He was scared of her.
It didn't take any of the skills I'd needed in the CIA National Clandestine Services to figure out within 45 seconds that Finch was scared of his wife. Anyone with the ability to use basic deductive reasoning would have seen it as quickly as I did.
Not that he didn't have reason to fear her. She was a combination of brilliance, insanity, and beauty that was nearly absurd in the power it projected. She was dangerous with a capital 'D'. She could hack computers better than anyone I'd ever come across in my travels, and that included Harold. Add to that talent that she could interrogate and torture a suspect as good or better than anyone I'd worked with in the military, or in the CIA. That should tell you a thing or two about her.
And she'd convinced him to make her the Machine's analogue interface, for reasons I still hadn't realized. Maybe that choice wasn't really a choice afterall. Maybe Finch had acted of of fear when he had the implant put into her ear. Or maybe she truly did wield that much power.
He'd hired me to work on saving people. It was supposed to help me with my own redemption, give me a purpose. That was the job pitch, anyway. But I knew I was really there to protect him from her. His big grey eyes, made even bigger by his glasses, would follow her anxiously, would track her every movement. I did some digging and found out she had abducted him, drugged him, and pushed him to the brink of insanity himself. Maybe insanity was the reason he married her.
They had a bizarre relationship.
Bizarre relationships seemed to be Harold's specialty, second only to computer code. This is what I was thinking, on my knees with my face in his lap, behind his desk at the library.
"Everything is so complicated," he said softly, as if reading my mind. His hands shuffled through my hair, rested lightly on my head, but continued to let me set the pace and pressure on him. "Look up at me, John," he said and I complied. I easily had 80 pounds on my diminutive boss, and no physical injuries limiting my strength, but something about his voice always made me want to comply. He looked down on me, and then his eyes rolled back in his head as he came in my mouth. I swallowed the mild, salty spurts, and kept him in my mouth until I felt him softening. I knew that was how he liked it. I'd done this often enough over the past few months. Not that I minded. I took a tissue from my pocket and wiped him clean and dry. Then I sat back on my heels, put him back into his pants, and zippered him up.
"Complicated is one word for it," I said and gently patted his thighs as I stood. I was smiling, but he looked up at me from his seat, and frowned.
"To be clear, again, Mr. Reese, this is not a- uh- service for which I am paying you."
"Sure it's not, Harold." I moved behind him and massaged his shoulders.
"I'm serious, Mr. Reese."
"With what you are paying me, I would be glad to perform just about any service. And aren't we on first name terms now?"
"Fine. John. And with what you are donating to various charities, I should probably increase your salary."
"You don't miss a thing, do you?" I gave his shoulders a final squeeze and dropped a kiss on the crown of his head.
"It just seems a peculiar relationship we have undertaken, and occasionally, I, as your employer feel a bit, shall we say, awkward. I just want to make sure that we delineate exactly for what I am paying, and for what I am not paying."
"You worry too much," I whispered into his ear. "The salary is just fine, delineated or not, but I do need to go now."
"Oh?"
"Yes. I'm meeting Detective Carter across town. She was able to scoop a little something out of the evidence locker that should be useful for this latest number."
"I see," Harold said. "John?"
"Mmm?" I was distracted, checking the clip of my weapon, and tucking it into the back of my pants. I smoothed the lapels of my jacket and checked that my shirt was buttoned.
"Does, Detective Carter. . . does she," Harold paused and words seemed to fill his mouth like marbles. "Does she know about us?" He finally spit out, catching my full attention.
"No, Harold. She doesn't know about us. No one does."
"Ah. I see."
"You sound almost disappointed," I said. "But we agreed that this thing between us is better left in the dark."
"Of course. You're absolutely right, John." He swiveled back to his desk and computer screens. I watched his shoulders rise and fall in a sigh that seemed dejected. I was torn between wanting to comfort him and wanting to bolt. Emotional intimacy was difficult and confusing and it rarely follows the rules you lay out for it. As he had just said, life is very complicated.
It started between us soon after I began my work with him. He'd foolishly followed me out after a number and almost got himself killed when things went sideways. I was furious with him. Fear makes me angry. I'd dragged him, wounded, disoriented, and mumbling about his distaste for guns, back to the library. He'd been shot in the arm, and was bleeding profusely. But he was lucky. The bullet had only grazed him, and although the blood was copious, it had not nicked an artery. I cleaned and bandaged his arm, swearing at him under my breath as he looked up at me with those fucking huge eyes. "I'm sorry, John," he whispered with quivering lips. "I'm so sorry." I scowled at him, unable to say anything. He reached up to encircle my neck with his hands. It was an amazingly bold gesture, but bolder still was when he pulled my face down to his and kissed me. His lips were so soft, almost feminine, and they parted easily to allow my tongue entrance into his mouth.
We'd held each other then, hands clasped on one another's necks, foreheads pressed together, for what seemed an eternity, and yet was over far too quickly.
I found myself distracted by that kiss for days after it happened. We never really discussed it, although I could tell there were times when he wanted to. Feelings that had been planted by fear quickly grew to manifest in physical ways that seemed natural and stayed silent. One evening I followed him into the bathroom, pushed him up against the wall, and wrapped my arms around him.
"Are we doing this?" I asked, reaching down into his pants and finding him swelling.
"I'm yours for the taking, John," he had whispered. So I took him.
Rules were unspoken but understood. At least I had thought they were understood. But when I saw him sigh and hunch over his work in a manner bordering on dejected, and I had to stop and wonder what we were doing and where were we headed.
"Do you want Carter to know about us?" I asked him. He didn't look up from the computer screen.
"Of course not, John," he said, pecking away at his keyboard. "As complicated as this is, it would be far more so if not kept on the downlow. Besides, it's rather nice to have a little secret between just you and I, isn't it?"
"Yes. It is." I was far better at compartmentalizing than he was, and yet something about the way he didn't even look at me stung. Feeling hurt makes me angry. "I'll be back in a couple hours. Call if you need me." I put in my earpiece and walked over to the gate. I slid it open, let myself out and closed it behind me with one final look at him. It was hard to know if he was looking glum or just very intent on the work before him, his face aglow in the light of the computer screens.
On my way out to the street, I passed Root on the stairs. Or rather, she passed me, then turned to look down at me from a step or two up. That was how she liked to have her opponent, on lower ground. "Well if it isn't tall, dark, and morose," she said. Her voice was almost perpetually flirty.
"Root." I acknowledged her presence with the single syllable of her name. Harold hated it when we called her Root. He always called her Samantha, or used some husbandly pet name. Dear. Darling. That sort of thing. When I wasn't in front of Harold, it seemed silly to protest her will to be called by her four letter hacker name.
"Well, I see you are learning to get my name right. Guess I won't have to get out Mister Buzzy anymore since you're all trained now. Good boy. Where are you off to?" She stroked my chest in a gesture of mock fondness. She didn't like me anymore than I liked her. I figured she probably knew, or at least guessed at that which transpired between Harold and me. Either way, she didn't let on. Maybe it was just that facet of her demeanor that always made me think she was watching. And the other facet that let me know if she wasn't watching, for some strange reason, the Machine was.
"I'm off for a quick meeting with Carter."
"Delightful. I'll make Harry a cup of tea. He's often so thirsty after you leave him. Now I wonder why that would be?" She looked up at me from under her lashes and smiled. There it was. She knew and she was letting me know. But at that particular moment she did not seem to bear any ill will.
"Best to keep him hydrated, then," I said. I turned from her to continue down the stairs, but turned back, "Oh, and Root, I'll be back soon." If she liked for me to believe she was always watching me, then I liked for her to believe I was aware of Harold's well-being and security at every second.