He didn't know when he fell asleep, or for how long. A foot was nudging him and when he opened his eyes, the sun was setting in the nearest window.

"Mr. Reese."

He squinted up at his employer, stretching his legs out. He said nothing.

Finch watched him. The low sun silhouetting his form.

Waiting.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"Harold," Reese said finally.

A tilt of the head, a more scrutinous look. "Have you been drinking?"

Reese shook his head. Then gave a noncommittal shrug.

Somewhere in there.

He readied himself for it, seeing the tightened look, but the expression on Finch's face changed.

"Have you eaten?"

He didn't answer. Feeling suddenly tired, shutting his eyes. The foot nudged him again, less gently than before.

"Finch," he complained, opening his eyes.

Finch looked unfazed.

Reese gave him an irritated look.

"It's late, Mr. Reese. You can't sleep here."

He had. On more than one occasion. But surely Finch was aware of that.

"I'm just resting."

An arched eyebrow.

Reese pulled a leg up, but stayed seated. "Have you eaten?"

"I have not." A pause. Finch watched him carefully. The gaze was hard at first, but then it softened. "I don't suppose you'd wish to join me?"

Reese blinked at him.

"Italian?" Finch offered. Something hearty. The blue eyes staring back were a little glassy.

"Italian?" An echo.

"There's a place I frequent."

Reese tilted his head, curious now. Frequent. Meaning, goes often.

A olive branch of sorts.

He would take it.

The waitress brought a bottle of wine without any request, poured them each a small glass.

There had been a wait, or so it seemed, but not for them. A table open in the back, tucked away from the activity at the other end of the restaurant.

"The usual, Mr. Wren?" She smiled at him, then glanced at Reese. A curious expression, a more flirtatious smile.

He was oblivious to it.

Her eyes went back to Finch.

Finch nodded, returning the smile with a thinly pressed version. "Thank you, Katie."

When she left, Reese reached for the bottle, topping his glass off. He went to do the same to the other but Finch held his hand out over it.

"Easy," he said gently.

Reese went to pour in his own glass again, but it was already full.

Finch took the bottle from him, set it to the side. Pushed the basket of bread forward.

He hoped dinner out had been a smart decision.

Reese saw he was being watched. Gave him a curious look. "You come here a lot, Finch?"

"Harold," Finch corrected softly. "Or Mr. Wren. While we're here."

Reese frowned at that. "You come here a lot, Finch?"

A stare.

A minute ticked by.

Finally, "Harold."

"I do."

"You do." A beat. Filing it away. Wheels turning. "Did you have a reservation?

"No."

Reese tilted his head slightly. No reservation. Immediate service. "You live nearby?"

"Nearby," Finch allowed.

"You live on this block." A cajoling smile.

Finch met the smile with an even expression, finished with answers.

"Not this block," Reese concluded. "Up a block. Over?" Motioning with his hand, an unknown direction. Finch looked amused now.

"Your interrogation skills are somewhat less impressive when you're intoxicated, Mr. Reese."

"I'm not intoxicated."

Finch raised his eyebrows.

Reese was quiet then, leaning back in the cushioned booth. His shirt was loose around his neck, one too many buttons undone for the current establishment.

His expression was placid as he looked at his hands, spreading his fingers. He expected to see blood on them.

They were clean.

He closed his eyes a second, but felt a slight spin in the darkness. He opened them.

Looking up. Finch was watching him.

"What do you do when you're not at the Library, Finch?"

The waitress was back already, she slid a massive plate of food in front of him. A second in front of Finch.

"Can I get you anything else right now?" She looked at Reese first, he gave her a small smile this time and she quickly returned it.

Finch cleared his throat. "Thank you, Katie."

Katie turned back to him, a sheepish look. Wiping her hands on her black apron. "Enjoy, Mr. Wren. I'll check back in a bit."

Finch unrolled his napkin as Reese stared at the generous food portion.

Finch: "Chicken parm." As though the dish needed explanation.

"We never ordered." Reese raised his eyebrows at Finch, who raised his own in return.

"Wednesday night," Finch said. "House special."

Looking around the dining area. "Do you own this place too?"

Finch gave him a look.

"Do you come here every Wednesday?"

"Eat."

Reese held the stare, taking sip of wine. Setting down the glass.

Finch shook his head, starting on his own plate.

No, he didn't own it, Reese concluded. He unrolled his napkin, picking up his fork. Looked back to Finch, who was glancing at his phone.

He allowed a moment to pass. Contemplating the food in front of him.

Contemplating what he was doing there.

Looking back to Finch.

"Did you buy the art gallery?"

Finch looked up.

Reese noted the frown. At the silence: "You looked at three galleries yesterday."

Finch blinked behind his glasses. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Reese."

For a moment, Reese thought that would be his answer.

Then, "Four."

"What?"

"I looked at four."

Dammit, Fusco.

"But to answer your question. Yes."

Reese frowned. Took a swallow from his wineglass.

"Why?"

Katie was back. "Another bottle?"

"Yes," Reese said, just as Finch replied, "No. Thank you."

They exchanged a look. A raised brow from Reese.

"It doesn't have to be wine," he said.

A stare.

Finch tilted his head, a slight narrowing of his eyes. He looked back to Katie. "We're fine," he said. "Thank you."

She smiled, stealing another glance at Reese. He winked at her, then looked back to Finch, who was giving him a hard look.

Clinking utensils. For the next few moments, no words were exchanged.

Reese scanned the room every few minutes. Cataloging.

Finch had chosen this booth, years ago, for exactly that reason. The ability to see one's surroundings while remaining hidden. An ideal perch.

He watched Reese. The languid expression, a certain induced relaxation.

He had little doubt, despite the alcohol, if he were to blindfold Reese then and there, the ex-operative would be able to recite the inhabitants at each and every table. Perhaps their dinner orders, their drink of choice.

His phone buzzed.

Glancing down. Swiping up.

Skimming the lines of text, Finch couldn't help the tiny smile that graced his face.

She had accepted.

A glance in Reese's direction, he typed a quick reply to the email. Forwarded the contract that would secure Grace Hendricks' spot in the studio's featured collection.

It was bittersweet, this greyer shade of happiness.

The closest he might get.

He wished he could see her expression. Her charming, uncertain smile. Would she laugh?

At the familiar tug, deep in his chest, Finch put a stop to his thoughts, pressing his lips together in a thin line. Slipping the phone back into his vest.

He steepled his fingers together, then pressed them flat on the table. Shifting his back, the painful twinge affording him a rigid posture. It bullied away the other pang.

Reese was watching him now. A curious look.

Finch met the gaze. "Mr. Reese."

Having noted Finch's clenched jaw and stiffened demeanor, Reese leaned his own back against the booth's cushion. Ready for it.

He felt dulled. Comfortable dulled.

He felt very little anything.

"Earlier," Finch said. "You said I was a 'good person'."

Brow furrowed, Reese stared back at him.

Finch waited.

He seemed to be expecting an answer.

"You are." Slowly. Uncertain to the point being made.

"Were you insinuating that you are not?"

Another pause, a frown. Then a small, wistful twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Finch."

He was awarded a raised eyebrow.

Reese rubbed a hand across his mouth.

There was a time he had thought himself a good person.

Softly. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Not deliberately," Finch said, after a pause.

Reese tilted his head.

Interesting.

Finch's eyes examined him. "Would you have enjoyed it?"

The way he questioned, he wasn't truly asking.

He knew the answer.

"No."

He would not have enjoyed killing Lewis. And Finch knew it.

"Doesn't mean you should have stopped me."

"I see."

"You should trust me."

"I trust you implicitly, Mr. Reese."

Reese held the gaze, then blinked.

Right.

He took a sip of his wine, looking across the dining room.

Implicitly.

"He's going back, you realize," Finch said.

"I realize."

The tone was flat, no indication of whether the solution were acceptable to him or not.

"It wasn't about trust, John."

A silence settled in. Reese took a piece of bread, ripping it in half.

The morning seemed a distant dream.

At the table nearest to them, a woman was laughing. It was a forced laugh, she didn't find the man across from her funny. But she loved him.

Reese closed his eyes, welcoming the spin this time.

When he opened them, the room seemed sharper, slower.

He looked back to Finch, who happened to be the most difficult person to read in the room. He took a swallow of his wine and the words just came.

"My father did four tours in Vietnam."

The sound of dim chatter and clicking utensils from the other tables.

"The war hero." There was a hint of bitterness in the soft way Reese spoke. "He drank a lot. In-between. When he got back."

Finch's face had a barely perceptible frown, hidden by a sip from his own glass. He knew next to nothing regarding his partner's primary years, but his stomach twisted slightly at the insinuation of the next words.

"I hid too, at first." Reese tore the halves of bread into quarters. Eighths. "But he wasn't after me."

He had been small then. Unable to protect her. Or himself. But he had tried.

Reese stopped then, looking up from the bread plate to Finch. Something crossed his face, a flicker and gone.

He'd gotten into a lot of fights back then. Throughout the years. Carrying that protection from home, to school. To his peers.

Trying.

He rubbed a palm down his cheek, swallowed the remainder of his glass.

Finch was somber.

A minute ticked by.

"Thought you knew everything about me."

Finch was watching him. "I'm sorry."

He said it gently and Reese looked away. The familiar mask back in place, his hand rubbing across his mouth. His head felt heavy as he surveyed the dimly lit dining area.

He wasn't sure, suddenly, if it was the best place for him to be.

"Thanks for dinner," he said, laying his palms on the tabletop. Moving to make an exit.

He'd had just enough, he might be able to sleep in peace.

"It was for a friend," Finch said, and Reese paused then, half in the booth, half out.

A questioning look.

"You asked about the gallery earlier. I bought it for a friend." Finch was choosing his words carefully. "A dear, old friend."

Reese stared at him a second and then sank back into his seat. Pulling his hands down from the tabletop, laying them flat on the tops of his thighs.

A friend.

He wanted to, hearing something else in Finch's words, but he didn't ask.

"I recognize," Finch continued, "that I may not be the most… forthcoming, when it comes to myself." He paused, holding Reese's gaze.

Reese didn't blink.

"Please don't take it personally."

The woman's laughter behind them, muffled.

"I trust you, Harold."

The truth was, for the little he knew about Harold Finch, he trusted him more than he had anyone else.

"Good." Finch gave a brief smile and then set something between them. "You'll be needing this then."

Reese felt a shift inside of him as the phone was set gently on the table. He stared at it for a moment, raised his eyes to meet Finch's.

The gaze in return was serious.

"I'd prefer you hold on to that next time." A raised brow.

An underlying meaning.

Reese held the stare and then reached for the phone.

"So I still have a job."

"If you want it."

I need it. Reese gave him a small smile, shifting in his seat again to leave.

"Mr. Reese."

He twisted back slowly as Finch slid something else across the table, releasing it with a tap.

Reese looked down.

A keycard.

He looked up. Another question on his face.

"What do you do with the money I pay you, John?"

A blank stare.

Finch saw the incomprehension. "Your choice of hotel hasn't even had hot water for three days."

And that was the least of his findings.

Reese smiled then. It was a silly smile, likely loosened by the alcohol.

"Are you keeping tabs on me, Harold?"

"Not enough, apparently."

Reese reached forward and slid the keycard toward himself, slowly, noting the name of the upper echelon hotel inscribed upon it.

"Room 301," Finch said.

Reese gave him a look but slipped it into a pocket, next to the phone.

A good night's sleep and a hot shower sounded pretty good.

He hung a second, debating. Opened his mouth, then stopped.

Finch watched him. "Goodnight, Mr. Reese."

Later, he found the minibar of Room 301 stocked with nothing but water and Gatorade, a freshly pressed suit hanging in the closet.

He looked around the subdued luxury of the suite. Quiet. Clean. A king sized bed, more pillows than his last four hotel stays combined.

He shook his head slightly.

It took him a minute, standing there, to realize the silence of the demons in his head. He waited, ready to push them back. To try the hotel bar downstairs if the current buzz wasn't enough.

They stayed quiet, and for once he wasn't certain it was the alcohol's doing.

He sank face first into the fluffy white comforter, not even bothering to remove his shoes.

Thursday morning was crisp but sunny, warm in the resting breeze. Birds chirping, a lingering hold on autumn's remaining days.

There were puddles from the previous day's rain and Frankie splashed in them with a five-year-old's fury. He looked back at Monica, flicked with mud and water, a grin on his face. Running ahead into the woodchipped area of the playground.

Watching from a distance, Finch observed the scene with the warmth of the sun on his back. A slight upturn to the corner of his mouth.

Earlier that morning, Monica had smiled at his use of her own words.

"I can help," he had said, "but at the end of the day it's up to you to make the change."

He kept his gaze on the playground as Jeremy moved in next to her, the two of them watching their son together. She called the boy back after a minute, and he trotted over to her, slowing at the sight of the man at her side. Eyeing his father shyly.

Jeremy squatted down and after some moments of exchange, Frankie was smiling. Laughing.

It seemed Monica had started to make that change already.

"What about you?" she had asked. "Are you going to continue therapy?"

He had hesitated, and she had smiled, not pressing it.

"My practice is always open," she said. Adding, "It's never too late."

He watched them, the cautious but comfortable interactions, the unbridled happiness from Frankie. Monkey bars and trapeze rings.

For some, it wasn't too late.

There was a presence next to him then, an intentional brush of a shoulder.

"Finch."

He shifted, pivoting in his direction. "Mr. Reese."

Upon first glance, he looked more rested. Clean-shaven, a coffee in hand. His eyes were focused in the distance, locked on the playground.

Still a hint of something in the set of his jaw.

Gaze staying ahead, Reese held out a second cup, the scent of Sencha green wafting through its plastic lid.

They stood there a minute, in silence. A peal of giggles from Frankie, as Jeremy grabbed him under his arms, lifting him to his shoulders. Laughter from Monica.

"We have a new number," Finch said finally, shifting to look at Reese.

He didn't miss the flicker of relief in the profile. The attention shifting away from the play area. A slight breeze rustled the leaves at the edge of the park as they fell into step, heading in the direction of the Library.

Finch spoke first as they waited for traffic to change at the corner.

"I never asked, what did you think of the Cattelan exhibit?"

"It looked like someone's nightmare," Reese said absently.

He froze then, realizing his slip.

Damn.

Finch's eyebrows climbed as he shifted sideways with his gaze, catching Reese's eye.

A delivery bike chimed its bell as it made a turn against traffic.

"I see," Finch said, stepping off the curb as the signal changed.

Reese paused, and then followed.

Finch was teasing him.

Mildly: "And who were you following, Harold?"

A side eye.

"I see," Reese said in turn.

He was rewarded with an amused look.

Little by little.

Back in the Library, a calmness settled over him as he stood behind Finch's chair and listened to the background of their newest number.

There were books piled across the tabletop, newly pulled volumes with dust in their bindings. He eyed them as he sipped his coffee.

The magazine and its gently sketched cover were absent. Hidden. He scanned the disorganization of the room briefly without finding it.

"John."

"Mm."

Attention back to the screen, to Finch. The eyes behind the glasses studied him.

"You alright?"

They both walked circles around this question, time in and time again.

But Reese gave a slight nod.

He set his coffee down, slipping one of volumes from the atop the desk as he sank into a chair. "But you, Harold." He swiveled to face Finch, allowing a teasing cadence to enter his voice. "Where are we going to find you another therapist?"

A long look. The book was pulled from his hand before he could open it, an ID badge placed in its stead.

"I'm sure I'll figure out something, Mr. Reese." Finch returned the book to the stack and moved the coffee cup back from his keyboard. A pointed look. "In the meantime, let's worry about you."

Reese glanced down at the laminated card, raising his eyebrows.

Leaning back into the chair.

"I wish I could say this would be a first, Finch."