A/N: In which Mr. Reese turns to something else other than drinking and Harold has to get his attention in a unusual fashion.

Now, in this case, Harold can't be as injured as he canonically is supposed to be.

Also, there's a shoutout to one my favorite scenes of the fanfiction, "Technical Support" by astolat.

Enjoy!

Harold looked up at the building, sighing ever so slightly.

Loathe as he was to re-enter this sort of establishment, he did have a mission to accomplish.

And this next moment could be the key to its success or its continued failure.

John paid no real mind to the newcomer as the other man walked into the room. A slight limp traced itself in his legs, etching curiosity into his step. But he really just looked like another guy who didn't know what he'd be walking into.

Honestly, Shaw's suddenly slamming of the cue ball into the triangle was more distracting. She smirked, melding into the table as she glided through the solids.

"Has anyone called playing the winner?"

John glanced over at the soft-spoken newcomer right as Shaw almost slid the 8 into the back right corner pocket.

"It's best out of three. And we're just getting started." Shaw growled as she stepped back from her mistake, irately letting John take her spot. He resisted the urge to smirk at this. Instead, he regained his footing the only way he know how -sinking four stripes into various pockets one after one. The stranger merely nodded at this, content to wait and observe.

Fortunately, he didn't have to wait long. Although they were evenly matched for the most part, Shaw got lucky when John scratched after going for the 8.

The stranger stood up, ready to take the cue stick from John.

"Would you like me to put all of these pool balls into that black triangle or would you like to?" Shaw just stared at him, irritated.

"Winners always break here. Newbies or losers always rack." Which means you're always going to rack, was the message she was clearly sending over as she took her place.

Now, that would probably be the typical case.

The news that would surprise everyone was that this wasn't the typical case.

"Again." Shaw snapped, hardly able to believe this stranger had managed to win again by "pure luck" for the fourth time out of seven games.

By this point, John and the rest of the bar were content to watch in awe. Nobody was quite willing to cheer on the stranger, for fear of aggravating Shaw, but everyone was deeply impressed.

"Unfortunately," The stranger put down the cue stick, before holding out a hand to shake. "I'm afraid I have to call it a day. Excellent games, Miss Shaw."

She just looked at the outstretched hand, refusing to believe he was willing to step away and call it quits.

And, because Shaw wasn't the only one in shock, he almost made it to the door in absolute silence.

"What's your name?"

John didn't realize he had asked until it was in the air. The stranger turned, a slight smile on his lips.

"You can call me Mr. Finch."

"No first name to go with that?" At this, Finch paused before a knowing look curled into his face.

"I'm a very private person, Mr. Reese."

And since he managed to stun his only interrogator, Finch was allowed to leave in absolute silence.

Almost every night Finch would arrive right on schedule. Some nights, he'd be late by quite a few hours. Other nights, he'd look exhausted.

But he always came.

And John was always waiting. Sometimes, he'd have questions. Other nights, he'd play the game in absolute silence.

But he was always there.

...

It had happened as John stared down the 8.

That particular black pearl laid only a few inches away from the left side pocket, a tantalizing siren resting in a sea of moss.

He absolutely hated those shots. They required a precise hit from the cue ball that hopefully would coax the 8 ball to slide right into the pocket.

"Left middle pocket." He said, feeling Finch's curious stare held onto him because they both knew that this was a type of shot he struggled with.

But something changed this time.

This time he was able to slide the cue stick through deceptively calm fingers and gently pull the wooden trigger.

This time, the siren listened to his call.

And, as that pearl glided into pocket, he heard a hand stretch itself for the customary tradition.

"Good game," He said, enjoying the feel of Finch's soft hands in his.

"Harold."

The handshake paused.

A smile widened.

...

"You really could be a pool shark."

Harold just looked at him with a coyly raised eyebrow. But his eyes clutched a knowing gaze. A gaze that held something John would've missed weeks ago.

"But," John paused, finally recognizing the man's look for what it was. "You don't care about the money. You have a different reason for playing."

The eyebrows softened along with eyes. A genuine upward twitch of the lips allowed itself to show. He tilted his head, as though pondering what exactly he should say next.

"Pool Shark!" A shout from the main room brought them out of whatever that was, "Am I kicking your ass today or what?"

"Want to play another round?"

Harold wearily glanced back down at his phone, as though unsure of something. And, for a moment, John thought he'd finally push the man to his limit as he watched that exhausted frown fix itself into thin lips.

But then that hint of a thoughtful beam snuck through the clouds of stress.

"Just one more round."

...

"So, where'd you learn to play?"

"Dad taught me pool when I was six. Mom taught me how to win."

The typical vague upward twitch melted into a genuine smile. Unbeknownst to John, he was relishing in the fact that this was new knowledge.

"Where'd you learn?"

The reclusive man gave a more bemused look, contemplating exactly how much he should reveal.

But this was nothing in the grand scheme and his story wouldn't give any significant details away.

"My friend." Nostalgia seemed to cradle his tone at the thought of this. "He insisted that I learn when I came to college."

He looked up to caught a warm hint of something unfamiliar - something unfamiliar but nice - flare in Reese.

And within himself, something seemed to be stirring at this moment. But what exactly it was, he couldn't quite tell. If he had to guess, maybe-

"Would you like to get coffee sometime?"

Finch looked up, momentarily confused.

"I, well- that is to say that… Well you see,"

John laughed at this, enjoying this new side to the man.

"It's only coffee, Harold."

...

After a few more moments of incoherent blathering, the man realized that he was not being coerced into anything more than a brief chat outside of the pool room.

While that had been the eventual goal of these moments, Harold still had difficulty connecting said goal with reality.

Fortunately, he managed.

"Coffee sounds- coffee would be nice."

After more than an hour of chattering - nothing too revealing, but still, an inordinate amount of time spent socializing of all things - Harold was beginning to realize that they hadn't even ordered their coffee yet.

That's when his ears picked up the sound of an old phone ringing in the back of the cafe.

Said phone had apparently been ringing for quite a few minutes, according to Joh- Mr. Reese

...

"John, I built this Machine, it-" John stepped forward, backing Harold even further against the wall.

"It's okay, Harold. Machines are built all the time. So," He knew this was a lot more than just any old machine and arms reached up to block the man further in, staring intensely at him. "I don't care."

The pool shark was effectively caged.

And he knew it.

"There is that, I suppose. But-" And then lips snuggled into lips and they both sank into a delectable kiss.

Once Harold properly explained his job, John was quite willing to join the cause on two conditions:

1) They remained partners in every sense of the word.

2) There had to be a pool table thrown somewhere in the mix.

..

The reason to finally leave came in the form of idiots acting as though they owned the place. John and Harold both looked up in disinterest as the group swaggered their way over to the table.

"I heard there was a pool shark in this joint. A pool shark who's about to be schooled." Truly, only a fool would call attention to himself in such a fashion.

Furthermore, only someone of a more dimwitted nature would assume a facetious rumor - a playful nickname for a quirky situation, really - to be reality.

Harold merely leaned over to catch John's eyes, hints of mischief dancing in his eyes.

"Course," Today's town fool kept speaking, putting a hand on the cue stick poised to break the racked set. "I didn't expect it to be you."

Sameen Shaw looked up from her posture, frostily staring down this arrogant newcomer with a very thin, very shark-like, grin.

"Perhaps, John," Came the whisper as they watched Shaw trounce her unworthy opponent. "This slight misunderstanding is an opportunity in disguise."

"I think you're quite right, Harold."

After all, anyone worthy of winning the game would know who they were supposed to be dealing with. They would also understand Harold's reputation of acting like a pool shark, even if he never condoned gambling on his behalf.

Granted, Shaw made an excellent red herring. Who would reap the reward of crushing such a simpleton with great satisfaction.

...

She walked into the room with a purpose. After all, chess was only interesting up to a certain point and riling up these kinds of people was always fun.

"Mind if I take the next round?" Root spoke in that unassuming tone of hers.

Shaw stiffened at the sound of such sugary sweetness, her back to the woman.

So, maybe, that irritatingly pleasant sound was the reason the cue suddenly went flying off the table.

So what?

"It's best out of three." She growled, resisting the urge to groan at the sudden familiarity. "And we're just getting started."