Carter put the finishing touches on her make-up and leaned back from the bathroom vanity.

Cherry lip gloss had looked fiery under the fluorescent lights in the drugstore. But on her mouth the color seemed muted, maybe just a little bit flirty.

Her hair, draped as usual across her shoulders, didn't look festive enough. So she swooped the length into a high ponytail, freshening her face and showing off the sparks shooting from emerald posts in her earlobes.

As she lifted her arms to secure the hair-do, a whiff of fragrance - green tea notes softened by heady roses - drifted from each wrist.

Long stowed away in the lowest drawer of her dresser, the perfume seemed now like an exotic veil separating her from ordinary life. So she pulled the stopper from the fluted bottle again and dabbed a drop between her breasts and another at the nape of her neck.

Then she sketched a stripe above her lashes and hoped the charcoal liner and an extra coat of mascara might camouflage those two-ton duffel bags under her eyes.

As she stared at her reflection, she rose to her own defense: the puffiness framing her bleary eyes was entirely justified. Daily care of a rambunctious four-month old was a big challenge and Nia seemed to wake up each morning happy, healthy, and determined to drain her mother's last reserves of energy.

Carter noted the hand holding her mascara wand was trembling ever so slightly, pink-lacquered nails gleaming under the mirror's Hollywood light bulbs. Baby-generated fatigue didn't cause this shaking, she knew.

This was old-fashioned date night nerves, pure and simple. She recognized the symptoms: jumping stomach, twitchy heart, dry mouth, all signs pointing to a big case of anticipation jitters. She'd stood in front of mirrors like this since high school; dates and the nerves preceding them were pretty standard stuff after all these years.

Usually.

But then this was no ordinary date, not by a long shot.

Two days ago John had asked her to join him for dinner. At a restaurant. On a Saturday night. He planned to pick her up at her apartment. In a rented – not stolen – car.

He didn't promise to wear a tie, but he did ask her to wear a dress.

To make sure she got the right one, he'd rifled through the clothing in her closet until he found the dress he wanted her to wear. Asking how he knew so much about the contents of her wardrobe would have been a buzz-kill, so she kept quiet when he held up the hanger for her inspection.

John's choice was a narrow sheath that featured thin vertical pink stripes on a black background. A pink band at the hem matched the tape outlining the sweetheart neckline. The fabric was clingy, the cut sleek, and the spaghetti straps didn't do much to support the molded bodice.

Carter had bought the dress in a moment of extravagance one week after she met John face-to-face for the first time in the Lyric Diner.

It was a foolish straw-hat kind of dress, made for humid nights and walking bare-foot in uncut grass. Fragrant potential bloomed from its seams and darts, leaving her swooning every time she grazed the dress's flimsy ties.

She had never worn it, never had an occasion to test its summer allure.

Instead she'd put away the dress when she first hurried to bed with him. She'd assumed it would stay tucked among her dark pant suits and button-down shirts until she could dump it into a charity clothing bin.

But now, the dress would have its moment to shine.

Eighteen months after stutter-stepping into a tenuous affair, four months after bringing a baby into the world, they were finally going to go out on a date.

A real, grown-up date.

Not Thai take-out at his loft or another fried catfish supper at her mother's house.

An honest-to-God real date.

A first date.

At last.

POIPOIPOI

Harold Finch was a life-saver.

Without his timely arrival and eagerness to take on baby-sitting duties that afternoon, Carter wouldn't have been able to squeeze in a lightening manicure appointment or the sprint through the drugstore that resulted in a new collection of cosmetics.

She didn't believe for one minute that Harold's visit was pure coincidence; she figured electronic snooping had supplemented his natural nosiness, bringing him to her door for playtime with Nia at the exact moment she needed him most.

Even after she'd returned from her errands, Harold volunteered to stay on. Nia couldn't crawl just yet, but rolling over and wriggling her way into mischief wasn't beyond her powers, so the extra eyes and hands he provided were a godsend. Thanks to Finch, Carter could get dressed for her evening on the town without distraction.

She had recruited Taylor for the night shift, another first.

Despite her mother's repeated assurances, Carter just hadn't felt confident in her son's babysitting abilities. Sure, he had looked after neighborhood grade school kids to earn movie money. And he'd even helped out with kindergarteners in Sunday School from time to time, winning high marks from the perfectionist who ran that class.

But an infant was a whole nother creature. Babysitting Nia required advanced skills, patience, and a conscientious attention to detail that her brother had never displayed before. So for the first four months, Carter's reluctance had trumped Taylor's enthusiasm.

Celia Griffin had huffed and puffed, Taylor had wheedled and whined, even John had pressed the case once or twice. But Carter's protective instincts won out and she held firm.

This first date called for extreme measures, however. So she'd drafted Taylor to the cause and he'd jumped at the chance for some one-on-one time with his little sister.

POIPOIPOI

Carter had just wriggled into the pink-striped dress when John pushed through her bedroom door.

He paused at the foot of the bed to appraise her.

"It looks good. You look good."

Sparse words as always, but the raised brow and shimmering eyes told a more elaborate story.

She closed the distance between them and placed a hand against his chest, her finger on the empty buttonhole halfway down. The scent of earth and leaves and maleness lifting from his skin made moisture gather at the back of her mouth.

"You too. I like the lavender shirt. But you knew that, didn't you?"

"Is that what color this is?"

A deep laugh to convey the tease. An easy hint of sex in his gaze. But when she caught his hand in hers, the dampness there suggested a different sort of inner turmoil.

She wanted to kiss him then, to run her tongue over his teeth and feel his cock harden against her belly. She wanted to forget about this date, to fall into bed like last week and the week before. She didn't need a new beginning. This was enough for them.

But she sensed an unfamiliar stiffness in the tendons of his neck as he bent to bring his lips close to hers. Muscles along his shoulders tensed with a formality that signaled this night would not proceed like those others.

Tomorrow, if John had his way, this relationship would start fresh.

His breath was cool against her cheek as he pulled back. Rapid blinking cleared the erotic fog from his eyes and his voice took on a hushed conspiratorial tone.

"So what did you do to Finch and Nia, drug them?"

"What do you mean? They were fine when I came in here to dress. Are they all right?"

She could feel her heart revving. She knew lines had creased her forehead when John rubbed his thumb over her brow to ease them.

"Oh, don't worry, they're doing great. Come see."

He took her hand and they tiptoed into the living room.

POIPOIPOI

Stretched along the length of the couch, the playmates formed a lovely tableau.

Nia was sprawled on Finch's chest, bobbing and dipping with his inhalations like a duckling on a placid pond.

Carter thought the sharp black and white of Harold's three-piece hound's-tooth suit made a charming frame for Nia's yellow onesie with its parade of pink and purple frogs.

Harold's right hand rested on the baby's back, the left arm flung across his eyes as if to block out the lamp light.

Carter stared for a moment at her daughter's head. After considerable study she concluded that Nia's mop of black hair had indeed been carefully fashioned into a vertical crest identical to Harold's upstart rooster comb.

Intense play through the long afternoon had sent them into a deep slumber, the little half-smile twitching along his lips matched by soft bubbles drifting from hers.

Cardboard picture books, two red plastic telephones, and a squishy white baseball were strewn on the floor next to the sofa. The rubberized case of a kid-size electronic tablet peeked from under Harold's knee. A cell phone dangled from his trouser pocket, ready to hit the floor with his next turn.

Along the back of the couch a pod of stuffed animals surveyed the drowsy scene. Most of the toys were sea creatures, porpoises to be exact. Scores of fuzzy gray dolphins, porpoises, whales, orcas and assorted members of the cetacean order rolled their beady eyes around the room. Plush, woolly, molded plastic or inflated, these porpoises were all gifts from Shaw, who would not give up her stranglehold on the punning play on Nia's name. If the child grew up to be a marine biologist, she could thank Shaw for the inspiration.

Carter removed Harold's glasses from their precarious perch on the snout of a cuddly chocolate-colored sea lion.

"I don't know what happened. When I went into the bedroom to get dressed, they were hard at work on the abacus."

She pointed at the colorful rows of giant wooden beads strung from the square frame of the ancient counting device.

John's mouth quirked down as he whispered:

"Looks like all that higher math finally wore them out."

"Should I put her back in the crib? That drooling is going to make a mess on Harold's nice new vest."

John snapped a few blackmail photos of the sleeping pair before answering.

"No, just let them be. He can afford the dry cleaning."

POIPOIPOI

"Mogadishu."

John rolled the lyrical syllables off his tongue and took another sip of red wine.

Carter chuckled through a few chiding questions:

"That's where we're going tonight? Somalia? When were you planning to tell me, John?"

Carter knew better, of course. But she wanted to prolong the lightness, the confiding mood of this exchange.

The dining table was too near the living room couch for full-throated conversation, so they were whispering to avoid disturbing the unconscious man and baby nearby.

John smiled briefly at her little joke and shared a bit more.

"It's a restaurant. On 116th street. Opened only last week."

"And just how do you know this particular spot in Harlem?"

"Owner's a friend of mine."

"More, please."

A year ago, she would have bristled at these anemic responses. But now she was relaxed enough – confident enough - to not resent having to pull each detail from him by main force.

"I met Moises in Nairobi a while back. Helped him out of a fix or two. And then when I got jammed up in Mogadishu…"

Dewy eyes trained on a spot at the far end of the table meant this was a sensitive point; an impression reinforced when John rubbed two fingers over a tiny scar Carter knew was at the base of his neck.

He didn't go on, so she finished the thought:

"…your friend returned the favor."

John seemed relieved that she didn't ask for more details.

"Yes, he did."

The hand flew from his neck to the stem of the wine glass and he continued:

"When Moises came to the States he decided to try his hand at the restaurant business. The one we're going to tonight is actually his second."

"So he's done pretty well at it, hunh?"

"Seems so. There's… um… one thing about tonight…Well, I don't want you to be surprised."

John's eyebrows rose and a flicker of amusement twisted his lips, so Carter didn't think this disclosure was going to be an ugly one.

"Yeah? What kind of surprise?"

"Moises calls me 'Rollie.' "

" 'Rollie?' What's that supposed to mean?"

"Short for Rollins."

"So you were John Rollins when you were on assignment in East Africa?"

"Yes."

A shrug and a tilt of the head signaled that was the end of the story. At least for the moment. Carter hoped that at the restaurant, over good food and cleansing laughter, Moises might prove more forthcoming about their exploits on the other side of the world.

But for now, she was willing to change the subject. She poured more Burgundy into both glasses.

"Harold looked real tired when he came over today. Even before he started playing with Nia he seemed pretty beat. New business must be taking a lot out of him."

John looked toward his dozing friend, who shifted on the couch as if sensing he was the subject of their conversation.

"Any start up is hard. Even though Finch bought Continental Security from Hammett, getting a consultancy back on its feet after such a long inactive stretch means building client lists from scratch."

John hadn't shared much about his new work, so Carter pushed through this sliver of an opening.

"So you're the face of the agency, right?"

"Yeah, well, customer relations isn't my strong suit."

He smirked at the understatement.

Then his eyes narrowed and flashed steel, so Carter knew this new job had captured his full attention.

"But I can make a nervous client feel safe when it counts. Get him to open up when I need to. Help him see a hidden pattern or clue or connection. I'm good at that."

John didn't sound smug. Carter half expected him to say 'No brag, just fact' as the summary line for this explanation.

But instead he rapped on the table with a knuckle, each beat a bullet point highlighting the details of his new work:

"Investigating, digging for evidence, following a lead, solving a puzzle, all that's the easy part. It's building confidence that takes the most effort. But I'm pretty good at listening. Hearing the story behind the story when people talk to me.

"So yes, the job suits me."

Carter didn't want to ask the next question, wanted to skirt the touchy transition, but she had to get it out on the table.

"And the numbers keep coming, don't they? I figure that's what's got Harold tired too."

John let his eyelids flutter closed for a long moment, the lashes forming a spikey shadow over his cheekbones.

"Yes, they keep coming."

"Harold's computer keeps them coming, right?"

The goblet's base hit the wooden table with a thump that sent the wine sloshing almost to the rim. John's eyes moistened in wonder and his lips made soft smacking sounds before he got out the next words:

"What did you say?"

Carter shrugged as if this was just a casual discussion of tradecraft, a minor exchange of gossip. Rather than the soul-shifting turn in their relationship it actually was. The intimacy, the domesticity of this moment made her feel this was as good a time as any to share her speculation.

She took a fortifying gulp of wine and continued:

"How else could you guys know when someone's about to be in trouble? I just figured Harold built some sort of supercomputer that can siphon information from government feeds."

"Finch will be impressed."

"I am a detective, you know."

Reese tipped his glass in her direction.

"The best one I ever met."

She smiled and bowed her head slightly, accepting what she knew was a high compliment.

After a pause, Carter wanted to turn the conversation to a less emotional topic, without losing the train of this thorny discussion altogether.

"So with you at Continental, how is Harold dealing out the assignments?"

"Shaw's stepped up big time."

"By herself? No offense, but she's only one person, even if she is a tough little sucker. How can she possibly handle it all?"

John laughed, a broad gesture whose generosity let Carter exhale in relief.

"I won't tell her you doubted her abilities!"

Then more seriously:

"Shaw's brought in some new people. Motivated recruits with specialized training and the background and skills the job requires. She handles the job and she handles them."

His lips narrowed into a fine line of confidence as he wrapped up the assessment.

Carter nodded in recognition, relieved that John seemed to have shed whatever guilt he might have felt initially about these changes.

"Yeah, Fusco mentioned one of them. Somebody called Ogden, I think. Real piece of work, he said."

"Actually, that's two pieces of work. Ogdens are twins. Chelsea is good on the high wire. Literally. She used to be a circus acrobat before she joined the Marines. And Carla likes explosives. And stilettos."

"She's into high-heel shoes?"

"No. Long, thin daggers. If Carla brings a knife to a gun fight, you can bet she wins."

He extended his left hand in a rapier thrust and then sliced Zorro's sign of the Z into the air.

Carter chuckled at the image of fancy swordplay dazzling the streets of cynical New York:

"Sounds like a new urban legend in the making! I bet Lionel is already working overtime to come up with the slogans. I don't know if The Babe with the Blade can ever replace The Man in The Suit. But I can see Lionel making a good push for it!"

Carter interrupted their laughter to tap her watch.

She felt the scolding-mom voice slipping past her teeth before she could stop it.

"What has got into Taylor? I told him to get back home by six at the latest. And here it is almost seven fifteen!"

John fished the cell from his jacket's breast pocket and scrolled through messages.

"According to his most recent text, he's less than twenty minutes out."

"Wait, what! You're texting with Taylor? Since when?"

"Almost every day for about four months now. Started not long after we brought Nia home."

"He can barely manage to check in with me by phone. After I beg and plead with him. And now he's texting with you? What's he texting you about, anyway?"

Carter knew her tantrum included equal parts jealousy and relief.

She wanted the two men in her life to get along, to mean something to each other beyond the bare bones of biological connection. Only she had expected to be front and center in shaping that relationship, not an out-of-the-loop cheerleader on the sidelines.

"You know - times, addresses, digits, scores, pictures. Guy stuff."

She knew John wasn't going to give away any man club secrets, so she let it drop.

"So that's how you two roll, hunh?"

"Yep, that's it."

The smugness which he had suppressed earlier in their conversation was on full display now. Which tickled Carter no end.

"Well, if that boy doesn't walk in here this very minute, I'm going to tattoo a text right where he won't ever forget it."

The threat was absurd, but it did make John laugh again, this time with all his teeth showing. She adored seeing the merry color rush over his ears and glistening cheekbones.

Taylor chose that moment to turn the key in the front door lock. As he stepped over the threshold, Carter could sense an explanation ready on his lips to counter the expected scolding.

She watched him take in the surprising scene: he glanced from his laughing mother to the quiet smiling man at her side; from the slumbering caretaker stretched out on the sofa to the golden baby raising her head in sleepy amazement.

Carter wanted to tell him, to tell them all, to shout to the whole wide world:

Tomorrow is here.

Tomorrow is now.

And it looks just like us.