He's a bit traumatized.
Of course, with it being Harold Finch, and the intensely private person that he insists on being, he brushes it off and hopes Reese is paying no mind to it. It's not even that bad - or, at least, that's what he tells himself when he stumbles through the third excuse for why he can't join Reese at some local pub for a beer and some small talk. It's just a little thing. A certain reluctance to leave the library without Bear or Reese (preferably both, but he'll never tell) glued to his side. He's grown accustomed to the swish of Bear's heavy tail into the back of his knees, and the soft pants, a sign of the athleticism of the Belgian Malinois.
Reese, though, is intuitive.
He's seen the clinging; the way Finch prefers to have either him or Bear by his side. The subtle shift of Bear to his bad side, the leg he favors with his heavy limp, and the way, he keeps his shoulder in contact with Reese's arm. He needs the heavy reassurance of Reese there, even though he's not comfortable with his weapons, he's become aware of that sharp knot of anxiety loosening in his stomach whenever John is armed. He remains completely oblivious to John's worry.
It's the reason John calls Carter before he reaches the library. She is, perhaps, the only one with prior experience in trauma cases. Being an interrogator and a later a cop had given her experience, shown her cases where the victim's trauma took away his or her voice, their power over the situation. As he suspects, it's done to Finch.
"Carter."
"Morning, Detective."
And, maybe his voice is a little desperate, a little more pleading in his smooth baritone. It's enough to put her on high alert and almost immediately she comes back with; "What's wrong, John?"
John shifts, sandwiching the phone between his ear and shoulder, while he adjusts his shirt sleeve and clips a simple onyx cufflink into place. "I'm worried about Finch."
Carter sighs.
She can't say she didn't see this coming. She'd seen them out a time or two, and it had only taken her a few seconds to know something was wrong. The bespectacled man had kept a white-knuckled grip on Bear's leash as if the dog was his lifeline. But, nevertheless, she asks; "What's wrong with him?"
Reese explains Finch's behavior. The hesistance to assist John if it meant leaving the dark, cool comfort of the library and how the last time he had managed to get Harold out for a beer, he had stayed glued to John's side all night and had put up a bit of a fight when it was time for Reese to depart for the night with Bear in tow.
"He's scared, John." she's not surprised he doesn't see it. She also suspects he has no idea what to do. "He's been through hell."
"What do I do?"
She has an idea but it will take some finagling on John's part. "I might know. Get him to Lyric's at noon and I'll take it from there."
"Okay. Thank you, Joss."
"John," she's quiet and careful because the friendship between Finch and Reese is carefully constructed and close enough that any outside opinions were unwelcome. "You're possibly the only friend he's got left in this world. Don't let him forget that you're there, that Root won't hurt him with you there."
John's eyes sting.
Joss is right. He's the only friend Harold has left - Fusco and Carter are friends but John is something different. John is the inside man in Harold's world. He knows the world Finch has built for himself and he knows his place in his benefactor's life.
And, this makes their little world they've built seem to tilt on its axis.
...
The diner is crowded.
And, Harold sinks into the invisibility that such a mass quantity of people allows him. His usual waitress, a feisty red-head that always reminds John of Joss with all of her fire and skill with people, seats him in a corner booth, away from the crowd. Of course, he's there helping Harold lower himself into the vinyl seat, a strong hand on his arm and the other splayed between his shoulders, bracing the injured man as he eases himself down.
"Why are we here, Mister Reese?" Harold's eyes are dark with worry. He longs for the dark comfort of his library; the musty smell of old books and the damp freshness of green tea.
"I told you, Harold." John settles into the booth across from him. "We're here to meet a friend."
A coffee.
A green tea.
The waitress takes their orders and disappears to retrieve their drinks. Harold looks vaguely uncomfortable and John presses the toe of his shoe into his friend's foot to stop his nervous tap dance under the table. He turns when he hears the squeak of door hinges that haven't been lubricated in a while and lets a smile tug at his mouth when he sees her clad in raspberry and navy. He slips out of the booth and motions her over, slipping his hand against the small of her back as he lets her into the booth.
"I think," he presses a gentle hand into Finch's shoulder. "You and Joss need to talk."
"Mister Reese - "
John interrupts Harold's protest with a soft, "Harold. She's a friend. I'll be outside. Bear needs some exercise."
He slips out of the diner and unhooks Bear's leash from the bike rack. Harold and Joss will be okay. Even though they looked vaguely uncomfortable with each other, John knows that Joss is pretty much the only other person who can give Finch a sense of normalcy. Who can make Finch feel like he's not stupid for feeling the way he does.
"How've you been?" a quiet murmur around the rim of her - Reese's, really - coffee mug.
"Uh," he hesitates because even though this is Joss Carter, he's not quite sure what to say. "I'm not sure how to answer that."
"I saw you and Bear, the other day." Joss can see in his eyes - can see in the fidgeting that he's uncomfortable. But she gets his attention with that one. Upon his questioning look, she laughs and says, "Not a lot of people own a Belgian Malinois. From the looks of it, though. You didn't want to be there. I'm just a friend, you don't have to tell me anything but John seemed awfully worried about you, Finch."
"Yes, well," he looks down at the menu, contemplating whether or not the anxious knot his stomach is currently tied into will allow the simple pleasure of eggs benedict or if he'd be better off with a simple sandwich, if anything, at all. "I find Mister Reese worries when he ought not to."
"Oh, I think he has a reason."
His hands tremble.
He doesn't even realize how much anxiety is controlling his life. How scared he is of completing every day tasks such as making his way to the diner for lunch, or picking up his green tea and a box of donuts before he disappears into the library for the day. Or even leaving the library.
"You see, Finch, I've seen this before." Joss reminds him, reaching across the table. Her hand is warm and soft as it slides across his knuckles and her fingers curl into his palm. "Trauma victims let fear run their lives. And, right now, you're terrified something's going to happen because John's not glued to your side."
"Trauma?"
"Yes, Finch."
His eyes are suspiciously wet. He hasn't felt this lost, this completely off-balance since he was forced to let Grace go. Since, he faced the fact that marrying her would cost them both and he couldn't allow that to happen to her. Not when she had so much more living to do. Not when she had a life, a job, a family.
But, this is different.
This is the kind of off-balance, he's never felt before. He'd always felt safe, alone. No forced conversations, no fears of someone finding out his secrets, nothing that could reopen wounds already closed with layers and layers of scar tissue. But, now, he doesn't feel safe in his solidarity. His privacy, his lone wolf tendencies, they were violated and being alone no longer held the same appeal.
"I find that I longer want to be alone, Detective." he struggles - Joss is patient, though. She gives him a smile and waits for him to be ready. Waits for his composure to come back and the words to form as he needs them. "Since Root, I find myself needing the security of company. I feel that if Mister Reese or Bear are near me then I am in no danger. I don't know"
His hand closes around hers and she gives him a gentle squeeze. "You were a victim." he doesn't want to hear this - of course, he doesn't but, he needs to, and whether it needs to be from her, she's not quite sure, yet. "You were a number, Finch. I know you don't have a number but if you did - you would be a number. And, this fear that you feel - the part of you that needs John, it's normal. You're human, Finch. Untraceable, yes, but not untouchable."
"I - "
"I know." Carter smiles sympathetically. She really does. He's not used to this. He knows the safety of wherever he calls home, of his partner, his best friend. And, now that he feels like that's been violated, he's not quite sure how he feels about there being someone else who knows of his existence. "You aren't used to be tracked down."
"I want this to go away." Harold's not one for expressing his emotions. Not the deeply personal ones, anyway. "I don't quite know what to do with myself."
"This is a good start." Carter rubs a soothing circle on the back of his hand. "You're not freaking out on me, and you aren't trying to get away. So, let's make a deal."
"I'm not in the habit of verbal agreements, Detective." his eyes are skeptical behind his glasses. "The follow through doesn't always play out as you'd hoped."
Carter chuckles but it's far from surprise. "I know."
"What do you suggest?" Harold retracts his hand, folding them on the table in front of him.
"Well," she picks up her half-empty coffee mug and smiles around the rim. "Let's make this here, a habit."
"A habit?"
"You come here nearly every day," her eyes flicker out the window where Reese is kneeling at Bear's side, scratching his ears, and blowing white smoke; hot breath meeting cold air. He's cold but patiently waiting for them to finish. "But, tomorrow, I'll meet you here and if you can make it without Bear or Reese, breakfast or lunch is on me. Whatever you want."
"Eggs benedict?" there's a flicker of something in his eyes; a playfulness, a spark of renewed joy.
"If that's what you want." Carter grins, sobering slightly as she pulls a twenty from her pocket and tosses it on the table and slides out of the booth. "Your guardians are waiting, Mister Finch."
Harold slides out of the booth and limps to the door. She slows to match his pace and holds the door open for him. Reese grins wryly at the arrangement and quips; "I never took you for being dominated, Finch."
"I never took you as filthy, Mister Reese." Finch returns easily, turning to Joss. "Tomorrow, say eleven?"
"I can make that work." Joss smiles, squeezing his arm. "See you at eleven. Bye, Harold."
"Bye Detective."
Joss smiles at both of them, tugs her coat around herself tightly, and heads for her brownstone a few blocks away. Reese waits until she's out of earshot before turning to the shorter man. "Got a date, Finch?"
"Just a new friend, Mister Reese." Finch doesn't reach for Bear's leash as they make their way back to the library. "Say, would you mind taking Bear home, tonight? My accommodations aren't suitable to his needs and I think he would prefer your more engaging company."
"Sure, Finch."