Work Text:
The first sign that something was wrong was that John Reese woke up voluntarily at six in the morning.
The second was that he allowed himself to remain awake.
The third—and most concerning—was that he was standing in the kitchen doorway of the safehouse watching Harold Finch poach eggs with the concentration of a bomb technician.
Harold, already fully dressed in charcoal trousers and a dark waistcoat despite the hour, glanced up briefly.
“Good morning.”
Reese grunted something that could legally qualify as a greeting.
There was steam curling from a porcelain cup beside Harold’s elbow. Sencha, if Reese remembered correctly. The smell was grassy and clean and distinctly Harold. The tiny domesticity of it all felt vaguely threatening.
“You’re staring,” Harold observed.
“I’m assessing.”
“The eggs?”
“The situation.”
Harold hummed softly, entirely too calm for a man balancing culinary precision before sunrise. “And your conclusions?”
Reese leaned against the doorway, arms folded. “You cook now.”
“I’ve always cooked.”
“No, you assembled things. Toast. Tea. Sad little sandwiches.” Reese narrowed his eyes as Harold spooned hollandaise over an English muffin with infuriating elegance. “This is different.”
“I fail to see why eggs Benedict should alarm you more than international espionage.”
“Espionage doesn’t involve paprika.”
That earned him the smallest twitch at the corner of Harold’s mouth. Dangerous territory.
Reese should leave.
Instead, he walked further into the kitchen.
Which was mistake number four.
Harold moved with maddening competence in confined spaces, sliding around Reese with a light touch to his sleeve and a quiet “Careful,” that hit somewhere directly behind Reese’s sternum like a suppressed firearm.
It was ridiculous.
This was Harold.
Harold, who wore wool in weather that qualified as criminal. Harold, who muttered at bad code like personally betrayed nobility. Harold, who somehow made tea look intimate.
Reese sat at the counter before his better judgment could intervene.
“You’re hovering again,” Harold said.
“You noticed.”
“You hover professionally.”
Harold placed the plate in front of him.
Perfectly poached eggs. Hollandaise smooth enough to belong in a five-star hotel. Chives scattered with unnecessary precision.
Reese stared at it.
Then at Harold.
“This is manipulative.”
Harold blinked innocently over the rim of his teacup. “Breakfast?”
“You can’t feed a man like this and expect him to make rational decisions.”
“I assure you, Mr. Reese, your decision-making process has never been especially rational.”
That should not have been attractive.
Unfortunately, Reese had recently discovered that nearly everything Harold said in that low, dry voice had become attractive.
A tactical issue.
He took a bite to avoid speaking.
It was excellent.
Which was somehow worse.
Harold watched him with quiet satisfaction, fingers curled around warm porcelain. “Adequate?”
Reese considered lying.
Instead, because the universe enjoyed humiliating him personally, he said, “Marry me.”
Silence.
Harold froze halfway through lifting his tea.
Reese closed his eyes briefly.
There it was. Catastrophic operational failure.
When he looked up again, Harold’s expression had gone very still in the way it did when he was overwhelmed but trying not to show it.
Then, softly:
“Well,” Harold said, smoothing invisible wrinkles from his cuff, “that does seem premature considering you haven’t finished your breakfast.”
Reese stared at him.
Harold took another sip of sencha with infuriating composure, though the faint pink at the tips of his ears betrayed him completely.
And just like that, Reese realized two terrible things simultaneously:
1. Harold Finch could flirt.
2. Harold Finch apparently flirted back.