Epilogue

There was just something soothing about a bar. Something calming. The dim lights. The smell of old wood and booze. The soft music in the background. The place could be packed with people and you'd still be alone. Alone with your poison of choice. Alone with your thoughts.

The place wasn't packed, which probably had something to do with the time of day. But a few forlorn souls had still found their way inside the place that was stuck in a perpetual gloom.

Fusco had chosen a stool, and was absent-mindedly twirling a crystal glass on the wooden countertop. He used to come here all the time, drinking away his discontent - first at his failing marriage, then at his own choices in life. He hadn't been here in ages, but today had felt like a good day to haunt his old haunting grounds.

He hadn't slept well. The memories from last night had prevented him from completely relaxing. As a homicide detective he had seen a lot of violent, gruesome and sick things, and he rarely lost some sleep over it these days. But it was something completely different when it happened to someone you knew.

Last night had been yet another reminder of how quickly their fortune could run out. John Reese and Harold Finch had set him back on the straight and narrow; they had given him a chance to redeem himself and Lionel did not dare to think about what would become of him if their sometimes less than subtle guidance were to fall away again. Especially after he'd already lost his partner.

He twirled his glass once more, and the almost melted ice cubes lazily sloshed around in the sparkly liquid. He recognized the person sitting down beside him by his uneven gait without having to look up.

"Isn't it a little early for a drink, Detective?" Finch asked. His voice was back to its usual cultured timbre. No trace of the panic and worry from last night. That had been what had unsettled Lionel the most. The obvious look of shock and helplessness on the face of a man who he thought always had an answer. But Fusco had first hand experience what the mere threat of torture of someone you care about could do to you. The feeling of helplessness that overcame you was all-encompassing.

He shrugged. "On some days it's never too early to have a drink." Finch, with his body twisted so he could look at Fusco's profile, raised an eyebrow at the detective's tone. Then - choosing not to point out that it was barely 10 am - nodded and faced the bar. "I'll have what he's having," he said to the barkeep, and Fusco took a sip from his glass. "Isn't it a little early for a drink?" he asked, deliberately echoing the man's words.

"It's ... one of those days."

Fusco chuckled. "Tell me about it." He went back to twirling his glass. "How's he doing?"

"He's resting. Ms. Shaw assures me he'll make a complete recovery."

"That's good to hear." And Fusco meant it. They sat in silence, while Finch waited for his drink. There was just one question nagging at Lionel's mind. He pivoted his stool, one hand remained on the glass and the other he propped on his thigh. "What are you doing here, Finch? Shouldn't you be - I don't know - saving the world, or somethin'?"

Glasses didn't look at him. His hands were pushing a napkin around in front of him. "It appears the world doesn't need saving today."

Fusco regarded the man's profile, ignoring the cryptic remark like he usually did. Finch still looked a little pale, which only exaggerated the swollen and colorful bruise high on his temple underneath a neat row of butterfly bandages. There were dark circles around his eyes, telling Lionel that the Professor must have gotten even less sleep than he had. Most likely none. Fusco narrowed his eyes. "She threw you out, didn't she?"

Finch briefly turned his torso again, giving the detective a look that didn't quite yet reach annoyed but was getting there. The barkeep placed his order on a napkin in front of him, which Glasses accepted with a soft "Thanks", then pulled the glass towards him. "I can see why medical school did not work out for Ms. Shaw." He raised the glass. "Her bedside manners leave a lot to be desired," he said before taking a sip of the cool beverage. He grimaced, and turned to Fusco. "Club Soda?"

Lionel shrugged. "I don't drink. Not anymore." He sat forward again, cupping his glass with both hands. Turning his head the detective's and Finch's eyes met, and Lionel said, "I just never know who might be calling in the dead of night needing their asses saved."

Finch stared at him with that unreadable expression of his, and Fusco wrote himself a mental note to not ever play poker with the man. With any of them actually. Then Finch's lips slowly pulled up in a lopsided smile. "Thank you, Detective."

Fusco nodded and they both returned their attention back towards their glasses, enjoying a cool drink and relishing the quiet moment.

Because they both knew that tomorrow all hell might break loose again.

.

.

The End

.

.

.

A/N: Thank you to everyone who read and reviewed this story. I feel like a complete idiot now, because at first I was hesitant (to say the least) to start posting, with thoughts of just deleting it crossing my mind.

I realize that the ending may seem for some of you to be a little abrupt. As I said, I was about to let this story collect virtual dust on my hard drive, and I really didn't think much of it. But thanks to the positive reaction I've gotten from all of you - which really helped to kick my Muse in the butt - I am considering to maybe work on a bonus chapter - if you want me to. Although I don't know how long it would take for me to get it done, since I'm currently having two other works in progress.

Again, thank you for reading!