Work Text:
Shaw unloads a kit on the safe house's dining room table. Five hypodermic syringes lined up on a sterile tray like so many soldiers. Stolen, probably.
"I got my vaccination," whines Fusco, rubbing a spot on his left bicep. "In fact, I got two, so why do I need another?"
Shaw glances around the table, giving Finch and Reese a sly sort of wink. "Thought a man like you, Lionel, would be used to dealing with a tiny prick."