Chapter Text
They hardly notice that December arrives. So it is something of a surprise to receive packages, delivered to their respective workplaces.
Finch pokes cautiously at his plain brown parcel. It yields easily enough under his touch. Still, one had best not take any chances. He picks up his phone and dials by memory.
“Yeah?”
“Is this a bad time?”
“Not really.” There’s a scuffle and a muffled ‘thump’. Then a rattle and slide Finch recognizes as handcuffs. “There. That should do it for now. What do you need, Professor?”
Finch grimaces slightly. “You haven’t received any… mysterious parcels, have you, detective?”
The briefest huff translates into laughter only to those who knows John exceedingly well. “Oh. That.”
“You did? Did you open it?”
There’s a pause, then John returns with just a touch of urgency in his husky voice. “Listen, Professor. Do not open it until I get there, okay? I’m heading your way now.”
Then he hangs up. And Finch looks at the phone in his hand, then at the parcel on his desk, wondering what it contains.
***
It never ceases to surprise Finch how John Reese looks in his new incarnation as John Riley. He is still obviously disgruntled by the change in their circumstances, but he’ s nevertheless settling into his role as a law enforcement officer. It allows him to continue helping people, yet keeping out of Samaritan’s worrying gaze.
Today he looks even more different, as he wears an uncharacteristically bulky jacket, zipped up fully. One he doesn’t remove, or even unzip as he enters Finch’s office. Finch entertains the idea maybe he has one of those bomb-disposal jackets under there.
Seems not, as he settles into Whistler’s ratty couch with ease and a smirk.
Finch gestures at the package. “Well?”
“Oh, I’m just here to watch.” The smirk grows, and his eyes sparkle.
Not dangerous, then, Finch concludes. Probably embarrassing, though.
He’s had it with the suspense. A pair of scissors snip the twine; then he rips open the paper.
A pair of eyes stare from the rip into his soul. They see everything. Finch yanks his hands away, then steels himself. He might as well get it over with! He tears it open further, and the paper reveals a fuzzy Santa, surrounding those eyes. Further still, and all of a sudden it unfolds itself into a fuzzy green sweater with the intense Santa Claus on front. Beside him, lettering explains, rather unnecessarily: “I’m watching you, so you better be nice!”
“What is this?” Finch holds up the offending garment and turns to John, only to discover the blasted man has doffed his jacket to reveal… well. Finch can be honest with himself; an unfairly flattering Christmas sweater on his partner as well. Royal blue, which really sets off his eyes, and with a cheeky elf on a shelf, instructing everyone to “kiss me under the mistletoe!” The mistletoe that hangs very close to the bottom hem of the sweater.
Finch’s eyes follow the lettering and then realizes he’s been staring at that mistletoe for rather too long.
“Your doing?” He holds up the sweater.
“No,” John says. “But I can guess who.”
So, unfortunately, can Finch. Root, or the Machine. It doesn’t really matter much these days.
“Put yours on,” John urges, and Finch would rather strangle him with it.
“Come on,” John pleads. “We can go for a glass of cocoa. Or eggnog. Call it a date for our covers.”
Finch has long since given up that particular battlefield and left John victorious. Now, he sighs and strips off his jacket.
“All right,” he says. He pulls on the sweater with only one assist from John, and a hurried rescue of his glasses. John beams like a proud parent, and comes over, putting his arm around Finch’s waist. “See?” He says, looking into the narrow mirror than can barely reflect half of both of them. “We match.”
Somehow they do.