Chapter 1 - John's POV
A tall man was sitting at the table, glaring at everyone. He checked his watch almost constantly. Suddenly the tension in his shoulders disappeared. Woman with long, dark hair took a seat in front of him.
"Hello..."
"Jack," he reminded her. She was the first one to know his new identity. Right now he didn't understand what game she was playing. "Why now?" That was the only interesting thing. The big reason. When he met her one month after "team Machine" separated, she was strict with him. They couldn't contact each other. It would mean the end of their lives. "Why are you talking to me now?"
"He makes HER nervous."
Harold. She wasn't talking about anyone else. "Is he alright?" For a moment his CIA training kicked in. He was prepared to kill every single soul who would harm his friend.
"Yes. He's safe. Our other mutual friend is also fine. I don't understand HER sudden interest in him. SHE wants you two together for some reason."
"Ok," he nodded. He can do this. He searched for a plausible explanation. So far he could play the three of them. "Give me an address of the nearest bar to his work or apartment. Tell him to be there at seven. I will take care of everything else."
"Interesting," she mumbled. "You want to be sucked back into all that clusterfuck?"
"I just want to see him. I don't care about anything else. If he agrees, text me the address." Root was sufficient. He didn't doubt her ability to create new identities for them. But she hasn't known Harold as long as John has. He had to see him for himself to know what's happening.
He got up and walked away. His heart beating too fast. Like a fucking hummingbird. Just with the thought he would see Harold again. Suddenly all the questions were tumbling in his head. Did his shoulder heal ok? Is he lonely just like the first time they met? Did he think every day about all the Numbers they can't save now? Were the three years of their collaboration even worth it? What about Bear? Was he alright? He missed their dog. He didn't have any doubts about the canine's health. He trusted Harold with his life. But he still wanted his friends back.
Harold wasn't a free man now. He was stuck in his new identity too. He has to pretend to be another person again. Like he didn't do it enough times - Mr. Partridge, Harold Wren, Harold Crane, Harold Crow, Harold Swift, Harold Gull, Harold Quail, Harold Starling, Harold Martin... John was sure he forgot others not so important ones. These were used the most.
Two hours after he arrived to his apartment, an unidentified number sent him a text message with location. John could finally breathe easily. He wasn't smiling. No one could accuse him of smiling. He was John Reese, smiling wasn't in his nature. But with the light feeling came nervousness as well. Ridiculous. Why would he be nervous? He saw Harold like hundred times. Nothing changed. Nothing changed at all... Well, maybe the little detail where they were not suppose to see each other.
Oh. Caution. It was now easily explained. One slight mistake and they could both end up dead. Just like Harold said after their first Number all these years before. Sooner or later both of us will probably end up dead. Actually dead this time.
John was sitting in the corner, watching the door open and close like a million times through the night. Funny how the anticipation could spike his heartbeat. It was almost eight. He didn't make mistakes. He was very strict with orders to Root. Harold was supposed to be there at seven. And now he was almost 47 minutes late. 46 minutes and 32 seconds precisely. John's breath stopped. He swore his heart must have stopped too. Finally.
Complications. His plan needed a little bit of tempering. Harold wasn't alone. With him were two other men. Co-workers. They were telling him some story or joked or something and he smiled at both of them. One of the smiles to reassure people. This image was breaking John's heart. He wouldn't admit it of course. Normal people could say Harold was a simple person, quick with smiles and jokes. Not many of them would see his body language. His subtle way of eyes shifting to the sides. Or the way he tried to scan the room.
It was best to put him out of misery. Maybe Harold thought John didn't wait for him. John swiftly left his seat and was slowly approaching from behind. Glass of water prepared in his hand. He was waiting for the right moment to be in the spot when Harold gestured with his hand and met John's glass. His jacket's sleeve damp.
"Oh god, I'm..." Harold turned around, his speech forgotten.
One of them should say something. John was absolutely sure of that. But his brain refused to cooperate. Harold looked exactly in the same position. He was standing with his mouth open but no words came out.
"H?"
John's attention was immediately on the other man. He was putting his palm on Harold's shoulder. Reese arranged his face in a blank mask. He couldn't break someone's hand without a reason. Even if Harold was startled and took an instinctive step towards John. "I'm sorry for the accident," John put a smirk on his face. "Can I help you?"
Just like that. Harold Finch/Wren/Crow/Gull/Swift was immediately in his role. "My favorite jacket. Do you have any idea how much it cost? I need to go to the bathroom," he didn't spare John one second of his attention.
"Bad move, pal. He's completely anal about that jacket."
"Yes," the other one agreed. "You should apologize. Maybe he won't kill you."
"Better do that," John walked to the bathroom. Harold was waiting for him with hands crossed over his chest.
"Mr. Reese," breath escaped from his lungs.
"How is it going, Harold?" Now was the time he smiled. A big, warm, content grin on his face. He was sure Finch would call him crazy. "It's just water," he nodded to his arm. "It won't leave any stains."
"Thank you. It was very considerate of you. What are we going to do now?" he asked eagerly.
"Well, Harold, I hope you will buy me a drink. You spilled mine to the floor." It was the first thing he could think of.
"And then?"
"Then you will give me your number, I will smile very nicely, call you in two days. We will go for drinks. You will tell your friends and co-workers about me. How good of a person I am. And lastly, we will decide to go for a vacation somewhere out of the range of cameras, phones and other people. Very, very secret date weekend."
"Alright, Mr. Reese. Let's do it."
"Impatient, Harold?" God, he missed their banter.
"Henry," he corrected him.
"Oh... Jack." John didn't understand the sad smile he saw on Harold's face. "Everything all right, Harold?"
"Always, Mr. Reese."
His words were like a punch in the stomach. How many times has he heard Harold say the exact words to him? Always as an answer to his: Are you there, Finch? "Harold..."
"Time to pretend some more, Mr. Reese."
Finch's limp was worse than before. John desperately wanted to talk to him. A few more sentences. Nothing difficult. A minute longer. But the only thing he could give Harold right now was his support. "You can do it, Harold."
"Don't worry about me, Mr. Reese. I was pretending my whole life. I am very good at it... It was good seeing you again."
With one significant look, Harold was out of the door. John didn't have any other option than to follow him. They were now in the most important roles in their lives. They couldn't afford any mistakes.
"We almost went after you, H. Everything ok?"
One of Harold's co-workers almost immediately stepped to his side in a protective manner. It would be funny, if John didn't know Harold better than them. They didn't see him in his element. He almost blinded them with smile. His relaxed face turned to John. It was so out of character for Harold he knew.
"I have to buy Jack a new drink. Come on. Name your poison," he teased.
"Bottled water," John asked the bartender. He grabbed it from the counter and faced Harold. "And your number, Henry." Almost instantly, he snapped a card from Harold's hand when it appeared. "Henry Dellany. I will remember that."
"I certainly hope so, Jack..."
"Frost." John offered his sure name with a hand. Winked and held it just a bit longer than necessary. All for the good show. People have to believe they hit it off. Samaritan have to believe they are irrelevant. They couldn't afford to raise any suspicion.
With that he was on his way out. His heart beating two hundred per second again. Fucking unbelievable. How the hell could Harold do this to him? He can stay calm as a meditating monk with the barrel of a gun at his temple. It didn't faze him. He can face a full room of armed crooks without any sweat. His CIA training was ingrained in his core and DNA. But the idea of seeing his former employer unnerved him.
