When Reese is discharged from the hospital there's no discussion, Finch simply brings him home (one of his homes) and installs him in a guestroom; neither of them notices the dust.

For four - retrospectively idyllic - weeks, Reese is a model patient, even by Finch's standards. He makes no demands and takes his medication when instructed; mostly, he sleeps.

At the beginning of week five, he declares himself fit to begin rehab and a war of attrition begins.

After the second day of being unable to turn his back without finding Reese half way to the door, Finch gives serious thought to a formal surrender.

On one hand, he knows Reese won't take unnecessary risks with his recovery - not because of any particular sense of self-preservation, but like any craftsman, he's careful with his tools. On the other, Megan was very firm on the subject of a six-week recuperation period, and she knows where Finch lives.

Figuratively speaking.

Reese is lying on the couch, ostensibly reading, but one foot is planted on the floor. Finch narrows his eyes and stares at today's opening salvo pointedly until it's drawn back up. Reese's eyes widen with transparently false concern. "You're hovering, Finch."

Finch narrows his eyes. "I'm aware of that, Mr Reese. I'm also aware that you'll leave the couch at the earliest available opportunity." And the couch is already a compromise - Megan had been quite specific about bed rest. "Your options are my presence or restraints."

Reese settles back, the very image of acquiescence. Finch will not fall for that, not a second time; third, if he includes the escape attempt masquerading as a visit to the bathroom.

"Don't you have a meeting?"

Finch has long since ceased wondering how Reese gets his information. "Yes." He waits a couple of seconds, long enough for the light of satisfaction to glint in Reese's eyes, before continuing. "You'll be glad to know that I've arranged cover."

"Cover," Reese repeats flatly, and then looks faintly appalled. "I don't need a sitter, Harold."

"And, yet, all evidence to the contrary."

Finch hasn't seen Reese violently angry since the incident in the hotel room (where, admittedly, the man had been kidnapped, psychologically traumatized and exceedingly hung-over,) but his expression is definitely unfriendly. "Who?"

Finch allows himself the tiniest of smiles as he bends awkwardly to pick up his briefcase. "Detective Fusco will be here shortly."

"No."

Reese does genuinely look agitated; Finch hesitates. "Why?"

"Never let them see you bleed." His tone is flat; the words sound more holy writ than suggestion.

Finch wavers, but rallies. "I'm afraid that ship has sailed," he says firmly. Reese doesn't need to know the details; if he doesn't remember, it's all to the best.

"Megan," Reese tries, with a touch of desperation. "Zoe Morgan. Detective Carter."

Finch permits himself a larger smile. "I notice you're not swearing faithfully by your own recognizance."

"Would you believe me?"

"No, I don't imagine I would," he admits agreeably, magnanimous in victory - however temporary that victory may be.

Unsurprisingly, Reese's glare returns.

The sound of the doorbell provides a welcome opportunity to retreat; Finch takes it. It's Fusco, wearing a rumpled suit with no tie and with a backpack slung over one shoulder. Finch regards it suspiciously.

"This?" Fusco jerks a thumb back. "What? You think I'm smuggling contraband or something? Christ, you're paranoid. My kid's got game later, it's his gear - and I got to be gone by three."

"Of course." Finch pauses and then adds, "thank you for coming."

"Yeah, yeah." Fusco follows him in, to stand uncertainly in the doorway of the main room. Reese doesn't acknowledge either of them, apparently engrossed in his book.

Finch suspects it's the best he can hope for. He pulls on his coat and presses the button on his cell that will signal Mr Trent to bring the car around. "You gentlemen play nicely."

-o-

Once Finch has fled the scene, Reese glances up. Fusco is still loitering nervously in the doorway. That's encouraging.

He gathers himself to stand, preparing for the sharp pain of abused abdominal muscles and the deeper ache below them. It must have taken more concentration than he thought, because when he starts to move, he finds Fusco's hand on his shoulder.

"Lionel," he starts warningly.

The hand withdraws quickly, but Fusco stays where he is, blocking the way. "Look, you don't like this, I don't like this. We sit it out; we never mention it again. Come week seven, it's threats and violence as usual, okay?"

Reese can't help noticing the bag Fusco is clutching to his chest like body armor. "What's in there?"

"Medicine." Fusco grins sunnily. "Twenty proof. I figure, guy like you, you're not taking the good stuff anymore. Plus, a little light entertainment - you like hockey?" He doesn't wait for a reply, shrugging instead. "Eh, everyone likes hockey."

Reese keeps his expression detached, doesn't glance down to where he's been stockpiling the drugs under the couch whenever Finch's back is turned. Instead he points to the kitchenette. "Glasses in the left cabinet," he says evenly.

The amount of whiskey Fusco pours out is barely a finger's worth, but in his current state it's enough. Reese dozes to the muted sounds of cheering and Fusco's running commentary, still as frustrated with the game today as he probably was when it played a decade ago.

When Reese wakes, the game is over; he can hear Fusco and Finch arguing in hissed whispers.

"Alcohol is absolutely prohibited with the drugs he's on, detective."

"Which is fine, because he ain't taking them."

Apparently Fusco just can't stop selling him out.

They really need to talk about that.

"What?" Finch's tone isn't angry, it's small and mystified and this is exactly why Reese doesn't want to be here. There are things Finch doesn't need to know.

So, naturally, Fusco tells him. "You really want him confused again? Trust me, the first time he throws you across a room, you'll change your mind."

Reese wants to be affronted, but the most he can manage is a drowsy curiosity; someone in Fusco's life left and never quite came back.

Finch sighs quietly. "Leave the whiskey, then. I'll discuss it with his doctor."

"It's on the side. Hey, maybe you should have a little, you look like you could use it."

He must have slept again, because it's dark save for the haze of streetlights outside, and there's silence except for the steady tap-tap-tap of typing.

Reese shifts until he can see Finch, sat stiffly at the table across the room and haloed in the glow from his laptop screen. Around now, Reese would be flicking on lights and dropping off a cup of tea and a box of take out - coming up with some reason to make Finch walk around a little, maybe even get some air.

He considers the distance to the kitchenette - he could make it easily and his muscles are desperate to try. He wants to move. He needs to move. While he's moving, nothing hurts.

He stays where he is. "Hey, Finch." He clears his throat, tries again. "There any noodles left?"

Finch brings his arm over the back of his chair and turns his torso so he can give Reese the full benefit of his skepticism. "I'd like to point out that we're on the third floor, if you're considering making a break for the window while I'm heating dinner."

"You're a very suspicious person, Harold."

Finch hums disapprovingly, but stands stiffly. "Fine."

He's moving easier by the time he makes it to the kitchen, where he's forced to turn on the lights.

Two down.

"Actually," Reese says, once one of the bowls of noodles has been microwaved, "I'm not hungry. Kind of thirsty."

Finch takes it well, just puts the unheated bowl back in the small refrigerator. "No more whiskey until I've talked to Megan and coffee is still on the banned list."

Reese wonders how far he can push it. "Tea?"

"I know what you're doing, Mr Reese." Still, Finch takes the kettle to the sink.

"I'm not doing anything. Doctor's orders," Reese adds evenly.

When the tea has brewed, Finch carries it and his bowl of noodles to the threadbare chair by the couch. "For a covert operative, you're remarkably unsubtle."

Reese smirks faintly and closes his eyes, only for a second.

Methodically, Finch chews his way through dinner, not really tasting it; it's four-day-old take out, so it's probably just as well.

Reese's breathing deepens.

Finch gathers the empty bowl and cup in one hand and pulls the throw over Reese's shoulders with the other; he goes back to work.