Notes : I should warn for "minor character death". The deaths happen off screen. Also : the fic contains past Reese/Jessica and past Finch/Grace.
The memory I cannot erase
It's no surprise that it's so difficult to get a reservation at this particular restaurant.
Take the menu. It looks simple, but it's not. The plate you get is subtle, rich, inviting, full of little details—which means it's more than just an enjoyable meal, it's a culinary experience. The chef seems to love to improvise, to change his recipes. It could be a disaster, a hit or miss situation, but it's not. It's daring and always delicious.
Harold knows this: everyone gets perfect service, even people who are not as rich as he is. It's not even too pricey, it's completely reasonable.
Harold likes to eat there every week. He enjoys the quiet atmosphere, the simplicity of the decor. It's tasteful but not ordinary, a combination he knows is rare. His favorite table is at the back of the dining room, near the kitchen, where he doesn't get noticed at all.
If people were to ask him which restaurant he would recommend, this one would get the most praises from him.
Three months after he has started eating there, things change. He goes to the restaurant every Friday. The Friday it happens, Harold is finishing his dessert. It's a tiramisu so perfectly done he finds himself wanting more, but it's late and he's tired. There are only a few patrons left so he's surprised when a man appears next to his table and asks him if he has enjoyed his food this evening.
Harold slowly raises his head to look at the man. He's handsome in that sort of way that makes people pay attention. One might even say he's gorgeous. He's also wearing an apron and he's staring at Harold with an intensity that is making him uncomfortable.
Of course, Harold has never seen the chef of this restaurant, nor has he asked to talk to him. Yet, he's there, leaning against the table. In front of Harold. Asking him a question.
"What?" he asks, and he knows he must appear quite dumb, because suddenly the man smirks.
"I said: did you enjoy the food tonight?"
"Yes," Harold replies.
He doesn't extrapolate. He braces himself for another question, but the man instead says, "I'm glad."
For a while, none of them speak. They just stare at each other, which seems to amuse the man.
"I'm John," he finally tells Harold.
"Oh," Harold replies. He has no idea what to say so he ends up giving John his own name. "I'm Harold. Harold Wr-"
"Wren, I know," John interrupts him. "You come here every Friday night at 8PM."
Harold is starting to think that this was a bad idea. He's starting to get this itchy feeling that tells him he should probably leave when John adds, "It's okay. I promise I won't alert anyone of your presence here."
He winks at Harold before telling him good night.
Harold is left flustered and staring at the empty place in front of him. He's thinking he might not come back. It's a shame because he really likes this place.
In the end, he does come back. He tells himself all week the same thing, that it's not a disaster to be noticed by a chef at some restaurant and that the man (John) is probably never going to talk to him again.
Just to be sure, Harold eats quickly that Friday and leaves earlier than usual. He regrets it because it completely defeats the purpose of going there in the first place, which is to enjoy a quiet evening and eat a good meal.
The next week, he takes his time but he's feeling nervous. He keeps looking around, afraid the chef will appear out of one of those big kitchen doors and walk toward him.
In the end, it's a lot of anxiety for nothing because no one talks to Harold, except his waiter. He pays his bill and leaves the restaurant. Outside, it's raining.
"It's funny," he hears and he sighs, turns around and, of course, it's him. John. He's dressed in a suit, no apron. He's probably done for the night.
The man continues, "I thought you were the type to have a chauffeur but I don't see one."
"Why would I have a chauffeur?" Harold replies. "Because I limp?"
"No," John says and the tone of his voice tells him he's telling the truth. "Because you're rich."
"So, all rich people have chauffeurs then?"
"Maybe," John replies with a smirk.
Harold considers this for a moment. He's starting to think the man likes to tease him for no reason at all, so he tells him exactly that: "You're mocking me."
"Now why would you think that, Harold?"
"I don't know,John, you tell me."
This time, John gives him a real smile and Harold is surprised to think he likes it. John has one of those smiles that a lot of children have, the ones that look innocent but are full of mischief.
It's enough to activate that warning bell in his head. Abort, abort.
"Well," he says, before John can give him an answer, "good evening."
He leaves quickly and doesn't turn around to see if he's being watched. Somehow, he knows he is.
There is something terribly wrong with him, or maybe he likes the food that much, because next week sees him sitting at his usual table.
A waitress shows up to ask him what he wants to order, and he picks the new item on the menu, curious despite himself. He's surprised when she comes back with a bottle of wine he hasn't ordered.
"Our chef makes the suggestion that you try it, sir."
Harold looks around, but John is nowhere to be seen. He rolls his eyes but knows it's not the waitress's fault so he thanks her. He also makes a note to himself that he needs to tip her more than usual today.
Later, he finds out that the wine is in fact perfect and goes very well with the meal he ordered.
By the end of the evening, the bottle is empty.
He's eating his dessert when John appears in front of him. He grabs an empty chair nearby and sits in front of Harold. Harold is too tipsy to be annoyed. Maybe, he thinks, this was John's plan all along.
So of course, he asks him: "Did you want to get me drunk tonight?"
John smiles. Again. Harold tries to concentrate on the fact that he's supposed to be mad, not to find the man charming.
He fails miserably.
"No," John answers. "But I'm glad you're relaxing and enjoying your evening. It's pretty rare to see you like this, Harold."
Harold frowns. He's pretty sure that John is telling him something important here, but he can only promise himself to think about it later, when he has a better state of mind. He doesn't answer him, and maybe that's a bit rude, but it's not like John hasn't been rude himself.
"I wanted to tell you, I don't enjoy mocking you. In fact, I'm not mocking you at all," John says, but Harold is not listening to him.
"This is a very good tiramisu you know. I always order the tiramisu," he tells John. "I only had a better one in Italy."
This is getting dangerous for him if he's talking about himself like that. About personal things. He shouldn't. He can't.
He gets up abruptly.
"I need to go to the bathroom," he says.
He's angry at himself, for letting himself drink like that and for talking to John. Inside the men's bathroom, he washes his face with water.
He comes back only when he feels better and to his big surprise (but relief), John is gone. Harold pays the bill and leaves.
He is not going back to the restaurant this time. He's sure of that.
The next week is a slow week. He doesn't have a lot to do.
He's still pretending to be the IT guy of his own company but he's getting even more and more certain that someone will discover the truth. With his intelligence and his wealth, people tend to find him, and sometimes they don't want to take no for an answer.
So he likes the anonymity, he likes to give people a fake name, he likes to stay hidden, working in the shadows. At least there, he's left alone.
Usually.
Harold is starting to think that this is it, he's now losing it. It upsets him, really, that John would think it's alright to talk to him like that. He's the chef, for Christ's sake.
His place is in the kitchen, is it not?
Harold sighs in front of his salad during lunch, knowing exactly how pathetic he is. It will be Friday soon. It's time for him to cancel his reservation. He calls the restaurant.
There's a man on the other line, but thankfully it's not John. The man takes notes of Harold's cancellation and asks him if he's certain he wants to cancel. Harold tells him that, yes, he is, thank you very much. He hangs up a minute later.
He doesn't feel better after that. In fact, he feels the opposite.
That evening, he remembers what John told him. It's pretty rare to see you like this.
So he is right not to come back, he thinks, because that sentence implies that John has been watching him. Enough to know when Harold is relaxed or when he's not. All this time, Harold has never noticed him, not even once. That angers him, because this isn't like him. He always knows when people are watching him, he has to.
When Friday comes, Harold gets a vicious pleasure knowing he's not in John's restaurant but on the opposite side of the city. Where he's eating, the food is not delicious, the service is not perfect, but no one pays attention to him.
This is what he wants, after all.
It's a Sunday afternoon. The weather has been very pleasant all week. Today, the sun is shining bright, but it won't last long. He decides to enjoy it while he still can so he goes to the park.
He's been walking for half an hour when he sees something that makes him freeze. It's John, throwing a ball in the air so that his dog can catch it. Harold recognizes the dog as a Belgian Malinois.
"Good job Bear," John says and he gives the dog a smile, a small version of the one he gave Harold two weeks ago.
He looks tired, Harold thinks. He looks like he had a bad week.
Never mind, Harold says to himself. He cannot risk being seen by him so he quickly turns around and walks in the opposite direction. He hopes seeing John there is a pure coincidence and that the universe is not sending him a message. That would be ridiculous.
And speaking of ridiculous, who names a dog "Bear"?
No, he thinks, this is the proof that there is something terribly wrong with John.
Later that evening, he realizes he doesn't even know the man's last name. John never gave it to him. He debates with himself, but in the end he needs to know, so he googles the name of the restaurant and types "John" in the search bar.
The results tell him that John is John Reese. There's only one picture of him and it shows him the night the restaurant opened. So Harold's suspicion is confirmed: he's not just the chef but the owner.
In the picture, John is holding a woman in his arms and he's smiling. He looks happy. Harold looks at the picture's legend. It says: John Reese and wife Jessica. This surprises him so he googles Jessica Reese. What he finds is an article about a car accident which occurred two years ago.
She's dead, Harold realizes. John is a widower.
His hands start shaking. Turns out he and John have something in common.
He decides at the last minute to reserve a table for Friday night. He's pretty sure that the restaurant would be completely booked, but to his immense surprise, the woman on the phone tells him he can have his 'usual table'.
Harold arrives at 8 o'clock and spends the next hour slowly eating his food and looking at the doors of the kitchen. Every time it opens and a waiter comes out carrying food, Harold's heart starts beating faster and faster.
He waits until it gets very late, but John doesn't come.
Harold takes a deep breath. John probably doesn't want to bother him. He freaked out last time, didn't he? So it's only natural that John gives him some space.
But Harold wants to talk to him this time, so he signals his waiter.
"Yes, sir?" the man asks him.
"I...can I speak to the chef, please?"
The waiter nods. If he's happy or not to receive such a request, Harold doesn't know, but he watches him enter the kitchen.
He comes back five minutes later, looking apologetic. "I'm sorry, sir. Our chef is busy at the moment."
It's a lie, of course, but it's not going to stop him.
"Tell him Mr. Finch wants to talk to him," he insists.
It's reckless. Stupid. It's going to work. He knows it and he's right.
The waiter doesn't come back to his table. Instead, John comes. He looks tired and unhappy. He takes a chair, sits in front of Harold, and they stare at each other in complete silence.
After two minutes of this, Harold gracefully accepts that he's the one who needs to take the first step here and ends this awkward moment between them.
"I don't like when people notice me, Mr. Reese," he tells him. It's not the best first thing to say, but Harold is being honest, he's trying.
"Yes, I figured," John replies.
He has such a special voice, Harold thinks. He's never heard anyone talk like that before.
"Is Finch your real name, then? Is Harold?"
He deserves that, he thinks. "Harold is my first name," he replies, "but I use different last names. I find it's best to be someone else, sometimes."
John nods, but doesn't say anything, so Harold keeps talking.
"You know when I'm relaxed and when I'm not. I told you, I don't like it when people know things about me."
John stays silent, and it's starting to make Harold very nervous. Maybe he's doing the wrong thing here, maybe he shouldn't have listened to his gut instinct, maybe he just needs to give up.
He can't, though, because he knows John wants him to be here. Why else would his usual table be free for him? With the restaurant's success, it should have been taken. No, Harold thinks, it's there for him and him only, every Friday night. So he starts to relax. It's subtle but John notices it.
"I'm sorry I wasn't there last week," he tells John. "I'm going to order myself a drink; pick it for me."
"You're my customer, not my boss Harold," John tells him but there's the edge of a smile slowing appearing on his lips. "By the way, I saw you at the park. I love the face you make when you panic."
Harold shrugs.
"At least, I don't own a dog called Bear."
"No, that's right," John says, and he chuckles like he thinks Harold is funny.
When Harold leaves the restaurant, he feels happier than he has been in a long time.
After that, John comes to talk to him every week, usually right after Harold is finishing his meal. John asks him if the meal was good, if he thinks it can be better, if he has ideas or requests. Harold tries to answer truthfully.
It's actually quite fun to talk about the food, because he's a bit of a snob (he can admit that to himself), and John has simple but excellent taste. So together, they start to plan a new dish.
It's not a complicated recipe, but Harold is a perfectionist. John cooks different versions of the meal, and Harold tests them all one night.
The others customers seem amused by their antics but Harold ignores them.
Harold, being Harold, still hears that warning bell in his head, and he still feels like he needs to leave every time John makes a comment about him, but it's better now, less panic-inducing.
He's also starting to understand who John really is: a good man.
John himself doesn't seem to think so. Harold sees a lot of pain in his eyes, a quiet shame sometimes, and he has no idea where it comes from. He has no idea why it's there. He wonders if John can see the pain in his eyes, too.
Probably.
Four months after John and Harold have started to talk, John introduces a new item to the menu. It's called 'The Harold', which makes him blush and panic at the same time. It's, of course, the recipe that he helped to create, that John made him taste until he approved of the results.
John is extremely proud when Harold orders it, and even the waiter looks like he's about to wink at him.
It's terrible that he feels so happy and content. He should be more prudent. There is literally his name on the menu, for Christ's sake. The Harold who made his first reservation to the restaurant would never have appreciated it. This Harold does.
Time does strange things to people.
Things start to change again, as they always do. That Friday, he and John have been talking for a while when Harold comes to the startling realization that they are completely alone. The customers have gone home, as well as the staff.
"How long have they been gone?" he asks John, who shrugs.
"Half an hour, at least," he tells him.
"Oh," Harold says. "I see."
There's this sudden look in John's eyes. It's the one he had when he first appeared at Harold's side and asked him if the food was good, the one that made him uncomfortable. It's an intense sort of look.
Harold starts to see things more clearly. To be fair, he's usually not that oblivious.
"Oh," he says again. He can't help it, he starts to panic.
"Calm down, Harold," John tells him, and he himself doesn't sound that calm.
"I can't. I'm sorry, John. I can't."
He gets up and walks away as quickly as he can. Once he's outside, he calls for a cab. Just like that, he's gone, on his way home, but home is a reminder that nobody is waiting for him, that he is just a lonely man.
Now he's also a coward.
He doesn't come back to the restaurant. He avoids the whole neighborhood, and he avoids the park, too, because John might be there.
Harold feels so miserable that on the third week of avoiding John, he goes to a bar and gets drunk. So drunk it's a miracle he managed to come back to his apartment safe and sound.
This isn't like him, he thinks the next day.
A week after that, he gets obsessed with the idea of visiting the cemetery. He usually goes once a year, but it's almost Christmas, it's almost time, so maybe he can make an exception this year and visit early?
Once he's sure of himself, he goes. He takes a bus. It's not a long journey, but it's an upsetting one. Every time, he wants to sit in front of the grave and touch it, but he doesn't. He stands instead, and keeps his hands firmly in front of him.
"Hello Grace," he whispers.
He feels empty. He feels ashamed. He's not one to easily show his emotions, but this time he has to bite his lower lip to keep himself from crying. He even draws a little blood.
"I'm so sorry, Grace. I'm so sorry"
He drops the flowers in front of her grave and leaves.
There's a party in the office. Nobody really talks to him, and Harold doesn't feel like to talking to his employees anyway. He sits in his cubicle, a cake in front of him. He's not eating it, he's just staring at it when he hears a familiar voice behind him.
"You know, food is meant to be eaten."
He turns around, surprised. His heart starts beating so fast when he sees him.
"John," he whispers.
"Hello, Harold," John says.
"How did you find me here?" Harold asks, and he quickly looks around, but no one is watching them.
"Is that really the first thing you want to say to me?"
Harold lowers his head. "I'm sorry," he says.
"Come with me," John replies.
It's not really a request; it's more like an order. He follows it. Together, they take the elevator until they reach the main entrance of Harold's building.
"Why are you pretending to be an employee of your own company?" John asks him once they're outside.
No, Harold thinks. This is not possible. John can't possibly know his secret. He can't know that.
His displeasure can probably be seen on his face, because John makes an appeasing gesture with his hands, as if to say he's coming in peace.
"Relax, Harold. I'm not going to tell everyone what you're up to. I'm just wondering why, that's all."
"I like anonymity. I told you that."
John nods but he still looks like it doesn't really make sense. Harold doesn't offer him any more explanation. He doesn't feel like John has come here to ask him that, anyway.
"Why are you here, John?"
John looks at Harold with a mix of affection and annoyance.
"Because I don't have many friends, Harold. In fact, I just have one. I noticed you when you first came to the restaurant. You looked..."
He pauses, as if searching for the right word. "Striking," he says. "You looked striking."
He gives Harold a look.
"Your wife. She died too, didn't she?"
Harold nods. It's the only thing he's capable of doing.
John takes a deep breath, then starts talking.
"My wife, Jessica, died from a car accident almost three years ago, but you already knew that. The truth is...it was my fault that she died. I needed help at the restaurant, but it was raining that day. There was a storm coming. She wasn't supposed to be out, she was supposed to be safe at home."
Harold feels his heart breaking into tiny little pieces, because he remembers. He remembers receiving a call from a police officer telling him that his wife, Grace, had been murdered by a burglar. He remembers entering the house and seeing her blood.
"I'm sorry," Detective Carter had said. "She was at the wrong place at the wrong time."
He had sold the house not too long after that. They eventually found the burglar and condemned him to a life in prison, but it didn't help ease his pain. Nothing helped until one day he heard people talking about a restaurant with a peculiar name, The Machine. There, he found a man he could talk to, a man that made him smile.
"I'm so sorry John," he tells him.
He decides that maybe it's time for him to be brave. They're outside his own building, surrounded by a lot of people, passing by, going home, but it doesn't matter. None of that matters. John matters so Harold takes his hand and holds it. They stand like that for a while, ignoring the strange looks they receive.
Finally, Harold says, "Let's go eat a proper meal."
John nods happily but tells him, "Harold...if you don't order The Harold, I'm seriously going to be pissed."
A weird thing happens. He hears himself laughing for the first time in years.
"I won't disappoint you, Mr Reese," he replies with a serious voice that makes John smile.
They leave together, their shoulders brushing against each other.