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Months have passed since the…incident that took place between them after the case with the Brazilian diplomat’s daughter. Neither Reese nor Finch has said a word about it—working day by day the same as they always had, with no visible change in their relationship. It’s an elephant in the room that neither is eager to acknowledge for fear of the damage that it might do, not only to the work, but to themselves.
It is something Reese comes to regret when Donnelly throws him in Riker’s. Every day the thought occurs to him that he may never be able to see Finch again. During Carter and Donnelly’s interrogation, when he told Carter he just wanted to go home, he was talking about the library and his enigmatic boss. He was fairly certain that Carter knew exactly what he was talking about.
When finally he was released, he wanted nothing more than to go straight to the library. Maybe Finch would kiss him again the way he’d done when he had thought that Reese had been killed in the explosion. Or maybe he would just say the hell with it and kiss Finch himself, despite telling himself for months that Harold had to make the first move.
The world, of course, had different plans in mind, and so did dear old Agent Kara Stanton.
Standing on the roof a building with a bomb strapped to his chest, he thinks that maybe this is a metaphor for his life. If he was slightly more clear-headed, he might be able to come up with a decent explanation why. He closes his eyes to imagine something nice—or to ask a higher power to keep Harold safe—he’s not entirely certain which it was going to be, or both, because he doesn’t get the chance to do either. He had known, deep down, that Harold wouldn’t do as he asked. He had hoped he would do the smart thing for once because the world was such a better place with him in it, but he was smart enough to predict that Finch wasn’t going to let him go that easily. He had tried to get him to stay away when he was shot by the CIA as well, but Finch hadn’t listened then either. Harold would save him if he could, and if he couldn’t—well, that way neither would be left to mourn the other. Somehow, death had become preferable to the both of them over living without the other. The world would go on without them as though they had never existed because officially, they were already dead.
If asked, Reese still wouldn’t be able to tell you if he had had any hope of the bomb not blowing them both to kingdom-come. He had so much faith in Finch, but so little faith in their luck—which was exactly what disarming the bomb came down to. Lottery numbers. Pick the right one, Harold. When their abysmal luck managed to hold out and the phone unlocked, both men deflated and let out puffs of pent-up breath. A strange kind of calm took hold of Reese as he breathed and his eyes met Harold’s. He was pretty sure the other man was feeling the same way.
Slowly, Reese leans his forehead against Harold’s and puts a gentle hand on his cheek. The smaller man is trembling, so Reese puts his other hand on his waist and pulls him closer. He grasps onto Reese’s jacket as though he was drowning and they stand like that for a long moment before the explosion of the car down on the ground startles them into jumping apart. After that, they have both gathered their composure and they are as business-like as possible while Harold carefully un-straps the vest from Reese’s chest just as he carefully buttons himself up again—retreating into himself to avoid what they both know to be true.
Reese decides again not to mention it. The last thing they need right now is more complication, and it can wait a little longer.