"What is it, Finch?" Reese sounded preoccupied.
"Are you busy, Mr. Reese?" Harold asked drily.
"Actually, Harold, I am," said his partner. "If you need me, come over to my apartment."
Harold had no idea why John had been so insistent that he couldn't help with a Number on this particular day. He knew he could have insisted, but Reese so rarely asked for anything that he couldn't bear to make an issue of it.
But curiosity had gotten the better of Harold Finch. That's why he found himself in a taxi, headed across town to John's flat.
The first thing he noticed was the smell. He hadn't smelled anything like that since—well, since Grace. It was the smell that mingled turkey and cinnamon and apple and warm bread.
"Hello, Finch." John met him in the doorway. He was wearing a t-shirt and black sweatpants. That was odd enough in itself, but Reese's smile was even stranger. It was wide, almost boyish. He seemed happy. "Come in," he said. "You can help."
Harold stepped into John's vast apartment and heard music playing, Irish fiddle. Reese's kitchen, he saw, was utterly and completely filled, every surface covered with food of some sort, in different states of preparedness. Yams, green beans, cranberry sauce and anything else anyone had ever imagined might go in a Thanksgiving dinner—Harold had never seen anything like it in his life, including his childhood, when his mother had made sumptuous enough meals. Bear was sitting on his hind legs, staring at everything and salivating. Harold almost wished he were a dog, so he could do the same.
"Did the CIA teach you to cook?" It wasn't the most brilliant of questions, but under the circumstances, it was the first thing that occurred to Finch to say.
"No, Harold," said Reese, grinning again, "my mom and sisters did. I grew up in the Midwest. We always had to have a full Thanksgiving."
"Do you do this every year?"
"Every year I have a home. It's great for leftovers." John spoke in his usual quiet way, and Harold had no idea whether or not he meant to be humorous.
"Want to help?" asked Reese.
"I can't cook," said Harold shortly. "However," he said, a sudden flash of inspiration dawning on his face, "I'll be happy to make a pumpkin pie."
"Perfect," said John. "I don't like baking."
Reese had a can of pumpkin in his pantry, and Harold set about making a pie in the same meticulous way he did everything. At the same time, John swirled around him, checking the turkey here, mashing the potatoes there, and sautéing the fried apples in between. He applied his ability to think at lightning speed to the way he cooked, finally finishing everything at exactly the same time.
"I had no idea you celebrated, Mr. Reese," said Harold, as they sat down at the table.
"I have plenty to be thankful for," John answered softly.
What Harold didn't know was that two weeks before, John had seem something strange on his partner's desk—a recipe for "The World's Best Piecrust"—and made a plan of his own, a plan to lure the most private man in the world to a Thanksgiving celebration. The ingredients for pie hadn't made their way to his cupboards on accident. He could be mysterious, too. But Harold didn't need to know that.