Finch tapped his fingers impatiently as he stared at his computer screen. He had put the cameras in the Hilton room as soon as Mr. Reese notified him Grace would need a safe house. There had been plenty of time to install the hardware and hobble his way back to the library miserably before they got there. Now he was stuck in his familiar chair watching John interact with Grace on his monitor. It frustrated him to be so painfully close to her but stuck so far away.
"I won't be staying here with you, for obvious reasons," John was explaining to her, "but I would encourage you to stay put. I won't be far, and if you do get the urge to leave, well, I'm probably just going to bring you back," he tilted his head with a small shrug.
"Right," she said, looking at her recently bandaged hands, "because kidnapping me and hiding me away is the best way to protect me from this nonexistent threat."
"I assure you, it exists," John said, "but we've been over this a few times now."
Reese had been doing his best to attempt to convince Grace there was a real danger, but Harold couldn't blame her for refusing to believe him. She probably assumed he was a lunatic despite his best efforts to display his sanity. As soon as they had entered the not-so-humble hotel room, he had forced her to sit on the bed while he gingerly fixed up her hands. It was then Harold felt another sliver of regret for snapping at Reese the way he had. Clearly John was vested in protecting the woman from the unknown threat, and he was acting considerably less emotionally detached than usual around Grace. Harold assumed it was her connection to him that was making John dance around so carefully, and caringly.
He watched John reach for his phone and simultaneously heard his own begin to beep. Picking it up felt a bit surreal; it was strange to be watching and speaking to Reese at the same time.
"Finch?"
"Yes, Mr. Reese?"
"All the equipment working properly?"
"Yes," Finch answered, assuming Reese was referring to the cameras in the room, "are you going to tell her we're watching?"
"No," John answered, "I don't think so. I'll see you at our meeting place later."
Finch watched him hang up the phone, Grace studying him curiously.
"How's your imaginary friend doing?" she said with a sigh, appearing to almost be growing used to her situation.
"Oh he's fine, he gets cranky without his afternoon nap though," Reese smirked.
"Is he like you? Some sort of psychopath, or government spy, or whatever you are?"
"He's…much smarter than I am," John said after some thought, "and shorter."
"Oh, well, at least I'll recognize him now," Grace said, drowning her words in sarcasm.
John laughed a bit, a laugh more real than most Mr. Reese let out, and said, "You just might. I'll be back later on, probably around nine tonight. Need anything while I'm out?"
"Something that will just knock me out would be nice. Maybe some morphine. If you could throw in an anti-anxiety pill that would be fine as well."
"Tranquilizers, you got it," John nodded to her a little then began to exit the room.
"John!" she called before he left.
"Yes?" he answered.
"Could you bring back some tea?" she said, this time with honesty behind her voice.
Harold knit his brow and ran a hand over his hair as he watched John reenter the area, and he looked at his own cup of tea sitting by the computer.
"Any preferences as to kind?" he asked her, but Harold suspected he knew the answer.
"There's a place not far from where I live, it sells Sencha Green Tea," she said, hope skirting between her teeth.
"Of course," John paused, then said, "You look like you like one sugar," before exiting the room.
Harold watched the surprised expression hang on her face after John left, and nearly called to chide him for the comment, but refrained. Grace's posture relaxed a few moments later, and she pressed her face to her bandaged hands. Running one of them shakily through her hair, tears began to slip out of her eyes. She scooted farther onto the bed as they fell more frequently, grabbing a pillow and flopping onto her side. Balling it up and pressing it close to her chest, she hugged it as if it would run away. Her body rocked back and forth with sobs; her face scrunched up as she released her painful emotions.
It felt, Harold thought, as if some was digging into his chest with their fingers and ripping his heart out. He was clutching the edges of his computer screen without even noticing, fighting back the urge to sob for her. All he wanted was to go to her and hold her. She wouldn't have to cling to a hotel pillow, she could have him, he wouldn't let go if he got the chance. Watching helplessly, his arms shook as he lowered his head to the desk in front of him, putting his hands on top of his head. Leaving her once was agonizing, and now here she was just out of his grasp when she needed him most.
"I love you," he whispered into the desk, "I love you so much."