Part 1: Where do we begin?


Chapter 2: Burnt;


Whumptober prompts: sunburn, healing salve, "if my pain will stretch that far."

Please note: In the Works Cited portion of Chapter 1, there are suggested music, etc., to accompany this and other Chapters, meant to enhance your experience of reading. I hope you enjoy them.

Construction Site, Midtown Manhattan, January 2015

Wind whipped through metal mesh forming the sides of the elevator. Plastic sheeting flapped in swirling air behind them. Reese had led the way for them, back over an open floor again, and then he stood aside as Finch stepped in first, followed by Shaw, eyes down.

Gray today, and up this high, cold, and bitter in the fierce gusts. Reese limped in last and pressed the button to carry them down. All eyes stared past the wire walls at the scene below: wind carrying the smoke, still rising off the rubble.

One view up there had shown something of a hopeful sign – a wall standing tall – as though the scenes from yesterday had never happened. Only moments ago, though, they'd witnessed the rest, the unimaginable – staring out from the tenth floor of this half-built tower – on what remained of Finch's Library Office.


Silence among them, pale and each marked by the firestorm the night before. They were lucky to escape with their lives and the clothes on their backs. All else lost, though, in the flames behind them; everything that'd meant anything to the Team: Finch's desk and his monitor cluster; Bear's rug next to the desk; their glass wall where they'd taped their photos. And for Finch, himself, floor after floor of books – turned to ash in front of his eyes.

He'd rushed to save the ones on that cart, the priceless ones he'd collected over his life. But the flames had been there first, devouring the volumes even as he'd reached for them. Had it not been for Reese and Shaw, the flames would have taken Finch, as well.

They'd dragged him back as a wall of flames dropped from above. Anguish in his face, and not just for his blistered hands, but for the loss, the immensity of the loss. Surrounded by flame, they'd made their way to the stairs, then down – air filled with ash and bits of paper, like a hot fog blurring their way.

All the way down, then along that hall, to the security door on the dock. Thick smoke had chased them through the hall and threatened to take their breath away. Trapped, with moments to go before they were overcome. No power at the door. They couldn't get out.

Reese found the fire ax in the wall and smashed the glass to retrieve it. He'd chopped again and again at the box on the door. Until the mechanicals had dropped away and Shaw kicked it open to free them. They'd tumbled out, coughing and choking black smoke into the air outside.


Reese would never forget the sound. A roar above like nothing he'd heard since the war. Hungry flames devouring old paper, leather; floor after floor of it, feeding more and more flame. The library was alight in flames, orange in the night, and cracking in the heat.

Rock began to drop from the sides, thundering down on the roof over their heads.

Shaw shoved Finch into the back of their car, and Reese shot backwards, full speed up the drive, powering through both fences surrounding the grounds. No one out on the street yet, but they'd heard the wail of FDNY approaching.

Reese screeched off, the orange glow engulfing their car, and Finch at the window in the back, burnt blistered hands held to his face; and Shaw, covered in ash, just staring.


Primary Safe-house, Mid-town Manhattan, January 2015

Where were they, Root thought. She'd walked the halls, and no one was there – first time they'd left her alone since the Zheng. A long way to go before things were the same again. The same? Maybe not.

Her one hope had been her connection to the Machine and now that the library had burned, none of them knew what to expect. Had the Machine survived?

Without her implant, Root couldn't know. No whisper in her ear. No voice, however manufactured and pieced-together the sound, to know what had become of her. She'd need to wait for Harold's return to hear any news. Hard to wait.

She sipped tea at the table in the kitchen. Bear's bowls were there on the floor, but no Bear. Better they hadn't left him there with her. He wouldn't trust her now. Not after she'd left him, tied, in silk knots from the sash on her robe. He'd growled when he'd seen her at the door with Sameen. She'd had to lead him away for the two of them to return to the Safe-house. Root shook her head.

Things were such a mess now.

She glanced at the card at her elbow. Harold had pressed it in her hand.

Once she'd told him she was back, part of the Team again, he'd presented her with the card. On it, the name of a surgeon. They'd fix her implant, he'd said, give her back her connection with the Machine – and the Team's best hope for safety.

That whisper in her ear could warn as well as inform, Harold had come to understand. And in these dangerous times, seconds could make the difference. If she had her implant working again, Root's special connection might just save his Team, and for that, Harold was willing to trust her again, make her part of the Team, again.


If only she hadn't gone to her bar that night. None of this would've happened. Didn't think she could say it to anyone else. Not yet. Inside, she knew she'd been the one to blame. Just so angry, so hurt, but mainly so angry.

Remembered the feeling. Not so much of what'd caused it. Still hazy in her head. Remembered the bar that night. Nearly empty on a Sunday.

And her barkeep seemed to know. Kept them coming, 'til Root was feeling no pain anymore. Wobbled her way to the stairs and down to the Ladies Room in the hall. Remembered staring at herself in the mirror down there: all those new lines on her face, the dark circles that hadn't been there before.

Only Sameen could've made her feel this way. She'd left her, and no word, after.

Days. Nights. Nothing.

Sameen being cruel, she'd thought. Had to be that.

So, she'd made up her mind not to wait around anymore. She'd fixed herself up and headed out on the town. For days; 'til days and nights had all blurred together – and she'd found herself on a Sunday night at her favorite bar, with the snow falling outside. Root's barkeep was pouring – and she'd had the good sense not to interfere with her pity-party.

Never guessed the woman barging into the Ladies Room with someone else in tow, straight into one of the stalls, buttons flinging, moans escaping – never guessed who'd sent her and why.

If only she'd stayed away that night…


Another hour passed, and Root figured they might be coming back soon.

She fired up the coffee pot, and the kettle for Harold. Root wasn't really the cooking type, and Joey, who was, had gone to the other safe-house last night. Sameen had sent him to back up Harper. Bear wasn't enough by himself.

Someone there they needed to watch – or worry. Root smiled at herself. Some of the old feelings were sneaking back sometimes. Might be fun getting to know herself again. She'd kinda lost touch for a while.


Sure enough, the pot had just finished gurgling its last little bit of coffee, when Root heard them coming through the front door.

That's right, the door. She'd forgotten all about that.

A retinal scanner at the door only allowed the ones Harold had pre-programmed-in to come or go. She actually didn't know her current status. Maybe that's why they'd left her behind this morning. Couldn't leave, even if she'd tried. She'd have to talk it over with Harold and get things straight.

Root watched the three of them enter. Hard to know who looked worse. Harold had his hands crossed over his chest and tucked under the lapels of his wool coat. Once he'd stepped inside, the Big Lug helped him take it off, the sleeves dragging on the bandages covering his hands. She saw him wince from the pressure. Sameen saw it, too. She stepped in front of Harold and whispered something Root didn't hear. He seemed to consider for a moment before he nodded, and Sameen headed down the hall without a word.

Just like her, Root thought, and then stopped herself. She's just worried about him, like the rest of us. Nobody wants to see him hurt.

"I made some coffee for you," Root offered, glancing at Reese, "and some water for tea, Harold." They did the best they could, trying to look grateful.

Root watched Reese turn back to the door, scan-in with the retinal scanner, and listen for the faint whirring sound of bolts sliding through the frame. No one could enter or leave now, without passing the scanner.

Reese glanced her way, then headed for the hallway with Harold.

Might as well tag along, she thought.


Next door in the kitchen, Shaw had just returned with a brown bottle in her hand, and a tiny paper cup. She rattled the tablet inside and held it up to Harold. He nodded.

"No use suffering," she said, her eyes cool, dark pools. "I'm gonna want to check your hands. Bound to be some skin slough –"

"Miss Shaw, perhaps we can dispense with the details for the moment." Harold lowered himself in a seat. Shaw glanced over to Reese, who shook his head side to side at her; not so anyone would notice, but she did. Let's face it, bedside manner had never been her strong suit.

She stepped in next to Finch, and when he was ready, tipped the contents of the tiny cup into his mouth. A few sips from a water glass helped the pill go down. Shaw lowered the glass.

"Can I get you some tea, Harold?" Root raised an eyebrow at him.

"Thank you, Miss Groves. And you, too, Miss Shaw. I'm lucky to have you both." He seemed tired now, drawn and pale. Putting up a good front for the rest of them, but nowhere near himself.


Root pulled down a box of his favorite Sencha tea. The water in the kettle had boiled. Too hot for the leaves of his tea yet, so Root dropped a bag of her own into her cup and poured the water over. She fussed with the leaves for Harold's more delicate tea, and after some time to cool, filled his teapot with water from the kettle.

In one of the cabinets, she recalled seeing a few of his clay teacups. And tall enough to hold a straw, she thought. With bandages wound around his hands, too hard to pick up his cup. And Harold wasn't the kind of man to tolerate fuss and bother. No one feeding him his meals or his tea. Some other way would have to do.

When Root sat his cup down in front of him, she had a straw sticking up, bent at the perfect angle for him. He made a bird-like movement of his head, thanked her again, and drew in a sip of his tea.

Meanwhile, Reese was back at the sink, pouring coffee into a mug for himself, another for Shaw, and the rest in a metal carafe for later. He limped the two mugs back to the table and lowered himself.

Shaw showed up at the doorway, carting a metal crutch as tall as she was. Reese exhaled. Forgot it, again. Kept leaving the thing behind. Shaw shot him a dirty look and leaned the crutch against the wall. Payback for his chiding before.

He lifted his mug and pointed at hers, like a peace offering. Shaw plunked down next to Finch, and Reese shoved her mug over in front of her. Root joined them, perching next to Reese and the opposite side of the table from Finch.

Silence for a while, as they each sipped their brew.


With Joey gone, Reese stepped in to cook. Rustled up some eggs, a pile of bacon, toast, and yesterday's fried potatoes.

Maybe the bacon wasn't such a good idea. There were scents, notes of burnt flesh, that shouldn't have been there today. Too raw.

Harold excused himself after his tea and went back to the end of the hall to his room. Shaw stayed. Nothing was likely to interfere with a meal for her. The scents were fine. She poured another cup of coffee and waited. Root got up and took Harold's seat, next to Shaw.

"How'd you sleep?" she asked. Sameen blinked but didn't answer.

"Guess you were looking after Harold," she said, and in a whisper, "his guard-dog, too?" Root smirked, glancing at Reese, then back to Sameen.

"His hands are covered in burns, Root. I need to debride them. It's not gonna be good when I do." Her eyes were cool, dark pools. No emotion.

Root knew better than to think that meant no feelings, though. Sameen's feelings, when they were there, ran deep. Root had a memory of a memory. Fleeting. Like a flash of how things might have been – before. So hard, struggling with her thoughts, like this.

Harold had told her, once her implant was fixed, she and the Machine could work together, re-build what she'd lost. It wasn't only Harold she'd recorded through the years. She'd made a record of all her interactions with Root, too. Training, she'd told her. But Root had always thought there'd been more to it than training.

So now, between the facts from the dossier that Harold had kept, and the recordings the Machine had made of her, she might just be able to piece her life back together – at least the parts she wanted to know.

Then, if things could just get back to where they were with Sameen, life'd be good again. Root smiled and reached over to rest a hand on Root's thigh, hidden so Reese couldn't see.


Didn't go unnoticed.

Sameen turned and stared into her eyes. Looked tired, down to her bones.

"Down, girl," she said through her teeth. Root let a frown show on her face, but before anything else was said, Reese showed up with the food.

Sameen stood up, dropping Root's hand off her thigh.

"I'll grab the coffee." And she headed for the carafe by the sink. She didn't even look at Root when she came back. Just tipped the coffee into both mugs and left it there on the table for refills.


Some time later, Reese took a call from Joey at the other house. He limped to the living room near the front door to take the call. When he returned, Shaw gave him a dirty look again. His crutch, left leaning against the wall.

Shaw went to the sink to wash her hands, then came back and stood next to him. Reese leaned back in his chair. What did she have in mind?

"Lemme check your arm," she said. Maybe a little brighter after the food. Probably a brief window of time before she crashed. She'd been up every couple of hours through the night, checking Finch, and then, looking in at him, too. Dug that chunk of glass out of him. He recalled using the back of his arm to break the glass over the fire ax. Didn't even know he'd picked up a piece in his arm.

Shaw had seen the blood, right here, sitting at the table, once they'd dragged Finch from the fire and back here. She'd gone in with Finch, first. Laid him out in his room back there and worked the wounds on his hands. When she was done, they were all standing in the hall waiting for word, but she didn't wanna talk there, where he might hear them.

They'd all gone back to the table in the kitchen to talk, then.

Burnt, she'd said. Both hands. The kind that hurt even when air passed over the burn. Worse than even the blistering kind of sunburn. Didn't have to convince him. Reese had a few of his own from fighting through the flames. Burnt his shirt in a couple of spots, and the skin underneath.

And just like Finch, Shaw'd slathered a white cream over his burns, too. Not a salve; some kind of healing cream. Remembered being surprised how the pain had dipped after that. Barely felt it for a while. Came back in the middle of the night. Same with the cut on the back of his arm. Just above the elbow. He'd have to try to remember to use the other arm next time. He was a lefty, after all.

They'd been talking at the table, and all of a sudden, Shaw had stood up in front of him, a frown on her face.

"Lemme see your arm," she'd said, and pointed to his left one. Blood had started saturating his sleeve. He hadn't noticed 'til she'd pointed it out. All hell broke loose after that – fishing for glass and stitching him up right there in the kitchen. That stuff she'd injected to go fishing had worn off in the middle of the night, too.

Hard to find a way to sleep. Bad knee on his right, bad elbow on his left, burns and the rest scattered around. Geez.

He'd slept through worse.


Reese reached over to open the button on his cuff. Rolled the sleeve above the gauze on his arm. She slipped a hand under and lifted the arm behind him. He wouldn't be able to see what she was doing back there. Let himself exhale, steadying himself. Felt her lifting the edge of the wrap, probably peeking underneath. A pause for a minute while Shaw took a look.

"Bleeding's stopped. It'll heal fine, if you let it," she said, with that edge to her voice. "Lemme see the knee now."

Crap. He was sure she'd have something to say. He'd been walking on it for weeks after the crack in the bone. Couldn't be helped. So, when the trip overseas had made him crawl his way up inside Zuma Rock, the knee had swelled to twice its size.

Shaw couldn't take it, watching him limp around like that when he got back.

Convinced him to let her drain the fluid out of his knee and push some steroids in to fix it. Supposed to stay off his leg with the crutches.

One oughta do, he thought. But damn, if he didn't keep leaving the thing behind. Every time Shaw'd shown up, he didn't have his crutch. Gave him an earful for it and then gave up.

Reese swiveled around on his seat. Tried rolling his pantleg high enough for her to see. Maybe lucky for him – it wouldn't roll that high. He shrugged.

Shaw wasn't having it.


She knelt near his knee and used her hands to feel through his pantleg. When she wanted to, Shaw had hands like a vise.

"Feel this?" she said, hands compressing the sides of his knee, "and this?" on the spot on the back.

"It's not gonna heal if you keep walking on it." She backed up and stood, scowling at him.

"Guilty as charged, Doc." He was throwing himself on the mercy of the court.

"Needs draining again," she said. Three words Reese never wanted to hear again.


"Let's give it a little more time. Promise I'll use the crutch," he pleaded.

Shaw just shook her head.

"Suit yourself, Reese. Lemme know when you run outta luck," she shot back. "And I'll wanna get a good look at that knee. It better not be red and hot under that wrap."

Her hands were on her hips.

"Wouldn't think of it," he smirked, raising his hands like she'd pulled her weapon on him. Dangerous move, as he thought about it. Maybe she'd oblige.

Shaw backed away and turned down the hall, leaving Reese alone at the table. Root had already left. She hoped she wouldn't find her there in Finch's room. Shaw stopped to wash and gown herself on the way.


He'd left his door open a crack. Made it easier for her to check in on him. His eyes were closed. Shaw stepped in and up to the side of his bed. His eyelids fluttered but stayed closed.

"It's me, Finch," she said, softly.

He'd raised his arms on a couple of pillows sitting on his belly. Good patient, she thought. Keep the swelling down and so, less throbbing from all the swelling.

The pain from the burns themselves were a different matter. Worse than a simple sunburn that peeled after a day or two. Worse than the blistering kind, too: red and hot for days. Some pain, but not the disabling kind, like this.

She'd seen it all, back in her time in the ER: first degree, like the simple sunburn; second degree, a blistering burn, and a lot more painful than the first; third degree – all the way through, full-thickness they'd say. Dead skin. Nerves gone, too. It wasn't the dead skin that hurt, but the living around it. Most of the staff in the Burn Unit rotated out after a time. Took someone special, maybe someone more like herself, to stay. The less you felt, the better you did at your job there.

She put a gloved hand over one of his and pressed down lightly. A grimace crossed his face. Found the tape holding the bandage on the hand and pulled it away. Shaw unwound the wrap, all the way down. Burn cream, layered with a thin, fine gauze doused in ointment over his burns.

She took down the dressing on the other hand and then changed gloves.

"Finch?" He didn't respond. Shaw hoped he wasn't suppressing his reaction just for her. This next part was gonna hurt, more than he could guess. Even the air moving over his burns would hurt at this stage. More to do now that the wounds were a day old.

"Go ahead, Miss Shaw." She'd startled a bit with his voice. Wasn't expecting it.

"I need to warn you, Finch –," but he shook his head, no.

"Please, Miss Shaw, I implore you not to." He opened his eyes to look at her. "Pain has been with me, as you know, since the ferry bombing. I live with it, Miss Shaw."

She frowned.

"Why, Finch? There's treatment for it now – surgery –," but he cut her off again.

"Not for me... My choice, Miss Shaw." Her eyes crinkled.

"Some kind of penance, Finch?" He didn't answer at first.

"Go ahead, please. Let's see if the pain can stretch that far."

"OK, Finch. Your choice."

Shaw snapped the cuff of one of her gloves and started in.