It was when Harold noticed John holding the New York Journal at arm's length to read that he finally realised the truth.

"Er, Mr Reese," he said hesitantly, "do you mind if I ask you a question?"

Mr Reese glanced up at him, frowning just a little. "Why sure, Harold. What's bothering you?"

"Have you had your eyes tested lately?"

There was a small silence. "No, Harold, I can't say I have." The frown had gotten a little deeper.

Finch took a deep breath. "It's just that I notice you're holding the newspaper a rather long way away to read it."

Another silence. "Does that bother you, Harold?" Oh dear. The flat, hard cadence of that short sentence did not bode well for where this conversation was going.

"Mr Reese, I'm sure you're aware that presbyopia, lengthening of the sight, is a normal part of the aging process."

Dead silence. Mr Reese was looking daggers at him now. Harold tried to salvage the conversation. "Not that you're getting old, Mr Reese, but as we reach our mid-forties it's normal for the sight to lengthen and reading glasses to be required. I'll book you in with an optometrist who can give you an eye exam, check for any emerging eye problems and supply you with the right glasses."

The glare he received in response to this made him step backwards towards the computer desk.

"Harold." Mr Reese was obviously trying to maintain control. "I. Do. Not. Need. Glasses."

Harold reached deep down inside, drew himself up and said firmly, "Then stop holding the newspaper so far away when you read it."

A small muscle in Mr Reese's cheek worked as he gazed at Harold.

Bear was watching the exchange in worry. His people were in conflict, and he sat on his bed and whined quietly. Harold and Mr Reese continued to stare at each other, and the dog slipped from his bed and sidled over to the two men, tail between his legs. A small lick at Harold's hand, and then Bear sat down next to him and turned his eyes to Mr Reese.

"Will you please just go see the optometrist," said Harold quietly. "It's only an eye exam. You can decide about glasses some other time." Bear whined.

Mr Reese's body relaxed, and he ran a hand through his hair. He sighed. "Okay, Harold. But only because Bear asked me to."

POI*POI*POI*POI*

A week later they were sitting in the Chelsea Square diner as Detective Carter slid into the booth next to Harold. Mr Reese passed the photo of their latest Number across the table to the detective. "We need her juvenile record, Joss. Think you can do it?"

The detective snorted in reply. "Have I ever failed you?"

Mr Reese only smirked at this, which made Detective Carter blush slightly and open her menu. Mr Reese did likewise, slipping his glasses on as he did so. Harold couldn't help but notice the slight stiffening of his friend's posture. He was still a touch self-conscious about his new eyewear…

Detective Carter looked up from her menu, her perfect eyebrows rising. "Wow, John. I like the new look."

Mr Reese stiffened more – in fact, Harold could almost see his hackles rising. "I'm sorry, Joss?" he said coldly.

She seemed genuinely surprised at his reaction. "The new glasses. They look real good. Sexy." She dropped her gaze back to the menu.

Mr Reese blinked slowly. Harold looked hastily down at his own menu, but not before he glimpsed Mr Reese trying unsuccessfully to suppress a smile. It seemed he might be more easily reconciled to wearing glasses than Harold had feared.