"Everything Ok, Finch?"

He makes a great effort to have the question sound polite, neutral, detached…like one would ask a neighbor seen only infrequently. But it's difficult when he is blazingly aware that all is not Ok with his boss.
Friend.

"Fine, Mr. Reese," is the quiet reply. "Everything is fine."

And that is so much horse manure!

Carolyn Turing, aka Root, had it right when she'd summed up her analysis of him months before. "…highly observant, hyper vigilant, aware of your surroundings…" Yes, he is observant and aware, the result of his many years of training and wet work experience with the CIA. But those skills come into play even more acutely when tuned to individuals important to him. And this individual is important to him, because whether it's all part of a universal grand scheme or simply a chaotic accident, his life is now inexplicably intertwined with that of this computer genius.

Finch is troubled. Emotionally stressed. Worried. And the ex-op doesn't like it one bit…because when Harold worries, so does he. This is the man who has given him a second chance at redemption - one to whom he owes a huge debt, a debt worth life itself.

But getting his boss to openly talk about what he suspects is a private issue, will likely be a herculean challenge: Harold is tighter than bark on a tree when it comes to sharing personal information.

Finch had entered the library chamber earlier, and although his acknowledgment of the ex-op was not noticeably different, Reese sensed…something. The genius geek had limped to the desk, then seated himself in front of the main monitor and proceeded to fire up the computer with its various peripherals. But all without so much as another glance in his employee's direction.

"Where did you go, Finch?" Reese asks softly, aware he is prying and already knowing the unlikelihood of getting a straight answer.

Finch turns stiffly and blinks at him before answering, as though the question requires a clustering analysis. The older man finally averts his gaze and replies evenly, "We went for a walk. Bear and I."

Right… And you can put your boots in the oven, but that doesn't make them biscuits!

"And…?"

"And nothing." Finch says, his attention on the monitor.

Reese shifts in his chair to better study his employer. "Well, you seem a little tense. Thought you might have run into a problem during your walk…"

Finch looks at him again, giving a slight shake of the head before returning his attention to the keyboard and typing in a string of commands.

And there is was: the merest of hesitations, a slight frown, with just a flash of sadness as his benefactor turns away…but as clearly noticeable as if spelled out on a LED light board. Curiouser and curiouser…

The ex-op watches as Finch scrutinizes the data scrolling on the screen. And slowly the scene before him changes, like the time-lapse photography of the weathering away of a painting's layer to reveal an underlying image.

It's a moment of déjà vu: they've been here before, and not so long ago!

Harold had acted just so, standing at the brink of sorrow, devastated by the sight of Grace Hendriks gratefully hugging 'Detective Stills'…Reese…

So was this just brain cells randomly connecting dots…or is this something concerning Grace again?

Reese's mind works furiously as he leaves the computer station and walks back to the coffee pot, the shiny apparatus percolating merrily, singing its syncopated tune while dripping the aromatic liquid into its main chamber. He needs to sort out his next move so stands and waits, allowing the appliance to finish its work. Then pouring himself a cup, makes his way back to the computer station. No use asking Harold if he wants one; the older man is as hooked on tea as he is on coffee...

Methodically examining various strategies to entice Finch to spill the beans, and discarding them just as quickly as ineffectual, he finally decides to go with the direct approach.
Shock and awe.

"Is this about Grace?"

If he expected to startle his boss, he's to be disappointed. Finch gives no indication of being surprised; in fact, it's almost as if he's been waiting for the question, though he continues to stare at the computer equipment. But then he answers, much to Reese's astonishment.

"She's had the flu. For weeks now. I've seen a friend - woman - come and go at the condo several times, so at least someone was taking care of her. But now… The friend hasn't been there for days. No one has."

"So wouldn't that mean Grace is better…over the flu?" Reese offers, settling in the chair next to his boss, mentally encouraging the older man to continue.

"I haven't seen her! Between researching and working the Numbers…" The sentence trails off. "I've tried to catch a glimpse of her, but…"

"Ah. So that's why Bear's been on so many walks lately!"

Finch turns, scowling. "Well, he does need to go out on a regular basis, Mr. Reese."

"It's alright Harold. I understand."

His benefactor turns back to the keyboard. "I just wish I could see her…make sure she's alright. The cameras are just too far away, and I can't risk her seeing me…"

He stills, then resumes typing, a clear sign their discussion is at an end.

Reese remains quiet as he sips his coffee, staring at his benefactor and noting the almost permanent frown now grooving Finch's forehead. He tightens his lips reflectively.

This isn't over. Not by a long shot…!

.

.

Finch returns to the library late morning, the new Central Station blueprints securely tucked under one arm. With the recent construction finally finished he now has the latest details on hand should the need arise. Be prepared. A scout oath to abide by.

He'd also taken a detour home by way of Grace's condo, staring at her closed door for several minutes from a safe distance, willing her to open it and come outside just so he'd know she was well and healthy again. But the condo seemed empty, unoccupied. He rode the edge of panic all the way home.

"Bear?" He calls, anticipating the staccato of clicking nails on the hardwood floors. But the chamber is silent. For a second he feels a surge of alarm, but a quick glance at the coat rack verifies that the dogs leash is missing. John.

The ex-op must have taken the dog out, a bit of a surprise since they have no Number to work today and his employee usually takes that opportunity to…to do whatever it is he does when not working and under surveillance. Still, Bear is John's dog…

He trudges down the hall, resolutely shoving aside the desolation that always seems to accompany the return to an empty library. The chamber seems abandoned, lost and forgotten…like an unread book. But surely he's managed to survive on his own for a long while now; he doesn't need John or a dog here all the time, for heaven's sake! But as he moves toward the computer station he checks his ear piece…just in case.

Nothing. John hasn't turned it on, and their agreement is that unless he does, Finch is not to intrude on his employee's private time. With tightened lips he continues to the desk.

The note on the keyboard is instantly noticeable, a white square jarringly out of place among the black electronic equipment. From John of course; no one else would have been here and so far Bear hasn't yet learned to write. That last thought invokes a fleeting smile, but with increasing anxiety he unfolds the paper.

Finch,

2:15

40°43′51″N 73°59′51″W

John.

He puzzles briefly over the bold script and the string of numbers, then checks his watch. 2:10 already. It will take at least few minutes to pull up that intersection. Anxiety is now morphing into full out panic. He starts typing even as he lowers himself into the chair, his heart pounding while he contemplates what dire danger John might be facing that he'd ask his boss to spy on him during his off time.

The monitor flickers as an image explodes on the screen. The corner camera offers a 360 view and Finch skillfully manipulates the equipment, carefully scanning the area for signs of his employee. Suddenly he stares, unbelieving the scene before him. It's John…with Bear…at a table in a small outdoor café at the edge of Washington Square.

And seated opposite his employee…Grace…idly petting Bear as she chats with 'Detective Stills'.

Finch is stunned, even as he watches hungrily, noting that she is somewhat pale, thinner, but otherwise presents her cheerful self, animatedly gesturing while she talks. He slowly becomes aware of other details: that Reese has chosen a table at the edge of the outdoor seating area closest to a city surveillance camera.

He watches in fascination as the ex-op casually moves his chair to the side, seemingly to allow more room to stretch out his long legs, but in the process giving Finch an unobstructed view of the lovely lady sitting on the opposite side of the table.

Reese turns and glances straight into the camera, offhandedly raising his hand to his ear. Finch catches his breath.

" ….was kind enough to invite me to her lake house for a few days. It was so lovely there!" Grace is saying. "And then I come back and find I have another cover commission!"

"Congratulations, Ms Hendriks. I'll be sure to keep an eye on the stands for your work." Reese responds smoothly.

"Well…I think it'll be months before it actually hits the stands. There's usually a long lead time for those kinds of publications. But Detective, if you like, I'll save you a copy for when we run into each other again."

Finch rests his chin on his hand and leans toward the monitor as he drinks in the image of his Grace and listens in on her innocent conversation with 'Detective Stills'. He feels his anxiety and worry float away with her every laugh, every happy note. The growing tension he hadn't even been conscious of wisped into the chambers atmosphere.

He had told John Reese some time ago, after that dramatic rescue from the clutches of the psycho woman Root, that he owed the man. He hadn't mentioned at the time exactly what the debt entailed but traditionally the unspoken subtext is "a favor".

But this?
Being given the opportunity to observe his beloved and know that she's well…seeing her healthy, and sound happy?

This is a debt worth life itself!