He'd been playing Harold Wren for a good six hours and yet still hadn't heard from Reese; of course he'd expected that but it didn't stop Finch worrying about the ex-agent. Shaw had, however, texted him a couple of hours earlier to let Harold know where Reese was, still at the cemetery also as expected.

Finch longed to bring Carter back, to find something to make everything better, but there wasn't any making it better. There wasn't a salve or a bandage he could put on Reese's damaged heart, all he could do was be there. Harold had tried his best. He'd buried Rick Dillinger, he didn't want to have to bury another partner. Not one that had become so much to him. For a long time Nathan had been his only friend, the only one Harold even remotely trusted but Reese? John Reese was Harold's best friend in ways Nathan never had been and he honestly couldn't bear the thought of losing him.

Finch found himself tugged out of his thoughts by his assistant, Adrianna, stood at the door to dutifully question whether he needed anything or not before she took her lunch break. The answer, of course, was a gentle but polite 'no' and Harold went back to work. Blue-eyes scanned through the pages of documents set out on his glass desk. How much easier his day would have been if he just plugged in the computer but no, Finch was the computers guy, Wren couldn't stand the things; wasn't good with them.

The middle-aged man sighed. His work was tedious and he thanked any God who'd listen that he didn't have to really do it for a living. Still, it was work that needed to get done. Harold Wren cared about his work, put all his time and effort into it, and Harold Finch cared about making his alias seem real.

"Ah, damnit!" He grumbled when his fountain pen blew up without warning to promptly stain everything from his fingers to his desk in black.

Finch reached for the intercom box then only to realize Adrianna had gone to lunch, a quick look down to his watch told him she'd not be back for a good forty minutes. Harold sighed exasperatedly, he didn't care so much about his hands or desk but the countless sheets of paper he'd been working on? Really? Hands, stained. Pages, stained. His general him, stained!

Careful so as not to get ink anywhere else, Harold rose to his feet and limped out of his office to his assistant's desk where he knew there were wet wipes stashed away for any messy occasion; Adrianna had always been prepared. With mild uneasiness Finch bent down to grab the box from the bottom drawer then started to clean off his hands, annoyingly the ink had gotten under his fingernails and probably wouldn't come out until they got a good scrub later; until then Finch had to settle for being mildly blue-black.

It was then he noticed the sound of heels, a familiar sound of heels. How Harold had managed to match the sound of those heels to Harbor rather than any other woman he wasn't entirely sure; maybe it was his paranoid nature? Pale blue orbs flashed up and sure enough there was Harbor strutting through the main office looking stunning. Her dress was white with a thick black pattern over it like spider webs all on top of one another, and sleeveless but didn't reveal any of her cleavage; something that made her all the more enticing. Then there were the high, black corset heels that had drawn his attention to her to begin with. He couldn't help pausing on how tightly the dress clung to her, somehow showed off everything and nothing all at the same time. Harold knew any man who found her in their lap would feel like a kid on Christmas morning waiting to open their present.

For a moment Finch found a wave of anger and irritation wash over him, she'd followed him again!Harbor had promised she wouldn't, they'd had this whole conversation. It had to stop! Then his mind ground to a halt when he saw the extreme look of surprise on her beautiful face. No lipstick, she was working. Blue eyes flicked to someone new then, one of his fellow underwriters – Malcolm Olsen – had practically raced out of his office, which was directly opposite Harold's, and launched towards Harbor. He watched Mister Olsen press a hand to Harbor's lower back so he could guide her into his office as she did her best to keep her surprise off her face. The sound of her heels echoed again. All the way into Olsen's office Harbor kept those stunning green-eyes on Harold.

Finch just stood there froze, hands half way through cleaning themselves off. Once she'd passed him her head turned to keep watch like Harold would vanish, be a trick of the light. No, Harbor hadn't followed him, she was certainly working just like she'd told him that morning over donuts at The Library. And, if anyone he worked with at Universal Heritage Insurance was going to hire an escort for his lunch break then it was only going to be Malcolm Olsen. He must have been the new Client she'd spoken of. Either way it was safe to say Harold with any surname tacked on wasn't a fan.

Across in the other office Harbor's mind ran at a mile a minute. She'd never been to Universal Heritage Insurance's offices before, never had any reason to. Harbor hadn't been seeing Malcolm – or Bumptious as her phone now knew him – had only had her meet him at his house until now. When he'd asked her to come to his office for 'lunch' she'd not thought twice about it, men like Olsen didn't care who saw them because they thought they were subtle enough to get away with it all. However, walking in to find Hank stood a few feet away covered in black ink had been the last thing Harbor had expected. Was this where one of his false identities worked? Had she not known how important Harold's fake names were to him she'd have been a little offended he'd opted to spend his morning working in an office instead of with her.

In a way it was like seeing a rare animal in the wild or a deer caught in headlights. Harold hadn't moved an inch and Harbor wouldn't have either had Olsen not guided her away. Only when he'd gotten her into his office and closed the door behind him did the escort manage to take her eyes off of Harold and focus on why she was there. She blinked rapidly as she settled herself back into her work headspace.

"Who's your office buddy?" Harbor asked before she'd even realized her mouth had moved; something inside her was just so bloody desperate to know what surname he'd decided to use.

"Hmm?" Questioned Malcolm as his eyes raked up Harbor's long, porcelain legs. "Oh that's Harold Wren, ignore him, he's good at his job but he's weird as fuck. Bit of a freak really."

Olsen spoke dismissively as his hands started to run over her slender body. Harbor knew she should have been doing her job, Malcolm had paid for her after all, but she couldn't help glancing over her shoulder at the door even though she had no hope of seeing through the solid wood. She could admit Hank was rather odd but he certainly wasn't a freak.

"I think he's quite cute."

The taller man's brow furrowed half in irritation and half in disbelief. It didn't last long though because he was more interested in sloppily kissing her neck and squeezing her ass.

"You're an escort, you're paid to think that."

Malcolm Olsen could believe what he wanted to believe, Harbor knew the truth and the truth was that, thought not conventionally handsome, Harold was handsome to her; adorable, fascinating and most certainly a better kisser.

Outside Finch saw Olsen's office door close and took a second or two to finish cleaning his hands and the bottom of his suit jacket as best he could before he retreated to his office as calmly as possible. Finch practically slammed the door closed behind him and slumped down into his chair, which wasn't a good idea because his neck quickly started to yell at him for the vibration. The twinge of pain went ignored though while he stared blankly out the large windows a while. Why had anger sparked inside him when she'd gone into Olsen's office? Why?

The slightly ink stained man didn't let himself get distracted from his work for long though, not by Harbor, not again. So he forced himself to keep at his work, cleaned off the ink, re-filled his fountain pen and got back to it. Carried on. Finch couldn't get weighted down by a coincidence and strange 'you have no right to touch her' feelings. No! They could all go away.

A half hour later he was begging The Machine for a Number. Harold was bored, it couldn't be denied he made a good underwriter but even though he did it all without the aid of a computer it still didn't take him all that long. When his phone suddenly buzzed he longed for a Number even though he knew it couldn't be. Instead he still got a distraction.

Harbor. Not The Machine, or Reese or Shaw or even Root, no, his text was from Harbor. His eyes glanced over the short text as he sighed. He liked that she typed in full sentences, so many people her age didn't and instead just sent something that was half unreadable to anyone but the original sender.

Harbor: I'm sorry, Hank. I honestly didn't know you were there.

Did she think he was angry with her? He had been at first, yes, but that was before he'd realized why Harbor was really there.

Hank: I am not upset, Harbor. Shocked, yes, but I most certainly am not angry with you. I am well aware that coincidences happen.

That got a tiny smile out of him. This girl wasn't like anyone he'd ever met before. Truly.

Harbor: Promise?

Harold wasn't in the habit of making promises, he usually couldn't keep them, but he could make this one and keep it.

Hank: Yes, I promise.

Harold rolled his eyes, anything to impress a woman, a woman he'd paid well for as well. Finch hadn't ever been overly fond of Malcolm Olsen but when the man actually got his head down he could get a lot done. He texted back.

Harbor: Tangent, but does Malcolm have a pilot licence?

Hank: Not unless he got it in the last fifteen minutes. I, however, do.

Harbor: Didn't think he did. :) I bet that licence of yours isn't under Harold Wren now is it?

Hank: Am I becoming predictable?

Harbor: Maybe. Try laying off the bird names for a while. I'm sure you could make Chris P. Bacon work for you.

Harold laughed, genuinely laughed, because he was fairytale certain he could actually make such a ridiculous name work. Finch had made Rudiger Smoot so detailed he'd gotten the name a bank account.

The tech genius' head snapped up from his phone and the lovely lady he was having a conversation with when Adrianna poked her head back in just to let him she'd returned from her lunch break. Harold polity acknowledged the younger woman in his usual unsuspecting way but was thankful when his assistant left him alone so he could return his attention fully to the whore he'd become so fond of.

Hank: Don't dare me, Harbor, I will win.

Was Harold Finch flirting? Yeah, yeah he was. Harbor just made it so easy for him to talk to her, like Reese but with short skirts and less digging into his past Okay, that was a disturbing mental image. His brain snapped away from it a second later when his phone buzzed again in his stained hands.

Harbor: I don't doubt it.

Bye, Hank. I need to go.

Hank: Another Client?

Finch didn't know why he'd asked, it wasn't something he needed to know, or had an real right to know. Harold wasn't jealous – of course not! - not about other men getting to touch her while he sat there covered in ink doing his alias' job. No. Something was wrong with him, had to be, he needed more sleep just like Reese had been telling him since the day they'd met.

It took a few moments for her to text back and for a second or so he didn't think she actually would, but then, just after he's set his phone down and gone back to work, it buzzed again.

Harbor: No, I'm done for the day. Meeting Sameen. :)

Harold's eyebrows shot upwards with surprise and a little horror.

Hank: Miss Shaw? Why?

Harbor: I think we're friends now. ? I dressed her up for some gala thing you, she and Smiles went to and ever since she's been like … not murdery towards me.

Finch paled. A highly trained assassin and a very good escort befriending one another? He shuddered to think of what they'd be capable of accomplishing as friends. However, on a different note, Harold thought this good for Miss Shaw. She needed a friend that wasn't Bear.

Harbor: You're scared now, aren't you? :D We're going to be TeamBadass. Go and # it, Hank, :P She's the Ivy to my Harley.

She's here. Bye, Hank. Xxx

Then his phone went silent. Harold didn't know what to make of their messages or of this budding friendship with Miss Shaw that seemed to have developed. Finch mentality filed it away in his 'to be investigated; file and finished up his work for the day. It took a little while but Harbor eventually fell away from his mind and Mister Wren finished up in his office, tidied then left.

As soon as he could Finch changed out of his stained suit and into one of his preferred perfectly tailored suit and did some quick checking on John who had finally left the cemetery. Finch had told Reese long ago that he'd respect the man's privacy but that often faded away when he was worried about his friend. Instead Reese had been back before Harold and was now – despite the late hour – playing Xiangqi with Mister Han. This was good for John, Harold decided.

Bear had his eyes firmly locked on Harold the entire time and Harold knew Bear wanted a walk. The poor animal had been cooped up in The Library all day with only Shaw to check on him, but if she'd gone to see Harbor then Bear had probably been neglected for the day. As a result Harold made sure to give Bear an extra treat before he took him over to Central Park for an indulgently long walk. Near the Balto Statue, past the famed carousel and up towards Umpire Rock. Bear had seemed happy enough sniffing at everything and bouncing around with the other dogs. Finch smiled as he watched, seeing Bear happy made him happy. Bear appeared to have forgiven the suit clad man for leaving him alone at The Library all day.

Harold felt practically tranquil as he clipped Bear's leash back on and the pair headed through the Park. The air refreshed his skin, woke him up and kept him going; he really needed to sleep more. His phone buzzed then and Finch paused a moment to fish it out of his pocket while Bear nibbled on his tennis ball.

Harbor: Fancy having dinner with me? :) x

He wondered if the faces were needed but didn't grumble. Having dinner with Harbor did sound nice though.

Hank: Do you have a restaurant in mind?

A lot of men might have assumed she was just a prostitute trying to get a free meal out of a rich man but Harold knew better than that; at least now he did. For some reason Harbor just enjoyed spending time with him and him with her.

Harbor: Yep. Little place, quite, never that busy. I can even arrange for your waitress to be scantily clad if you'd like.

Finch's brow furrowed in confusion. Was it wrong his mind had gone straight to strip club?

Harbor: I mean at my apartment. I know you're frowning right now, Hank. I'll cook.

The furrowed brow turned into a raised eyebrow, did a complete one-eighty. He'd not been invited to dinner at someone's home in a very long time. Finch couldn't even remember which name he'd been using the last time he had. Also, when he thought about it later he'd wonder if he should have been surprised that she'd known his facial reactions so well.

Harold's fingers hesitantly hovered over the keypad a moment before he managed to push his mind forwards and get them moving.

Hank: Thank you, Harbor, I'd like that.

Finch didn't let himself go second guessing himself or his response, this girl had become his friend whether he'd planned on it or not. Harbor posed no threat, if she had then Harbor would have killed him by now or Reese would have killed her; Shaw certainly would have. The escort had been given every opportunity to cause Harold harm and she never had.

It didn't take long for a response to come through from the stunning young woman.

Harbor: Great! :) Come by around 9. You allergic to shellfish? Or are you too private for me to know that? :)

Hank: Since it keeps me alive I think I can let down my privacy barrier for a moment. No, I'm not allergic to anything. Is Bear welcome? He's been cooped up all day and Mister Reese hasn't returned for him.

Harbor: Sure! Bear is always welcome. See you at 9