He feels the slight tugging on his sleeve and suddenly the world tilts. Fermin shouldn't be taking these turns so hard. But the thought drowns in a wave of overwhelming relief as the shift in position releases the agonizing pressure on his knees and thigh. His foot slips under the front seat and allows the injured leg to somewhat straighten.

Ah, this is so much better. Not perfect – which would be him walking out of here on two healthy legs, but in comparison, the pain has diminished to a point where he can actually think. About other stuff. Like how he's going to need to thank Fusco for this extraction. Yes, of course it's Finch orchestrating the plan – it had the geek's professional touch all over it – but the cop did the execution. Good boy to him.

Fusco shifts again and his head lowers further, coming to rest on a semi-soft cushion. He feels the fog closing in again, and hears the detective in the far, far distant, "Yeah…but just so's you know: we still ain't dating…"

Funny, Fusco, real funny! And he smiles to himself even as he slips into the darkness again…

…

It worries him a bit that the detective is so trusting with this new woman friend. Finch had vetted her at his employees' request…huffing all the while of course, commenting that Reese shouldn't be interfering, but gathering the data anyway. But nothing stands out particularly: she and Fusco were introduced by a mutual acquaintance, she's a teacher, her cousin is a cop, she likes falafel…

And the poor unsophisticated cop seems smitten with her.

But it bothers him to the point where, on a day they have no new Number, he follows Fusco around the city, telling himself he is simply practicing his shadow techniques, but knowing in reality he's doing exactly that which Finch accuses him of…interfering. Still, it makes him feel better to see that Fusco's day is about as uncomplicated as the cop himself.

And that's a remark to remember, he thinks, smiling already at the image of the cop's face when he expresses it.

He really just can't help himself: this constant digging at the portly detective provides some welcome relief from the pressures of saving those Numbers the Machine spits out with such regularity. The fact that Fusco can give as good as he gets makes the game even more enjoyable since he doesn't have to worry about pushing the cop to the edge.

But he also knows how to keep an asset cooperating; a leader can't simply give orders all the time – there has to be some acknowledgement when a follower performs as desired. A positive affirmation. Much like Bear needs to hear a "Good Boy!", so does his detective. He tries hard to remember to throw in some "Thanks" along with an occasional "Good work, Lionel".

And it pains him sometimes to see how thrilled the cop is at hearing these infrequent comments of appreciation. He doesn't forget how Fusco took offense, when he had told the Ayran brothers "I don't have many friends – just the one in fact. Ok, maybe two…" The last had been added when Fusco, even with his mouth stuffed with a gag, still indicated his affront at being left off the list.

But are we friends? Or just acquaintances working together for the greater good? Or maybe even less than that: a handler and an asset, the latter to be set aside when no longer useful. He honestly doesn't know at this point.

…

It would be great if whoever keeps waking him up would be a tad more gentle about it! He's being pulled out of the cab now and man-handled by a couple of Goliaths insisting he lay down on that gurney. He attempts to resist, though his muscles seemed to have tuned out to commands given by his brain! His leg buckles under him as he tries to gain some control over his position, but he is quickly supported by the twin mountains and lifted unto the narrow mattress.

Oh, wait. There's Finch. And looking worried. Not good…!

He tries to sit up again to assess whatever danger might be threatening his benefactor, but the effort sends knifing pains up and down his leg, causing him to moan no matter that he clenches his jaw against the agony.

His eyes slit open again and he sees Finch wince. Finch is worried about him? It's alright Harold, I've got it under control…but before he can get the words out, his lids fall shut and the world turns black once more.

Months later…

Recovering from a bullet wound is always a painful process, but on the positive side, it went a bit faster than last time. At least he only had the leg wound to deal with this time around, though still had the extra burden of watching the man to whom he owed his life worry constantly whether death was actually going to step across the threshold and yank him to the underworld.

He had known that this time the danger was not so much from the wound itself as from loss of blood…a situation which was fortunately remedied with ample transfusions. Once that crisis was abated, his Finch was back to his irascible self, nagging his employee about little transgressions, like the loss of his phone.

Ok, not the phone itself, but the communication it represented. It became apparent that his boss had at sometime during that day been convinced the mayhem in the alley had ended with his hired gun being killed.

Explanations that the phone had died a horrible death when he's stepped on the mobile device during the ensuing gun fight was not enough to get him out of a lecture on the necessity of not entering into such fray without backup. And his repeated reminders to the agitated geek that he was not mortally wounded had not stopped the Finch from worrying obsessively about "what could have happened!"

He even repeated what Fusco had said, "Only the good die young", a remark that was not received in good humor. So he gave up and simply took what pleasure he could in the available off time, sleeping long hours, eating healthy, and spending time with Bear…who insisted on sharing the bed with him.

Finch, and all the medical personnel objected mightily at seeing a dog on those clean sheets, but a well practiced glare and a lift of an eyebrow forestalled any further comments. And if Bear wanted that extra pillow, then he could have that too!

Though the doctors and nurses were handpicked, and no doubt the best in the country, his boss still seemed to take the position that if left alone, he would either die or walk out of the place never to be seen again. Neither of which of course was a possibility as he was not in danger of dying and had no intention of jeopardizing the future functioning of his leg by ignoring professional advice. Which advice included a strict regime of physical therapy after the wound had healed sufficiently.

But with new Numbers from the Machine, it's time to check up on his pet detective again. Leaning on the crutch, he picks up his phone, his fingers unerringly finding the familiar code.

"Hello, Lionel. Miss me?" he purrs, knowing how that insolent tone irritates the cop.

There is a long pause at the other end, then finally, "Nah. You been gone?"

Holding the phone to his ear, he smiles at the grumpy response. He knows his detective well enough to understand the comment screens a myriad of sentiments that the cop simply can't or won't acknowledge. Which is fine with him…this is a game he knows how to play well.

Ah, Lionel, it's good to be back…

- End -

Please read "We Still Ain't Dating" for this story from Fusco's POV...and "I'm Here Always" for this story from Finch's POV.