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Each morning, John wakes up to a schedule in his inbox. There'll be a brief report on their number if Harold has been keeping watch overnight, and then a neat chronological list of happenings for the day ahead: a schedule for John's current cover identity, or intercept points for the person they're observing.
That takes a little time to adjust to. John is used to working without overt supervision, which means making his own decisions about when and how to stalk his target. It's nice to have some of the busywork taken care of, though John is wary of getting too accustomed to having reliable backup. It's hard to let go of the idea that routine gets you killed. He's not entirely sure he's ready for that level of trust.
A month into working for Harold, John finds a doctor's appointment on the schedule. Assuming it's to do with their case, John dutifully attends, checks in at the expensively furnished reception and settles into a plush armchair in the waiting room.
He thumbs through the latest Architectural Digest and talks quietly to Harold. "This doesn't seem like the kind of place our number can afford to attend, Finch. Is there something you haven't told me?"
"Only that it's been a long time since your last check-up, Mr Reese."
Harold's voice is soft, too, as if he's aware of the hushed atmosphere in the clinic. John finds the security camera, and stares into it, expression flat. "What made you think I need a check-up?"
"You had a concussion last week, you got shot the week before, and I'm fairly certain you're nursing broken ribs as of last night," says Harold. "This job is difficult, and while I'm resigned to the injuries you keep sustaining, I can at least take care of the preventable."
What Harold says makes sense – John spent too long in the army to be precious about his health when he's got his squad depending on him – but it still rankles that Harold would intrude on his life to this degree. He sits politely through the consultation while the doctor checks his blood pressure, listens carefully to an explanation of post-concussion syndrome, and goes placidly downstairs to have a blood draw. He even laughs at the phlebotomist's cheerful patter and accepts a Spider-Man plaster to cover the puncture wound, but for the rest of the day, he's crisply curt with Finch. The man needs to learn that this level of possessiveness is not okay, not ever.
Over the next month, John sustains various injuries: a broken toe, a blow to the head that leaves his ears ringing for a couple of days, sprains a finger badly enough he's got to tape it for a week. A doctor's appointment shows up each time – and only then – John dutifully attends. Harold says nothing about them, though, and John is pleased. They seemed to have reached a détente on the matter of his health, and John can live with that.
Three weeks after the medical appointment, he wakes up to a restaurant reservation on his schedule. John looks at it askance but gets on with his day. It's possible it's about their current number, an elementary school teacher.
He cruises past the restaurant during the day, finds it's a discreet and expensive place, the kind where reservations are booked months in advance. John is suspicious. When nothing eventuates in their number's life that would indicate a public school PE teacher would be frequenting a five star establishment, John brings it up with Harold.
"This restaurant seems a little outside Ms Shamoun's budget, Finch." He wraps rope around the ankles of their number's ex-husband and makes sure the binding is secure.
"I agree," says Harold. "Though that's more an indictment of low salaries for teachers. The reservation is for us. You do eat, Mr Reese." Harold pauses. "At least, I presume as much, from your grocery purchases."
John swings a rope over the main beam of the school gym and hoists the man off the ground. He's not sure what to make of this development between him and Harold. He's not sure he's even going to show up.
He shows up. It takes him a while to make the decision, but sitting at home on his single bed, he considers the take-out menus stuck to the fridge or the choice selection of canned goods on the shelf that serves as a pantry, and he decides that he can put up Harold's awkward conversation for a decent steak. It's not that Harold doesn't pay John well enough to buy steak every day if he wants to. It's that he never seems to do it. So he washes and shaves, then as an afterthought, puts on a tie. It's a fancy French restaurant, and this meal is going to be weird enough without a concierge looking down his nose at John's open collar.
He honestly meant to use this time to poke at Harold, find some vulnerabilities to expose, gain some ammunition for further investigation. At least tease the man a bit. Somehow, between hors d'oeuvres (poached pears with leeks and hazelnuts) and the entrée (prime filet, oxtail potatoes), he realises he's accidently having a good time. Harold is unexpectedly easy company. After convincing himself that this meal was going to be filled with stilted sentences and embarrassing pauses, John is pleasantly surprised to find that Harold is socially adroit, happy to speak when he has something to say and comfortable with long silences while the two of them enjoy the good food and service.
"Thank you for coming to dinner," Harold says, between mouthfuls of Dover sole. "I find it difficult to convince myself that I'm providing adequate compensation for the fact that you might get shot at any moment."
John stabs the final potato and swabs up the last of the meat juices, then considers Harold while he chews and swallows. "So, it's steak and wine and expensive medical care until I catch a bullet?" He shrugs and lays his cutlery down. "You don't have to fuss over me because I'm going to die, Finch. I'm coming into this job with my eyes open, and I don't want to be some kind of sponge soaking up your charity to assuage your guilt."
Harold doesn't speak up in his own defence, which is good, because John is on the edge of leaving. He's mad, unreasonably mad, that Harold feels he needs to indulge John as a form of compensation, when John is glad to be doing this work.
The waiter has made a couple of passes by, trying to scope out the mood before she approaches to clear the plates. John sits back in his chair and catches her eye to summon her over. Harold sets his own fork down and gives her a genial smile, as if the atmosphere has not suddenly become frigid at this table.
"Thank you," Harold says, easy and polite. "We'll take coffee now, if you don't mind."
She nods and melts away, as invisible as possible in the hushed dining room. John is still angry, angry at Harold for putting everyone in this situation, angry at himself for not being able to accept the simple gift of a good meal, angry at the rich of New York with all their rarefied manners and etiquette designed to exclude others. He kind of hates himself too, for knowing exactly how to negotiate this world of Harold's. That makes him think of Kara, kicking him into shape in the field, making sure all his rough edges got real smooth, real fast.
"It wasn't my intention to cause offense," Harold says. It's still not an apology, especially not the way he's facing John down, eyes front, unashamed. That's good, in a way, because it leaves John free and unencumbered by emotional connection.
John feels his lip twist into that cynical smile that Kara loved best. "What would the meal have been like if you had wanted to offend?"
Harold laughs, and it's so different from Kara's delighted little snicker that John's rage settles, just a bit.
"Well, Mr Reese, I would have ordered you the pigeon and watched you pick out all the tiny bones so you didn't choke."
Coffee arrives, and John feels his spine unlock at the idea of dissecting a tiny bird on a giant plate with that heavy silverware. "I ate enough scrawny chicken in Afghanistan," he says. "I thought you were a green tea kind of guy," he adds, nodding towards the tiny espresso cup.
Harold pauses with the spoon above the cup, a disapproving frown creasing his brow. "Green tea after that meal would be entirely inappropriate, Mr Reese."
Weeks go by, numbers get saved or arrested as is necessary, and John thinks that he and Harold have found a happy medium on the personal interventions. He still wakes up every morning with to a schedule in his inbox. The workplace supervision is still heavier than he's used to but otherwise it's good having someone he can plan with, someone who will work with him, adapt and improvise.
The medical appointments don't stop. John would complain to Harold about it – what the fuck is wrong with his shooting that Harold thinks he needs his eyes checked – but one afternoon, when he's snooping on Fusco's phone, he catches a reminder text for a cholesterol check. It's telling that his first reaction isn't to use this as ammunition for the next time he surprises Fusco at the falafel cart, but a realisation that this is a thing normal people do. These decisions, these stupid, tedious real life situations apply to John now that he's a civilian. It's an annoying realisation, and he takes a petty pleasure in creeping up on Fusco leaving the clinic the day of the test.
"Jesus!" Fusco says, with his foot on the threshold of a bodega John knows he prefers for a Philly Cheese Steak. "Are you following me now?"
John leans in, close enough that he can see Fusco's pulse jumping above his collar. "I'm always following you, Lionel. Better get used to it."
Fusco changes direction, grabs a gallon of milk and throws a bill on the counter. "Well, I'm off the clock, so go bug some other idiot."
"Since you're so concerned with your health, Lionel, I thought I'd give that heart of yours a little jolt." John would never admit it, but it's not as much fun teasing Fusco when you know he's living a competent adult life.
When John lands heavily out of a window and limps away from the dumpster he landed in, an appointment for an x-ray appears the next morning. He goes without comment.
Three months in, John has worked fourteen numbers, and knows both a little and a lot about Mr Harold Finch, alias Wren, Partridge, Crane, and Burdett. He's also had his eyes and hearing checked, his blood sugar and liver functions tested. Work-related injuries have led to innumerable x-rays, ultrasounds, stitches and antibiotics.
"I'm starting to think you should wear a helmet," Dr Tillman says, checking his reflexes for the third time in two weeks. "Don't make me show you the educational video about chronic traumatic encephalopathy."
John lets her shine the painful bright light into his eyes and hides his smile. It's ridiculously good that she feels safe enough to tease him. It probably doesn't show to many people – Megan doesn't let many people know her so closely – but there's a freedom in the way she walks now, a sense of being unclenched. He reminds himself to tell Harold about it, the next time they have dinner. Harold should know that they are making a difference.
Megan feels her way across his brow. "Does this hurt?" she says, then presses her fingertips along his upper jaw. "You've got some bruising coming up, did you hit your head here?"
She brushes a sore spot on John's cheek and he gently moves his head out of her reach. "It was just a punch," he says, then at her expression of concern he smiles and adds, "I'm serious. You should see the other guy."
Megan isn't mollified by this, and gives him a long list of symptoms to watch out for, in case of a ruptured eardrum, in case of (yet another) concussion, in case of a fractured mandibular bone.
John doesn't bother to memorise the list – he leaves that stuff to Harold, who is always listening – but he knows something's wrong with his next cup of coffee. The heat of it lances straight up to his eye socket, and leaves his back molar chittering with pain. A little exploration with his tongue in that area finds the gum pulpy and the tooth easy to shift. John closes his eyes, convinces himself it will get better with time, and gets on with his day.
It takes less than a day for Harold to notice. The next morning, it's Harold's turn to bring coffee and pastries. When John has had a late night or an injury, Harold always picks up breakfast.
"The coffee not to your liking, Mr Reese?" Harold glances towards the cardboard tray where one cup is still sitting, steam escaping from the lid.
John had left it there to cool, so he could swig it down quickly, but now Harold's made the point, he grabs it and takes a big swallow, keeping eye contact with Harold the whole time, holding completely still as the pain washes over him. It's stupid macho bullshit, he knows that.
Harold simply frowns at him and turns back to his computer, to the latest number, and they both get on with the job.
That night, John tapes his penlight to the rusty mirror above the sink, lays out a pair of pliers and a tube of super glue, then rolls up his sleeves, ready to get down and dirty inside his mouth. The tooth doesn't feel chipped – though touching it hurts like it's a broken stump of a thing – so he won't need the glue to seal over the break. That's good, because it's a hell of a thing to apply glue to your own tooth, and the last thing he wants while his pride is inexplicably wounded is to glue his fingers to his face.
This is the sort of process it was useful to have a partner for. Kara had been a very adept home dentist, and he had done the same for her. He decides that the punch must have pushed the tooth out of place, and packs it with gauze overnight, hoping it will all tighten up again while he sleeps.
It's more swollen in the morning. John stands in front of the mirror, turning from side to side, trying to tell if it's visible, and hating himself for being this stubborn. He looks at the pliers still resting on the sink, considers taking the damn thing out himself. Disturbingly, he thinks of Fusco and what he'd do in this situation, then he reaches for the earpiece.
"Mr Reese?" Harold is always on the line, even at five in the morning. "Are you all right?"
John leans on the wall, feels sweat pooling in the small of his back, gritty with brick dust. His jaw is throbbing after all the manipulation, and the room seems to be filled with shadows. "I'm – what's the deal with the dental plan?"
"The… Oh, dear. No wonder you're up so early." Harold's voice is distressingly kind, and John shuts his eyes, tries to block it out. Fortunately the phone line goes silent for a moment, which means Harold's on another call.
He blinks awake the next time Harold speaks. He had fallen asleep on his feet. Not a good sign.
"I have an address for you, Mr Reese. You can go immediately, Dr Hladik will be waiting. Let me know when you're done."
John peels himself away from the wall, and puts on clean clothes.
The cold air doesn't shift the swimmy, floating feeling. Dr Hladik's surgery is neat but not luxurious, lined with diplomas from Masaryk University in Bmo, and the University of Maryland. She's tiny, in her fifties, and very displeased with John from the moment he steps into her exam room.
"I think you're running a fever, Mr Rawson," she says, and points to the chair. "Sit down, let me have a look. It's possible I can't work on it if it's very inflamed, but at least I can get some antibiotics and pain relief into you, and you'll be feeling a little better."
John folds into the seat, lifts his legs up and tries to get comfortable. His guts are churning, he's sweating so much he's sliding in the chair. He knows that in a moment, she's going to tilt the chair back, and that makes him want to gasp. He hears the squeak of the metal arm and the bright light swings into view, then he's moving, up and out of the chair. He politely relocates Dr Hladik by picking her up and shifting her aside, then he walks fast and steadily out of the exam room, through the darkened reception and out into the street.
John doesn't really know where to go, and that's as upsetting as what just happened in the dental clinic. Indecision is a death knell in his line of work, and he hates that he's just given in to it. He decides to just sit in the nearest park. He knows that it won't be long before his earpiece switches on and tells him to stop being ridiculous.
When he does hear Harold's voice, it startles him with its closeness.
"Mr Reese." Harold is standing beside the park bench. John stares at him, bleary with fatigue and fever and confused misery, then rests his face in his palms again. Harold, of all people, was able to sneak up on him.
Harold sits down beside him. "Dr Hladik is fine," he says. "Concerned, of course, but understanding. She did say that you should take these for the fever, though."
John peers through his fingers and sees Harold is holding two pills in his gloved hand. He takes them, throws them down, and Harold passes him a bottle of water.
"I don't know what happened," he says. His voice is hoarse, so he takes another swallow of water. "I don't – it's not usually a problem."
Harold nods. "I understand."
John sits upright and looks at him, thinks of teeth clicking together as they roll in his palm, of the pain and screaming he's faced down and the things you learn about a person in the last minutes of their life. "I don't know if you do."
"I'm certainly not comparing my experiences to yours, Mr Reese." Harold gestures vaguely in the direction of his neck. "But I do remember the frustration of wanting my body to react in a certain way, and it rebelling."
John thinks about the fastidious and private Harold, dealing with hospitals and the intrusions that an injury can make into your life. Harold is right; it's not the same, but there's a similar note to it.
"Yeah, I can guess you would hate that," he says, eventually. "I'm not an idiot. I'm going to go back."
"I know, Mr Reese." John is shocked when Harold reaches across to squeeze his shoulder. It's just the briefest touch but Harold rarely offers physical contact.
As he sits there, wondering which question Harold is answering, the sun breaks through the trees. It's dawn in the park, and the path quickly fills with joggers and dogs. A golden retriever, illicitly off the leash, comes dashing up to their seat, tail wagging so hard with delight that his whole lower half swings from side to side. His delight at these strangers, so conveniently positioned at petting height, is cheering enough that it makes John smile. He pushes his fingers through the thick yellow fur, gives the dog a good scratch, and even manages a laugh as Harold fussily turns to one side to protect his legs from dog hair.
A piercing whistle comes from somewhere further down the path, and the dog bolts in that direction, tail flying behind him like a banner. John takes a deep breath, glances at his palms covered in long golden hair, then brushes them on his pants. His feet are cold in his shoes, which means Harold has to be getting stiff and sore on this chilly park bench.
He holds out a hand to help Harold up, and after a moment, Harold takes it and hauls himself upright. John covers for the fact that Harold needed assistance by saying, "That doesn't mean I need you to hold my hand in the chair, Finch." It's a stupid thing to say, because he immediately imagines what it would be like, going back to that dentist's chair, this time with Harold beside him, a warm and solid anchor to reality. He can't entertain the idea. That would be ridiculous.
"Of course I will," says Harold, as if it's nothing, as if John had actually asked the question instead of brushing the idea off with a joke. "I'd certainly feel better, knowing I can help make this easier." He's still holding John's hand, and he wraps the other around John's fingers, as if he's afraid John will bolt as fast as the golden retriever. "Thank you for letting me help."
After that, there's no way to refuse the offer, so John goes with it. Dr Hladik doesn't say anything when Harold walks into the exam room with John. She pushes a rolling stool in his direction, and Harold sits down and gets himself comfortable. Then he takes John's hand in his, sandwiching it between his palms, weaving their fingers together so that John's hand is enclosed in every possible way.
John closes his eyes as the chair tips back, feels someone slide a pair of glasses over his eyes, clip something around his neck. Harold's hands are bare now, and very warm. His skin is soft, though John can feel the calluses on his fingertips from a lifetime spent on keyboards. There's a small scar on the back of one hand; long and jagged but faded. He wonders if Harold remembers where he got it. He wonders, if he asked, whether Harold would tell him.
He's aware that Harold is talking to Dr Hladik, about Prague, about the eighties, about coming to America, but he doesn't take much of it in. He opens his mouth when he's told, bites down on the things Dr Hladik tells him to bite. There's some x-rays, some poking that hurts a lot, but by then John is floating gently, either from the painkillers or the strange comfort of skin-to-skin contact with Harold. Harold has a large callus on his index finger, as if he does a lot of handwriting. It's odd, a computer expert using a pen so often.
It's a surprise when the chair hums back to the upright position, and Dr Hladik switches the overhead light off, takes off her blue nitrile gloves.
"All right, I think the tooth itself will stabilise – I've anchored it to its neighbour to keep it secure but that temporary bridge will dissolve in a week or so. We can check on its progress then."
John lets her words fade into a blur. Harold is still holding his hand, resting it comfortably against his thigh now that the seat is in a different position. John takes a few deep breaths as his mind adjusts to the idea that this is over. He can taste the glue, acrid and chemical, still curing, but the tooth already feels stronger and more secure.
"I'm writing a prescription for some antibiotics," says Dr Hladik. "And some more pain relief, but please be sensible. Don't take it unless you need to."
John nods his understanding. What she gave him before has definitely made him a little woozy, though that throbbing raw ache in his jaw is so much less, and that's blissful enough. John is well acquainted with the euphoria that comes when pain stops.
He blinks when he realises Dr Hladik is holding the prescription out in front of him. His limbs are slow to respond to his commands, but it doesn't bother him as much as it should.
Harold gently untangles one of his hands and takes the prescription. "Thank you, Doctor."
There are more instructions, about what to watch out for, what to do if something goes wrong. John lets Harold take that in; he can ask for details later when his head is clear. For now, he sits upright carefully, swings his legs down onto the ground. He only realises he's still holding onto Harold when he tries to rest his head in his hand. He watches his own hand slip out of Harold's grip, then feels the absence of the skin contact in the chill of the exam room.
There's a drug store, there's some driving, there's more pain meds, and John finds himself on the sofa while Harold fusses with deli soup in the kitchen.
"Go and get some sleep, Mr Reese," Harold says. "The bedrooms are up the stairs."
John rests his head on his hand, lets his eyelids drift closed for a few moments. When he wakes up next, it's because Harold is unfolding a blanket and shaking it gently out. John is prone on the sofa, and he's almost kicked off one shoe.
"May I?" says Harold and points at the shoe hanging off John's toes.
John blinks at him, then at his shoe, and gives his foot a little shake. The shoe falls with a soft thud onto the carpet, landing face down, and Harold tsks. He covers John with the blanket, then he takes John's other foot, resting it on his thigh so, he can undo the shoelace properly. John watches him reunite the shoes, then falls asleep before he sees where Harold takes them.
He remembers talking, but not what he said. When he wakes again, Harold is sitting at the other end of the sofa, his laptop open on the coffee table, though he's holding a paperback. John's legs are curled up to make room.
"Did I say anything stupid?" His mouth is weirdly dry and wet at the same time. He dabs at his mouth. He's been drooling in his sleep.
"Nothing I didn't already know, Mr Reese." Harold holds his place in his book with one finger. "How are you feeling?"
It's a good question. John isn't worried about the pain, the pain was never the issue, but he experimentally pokes at his tooth with his tongue. "I think it's better," he says, slowly. "It's not as wiggly, anyway."
Harold's face shows dismay. "Please, Mr Reese, no wiggling. Dr Hladik was extremely clear that you should leave it alone, and, in fact, I was reading the information sheet she gave us, and…"
It's a lot of words, and John is barely awake. He punches the cushion into a better shape, closes his eyes, and listens to Harold talking about root stability and gum trauma. Harold's voice blurs into a pleasant, soothing background noise, and he drifts off to sleep again.
He wakes at some time in the night, and finds that his body is no longer quaking with fever, that he's comfortable and warm and relatively free from pain. His legs are stretched out long, though Harold is still sitting on the sofa. This puzzles John, but then he identifies a band of warmth through his socks and realises he has his feet in Harold's lap. Harold has his hands resting on John's ankle, fingers brushing the skin. It's quiet and safe, and there's no need to move or do anything right now.
"I'm very glad you asked for my help," Harold says into the quiet room. "Thank you, John."
John doesn't answer – he's already drifting off to sleep again – but he's glad he asked, too. Maybe it's something he can do again, when the time comes.