For a moment, Fusco couldn't make sense of what had happened. The wheels in his mind were moving more slowly than Manhattan traffic at rush hour. He had heard the gun go off behind him, way too close for comfort. But he hadn't felt a bullet slamming into his skull, or even the burn of a graze above his ear.

Fusco could think of two possible explanations for this. Either he had died instantly, and the afterlife happened to look a heckuva lot like where he'd just been kneeling. Or maybe that shot he'd heard hadn't been aimed at him, and—if this was really his lucky day—it had taken out his would-be executioner. Honestly, though, both options seemed pretty unlikely.

Then he heard the quiet crunch of footsteps moving toward him through the underbrush. Fusco immediately recognized that purposeful stride, and breathed a shaky sigh of relief. He had hoped that the goon from HR had been wrong about the Man in the Suit tossing him aside like a used cigarette. But he hadn't been sure.

Something stirred inside him that Fusco hadn't felt in a very long time. So long, in fact, that it took him a moment to name that feeling as "gratitude." It felt kind of good, actually.

Of course he couldn't let Wonderboy know, or he'd never hear the end of it. Instead, Fusco greeted him with one of their typical jibes. "Cutting it kind of close, don't you think?" His voice came out shakier than he had intended, as it dawned on him that only moments ago, he had nearly become a stiff.

"At least I'm not late." The laconic reply came in the soft, gravelly voice of the Man in the Suit, Fusco's personal gadfly—and, he had to admit, occasionally his rescuer.

Now that the scene was minus one gun aimed at Fusco's head and plus one dead body, Fusco's mind leapt forward to the logistics of the clean-up. "I gotta call this in," he blurted to the Suit, pulling out the HR goon's phone. "I can make this a good shooting."

"That phone is the only proof that this guy was working with Vargas?" his rescuer asked, still in that unnervingly languid tone.

"Yeah," said Fusco, envisioning himself on the witness stand, giving evidence that would finally put those HR creeps behind bars. He'd be a hero. He'd be a free man. Best of all, he'd be a man that his kid could look up to.

"Let me see it," said Reese. And with that, the incriminating evidence became nothing more than a small heap of broken glass and electronic fragments.

Fusco balked as he saw his visions of respectability crushed into the dirt by a size 12 dress shoe. "What the hell are you doing?"

"I can't have you coming clean, Lionel. I need you inside HR. Get close to them."

How could the man sound so freaking calm? "There are cameras inside of 1PP," Fusco fumed. "People will know that I've left with this guy. We're talking murder one. Don't you get it?"

"That's the point. You'll need your friends at HR to help you cover this up."

"I was just starting to enjoy being a good guy for a change," Fusco sulked.

"You've done some nice work, Lionel. I'm sorry, but you're more useful inside."

Sorry? You're 'sorry'? Fusco thought, bridling at the latest orders from his new handler. The man didn't sound sorry. Suddenly he wondered whether he had really ended up in a better place than where he had started, trading his HR bosses for this annoyingly suave vigilante. "My hands are dirty, always will be, huh?"

Instead of taking up the challenge, the Suit gave him an inscrutable look, then turned and began to walk away. Fusco was trying to come up with a real clincher to throw after him, when he noticed that the tall man's lanky gait seemed strangely unsteady. As Fusco bent a quizzical eyebrow, the Suit staggered for a few steps, then slumped a little as he paused to wrap an arm around his left side before forcing himself to straighten.

Fusco could tell that something was wrong. "Hey, Wonderboy!" he called out.

The tall man paused with an air of annoyance, but when he turned, Fusco could see the weariness on his usually impassive face. Maybe it was the pronounced five o'clock shadow, or his half-lidded eyes that gave it away, or something about the set of his mouth—speaking of which, now that Fusco got a better look at the guy's face, someone seemed to have been doing some redecorating. Even in the scattered moonlight, he could see dark shadows and contours that didn't belong, and there was a thick black line over the tall man's eye and another through his lower lip.

When Fusco caught up with him, the Suit faced him with an exasperated sigh. "Lionel, you know that you have to . . ."

Before Fusco could lose his resolve, he ventured, "Hey, you don't look so good. Are you okay? "

Reese thrust his hands into his pockets and replied coolly, "I appreciate your sudden interest in my appearance, Lionel. But I can take care of myself." Then he conceded, "It's been . . . a long day."

Now that his new employer had reminded Reese what kindness and friendship felt like, he realized how starved he had been for genuine human connection. Still, he hung back like an abused dog when anyone reached out to him; he'd learned the hard way that getting close inevitably meant getting hurt.

Already Reese felt angry at himself for having shown any sign of weakness. Straightening his jacket, he was about to deliver a snappy sign-off and go collapse into his bed—or as near as he could make it—when he saw Fusco's eyes widen.

Gesturing at the front of his rescuer's black shirt, Fusco said nervously, "Um, Unless you got a leaky water bottle in your jacket, it looks like you're bleeding—big time." Then he noticed the small hole in the cloth, and alarm widened his eyes. "Whoa, you've been shot!"

Fusco knew as well as any cop that in the heat of battle, you could take a bullet and not even realize it until hours later. Then, when the adrenaline ran out and your blood vessels opened up again, you could be toast before you even knew what was happening.

Reese let out a sigh of annoyance, like an adult tiring of a child's questions. "Not shot, just grazed," he corrected for the second time that day, plucking at the hole in his shirt.

But he found that Fusco was right. This time when he touched the fabric, his fingers came away wet and sticky. The black cloth had masked the color of the blood, and there was a lot of it. Although he'd been too busy to notice the pain, the wound must have been deeper than he had realized. On a normal day—if there was such a thing for him—Reese would have briefly assessed and patched up his injuries on the run. Today, though, each new crisis had been too urgent for him to pause even a minute.

Now that he had stopped to notice, Reese discovered that the raw groove carved into his side by the bullet was burning like all hell. That brief acknowledgment of his body turned out to be a huge mistake. Suddenly, the rush of adrenaline that had fueled him through the day's many crises trickled down its last drop, and exhaustion took over. Those two brutal blows with the crowbar; all the hard punches from Vargas and his men; hitting the concrete headlong—several times.

All of the day's injuries caught up with him at once, jumping him like a street gang. Lack of food and water and sleep piled on in a rush, and they easily took him down. Famished, exhausted, hurting all over—Reese watched the world swim for a moment. Then it tilted abruptly, the ground rose up to meet him, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He hated it when that happened.

Fusco ran forward to support the tall man sank as he sank wordlessly toward the ground, even though he could hardly believe what he was seeing. Of course normally he wouldn't have touched the guy with a ten-foot pole, not for love or money. The Suit was a professional killer if Fusco had ever seen one—a man who packed heat as casually as he put on his socks and underwear. On the other hand, that killer had just saved Fusco from an incredibly close call, and Fusco couldn't shake the instinct to come to the aid of a partner in the law.

But when Fusco put one hand on the Suit's back and the other under his left arm to steady him, somehow things didn't go at all as he had expected—and it wasn't just because the guy weighed a ton. A strangled sound of agony came from the back of the tall man's throat as he pitched forward onto all fours. After raising one hand protectively to the back of his neck, he vomited so vigorously that Fusco had to make a quick jump backwards to avoid getting hit. There really wasn't much to it; the man's stomach must have been as empty as a weekday subway at midnight. But what Fusco did see frightened him: splotches of red that looked like blood.

Fusco felt half irritated and half terrified as he crouched beside the groaning, retching man. "Alright, Wonderboy," he said, "you gonna tell me what's going on here? Because if you don't, I'm gonna figure it out for myself, whether you like it or not." Bossing the guy around was a risky move, but Fusco was willing to bet that Wonderboy really wasn't in any condition to deck him right now, even if he wanted to.

Reese knew that fact as well as Fusco. Furious at his own weakness, he growled, "Is that . . . a threat?" All that vomiting had made his vacant stomach feel like it was being scraped out with a knife, and made his abdominal muscles hurt so badly that he felt like Cahill had bashed him with the crowbar all over again. He wished that the man hadn't played his role as a loyal member of Vargas's gang quite so enthusiastically.

"A threat?" Fusco rolled his eyes. "Actually, believe it or not, it's an offer of 'help,' something that human beings occasionally do for one another to be 'nice.' Most people actually think it's a good thing—especially," he added pointedly, "since it can go two ways."

Still slumped over and breathing raggedly, the Suit seemed to pause and consider this before pitching forward abruptly to retch again.

"Look, pal," Fusco said, this time with concern in his voice, "it seems to me like somebody worked you over pretty good. I'm not leaving you here alone like this."

Reese raised his eyes to study the determined, unflinching face of the little detective for a long minute, then grudgingly relented. Between breaths, he managed to gasp out, "My neck's. . . a little . . . sensitive . . . right now."

Progress, Fusco thought, smiling to himself. He hadn't been certain his bluster would work, but it was a good thing that it had. If Mr. Independent was willing to admit that he was injured, the man must be in some seriously bad shape.

Time to asses the damage. Fusco flicked on his cell phone flashlight to supplement the scant lighting in the park, and didn't bother to ask permission before pulling down the back of the tall man's jacket and his shirt collar. Fusco hissed when he saw what lay underneath: a swollen expanse of mottled purple and red, just below the base of the man's neck and to the left of his spine. Dried blood crusted a painful-looking laceration at its center where the force of the blow had split the skin.

"What happened to you?" Fusco said, incredulous. "Somebody hit you with a hammer?!"

"Close," the Suit choked out, his head drooping. "A crow bar." He sounded like he was going to be sick again.

"You're lucky he didn't break your sorry neck," Fusco declared. "How hard did he hit you, exactly?"

"Hard enough . . . to tie me . . . to a chair . . . before . . . I came to." Reese put an exploratory hand to the wound, and squeezed his eyes shut at the pain. "Took out . . . a couple ribs, . . . I think."

"If that's all, I still say you got off easy," Fusco opined, though really, he could see that the guy needed help. He'd clearly taken a beating from someone who didn't care how much damage they did. Knowing him, he was probably in even more pain than he allowed himself to show. "Hey," Fusco said hesitantly, "you still in touch with that professor friend of yours?"

"Not . . . at the moment," the tall man rasped. His profile was silhouetted in shadow against the clear night air, and Fusco could see that that sweat had clumped the hair above his forehead and was dripping from his face. "My phone died . . . awhile ago. . . . Violently."

"Funny how phones have a habit of doing that around you," Fusco said, with evident annoyance. "Anyhow, there's no way I'm going to let you loose on the city in this condition, much less operate a motor vehicle." He crossed his arms and donned his best, most authoritative, Dad-Says-No Look. "I have my duty to the citizens of New York, after all."

Of course, the Dad Look didn't work any better on Wonderboy than it did on his own kid.

"I'll be . . . fine . . . in a minute," Reese objected, as he attempted to stagger back onto his feet. ". . . or two." The way that he collapsed again with a groan, clutching his abdomen, made the effort less than convincing—even to himself.

"Oh, really?" Fusco said, his voice dripping sarcasm. "Yeah, you'll be just fine—and I'm an honest cop!" Fusco was stalling for time. If they couldn't reach the professor, he wasn't sure who else to call. Wonderboy didn't seem like the type of guy who kept a long list of friends on speed dial. And Fusco suspected that the tall man had the sort of injuries that would draw unwanted attention at a hospital.

"Look, you take it easy, and I'll figure something out," Fusco said, wishing for some surface to drum his fingers on while he thought.

Reese bristled at the command, despite being curled up on the ground in obvious pain. He wasn't used to being ordered around—or letting someone else take care of his problems. "Oh, so you're my mother now, Lionel?" he growled, but it was fairly pathetic growl by his usual standards. "I told you, I can take care of myself."

Emboldened by the helplessness of a man who usually treated him like a trained flea, Fusco scoffed, "Like hell you can." He decided it was time to play his trump card. "Not when you're puking up blood in the middle of nowhere. Yeah—blood, in case you didn't notice. You need help. And it seems like I'm the only help you've got right now."

That got Reese's attention, though he only granted the detective a suspicious look in response. He hadn't noticed the blood, actually; he had been too busy feeling miserable to care what he coughed up.

Under Fusco's impatient gaze, Reese skeptically spat into his hand and inspected the results. Not good. The spattering of bright red could have come from the multiple cuts inside his mouth, but it seemed unlikely this many hours after the fact. Reese sighed. This day didn't look like it was going to get much better anytime soon.

"What did I tell ya?" Fusco said, allowing himself a knowing smirk.

"Amazing . . . deductive . . . skills," Reese said, one eyebrow raised mockingly, as he wiped his hand on the sleeve of his shirt. "Must be . . . how . . . you made . . . detective."

That remark raised Fusco's hackles. But he knew that he had won when the tall man began working his arms out of his jacket gingerly. Fusco knelt down to help, and noticed the change from the Suit's usual attire. "Casual day, huh?" he inquired, trying to lighten the mood.

"Undercover . . . work," Reese corrected. Moving his torso made him feel like he might be sick again, but he fought back the urge. "Drug smugglers. Different . . . dress code."

With his jacket off, Reese sat back, too exhausted to refuse Fusco's help, and let the stocky detective peel back his bloodied shirt and undershirt. Reese closed his eyes and tried to distance himself from the pain by focusing on the smell of the woods. Scents of damp earth, green leaves, and piney resin filled the air around him, coming as a relief after the odors of blood, smoke, and gasoline that had played too prominent a part in his day. Honestly, the longer he lay there among the trees, resting on a cushion of prickly but springy underbrush, the less he felt like getting up again anytime soon.

Fusco moved closer with his cell phone light and made sympathetic noises as he took in the tall man's injuries. But what really stunned him was the network of scars that surrounded these newest additions. So many of them. Bullet wounds, knife wounds, and God only knows what else. Fusco felt a twinge inside—maybe even sympathy—at seeing this record of the tall man's dark history inscribed on his own body. Who was this guy, and what other secrets hid beneath his cool exterior? Fusco felt like he knew the answer to those questions less than ever.

Even so, his reverie was broken by a definite twinge of envy, because beneath all those scars, Wonderboy had perfect abs—a real six-pack. Fusco's own stomach had always been more of a kegger, no matter how many of those miracle exercise devices he'd ordered from late night infomercials. No wonder the Suit could kick ass like Jackie Chan without even breaking a sweat.

Right now, though, he was definitely sweating as Fusco examined the ragged wound in his left side, a long, bloody rut carved between two of his ribs. Fusco shook his head, and whistled. "Well, technically you were right about being 'grazed, not shot' but I wouldn't exactly call this a scratch."

"I like . . . technicalities," Reese responded irritably.

Fusco ignored him, instead moving on to examine the the swollen, discolored expanse near the man's navel. The blow hadn't broken the skin, but had bruised it badly, reinforcing Fusco's suspicions of internal bleeding. Looking up at his patient's tense face, Fusco said, "I'm guessing this one's compliments of crowbar-guy, too?"

"Same crowbar . . ." Reese said, letting out a heavy grunt as Fusco probed his distended abdomen carefully, ". . . different guy." He couldn't resist adding hoarsely, as if observing a point of interest, "In fact, . . . one of . . . New York's . . . finest."

Fusco's head snapped up at that addendum. "So that's what took you so long? HR got to you before you made it out here?" Fusco smacked his forehead and began to look panicky. "Man, this is worse than I thought. How am I ever going to talk my way out of this . . . "

Reese closed his eyes and gave a slight shake of his head. Despite his best efforts to push it away, the pain was getting to him. "No, . . . not HR. Undercover cop. Long story."

"Undercover? Really? And drug smugglers? That sounds like quite a story." Fusco let out a sigh of relief. As long as it didn't involve HR or his own neck, he was happy.
But that brought him back to the problem at hand—the six-foot-plus problem sprawled on the ground beside him, whose face had grown pale with pain. "Anyway, you can tell me all about it over a beer sometime," Fusco said, as he began pulling off his coat and unbuttoning his shirt, "because you're in no shape to waste your breath talking right now."

For once, the Suit seemed to agree; he lay back on the ground, his hand resting protectively on his wounded side, and let his eyes drift shut while Fusco got down to business, tearing his shirt into strips. Fusco needed bandages, and it was the only thing on hand that would do the job. If he'd arrived in his patrol car, he'd have had a regular arsenal of first aid supplies. The HR escort who'd driven him here, though, seemed more like the kind of guy who would stash a bottle of vodka in his glovebox than a box of Band-Aids.

That gave Fusco an idea. "Hang on. I'm going to go get something."

The Suit's eyes instantly flew open with a look of suspicion. Fusco clarified, "Disinfectant. That little 'graze' of yours goes halfway down into your ribs, and it's already looking pretty nasty. I'm betting that my former colleague keeps a bottle of the strong stuff on hand for, you know, 'emergencies.'"

Sure enough, Fusco returned triumphantly a few minutes later holding a monogrammed silver flask. As he uncapped it, he said to the Suit, "I'd tell you this is going to hurt, but that would just be corny. You want anything to bite down on? Like in the old cowboy movies?" Wonderboy shook his head with an odd look that Fusco couldn't read, and Fusco shrugged. "Suit yourself."

In fact, Reese normally would have accepted, but he still remembered all too vividly the cottony taste of Kol's gag, the texture of the damp cloth filling his mouth to silence him during Kol's torture. He had needed it. He had clenched it between his teeth so hard that his jaw ached, as Kol had forced the long needle into his elbow and repeated that single, persistent question, Wo ist Anya? Where is Anya?

Reese had needed all of his strength of will to brace himself as Kol drove the needle ever deeper, pushing it through flesh, cartilage, bone—the pain first piercingly sharp then sickeningly dull—until it struck its target, the ulnar nerve. Then Reese's arm had become pain—pain so excruciating that had it threatened to force tears of agony from his eyes. He would never be able shake that memory, or the particular horror of how Kol had used his own body against him.

Fusco watched hesitantly as the tall man's eyes turned distant and guarded, but he could only guess at what was going on in the guy's mind. "Look, uh . . . I promise not to tell anyone if . . . you know, if you need to scream. Not even your buddy, Mr. Vocabulary. It'll be between you and me and the trees."

Reese's face became a stony mask, which he turned on Fusco. "What . . . makes . . . you think . . . I'm going to . . .?" he began, achieving a remarkable degree of sarcasm before Fusco took a quick swig from the flask, then promptly shut up his patient by trickling the contents over his bullet wound.

Reese curled up, clutching his side, as the burn of the alcohol rushed through his raw flesh like lightning through dry grass. He didn't scream. But he did utter a series hard, deep grunts, as if he were trying to move a small mountain by sheer brute force. His eyes narrowed, their blazing sapphire dulled to blue steel, and his jaw muscles tensed until his chin trembled.

"Impressive," admitted Fusco, cocking an eyebrow as he waited for the tall man's breathing to even out. "I'll hand it to you, you really are one tough cookie. If it was me, I'd be shrieking like Little Miss Muffet with that big spider right now."

The tall man grimaced as Fusco pulled back the collar of his shirt, exposing the wound just below the base of his neck. "Now let's take care of this one."

To Fusco's surprise, this time the Suit couldn't hold back a cry when the alcohol hit the wound, and his body went limp as he lapsed into unconsciousness. Honestly, Fusco couldn't blame the guy. How Wonderboy had been walking around with injuries like these, he couldn't comprehend—much less spending his night taking out dirty cops in the woods. The man might not actually be invincible, but he had clearly mastered the art of burning his adrenaline rush down to its last fumes.

Fusco sighed. He could use some adrenaline himself right now, or at least a few cold ones in a cozy bar somewhere; he'd had quite a night, too, what with nearly getting executed and all. And now this. Shuddering at the memory of his too-close call, Fusco hurried to distract himself from his own problems by dealing with the Suit's. After cleaning the wound on his patient's neck and tidying up his face as best he could, Fusco laboriously turned the unconscious man onto his back and set to work bandaging his ribs.

A couple of minutes into his task, he was surprised to hear a soft voice rasp from out of the darkness, "Why are you doing this, Lionel? I thought you'd rather have me out of your life."

Fusco looked up at him. There was something weirdly innocent about the tone, and about the look on the tall man's face—like he genuinely didn't understand why anyone would care about him. It was kind of sad, actually. And it was such a world apart from the Suit's usual cocksure attitude, that Fusco found himself at a loss for words.

The question hung in the air: why was he helping the Suit, anyway? It wasn't like the guy made his life any easier. He was arrogant, mouthy, overbearing, sarcastic . . . Fusco could go on listing his faults for some time.

On the other hand, he did have a tendency to show up when Fusco found himself in trouble—trouble that otherwise could have left his kid without a dad. So far as he could tell, the tall vigilante had done similar favors for many other people across the city, dropping in to save the day like Superman before vanishing back into the shadows with his sidekick Mr. Vocabulary.

At least that was how it had seemed. Now that Fusco was witnessing firsthand the toll that a day's work could take on the tall man, it dawned on him that all of that rescuing came at a higher personal cost than Fusco had realized.

The detective's expression softened, even as he shrugged off the question. "Sure, you're an arrogant bastard who likes to make my life miserable. But . . . you did just make a special trip all the way out here in the middle of the night to save my ass, even if it was kinda last-minute. So I guess I owe you one." He paused, unsure whether to say more. "Besides, I've . . . sorta gotten used to . . . to having you around, you know. Seems like when you're not spending your time harassing me, you try to do good deeds—to help people. People no one else can help. Sometimes even people like me."

"I'm touched, Lionel." A wan version of Reese's usual smirk had returned, but with a quirk of good humor that Fusco hadn't seen before. "I thought you hadn't noticed."

Hurrying to change the subject before the exchange could get too personal, Fusco finished tying the improvised bandage around the man's ribs and declared, "There, that should hold you for now—at least until we can find that weird geeky pal of yours, and he can get you to a doctor."

As the Suit gingerly pulled his shirt back down, Fusco was surprised to find that the tall man's haggard face looked both gentler and more serious than he'd ever seen it before. It made him look almost . . . almost human.

"Thank you, Lionel," the man said simply. Like he meant it.

Suddenly self-conscious, Fusco said, "Aw, now, if you start getting all warm and fuzzy like like that, I'm gonna have to pull out my hankie." But somewhere inside, he felt the satisfaction of seeing genuine gratitude in the Suit's eyes, and he couldn't help returning a quick half-smile before he resumed their accustomed ribbing. "Besides, you know, I didn't really want two bodies to have to clean up. It's hard enough to get rid of one."

"You'll get better at it, with time," the Suit encouraged him, with mock sincerity. "I'll keep doing my part to help you practice."

Fusco was about to tell Wonderboy that he wouldn't mind a little less practice, actually, when he heard a buzz from the pocket of his discarded coat. "Hang on. I'd better take that—make sure it's not my kid." When he had dug out the phone, Fusco squinted at the number then started to put it back in his pocket. "Nobody I know."

"Wait," said Reese, leaning carefully to look at the screen. "Answer it."

Fusco shot him a quizzical look, but took the call. "Hello?"

"Hello, Detective. I'm delighted to hear that you're still alive," the voice declared in familiar nasal tones.

"Why am I not surprised?" Fusco muttered, glancing over at the Suit, whose bruised face wore a look of knowing amusement.

"I was calling to see whether you might know the whereabouts of our mutual friend. Last I heard from him, he was headed your way, to rescue you from an untimely end. But his phone seems to be out of service, and we've been out of contact for some time. I'm beginning to worry that something has gone awry."

"'His whereabouts'? 'Gone awry'?" Fusco mumbled half to himself, "who says things like that anymore?" Then he noticed the suppressed laughter in the eyes of the man beside him.

Reese knew exactly who used words like that. He reached for the phone, but Fusco swatted him away and mouthed, Hands off.

"Yeah, he's right here with me. Where's here? I dunno exactly. Somewhere in a secluded woody spot, I guess you might say. Why? Saving my hiney, like I assume you told him to do. Though I think I just returned the favor. Better make sure you got a lot of those bags of frozen peas for when he gets back, 'cuz he's gonna need 'em."

"My associate has been injured?" A note of alarm entered the Professor's voice. "How badly is he hurt? Does he need a doctor?" His tone made Fusco suspect that Mr. Vocabulary knew firsthand the stories of some of the Suit's scars.

"I'm fine," Reese insisted hoarsely, "tell him I'm fine." Unlike Fusco, he knew exactly which nightmarish scene from their history together was flashing through Finch's head.

Fusco shot his patient an inquisitive look, and saw, to his surprise, that the Suit's insistence seemed to be more than just part of his tough-guy act. From the look on his face, he was genuinely concerned about assuaging his employer's worries. Although Fusco continued to be baffled by the relationship between the Geek and the Badass, he chose his words carefully. "Well, somebody roughed him up pretty good, but he should be okay with a little rest and TLC. I patched him up for now, but you might wanna have a doctor give him the once over when he gets, er . . . home." Where did Wonderboy go at the end of the day, anyway? Fusco realized that he had no idea.

"Thank God," breathed the voice on the other end of the line, as if the speaker had not dared to exhale until Fusco reassured him. "And thank you, Detective, for taking care of my associate." A long pause followed. "Perhaps . . . perhaps I've misjudged you." The Professor sounded as surprised to be uttering the words as Fusco was to hear them.

Fusco felt a swell of pride, which he hid behind a blustering response. "Oh, I doubt it. Every bad cop has an off night now and again. Anyway, you wanna talk to Wonderboy here? Otherwise when we finish cleaning up, I'll just drop him off. Yeah? Okay, give me the address."

Reese gestured toward the phone irritably as Fusco nodded and noted the information, but Fusco purposefully kept it out of his reach. When he had signed off and put the phone back in his pocket, he shook his head vehemently. "Nuh-uh, you're not laying a finger on this one, Wonderboy, not after all the phones you've killed tonight. Mr. Vocabulary says hello and told me where to drop you off—and he's beginning to think maybe I'm not such a bad cop after all," he added with a self-satisfied smirk.

"Maybe he's right," Reese said softly, one hand resting on his bandaged side.

There it was again. That disarming, almost boyish, look that seemed to come out of nowhere, as if the killer had just turned into a little kid. Fusco found himself glancing away and swallowing back a sudden lump in his throat. The Suit, whoever he might be—and whoever he might have been—was more than almost human. He was all too human.

Fusco coughed heartily to excuse the scratchiness in his voice when he spoke again. "Anyhow, I think I just got promoted. Apparently now I'm your babysitter. Supposed to bring you home before your curfew. Maybe you boys can put me on the payroll."

"I guess that's what you get for fixing me up," the Suit joked. Then he added slyly, "So, should I tell my employer that you'll be billing him for your shirt? And perhaps some cheap vodka?"

"Now you're sounding more like yourself again," Fusco said, rolling his eyes. He couldn't resist breaking into a lopsided grin, though, as he helped the injured man to stand. Then he paused, his face growing self-consciously somber, as he studied the ground. "I . . . uh . . . I think I forgot to say, uh . . . thank you. For, you know, for saving my life." His eyes darted up to meet the Suit's, and he found there an expression of mild surprise. "Yeah, sure, I wouldn't mind if you come a little sooner next time. But if it wasn't for you, I'd have been a dead man for sure."

A hint of a smile curved the corner of Reese's lips, and he returned, "Well, Lionel, I couldn't afford to lose such a valuable asset."

Fusco squinted at the tall man's face for a moment, unsure whether he should be offended. "An 'asset'? So that's all I am to you, huh, Wonderboy?"

But then he noticed the quirk of humor in the tall man's eyes, and realized the Suit had just given him something close to a compliment. Fusco sighed in good-natured exasperation. "Speaking of which, we'd both better haul our 'assets' out of here before HR starts to wonder what's taking so long. Or before you turn into a pumpkin. Come on, Wonderboy." Fusco offered his shoulder to his battered protector for support.

Reese hesitated a moment, still feeling the pull of ingrained suspicion against his newfound desire to trust. Then his hand moved automatically to his bandaged side. Stanton would never have done that for him, much less Snow. He had the bullet scars to prove it, right alongside the wound that Fusco had just tended.

Reese looked down at the stocky detective, and a faint smile returned to his face. Without another word, he accepted his friend's help.