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Surveillance – Ch. 20

He glanced up from his lunch as the door opened, but it wasn’t Megan. That was good, since he’d eaten his pudding already even though he wasn’t done with his peas yet. He didn’t like peas, but Megan said he needed to eat his vegetables, so he ate them anyway, even if he sometimes ate the pudding first. The woman who came into the room was new, her hair short and dark, but not black or brown. It was a new color, kind of like orange or red, but not quite.

“Hello,” he said with a smile. “I’m John.” Megan said it was nice to tell new people his name. It was friendly. He liked being friendly. He didn’t like his name very much, though. John Phoenix. John was good, it felt right, but Phoenix was like peas – he didn’t know why he didn’t like it, but he didn’t want to say it. It was wrong.

He waited for the woman to tell him her name. Most of the people that he saw did, but she didn’t. She walked to the foot of his bed and reached into her black bag, pulling out a black thing that she pointed at him. He looked carefully at it, feeling that dark cloud in the back of his mind push up a word. Gun.

He shrank back, pressing himself against his bed and turning his head away. “No,” he said in a small voice. “Don’t like. Bad noise.” He waited for the noise, his body shaking, his heart pounding, and in his mind, whatever was hiding in the darkness tried to get out. He tried to stop it, to make it go away, but he saw things in his head, he felt them in his heart, bad things, scary things, guns and blood and pain and sad – He looked back at the woman as tears ran down his cheeks.

She slowly lowered the gun, frowning at him. Then she raised it again. “I’m sorry,” she said.

The door opened. “Hey, John, did you eat your-” Megan stopped, her face turning white as she saw the woman and the gun.

“Step away from the door,” the woman said, pointing the gun at Megan.

“No!” he shouted, the memory of a gunshot echoing in his ears, the memory of pain exploding in his chest and his head as the darkness within his mind shattered. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, a feeling like rushing water roaring in his mind, then he gasped, a second of dizziness fading.

Reese grabbed the crystal vase full of flowers off the table beside his bed and hurtled it at the woman, aiming for her left leg. The vase thudded against her thigh and she screamed, staggering. Dr. Tillman rushed at her, grabbing the pistol in both hands and forcing it down to point at the floor. Reese threw back the blankets and scrambled out of bed, his bare feet hitting the cold tiles, and his knees nearly buckled beneath him. He caught himself on the bed, another wave of dizziness washing over him, but he shook it off and staggered forward.

The woman punched Dr. Tillman in the face and jerked free as she stumbled backward. Reese lunged and grabbed her arm as the woman whipped around, raising the gun. He slammed her wrist down on the metal rail at the foot of the bed, her fingers jumping reflexively and sending the pistol clattering to the floor. He kicked it away and spun her around, twisting her arm up behind her back. Glancing around, he quickly grabbed the unused IV line hanging from the IV pole and used it tie the woman’s hands behind her back before forcing her to lie face down on the floor.

As he straightened up, Reese felt another moment of vertigo and he blinked hard, trying to make the disorientation go away. He felt like someone had taken the contents of his life, all neatly sorted and filed away in his memory, and then tossed them into a big, jumbled pile and tried to stuff it all back into his skull. There were random bits and pieces and great empty gaps, but he didn’t have time to worry about that.

The door flew open and an orderly stuck his head in. “What’s going on?” he asked, his eyes widening at the sight of the woman bound on the floor.

“Call the police,” Reese said. “This woman tried to kill us.”

The orderly nodded and ran out. Reese stumbled over to Dr. Tillman, leaning back against the wall with blood running down her chin from a split lip. “Are you okay?” he asked, reaching up to check for a broken or dislocated jaw.

She winced. “Yeah, I’m okay,” she said. “Are you? I mean, are you…you?”

“Mostly,” he said. “It’s still a bit…muddled. I think I’ve been trying to come back for a while, but…there’s a lot of memories from my past that I’d rather not remember.” An image of Jessica flashed in his mind, from the last time he’d seen her, walking away in that airport, and he closed his eyes, drawing a slow breath. “I have to get out of here,” he said, turning away.

“John,” she said, reaching out and catching him by the arm, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. We should run some tests-”

“The cops are on their way,” he said, gently lifting her hand and wrapping his fingers around hers. “Thank you so much for everything, but I need to get back to my partner.”

“You mean Harold, right?”

He paused, the name stirring recent memories to the surface, empty, hollow, lonely memories. “He stopped coming to see me,” he whispered. He shook his head, ignoring the ache in his chest. Of course he had. Reese couldn’t really expect Finch to sit by his side and hold his hand while they watched cartoons, could he? Finch had an important job to do, and it was only logical that he find someone else to continue that work. But all the logic in the world couldn’t stop it from hurting.

He pushed it aside and shuffled over to the cupboard in the corner, his right leg – so long unused – stiff and slow to respond. He pulled out his duffel bag of clothes from the hotel and slipped into a pair of slacks and a dark blue button-down shirt. As he dug through the bag looking for socks, he discovered an envelope that he didn’t remember putting in there.

“What is this?” he asked, holding it up for Dr. Tillman to see.

“Harold left that for you,” she said. It wasn’t sealed, so he opened it and began shuffling through the contents. It was identification, account numbers, and credit cards, all for a John Phoenix. It was everything he’d need to start a new life.

I want you to do something for me. Have a long and happy life, something neither of us ever expected, but you more than deserve. Reese closed his eyes, Finch’s voice filling his head, almost as though he were standing at Reese’s shoulder. Finch hadn’t abandoned him, hadn’t cast aside a broken weapon, he’d set him free.

Reese shoved it into his back pocket and finished getting dressed. Then he crouched beside the woman and grabbed her chin, tilting her head so he could look into her face.

“The cops are on their way,” he said. “Whether they take you to the jail or the morgue is up to you. Why did you try to kill me?”

She glared up at him, jaw set stubbornly, until he reached over and picked up her gun, pressing the barrel against her temple. “You killed my partner,” she snarled.

Reese regarded her for a moment, running through the short list of recent deaths at his hands, but it was so obvious, he couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it earlier. “Mr. Allen,” he said. She was the prostitute, though she’d obviously had a haircut since, or else worn a wig that night. A chilling through suddenly occurred to him. “And what about my partner? Did you pay him a visit before you came to see me?”

“I tried,” she said, “but he’s not as easy to follow as you were.”

That was a relief, and all he needed to know. He checked the rubber tubing around the woman’s wrists before dumping the contents of her handbag onto his bed. He rifled through the typical items – lipstick, pens, aspirin, tic-tacs, keys, and wallet – and the not so common – an extra clip, a lock-pick set, latex gloves, and a switchblade. He tucked the keys, wallet, and switchblade into his pockets, then turned to Dr. Tillman, who was watching him with dark, worried eyes.

“I’ll be okay,” he said, leaning down and placing a light kiss on her cheek. “Take care.”

“You, too, John,” she said.

Reese opened the door and poked his head out, glancing up and down the corridor before stepping out and heading for the elevators, a slight limp in his gait. At least he’d gotten the use of his limbs back. Was there such a thing as psychological paralysis? Finch would probably know, or he could find out.

He reached the double bank of elevators and pushed the down button, casually glancing back up the corridor as he waited. At the far end, spilling out of the opposite bank of elevators, came a pair of uniformed cops, followed by Detectives Carter and Fusco. What were they doing there; this wasn’t a homicide. Reese turned away, reaching out to hit the elevator button again, though it didn’t help the doors open any sooner.

He could tell when they’d reached his hospital room from the commotion behind him, and he chanced another backward glance, just as Carter came charging out of the room. Their eyes met. Shit.

“Police; don’t move,” she shouted, drawing her pistol. Reese drew a short, sharp breath, his chest constricting as he remembered the fear he had felt as that other, simpler version of himself, and he shoved it aside, resentment taking its place. He couldn’t do his job if he was scared of guns. He considered making a run for it, trying his luck in the stairwell, but he didn’t think his leg could take the abuse of three flights of stairs. Even in his weakened condition, he knew he could disarm her, but he doubted she’d make the mistake of getting that close to him. Slowly, he started to raise his hands over his head. “Get down on the ground, now!” Carter instructed.

With a soft chime, the elevator doors trundled open and a man stepped out, directly between Reese and Carter. Reese dove into the elevator and hit the button to close the doors. Still in the car were an elderly man and a young woman holding a small child. They looked at him, startled. He smiled.

“Hold that elevator!” he heard Carter shout as the doors slid closed. The man who had just exited reached out and stopped the doors from closing. Reese looked out at him through the gap and drew the switchblade out of his pocket, the sharp silver blade appearing with an audible snick. The man paled and jerked back, letting the doors close. Reese put the weapon away and hit the button for the underground parking garage.

Whack! Something smacked against his shoulder. Reese spun around, jerking the wooden cane out of the man’s hand on reflex alone. The old man staggered, catching himself on the wall. In the corner, the young woman drew a noisy, frightened breath and clutched at her child.

“Take it easy,” Reese said softly, handing the cane back to the man. “I’m not going to hurt anyone.” He stood with his back in the opposite corner, holding his hands out in front of him and trying to appear harmless as the man stood protectively in front of the woman and child. Finally, the elevator shuddered to a stop and the doors opened. “Sorry if I frightened you,” he said as he stepped out into the cool, quiet underground cavern of the parking garage.

Working quickly, he made his way down a row of cars, picking out the easiest to hotwire and smashing out the driver’s side window. In thirty seconds, he was rolling toward the exit. At the booth, he handed over the parking pass and paid the fee with cash from his would-be killer’s wallet. Police sirens wailed up and down half of the streets of Manhattan, but he found a pair of sunglasses in the center console and casually blended into traffic.

An hour later, he dumped the car and walked the remaining ten blocks to the library. His leg was aching, his muscles jumping and twitching beneath his skin by the time he got there. Was this what Finch felt? He had to lean heavily on the railing as he made his way up the stairs, something Finch would never do. His heart was pounding as he traversed the long, book-lined halls and approached their headquarters. Did Finch even need him anymore?

He sensed that something was wrong before he reached the central room. It was too quiet, too cold. He stepped into the room and stopped, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. All of Finch’s electronics were turned off and draped with protective plastic sheeting. Slowly, he circled the large table, trailing his hand along the back of Finch’s chair. It was possible Finch was in the process of regrouping, of finding a replacement. Or perhaps he’d realized the woman was Mr. Allen’s partner, maybe he’d caught sight of her following him, maybe he’d moved to a safer location. Then Reese saw the board.

Finch’s board of numbers, pictures and string marking lost lives, lost chances… Photos and newspaper clippings littered the floor, strings hanging limp, pushpins scattered. It looked like he’d torn it down with his bare hands.

For a long, long time, Reese just stood and stared. This was Finch’s passion, his obsession, his life. Why rip it down? Frustration at having to move, to start from scratch? That seemed unlikely. Finch was a practical man. Starting over would be…inconvenient, but this scene bore the mark of despair. What if this wasn’t about the numbers?

Have a long and happy life, something neither of us ever expected, but you more than deserve. Finch’s words echoed in his mind, and there was something else, a look, a touch, a whisper. I love you. Reese pulled out Finch’s desk chair and sank down into the cold upholstery, his chest tight. This was his fault. Finch hadn’t given up because he’d lost his weapon, his employee, or his partner. If Reese hadn’t pushed, if he hadn’t broken down Finch’s walls, if he hadn’t violated that professional distance between them…

He sighed, resting his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands, but he straightened up as his fingers brushed against the short, stiff stubble covering his scalp. What the hell happened to his hair? Rising, he hurried to the bathroom and turned on the light, eyes widening in shock as he stared at himself in the mirror. The left side of his head was a patchwork of thin pink scars showing through a quarter inch of hair that looked more silver than salt and pepper.

He leaned heavily on the sink, staring. He’d been shot in the head. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspected he knew that, but the concrete thought still knocked the wind out of him. He had been shot in the head. He should have been dead, or a vegetable, or have the mental acuity of a chia pet. The odds of him ever recovering must have been…He couldn’t even imagine, but he bet Finch knew. Finch would have calculated it exactly – more numbers to haunt him.

Reese jerked open the bathroom door and stormed out into the main room, pulling the plastic off the computers and letting it crumple to the floor. He had beaten the odds – he’d shot the kneecaps off the fucking odds – and he’d be damned if he wasted it. He had to find Finch.

He found his cell back in the corner on Finch’s desk, but the battery had drained. He dug around on the desk and in the drawers, but couldn’t find a charger. The landline in the library was disconnected, but there was a payphone on the corner a few blocks away. He grabbed a handful of change off Finch’s desk and headed out.

The payphone was just a dead-end, though; Finch had disconnected his number. Reese seemed to remember Dr. Tillman telling him something to that effect. He paced before the phone booth, his steps frustratingly unsteady, and tried to formulate a plan. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the lingering head injury, or because he’d grown used to having Finch in his ear, feeding him information, but for several long, increasingly distressing minutes, he didn’t even know where to begin looking.

Finally, the flotsam in his head settled a bit and he remembered the diner. He hadn’t expected to find Finch there, but it was still disappointing to see someone else sitting in Finch’s booth by the window. The lunch rush was just ebbing, the waitresses looking weary as he approached them.

“Excuse me,” he said, for a moment confused by the looks they gave him, somewhere between alarmed and repulsed, but then he remembered the scars. He was going to have to start wearing a hat, at least until his hair grew out. Scars drew too much attention and were too memorable. “I’m looking for a friend. He eats here often, usually sits over there-” He pointed to the booth. “He’s had the Eggs Benedict many times.”

“The fella with the glasses,” one of the women said with a smile. “Yeah, he hasn’t been in here in weeks. If you see him, tell him we miss him.”

Reese masked his frustration as he thanked them and went back outside, walking with no destination in mind, his head bowed as he avoided the stares of his fellow pedestrians. The diner had been his best hope. The only other place he knew Finch to frequent was his old job, but he’d quit that months ago. Finch didn’t strike him as the type to keep in touch with his former co-workers, but as he had no other leads, he turned his weary steps uptown.

The security was just as lax as the last time he visited and he made his way up to the second floor unchallenged. Stepping off the elevator, he glanced toward Finch’s cubicle. A heavyset Hispanic woman sat there now. This was pointless. He turned to go.

“Oh. My. God.”

Surprised, Reese stopped, raising his eyebrows as a blonde woman rushed over, her eyes wide. He stiffened as she grabbed his arm, looking him up and down like he was an old high school sweetheart she hadn’t seen in twenty years.

“Oh, my God,” she said again. “John, right?”

“Uh, yes,” he said, frowning. “I’m sorry, do I know you?” He had been shot in the head, but he didn’t think his memory had been damaged that bad.

“No; sorry, you don’t,” she said with a laugh. “Well, we spoke briefly a few months ago, but we were never introduced. I’m Cindy. I’m a friend of Harold’s. Well, I mean, I work with him. He said you were dead.”

“He did?” Reese said, a thrill of hope fluttering in his chest. That meant she had seen Finch since the shooting. His gaze swept the room before returning to her. She was still staring at him like she was seeing a ghost. “Yes, well…He thought I was dead. There was a mix-up at the hospital; I was in a coma.”

“Oh, my God,” she said, covering her mouth with one hand. “Does Harold know you’re alive?”

“No,” Reese said, “which is why I’d really like to find him. Is he here?”

She nodded and turned, pointing out over the maze of chest-high walls. “He’s over there, near that pathetic-looking ficus.” He headed for the scrubby potted shrub she had indicated, vaguely aware of her presence behind him as he wound his way between the cubicles. The quiet hum of hushed conversation took on a subtly electric tone as he neared Finch and he glanced to either side, surprised to see a large number of the employees on their feet or peering over the cubicle walls, watching him.

He was out of breath and shaking by the time he reached Finch, and it wasn’t just from the exertion placed on his neglected muscles. He stared down at the quiet man, as neat and stiff and reserved as ever, and just the sight of him was like stepping into the sun. Finch glanced over at him, his expression cold and closed-off, his walls rebuilt and reinforced.

“Hi, Finch,” Reese whispered.

Finch’s eyes flew open wide, his sharp intake of breath audible in the suddenly silent office. His hand shook as he grabbed the edge of the desk and levered himself out of the chair, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, but no sound coming out as he stared up at Reese. He reached out, like he needed to be sure Reese wasn’t a mirage or a figment of his imagination, and Reese brushed his fingers against the back of Finch’s hand.

“John,” Finch finally managed to croak, and before Reese realized what he was doing, he had closed the distance between them, one hand cupping the back of Finch’s neck as he leaned down and captured Finch’s lips in a deep and breathless kiss. Stiff and unyielding as always, Finch grabbed his shoulders, his hands balling into fists and gripping Reese’s jacket as he trembled like a leaf. Then, with a shuddering gasp, Finch kissed him back, drawing him close and holding him tight.

“Way to go, Harold,” Cindy said, somewhere behind Reese, and Finch jerked back, a look of thinly disguised horror on his face as his gaze darted around the room, at the dozens of people staring at them.

“Oh, fuck, Reese,” he whispered, his face turning scarlet. Then someone on the other side of the room whistled and a smattering of applause and nervous laughter filled the silence.

Reese flashed a crooked grin and leaned close to Finch. “Maybe we could take this somewhere more private?”

“I- I’m in the- in the middle of work, Mr. Reese,” Finch stammered.

“Seriously?” Reese asked, cocking his head to one side and arching an eyebrow.

Finch turned, his gaze sweeping his empty cubicle, the computer monitor filled with lines of dry code and tables of boring data. “I suppose you do have a point,” he said with what Reese had come to describe simply as Finch-ness, the deadpan stare, the drawing out of certain syllables, that hint of humor so subtle one might almost think they’d imagined it. “My car is in the parking garage.”

Without a word to anyone, Finch headed for the elevator, the spectators stepping aside to let him pass. Reese followed at his hip, barely resisting the urge to reach out, to keep some kind of physical contact with him, but unable to keep his gaze from roving over Finch, his Finch. It took forever for the elevator to arrive and they stood side by side in silence, listening to the gossip spread like wildfire behind them.

“I had no idea he swung that way!” “Why are the gorgeous ones always gay?” “I mean, what straight man wears a pocket square?” “Do you suppose it’s too late to change him?”

Reese glanced over at Finch, who was staring intently at the wall, his face still red, but his lips twitching as he fought against a smile and slowly lost. When the doors finally opened, they stepped inside and Finch looked over at him. Their eyes met and Reese couldn’t stop the chuckle that slipped past his lips. That was all it took to shatter the last of Finch’s resolve. He laughed, a rich, warm sound that touched something inside Reese that he thought had died long ago.

The elevator began its descent and Reese took a step toward Finch, but Finch held up his hand, stopping him. “There’s a security camera in the corner behind you,” he said. Reese considered fixing that, but this was Finch’s company, and it was only a short ride down to the parking garage.

As they stepped out into the cool, quiet underground structure, Finch glanced over him. “You’re limping,” he said.

“I didn’t use my leg for five weeks,” Reese said. “It’s a little weak.”

“So it’s not permanent, then?”

“I don’t think so.”

“And you are otherwise unaffected by your injuries?” Finch asked, a slight edge creeping into his tone.

Reese frowned. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I mean, have you miraculously and against all odds made a full recovery from what should have been a permanently debilitating head injury?” No doubt about it, he was angry, but it only took a moment for Reese to figure out why.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I left before Dr. Tillman could run any more tests. And to answer your real question, no, I wasn’t faking it.”

Finch glanced over at him, the hard suspicion in his eyes fading. “Sorry, Reese. I just…”

Reese smiled softly; he understood.

“So did you just wake up this morning with your memory intact,” Finch asked, “or was there some sort of trigger?”

“You could say that,” Reese said. “That woman – Mr. Allen’s partner – came back to finish the job.”

Finch stopped walking and turned to face him, looking him over from head to toe, as if there was a possibility he might not have noticed if Reese was riddled with bullet holes. “Is she dead?” he asked finally.

“No, she’s in police custody,” Reese replied. “I didn’t figure she could tell them anything they didn’t already know.”

Finch nodded, a small frown creasing his brow again. “So seeing her again brought back your memories. That makes sense, I suppose. She was the last person you saw before-”

“It wasn’t like that,” Reese said as Finch stopped beside an elegant black sedan. It wasn’t hard to follow Finch’s train of thought. Reese held out his hand. “I’ll drive.”

Finch pulled his keys out of his pocket and hesitated before pressing the keyless remote and unlocking the doors. “You don’t know where we’re going, Mr. Reese.”

“I assumed the library,” Reese said, “or…a hotel?”

“You assumed wrong,” Finch replied, climbing into the driver’s seat. Reese grinned to himself and walked to the passenger’s side. He usually didn’t like surprises, but for Finch he could make an exception. “So, what was it like?” Finch asked as they emerged from underground onto the busy afternoon street.

Reese leaned back in the leather seat, letting his gaze wander out the window. “First of all, you need to know that there was something…familiar…about you, something deep in the back of my mind, but when I tried to remember, there was this…darkness back there, too. It frightened me and I pushed it away. When I saw her, there was no recognition. When she pointed her gun at me, I was terrified, and I could feel that darkness getting closer, but I still fought against it. I didn’t want to remember.” He paused, taking a slow breath to compose himself. This was harder to talk about than he’d thought it would be.

“Then Megan came into the room,” he continued, “and the shooter turned the gun on her. Something in me snapped and I couldn’t fight who I was anymore. I acted without thinking, I just…knew where to throw the vase, I knew how to disarm her, how to restrain her. The actual memories came back slower. Some things I’m still struggling with, like someone has been reorganizing my brain and I don’t know where anything is.”

“That makes perfect sense, you know,” Finch said after a moment. “I knew, I told you, all you ever wanted to do was protect people. It’s part of your very nature, ingrained so deeply in who you are that you can’t escape it.” He hesitated. “Do you remember…us?”

Reese closed his eyes, trying to coax, to will, to force the memories to come to him, but it was like staring at a blank canvas. “No,” he finally admitted. “I’m sorry.”

Finch looked over at him, having to twist his body in his seat, a look of bewilderment on his face before he turned back to watch the road. “You don’t- But then…why did you kiss me?”

“It was…like knowing to throw that vase at her left thigh. I don’t know why, but it just felt right. I just had to kiss you. I may not remember what happened, but I know how I feel. I love you.”

Finch was silent for several blocks. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft. “You managed to wound her in the shoot-out; you hit her in the left thigh.”

“Ah,” Reese said, looking back out the window. Not what he’d wanted to hear Finch say.

“What’s the last thing you do remember from before the shooting?” Finch asked.

Reese supposed he couldn’t blame him, it was easier to deal with facts and data than emotions. “I remember that Mr. Allen tortured you, and I went to Dr. Tillman for some medication. I came back and we had a…a misunderstanding, and I left. I went to a hotel and I got drunk. I don’t remember much of that, but then you found me. I remember you fell asleep waiting for me to wake up, and I remember wanting to kiss you then, even though I was angry at you. I think we might have had breakfast, but…” He shook his head. “I’m not sure, and everything after that is a blank, up until I woke in the hospital.”

“I see,” Finch said and he sighed. Reese expected that to be the extent of Finch’s reply, so he was surprised when Finch said, “You’re right, we ate breakfast together. Eggs Benedict. And afterward…you made love to me. And that’s not just a polite euphemism, either. It wasn’t just sex, but I didn’t know how to deal with what I was feeling, so I left. You caught me at the elevator – threatened to drag me back out of it, in fact – and we talked, and you kissed me, and I promised I’d call when I figured things out. About twenty minutes later, she showed up.”

“I see,” Reese echoed, suddenly hollow. They had made love and he couldn’t remember it. A rush of anger filled the emptiness inside him and he slammed his fist down on the dash of the car, making Finch jump.

“What?” Finch asked. “John, what-”

“I can’t remember it!” Reese said through his teeth. “Do you have any idea how long…” He trailed off, unclenching his fist and running his hand over his face.

“Oh,” Finch said, his voice low. “Yes, I can see how that could be frustrating, but you could look at this another way.”

“And what way is that?” Reese asked.

“Not many people get to experience a second first time with someone.”

“Well…there is that,” Reese said after a moment. He glanced over at Finch. “Is that where we’re going?”

Finch chuckled. “I knew you couldn’t keep from asking. And no, I’m not taking you somewhere with that express purpose in mind. You just got out of the hospital; you need to rest.”

Reese gave him a crooked smile. “That’s what you think.”

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