He woke with a start, hazel eyes and freckles an inch from his face.

"Hello… Lee." Squinting. A question in the greeting.

"Do you have amnesia?"

Hovering over him, Lee Fusco looked excited at the prospect.

Reese sat up slowly. Reaching a hand to his head, frowning at the bandage there. He was in a bed, unfamiliar green walls staring at him.

His head hurt. As grogginess faded, a pressure filled its place.

"Where am I?"

"Your name is John," Lee said solemnly. Reese gave him a look, but the ten-year-old was unfazed. "You hit your head."

Reese swung his feet to the floor. Standing up, he faltered, the motion made too quickly. A hand on the wall for balance, he hung a minute. Waiting for his head to acclimate to its new altitude.

He glanced to Lee, who stared back with raised eyebrows. For a second Lee looked very much like a miniature Lionel.

"You know," Lee said, "Sameen was shot."

"Sameen," Reese repeated.

"The one who fixed your head. She had a GSW."

Reese blinked.

"That's a gunshot wound."

Clearly a head injury was not as impressive.

"Where's your dad?"

Lee tilted his head toward the doorway. "Watching TV."

"Who else is here?"

"Just us."

Reese opened the drawer to the nightstand. Empty.

"Dad had to watch me after school so he figured he might as well watch you too."

Reese raised an eyebrow. Thanks, Lionel. He gazed around the bedroom.

"But seriously. She was shot."

"She's kinda tough like that."

"Yeah." Lee shifted his weight from foot to foot, watching Reese survey the room. "What're you looking for?"

His gun. His phone.

A clue.

"Nothing." Reese glanced down to his bare feet. Frowning.

He remembered the uniforms swarming the front entrance. The look on Shaw's face. Ivanov cursing.

Then, nothing.

He wondered how long he was out.

He moved to the door.

"I wasn't in here," Lee announced, darting out in front and then turning back. Cautiously gauging the response.

"Never saw you." Reese offered a smile and then suddenly needed the doorframe as a balance. He paused, waiting for it to pass. Silence. He gave the ten-year-old a half-smile then, a test. "That didn't happen."

Lee grinned. "Never saw it."

Reese winked.

Down the muted hallway of the safe house, a television humming through the walls. "Prosecutors say mob boss Eric Ivanov was arrested earlier this afternoon on a laundry list of charges including conspiracy, racketeering, murder of a witness, and fraud-

Reese lingered in the doorway, watching the TV screen as Lee hurdled into the room ahead of him. A replay of the earlier scene at Initech, the newscaster's voiceover narrating Ivanov's arrest. The history of the tech company, its involvement with the organized crime family.

An interesting end for their number.

"Nice work, Lionel."

Fusco's head snapped in his direction. "Shit," the detective said, caught off-guard at the ex-op's sudden appearance. He let out an oomph as his son landed knees first on the couch next to him. "Nice of you to join us."

"You said shit," Lee chided. He punched his father's arm. "Dad. You owe me a quarter."

Lionel gave Reese an accusatory look, clearly blaming him for the slip.

"Dad."

Reese raised his eyebrows. "You did say 'shit', Detective."

Fusco stared at him.

"Daaad."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Fusco turned back to his son and pushed at his chest playfully. "You'll get your quarter, knucklehead."

The boy fell back dramatically on the couch and Fusco grabbed his sock-clad foot, tickling its sole. Lee fell off the couch in escape, his peel of laughter louder than the thud that followed.

The television broke to a commercial and Fusco sent Reese, still hanging rigidly in the doorway, a frown. "You might as well relax, pal. You and your thick skull are on house arrest." At the look, he raised his hands in mock surrender. "By order of Glasses. Not me."

"Where is Finch?"

"You think I know where you guys are until you need something?"

Reese stared at him.

"But seriously. You look like shit—"

"-Dad!"

"—so you might as well get comfortable."

Reese hummed a non-verbal disagreement. Moving into the room, scanning the unfamiliar set-up as the other two argued over fifty cents. Book-lined shelves on the far wall, a giant antique clock above the heavy oak mantle of a working fireplace.

He gave a small smile at an oil painting of birds in flight above an antique credenza.

Prowling the apartment. Looking for a closet, he found two empty ones.

Moving to the kitchen. A stocked pantry.

The back bedroom. Another empty closet.

A bathroom. First aid in the cabinets.

Back to the kitchen.

Though unnecessarily lavish, the apartment was small. Reese soon found himself back in the same doorway; still without phone, gun, wallet, or shoes.

"Lionel," he said. "Where's my stuff?"

Lying supine on the floor, Lee looked suddenly disappointed, hazel eyes directing an imploring look up at Reese. "You're not staying?"

Reese shot Fusco a look. Playing dirty, bringing the kid into this. "Lionel," he repeated.

Eyebrows raised. "What."

They stared at each other.

Silence. Fusco gave an exaggerated shrug.

Reese shook his head, suddenly tired.

And the way Lee was staring at him.

In partial defeat, Reese moved into the room and dropped down onto the other end of the couch. Leaning forward for a second, elbows on his knees. Giving a pause. He could feel the pulse of blood in his ears from just the brief exertion.

Just a half hour. Then he could regroup.

He looked up. The television was back on commercials.

Leaning back, stretching his legs out. He let his head rest back against the cushion of the couch.

It wasn't a minute before there was a soft plop and the couch sank in next to him. He turned his head.

Lee.

The ten-year-old had stretched his own legs out, one elbow behind his curly head as he reclined back in a perfect mirror of Reese.

The ex-op raised his eyes to Fusco.

The detective just smirked. "You want a soda or something?"

"So omniscient supermachine number one," Shaw said, chewing as she spoke, "set up potential omniscient supermachine number two."

Finch pressed his mouth into a thin line, not entirely pleased with the cursory summation of events. He drummed his fingers briefly on the bar top. "I suppose if you-"

"Yep." Shaw swallowed and then took a swig of her beer. That pretty much summed it up, as far as she was concerned. She kept her eyes forward, but she could feel Finch's stare. "And now?"

"The numbers, Ms. Shaw." Finch put back the rest of his drink, a single malt scotch, and set it back on its coaster. Moving to stand, reaching for the leash sitting loosely in his lap. At his feet, Bear rose to a seated position, his yellow service vest a bright contrast to the dim surroundings of the pub.

Shaw held her hand out. "I'll take him."

Finch frowned.

She opened and closed her hand, knowing he was likely recollecting the last time she'd kept Bear for an extended period. Lesson learned: the barbecue sauce from Fette Sau did not agree with the Malinois.

"You've got another at the safehouse, Harold. C'mon. I'll take him for a run in the morning."

Shaw had an advantage there: the dog's only other option for a good workout was at the moment indisposed.

He paused.

She intercepted the leash and gave her employer a quick smile.

"I do hope that's not dinner?" Finch was eyeing the glass of crisped bacon slices she'd been snacking on since they had first sat. The establishment's own unique version of cocktail peanuts.

A stare.

"Right. Of course not." A small smile. Amused. "Good evening, Ms. Shaw."

Alone. A minute passed. Shaw downed her own beer, negating another when she caught the bartender eying her.

She shook her head, reaching for a last piece of bacon. Glancing down at the dog. "What do you say, handsome? Chinese at my place?"

Bear's tail swished against the floor in soft agreement.

"Good choice." She wiped a hand on her pant leg and gave the dog a quick scratch behind an ear as she stood. "Let's blow this Popsicle stand."

She was laying money on the bar and lacing the leash around her wrist when a familiar female voice floated out from behind them.

"Leaving so soon?"

Shaw turned.

"I thought we'd grab that drink," Root said. She tossed her hair behind a shoulder, regarding Shaw with a small smile.

Shaw exchanged a look with Bear and then gazed back at the other woman, unimpressed. "Root."

Another smile. Root patted the seat that Shaw had recently vacated, slipping onto the barstool next to it.

Shaw shot another look to the dog.

"My treat."

A pause.

"Fine," Shaw said finally, letting out a breath as she settled back into the chair, "but that includes food."

The smile widened. "I thought you'd never ask."

Shaw rolled her eyes. She signaled to the bartender.

He looked a little too pleased.

"Johnnie Walker." A glance to Root. "Blue."

"Same." Unprovoked. "Besides," Root said, pulling a strand of her dampened curl as proof, "it's starting to rain."

Shaw glanced to the window, the rain peppering its pane. Umbrellas moving along the street. She felt a soft touch to her arm and turned, pulling back. A frown.

Root was nodding to the bandage peering out from under Shaw's short sleeve black tee. The side nearest to her. "You okay?"

"Yes." She shrugged the inquiry off, reaching for another slice of bacon. She bit off half and then slipped the remainder to Bear. "Fine."

A look. That tilt of the head.

"I'm fine, Root."

A clank. The bartender setting down drinks.

A beat.

Root took her tumbler, holding it up.

Shaw rolled her eyes again, but tapped her glass against Root's in a silent toast. She took a swallow.

"So is this what you're doing now? Interfering with our numbers?"

"If only," Root said. A soft laugh. She shook her head. "Too much work to be done."

"What kind of work?"

"Preparation."

"Your table's ready." A voice behind them.

Shaw shifted in her seat, noting the expectant waitress holding two menus. She shot Root a look.

The other woman shrugged. An innocent smile.

"Thought you wouldn't mind."

"-I told you, Lionel, Finch doesn't mind."

Finch frowned at that, the first words he heard upon entering the safe house. Pulling the door shut and locking it behind him, he shook out his umbrella, leaning it behind the door.

"Finch doesn't mind what?"

He needn't have asked: the small football leaving Reese's hand and flying overhead was enough of an answer.

Lee, apparent receiver, spun around at the question. The ball, intended for his now dropping hands, flew over the curly head in slow motion; Finch watched, speechless, as it met with a colorful piece of antique pottery.

A shatter.

A stunned stillness. The soft tick of a clock from the other room.

Finch, staring at the broken remains. Steadying himself. "That," he said, slowly, "was a 19th century Satsuma from the Meiji periodic."

No one spoke.

He fixed his stare on Reese, who was motionless on the couch. "Mr. Reese."

There was a cautious pause.

"Finch."

Fusco cleared his throat awkwardly. "I think that's our cue," he started, already on his feet. Sending Reese a sympathetic look, steering an open-mouthed Lee away from the jagged shards of the ceramic remains.

An adamant whisper from Lee, the boy's eyes going to Reese. A hushed response from Fusco, a firm corralling. The sound of the door opening and closing.

Then, silence. There was a barely audible roll of thunder.

"Buy you another?"

Finch shot Reese a look. Really?

"Sorry."

Finch looked back to the once-vase and shook his head. In truth, it had no sentimental value. It had come from an estate sale, the pieces auctioned off together in a lot and bought by a Harold Partridge, some time ago.

The item in particular was only appraised somewhere around, oh, seven thousand dollars.

He pressed his lips together. Shifted the strap of the messenger bag on his shoulder.

"Sorry," Reese repeated, as if he hadn't been heard the first time.

Finch cast him a tired stare. He shifted his stance, surveying the rest of the apartment. Everything in its place. Looking back to Reese.

"Feeling a little cooped up here, Finch."

"You've been out of the field for all of-" A glance at his watch, a small shake of the head. "-three hours. You couldn't just… watch a movie or something?"

A half-shouldered shrug.

"In fact." Finding the television remote. Holding it out. "Pick one."

A moment passed, the remote hanging between them.

Reese realized then his employer was serious.

"Finch."

He made no move to take the controller.

"The case is done," Finch said. Gently now, the reproach fading from his tone. "If you must know, Ms. Shaw wanted to drug you."

It went unsaid: Don't make me regret stopping her.

"Shaw isn't even a real doctor, Finch. She just plays one when it suits her."

A raised brow. "I'd be happy to procure the services of a more licensed practitioner if you think it's in your best interest."

A frown, but Reese took the remote.

Finch lowered his bag next to a checkered armchair.

He had little doubt: the unnecessarily violent martial arts movie, poorly dubbed and shallowly plotted, was chosen that night for his benefit.

Later, a jerk of movement. A muffled gasp.

Finch looked up from his post in the armchair. Almost nodding off himself, he had moved on to work when Reese had fallen asleep before the film's first poorly choreographed action sequence.

The ex-op was awake now, albeit spooked and sleep-tranced. Reaching for a non-existent weapon, stiffly upright.

Reese never spoke of the nightmares.

"John," Finch started, ready to break him from the reverie. At the same time, there was a low chime from the laptop across his knees. He glanced down.

A pop-up window of unfamiliar text had him frowning. He'd been digging deeper into the earlier code, burrowing down the proverbial rabbit hole.

He glanced up, checking on the state of Reese. He found blue eyes carefully watching him.

Reading him too easily.

"It's nothing." Disconnecting, closing the screen. He tapped his fingers on its case. Schooling an expression of disinterest. "Code," he said.

He looked up again. Reese had absently raised a hand to his bandaged temple. It dropped when he found Finch watching him.

Sounding distant. "Another number?"

Finch shook his head. Slipping the laptop back into its bag, already regretting his choice of armchair over table. "I'm not sure what it is," he admitted. A pause. He watched Reese. "But it's not what concerns me at the moment."

There was a pause. "No?"

A loud pop. They both looked to the television. On screen, one master ninja had burst the head of another.

At least, Finch assumed they were ninjas.

He grimaced.

Utterly ridiculous.

Looking back to Reese. "No…" he repeated.

Reese gazed back, squinting slightly. They stared at each other a moment.

No. Even years into it, he sometimes questioned why it was they risked their own lives for the benefit of others. And with a firm like Decima now clawing for access-

Finch shook his head.

It was late. The day had been long. It wasn't time to start down that path. Reese looked ready to fall asleep again, his eyes shadowed in the soft glow of the television.

"Finch?"

"This film, Mr. Reese," Finch said finally, nodding his head to the movie. He gave Reese a slanted smile. "We need to discuss your taste in cinema."

Two days later

A grainy security feed played out on the monitor. There was an explosion, a fiery upturning of an armored truck.

Shaw hummed in approval over Finch's shoulder and he shifted sideways in his seat, delivering her a frown.

"Do you think this type of display wise, Ms. Shaw?"

She snorted.

Finch gave her a look.

"Really," she said, and then shook her head when she saw he wasn't getting it. "I'm not your only problem child, Finch."

Finch looked back to the surveillance feed. He slowly reached out, pausing the sequence. His expression changed.

Shaw continued. "Where do you think my grenade launchers even come from?"

He eyed her then. She raised her eyebrows.

When the gate rattled, they both turned.

Reese slowed his entrance as the two pairs of eyes locked in. He came around the table, setting down a box of donuts, a lidded cup of tea. Giving Shaw a practiced, Sorry, didn't know you'd be here, shrug as he sipped his own coffee.

Peering at the screen, the grainy freeze-frame. The armored truck, paused halfway in flight. Reese raised his eyebrows, expression giving away nothing. He reached for a donut.

"John."

He glanced at Finch.

"I don't suppose you would know anything about this."

Reese flicked his eyes back to the scene on the monitor as he bit into the pastry.

"Looks… professional," he offered, shifting back his stance. He pressed a small smile at his employer.

Finch stared back, not sharing the amusement. He could tell by Reese's stance that the younger man was still on the unsteady side.

From behind, a scoff. "Professional? Idiot didn't even realize there was a security camera on the post."

Reese turned to land Shaw a warning look of his own, allowing sprinkles to fall from his donut onto the floor. Bear leapt up from his bed, snuffing around his shoes with a wagging tail.

"Bear," Reese said. "Braaf."

"Mr. Reese."

He looked back to Finch, who was still watching him carefully.

"I fail to appreciate your definition of 'surveillance'." Finch half-turned, a swivel of his upper body. Facing back to the monitors. "But we'll leave that for now. We have another number."

"Finally," Shaw said through a mouthful of donut. "Was beginning to think your machine was broken, Harold."

"Me too," Finch murmured. Words only he could hear. Leaning forward, fingers steepled under his chin as he stared at the screen. The small pop-up of coding was back. A stream of unfamiliar functions, then a flicker.

What are you doing, he thought.

"Finch?" Reese had pulled another chair up. Rolling closer. Looking over his employer's shoulder, an elbow propped next to the keyboard.

Looking, but not noting the unordinary.

Finch didn't give it the time either; he quickly flipped open a different window. He could feel Reese's eyes flick to him but focused on bringing up what he had found so far on the newest number.

"Finch." Murmured.

He turned his head. They exchanged a look.

"Rain's stopped," Shaw commented. At the quiet, she looked back at them, the head to head. Sensed she was missing something. "What."

"Natalia Brennan," Finch said. He tapped Reese's elbow, gently gaining back some personal space. Ignoring the frown. "Sixteen years old. Attends The Dalton School."

Shaw made a gagging noise and they both looked at her.

"Snobby," she explained.

Finch gave her a look- Really?- and continued. "Older brother at NYU." A glance to Shaw, as though waiting for her opinion on that one. She pressed a sarcastic smile at him. "Father. No mother."

He continued, filling in what he knew. It wasn't much to go on.

Later, alone in the Library, Finch glanced to Bear. The dog lifted its head.

Rolling back his chair. "Should we go for a walk?"

Bear let out a soft, excited whine. Tail already wagging.

Finch smiled thinly, getting stiffly to his feet. He reached for the leash. Light streamed in through the large front windows, the beams brighter through the parting clouds. He blinked, glancing once more at the workstation. The unfamiliar, racing code.

He gave a slight shake of his head.

The rain was done, for now. But he sensed the storm was only just beginning.