Shaw stared at the restrained figure before her, absently twirling a small paring knife between her thumb and forefinger. He spat an insult in garbled Russian and she sighed, stepping back with a roll of her eyes.
"I'm not sure I caught that," she said with a look. "Let's try this again."
Half training and half instinct, Sameen Shaw was no stranger to persuasive interrogation techniques.
Earlier, she had entered the Russian Samovar with an air of frustration and a low cut black tank top. Scanning the menu of flavored vodkas, she had waited at the bar with cocktail and a frown, circling ice cubes in her glass with a straw.
Debating the borscht.
Erik Ivanov had rolled downstairs with confidence and she'd caught his eye. A smile and he'd taken the seat next to her with practiced ease. He had been happy to buy her a second round until later, having isolated him from his men, she'd duct taped him to an office chair and given him the same wink that had gotten her upstairs in the first place.
"Sorry," she had said, cinching the zip ties tightly around his wrists. "I like it rough."
He stared at her now through narrowed, bloodshot eyes.
"Ms. Shaw."
Finch's voice broke through the com; she turned from Ivanov and tapped the earpiece.
"Yeah."
"I believe Ivanov should be aware of an address. I've traced an IP config history in the code from the drive…" He trails off. She can hear typing. "But it only gets me so far."
Shaw turned back to her hostage. "Look, Erik." She sat back against the desk and gave Ivanov a cool stare. She twirled the knife again. "Your brother's an ass. He sold you out."
Ivanov glared. "You know nothing, you bitc-Aghh!"
"-It's interesting," Shaw said, pulling the knife out of his thigh. "Your leg is this intricate map. Nerves. Arteries-"
"Ms. Shaw."
She stared at Ivanov, Finch's warning sharp in her ear. The Russian was gaping at the cut through his pants, the thin line of red blooming through the sliced fabric.
It wasn't even deep.
She sighed.
"Look, buddy. I need two things. The tech company you dealt with and their address."
His eyes raised to hers. He looked like he wanted to spit again.
"I was a surgeon once," she reflected, sensing he would still hold out. Wiping the knife against the denim of her black jeans. She turned it side to side, as if examining its shine. "Or at least, almost a surgeon."
He glared. "So?"
"So I can't remember," she continued calmly, "just how deep the femoral artery runs."
She raised her eyebrows. Shall we find out?
"Ms. Shaw." Sharper now.
"Oh by the way," she said, when she'd gotten what she wanted. She wiped the knife on her jeans again and tossed it onto the desk with a clatter. "This is for John."
She slammed an elbow to the side of his head and left the door open on her way out.
On the corner of 9th, Shaw swore she'd been made.
She circled back, glancing in the side view mirror of a U-Haul truck. Stopping under a streetlamp, just out reach of its light.
She waited.
There.
The click of a footstep.
She spun on her heel, fingers tracing her weapon.
"Hey there," came a voice from the shadows.
Clear as a bell.
Shaw turned, eyeing the familiar form. She shook her head. Not impressed.
"That's a pretty good way to get yourself shot."
Root smiled, stepping into the light. "She told me you might be here."
Shaw didn't return the good humor. "Well," she said. "I'm here."
"Well, hey."
Silence.
Shaw raised an eyebrow.
"What? Can't I pay a visit to my favorite girl?"
"Root."
Root tilted her head just slightly, an upturn to the corner of her mouth. There was blood on the collar of her shirt.
"Playing Batgirl again?"
"Things are evolving," Root replied softly, her tone less playful. A breeze ruffled her hair. There was a distance in her face now, as if she were preoccupied by the thoughts of said 'evolution'. "She needs more from us. From me."
"She," Shaw repeated. She shook her head. "Your electronic demigod?"
"Tomorrow," Root continued, "there's going to be a hand-off. She says to let it happen."
"A hand-off… The hard drive?"
Root shrugged. "Maybe," she said, and Shaw frowned, growing annoyed at the ambiguity of it. The streetlight above them flickered. A high-pitched buzzing noise.
"You wanna tell me what's going on here?"
"Honestly?" Root raised her shoulders in a shrug. "Sometimes I only know the next step." She didn't seem too bothered by it. "The big picture is hers, Shaw. We just have to trust."
The lamp corrected itself, the humming stopped.
Shaw gave her a doubtful look. "Trust," she repeated. She shook her head again and started to walk away, into the light. "Let me know how that works out for you."
"I love your smile," Root said after her, and Shaw stopped.
She turned back.
She hadn't smiled once through the entire exchange.
"Maybe we can grab a drink sometime," Root continued. A slow smile of her own crept across her face. "When I'm in town again?"
Shaw held the gaze with a flat expression. Seriously?
Root's smile didn't waver. "Maybe?"
A truck backfired from a neighboring block.
Neither flinched.
Root wasn't budging, and Shaw sighed.
She rolled her eyes.
"I'll take that as a yes," Root said. Her smile widened. She held out a hard drive, stepping forward to close the distance between them. The echo of her heels on the pavement. "Give this to Harry?"
A cough.
"Am I interrupting something?"
Finch lifted his head. Straightening up in his chair from a bent over position: he'd been helping an already shirtless Reese step out of his suit pants.
"Ms. Shaw."
She raised a brow, her gaze going between them.
"Finch didn't like my pants," Reese said solemnly.
Finch gave him a mildly exasperated glance. "I didn't like the smell of his pants," he clarified. He pushed Reese back gently and then swept the retired pants to the side with his foot. "Nor did Bear."
"Bear liked them just fine," came a stubborn-toned correction.
Finch gave Reese another look.
"Really," he said.
Bear let out a whine.
"Boys."
The three of them looked to her.
"Rein it in." Moving around the side of the desk. She dropped the hard drive between the two keyboards and then appraised Reese with a frown; he was still standing around in his boxer briefs as though it were nothing out of the ordinary. She shook her head.
"What?"
She kept her eyes at his face, then shook her head again and looked back to Finch.
Finch had his eyes on the drive. "What is this?"
Shaw raised her shoulders in a shrug. "Root said you'd know what to do with it."
Finch picked it up, hesitating a moment and then rolling his chair back to access a desktop tower under the table. He plugged that in first, then straightened up stiffly. Reaching for the keyboard to his left.
Shaw leaned her weight against the side of the desk as the new tower booted up, a string of start-up commands streaming down one of the side monitors. She glanced to Reese then: he was back at the start of the stacks, slowly pulling a fresh shirt over his head. She noted the jagged line that ran across one of his shoulder blades, the other track down the side of his ribs.
She had her own scars, sure.
But Reese.
She turned back to find Finch watching her. He met her eye for a moment, unreadable, then looked back to the computer screen.
"Isolated system," she guessed, nodding toward the monitor.
He hummed an affirmative.
She shifted her weight, staring at the screen again. Zoning. The white noise of fingers on the plastic keys.
She closed her eyes, then blinked them open.
Sometimes, when the familiar tapping hit her ear in the field, she still expected to hear Cole's voice come in over the com.
Finch gave her a sidelong glance. "Your 'interrogation' went well?" he asked.
She continued to stare at the monitor. The scrolling text. "Nothing worse than he's done to his own."
Finch's expression betrayed a hint of his disapproval.
There was a noise from in the stacks then, a rustle and a thud of something dropping on the floor.
Finch paused, fingers resting on the keyboard. He turned slightly and looked to the empty corridor, mouth pressed into a frown.
Debating.
Shaw tilted her head, listening. "Still standing," she noted, and Finch gave her a look.
A buzz.
She slipped her cell from her pocket, glancing down. A cloned message from Ivanov's phone.
This ends tomorrow.
She sighed. No rest for the weary.
She looked up again, catching Finch's eye. It was quiet in the stacks. "Long as that wasn't his grenade collection."
He shot her another look.
She smirked. "He'll be fine."
"John considers himself fine if he's conscious and breathing."
"I can hear you," came a voice behind them. Head injury aside, Reese hadn't lost his stealth. "Harold."
Finch turned to eye Reese, an awkward twist of his upper body.
"Couch," he said. His tone indicated that they had already discussed what 'couch' meant. He gave Reese a pointed look and then shifted back to the screen, his posture straight. It read, And we're not discussing it again.
Reese looked amused.
In fresh suit pants and clean shirt, his appearance was passable, but he was leaning his weight into the filing cabinet as he opened its top drawer.
"You don't pay me to nap, Finch." Reese squinted as he tapped a seven-digit code into a new burner phone and then slipped it into his pocket.
"I can stop paying you, Mr. Reese," Finch replied dryly, still not looking at him. "But since you hardly keep what you earn to begin with, I suppose that's futile."
Reese considered that. "I suppose."
"And need I remind you: it's after midnight." Finch's head turned, just slightly. "That doesn't constitute a 'nap'."
Reese rubbed a palm down his face. He blinked. Watched the back of his employer's head for a minute, then looked to Shaw. She shifted her weight into the desk again and held up two fingers.
Mouthed: "How many?"
He narrowed his eyes.
She raised an eyebrow.
He remained silent.
"How many?" She said it at again, at regular volume, and he gave her a sour look.
Traitor.
"Two." He had squinted though, deconvoluting the digits.
Finch turned to look at him again.
"Blurry?" Shaw asked.
"No."
"Lying?"
There was a slight sheen of sweat at his temple. A darkness under his eyes.
"No." He stared at her stonily, then moved away from the cabinet in a fluid motion. He navigated around Bear's excited circling and sank into a chair.
The shepherd pushed a furry chin into his lap. His hand dropped to the dog's head softly.
Sitting had been necessary.
"What's that." He nodded to the second monitor to Finch's right, the scrolling text.
Redirecting their attention.
Their gazes shifted to the computer screens and he shifted sideways in his chair, resting his own chin in his hand. He closed his eyes, then opened them at Finch's single-worded response.
"A virus."
"A virus?" Shaw repeated. She frowned, surprised at Finch's nonchalance. "Root gave you a virus?"
Finch shook his head. "She gave us the inoculation."
Reese frowned slightly. He watched the scrolling code on the screen.
Line after line after line.
"It appears," Finch continued slowly, "that the Machine is preparing itself for some threats of the global variety."
Bear whined, shifting his head under the stillness of his human's hand.
Reese rubbed one of his ears absently.
He shut his eyes.
"- John."
Reese glanced up like a student who had been called on unexpectedly. He blinked, finding Finch's eyes through the haze of his vision.
He looked around a second, then back to Finch.
The scrolling code was gone. Only one monitor glowing.
They were alone.
"Couch," Finch said gently, and Reese repeated the word in soft agreement.
"Couch."
The server room, or designated crash room, had been a reading room at one point in time. It was quiet there, buffered from the sounds of the outside world. Its pastel walls held antique maps of the city, subway blueprints.
Orthographic views of an earlier time.
On autopilot, Reese navigated to the worn, familiar sofa in the room's dimly lit glow. Without hesitation, he lowered himself face-down into its sagging cushions.
From the doorway, Finch watched the prone form for a moment, his eyes adjusting in the low light.
Fully dressed. Even shoes.
He shook his head.
"Where did you think you were going?" he asked, mostly to himself. He moved into the room.
It was not an unfamiliar ritual. Removing the right Oxford. Unlacing the left.
"Finch." Softly.
"Mm."
"It was the only way out."
Finch paused. "What?" He lowered the second ankle, giving it a squeeze. Setting the second shoe next to its partner.
"The window."
"What window?"
There was a long pause. The next words barely audible.
"It told me to."
The statement had been muffled into the cushions of the couch. Difficult to make out. "Told you to what?"
There was another long pause.
Finch replayed the words. He recalled their earlier conversation.
Maybe a window.
He frowned.
"Did the Machine tell you to jump out of a window, Mr. Reese?"
Silence.
Finch waited, his mind racing with questions.
A clock ticked on the wall. Finch glanced at it.
"John."
Reese stayed silent and Finch had the sudden urge to shake him fully awake.
He closed his eyes. He shook his head.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be a serious conversation.
He let out a breath, moving to grab the old comforter from off one of the faded wingback chairs.
A window.
Really?
He sighed, then draped the old comforter over the still form, moving to the door.
"Finch?"
He heard the unspoken question.
"I'm sticking around," he said. "Keep an eye on you."
Reese murmured something in the affirmative, the weight of the blanket cocooning him into the couch.
Finch didn't realize he was hanging in the doorway until a wet nose pressed into his hand. He started. Glancing at Bear.
"I know," he said, petting the dog absently. Moving stiffly. "I will. I will."
