They saved two numbers that day. Harold had been sitting in front of the monitors since the crack of dawn, and it was past seven in the evening now. Thankfully the numbers were easy and predictable and nobody got hurt, leading to two potential murderers landing in the very capable hands of Agent Carter. She could deal with the rest.

This is what could be qualified as a good day in Harold's books. If only it was over.

After all, Harold was not just Finch, he was also Wren, and Sparrow, and Crane. Sadly, some of his aliases took effort.

It was Harold Crane that needed to make an appearance today. There was a yearly Gala, thrown by the rich, for the richer. It was of utmost importance that Mr. Crane showed up- as he had for the last four years. Mr. Crane was nothing if not a man of his word, and not going to something he had said yes to months ago would be suspicious. He had been selfishly grateful when the second number came in a 4:00pm because he thought saving a life definitely mattered more than keeping up appearances, but alas, Mr. Reese was scarily competent at what he did.

Getting up from the chair he stretched, and felt his joints complaining. Over and over, doctors had advised him to not put himself in positions that strain his neck and back. Harold could not understand what they expected him to do? To not code? Granted, he could do better than sitting upright for over twelve hours but it's not like he had an alternate.

He could hear steady sounds of breathing and footfalls coming from the speaker on his phone. A few minutes later John spoke up.

"If this is all, I think I would head home Finch. Warm some left over dinner from yesterday. There is some chicken in the fridge I think."

"Would you like to accompany me to a Gala?" He was always remarkably in less control when tired.

There was a ringing silence in response and Harold hurried to explain,

"I mean… Would Mr. Rooney like to accompany Mr. Crane to the annual banquet held by the Mayor's office? There is bound to be better food there than left over chicken."

"Finch…" Reese sounded conflicted.

"Never mind. I understand. It was an exhausting day after all." Finch sighed, sinking back into chair and contemplating if he really needed a billionaire alias.

"You're still going to go?"

"Harold Crane needs to."

"Finch. Your back must be hurting. You haven't eaten or rested all day. You need to lie down and sleep." John sounded distressed, and it warmed his heart.

"Thank you for your concern Mr. Reese, but I will live."

"Alright. I will come."

"What?"

"I mean I will accompany you to the banquet."

"Oh." Harold was speechless. He hadn't expected John to agree.

"I do have a condition."

"What is it?"

"Can I drive the Aston Martin?"

Harold had always hated gatherings like these. Everyone was dressed to impress, and endeavored to appear more important than the next person. All speech was dragging and pompous, leaning more towards putting down the rest than towards resembling intelligent talk. Considering he had always preferred anonymity that comes with being behind a computer, events like these aggravated him.

Which was why he was surprised to find himself enjoying.

Mr. Reese sitting with him, smiling and doing a live commentary on people around them with his dry wit was endlessly entertaining.

"Look there," he pointed subtly with his drink and Harold glanced, "Mrs. Bob Cut is probably cheating on her husband… with a cheese burger."

Harold couldn't help the chuckle and nodded in the direction where Mr. Walker was standing with a plate full of desserts and his belly dripping over his belt. "I don't know Mr. Reese. It feels like more like a polyamorous relationship with cheese instead. Complicated- at the very best."

Mr. Reese grinned and tried to hide it behind his glass. Harold didn't know why he bothered. It really was quite a lovely smile.

"Alright Finch. You win this one." He conceded. And then glanced at the balding man sitting two tables in front of them, "That one, Mr. Frowny face. Cause of death: bored of listening to his own voice."

Harold laughed. John wasn't wrong. Mr. Coleman really tended to drone on for hours.

"How do you do that?" He asked with genuine incredulity.

"I was an international spy, remember?"

"Being a spy gives you the experience to make up stories about people?"

"No. But it comes with a lot of time spent at pretentious parties such as this one. Kara and I used to get bored. So we created a game of coming up with outrageous life stories for people. It passed the time." There was a subtle tightening of his expressions when he mentioned his partner, but he composed himself quickly.

Time passed relatively fast, enjoying the company and the food, the liquor making it easy to unwind and pass genuine smiles. Harold lowered his guard because he knew John had his back. That John would always have his back.

When they got up to leave, deciding they had spent enough time there that nobody would be offended, Harold felt lighter than he had in quite a while. John's stabilizing hand on his spine made his step strangely buoyant. It had indeed been a good day.

Before exiting the door, he came across someone who made him pause and frown. John stopped and touched his forearm, noticing his discomfort. Harold wished he had not done that because it just made matters worse.

Charles Gildam, was the name of the short stocky man, with grey receding hairline and a persistent sneer on his face. He was known to be a bigot and an asshole, getting up into the faces of anyone who did not meet his criteria of normal. If he was a businessman, Harold would've destroyed his reputation till now. But no, he came from old money, from owning multiple lands and properties that had been in his family for generations.

And he had not pissed Harold off yet. Not enough for him to seek vengeance.

"I did not know you liked carrying pretty boys on your arm Crane." Well, that might change soon, Harold thought bitterly.

"I don't see how that's any of your business." He replied dismissively.

"Frankly. I think you went a little below your standards." He leered.

"As if you would know anything of standards." Charles usually came to events with the newest model of the time, the dumber the better.

"Suit yourself." He raised his hands in mock surrender. "I am just saying, you could do a hell of a lot better. I know places where you can find them prettier and fresher than that. He is a little too, ripe in the years don't you think?"

Just like that, Finch's patience snapped. He took two steps forward, encroaching in Charles' personal space and glared at him, his eyes murderous.

"You are overstepping your bounds Mr. Gildam. I would ask you to consider what you're saying before speaking. And for your information… they don't come better than John. He is the best anyone could ask for."

Despite the fact that Gildam was an inch taller than him, he seemed to cower in front of Harold's fury. Harold wanted to punch the bastard. How dare he imply that John was just a boy toy? And worse, how dare he imply that John was in any respect… less.

Strong arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him back gently. His body responded to the pull before he consciously allowed it, registering it as safe. He looked up at John and found him smiling softly.

"I am glad you think so." Mr. Reese didn't even try to hide the smile and then, quick as lightening, bent forward and pressed his lips against Harold's cheek. He was gone before Harold could even register the shock. "But you are creating a scene. Darling."

There was mischief in Reese's eyes as he said the last word, and Harold was sure he was gaping like a fish. He glanced around and noticed that yes, people had stopped in their tracks to stare at them. He looked down at the floor, mortified.

But John Rooney knew that Harold Crane could not afford to be mortified, so he just linked their arms together and guided him out of the hall. On autopilot, they grabbed their coats and went out. The silence was comfortable while they waited for their car to be brought out front, neither of them willing to break it.

Once they were both seated and John was driving, too fast, but nobody cared at this time of the night, Finch felt the need to speak suffocating.

"I am sorry." He said abruptly.

"What for?"

"I was out of line. I should've corrected the insufferable man instead of giving in to his taunts. And I should not have reinforced what he had implied."

"What? That I am your kept man. I am sorry to say Harold, but I am. I wear your clothes and live in your apartment, and get paid for my services." John was all quiet amusement and it deflated Harold's indignation.

"Don't be obtuse Mr. Reese. You know what I mean." Harold huffed.

"Yes I do." John admitted, but refused to elaborate further.

A while later, Harold realized they were not heading towards either the library, or the safe house. This was the way to John's apartment. He refrained from saying anything.

Before reaching the destination, John said quietly,

"Maybe I should apologize for my actions too then." Not an apology yet, but neither a question. This was just John wondering aloud.

Harold thought back to the press of lips against his cheek, his face still burning with the ghost of the touch, warmer on that little stretch of skin than the rest. Irrationally, he felt like it was unlikely he would ever not feel it there, like a brand. It was unexpected yes, but hardly unwelcome. Mr. Reese always tended to flirt and tease, trying to fluster Harold and deriving amusement form it. Harold had never begrudged him the simple joy of it. He was hardly about to start now, even if it had felt like more.

"No John. You don't need to apologize for anything." Harold answered the unspoken query in a quiet voice of his own.'

John did not look at him, did not smile outright at that, but somehow the atmosphere in the car suddenly seemed more cheerful anyway.

He parked the car a block away from his apartment, and turned towards Harold. Suddenly, breath caught in Harold's chest. Without a doubt, Harold knew this wasn't another of John's pranks; this wasn't light hearted teasing. This meant something. It was going to change things, and he did not know if he was ready.

"Want to come up for coffee?" Was what John asked, and he panicked.

"I- I don't... I really don't think it would appropriate Mr. Reese. We are both tired and there will be more numbers in the morning. We need to sleep."

John simply shrugged, "I have a bed, and a completely serviceable couch."

"No." Harold shook his head, dreading the look of disappointment on Reese's face but for some reason unable to find it. "I will take a taxi home."

Still, John just looked at him with eyes full of fondness.

"Whatever you prefer Finch." And then, with deliberation this time, he bent towards Harold, giving him ample time to move away if he wanted. Harold stayed still like a statue.

John's lips, when they touched Harold's, were smiling. He felt them, a quick brush, and gone before he could react. Distantly, Harold realized that this was Mr. Reese making sure there was no misunderstanding about what he was offering. When he opened his eyes, John was straightening back in his seat and unbuckling the belt, looking at Finch one more time.

"My door is always open, just so you know." He said, before getting out of the car and walking out into the winter chill towards his home.

Harold leaned back against his seat, closed his eyes and groaned. This was wrong. Mr. Reese was his employee. He could not do this in good conscience. Rubbing his palms against his eyelids he steeled himself, got out of the car, and waved for a taxi.

When the yellow automobile stopped in front of him, he allowed himself one look in the direction of John's apartment and then shook his head, talking to the cabbie. He was almost sitting inside it when he realized he didn't want to. He stepped back and looked towards the sidewalk again.

'My door is always open…'

Finch waved the taxi away, apologizing, and started limping in the direction Reese had taken just a few minutes ago. Sometimes, courage lay in the simplest things.

Sometimes, happiness was just… walking across an open door.