Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Isn’t this incredible, Harold?” she asks him. “I don’t think I can ever fly coach again.” She turns to him expectantly, then laughs when he didn’t share her enthusiasm. “Of course,” she amends, “a billionaire like you… you’re probably used to flying in private jets, aren’t you?”

He ignores her, best he can, and wonders what will happen when they arrive in Hartford. He’s been watching the signs of the viruses’ progress – both the one Decima modified, and the hidden one he embedded within it – and from what he can tell, it’s working. At least, he can only hope that it worked the way he intended… that when they arrive, all they’ll find is an empty room.

“What are we flying over now?” she asks the Machine. He doesn’t hear the response – this is a conversation that he’s not privy to. Of all the things he imagined she’d do with her access, small talk with the Machine was nowhere near the top of the list of worst-case scenarios. “Really? That’s incredible!”

He tunes her out, closing his aching eyes – the stolen glasses that the Machine pointed Root toward aren’t quite his exact prescription, and while they keep him from running into things, they’re giving him quite the headache. He wonders if she’ll kill him, if the Machine really has moved itself. She hasn’t hurt him before…

No, that’s not quite true. He cradles his right hand in his left, running his thumb along the thin scar across his palm. It’s a faint line, barely noticeable among the natural lines of his palm, but he knows it’s there, can feel the raised line of it beneath his touch. Almost a year later, he can still feel the sharp sting of the razor blade as she slit his palm open, can still see the blood pooling into his cupped hand. He can still smell the antiseptic spray the pharmacist used to disinfect the cut.

She’s trusted him to take him to the Machine. When she finds out that it’s not there…

She probably will kill him.

She may admire his skills, but she’s not opposed to harming him. The scar on his palm is proof of that.

He wishes he could have had the opportunity to thank Reese for being his friend.

Chapter Text

The pay phone rings, and Finch is nowhere to be found. It’s just Reese and Shaw… and several dead bodies.

Moments later, he receives a text from Finch: “It’s for you, John.”

Reese isn’t sure what to expect as he steps into the phone booth and picks up the receiver. Another code, perhaps, or coordinates leading them to the Machine’s physical location.

Whatever Reese had been expecting to hear…

…“Can you hear me?” had not been it!

Chapter Text

His heart is heavy as he hangs up the phone. If Reese finds out that he’s betrayed him, Finch knows there will be nothing he can say or do that will undo the damage to their friendship – to their mutual level of trust. But he can still see Grace’s address on the screen, and he will sacrifice anything – his best friend, the Machine, his own life – to protect her.

He commands Bear to stay, then looks around the Library for what he knows may be the last time. He remembers the first time he ever stepped foot into this Library – this very room – three years earlier, discovering the back door that Nathan built into the Machine, and his work with the Irrelevant List. He remembers the argument that ensued as he shut down Nathan’s connection to the Machine. His actions that day had been the spark that eventually destroyed the friendship and trust between him and Nathan… that cost Finch all that was dear to him… and that cost Nathan his life.

Ironic, Finch thinks as he leaves, that this old abandoned Library represents not only the decline of Western civilization, but also the decline of his own personal life, as well…

Chapter Text

The government lied to you – I never will!

Reese can’t recall that Finch has ever outright lied to him – except maybe that one time when he’d tried to work a Number without him due to his so-called “sensitivities” – but he knows there’s a lot that Finch has avoided telling him.

Strange that he hadn’t really felt betrayed when he heard Finch’s voice in the 911 recording that Shaw played for him, informing the police of his intended break-in at the apartment where Finch had just sent him – he suspected Root was behind that.

But when this mystery man tells him that the person who sold the Ordos laptop to the Chinese was Harold Finch… Reese can’t help feeling a little betrayed. Never mind he hadn’t known Finch then, or that this man clearly works for – or runs, most likely – Decima, the company trying to control the Machine. For all he knows, it could be a lie.

What Reese does know, however, is that both Finch and the Machine are in grave danger, and that he and Shaw are the only ones who can save them both. And right now, that’s the most important thing – that, and getting out of here alive.

There will be plenty of time to feel betrayed once this all is over with.

Chapter Text

His worst nightmare has come to life.

Not when his cell phone rang and he answered it to hear Root’s voice on the other end – though that had been bad enough. How he’d managed a halfway civilized conversation with the woman who’d kidnapped him – when his heart was pounding, his palms were sweating, and every instinct was telling him to hang up and smash his phone – was beyond him.

Root knows him too well.

You care about other people... that’s your flaw.

This moment in time has haunted Finch every night in his dreams ever since Reese rescued him from Root. And now it’s here, his worst nightmare in broad daylight.

Grace looks around the sidewalk as if waiting for someone. Finch watches her from the park, obscured by distance, trees, and people. Root stands behind him and talks about her.

Even as Finch starts to make threats if Root dares hurt Grace, he knows he can’t win.

"She thinks I write children’s books," she tells him, smiling as he realizes what this means: she’s already made contact with Grace.

Finch will do anything to protect Grace. And since he can’t wake up from this nightmare... he has to go with Root.

Chapter Text

Even as he splices the lines at the junction box, duplicating the Machine’s call and sending it to the phone Reese is standing next to... even as he sends a text message telling John to answer it... Finch knows what the consequences will be.

First and foremost, it is a contingency, a way to hopefully undo whatever damage Root plans on dealing to the Machine. But as Sir Isaac Newton once said, for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. Giving Reese administrative privileges to the Machine – the same privileges Root is even now stealing – is Finch’s best hope at protecting all he’s ever cared about. But at the same time, he realizes that what he’s also giving Reese is the opportunity to find out anything he’s ever wanted to know... including all the secrets and mysteries behind the man he knows as Harold Finch. Everything from his true identity to the fiasco at Ordos will soon be laid bare before Reese, all for the asking.

It’s a level of intimate trust that he has only ever extended to one other person: Nathan Ingram – and look what it cost him. He hadn’t even been that open with Grace, though he certainly intended to come clean with her prior to their wedding. But now... the truth is about to come out, and Finch has no control over it.

Yet, surprisingly... he’s not afraid for Reese to learn the truth... even if it means losing him, too...

Chapter Text

"I was lucky. I had four years of... happiness. Some people only get four days."

Even as he said those words, he regretted it.

Seeing the look of hurt on Reese's face only made his current melancholy over Grace that much worse. Losing Jessica still clearly hurt him after all this time, and as Finch walked away, he wished he could take back those words.

It wasn't fair. Four days just wasn't enough for anyone.

Even as he heard those words, he felt sorry for Finch.

Reese was glad Finch walked away, so he wouldn't get to see the pity. Finch might have considered himself lucky, but Reese knew better. Four years was a long time… enough time to become irreparably attached, enough time that a separation now would do more than just hurt – it would almost paralyze.

It wasn't fair. Four days, or four years – it didn't matter. It wasn't enough either way.

Chapter Text

"Are you done back there?" the cabbie asked irritably. He glared through the rearview mirror at the young man squirming around on the backseat, his legs hanging out the door.

"Not yet."

"Well, hurry up – I'm losing money just sitting here. What are you looking for, anyway?"

Logan Pierce pulled his legs fully into the car and sat up, debating his next move. "A watch," he finally replied. "I think it got lost back here."

It had to have been what happened. Ever since he'd gotten bored enough to activate the tracking device he'd hidden in the watch he'd given John Wiley – probably not even the guy's real name, but that was beside the point – he'd been chasing the signal across the city. It wasn't until lunch that it stayed in one place long enough for him to catch up.

At first, when he saw that the signal was coming from the taxi, he'd thought Wiley was moonlighting as a driver. When that proved false, he assumed Wiley had left the watch in the cab to throw him off the trail.

But that wasn't right either; he'd searched every inch of the backseat and found nothing.

His phone buzzed, and he checked it. The signal was moving again – but this time, it was on a perpendicular street and heading away from him.

Pierce swore under his breath. Wiley must have spotted him somewhere. This guy was good. Still, Pierce had the upper hand; if the signal was moving again, then clearly the tracker hadn't been discovered yet.

"Okay, you wanna make some money then?" Pierce said, shutting the car door. "Go up to the next street and take a left."

"Where are we going?" the driver asked as he merged into traffic.

"I'll let you know when we get there. Just go!"

"Morning, Finch."

Finch nodded in greeting, his attention focused on the monitors in front of him. One of them had a map with a pair of blinking dots, one blue and one red. Another was devoted to the NYC Taxi Commission's internal network.

He sensed Reese come up behind him, watching curiously. "New number?"

"Not quite," Finch replied. "Our friend Logan Pierce tried to activate that tracker this morning, so I decided it was time to discourage his insistence on prying into our operations."

"How so?"

"I reverse-engineered the tracker's programming and transponder ID, and uploaded it into the NYC Taxi Commission's GPS network," Finch said. "I can move the signal from one cab to another as I wish." He turned to look at Reese, eyebrows raised in what was – for him, anyway – a playful expression. "An entire day of chasing taxis across Manhattan should be sufficient for him to drop the matter, don't you think?"

Reese chuckled softly. "Rather clever of you, Finch."

Finch allowed himself an indulgent smirk before turning his attention back to the computers.

"So what did you wind up doing with the real tracker?"

"I repurposed it for a contingency, should Mr. Pierce decide to continue pursuing the matter after today." Finch glanced over at Reese and, seeing the questioning look on his face, elaborated. "I had the tracker implanted in a Canada goose currently residing in Central Park. It should be migrating south within the next two weeks."

Reese's eyebrows shot upward in surprise. Finch stared placidly back at him; he had to fight very hard to maintain a neutral expression.

"In a Canada goose," Reese repeated incredulously, clearly trying to figure out if Finch was serious or just screwing with him. "How did you – never mind, I don't want to know," he amended with a shake of his head. "So Pierce is going to chase waterfowl down to Mexico?"

Finch shrugged. "Maybe not quite that far," he reasoned. "He could wind up in Florida, perhaps... or possibly the coastal area of the Carolinas. The winter habitat of the Canada goose covers a large range; it's hard to say exactly where this particular goose will go. Besides, anyone who can jet off to St. Petersburg at a moment's notice for the sake of pierogies can surely afford an unscheduled trip to the southern U.S."

"And when he wises up...?"

"Given that he's been following random taxis for the past six hours, I'd surmise that won't be an issue for a while. Besides, as I mentioned earlier, the end goal is that when he 'wises up', he also gives up. Once he realizes what he's chasing, he'll also understand that he has no leads left."

"You're enjoying this way too much, Harold."

"Actually, if I were looking for amusement, I could always do this..."

This time, Finch didn't even try to fight the mischievous smirk as he started typing…

The phone buzzed again. Pierce glanced down, his eyes widening at the impossible sight on the display. "Son of a – !"

Meanwhile, in an abandoned Library in Manhattan, a former CIA agent and a reclusive billionaire shared a rare moment of hysterical laughter as they listened to Pierce loudly – and verbosely – try to sort through the 5,273 tracker signals now showing on his phone.

Chapter Text

He keeps only two photographs in the Library, both of them hidden.

There's the picture of him and Nathan, back during their freshman year at MIT. He never had liked having his picture taken – even less so during that time, ever aware and constantly so frightened that somebody would discover who he really was – but that day, he'd been in a good mood and he'd relented. It was the same day he and Nathan had decided that they were going to change the world, start their own company. On the day IFT was officially founded, Nathan had pulled him aside and handed him that picture. In the beginning… N.I. It's the only photograph he now has of the two of them; he wishes there were more.

He's pretty sure Reese has found this photograph already. One day, he noticed that his personal copy of The Ghost in the Machine had been moved, and on further inspection, he found the photo inside the back cover rather than the front.

But there's still the other photograph, one that doesn't appear to have been discovered yet, and one that he'd much rather keep to himself. It's a photo of him and Grace. He can still remember the day and the place and the circumstances when it was taken – 2006, Grace's birthday, in the Guggenheim Museum. He'd just surprised her with an after-hours tour and the revelation that The Red Tower had been placed on permanent display there – an "anonymous donor" he'd told her, but they both realized that she knew better – and she'd insisted that one of the passing security guards take their picture. He almost resisted, at first, but had given in just as quickly. It was the first of several photos they'd taken together, but it was the only physical photograph he had of her. He has another picture on his computer, only accessible by a certain combination of dragged files and perfectly-timed keystrokes, but there is nothing like holding a photo in one's hands.

This photograph of Grace is something he hopes Reese doesn't find – not because he's trying to hide her existence from him (that ship sailed a long time ago), but because the feelings it evokes are far more intimate than he wants to reveal. There was another memory tied to that picture, one that left him feeling far more vulnerable: that night, he'd been ready and willing to tell her everything about himself. But she'd stopped him. Four years afterward, he'd planned once more to tell her who he was and what he'd done… until a fiery explosion at a ferry terminal changed everything.

And now, all he has left of both Nathan and Grace are memories and two photographs.

Chapter Text

"How much Greek do you know, Mr. Reese?"

Reese looked up at Finch curiously. The other man's expression was calm, serene even, and gave away nothing of the reason behind the rather unusual question.

"Never had much use for it," Reese answered. "I could probably order a pita in an Athens restaurant if I had to. Why do you ask? Our new Number speak it?"

"I was just curious. It has nothing to do with our latest Number."

Reese raised an eyebrow. Something was definitely up. "So... are you about to give me a Greek lesson, Finch?"

A flicker of uncertainty flashed in his eyes. "Are you... familiar with the term philia?" he finally asked.

"Philia?" Reese repeated. "No. Should I be?"

"It's one of the four Greek words for 'love'," Finch replied. "The term refers to the mutual affection and caring among brothers... friends. For example, you might know that Philadelphia is known as 'The City of Brotherly Love' – the name being directly derived from philia. And, of course, it also lends itself to the suffix –phile, meaning 'to love' – such as the term bibliophile, meaning 'a lover of books'. Not as in, you know... a lover in the more modern sense of the word, of course… but rather to show considerable fondness for, an enjoyment of…"

Reese studied Finch closely. The reclusive billionaire seemed almost uncomfortable as he spoke – almost as if he were embarrassed that he'd even started this particular conversation. "Never mind," he finally said. "Just... forget I said anything."

"It's okay," Reese said. "I think... I think I get what you're saying."

Finch looked up at him questioningly.

"I'm glad you're my friend, too."

Chapter Text

Why do I keep hoping you'll notice me?

In all honesty, it's the last thing I want. You don't realize it, but I've hurt you in the worst possible way. Not only did I lie to you about who I truly was... but I'm living a lie now, allowing you to think I'm dead. If you knew... it would break you.

Then why do I keep hoping you'll notice me?

It hurts me every day we're apart – I can't go a single day without thinking about you. The way your hair frames your face, the way your eyes sparkle when you laugh. I wish I could go back to the way things were... but I can't! You don't realize it, but the reason I left is to keep you safe. There are powerful people out there who would kill me if they knew what I've done, and they would kill you too just for knowing who I am. I can't put you in that kind of danger; I can never go back.

So then why do I keep hoping you'll notice me?

You don't realize that I can track you. There's the GPS in your cell phone... but you also don't know that there's a tracker in that locket you always wear, the one you never take off. I built an app that alerts me if you're nearby; I tell myself it's so I can avoid you, so you'll never be in danger because of me... but in all honesty, it's to give myself an opportunity to catch a glimpse of you. If I had to live my entire life never seeing you again, I don't think I could live.

I follow you, but always at a distance. I can never let myself get too close, because you can never know I'm there. I can never let you see me, because you can't know I'm alive.

So then why on Earth do I keep hoping you'll notice me?

Chapter Text

Somewhere above the Midwest, on the private jet that Shaw and I commandeered, I look over at Finch. He's sitting quietly beside me, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that he declared a "poor approximation" of his favored Sencha green. He doesn't pay any mind to Root, broken and dejected from the loss of her connection to the Machine, now a shell-shocked remnant of her former self. He doesn't notice Shaw, keeping her focus on our former enemy, despite the fact that it's obvious she's too dazed to be a threat to us any longer. Instead, he's staring off into the distance, his mind elsewhere; he probably doesn't realize – or think that I notice – that his hands are shaking.

Earlier today, Finch stared down the men responsible for Nathan's murder and for his own injuries, and boldly defied their attempts to force him to either tell them how to find the Machine or make them a new one. And that, just minutes after Shaw and I found him staring down the barrel of Root's gun. While I don't truly understand why, it's an act of courage that I find myself admiring... and, in a way, something that I'm envious of.

When I first met Finch, I thought he was just a "bored rich guy" looking for something to do. Not long afterward, I dropped the "bored" part; he was rich, and he wanted to help people. But for whatever reason, he couldn't. Whether he was too cowardly, or simply too broken, he stayed behind his computer, hidden away in his secret Library where it was safe while I went out and saved everyone.

But then, I was proven wrong once more. First it was Theresa Whitaker, urging her to escape out the window while he, unable to climb to safety himself, faced off against the assassin sent to kill her. Then it was approaching the CEO of Virtanen Pharmaceuticals, a man who had already murdered several people to keep the deadly secret of their latest miracle drug from getting out. And then he was running toward a bomb, rushing to warn and save the intended target, in spite of his own safety (and, come to find out, the fact that he'd been injured in an explosion once before). And then it was me, rushing to my rescue despite the dangers of both the CIA and Detective Carter, both of whom were determined to put a stop to our mission.

And as time went on, Finch kept surprising me. Rushing to the defense of a woman being attacked by her stalker... fighting (and getting knocked unconscious) to prevent kidnappers from taking an innocent baby. Offering to fire a gun – something he despised – to create a diversion to help rescue Taylor Carter. Standing up to Root as she kidnapped him the first time around. Helping a doctor save an innocent man in surgery (despite his obvious dislike of hospitals). Saving my life once again, defusing the bomb vest that Kara Stanton forced me to wear – even knowing that if he failed, he'd never get clear before the explosion killed us both. Facing down a serial killer masquerading as an FBI agent. Staying calm and resolute in the face of death in a dangerous game of Russian roulette. And then, allowing himself to be taken by Root once more, knowing full well – and even admitting to the fact – that it was very likely he wouldn't return alive.

People call me courageous, brave. I've faced danger before; I've put my life on the line, unafraid, because I know what I'm capable of doing, because I have faith in my abilities. But Harold Finch... he puts himself in danger despite his fears and despite his limitations, and that's a kind of courage I know I'll never be able to match.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Detective."

It's a force of habit, she knows. Finch usually addresses people formally, preferring titles as opposed to given names. And she's heard it a lot lately – from him, from Elias, from Alonzo Quinn. After all, it's the title she's gone by for years.

But it's not her title anymore.

She opens her mouth to correct him – it's "Officer" now, Finch – but the words die on her lips. Finch knows almost everything, and he obviously knows about her recent demotion. He's also very deliberate in his choice of words. Surely there's a reason he's still calling her "Detective".

Because, she suddenly realizes, she still is a detective.

Not according to her official standing in the NYPD, of course – no thanks to HR setting her up – but she will always be a detective. This humiliating demotion is only a stepping stone. She'll get her job and her title back; HR won't get away with this. And that Finch continues to call her by the title she has had stripped away from her... it's only a reminder that honesty and integrity will eventually win out, that this won't last forever, that she'll one day be who she is once more.

Taking a deep breath, she smiles and replies, "Good morning, Finch. What can I do for you today?"

Chapter Text

How could you be so heartless?

She wasn't heartless, not really. She just wasn't wired that way.

But looking around, she felt – and not for the first time, either – separated from everyone else. This was a terrible day. A tragedy, everyone would call it.

Their friends on the police force – Carter and Fusco – were doing their job, but they were fighting back tears. Harold looked shell-shocked, gazing around him at the carnage with a mixed look of disgust and terror, while the paramedics tended to his injuries. John was right beside him, ready to provide some solace to his friend even as his face betrayed his own inner turmoil.

They'd failed. Miserably. A lot of people had been hurt and killed as a result.

And Shaw didn't feel a thing.

She wanted to, though. Deep down inside, she longed to experience the same feelings of horror and sadness and pain that everyone else around her was obviously going through. She wanted to be able to shed tears of sympathetic loss with the bystanders and the onlookers and the family members of those innocent victims. She wanted to be able to look at the bloody scene in front of her and feel deep within her soul just how sad and terrible and wrong this all was.

Instead, her mind was drifting along other trivial paths, processing the information as emotionlessly as a computer. How long you suppose it'll be before everything's cleaned up so people can use this building again? I guess somebody needs to take Bear out for a walk. I wonder if Harold's going to the hospital or if his "doctor that owes him a favor" will patch him up? Should I have Chinese for dinner tonight, or Mexican?

Her last thought came out of nowhere. What the hell is wrong with you, Sam? This wasn't the first time she'd asked herself that, and it certainly wouldn't be the last time.

She wondered what it felt like to cry.

Chapter Text

Finch sank down on the couch, letting the exhaustion wash over him as he listened to the quiet beeps of the heart monitor. He wondered who had ever said that this would get easier over time. This would be the fourth time (or more... he'd lost count by now) that he'd found himself caring for Reese after he'd been gravely injured for the sake of their cause. And dealing with it wasn't getting easier.

Sure, some parts were getting better to deal with. The urge to vomit while changing bloodied bandages wasn't quite as strong as when he'd first been in this position. He was also getting more proficient at some of the aspects of medical caregiving; over the course of the past four years, he'd added being able to start IVs, give injections, and remove sutures to his list of random-but-useful abilities. But the heartache at seeing someone he cared about being so close to death – and the guilt that he'd been the cause, either directly or indirectly – was still just as powerful now as it was the first time around.

She watches quietly from John's bedside, seeing the unabridged pain and sorrow on Finch's face as he moves from the couch to the kitchen. After some internal debate, she leaves John's side to follow him. She can tell he's in pain as he walks.

He didn't bother to hide the wince of pain as he slowly limped toward the kitchen. Even though Fusco had helped him get Reese into the safe house and into bed, the effort had still left him rather sore. It was nothing that a cup of hot tea and a couple Aleve couldn't fix, or at least dampen a little. He would have liked to reach for something stronger – Percocet, ideally – but he couldn't risk having his mental facilities compromised tonight, not when Reese might need him.

As he filled the teakettle with water and set it on the stove – cringing as his aching shoulders protested the motions – he let his mind drift back to when Fusco had brought Reese in. Reese had been somewhat out of it from the painkillers given to him when he'd been stitched up, but he'd still been something close to awake, and talking. Or more precisely, he had been apologizing... for shutting everyone out, for not appreciating them. And then he'd followed that up with, "She's right... I'm not alone... she told me you'd come and you did... stayed with me until you showed up..."

When Fusco had asked, "She who?" they had both been startled to hear Reese answer, "Joss."

Watching the teakettle absently, he started at the feel of something wet being pressed into his palm. He looked down to see Bear staring back up at him, nose pressed into his hand; there was an almost mournful look in the dog's eyes. He shifted his hand slightly to scratch Bear behind the ears. "He'll be okay."

Bear studied him for a moment before turning his head to stare at some empty spot in the kitchen. Finch frowned at the dog's unusual behavior, then turned his attention to fixing the tea when the kettle started whistling. He reached up to get the box of tea from the overhead cabinet; he had just gotten his fingers around the box when a painful spasm went through his neck and shoulder. The box fell to the floor.

She instinctively reaches for the falling object, but it does no good; it hits the ground anyway. He kneels and reaches for it at the same time. They come into contact; or rather, her hand passes through his. He pauses, and she can see tiny goosebumps form on his arm.

Finch stopped as he felt a cold numbness spread through his hand. Thrown off-balance by the sudden stop, he quickly transitioned a near-fall into sitting – somewhat forcefully – on the floor. He flexed his fingers and felt the pinprick tingling of sensation coming back, but the experience was a bit disconcerting.

Bear grabbed the box of tea in his mouth and started to walk off with it. Before Finch could say anything, the dog paused, looking up at something with his ears pricked attentively.

"Laat vallen," she says. "Af liggen."

Finch watched incredulously as Bear dropped the box of tea and laid down, all of his focus on the same empty spot. He wasn't sure quite what to make of it – Bear was mostly pretty well-behaved, but he'd never seen him that well-behaved without commands... especially with something in his mouth.

A crazy thought began to form in his mind, conclusions drawn from Reese's half-conscious ramblings and clichéd superstitions and legends. Before his rational self could kick in, he found himself whispering, "Joss?"

She turns at the sound of her name. Finch is looking in her direction. Not at her – he can't see her, and she doesn't have the Energy left to do anything to interact with him. It hadn't been that difficult to talk with John out there in the cold for the first time in over a year – he was close to dying, hovering between the two realms, so it hadn't taken much Energy – but it was still enough to make her tired; even on a good day, it takes far too great an effort to so much as whisper a single word to someone so firmly alive. The only exception is Bear; like all animals, the dog can see and hear her with no Energy on her part.

"I wish I could make this easier on you, Finch," she says, even though she knows he can't hear her. "But it'll get better. He knows better now."

There wasn't a response – not that he'd expected one to start with – and Finch felt ridiculous for having entertained the idea. But his better judgment seemed to be taking a back seat for once. "I don't know why I'm doing this," he said quietly. "I've never believed in ghosts, and I don't... I don't think that I believe you're there now. But if you are… thank you for saving him."

"You're welcome," she says, wishing he could hear.

Chapter Text

He knew it was going to be a bad day before he even opened his eyes.

Reaching for his glasses only confirmed it when the motion sent a wave of intense pain through his neck and back. He bit back an outcry of pain, instinctively falling motionless to keep from hurting further.

From his spot at the foot of the bed – where he persisted on sleeping despite Finch's continued insistence otherwise – Bear stretched and plodded his way up the bed. Finch cringed as the dog's motion shook the bed and sent more aches through his body. "Bear, stilliggen," he commanded.

Bear obediently lay down, sending a final jolt through the bed. Finch let out a slow breath, summoning the energy to move again. There was a bottle of painkillers on the nightstand, just a few feet away – but at the moment, it felt like it was a hundred miles away. Pain was muddling his thoughts, making it difficult to concentrate.

Finch took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Breathe in... breathe out. In... out. Just a few feet, he told himself. It's not that far... you can endure the pain that long. A few feet, take a pill, doze until it starts working – and then you can get on with the day.

Steeling himself, Finch slid himself over closer to the nightstand. As expected, the movement was agonizing. He stopped moving again and stared up at the ceiling, mind reeling from the pain. Bear, apparently interpreting Finch's movements as an override for the "lie still" command, got back up, this time repositioning himself to lay across Finch's chest.

Finch gasped audibly as his back protested the extra weight. "Bear!" he wheezed. "That hurts!"

Bear let out a huff – blowing dog breath in Finch's face, much to his annoyance – but didn't budge.

At least, Finch considered, he was within reach of the nightstand. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he stretched as far as he could and fumbled for the pill bottle. The first thing he did was knock his glasses into the floor; he made a mental note of their estimated position so he couldn't step on them later. He discovered the painkillers a moment later by knocking them into the floor also. Finch swore through clenched teeth as the bottle rolled across the floor, the pills inside rattling mockingly.

And that was before Bear leaped off the bed after it, his attention drawn by the rolling, rattling object.

"Bear, no! Foei!" A dozen irrelevant Dutch phrases flashed through him mind, but Finch was in too much pain to sort through them to find the best one for the situation.

There was a scuffling sound, followed by more rattling, as Bear grabbed the bottle in his mouth. Finch closed his eyes and tried not to think about how much it was going to hurt for him to get up and chase after the dog. I should have left him with Reese, he thought sourly. Tears of pain and frustration stung his eyes.

The bed shook again, and Finch opened his eyes to find Bear staring at him, the pill bottle still in his mouth. As Finch watched, Bear dropped the bottle on the sheets, using his nose to roll it closer to Finch's hand. He whimpered softly, as if expecting more rebuke for his actions.

"Oh, Bear," Finch whispered softly. "Thank you..." He quickly uncapped the bottle and popped one of the pills into his mouth, dry swallowing it with considerable effort. He patted the bed invitingly, and Bear hopped up on the bed, promptly flopping down next to him. Finch rolled over on his side and wrapped his arms around Bear.

"Thank you so much, Bear," he whispered into the dog's ear. "I'm sorry I yelled at you."

Apparently satisfied that he wasn't in trouble, Bear nuzzled closer to Finch.

Smiling warmly, Finch closed his eyes, relaxing in the warmth of his loyal companion's furry body as he waited for the medicine to kick in and ease his pain.

Chapter Text

"Good morning, Mr. Reese." Finch didn't bother looking up from his computer as he spoke. "I'm afraid you came out here for nothing. We don't have a new Number at the moment."

"Am I not allowed to drop by and check?" Reese asked.

Finch treated him to a brief look of exasperation before returning his focus to the computer. "I doubt it would do any good to tell you otherwise."

He was a tough one to crack, for sure. Reese was barely a month into his new job, and all he'd learned about his employer was that the man spent an inordinately large amount of time in this abandoned Library. Surely he lived somewhere, but Reese hadn't figured that one out yet.

Reese had searched the Library rather thoroughly in his spare time. There were a few locked doors he hadn't gotten into yet – not for lack of skill, just that he hadn't had the time to explore yet – but judging from the dust, they didn't appear to be used often.

Something new caught his eye; today, there was a cell phone sitting on the desk next to Finch's keyboard. Reese hadn't noticed Finch carry one before.

Feigning interest in one of the shelves of books, Reese casually took out his own phone and called up the cloning software that Finch had given him. A quick scan showed the phone's signal as being active; there was no name attached to it. Suppressing a smirk, he told the program to force pair the phones.

Pairing, the phone read. A moment later, it pinged back: Pairing unsuccessful.

Reese barely had time to register surprise and frustration when he heard Finch's cell phone let out a loud buzz.

Finch picked up the phone, his brow furrowed in momentary confusion. Then he looked up and met Reese's eyes, and the expression turned cold.

"Honestly, Mr. Reese. Did you really think I would give you the force-pairing software and not put appropriate countermeasures on my own phone?"

Reese couldn't help but feel intimidated by the icy stare he was receiving, but true to his CIA training, he didn't let his discomfort show. "You can't blame me for trying," he replied smoothly, flashing his charming-but-deadly smile.

Finch's eyes narrowed. "Go home, Mr. Reese," he commanded in no uncertain terms. "I'll call you when we have another Number."

Chapter Text

John looked up at the sound of the bathroom door opening, and watched quietly as Harold limped out, looking several shades paler than normal. He swayed a bit as he stood there for a moment, indecision written on his face. Finally, he turned and made his way painstakingly to the bedroom.

After some internal debate of his own as to whether his presence would be accepted or despised, John finally turned off the television and followed him. Harold was already in bed, curled up on his side in as close to a fetal position as his fused spine would allow him to achieve. John stretched out beside him and gently rested a hand on his shoulder, a quiet gesture that was intended to be soothingly inviting and – hopefully – not pushy or demanding.

Harold tensed under his touch, and John braced himself for the inevitable chastisement and demand to be left alone. Instead, Harold surprised him by slowly turning over until he was leaning against John, nestling himself naturally into the crook of his arm and resting his head on John's shoulder.

It was both endearing and painfully heartbreaking. When Harold wasn't feeling well, there was a specific threshold where he went from leave me the hell alone to stay with me hold me don't leave me – and clearly, he'd reached that point already. Not that John blamed him; it hadn't taken him long to figure out the exact nature of Harold's upcoming doctor's appointment. Colonoscopy prep was brutal; thank heavens it only had to be endured once a decade.

John glanced over at Harold, and found him staring at the ceiling, worry clearly etched on his face. He started to lay his arm next to Harold's, resting across his stomach, but quickly moved it when he groaned and pushed it away. "Please don't, John… I feel sick enough as it is."

"Sorry," John whispered back, repositioning his arm to rest across Harold's chest instead. He should have known better; from the sound of things in the bathroom, the last few glasses of the prep liquid hadn't gone down easily – and the last glass hadn't gone down at all. For lack of anything else to say, he ventured, "Remember when test anxiety used to be worrying about passing an algebra quiz?"

There was a long pause before Harold answered. "Algebra was never a problem for me." Clearly, he saw the conversation for what it was: a distraction from his present misery. "I was always good at math."

John chuckled lightly. "Of course you were," he said. "I'm sure there wasn't a single subject in school that you struggled with."

"Mmm…" Harold winced, and shifted his weight slightly. "I didn't particularly care for biology," he said after a moment.

"Let me guess… you didn't like the dissections."

"Not exactly a memory I'd like to recall right now. Let's just say that there was an unfortunate consequence of it being the next period after lunch." He punctuated that with a soft groan.

"Are you okay?"

"No…" Another sign of just how miserable Harold was feeling: he went from I'm fine to sarcasm to unabridged honesty. Admitting that he wasn't okay was the clearest sign of just how not okay he truly was. The faintest sheen of tears on his lashes was a pretty telling indication too. Harold was usually pretty stoic about… well, everything.

John reflexively tightened his grip on Harold, blinking back tears of his own. He hated this, hated seeing someone he loved scared and in pain – he could read the anxiety in Harold's expression just as clearly as the physical discomfort – while he couldn't do a damn thing about it.

He felt Harold shift, then fall still. "John…" he whispered sadly. "I'm sorry…"

"For what?"

"You're upset…"

"No, I'm not."

"Don't lie to me, John."

John let out a sigh. "I'm not upset at you, Harold," he corrected. "I just wish there were something I could actually do to make you feel better. I know you feel miserable right now, and I know you're not looking forward to tomorrow, and I just…"

Harold reached up and silenced him with a finger to his lips. "It's okay, John," he said softly. "Just being here is more than enough for me."

Chapter Text

Few people would have paid much attention to the hunched-over figure pushing his shopping cart down the sidewalk, especially at this time of night, which worked out just fine for him. He didn't particularly care to be noticed. He kept his attention on the cracked concrete beneath his feet, pushing the cart blindly ahead. He didn't need to see where he was going. The streets were always deserted at this time, and he'd followed the same path nightly for almost ten years. Nothing ever changed, except for the occasional addition of discarded beer cans.

Which is why he was startled when his cart hit something very solid and unmoving. He looked up and found himself staring at the business end of a shotgun. "You can't come through here."

"What do you mean, I can't come through here? I come through here every night at precisely 12:23 am. It's 12:23. See?" He shoved the sleeve of his coat up to reveal his watch, and tapped the face of it irritably. "Now get out of my way, I'm late."

The person at the other end of the shotgun ratcheted the weapon menacingly, causing the man to take a single step backward. "Go around."

Grumbling under his breath about rude people and disrupted routines, the man begrudgingly pushed his cart across the street. As he made his way down the parallel sidewalk, he glanced over to see what it was on his side of the street that forced him to detour. There was another similarly-armed guard on the other end of the sidewalk, protecting the opposite corner. Between the two, standing in front of the cordoned-off entrance to an old building, was a single figure in a hat and a dark coat, collar turned up to the wind. As he watched, the figure raised a glass as if in salute and poured the contents on the steps.

Odd, he thought. But then again, he was pushing a shopping cart down a Brooklyn sidewalk after midnight, so who was he to judge?

Elias let the last drop of scotch drip from the glass onto the steps of the former boys' home before pouring the matching shot for himself. This was the second shot; he felt he should probably say something by now.

He stared at the yellow tape, put up by the fire marshal to prevent intruders from entering the burnt remains of the now-condemned building. Such a silly barrier; a pair of scissors or a pocketknife would render it useless in a matter of seconds. Still, its presence was... effective.

He resisted the urge to look up at the top floor, at the broken windows and blackened stone that marked the events of earlier that day. Truth be known, he didn't really want to be here at all, but he felt he owed it to Anthony to at least offer some sort of a memorial Nobody else would, after all.

He gave a single bittersweet chuckle. "You're probably laughing at me right now, trying to come up with a eulogy," he said out loud, smiling involuntarily at the thought.

He could picture it clearly in his mind: the twisted smirk, the twinkle in his eye as he chuckled. Anthony was probably the only person on the face of the planet who would have dared laugh at Elias – or, even more boldly, dared talk back to him. C'mon, Boss, really? What are you gonna say? "Here lies Anthony, beloved family man"? "He was a gift to society, and the world is now a much sadder place without him"?

Elias shook his head wryly. "Nah, nothing quite so maudlin," he said. "Something more like... 'gone too soon', perhaps."

You're getting soft, Boss.

"Maybe I am. But you were a dear friend, and a brother to me. You deserved better."

We all did.

Elias took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He finally leaned back, staring up at the sooty walls and what few jagged remains of glass were left in the upper windows. "You ever miss when it was just Carl and Tony? No 'Boss', no empire... just the two of us looking out for each other?"

The wind blowing through the gutted building was his only reply.

"Probably not. Those were the days we'd get beaten up and locked in the closet for trying to take an extra slice of bread at supper... we'd go to bed, our stomachs growling, while the people who were supposed to be taking care of us criminalized us for the simple bad fortune of being the bastard sons of mob bosses." He let his gaze travel back down to the taped-off door. "We survived. And we made sure our people never went hungry, never felt lesser for an ancestry that was out of their control."

He sighed as he finished off his shot of scotch. Pouring another, he continued. "We did our part to make the city a more... orderly place. But we lost ourselves along the way... I started calling you 'Anthony'; you started calling me 'Boss'... I always did regret that."

He raised his glass to the sky again. "To Tony," he said. "Beloved friend... devoted brother..." Lowering the glass, he poured the contents on the steps in front of him, and then poured himself his final shot of the night. "I'm sorry I let you down, my friend."

He tossed back his scotch; then, with a gesture to the men guarding the corners, headed for his car.

He never looked back.

Chapter Text

The tolling bell echoed through the air, carried by the gentle winds.

The usual sounds of New York City had fallen quiet. No traffic or sirens could be heard. Not even the birds sang.

John Reese closed his eyes, feeling the warmth of the Mexico sun and the softness of cotton sheets. He smelled the fragrance of exotic flowers in the air. He could almost feel Jessica's presence next to him. And he could still see the haunting images on the television, occasionally hearing bits and pieces of the Spanish commentary that he could actually understand.

Harold Finch closed his eyes, feeling the gentle whisper of an artificial air-conditioned breeze, a hard chair under him. He tasted the sharp bite of scotch on his tongue. He could almost feel Nathan's presence beside him. And he could still see the haunting images on the television, the commentary drowned out by the numb horror that this had happened mere blocks away and he'd never even realized it.

The bell tolled again, and as one, both Reese and Finch unconsciously reached for each other's hand, even before the rest of the crowd joined hands in memory of those who had lost their lives that day.

By way of the numerous security cameras surrounding Freedom Tower, the Machine that rose from the ashes of that horrible tragedy observed the memorial service. Its own heuristic processes were suspended, and didn't resume until the final toll of the bell faded from the air and the world slowly began to turn once more.

Chapter Text

When Finch came back down to the Subway, he was expecting to see the usual sight that had greeted him at every entry since their narrow escape from the Samaritan agents at the substation: Root sitting at the computer, hard at work on their joint effort of rebuilding the Machine. While she was still working today, one of the monitors now showed something quite different from coding.

"Ms. Groves," Finch began, "do you mind explaining what the National Zoo's panda cam has to do with the Machine?"

Root turned to look at him, and smiled charming as she turned back to the black-and-white video feed of the sleeping pandas. "Absolutely nothing," she said, her voice oddly cheerful.

"Then why are we now dedicating a significant portion of system resources to watching them?"

"Because they're cute," she replied. At Finch's glare, she added, "Oh, don't be that way, Harry. If your system can't handle adding a couple of video streams, then you've failed as a computer engineer. Besides, we've been at this a while, and it's good to have a diversion every now and then. Look at Bei Bei sleeping in his mom's paw... isn't that simply adorable?"

Finch shifted his gaze to the screen. The panda cub was stretched out along his mother's arm, his little head resting in her paw. Both animals were sleeping soundly; Finch had to admit the sight of them was both endearing and soothingly peaceful.

"Why do we have two streams of the same thing?" he asked a moment later.

"If Mei Xiang leaves the den, the other camera switches to her," Root explained. "Then we can watch both of them at once. And sometimes, if we're really lucky, they'll switch one of the cameras to Bao Bao – that's the cub that was born there a couple years ago. She's really fun to watch, very energetic and playful."

"Yes, I remember hearing about her when she was born," Finch remarked. "She was big news." At that moment, Bei Bei let out a big yawn, and he couldn't help smiling.

Root glanced at him and grinned. "See, I knew you'd enjoy this."

They watched silently for a few more minutes. After a while, Mei Xiang turned over, holding Bei Bei to her chest as she did. The cub wound up upside-down, growling unhappily, with one back foot moving in circles as he attempted to wiggle his way upright. Both Root and Finch laughed as Mei let out a huff and proceeded to shuffle him around until he was upright again and once more resting contentedly on her arm.

When Reese came back down to the Subway, he was expecting to see the usual sight that had greeted him at every entry since their narrow escape from the Samaritan agents at the substation: Finch and Root sitting at the computer, hard at work on their joint effort of rebuilding the Machine.

Today, however, while their coding work was still up on most of the other windows, both of them were staring fixatedly at a single monitor showing two matching video streams of a sleeping panda and cub.

"Um..." Reese wasn't quite sure what to make of this unusual turn of events. "Is the Machine finished?"

"Taking a break," Finch replied passively, his attention still focused on the screen.

"Watching pandas," Root added, also sounding somewhat distracted.

Reese looked at the screen again. He wasn't quite sure what the appeal was – it would be different if the pandas were awake and actually doing something – but he decided he wasn't going to overanalyze it. The past couple of months had been stressful, listening to Root and Finch arguing with each other over how best to rebuild the Machine. If watching a panda and her cub sleep was what it took to keep the tension level down in the Subway, then Reese was all for it.

He sat at the far end of the desk and proceeded with his own meditative exercise: the disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling of the multiple weapons in his arsenal. As he worked, he occasionally looked up at the pandas. Admittedly, there was something oddly relaxing about them... his peeks at the screen starting coming more frequently, and for longer periods of time...

And then one of the feeds changed. Root let out a happy squeal of "It's Bao Bao!" and Reese's disassembled rifle was instantly forgotten as all three of them watched the screen, enthralled by the playful panda's antics.

Chapter Text

"Do you have any idea how much chaos this debacle has created?!"

Greer stood stoically, his face impassive even in the face of the irate politician currently screaming at him. He was the very image of composure – a skill cultivated by his years of espionage, first with MI-6, later with his own freelance work – despite the fact that deep down inside, carefully obscured from public view, he was just as livid as Senator Garrison.

"It wasn't enough that your system gave us bad intelligence," Garrison continued, his face growing redder as he spoke. "Or that we deployed three of our best units to a false alarm. No, this entire fiasco had to play itself out in front of thousands of civilians, AND a live webcam stream!"

Greer, despite himself, winced slightly at the last part. "Failure for your teams to disable the webcams is hardly our fault, Senator," he pointed out.

"They did deactivate them – five times! Your system kept bringing them back online!"

From behind Senator Garrison, one of the monitors flickered to life, black letters forming words, one at a time, against a stark white background. NEEDED... VIDEO... FEED... TO... MONITOR... OPERATION.

Greer clenched his teeth and fought against the urge to plant a bullet squarely in the center of the monitor. "Senator, please accept our sincerest apologies for this… most unfortunate incident. Rest assured that I am personally overseeing our programmers' efforts to locate and eliminate the errant code in Samaritan's system so this doesn't happen again."

"Oh this is not happening again, Mr. Greer, rest assured of that!" Garrison snapped. "We're shutting Samaritan down."

Greer blinked. It was the only outward sign of his shock. "I... beg your pardon?" he managed to choke out.

"You promised us that Decima Technologies would take care of any public relations issues that ever arose from the use of Samaritan, and then disbanded Decima as soon as Samaritan went live," Garrison reminded him. "So we're the ones stuck taking care of this... this... mess!" Greer opened his mouth to protest, and to assure the Senator that they would take care of things, but couldn't get a word in edgewise. "Do you know how many calls the White House had to field from concerned citizens across the nation who watched this on their computers?" Garrison continued. "Or how many screenshots and videos of our ISA units entering the enclosure got posted all across the Internet? We had to shut down all the social media outlets to try to stem the tide, but there are still images popping up!"

"Samaritan can monitor the Internet and remove any references to the operation," Greer offered, aware even as the words left his mouth that it was a pathetic attempt at reconciliation.

Garrison's entire head grew even redder than before. "Do you really think we would trust your system to fix this now?" he demanded. "Perhaps you don't fully understand the situation!"

"I assure you, Senator, we are fully aware—"

"We just sent three highly-skilled ISA teams to the National Zoo—"

"You don't have to remind me, we were watching—"

"—to check on a friggin' PANDA!" Garrison bellowed.

This time, Greer allowed himself a weary sigh. "I'm fully aware of what happened, Senator."

"Indigo Twelve had to reassure an entire class of visiting schoolchildren that Bao Bao wasn't a terrorist. No operative should ever have to tell a child that!"

"I agree. But as I said, we're presently working on eliminating the errant code in Samaritan's core functions—"

"It's too late for that," Garrison interrupted. "The committee has already spoken. We're cutting our ties to the Samaritan program, effective immediately. The system is to be shut down and permanently deactivated by midnight tonight – and by permanently deactivated, I mean every single server that Samaritan uses wiped clean! We're bringing Northern Lights back online."

Greer raised his eyebrows. "I was under the impression that Northern Lights was destroyed."

"I have sources that tell me it can be brought back online in a matter of weeks. Oh, and whatever dark hole you put Control in – we want her reinstated to her position." At Greer's expression, he added, "Don't think I didn't know about that."

"Senator, I urge you to reconsider. Samaritan has been a far greater asset to the nation than Northern Lights ever was. Do you truly want to go back to a vague system that gave you nothing more than a Number?"

"Northern Lights may have been a closed system and vague with its intelligence… but it was always right, and it never gave us false alarms! Don't try to weasel your way out of this, Greer. Shut. It. DOWN!"

Greer looked over at the monitor – Samaritan was wisely being silent at the moment – and sighed in defeat. "Very well, Senator," he said morosely. "We'll comply."

"You'd better. You're lucky you and your cohorts aren't all being arrested for sedition right now!" And with that, Senator Garrison finally stormed away.

Once the door shut and Greer was finally alone, he allowed himself to drop the stoic-secret-agent façade and sag wearily into the nearest chair. Of all the possibilities that he had conceived of, all the ways that Samaritan could possibly be brought down, Greer had never once considered that Ailuropoda melanoleuca would be their downfall.

He had already isolated, just prior to Garrison's visit, the innocuous-looking line of code that had somehow gotten embedded in Samaritan's core functions. The code had initially replaced several NSA feeds with the National Zoo's giant panda webcam feed, and then later assigned the subjects being monitored as "high-priority" and "top secret" matters of national security, their safety being topped only by the President and his family.

Monitoring a few extra webcams would not have been an issue for Samaritan's system, as powerful as it was – and very likely nothing would have become of it – had one of the feeds this morning not shown the two-year-old cub, Bao Bao, falling out of a tree as a branch broke and at the precise moment that someone's camera flash went off. Samaritan, clearly mistaking the sound of the snapped branch for a gunshot and the camera for a muzzle flash, had reacted immediately, triggering the immediate deployment of the ISA teams to the panda enclosure and the resulting public relations crisis.

The code was elegantly written, and very well hidden. Samaritan had been convinced that, being such an important matter, it was best that few eyes ever see that directive. It was only with great insistence on Greer's part that he was finally allowed to see it.

Being as there were very few people who could code and hack well enough to sneak something onto Samaritan's drives, Greer had naturally thought that Harold Finch was to blame for this reprogramming. But he'd had the honor of meeting Mr. Finch in person, and the panda element seemed a bit too... whimsical... for the reclusive and brilliant-minded creator of The Machine. No, this one had Samantha Groves written all over it.

Turning his attention to the computer monitor, Greer addressed Samaritan directly. "I hope you realize the enormity of what just happened here," he said disapprovingly. "Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

The screen was still for several seconds before the words appeared. IS... BAO BAO... SAFE?

Greer scowled and shut the monitor off. Good riddance, he thought to himself.

"Good news!" Root announced, bounding cheerfully down the stairs into their Subway hideout. "I just got off the phone with Caleb; his government contacts informed him that Samaritan is being shut down. As soon as the servers are wiped of Samaritan's programming, we'll be free to use them to bring The Machine back online!" There was the faintest hint of joyful tears in her eyes. "It worked, Harold. It actually worked – we're finally getting Her back!"

Finch shook his head in wry amusement. "I have to say, Miss Groves," he said, "I'm impressed. I honestly had my doubts it would work."

Root grinned, a mischievous twinkle in her eyes. "You underestimate me, Harry," she said. "Besides, I told you nobody could resist the pandas, not even Samaritan. If the big lug will watch them for hours on end, so will anyone – or anything!"

Finch smiled as he gazed fondly at the briefcase holding the compressed remnants of The Machine's core code. "It will be nice having The Machine back," he remarked.

Root draped an arm across Finch's shoulders, letting out a contented sigh. "It sure will," she said happily. "And you know what? I bet She'll love the pandas, too!"

Chapter Text

He watched the world through the eyes of a camera, the people passing by unaware as they went about their daily routines. He was hidden, invisible, even in plain sight.

Something inside him longed to be a part of that world, a world where he led a normal life, had a normal family and a normal job. Part of him yearned for a world where The Machine didn't exist, where people didn't want him dead, and where he could be with Grace once more.

He could pretend, of course – he'd always been good at that – but it wouldn't be the same. He knew too much, had done too much, had lost too much. How could he truly be a part of normal society when the people would never know or understand the thing he built to protect the nation?

So instead, he watched the world from an abandoned library, surrounded by books and computers. He'd never felt so isolated in his life.

He watched the world through the eyes of a soldier, the people passing by unaware as they went about their daily routines. He was hidden, invisible, even in plain sight.

Something inside him longed to be a part of that world, a world where he led a normal life, had a normal family and a normal job. Part of him yearned for a world where the CIA didn't exist, where people didn't think he was dead, and where he could be with Jessica once more.

He used to be able to pretend – all part of his job – but he couldn't now; it wouldn't be the same anyway. He knew too much, had done too much, had lost too much. How could he truly be a part of normal society when the people would never know or understand the things he'd done in the name of protecting the nation?

So instead, he watched the world from a dark alley, surrounded by trash cans and whiskey bottles. He'd never felt so isolated in his life.

When he first hired Reese, he tried to keep his distance. After all, he'd lost several employees already; there was no need for him to get too close and risk getting hurt once more.

But Reese's curiosity had been insatiable, and he found himself trying to resist letting him get through to him, hiding his life and his secrets. He was surprised to discover that Reese seemed to actually care about him; it had been a long time since someone else had showed some concern toward him.

Little by little, the walls started to come down. But still, he resisted getting too close to Reese. There was, after all, some benefit to remaining isolated...

When Finch first hired him, he tried to keep his distance. After all, he'd been burned by one employer already; there was no need for him to get too close and risk getting hurt once more.

But his curiosity had been insatiable, and he found himself trying to break through Finch's walls, discover his life and his secrets. He was surprised to realize that he actually cared about Finch; it had been a long time since he thought himself capable of showing some concern toward others.

Little by little, the walls started to come down. But still, he hesitated to get too close to Finch. There was, after all, some benefit to remaining isolated...

... until one cold December night, when shots were fired in a parking garage.

Finch could not bear to remain hidden in his sanctuary; instead, he rushed to his car and drove toward Reese.

Reese could not bear to bleed out alone in the stairwell; instead, he reached up to his earbud and called Finch.

Together, they both escaped into the night and lived to see another day.

They watch the world through the eyes of The Machine, the people passing by unaware as they go about their daily routines.

At times, they still long to be a part of that world, a world where they lead normal lives, have normal families and normal jobs. Part of them yearns for a world where their pasts had been different, where they won't eventually wind up dead, and where they can be with their loved ones once more.

They can't even pretend anymore. They know too much, have done too much, have lost too much. How can either of them truly be a part of normal society when the world can never know the things they do to save innocent people?

So instead, they watch the world from their Library. They still feel isolated... but now, working side by side, perhaps not quite as much.

Chapter Text

"We have a new Number." Rather than elaborate, Finch taped the picture to the glass board and stepped aside. Taking a deep breath to steel himself for the inevitable reactions, he turned around to face Reese and Shaw.

Predictably, Shaw was the first one to speak. "You're kidding me. Again?"

"We've had repeat Numbers in the past, Miss Shaw," Finch began.

"Not even Leon got into trouble this many times, Harold," Reese pointed out.

"Let me guess," Shaw interjected. "She's in imminent danger of kidnapping, right? And this makes, what, the tenth... twelfth...? Hell, I've lost count already. How does one woman get kidnapped that many times?"

"She is royalty, Miss Shaw," Finch reminded her. "Being the sovereign princess of a vast kingdom is understandably a very high-risk position."

"Then she should hire more bodyguards or something," Shaw argued.

"Be that as it may, the Princess is still in danger. I expect you and Mr. Reese will be bound for the Mushroom Kingdom shortly?" Finch phrased it as a question, but his tone made it clear that it was more than a friendly suggestion.

"No way," Shaw immediately protested. "I'm not going."

"It's not that bad, Shaw," Reese spoke up. "We'll go, keep tabs on the usual suspects—"

"—by usual suspects, you mean Bowser."

"—attempt to intervene if we can, or help Mario if we can't get to her in time," Reese finished.

"You really expect me to go jump into a giant sewer pipe and come out in some freakish world with talking mushrooms and fire-breathing turtles, to save a princess who's just going to get herself kidnapped again next week?"

Finch sighed. "I understand it's not ideal, Miss Shaw," he said, "but as long as The Machine keeps alerting us to people in danger, we're obligated to try to help them. If we start picking and choosing who to save and who to ignore, we may as well abandon this venture altogether."

Shaw glared at him for several long seconds. Finally, she let out a huff as she quietly relented to Finch's logic. "Fine."

"Good." Finch allowed himself a small flicker of a smile as he sat down at his computer. "I'll see if I can hack my way into their system and get a location on Miss Peach. I'll send you her coordinates as soon as I have them."

"Here's an idea," Shaw remarked as she and Reese headed out. "Why don't we just send her location data directly to Mario? If he knew right where Princess Peach was located, he wouldn't be wasting time going to all the wrong castles first, and it would save us all the trouble..."

Chapter Text

"We're on our own now."

Root quickly looks back to make sure he's following, then heads for the door, gun up and at the ready. This time, there's no voice guiding her, telling her where their enemies are. He'd never felt entirely comfortable with her having such unfettered access to the Machine, but now he wishes she had it back. The thought that they're running blindly scares him.

"We're on our own now."

They make it to the door in one piece, though the same can't be said about the few operatives they encounter on the way. He steps numbly around them, but his mind doesn't register the levels of violence which would previously have appalled him. All he sees is the phantom memory of words on a computer screen; all he feels is the weight of the briefcase holding remnants of the Machine's core code, the lines of code folded in on themselves and compressed, again and again, to fit into the RAM chips inside.

"We're on our own now."

He unconsciously shifts the briefcase from one hand to the other; the motion brings him into full awareness of his surroundings by causing a spasm of his back muscles. He staggers into the wall, gasping in surprise and pain.

"Are you okay?" Root asks, turning back to study him with a mixture of worry and fear.

He grits his teeth and closes his eyes, willing the pain away. Words flash on their own accord across his vision... FATHER... I AM SORRY... I FAILED YOU.

A single tear forces its way past tightly clinched eyelids.

"Harold." He feels her hand on his, her delicate fingers curling around his own, the same hand gripping the Machine. "Are you hurt?"

He is – in the way Root is probably referring to, his muscles aching from running, dodging, and the last assault with the electricity coursing through his body as he desperately tried to protect the Machine from the power surge threatening to destroy it. But none of those are the pain he's feeling most acutely.

"We're on our own now."

"She was alive," he whispers, the pronoun he once resisted now coming easily across his tongue. "This whole time, She was alive." How, he wondered, did one come to terms with that realization, that a computer system he coded, programmed, wrote into existence, was sentient?

"She still is, Harold," Root says. "We saved Her. She's still alive."

He wants to argue – how could they possibly know, when they both realized that this last-ditch effort to save the Machine's code was untested and fraught with uncertainty – but his mind can't seem to form the right words anymore.

"Harold," Root says again, her voice firm, demanding his attention. She offers a tentative smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. "It'll be okay. We'll make it. She'll make it."

He stares at her wordlessly. He can see the fear in her eyes, his doubt mirrored in her expression. Still, he acknowledges that she's trying to reassure him – probably herself too by proxy – and somehow that makes it easier to push the pain aside and focus once more on the immediate task of escaping alive.

He looks up at the door separating them from the streets of New York, and realizes something equally disturbing. "It's quiet out there."

Root whirls toward the door, falling still as she listens to the silence beyond. He doesn't have to be able to read minds to realize they're both thinking the same thing: is Reese still alive out there, or are the two of them truly on their own.

She raises her gun again. "Stay close, Harold. And whatever happens out there... if I go down, you keep moving. Make sure you both survive."

He nods, even though her back is turned to him. "Thank you, Root."

She turns toward him, flashing him a brief smile – genuine this time. The smile disappears as quickly as it came and she's suddenly all business, ready for whatever dangers await them outside.

She opens the door, and together they step out into the silent darkness.

Chapter Text

Every pay phone they pass, he expects to ring.

He has to remind himself each time that they're not going to ring, that they won't ring as long as the Machine is offline and hypercompressed into the briefcase he's carrying, but five years of noticing and anticipating the phones is a difficult habit to break. And each time he pauses, each time he remembers, each time Reese urges him to keep moving, he feels the loss even more.

And now, he's acutely aware that their time is running out... that even as they're fighting to stay one step ahead of the Samaritan operatives pursuing them, the Machine is slowing dying in his hands... that there's a very good possibility that he may never hear those phones ring again.

The thought is both sobering and terrifying.

He pauses again, this time to catch his breath, and steals a glance at the indicator light on the briefcase. He can't let it happen. He can't let Samaritan win.

He can't let Her die.