Disclaimers: Nothing is mine but my grammar mistakes.
A/N: I'm not famous for my sense of humor, but I tried to write something humorous all the same, just to take a break from all that angst (yeah, right, fat chance). I hope you'll enjoy this piece, it's just a silly idea that popped into my mind. I took a lot of poetic licenses, I trust those won't spoil the reading too much. As usual, critique is much appreciated!
A/N 2: This story is for Wuchel1, because it's almost her birthday and because she listened to my ramblings about this piece, so she definitely deserves huge thanks!
C.O.I.
He had heard the stealthy approaching footsteps, then Bear's enthusiastic welcome, but Harold, focused on the newly arrived number, averted his gaze from his various monitors only when his associate placed tea and pastries near his keyboard.
And instead of his usual formal greeting he went for a much heartfelt "You look awful, Mr. Reese."
Honestly surprised, he took a thorough look at his employee: dark circles under glassy eyes, skin flushed and slightly sagged posture. John looked exhausted and nothing like his usual morning self. And the billionaire wasn't particularly fond of his friend's awfully cheerful arrivals at the crack of dawn, but they were certainly better than... whatever that was.
"Thanks a lot, Finch. Always appreciate your candor." Was the sarcastic remark coming from the taller man.
Harold barely lifted his eyebrow in response, watching instead as the ex-operative heavily sat on a chair near the desk.
"What is it this time? Bullet, knife, poison, debris?" The billionaire asked then in a practical tone, while rising to collect the first aid kit. "Yesterday you swore you weren't injured, I should have known better, since you headed straight to your apartment, that someth-"
"Finch." Harold was interrupted by a whisper capable to hold authority and a hand raised mid-air. He faced John again, who was tiredly holding the bridge of his nose as he continued.
"First: I am not injured. Second: yesterday I went straight home because I needed to sleep, just like I told you, and third: didn't you call at 5:00 because The Machine gave you a new number?"
"I certainly did, but you don't seem fit to jump into action just yet, John." The older man pointed out with a meaningful glare.
"Harold, just tell me what you've found out about this-" He paused a moment to read the name on one of the screens "-Elizabeth Draper and just let it go." John absently rubbed the back of his left ear, wincing slightly but not faltering in his resolve.
Finch opened his mouth as to reply, but then abandoned the idea, observing the man in front of him with narrow eyes and an intent glare.
"It's just a stupid cold and it's probably Lionel's fault" the operative irritably went on, duly trying to prove his point, "he sneezed at least five times during yesterday stakeout and must have gotten his germs all over me."
"Let me check behind your ears." Harold requested instead, completely ignoring the ex-hit man quite logical statement.
John huffed in annoyance, trying to dodge his friend's hand, but Finch observed and probed with his finger all the same.
Despite Harold's light touch Reese actually hissed in pain, and it was all the computer genius needed. "I see," he declared knowingly.
"What now? If I had known you were going to play Harold Hen today, I would have simply asked for data on the phone." John protested in exasperation.
"Very funny, Mr. Reese, however I'm pretty sure you got CSD." The bespectacled man explained calmly.
"What's CSD? I hope it's not contagious." was Shaw's greeting as she entered the room.
John rolled his eyes, batting his friend's hand away and Harold sighed in resignation.
Was he running a rescue team or a kindergarten?
Two weeks before
"Mr. Reese, Mr. Hanson is on the move, I'm sending you his current location."
Richard Hanson's number had come up two days before, while John had been busy with a dangerous group of organ smugglers. Shaw had been and still was dealing with another number in the suburbs, so Harold had been the only one left to put in operation the initial approach, which hadn't been an easy one.
Mr. Hanson, retired judge, was 83 and apparently reckoned he didn't need a cell phone. So they had decided to plant a bug on a bracelet he seemed to wear quite often, if not always, adding to that 24/7 camera monitoring in case the old man decided, for some reason, to discard the ornament.
"Finch, I'm at the address you've sent me, but I can't seem to spot Hanson. Are you sure this GPS is working? Either he's invisible or there's something wrong with the bug you planted."
Mildly annoyed at his friend lack of trust, Harold tersely reassured him. "I can guarantee, Mr. Reese, that everything is perfectly working."
John kept following the red dot on his phone; dark alley after another, but there still was no sign of their man. He finally found himself in front of a wall, and a crumbling roof. Warily inspecting the area he couldn't find any other way where the man could have gone.
"Finch I'm not climbing a roof chasing invisible numbers, besides, I really doubt a 83 old man, or any other person, would be able to do it, it's falling to pieces." The ex-operative declared, regarding briefly the ruined tiles.
The roof wasn't that high but, by the look of it, it couldn't surely bear the weight of a human being.
"Are you sure, John?" At last, it seemed also Finch's confidence was starting to waver.
"This alley is not that dark, Harold, I can see." The former CIA stated, more than mildly annoyed himself.
They were wasting precious minutes and it had been 48 hours already since The Machine had spitted Hanson's number, something bad could be just about to happen.
"I don't really know what to say." Finch finally admitted.
John exhaled in frustration, at loss as much as Harold was.
"I'm gonna head back to Hanson's house, see if I can find something useful." He announced then, but once again was stopped by the voice in his ear.
"Wait, John, the signal is still on, it seems that Mr. Hanson is actually heading back home, be careful or he could see you!"
Everything wasn't making much sense at the moment, but the worst it could happen was to find himself crossing path with a 83 years old perpetrator, or, in case Hanson was the victim, whoever was threatening him.
John could certainly take one of those risks.
And to tell the truth, the tall man was sort of hoping to encounter any kind of obstacle, just to get rid of the edginess he was currently feeling.
Reese had almost reached Hanson's house when Finch's voice exclaimed in alarm. "Mr. Reese, someone is in Mr. Hanson apartment, you must hurry! If he's really heading home he could be just riding for a fall!"
"Almost there, Finch, two minutes tops." John quickened his pace, ready to face the villain of the day.
Harold's attention went back to the monitors in front of him, each one divided in more sections, showing different parts of Hanson's huge house.
He turned up the speakers volume, listening carefully to the hooded figure holding a phone.
"Are you sure this is gonna work?"
"Two spoons only?"
"It must look like natural death or accident, it's a specific clause of that stupid geezer's will."
"Okay, okay."
Highly alarmed by the one-sided conversation, Harold watched the boy, he couldn't be older than 23, mix something in a bowl, just as Richard Hanson crossed the kitchen threshold.
"Hey grandpa!"
Alarmed and dismayed now, Finch warned his associate immediately.
"John! Hanson's nephew is trying to poison his grandfather, they're in the kitchen, you must stop him!"
The ex-CIA didn't reply, but Harold spotted him in one of his monitors, his unmistakable silhouette entering silently the apartment and then heading with resolute strides towards the kitchen.
Then a flashing black blur caught the computer genius' attention, back to the monitor showing the kitchen. Finch watched with wide eyes as Hanson's nephew placed the bowl he had been holding on the floor, just in front of a big and expectant black cat.
Quite confused but still alarmed and dismayed Finch cried out again.
"John! Hanson's nephew is trying to poison the cat, you must save it!"
As John entered the kitchen, as menacing as ever, then wearing the most puzzled expression in the following second -certainly after having received the umpteenth counter order from his earpiece- Harold had to admit that his partner's reflexes surprised him once again.
Sure enough, in the blink of an eye, the infamous Man in the Suit stopped from confronting the boy to frantically scan the room in search of the targeted cat, rushing at last to the incriminated bowl.
The feline didn't seem to appreciate the theft of the dinner it had been about to taste and lashed out against John's hand with an outraged hiss and very sharp claws.
Harold winced in sympathy, but of course his friend ignored the angry scratch as much as he would have ignored a mosquito bite, straightening up and duly emptying the bowl in the kitchen sink.
Everything in less than a minute and under the incredulous looks of Richard Hanson and his nephew.
Harold listened almost amused then as John started his awkward explanations to Mr. Hanson and directed not so mild threats to Carl, Hanson's nephew.
The old man was appalled by his dead daughter's son behavior and swore he was going to completely write him off of the will, uttering every word while petting his beloved cat, Crunchy.
Hanson was trying to reassure the imperturbable beast, which still looked upset about the missed dinner and kept eying the ex-soldier with no little resent.
Back at the Library Harold was doing his best to deal with a very grumpy John Reese, who had just returned from his bizarre mission with a dark face.
"You made me stalk a cat." The ex-operative decreed with a deadpan expression.
"For the third time, John, I'm sorry." The billionaire repeated once again. "But how could I have possibly known that Mr. Hanson would make his cat wear the exact replica of his bracelet as a collar?!"
Apparently Finch had planted the bug on the wrong bracelet, John had noticed the identical ornaments while Hanson was stroking the cat head.
"Fine, Harold, but I still don't understand why The Machine gave us Hanson's number, since his nephew never intended to kill him." The ex-CIA tried to switch the object of his blame, still eyeing his friend darkly though.
"Well, technically… The Machine gave us Crunchy's number." The bespectacled man admitted cautiously.
The former soldier exhaled sharply, holding his forehead with a hand. "Crunchy's number." He parroted slowly.
"Finch, you're really making my patience wear thin today." He then warned his friend, who, on the contrary, looked dead serious.
"I swear it was never my intention, Mr. Reese, but I've done some research and it seems that, somehow, Mr. Hanson's extreme wealth and right connections have allowed him to obtain the permit to share his SSN with his cat." Harold paused only for a second, gauging his partner reaction, then decided to add another point to his speech, hoping to calm his friend with something close to their situation.
"And apparently The Machine has learnt that sometimes animals are very important to people and decided that Crunchy's safety was worth a slice of our time ." The reclusive concluded evenly, even though he wasn't sure he would be able to pacify the irritated vigilante at the moment.
John did look a bit more understanding but apparently he wasn't ready to lower his level of annoyance just yet. "Not only did he make his cat the major beneficiary of his fortune, but of course the man pulled some strings to share his SSN with it… I don't think I'll ever get these behaviors, Finch."
"With a nephew like that as only heir I might have done the same." Harold mused aloud. "Then John, looking on the bright side: wouldn't you appreciate it if The Machine warned us about some imminent threat against our Bear, here?" Harold pointed at their dog, that in response rose his ears and tilted his head.
"Of course I would," The former agent agreed without hesitation and he involuntarily emphasized his point by crouching in front the animal to give him a treat, "but Bear is part of the team." He declared affectionately.
John scratched the Belgian Malinois ears then added proudly: "And he's a dog."
"Wasn't aware of your dislike of cats, Mr. Reese." The computer genius pointed out almost amused.
"I'd rather not choose them as pets, that's all. Never been a cat person." Reese admitted candidly, with a light shrug of his shoulder.
"I see." The billionaire murmured quietly.
John regarded his friend for a second, petting Bear one last time before straightening up and heading for the exit. Hopefully he would get a nice night's sleep, at last.
He paused for a moment though, then faced his employer again. "Go ahead then, and submit that request, Finch, I reckon you're extremely wealthy and well connected yourself."
"Already done, Mr. Reese, already done." Was the reclusive reply, accompanied by a sly smirk.
John smirked back and headed to the grating, waving good-bye with his hand. "Good night, Harold."
"Good night, John, and you'd better clean that nasty scratch!"
Present time
"Cat Scratch Disease?!" Both Reese and Shaw exclaimed in unison at Finch's explanation of the acronym. Only John looked quite appalled while it seemed the female operative was barely suppressing the burst of laughter.
"Cat scratch disease, also known as cat scratch fever, is a usually benign infectious disease caused by the intracellular bacterium Bartonella henselae. It is most commonly found in children following a scratch or bite from a cat."
"Is this really necessary?" John asked as Shaw curiously approached the computer genius's desk.
Apparently Finch had so magnanimously decided to shed some light on their ignorance going through the illness characteristics and detailed description.
"Classic cat scratch disease manifestations are tender and swollen regional lymph nodes. Some patients may develop fever and other systemic symptoms. Other associated complaints include headache, chills, backache and abdominal pain. It may take 7 to 14 days, or as long as two months, before symptoms appear."
Harold kept reading and John decided he didn't really need to hear what his body had been already screaming at him since the previous night.
And his head was throbbing again so he simply sat down; half sprawled on the old couch they had brought to the room. He covered his eyes with his forearm, head slightly backwards. Bear joined him immediately, resting his head on his thigh. John welcomed the warmth and the fact that at least his dog wasn't mocking him at the moment.
At last, Finch and Shaw started talking about the new number and the former soldier started to listen carefully again, eyes still closed but prepared to get back into action, despite his partner earlier comment.
And Reese had to admit that before the mocking part Finch had seemed quite sympathetic about his condition, in his own practical and matter of fact way, that is. So, maybe…
Coming out of his stupor, even startling Bear, who was now looking at him with his head tilted sideways, John suddenly exclaimed.
"Finch," and Harold knew that tone, nothing good was coming with it and it looked like John only lacked a bulb over his head.
"How come you were so fast recognizing my symptoms?" The ex-operative enquired almost offhandedly, not fooling Finch for a second though.
"By now you should know I'm quite familiar with a great variety of subjects, Mr. Reese." Was the billionaire reply, who kept striking his keyboard without missing a beat.
Shaw had been about to leave the room, to deal with the number nonetheless, but even her usually uncatchable interest had been caught by John's tone and that particular conversation.
"Still, you seemed quite sure where to look for them, checking my lymph nodes and everything." John continued, finally rising from the couch and reading himself to join his female partner.
"It was a mere educated guess, Mr. Reese." Harold replied curtly, doing his best not to fidget. John's gaze could be quite intense when the ex-soldier decided so.
"You wouldn't happen to have experienced it yourself, would you?" Reese asked nonchalantly and then added pointedly "Remember your promise, Harold."
"Thanks for the reminder, John." The billionaire retorted with a scowl.
He had indeed promised Reese not to lie to him but that didn't mean he should go into details, so Harold confessed hastily: "And yes, I might have been personally familiar with it, once or twice. Is that all?"
"I knew you weren't a cat person either." John declared knowingly, not even trying to conceal the triumphant smirk appearing on his face.
He went for the exit then, but his employer addressed him again, every bit of his composure back into place.
"Mr. Reese, you'd better stay where you are." It couldn't be considered a warning by itself, but Finch's tone effectively thwarted John's plans. Then the computer genius continued amiably.
"Ms. Shaw can take care of Mrs. Draper, and I'm sure we can make the most of your forced indoor time revisiting our main cover identities."
Which were only 23, John mentally added, groaning inwardly at the boring prospect. He definitely preferred being in the field, even with aches and pains and fever.
Meanwhile, Shaw had followed the banter like a tennis match, her expression growing more and more bewildered by the second.
"You know, guys," she finally said, just as John was starting to object about the latest arrangement, "I'm truly trying not to think every five seconds how weird you two are, but you're really making it a difficult job."
It was the male duo's turn to look puzzled then. Objection momentarily forgotten, John shared a perplexed look with Harold, and they watched as Shaw left the Library, without really knowing what to say.
Bear suddenly grabbed his favorite toy and jumped in front of them. He seemed happy.
The End