped his tea and felt completely useless.