Harold hears John when he is about halfway across the cement platform toward the subway car. John is probably trying to be silent, to sneak up on Harold, but he probably also knows he is not trying hard enough. He enters the car as Harold types then crouches down behind Harold's chair, hands resting on Harold's shoulders.
"Good afternoon, Detective Riley."
"Finch." John slides his hands down Harold's arms just a little as he looks over Harold's shoulder. "Our girl all wrapped up?"
"While I do not have as many resources to assist our numbers as in the past, I was able to get her on a train to Canada with Shaw's assistance."
"Very draft dodger of you, Finch."
Harold huffs as he cuts through another firewall on the back end of the Amtrak system to reroute the first layer of the money trail on the ticket. "For this case it should be enough."
"Good."
Harold types another line, links a fake bank account to the account Harold created for the purchase and post dates it. "Is there anything else you wish to know?"
John weight shifts back then forward again. "It looks well taken care of now."
"Should you not be returning to the station? As I recall, you are allowing your paperwork to pile up."
John makes a displeased noise and rests his forehead against the back of Harold's neck. "Finch…"
"It would be rather ironic for you to lose your cover position due to neglect of your paperwork as opposed to shooting knee caps."
John chuckles and Harold can feel the vibration in his skin. "If I have to be chained to a desk always doing paperwork I may just quit."
"Hmm, a real danger."
John lifts his head and kisses the back of Harold's neck. "I won't stay long. I promise."
John does this now, now that they have a haven safe from the all-encompassing eyes of Samaritan; John find gaps, times to escape, time to rest and let him – both of them – be himself again, to just be with Harold.
John sits on the train car seats near the car door to Harold's right, cleaning a gun or sharpening some knife for more time than necessary for either task while Harold codes in new safety procedures for their underground set up. John paces slowly around the subway car as Harold uses pliers to fix their hardware, touching Harold's hair, the back of Harold's neck each time he passes. When Harold actually bothers to grade papers for his pseudo realistic college classes at the battered wooden desk outside of the subway car, John sits in the chair beside him and works through layers of crime scene reports, one hand tracing circles on Harold's thigh. Harold analyzes the map from the machine taped up on the subway car, searching for possible safe houses or Samaritan strong holds. John brings him tea, fingers sliding over Harold's as he hands Harold the cup.
On occasion, John brings a laptop of his own to do research on the regular cases and murders which encompass his 'day job.' He sits right on the concrete floor with his back against Harold's chair so his head rests against Harold's side. Harold types one handed so he can card his other hand through John's hair.
When they have a new number – when Shaw is out on reconnaissance – John stands behind Harold, wraps his arms around Harold and simply holds on to him as Harold tapes photos to the subway car window, as if Harold might disappear.
"As much as I enjoy being entrapped by you, Mr. Reese, the number requires our attention.
John kisses Harold's hair. "I know." And his arms slide away.
At the completion of another number's case – a day won and one more man saved from his disreputable past catching up – John runs down the stairs and across the platform. He clambers into the subway car with no attempt at his CIA trained finesse. He turns Harold's chair around just enough to plant a deep kiss on Harold's lips. Then he stands up straight again – always grinning like a solar flare – and heads back out.
"You came all the way down here just for that?" Harold asks as John walks away.
"You can think of a better reason?" John calls back.
John steals moments, takes any second possible and, if Harold is being honest, he spends as much time as he can in their subway hideout so he will always be there when John needs him.
Now, John stands up behind Harold's chair and walks out of the train car. He returns a moment later with a chair and sets it down next to Harold. John sits in the chair and looks at Harold's screens, all the yellow wires like vines hanging down behind them.
"What now?" John asks as he twists one of the buttons on Harold's coat between two fingers.
"Well, with Ms. Tanner on her way to Toronto the danger should be abated. Hopefully the Machine will not have another number for us quite so soon." Harold erases his tracks into the Amtrak servers – a wave over footprints in the sand.
"Mmhmm," John replies and drops his hand from Harold's button. "And?"
Harold raises his eyebrows. "And?"
John simply points with his free hand to the screens on Harold's left running codes not at all related to their number.
Harold's fingers pause for a moment. "I have been attempting to find a way to help the Machine." Harold glances at John and John raises his eyebrows. "As Ms. Groves pointed out to me – despite my resistance – the Machine is still young." Harold pauses and breathes out once. "Though it may be far beyond our own capabilities, it could use guidance."
John cracks a smile. "You considering parenting, Finch?"
"I think it needs my help."
John watches Harold for a moment, looks at Harold's hands still on the keyboard. "We all need your help, Harold."
Harold stares at John's face, his eyes on Harold's hands and months in the past. Harold flutters his fingers over the keys once and John looks up at him.
Harold raises his eyebrows. "Mr. Reese?"
John breathes out a puff of air and looks at Harold's computer screens. "What do you think it would be like if we led normal lives?"
Harold frowns. "I think it rather unlikely the two of us would have met should we have led 'normal' lives."
John turns back to Harold slowly with a rueful smile. "Humor me, Finch."
Harold pulls his hands off the keyboard and crosses his arms, turning his chair a bit to face John. "We would have to go a good number of years back to find any starting point for a 'normal' life, at least in my case."
"I said, humor me."
Harold flicks the fingers of his one hand up in a 'go ahead' gesture.
John smiles. "Maybe if our covers were real, you the professor and me the detective?"
Harold scoffs. "I never had an interest in pursuing a career in academia and certainly not in the trumped up position I occupy at the moment."
"Insurance maybe? A real Harold Wren?"
Harold rolls his eyes.
"Your company IFT then, and you'd be an actual partner, not hiding in the IT department."
Harold purses his lips. "That is more likely." He uncrosses his arms. "And you as a detective? Would it not be more plausible to see you as simply career military?"
John shrugs. "Maybe. Would make a complicated life for the two of us."
"Don't ask, don't tell?"
John chuckles. "Don't know how well you'd take to being a military husband; you wouldn't enjoy all the socializing and gossip of base life."
"We're married in this fictional universe?"
John shrugs again and grins. "I can be a detective then, real NYPD."
"You would wear the uniform well."
"I wore the Marine uniform well too."
"I know."
John smiles. "Saving photos, are we, Finch?"
"I'll have to find a frame."
"Perfect." John points at Harold. "A framed photo of me in uniform on the dresser." John waves his hand in the air over an imaginary piece of furniture. "Right next to one of the two of us wearing bow ties, something you would have forced me to wear."
"I suspect you would have secretly enjoyed it."
John laughs once. "Or I let you think that."
"And where were we wearing these bow ties? Software companies, or at least mine, are not exactly the type to throw 'galas.'"
John sits up straight. "Oh, but Finch, don't you know you would be a generous donor to the Metropolitan Museum of Art? And they do throw galas."
"I think those are usually fundraisers."
John nods. "Gala fundraisers." John reaches out and touches the cuff link in Harold's one cuff. "You'd have to dress the part of the billionaire philanthropist: bow tie, cuff links, tailored suit."
Harold turns his hand over and touches John's wrist. "Not exactly an untrue facet to this story."
"I'd complain about there being no difference between one tailored suit and another."
"There is most certainly –"
"And you'd start listing out reputable tailors, always ending on that one in Italy as the 'best.'"
Harold shuts his mouth and presses his lips together but he is smiling at the edges. John grins and traces lines along Harold's palm.
"I'd get ragged on by my fellow cops, my rich boyfriend keeping me in fine suits that will just get ruined chasing suspects."
"Perhaps you would have to dress down for work." Harold gestures with his free hand to John's trademark suit. "Just Armani."
John huffs a laugh and nods. "They'd crack about how you look like a professor." Harold scoffs. "And how the cushy life style is making me soft."
Harold cocks his head as much as he can. "Is that your attempt at double entendre?"
"Is it, Finch?"
"Perhaps I wouldn't be a billionaire." Harold feels the pulse in John's wrist, the steady beat against his fingertips. "Perhaps I would only be twenty years in IT."
"I doubt that."
"Just as I doubt you ever being a simple police officer."
"So we could never have had normal lives, Finch?" John turns Harold's hand over, touches the back of Harold's hand with his other. "No one bedroom apartment or house in the suburbs?"
"Would you want to live in the suburbs?"
"How about a brownstone in Brooklyn instead?"
Harold lets out a breath. "I had one of those."
John laughs quietly. "I thought you might." John starts to sketch a floor plan on the back of Harold's hand. "Hallway here, living room with too many books here and a big kitchen in the back. I'd try and teach you to cook."
"Why would you think I don't cook?"
John raises an eyebrow. "Do you?"
"I can."
"Boil water and make scrambled eggs, right?" Harold frowns. John leans forward and kisses him once. John leans back slightly, hands still holding Harold's. "I guess you'll have to prove it to me sometime."
"Sometime in this imaginary life?"
John sighs and sits up straight again, dropping Harold's hand. He looks away out through the open door of the subway car to the dim, abandoned train platform.
Harold speaks softly, "we do not have the luxury of such fantasies, Detective Riley."
John closes his eyes once then opens them again. "I'm aware of that, Finch."
Harold opens his mouth but shuts it again without saying anything. He glances at his computer, clicks a few keys then stands up from his chair. He walks over to one of the windows of the subway car and pulls down the photo. He folds the pieces of tape over the back, out of the way, then walks out of the train car. He keeps the photos and other information they gather on their numbers. Most of it is digital but they always have the physical photos. Somehow, keeping the physical memory helps to add to the 'reason' for why they keep pushing on, keep trying to save people one number at a time.
John walks up beside Harold as he closes the manila folder over the image of Amy Tanner. John touches Harold's arm, turning him gently. John wraps an arm around Harold, bends to kiss him and runs his other hand down Harold's arm. Harold kisses him back, slides a hand into John's hair.
"I know you're frustrated…" Harold says softly as he touches his hair.
"It's not enough, Harold," John says, pressing his forehead against Harold's.
"It has to be."
"But it's not," John insists.
"It has to be," Harold repeats.
John pulls back enough to look at Harold. "Come home with me tonight."
"John…"
"We can avoid the cameras; we have the map now."
"It's too risky."
"We've been out in public together before, Harold."
"And too many times creates a pattern; you know it is not the same thing."
"Who says we can't add a layer to our covers?"
"John…"
John lets go of Harold and turns away with a sigh. He walks toward the subway car, rubs a hand over his forehead. Harold watches him silently. John paces a few steps to the left, nearly at the door to the train car. He stops and drops his hand.
Finally he says, "You're right. I know." He looks back at Harold. "I just miss you."
Harold looks down at the floor and rests his one hand flat against the table. They stand in silence for a moment, neither one of them moving forward or back. Then Harold looks up at John who looks right back at him. "This is not forever."
John smiles in his grim way. "I hope not."
"It's not. It can't be."
John cocks his head. "Are you being optimistic, Finch?"
"I suppose one of us should."
John purses his lips and looks still somewhat unconvinced by Harold's determination. Harold pulls his hand off the table and holds it out to John. John steps forward and takes his hand. Harold pulls him closer, kisses him, hand sliding under John's suit jacket, around John's lowerback.
"We can weather this storm," Harold says against John's lips.
John smiles. "Fly through it?" And it makes Harold smile too.
John kisses Harold, traces a line with his fingers along the edge of Harold's collar, tight tie and hot skin. John sighs into the kiss and he tastes like coffee, feels like sorrow, and Harold kisses him harder until he feels like hope. John runs his hands through Harold's short hair, back and forth like conducting, like a song in time with his lips on Harold's. Harold hums in the back of his throat as he kisses John – bodies flush and hands touching – feels the longing that John does, of dark night and bed sheets and less clothes.
Then Harold pulls back and looks at the ground, hand still touching John's side. "We have here." He looks up at John again. "Until then we have here."
John slides his hand up Harold's arm then nods. "Not a bad apartment, Finch; certainly has privacy and a good computer set up."
Harold glances around at the arches and patterned tile. "Not to mention a vintage décor."
"Though it could use a bed."
Harold breathes out slowly. "I couldn't agree more."
John smiles down at Harold. "It's perfect for you."
Harold thinks of John sitting in the train car, a hand touching his arm as John walks away, a stolen moment after a number and hours waiting for John to appear beforehand, spending more time underground than above, covers be damned. "For us."
"Our haven…" John says absently. Then he waves a hand in the air. "Maybe we should call it that."
Harold frowns. "Does it need a romanticized name?"
"We called the other place the library."
"It was a library."
"Don't like the name Haven?"
Harold shrugs one shoulder. "If you wish to give it a name, then by all means."
"No, it doesn't need a name." John looks at Harold again – eyes that Harold could drown in – and touches the side of Harold's face. "All I need is to find you here, Harold."
And Harold smiles. "Always, Mr. Reese."