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Creeping around is a lot harder these days. It's kind of tough to be sneaky with a gut the size of a basketball, but he's working on it, practicing his slinking whenever he's out of range of Harold's disapproving eyes.
Which is a lot more often than he'd like lately, unfortunately. Pregnancy means he's benched, no arguments, but Harold's working as hard as ever. Nothing is as interesting as Harold, though, and he's run out of safehouses to snoop around in and is so bored his brain feels like it's shriveling up. Time to make his own fun.
Good thing there are plenty of ways to go unnoticed in a library.
John stalks through the stacks, keeping his steps as light as he can. Bear trots along behind him, bribed into silence with a few treats, happy as can be to be included in the game. The kid seems happy, too, kicking away inside him, probably having fun with the milkshake he slurped down before heading in. She's going to have Harold's sweet tooth, he's sure of it.
Up ahead, their target types on, pausing only to give Shaw some unwelcome direction, oblivious. Perfect.
"Advanced spycraft," he tells the baby, his voice low, and she kicks again. "Creeping up on the paranoid." Doing it while heavily pregnant is, in his opinion, even more impressive.
Bear trots on ahead, getting himself a good scratch behind the ears from Harold before curling up in his bed. John stays in the shadows, ready to retreat if Bear's reappearance gave him away, but Harold shows no signs he's noticed.
Time to make his move.
John slips in close and presses the swell of his belly to the back of Harold's head. Harold freezes, but, luckily, the kid doesn't, kicking enthusiastically at her other father's skull, just like John hoped.
Harold heaves a soul-deep sigh. "Have you thought about reading some of those books you've been using as your prenatal obstacle course?"
"No." John pats his belly. The kid kicks harder. "Good girl."
"She's not a dog, John." Harold turns his chair around, wary of John's belly, then gives the big bump a kiss. "And I don't appreciate the two of you conspiring against me before she's even been born."
The glint of amusement in Harold's eyes says otherwise. He knows Harold. "It's fun."
"Hmph." Despite the pinched look on his face, Harold begins stroking John's belly, his hand slow and gentle on the heavy swell. The baby basks in the attention, wriggling even more, and Harold finally cracks a brief smile. "Goodness, she's squirmy." In a silly, high-pitched voice he says, "Busy baby—not giving your father a moment's rest today, are you? No wonder he's here pestering me."
"She's learning how to be a spy." He runs a knuckle along Harold's cheek, over soft, warm skin, then traces his thumb across Harold's lips and gets a soft kiss for himself. "She's excited."
"Oh, I see," Harold says, with mock seriousness, and John's heart flips in his chest. God, he loves Harold so much. "And that means spying on me and kicking me in the back of the head?"
"Exactly." He doesn't want the real thing for her, his old job, his old life. It would break him all to pieces if she ever suffered like him. But the fun parts of espionage, the playful parts, the glamorous James Bond game of spying on Harold Finch—that he can share. "She's a natural."
"Seems to me more like she's a natural for an athletic career, rather than one in espionage," Harold says, moving his hand so tenderly along the path of the kicks. "All this squirming doesn't seem like a good trait for a spy."
"You'd be surprised."
"Hm." Then, Harold says the most welcome thing of all: "Well, in any case, I may have a more productive way to alleviate your boredom." Intrigued, John raises his eyebrows. "It won't do much for hers, I'm afraid, if you were hoping for some peace and quiet in your belly, but while you're here, I'd welcome some of your input with this number, if you're interested?"
A number. Excellent. John grins and pulls up a chair. "Hell yes."