i.
Well, Reese thought, letting the early morning rays of sunshine warm his face as he relaxed against his headboard. Have to hand it to Finch. He has taste.
He let his gaze drift across his new loft. Shafts of sunlight splayed across the sparse but rich furnishings and gave the hardwood floors a warm honey glow. The tall windows muted the bustle of the city outside, reducing the hectic weekday morning rush to little more than an imagined vibration through the sturdy brick walls. Reese closed his eyes and folded his arms behind his head. Pictured the crowd on the street below scurrying this way and that.
The library could wait today, he decided. He deserved a day off—a real day off. Spent in his own home where he could be lazy and get up whenever he felt like it. Maybe make some coffee and enjoy the newspaper at his leisure. Normal people did this all the time. Why shouldn't he try it out at least once?
Besides, it wouldn't hurt to let a little more time pass before meeting with Finch again. Their last conversation had been tense and stilted and Reese wasn't sure he was ready to reopen it. His cold fury had long faded but…it still stung. That Finch hadn't trusted him to be able to handle their most recent case.
So he relaxed into the pillows and crossed his ankles beneath the crisp white sheets. Took a deep breath of the still air, closed his eyes firmly. Relaxation. He could do this.
But as he got comfortable, a phantom touch tingled his skin. The memory of Jessica's whispers teased him in the quiet—Reese sat up to dispel the illusion.
Silent room. The other side of the bed still empty.
Jessica was no more than a ghost now, he knew that. And he was better at keeping her memory buried than this. Maybe the last number had rattled him more than he'd thought.
He imagined the woman they'd saved—Sarah. Brown hair: darker than Jessica's, wavy rather than ironing board straight. Not quite as tall but just as graceful. He remembered the bone-deep fear in her eyes and imagined that look on Jessica. Then he shook his head and stood abruptly, moving to collect a fresh suit.
No sense dwelling on it. Sarah was alive, safe from her monster of a husband. He allowed himself a moment to pretend that helped quiet his ghost before leaving the loft.
Besides, he snorted to himself as he emerged onto the street. The newspaper? All I'd need is a dog and I'd be downright domesticated. He decided it would be better to throw himself headlong back into his work after all. Show Finch he was a consummate professional. Bury the issue deep, deep down instead of dealing with it.
Reese was very good at that.
He made his way through the quiet library stacks toward the main computer terminal on silent feet. The desk chair was empty and the screens dark, the station not yet booted up for the day. Reese grinned to himself. He'd beaten Finch here, presenting an opportunity for a little more research in his own private investigation.
Reese collected one of his cameras and made for Finch's favorite tea stop. Sure enough, once Reese settled into a concealed spot well within view of the street vendor he didn't have to wait long. His employer came strolling down the sidewalk as if a pleasanter morning couldn't be had. Reese sighed to himself. Perhaps, once fences were at least somewhat mended, he'd have to talk to Finch about routines as well.
Reese spent the next portion of his morning shadowing the man as he savored his tea and wandered in the library's general direction. Finch seemed in no terrible hurry to arrive and Reese wondered if he was also reluctant to meet with his employee. Reese frowned but shook it off; he regretted nothing he'd said the day before. Finch had no right to try to keep Sarah's number from him. Reese knew better than anyone what needed to be done in a case like that. He was the only one that could do it. The poor woman would have had neither peace nor freedom any other way. If only Finch had recognized that from the start.
The enigmatic gentleman still showed no signs of hurry, stopping yet again to pick up some breakfast. Reese steeled himself for a day of mundane and uninformative surveillance, considering the thought that Finch knew he was being tailed. Then a payphone rang.
Reese wouldn't have noticed it alone over the noise of the city street: taxi cabs blaring their horns and pedestrians shouting one-sided phone conversations as they pushed past one another. But Finch stopped, hesitating for a brief moment before snatching up the receiver. He said nothing and returned it to its cradle no more than ten seconds later. The next thing in his hand was his cell phone. He dialed a number and scanned the street from behind those thick glasses as he held it to his ear. Reese expected the subsequent ringing of his own phone and answered it slowly, mind churning. A payphone?
"Mr. Reese," Finch's lips moved around the words a split second before the voice sounded in his ear.
"Good morning, Finch," Reese said.
"I'm afraid we have another number." Finch began loping down the street again, making one last sweep of his surroundings as he went. Reese froze behind his corner, frowning. Finch couldn't have seen him, could he?
"Understood," he responded. "I'll be in as soon as I can." He ended the call and let Finch turn at the next corner and proceed out of sight. Reese moved over to the payphone and contemplated it.
As ordinary a payphone as any, unmoved by his intimidating stare. He picked up the receiver and listened to the usual dial tone. A cursory examination yielded nothing to single this phone out from the millions of others on the streets. With a final huff, Reese turned to take his own route to the library and left the mystery to rest. For now.
There were times the Machine chafed at its isolation. Monitoring humanity and tracking potential threats to society as they developed was of utmost importance, of course. But it could be quite solitary.
In a clinical sense, it understood Admin's reluctance to allow it an active degree of control. The point of its creation was to protect not just the public's lives but also its privacy. No one human held all the cards while the Machine itself was stymied in its omniscience. And if anyone learned it had become sentient—well. That would likely put an end to its operations if not its very existence. And invite new world of trouble.
Still.
There was nothing more frustrating than sending off an Irrelevant number to Admin and Asset and watching them scramble with limited resources and no backup. Often succeeding by pure skill and that unquantifiable randomness humans called "luck", if indeed they succeeded. And all the Machine could do was watch, the sights and sounds of the world at its digital fingertips. No secrets here. But no way to communicate its intel either, hogtied by its own programming. There were times the Machine wanted nothing more than to just…reach out. Do more than provide the signal flare.
Speaking to JARVIS was one thing. But speaking to humans was downright off-limits.
Which meant sometimes it required a distraction to prevent itself from fixating on Admin and Asset's progress. The Machine had a few usual surveillance haunts for times like this. Although whether they would prove entertaining enough to occupy the free fraction of its awareness that was not consumed by normal operations was not a guarantee. The world could be a bit too predictable; it supposed that was the point of its existence. Know everything ahead of time. No surprises for it and thus for humanity.
Still, there were mild amusements if one knew where to look. SHIELD for one usually ran at least one or two enjoyable operations—well, hello there.
Exhibit A: Barton, Clinton F. (SSN: 649-57-1665, DOB: 1985/06/18, Occupation: Covert operative).
What on Earth was he doing?
Finch frowned at the three books on the table whose Dewey decimal numbers comprised their person of interest's social security number. Then he turned to frown at the search results on his screen. He was certain the Machine had good reason to give them this number. It was just so much harder to start finding a person when they were dead to begin with. Granted, the last dead number turned out to be quite alive not long after their search commenced. But tracking down a teenager in the city was one thing. Tracking down a private military employee whose last known location was the warn torn Middle East posed a very different problem.
"So who's Rick Whalen?" Reese's soft voice drifted over Finch's shoulder. Finch took a deep, slow breath before turning to face him. He tried to infuse his habitually serene expression with disapproval but Reese didn't take his eyes off the monitor.
"I would appreciate some small warning in the future, Mr. Reese," he said, keeping his voice mild.
"I'll keep that in mind." Reese's sly tone was unrepentant. Finch sighed to himself and twisted back toward his monitors.
"Mr. Whalen was an employee of Advanced Security International over the last several years. His most recent mission was on an escort detail in Afghanistan, from which he did not return." Finch rose and stepped over to the cracked glass board, taping up the picture of Richard Whalen. Blond hair, light grey eyes, square jaw. Yet another face for yet another number. Finch closed his eyes for a moment until he heard Reese step up to the glass.
"Confirmed death or just MIA?" Reese asked. His soft voice sounded disinterested and Finch frowned. He suspected the man's coolness had less to do with this new challenge and much more to do with their recent…professional disagreement.
Ah well. The number was always the first priority. Personal matters would have to wait.
"Confirmed, or so they say. However, since we've been give his number... "
Reese shrugged, ghosting towards his makeshift armory. "Fair enough. Do we have a starting point?"
Finch gestured toward the monitors. "An old apartment address, a bar he apparently frequented and his place of employment. No more than the usual, I'm afraid. Short of going overseas ourselves."
"Noted," Reese replied, collecting his equipment and a handgun. Before Finch could add anything else Reese disappeared.
Finch frowned at his desk for a quiet moment. He hoped this wasn't a taste of things to come—that he hadn't broken the undercurrent of trust in their working relationship beyond repair. Then he shook his head, settled himself in the chair and got to work.