"I am the Bad Wolf. I create myself. I take the words … I scatter them in time and space. A message, to lead myself here. I want you safe …"

Russell T. Davies, Doctor Who

POLICE DISPATCH TO ANY NYPD SUPERVISOR. SUPERVISOR RESPONSE REQUIRED AT OFFICER-INVOLVED VEHICULAR ACCIDENT. SINGLE VEHICLE INCIDENT. OFFICER REPORTS FATALITY AT SCENE. AMBULANCE AND FIRE-RESCUE HAVE BEEN DISPATCHED. ADDRESS AND CROSS STREET TO FOLLOW. REPEAT, SUPERVISOR RESPONSE REQUIRED AT OFFICER-INVOLVED VEHICULAR ACCIDENT.

John Reese positioned the narrow wedge in the shallow crack carefully, then reached back to pick up the sledge. He paused, letting the hammer swing at his side. There was a time when he would have thought of breaking rock as a punishment. In fact, there had been a time, way back in boot camp, when breaking rocks had been a punishment. But here and now, it was just productive recreation.

He swung the hammer in a wide arc over his shoulder. It connected squarely with the wedge, and the slab of rock split cleanly.

Satisfied, Reese put down the hammer and slid the bigger piece of the rock into position. It sank easily into the fine gravel bed. The irregular shape fit against the existing pieces exactly as he'd planned it. He stepped on it, grinding it down to courser layer of stone beneath the fine top. Then he dropped a level onto it.

The bubble floated exactly in the center of the level.

Reese sighed. He grabbed the pickax and pried the side of the slab up again.

"It looked level to me," a boy said.

John looked up. A curly-haired boy was standing there. He was wearing an over-sized hockey jersey. Bruins. Reese knew who he was. The boy didn't know him. "That's the problem," he answered. "Come and hold this."

The boy moved quickly around the back of the slab. It was probably too heavy for him to lift on his own, but it was easy enough for him to hold it on its edge. Reese grabbed the spade and smoothed the base quickly toward the building.

"You don't want it level," the boy said. "You want it to drain away from the building."

"Right."

"That's smart."

John grinned crookedly. "Okay. Let it drop."

The boy released the slab. It fell heavily, stirring up a little dust. Reese dropped the level again. It was slanted just enough away from the building. "Good," he pronounced. He gestured to the slab. "Jump on it."

The kid stomped happily.

Reese pulled off his work gloves, picked up the water bottle and drained the last few swallows. He looked around. The patio was two-thirds laid. The broken sandstone, in large irregular pieces, looked terrific. Six more pieces, he guessed, and it would be ready for the edging.

He felt the low burn of exertion in his biceps and his shoulders. It was cool outside – high fifties, unexpectedly mild for March in New York - but he was sweating in his shirtsleeves. It was a good feeling.

He glanced up at the windows on the third floor. They were iridescent, coated; he couldn't tell if Christine was watching. She probably wasn't. That was too bad. Not that he was showing off for her, exactly.

He glanced out over the yard. The break in the winter weather was in its second week, and he'd gotten a lot done. The patio was nearly finished. The fence posts were in, set in concrete. He'd had the fence panels delivered, and they were propped against the side of the building. He could put up the fence whenever he was ready, but if it snowed again they'd be fine where they were. He'd supervised the replacement of the basement door with a heavy-duty steel one; it was now as secure as the rest of the building. He'd constructed a little closet at the base of the steps inside for tools. When the patio was done, he'd start on the lawn. He probably needed to rent a rototiller, he thought. The lot was nothing but packed clay and weeds. Till it up good, rake it out, plant some grass. Straw to keep the birds from eating the seeds. But that would need to wait until the weather got warm for good …

"Good?" the boy asked.

John turned and looked. "Yeah, that's good." He stuck his hand out. "I'm John."

"Lee," the boy returned. He shook his hand. "You a friend of Scotty's?"

"Yep."

"We're taking her to the hockey game."

John nodded. "I heard."

"She's coming to my school tomorrow to have lunch with me."

"That sounds like fun," Reese allowed.

Lionel Fusco came around the corner of the building. He looked mildly concerned. "Hey, Lee, where'd you run off to?" He was wearing a hockey jersey, too. He paused when he saw Reese; his eyes got just a little bigger, his mouth smaller with disapproval. He glanced at his son, then back at the ex-op. "Hey, John," he said uneasily.

"Lionel," Reese returned calmly.

"He's making a patio," Lee said.

"I can see that." Fusco surveyed the area. "Looks good. Concrete would have been simpler, though."

John shrugged. "I needed a good work-out."

Fusco quirked an eyebrow up. "Looks like you're getting' it." He looked around the yard. "It's going to be real nice."

"Thanks, Lionel."

"Can I go up and see Scotty?" Lee asked.

"Miss Scotty," Fusco corrected. "Yeah, go ahead."

The boy walked carefully across the finished part of the patio to the back door. Then he looked back. "It's nice to meet you, sir."

"You too, Lee."

The boy went inside.

Reese stomped on the newest slab one more time. "Kid's got nice manners, Lionel. Must get that from his mother."

"Yeah, yeah." Fusco looked to be sure the door was closed, then gestured to the patio. "This your excuse to hang around?"

"Partly," Reese admitted. He glanced toward the third floor again. "But I really haven't needed one."

"Huh." He looked around the yard. "You gonna try to plant grass?"

"I was going to till the yard up first. Wait for the weather."

"Yeah. Make sure you get a shade variety. Between that tree and the fence, there won't be much sun. Fine fescue, maybe add some bluegrass. I'd go seeds, not sod, on this soil."

Reese stared. "Since when do you know so much about horticulture, Lionel?"

"Since I worked summers for a landscaper, back in the day," Fusco answer. "Another thing? Tilling the yard is a good idea, it's probably packed solid. But when you're doing it, you might as well work in some lime. Most of the soil in this part of the city is acidic as hell."

"Quick lime?" John asked dubiously.

"No. Regular limestone. Crushed. It's inert. They sell it in bags, little pellets. Use a seed spreader, throw it down, run the rototiller over it. Then throw another bag or two down every year on the grass, when you feed. It'll make a big difference."

"If you're such an expert, maybe you ought to do the tilling," Reese suggested.

Fusco considered. "Nah. I think you got this." He headed for the door.

John walked in with him. They took the stairs up to the third floor. "Hockey again?"

"She likes the fights."

"Figures. She gets tired or something, give me a call, I'll come pick her up."

"Sure." Fusco glanced at him. "She seems okay. You know something I don't?"

Lots of things, Reese thought, but he shook his head. In the four weeks since Christine had been shot in the precinct, Fusco had been almost as persistent about checking in on her as Reese himself had been. John appreciated it. He wanted to blame the detective for the shooting, but he'd reviewed the surveillance tapes with Finch. There hadn't been anything Fusco could have done. "I just worry."

"Yeah." Fusco paused at the back door to the apartment. "You think we're ever going to get her to actually move in here?"

John sighed. "I don't know. But I'm pretty sure this isn't the right time to push."

"I hear that."

They went inside. The kitchen was completed and fully equipped. The bedrooms were also finished and furnished, with the furniture covered with sheets of plastic. Christine had elected to buy new furniture for the new place and leave her apartment over Chaos fully furnished and habitable as well. She claimed that John and Harold could use it as a very secure safe house if they needed to. It seemed to John that it was more a security blanket for her, that she was keeping her option to return to Chaos open. But if that was the provision she needed to make the move possible, he wasn't going to argue it. Yet.

When Christine Fitzgerald was fourteen years old, Lionel Fusco had shot her gun-wielding father to death in front of a bar. Years later, Christine had bought the building and converted it into the Chaos Cafe. She'd had been living on the third floor for years. All of her friends agreed that it wasn't healthy for her. Harold had bought her this new building in an attempt to get her to relocate. And she was moving that direction – with agonizing, deliberate slowness.

Now the new apartment was very nearly complete. There was a study off the living room that had a complete upgrade of her existing computer system. There was also a hidden room off the kitchen that had a set-up designed to Finch's specifications, for his use in emergencies. Everything was complete except the living room, where the covered furniture was crowded into the center of the room.

The walls were primer white. Christine was still trying to pick a paint color.

There was a work table completely covered with color cards. They were sorted by general color family – blues, greens, reds, yellows. There were hundreds of them. And she was still dithering.

It was so out of character for her to dither about anything that John was absolutely certain that not only was she stalling, but that she was aware that she was stalling. Still, when she'd come so far toward something that was terribly difficult for her, he wasn't about to push. She was trying.

"What about this one?" Lee asked, holding up a card.

Christine as also wearing a Bruins jersey. "That's orange."

"This?"

"Too yellow. I want gold."

"This is gold," the boy protested.

"It's yellow. I want … like champagne. Gold."

Reese shot Fusco a look. At least she'd narrowed it down to a color family.

Lee picked up a third card. "Like this?"

"That's beige."

He sighed and pushed through more cards.

"Hey, Lionel," Christine said. She hugged him briefly. She eyed Reese up and down, shook her head. "We really can hire people, you know. You could supervise."

"Ah, let him do it," Fusco urged. "It helps keep down his violent tendencies."

"Not always," Reese warned pleasantly.

"This?" Lee asked.

"Too brownish. Gold. Champagne gold."

The boy frowned at her. "Can I use your tablet for a minute?"

"Sure."

"Just for a minute," Fusco said. "We still have to pick Rhonda up."

"Okay."

The detective looked around. "The place looks great. Looks like it's just about finished."

"Just about," she agreed.

"So, when do you want us to come help move your stuff over?" he asked casually.

Reese watched her closely. Her arms came up, wrapped around her own waist. Her open palm rubbed across her ribs, over the spot where they'd repaired a long-broken bone. But more telling, her jaw clenched as she ground her back teeth softly.

She was very stressed.

He shot Fusco a warning look. The detective shrugged.

"Still got to get this room painted," Christine answered.

"This color?" Lee asked. He brought the tablet over. The screen was entirely filled with a single color – champagne gold. "Is this the color?"

Christine smiled. "That's it. Where did you find this?"

The boy grinned. He touched the screen and zoomed out. The picture evolved into pants. On a football player. "Saints," he said. "That's Drew Brees' ass."

"Lee," Fusco said absently.

"Sorry, Dad." He zoomed out further to reveal the whole player. The color was indeed Drew Brees' football pants.

Christine looked around the room. "So I'm going to paint my living room the color of Drew Brees' ass."

Fusco chuckled. "Not the worst choice you could make."

"No," she agreed slowly. "I kinda like it. I wonder if the guys can find it."

"Saints gold?" Reese said. "I'm sure they can. Now that you can tell them what you want."

She nodded. "Okay."

"Really?"

"Yeah. This is the color."

Reese nodded, relieved.

"We got to go," Fusco said.

She looked to Reese. "Do you need anything?"

"More water," he said, gesturing with the empty bottle. "I know where it is. I'll lock up when I'm done."

"You've been out there for hours."

He shrugged. His t-shirt was filthy. So were his arms, above the glove-line, and his jeans and his boots. He was sweaty and dirty-covered, vaguely achy in the lesser-used muscles, and he felt better than he had in a very long time. "I'm enjoying myself."

"There will be steaks," she promised.

"All summer long," he agreed. He nodded to Fusco. "Have fun. I'll see you later."

The three Bruins fans headed out. Before the door closed, Reese heard another reference to Drew Brees' ass, and Lee giggled in response. He grinned, then walked to the kitchen and got a bottle of water. He drank it down, got another to take outside.

He checked his phone before he pulled his gloves back on, but there were no messages and no missed calls. He might actually get this done before he got interrupted. He put the phone and the water on the back step and got back to work.

He felt a little twinge in his lower left ab when he picked up the next slab, and it got worse before he finished. The old spot, the place where Snow's flunky had shot him, a long time ago. When Finch had risked his life and his freedom to save him. When he'd gotten him stitched up in the morgue. Reese smiled grimly and worked through it. Even that felt good.

Christine was right, of course. They could easily have hired men to do this work – and build the fence, till the soil, plant the grass. If he and Finch got a lot of new cases he might go that way. But for now the physical work was calming. It felt good to wash off regular old dirt at the end of the day, instead of blood and grime. He liked working outside, now that the weather had broken for the moment. He found it all very satisfying.

He wondered if it would have been as satisfying if it wasn't her yard he was working on.

Harold Finch glanced at his watch, then looked up at the doorway of the townhouse. Everett was late. Only a few minutes, so far, but it wasn't a good sign.

He hoped the photographer had at least had the sense to call. Grace probably wouldn't mind, but it would be rude.

The pay phone to his left rang.

Finch glance at it and growled under his breath. At his feet, Bear looked up expectantly. "Yes, yes," Harold sighed. He turned reluctantly and walked to the phone.

While he listened to the key words, he looked toward the townhouse again. A cab stopped right in front of it and Gregg Everett got out. The photographer ran up the steps two at a time, but the front door opened before he could knock. Grace had been watching for him.

She looked lovely. She was wearing a very pale pink sweater and dark pants. She carried her jacket over her arm; Harold knew it was the navy wool car coat he'd bought for her years before. He nodded his approval; it was warm enough now, but it would get cool as soon as the sun went down.

Grace leaned and kissed Everett on the cheek. Then she pulled the door shut behind her, checked that it had locked, and held her hand out. Everett walked her down to the waiting cab.

And then she was out of sight.

Bear tugged very gently at his leash.

"Yes," Harold said again. "Yes, yes."

He hung up the pay phone and pulled out his cell. It rang four times before Reese answered. "Yeah, Finch?" He sounded a little breathless.

"I hope I'm not interrupting anything."

"Breakin' rocks in the hot sun," John answered easily.

Finch snorted. "It's not that hot today."

"It is if you're breakin' rocks."

"I suppose so."

"New Number?"

"Yes." Harold considered. "It just came in. I haven't had a chance to do any research. So you can take time to shower and change."

"Are you implying that you think I smell bad, Finch?"

"Well you have, as you say, been breakin' rocks."

Reese chuckled. "All right, fine. I'll be there in a bit."

"I'll meet you at the library."

"You aren't there now?" There was a suddenly note of curiosity in the man's voice.

"Bear and I are taking a walk in the park."

"Oh." From that one syllable, Reese implied that he knew exactly which park they were walking in and why. That he knew Finch was staring at that particular doorway again. He wasn't wrong, of course. But he didn't comment. There was really nothing to say. "You have any dinner yet?"

"No."

"I'll grab Chinese on my way."

The phone went dead.

Finch looked toward the townhouse one last time, but of course Everett and Grace were long gone. They were headed for dinner at a new Italian restaurant in the Village, then a gallery opening ….

He shook his head. He had no business watching them even this far, much less knowing their plans for the evening. He had work to do.

He clucked to Bear and the two of them started off.

Teddy Edwins climbed the stairs to the fourth floor of the tired apartment building same as he'd done every Tuesday night since his partner had died. Tuesday, because Wednesday was Monica's morning off. The stairs were a bitch on his leg. There was an elevator, but it was labeled FOR HANDICAPPED USE ONLY. He wasn't willing to admit he was handicapped. Not enough to use the elevator, anyhow.

He knocked on the plain wooden door, and a woman called, "Come on in!"

Edwins let himself in. The room was very warm and smelled like onions and garlic and dozen other spices. It smelled wonderful.

"You should keep the door locked," he called in the direction of the kitchen.

"It's Tuesday. I knew it was you," the woman called back. She came out of the kitchen. Her gray hair was up in a loose bun, as always, and she wore a long cloth apron. She crossed the room and kissed him on the cheek. "So good to see you, Teddy."

"Monica. What's for dinner?"

"Lasagna. Go wash up."

"Lasagna for just the two of us?"

"Just a small one," she assured him. "And I'll send the leftovers home with you. Then you'll have two decent meals this week."

"You're spoiling me, Monica." He patted his gently rounded belly. "And it's going right to my waist."

He went and washed up.

He wasn't kidding, he thought ruefully as he washed his hands. He'd gained at least fifteen pounds since Monica had started feeding him every week. But he couldn't really complain. The food was damn good, and she always sent home at least a meal's worth of leftovers. She didn't have to feed him; he'd told her that a dozen times. But she liked to cook, and it gave her something to do.

Something besides sit around her apartment and mourn her dead son.

It hadn't been his fault, Leyland's death. They both knew that, and Monica had never once implied that it was. It was just that Teddy was all she had left.

So he'd keep coming for Tuesday dinner as long as Monica needed him to.

He went out and sat down at the table for dinner.

Reese swung open the hidden panel in the kitchen and cut through Harold's secret back-up computer room to the equally-secret walk-in closet. It was fully stocked: There were clothes for all occasions in his size and Harold's, complete sets of identity documents for both of them – plus Christine, Carter and Fusco – and plentiful cash. Reese had added modest arsenal, in a hidden locked compartment at the back of the closet. Finch had a clean laptop and one set up to access his systems.

In event of an emergency, this closet had everything they needed for the short term.

Getting clean and to the library didn't really constitute an emergency. Reese could go back to his loft easily enough. But he was here, and there was a clean suit here, and it made more sense. It gave them a chance, he reasoned as he stripped off his dirt-covered clothes, to work out the bugs in the restocking system.

Also, he wanted to try out the shower.

It was Christine's apartment, and she'd made most of the decisions about the build-out. But in this small secret area she and Harold had actively solicited Reese's input. Based on his suggestion, there was an entire cupboard filled with first aid materials, and another with non-perishable food and bottled water. He had also suggested that the lowest section of the long drawers be converted into a pull-out trundle bed. If he or Harold actually got trapped here, they could hide in relative comfort and silence for at least seven days.

He had requested, and gotten without comment, a high-powered massaging showerhead in the shower.

Reese turned on the water and let it run on the normal setting until it was hot. Then he climbed in and washed thoroughly. Once he was clean and had rinsed most of the grit down the drain, he turned the dial and let the pulsing water pound on his back.

As he'd hoped, the water massage loosened the worst of the kinks hours of breaking rocks had caused. He stood still for several minutes, shifting just enough to move the impact from his neck to his lower back and up again. Then he half-turned and raised his arm to let the water pummel the spot on his ribs that had pinched earlier. It was perfect.

Reese nodded to himself. The next time he got beat up, he decided, he was coming here to clean up.

Whether Christine was actually living here then or not.

He frowned and turned his back to the pulsing water spray again. He wanted to get the woman to move. But it was tricky. Christine could be incredibly stubborn. She could be reasoned with, persuaded, but she could not be forced. And while she'd agreed to the move as a concept, she seemed to be resisting actually pulling the trigger on it.

Reese had never been quite sure how to deal with her. She was an introvert, like Harold, but she was also very cat-like – unexpectedly affectionate at times, unaccountably prickly at others. She'd grieved over Agent Donnelly for weeks before he'd even caught on to her grief. He'd been dead wrong the night he'd thought she was going to start using heroine again. And in so many other instances he'd been certain he'd known what she was thinking, what she was going to do, and he'd been completely wrong.

Since the shooting and her subsequent near-death experience, she'd become even more confusing to him.

Wounded introverts retreat. He'd learned that from Finch, and Christine had reinforced the lesson. He'd been fully prepared to give the woman space and privacy. But she hadn't insisted on it. Instead she'd reached out to him. To tell her a story on the phone when she'd woken up frightened in the hospital. To bring her real coffee when the hospital's kitchen would only send her decaf. To take a hand-written note to – and get trustworthy eyes on – the young girl who'd been beside her when she was shot.

They were small things, things that nearly anyone could have done. But Christine had turned to John. He was pleased by that. Touched.

He'd brought her home from the hospital three days after her surgery. He'd announced that he was staying overnight with her. He'd had seven good arguments lined up. He hadn't used any of them. Christine had simply nodded and said, "Can we stop for gyros on the way?"

John had bought her Greek food – she only ate half of hers - and tucked her into bed. He'd tried to sleep in the guest room across the hall, with both doors open, but the woman's breathing was too soft to hear from there. After the first half hour he'd given up, dragged a pillow and blanket into her room and slept on the floor beside her bed.

A change in her breathing, hours later, woke him. She wasn't in distress, but she was awake. She'd sighed and rolled out of the bed. "You okay, Kitten?" John had asked.

"Pain pills," she'd answered. She'd stepped around him and went to the bathroom. When she came back, she'd said, "What are you doing?"

"I couldn't hear you breathe from the other room."

"I'm okay."

"I know."

She'd sighed, exasperated. "Then come sleep up here on the bed."

"I'm fine."

"Or I'll come down there and sleep with you."

John had grunted and climbed up onto the bed.

Christine had fallen back to sleep almost immediately. He'd stayed awake for a while. It was very comfortable there. He'd kept a respectable space between them, but he'd savored her warmth, her closeness. Her scent.

And with her right there, in arm's reach, John had been assured that she was safe.

It felt better than anything he'd experienced in a very long time. He'd relaxed into sleep.

When he'd woken it was morning. Christine had still been sleeping. She'd been curled into a small fetal ball, her knees nearly against her chest, on the far edge of the mattress. Her arm was up over her shoulder, so that her hand rested on the back of her own neck. Reese had known instinctively that she always ended up sleeping that way, her whole life. Just in case.

In case her long-dead mother reappeared and began to beat her while she slept, as she had when Christine was a child.

His heart had ached for her. He'd wondered how long it would take for her to unlearn that way of sleeping. If she had days and weeks and months of sleeping beside someone that she could trust, that she absolutely knew would protect her, how long would it be before she could sleep a whole night unafraid?

The next night he'd slept beside her again. She hadn't protested. She had curled up in her sleep again. After breakfast, she'd asked him to drive her to Ground Zero. He'd agreed without question, but he was wildly curious. He hadn't learned much, though. Christine had climbed out of his car, walked to the railing that surrounded the Memorial, and stood for ten minutes looking out over the fountains. Then, without a word, she'd taken his arm and walked back to the car.

They picked up a new Number that day, and Reese had worked all night. He'd brought Bear to stay with her, and Christine had left her phone on the bedside table so Finch could monitor her overnight.

The fourth night she'd returned the dog and turned off her phone. She hadn't argued or been upset; she'd been very gentle about it. By then they were all fairly confident that Christine would be safe on her own.

And by then, Reese had begun to think that he was probably in love with her.

He shut off the shower and got out. It was still very strange to him. When he'd fallen in love with Jessica, it hit him like a brick. He'd known with absolute certainty, and he'd had a driving need, a demand, to claim her for his own. What he felt for Christine was utterly different. There was no rush, no urgency, emotional or physical. He was content merely to be close to her as she recovered from her injuries. He wasn't anxious. He was calm. Peaceful, so long as he knew she was safe.

He wasn't worried that she was out with Fusco. The detective would look after her. The last time she'd gone to a hockey game she'd tried to end the evening in bed with a hockey player, but even that didn't bother Reese now. She probably wouldn't do it again. And even if she did …

Christine was an extraordinarily good judge of character. If she picked up a random guy tonight, he'd be someone who knew how to treat a lady. One who would be careful of her mending rib and mostly-healed gunshot wound. Someone who would treat her well and bring her home safe in the morning. She would be okay.

His eyes narrowed as he toweled off. It was curious, he thought, that it didn't seem to matter. The last time it had almost happened he'd been furious. Now he was just … well, mildly concerned at best. That wasn't like him. He didn't share well: He had a wide possessive streak, where women were involved. And if he really was in love with Christine, why did the idea of her in bed with another man, so long as she was safe, not bother him?

Maybe, he thought as he got dressed, it was just a carry-over from his relationship with Zoe Morgan. He and the fixer were friends, and they occasionally shared a bed. It was nice, but it wasn't an emotional entanglement by any means. They both knew it was sex with no strings attached, and jealousy would have been out of place. What he was contemplating with Christine was far more, a full relationship, but maybe he was just out of the habit of being possessive.

It still felt wrong.

Maybe, he amended mentally, he wasn't worried because he was fairly certain Christine would be sleeping alone. As much as she'd tolerated his presence since the shooting, he felt pretty comfortable in assuming that she felt something for him, too.

But in any case he hadn't spoken; he hadn't, as Fusco so elegantly put it, staked his claim. So if she ended up in bed with someone else, he didn't really have any grounds to be offended.

It was complicated. Falling in love with Jessica hadn't been this complicated.

Of course, Reese thought, pulling on his jacket, his life hadn't been this complicated then, either.

He shrugged. Then he packed up his dirty clothes and the wet towel, carried his work boots, and let himself out of the apartment.