Work Text:
John heard the familiar crackling in his earpiece.
"Hello, Harold."
"Hello, Mr. Reese."
They had closed the Kohl case the day before and parted ways at the former agent’s grave. The case had left a bitter taste in John’s mouth, reminding him of his early days with the CIA’s SAD and the moment he lost his soul. John had seen far too many similarities between himself and Kohl.
The fact that Harold was contacting him so quickly put John on high alert and, above all, made him eager at the idea of a new case to focus on.
However, this eagerness wasn’t just about the next case, but also about the person calling him. It was a matter he’d gotten into the habit of immediately dismissing because he knew it was futile and hopeless. After all, Harold was only contacting him for work, and he had made it clear that he didn't want the boundaries crossed.
John was Harold's employee. Harold was his employer, and that was all John needed to remember. The rest was just a distraction. At least, that’s what he was trying to convince himself.
He asked softly, "Do you need me?"
"Can you meet me at the Lyric Diner at my usual table?" Harold replied.
John frowned. "Did the machine give out a new number?"
He was surprised not just by the answer, but by how quickly it came.
"No."
The strangeness of the situation made John wary.
"Then why do you want me to come?"
He heard Harold take a deep breath. Then, after a pause, Harold replied, "To have lunch with me...please, John."
John’s world seemed to tilt on its axis.
This was new.
Everything about that sentence was new.
The invitation, which wasn't urgent or related to their work.
The "please."
And, above all, his first name. Harold only called him "John" in moments of extreme tension, but the tone here was different.
He swallowed.
A light, almost electric buzz of excitement spread beneath his skin. The good kind. It was the kind of excitement you feel before taking a leap into the void when, for once, you trust that the ground below is solid.
"I'd love to, Harold. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes. See you soon."
"See you soon, Mister...John."
The insistence on using his first name, the quick correction, and the shift from "Mr. Reese" to something more intimate were all very disconcerting. When John hung up, he couldn’t ignore the irregular rhythm at which his heart had begun to beat.
Twenty minutes later, he pushed open the door to the Lyric Diner, hoping they would leave together this time.
He looked around for Harold and found him engrossed in a book at the same table where they’d sat together twice before. John couldn’t help but smile. There was Harold, in his impeccable suit, existing in the world while trying to remove himself from it.
A waiter approached Harold, whispered something to him, and his employer suddenly looked up and scanned the room. His eyes immediately locked with John’s. John’s smile widened, and he stepped forward with a little more confidence in his stride, never taking his gaze off Harold until he sat down across from him.
The waiter returned to take his order. Without even glancing at the menu, John pointed to Harold’s dish. "The same as the gentleman. I hear the eggs Benedict are good." He added a discreet wink, a little provocation that Harold met by rolling his eyes, though the corners of his lips betrayed the beginnings of a smile.
Once they were alone, after the waiter had set down John’s order, John leaned forward and asked softly, "So, what's the reason for this summons?"
"Invitation, Mr. Reese. Invitation. Not a summons."
Harold paused, cutting his egg with clinical precision, then continued, "The reason is because I would like some company."
John laughed softly, a playful sparkle in his eyes. "Does that mean any company will do?"
Harold stared at him, a glint of amused defiance in his eyes. "Are you looking for compliments, John?"
"Sometimes it's nice to know you're appreciated for who you are and not just for what you bring to the table or what you can fix," John replied.
He said it in a joking tone, but Harold immediately sensed that John truly meant it beneath the playful facade. It hit Harold with painful clarity that this was probably the first time John had ever voiced that need. All his life, John had been viewed merely as a sophisticated weapon. Why would it be any different with Harold Finch, the genius IT specialist working behind the scenes?
Harold set down his cutlery, his hands coming together on the tablecloth, motionless. He replied seriously, his gaze fixed directly on John’s, determined to leave no doubt in his companion’s mind.
"John, even though I hired you for your skills and how you do things, I appreciate you for who you are. I want to get to know you, John. Really. I want to know more than what I know about you from reports or the Machine. Not the facts, not the missions. I want to get to know the man behind the suit. I want you to get to know me beyond my secrets and paranoia."
John could hardly believe what he was hearing. Thrown off by Harold’s openness, he murmured, "It’s Christmas come early."
Harold blinked, puzzled, and tilted his head slightly. John apologized and regained his seriousness. He reached across the table and placed his hand over Harold’s without hesitation.
"I know this isn't easy for you, Harold. I know the burden you carry. So I promise you one thing: I will never betray that trust. Above all, I’m not asking for more than you feel you can give."
Harold didn’t pull his hand away. On the contrary, he turned his hand slightly to squeeze John’s in a silent gesture of agreement. "Thank you, John."
They stood there, holding hands, for longer than was considered appropriate. It wasn’t until a somewhat brusque customer bumped into John as he stood up that they broke their touch.
John withdrew his hand and took a bite of egg.
After swallowing, he said with another wink, "Mmm, you’re right. They’re really good."
As Harold shook his head at his friend's antics, John added, "So, what do you want to know that isn’t in my files, Harold?"
Harold took a deep breath as if he were about to ask the most complex question of his life. "What do you do between two numbers?"
John laughed, a deep, rich sound. "I bake."
Harold snorted and raised his eyebrows, looking more than a little skeptical. "Really? Aren’t we supposed to be honest with each other?"
"Absolutely," John assured him. "And I am. When I find somewhere else to live besides my old apartment, Harold, I’ll prove it to you."
Without thinking, Harold replied, "Just come over to my place and prove it to me."
John stopped, a fork halfway to his mouth. "You have a kitchen in the library?"
"I have an apartment," Harold corrected, feeling a little embarrassed, as if he had given away the machine's passcode.
John blinked, a look of pure surprise flashing across his face. He was completely and genuinely astonished. "I didn't know. Honestly."
"Really...?" Harold asked with a mocking smile. "You didn't find that out when you sent Lionel to investigate me?"
"Not my best move, I know. But the day I realized you were actually keeping your personal life private, I stopped looking. I understood that what you weren’t telling me was the price I had to pay to keep working with you. So I decided I didn’t want to cross that line."
Silence fell, heavy with mutual understanding. Then Harold repeated his invitation. John shook his head, an indulgent smile on his lips.
"We have time, Harold. I know the step you took today. That’s already a huge deal."
He leaned in again, locking gazes with his friend.
"Why don't we start by making these lunches a habit? Three times a week, depending on what the numbers tell us, of course. The Lyric Diner becomes our neutral zone. Here, there’s no Mr. Reese or Finch. Just Harold and John. No work, no Machine. What do you say?"
Harold gave John’s proposal serious thought.
With his eyes locked on the other man’s, he felt an unusual sensation: the feeling of being connected to someone in a way he hadn’t felt in years, if not decades.
He said softly, "That sounds like a perfectly acceptable protocol."
John smiled warmly and raised his glass of orange juice toward Harold.
They sealed their pact by clinking their glasses, both knowing that something was changing, that nothing would ever be the same again.
Something new, something deeply human, had just awakened, and for once, John didn’t feel like a pawn on a chessboard, but like the designer of his own happiness, sitting across from the man who, without knowing it, had become his foundation.