Connected
"Pretty cold out here Harold. Watch for ice." John Reese grinned and stuffed his hands into his pocket as he skirted a patch of slushy snow over the slick black ice that covered much of the narrow path he and Harold traveled. The roads and main sidewalks might be well-maintained and cared for, but the side road to the abandoned library they both worked in was a different story.
John's employer and friend gave him a thin smile which might have looked cold, save for the fond exasperation that lingered in his eyes. "I am aware of the risks of New York in winter. I've lived here for quite some time."
His gaze shifted downward to the treacherous surface of the sidewalk leading to the library he most frequently used as a home base for their efforts to save 'Persons of Interest'. "I'm also familiar with negotiating the hazards."
"Just a little friendly advice." John grinned, letting a little bit of teasing enter his tone. The back and forth was comfortable, easy now.
"Yes, I'm sure." The ironic lilt in Harold's voice was the equivalent of a smile. His expression showed very little, but John was used to reading his micro-expressions and the subtleties to the tone of his voice now.
The phone rang. Harold, always attuned to the sound of a phone ringing, turned to look at the nearest pay phone in consideration, checking to see if there was a new Number coming in for the pair of them. His body shifted to follow the motion of his head, as it always did, and he started to step forward.
He wasn't paying attention to the ground, in that moment, too focused on the possibility of a new Number. John saw the danger a moment before Harold stepped in that direction. "Finch…"
Too late. Finch's shoe hit black ice, just barely visible within the slush. Harold slipped, then staggered in an effort to regain his balance, and his weight landed awkwardly on his bad leg. John just barely heard the gasp of pain as Harold fought to stay upright. John scrambled to reach his partner, but it was far too late, especially when he was having to watch his step as well.
Harold fell. Knee, then hip buckled, dropping him onto his back and side with a jarring thud that made John's back and jaw ache in sympathy. His head thumped into a patch of snow and Harold jolted away from the sudden cold in an awkward sideways scrabble, his face twisting in pain as the movement went through his damaged neck and spine.
It happened in a flash, a fraction of a second, and then it was over, and John reached Harold's side in time to help the man gingerly sit up, a slight wince tightening his mouth before his expression smoothed over. "You all right?"
"Beyond an uncomfortable reminder of the old saying, yes." Harold accepted John's assistance in rising, both of them careful of the treacherous surface. "Pride goeth before the fall, I suppose." He shifted his shoulders, and John saw his face tighten with discomfort. "I'll probably bruise."
"Probably. But it could be worse. If you'd been on the steps, you might have broken a leg." John motioned to the stairs that led to the entrance they were both using for the day. There were several, and Finch had keys to all of them. Both of them frequently changed which entrance they used - a habit of paranoia that served them well, at least against the general public.
Finch eyed the stairs with trepidation. "Don't remind me. Perhaps I'll take the lower entrance in for a few days."
John nodded. "Good idea for both of us, I think. I wouldn't want to have that kind of accident with a firearm in hand."
Harold Finch shuddered. "No. Indeed not." He shifted his weight, glanced at the silent phone, then sighed and turned toward the path that led to the lower tunnel entrance. "We'd best get inside. Bear will be wondering where we are."
Bear often accompanied one of them home, but sometimes, Harold left him in the library as a guard. Last night had been one of those nights, and by now the Malnois was sure to be ready for his breakfast, and a walk.
"Yeah. Sure Finch." John fell into step beside his employer. He couldn't help wondering, however, whether he was imagining the extra stiffness in Harold's shoulders, and the slight tightness around the mouth that indicated greater pain. But Harold said nothing, and he didn't either.
Harold was a very private person, and he never spoke of the injuries that had caused his limp, the spinal fusion surgery John knew he'd had, or any lingering difficulties he put up with as a consequence. The closest he'd ever come was a wry comment or two about being handi-capable, whenever he dressed Bear in a service dog's vest.
If something was wrong, Finch would work through it on his own. If that didn't work John would eventually discover the problem and they'd deal with it together – after he fussed at Finch for being an idiot and allowing his paranoia to get the better of his good sense. A lecture Finch would ignore, of course, but they'd both feel better about it afterward.
Finch had taken falls and bruises before, even been on the edge of an explosion once, and been given a concussion another time. They'd both taken their share of damage, and they'd both take injuries again, sooner or later. It was a given. Therefore, a little slip on ice was probably nothing to worry about.
That day and the one following were quiet, but the day after that brought them another Number, and John set aside any lingering concerns for Finch while he dealt with the matter. Fortunately, it was one of the simpler ones - a case of some idiot who thought he could rip off a gang and get away with it. John spent a few hours following the idiot, a few enjoyable minutes demonstrating to the gangsters why resorting to homicide to solve the problem was a bad idea, and a few less enjoyable minutes explaining to the idiot why he shouldn't try to rip off gangsters again, because next time, there might not be anyone around to save his ass.
John finished up with his warning and left, making sure he was a safe distance away before he activated the earpiece. "All done, Finch. Want me to bring back some Chinese for lunch?"
"No thank you, Mr. Reese. I have another matter to deal with. Enjoy the rest of your day." The words were calm and even, but there was something about the underlying tone that made John frown.
He was used to the nuances of Harold's voice. Not only was it a hard earned skill, and one he used continuously on the job, but with Harold Finch, sometimes understanding the subtle differences in tone and expression was the only way to know what was really going on in the man's mind. And though the words themselves were nothing out of the ordinary, the tone…
He hadn't heard that particular tone in Harold's voice for some time, not since the early days of their association. That subtle, slightly unwelcoming 'please don't come near me' tone. These days, even if Finch was feeling in need of solitude and quiet, he wasn't openly unwelcoming. He was more likely to sound tired, and a little bit quieter than usual.
When it was just John, Harold rarely kept all his walls up any longer. Not like this. It felt like something was wrong, but John had no idea what it might be. He hadn't done anything to offend Finch that he knew of, and there wasn't anything about their latest case that he would have thought would trigger the billionaire.
After several moments of thought, Reese turned his steps in the direction of the library. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but now that his suspicions were aroused, he knew he'd be uneasy until he'd actually seen his boss – his friend – and verified nothing was wrong.
He slipped into the library without too much trouble, and into the room where Finch worked. Finch was busy cleaning up after their latest Number, pulling down the pictures and notes he'd taped up during their brief investigation. He was reaching for the picture of their Number when he flinched, his whole body wincing under some unseen blow. A soft sound, low and choked like a muffled cry, emerged from his throat as Finch dropped his hand.
John froze. From where he was standing, he could see the profile of Finch's face, and the expression that crossed it. Pain. Pure, knife-edge pain, as if Finch had taken a body blow from an unseen assailant. The low, gasping breaths that followed were no better.
Something was wrong.
As he watched, the billionaire slowly straightened his shoulders, reached again for the picture. His mouth tightened, face going pale as he freed the image from the tape. His breath hitched, stuttering on the inhalation as his back and shoulders seemed to spasm. Teeth clenched, and Finch dropped the picture to the table with a shuddering breath, his other hand going to his neck and clutching at it as he staggered away from the board and dropped into his chair.
Bear whined, and John felt his gut churn in sympathy as the reclusive billionaire leaned back in the seat, brow furrowed and shining with perspiration, expression a mask of agony as he tried to overcome whatever spasm or ailment had felled him. His breathing was rapid and short, and in it, John heard desperation, as if Finch was under attack, or being tortured, though there was no one there, and nothing John could see that could hurt him that way, or that badly.
He couldn't just watch, and the fact that Harold evidently hadn't noticed him there already was further cause for concern. Finch usually knew when he was in the library, and though he'd stopped being paranoid about Reese invading his privacy, it wasn't like him not to comment on John's presence at all.
He stepped forward. "Harold?"
Harold gasped and turned to face him. The movement proved to be a mistake. The man shuddered and almost fell out of the chair, hands clenching on the arm rests until the knuckles went white. A second later, he attempted to recover, his usual calm expression falling over his face - a frail mask that didn't fool John at all. "Mr. Reese. I thought I told you to enjoy the rest of your day."
He was still pale, and John could see the pain lining his features, and the way his hands still clenched on the chair. "Harold? What's wrong?"
"I don't know why you think anything would be." It wasn't a lie, but it was close, and they both knew it. Finch was rarely so evasive any longer either, and the weak, obvious ploy stung.
"You don't need to do that. You know I won't hurt you." Or betray you. It hurt, to think Finch no longer trusted him, or was unwilling to trust him with his welfare, after everything they'd been through together. "Tell me what's happening."
For a long moment, Finch was silent, and John stood waiting. He'd asked the question, but he couldn't force Harold to tell him anything the recluse absolutely refused to reveal. Then Harold closed his eyes and turned slowly away, hiding his face as he spoke.
"A muscle spasm. I strained something when I fell, and between that and the cold...well. This...happens sometimes. Damaged nerves, misfiring and causing the muscles to contract violently."
The words were soft, breathy, and in them Reese could hear agony. He recalled the Tillman case, and Harold's visit to the doctor. The words he'd spoken.
'On a scale of one to five, how bad is your pain?'
'On a good day, three. Today is...not a good day.'
His answer to Tillman - his voice had carried that same breathless quality, a whisper to avoid a scream.
At the time, it had seemed a convenient story, a good way to get close to the doctor. Now, however, he wondered how much truth there had been in the words. "Harold...on a scale of one to five…"
"John. Please." A shuddering breath. "Please. Just...today is...not a good day." Harold remembered the exchange as well as he did. "I...don't want to talk about...this."
"I know." It was tempting to step away, to give Finch his privacy and let him cope in his own way. A few months ago, he would have. But now, seeing Finch's pain made his stomach clench. "Is there any way I can help? Do you have medicine you can take?"
"I...do. But…" Harold started to shake his head, then stopped with a shuddering wince that left him gasping. "We had a Number, and I don't...I can't afford to be incapacitated. The medicine is...very strong."
"But you can't keep doing this." John knew how pain could cripple even the most dedicated man. He also knew that Harold Finch had an incredibly high pain threshold, and something painful enough to tear through his defenses like this had to be beyond agonizing. If it was tearing him up this badly, then the severity of the spasms would hinder Finch more than the medicine ever would, if left unchecked.
"I know." The words were soft, defeated. "But it will pass. I don't…" Another spasm, as if speaking and breathing made it worse. "Please, I...I don't…"
"Let me help you." John stepped closer. Harold was trembling, his hands white-knuckled on the arm of his chair. "Tell me what you need, for this to stop."
"I'd say...privacy, but if you won't give me that…" Harold shuddered again, the irritation in his voice masked by the pain that seemed to strike with every movement. "John, please. I...I don't want…"
His words were a denial, but Reese knew by the tone of them that his friend was on the verge of surrender. No matter how much he didn't want the help, how much he hated needing it, Harold was very much aware that he was approaching his own threshold, in danger of being entirely incapacitated. He just didn't want to admit it.
John could sympathize. But he also remembered when the genius had come to his aid in similar circumstances, and refused to take no for an answer. They never spoke of it, but if he could offer Finch the same support, the same protection, then there was no way he would walk away.
"Tell me how to help you. If you need to take something, I can keep an eye on the Machine and the Numbers – and on you – until you come out of it. You know Carter and Fusco will help." Beside him, Bear whined, as if in agreement. "Finch, it looks like this is tearing you apart."
"Not...entirely...inaccurate, I suppose." Finch's eyes closed, and pain slashed across his face, his hands clenching tighter as he breathed, until it looked like he might tear the coverings of the armrests. "Muscle spasms, in sufficient severity…" He fell silent with a sharp breath, his face pale.
He moved to stand up, then swayed and nearly fell. John stepped forward and caught the smaller man about the shoulders to steady him, and was shocked when Finch clutched at him. Up close, the ragged breathing was more apparent, and he could see the sweat on Finch's face, the lines that cut furrows across his brow. Then the recluse pushed him away and sat back.
"Harold. I know you're a private person. But you should know by now...I won't use this against you."
"I know." There was silence for a moment. Then a deep, shuddering breath that seemed to drag its way out of the man's very soul, before he slowly opened his eyes. The shame and anguish in them almost made Reese take a step back. "I...I don't want...I never wanted, for you to see me like this."
The admission was raw, agonized, and Reese felt his stomach clench in sympathy. "I know. But I can help you." He hesitated. "You just have to tell me how."
Harold shuddered, his face twisting with something that was more mental pain than physical. "The last time...it was some time ago, but…" He stopped. He seemed to be gathering himself, like a man preparing to jump from a cliff. "A combination of...pain medicine, muscle relaxant, and...muscle rub, to help speed the healing. I...I went to...to a therapist. Told him I was from...out of town. One-time visit. It was…"
Awful. It must have been awful, for a man like Harold Finch to leave himself so vulnerable to a complete stranger. And it was a measure of how much he'd been suffering, to have risked it. And how much he was suffering now, to tell the story. "I can handle that."
"I…" Harold closed his eyes against a renewed spasm. This time John was close enough to actually see the way his shoulders flexed against his shirt, and he could easily imagine the twisting, pulling movement that had caused it. And the pain that must accompany every spasm. "I'll be...compromised...for at least eight hours. After. Until the medicine...runs its course."
"I can manage." He could get Fusco's help, and Carter's, if he needed to.
"I...I won't be...I might pass out, but if I don't remain unconscious...I won't be...in my right mind…"
"I can handle that too." He'd dealt with Finch when he was high on Ecstasy. He could handle Finch on painkillers.
"I know. But I wish...I wish you wouldn't." Harold's expression was closed, but within his blue eyes, John could see the utter misery, the well hidden humiliation the recluse felt at disclosing his weakness. Had it not been for the pain that washed through the man's expression a moment later as another spasm gripped him, he might have relented.
Instead, he stepped closer. "Trust me Harold. I won't hurt you. And I'm not going to think less of you either. Everyone has problems sometimes."
"I wish I could believe you." Harold shuddered. Then he forced himself to his feet, his face almost white as he staggered forward to get his coat and hat. "If we're going to do this, then we should go. Before I lose my nerve."
It was an effort not to help as Harold slowly eased himself into his coat and did up the buttons with shaking hands. To watch as Harold fumbled the scarf around his neck, and the hat onto his head, before dragging on his gloves and reaching for Bear's leash. The service dog waited patiently and quietly, though he whined softly as Harold clipped the lead on, clearly sensing his master's distress. His steps were slow and easy as he walked beside Harold, offering his sturdy back as a source of support to the wounded man as they left the library and made their way down the street.
Finch led him to a safe house he'd seen before - one of the more common ones they used for sleeping during a difficult case, or as a place to stash a Number in a pinch. The billionaire ushered him inside, then closed and locked the door behind him. "In here."
John half expected Harold to have a massage table set up, or something similar. Instead, Finch led him into the bedroom. The recluse unclipped Bear's leash with unsteady hands and sent the dog to a cushion nearby, then laboriously began to shed his clothing. His voice was tight with strain, and with pain, when he spoke, and his face was pale, with regular tremors twisting through his frame, as though the short walk had made the spasms worse. "The necessary supplies...are in the cabinet in the bathroom."
John went to the bathroom and gathered a bottle of painkillers, another of muscle relaxants, and a tube of muscle rub. He even filled a cup of water, attempting to give Harold some time to gather his composure and get himself situated.
He returned to find Finch standing still near the bed. He'd discarded his shoes, coat, scarf, hat, and vest, but he was making no further move to undress. "Finch?"
"A...a moment please, Mr. Reese. John. This isn't...easy." Harold's voice was tight. His hands slowly undid the cuffs of his shirt, then rose to the button of his collar before he stilled again. John heard his ragged breathing speed up.
"Harold…" John swallowed, uncertain how to phrase his question. "How can I help?"
"Patience. You'll...have to...give me a moment." Harold's voice was soft. "You must understand...I usually try very hard to avoid being in this position. Around anyone."
"I know." John would have offered to step away, but Harold hadn't asked him to leave, and his instincts told him they both needed this. If he was going to be able to help at all, then he and Finch both needed to know the other man trusted him, and could handle being that vulnerable around him. It wasn't going to work otherwise.
After a moment, Harold resumed unbuttoning his shirt to reveal his undershirt. He finished unbuttoning it, then slid it off his arms, his face tightening in pain as he did so. Reese stepped forward. "Let me take that for you."
Harold nodded stiffly and handed him the shirt. "Excuse me a moment."
He disappeared into the bathroom and returned wearing a pair of sweatpants that John recalled seeing folded neatly in a cabinet when he'd been looking for the medicine. It made sense – he would hardly be comfortable wearing his usual tailored trousers.
Harold stopped, his face pale and his mouth a thin line of suffering and apprehension against his drawn features. "John…"
"I'm not going anywhere, Harold. Not unless you order me to."
"No...I don't suppose you would. Not now. Though I wish it were otherwise." Harold's hands were shaking worse now, along with the rest of him, though Reese couldn't tell if it was pain or apprehension that made him tremble. "Please understand John...it isn't a matter of trust…"
"I understand." And he did. He understood how difficult vulnerability could be for someone as private and independent - and paranoid for that matter - as Harold. He knew that even with all the trust in the world, exposing your back to someone else could be terrifying, especially when you were already in pain.
He'd trusted Harold at his back several times, but it would be more difficult for Finch. He might not know much about Finch, but he knew the man was hiding from something, and had been for a long time.
After a moment, Harold shifted his head to look him in the eyes, his expression taut with agony, desperation, and something John didn't understand, something that looked almost like despair. "There's still time...if you want to leave…"
"I don't." John shook his head. "I just want to help you."
"Well, I had to ask." Harold closed his eyes against a renewed onslaught of pain, then reached up to tug his shirt collar awkwardly over his head, followed by the rest of the shirt, until his upper body was bared from the waist up.
Harold's skin was pale, not unexpected given his reclusive lifestyle and his work, which frequently kept him indoors, and the layers of clothing he usually wore. He was in better shape than John might have expected, not heavily muscled, but lean. The muscles of his chest and shoulders were visibly defined, though not chiseled, as if he exercised regularly, but not as intensely or heavily as Reese himself did.
There were a number of erratic scars on his chest and arms, mostly along the left side, long-healed wounds that looked as if he'd been caught in a car accident, or something more violent.
Harold swallowed once, breath hitching slightly as his jaw tightened. His eyes opened slowly, met Reese's, and in them John saw his friend's shame, his pain, and his humiliation at being exposed, voluntary though it was, and despite the trust between them. Then he closed his eyes once more, and turned away, exposing his back, shoulders tight with agony and his distress.
Reese stepped forward, his gaze tracing over Harold's shoulders in disbelief. Harold's back was…
There were more scars - a lot more. A slender surgical scar down the back of his neck, from his hairline to a point just between his shoulder blades. That scar, John had expected to see. But the jagged, still pink scars slashed across his left shoulder, his side, and patched across his back - those caught him like a sucker punch to the gut. They puckered and cut across Harold's skin, evidence of something terrible in his past, and made John flinch in sympathy.
He was still looking when Harold spoke. "The ferry explosion, three years ago. I was...within a few yards of the bomb...when it exploded." His voice was hollow, distant, filled with pain and grief.
Why Harold had chosen to speak of it, he didn't know. But if the man wanted to talk, to distract himself or to explain, to cope with the position he now found himself in, then John wasn't going to begrudge him that. "I heard about it. Terrorist attack."
"A convenient enough falsehood. The Machine was operational by then." There was bitter anger, anguished hurt, and an all-too-familiar note of betrayal in Harold's voice.
The Machine was operational by then. It took him a moment to sort out the meaning of the words, and when he did, John felt himself go cold. If Harold meant what he thought he meant…
"Sanctioned?" He didn't even need to see Finch's expression to know the answer, and the knowledge made him feel cold. He'd never expected that being on the receiving end of a government sanctioned explosion was something they'd have in common.
"Yes. To silence the man they thought was the creator of the Machine. My friend."
Harold paused, shuddering under another wave of pain, then kept speaking. "He wanted to go public with the truth of The Machine's existence. He planned to speak to a reporter, at the ferry. So they…"
"Silenced him." Reese felt sick. "And you…"
"I was there. Because Nathan asked me to be. Because I wanted to either talk him out of it, or support him. I didn't even know myself." Finch's gaze met his as he turned back around just enough to face him, eyes awash with a mental pain that looked to be far more agonizing than the spasms that rippled through his muscles and wracked his body. "They didn't know about me. Never even looked for me. They thought they'd eliminated their target. And in a way, they were right."
"I…" He couldn't say he understood. Not entirely. But he knew the pain of betrayal and of loss. "I've been in a similar position. But why are you telling me about this now?"
Harold rarely shared anything of his past, not until Reese stumbled upon something that meant he couldn't keep the secret any longer. Not that he absolutely wouldn't share such information, but it was an unusual occurrence.
"Because. I'd rather you know before we begin. You're likely...I've been known to relive the past...when I'm under the influence of mind-altering drugs or extremely strong narcotics. I might...mistake you for...someone else." Finch's eyes were grim, haunted, tortured. "I thought you were Nathan, briefly, the night Jordan Hester drugged me. You have no idea how grateful I was when I realized you'd left before I called you by that name."
John swallowed, his throat tight. He'd never been sure how much Finch was aware of, in that drug-induced euphoria – and Harold had never brought it up. But he was glad now that he had chosen to leave once he was certain Finch was safe in the library, and that he'd resisted the temptation to accept Finch's drug induced offer to tell him whatever he wanted to know. "I was trying to prove you could trust me."
"I...know. Nonetheless…" Another spasm twisted through Finch and he stumbled, then sat, more or less, gracelessly on the edge of the bed. His fingers twisted into the blankets as he breathed, face white.
Enough was enough. Whatever else Finch wanted him to know, it could wait. "Do you want to lie down?"
"No. But...it's...easier." Finch made a movement to lie down, then gasped, shoulders and back flexing in a manner that was evidently painful.
Muscle spasms in the back. Muscle spasms, in sufficient severity...oh. No wonder Finch had been hesitating. If his muscles were cramping and aching badly enough, the tension required to lie down in a controlled manner without support was probably painful. Reese could remember when he'd felt like that, in his first days of boot camp, and occasionally after a particularly taxing mission.
And the damage to Finch's neck might make it more difficult for him than it would for others.
He was about to offer to help when Finch simply gave up, and let himself fall into the mattress with a 'whump' and a groan. "Ah…"
"Finch?" A pause. "Harold? You all right?"
"No...worse...I think…" The words were muffled by the sheets, but the halting, pain-filled tone was far too easy to discern. "Just...jarred...a little."
After several moments, one hand reached out and tugged the pillows, pulling them into a particular configuration. Then Harold hauled himself up and across, face pale and breath hitching, until he'd gotten his lower body onto the mattress and was lying on the pillows at a slight incline that allowed him to rest his head on his arm and breathe.
John watched him, his fingers flexing with the desire to help, but he stayed where he was. He understood. The movement might be agony for Harold, but it would be far worse to be treated like a complete invalid. He needed to do this for himself, no matter how much the effort tore at his failing strength and wracked him with pain.
So he waited, until Harold appeared to be in as comfortable a position as he could be, and his breathing had smoothed out a little. Then he picked up the ointment he'd brought from the bathroom. "Ready?"
"No. I doubt...I shall ever be ready." Harold shivered, then sighed. "But...it has to be done. Whenever...you care to start, Mr. Reese." A pause. "John."
Despite the circumstances, John couldn't help the small smile that touched his face. "You don't have to worry about what to call me."
"It's...easier. First name basis...implies familiarity. More comfortable." It was rationalizing and semantics, but if it worked for Harold, then John wasn't going to argue. He nodded, shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, then uncapped the medicine and moved toward the bed.
His first touch to Harold's shoulder – the nearer and unscarred shoulder - made him wince in sympathy. Beneath the skin, Harold's muscles were rock-hard, and he could feel the spasms that clenched through them with the slight motion of every breath. It reminded him of the way the muscles felt after he'd been tazed. Tight and jumping, ready to cramp and tear with the slightest provocation. If that was what Harold had been feeling since his fall, then it was no wonder he was close to the end of his endurance.
He smoothed the muscle rub in, then, carefully, lightly, applied a little pressure, trying to loosen the knot he felt under his fingers. Harold gasped, back arching under the pressure. "Wha…"
His thumb found the right spot, pressed at just the right angle, and the knot loosened. Not a full release, there was too much pain and tension in the surrounding muscles and nerves for that, but it eased a little. Harold flopped back onto the pillow, breath shuddering in and out of him as he trembled. "Tha...what did you do?"
"I learned about pressure points in my previous line of work. Especially with my former partner. Thought it might help. I can stop, if you prefer."
Finch lay silent for several moments, then, ever so slightly, the shoulder flexed under his hand. A voluntary movement, rather than a spasm. A grimace tightened the lines of the recluse's face and neck, but when he relaxed, it was with a sigh. "No. It...seems to have helped. Despite the initial...sensation."
John watched the lean hands slowly loosen their grip on the pillows. "I can give you the pain medicine first."
Harold started to make a gesture, then stopped, panting slightly under the pain it caused. "No. If we're...going to do this...I need to be coherent. Or I can't tell you what's a knot and what's just...scar tissue. There's...quite a lot." Harold's hand clenched briefly, then relaxed. "And in spite of your...technique...it does feel...a little better."
"All right." He was conscious of how much it must have cost Finch to admit so much. To not only acknowledge his wounds and his vulnerabilities, but to verbally admit that John had helped ease his pain, and to grant permission for him to continue, as painful as the initial pressure had been. "Let me know if it gets to be too much."
"Yes." Harold exhaled, then settled a little deeper into his pillows. "Go ahead."
John spread the salve over the rest of Harold's back, rubbing it in lightly so the friction would activate the healing properties of it, then he went back to the shoulders and searched out the next knot. Once again, he applied slow, steady pressure, shifting his hand back and forth until he found the exact angle and pressure to make the knot release. Beyond a soft gasp and a clenching of his fists in the bed linens, Harold gave no sign of his discomfort.
John's admiration for his partner grew. He knew trained Marines who would have been swearing and squalling like cats caught in a trap under the same conditions.
The third knot – up near the scars on the left shoulder - felt harder, tighter. He was probing it to find the right spot when Harold spoke. "That one...there's nothing you can do. Scar tissue, I'm afraid."
"Okay." He moved to the next point, just beneath the scars that marred Harold's skin. "This too?"
"Yes." Harold took a slow, cautious breath. "Most of the visible scars...have more scar tissue around and underneath them. From where the bones...and the impact…"
"I understand."
John continued working at a slow, steady pace. After the first, initial reaction, Finch seemed determined to keep his responses under control, and John found himself watching, paying attention to the subtle cues the other man gave instead.
Mild pain was a sudden, deep inhalation, a slow exhalation, and a slight flexing of Finch's hands in the pillows and sheets as he breathed through it. A momentary furrowing of the brow before his expression smoothed over.
Moderate pain was a gasp, breath indrawn and held, fingers clenching a bit tighter for a moment before the older man forced himself to relax. A barely visible motion of swallowing as he controlled himself.
Deep pain, sharp pain caused by a renewed spasm or an accidental application of too much pressure, was a full body tremor, and an exhalation too soft to be a cry, ragged like a man choking back a sob of anguish. Harold's hands would clench and clutch at the bedding beneath him until they were nearly white-knuckled, but he didn't cry out, beyond that low, soft, gasping exhalation.
Very, very rarely, he would make a sound, a quick choked off exclamation. Beyond that, he only spoke to reveal when the spot John was working on was likely to be scar tissue, rather than a knot.
It was distressing work, and all the more so because he found himself returning to places he'd already eased, trying to loosen new knots that had formed. The severity of the muscle spasms tearing through Harold's back kept renewing the damage, in spite of his best efforts.
'Neck bone's connected to the..back bone. The back bone's connected to the...hip bone.' A child's song, one he hadn't thought of in some time, slid through his mind. Some of the agents in the CIA had made kind of a joke of it. Kara had made a joke of it, usually while she was disconnecting various elements of some poor bastard's anatomy. John had generally tried not to think too much about it.
But muscles and bones were all connected, and he could see it, the way the spasms spread from one muscle group to another, across Harold's back and shoulders, even around his ribs and down the length of his spine to his damaged hip. Just like he could see the truth of Harold's pain in the way he breathed through each spasm, the way his hands flexed and the tone of his inhalation and exhalation changed.
In his silence, Harold revealed himself far more thoroughly than any words could possibly explain. John felt touched, seeing the evidence of Harold's trust in him.
Eventually, there was no more to be done. The knots were diminished, though it was impossible to eliminate them all, and the spasms seemed to have lessened in intensity. John helped Harold roll over and sit up enough to put the t-shirt back on. Harold was pale, shivering and tight-lipped as he slipped the soft cotton over his head.
John gave him the water he'd brought in earlier. "Drink this. I'll bring you another glass for the medicine, but you need to start flushing the muscle toxins from your system."
Harold nodded and took the cup, drained it without comment. He looked tired, but John couldn't tell if it was weariness or shame that kept the man quiet.
He refilled the glass, and offered it to Harold with the pills after opening the bottles and selecting the correct dosage. Finch took them from his hand, but didn't actually move to swallow them. "Mr. Reese…"
"Why don't I take Bear for a walk? Get some food for both of us?"
Relief filled Finch's eyes, and John knew he'd guessed correctly. It was one thing for him to know that Finch was drugging himself, but another thing entirely for him to watch while Finch took his medication. At least, there was a tangible difference to Harold.
If taking Bear for a walk made it easier for Finch to do what needed to be done, then he was more than willing to go for a walk, even in the frigid winter weather. The recluse had already allowed him far closer than he'd ever expected, and he felt no desire to increase Finch's distress, or his shame.
Not that Harold needed to be ashamed. But John knew, as Finch himself probably did, that the emotion wasn't so easily dismissed or controlled, especially in the wake of such unprecedented vulnerability.
But there would be time to try and discuss that later, assuming Finch was ever willing to talk about it at all – which was unlikely. For now, John was content to take Bear's leash and follow the dog outdoors, content to let Finch handle the next steps of his self-care plan in relative privacy.
Bear was happy enough to stretch his legs, and the there was a diner that John and Finch had both gone to on multiple occasions not far from the safe house. John took Bear for a leisurely stroll down to the establishment and ordered meals for himself and Harold to go, along with an extra serving of chopped steak for Bear. Once the food was in hand, he led the dog back outside, let him do his business and do a little exploring, then made his way back to the safe house.
Finch was still leaning against the pillows when he returned, but the water glass was empty and the pills were gone. The recluse had removed his glasses and set them to one side, and his eyes were closed, his breathing deep and even. Asleep.
He probably hadn't been resting much since the fall, not with his back twisting itself up like that. John released Bear to his cushion, then went to put Finch's meal in the cooler for later. He debated going back to eat in the bedroom, then changed his mind.
Harold was asleep. Unless something happened, he didn't need a watcher while he slept. And in all likelihood, Harold was one of those people who was sensitive to people around him, especially when he was vulnerable, just as John himself was. Being watched might be enough to disturb the man's rest, even if it wasn't enough to wake him completely.
He ate at the small kitchen table, then prowled into the living room and debated the merits of either watching TV, or reading one of the books that filled the shelves along one wall. The TV was tempting, but again, unfamiliar noise might disturb Finch. More importantly, it might mask sounds he needed to hear.
A book then. He went to the shelves and was perusing, looking for an interesting title, when he heard Bear whine, very softly, from the other room.
John left the shelves and hurried to the bedroom.
Harold still lay on his back in the bed, but his sleep was no longer restful. Faint beads of sweat dotted the billionaire's face, and his body twitched slightly in the throws of a nightmare. Evan as John approached, he moaned in his dreams, a quiet and broken sound that might have been a whispered word.
It was tempting to back away, but there was no telling how the man might hurt himself if the nightmare became violent. John knew very well that narcotic laced dreams could be far more vivid than regular nightmares, and the effects more debilitating. He also knew that he could no more leave Harold to suffer now, than he could have at the library.
'I might pass out. But if I don't remain unconscious...I won't be in my right mind…' Harold's warning echoed in his ears, but he was already moving toward the wounded man, to set a hand on his shoulder.
"Harold. Wake up." he kept his voice soft, low, and gentle.
At the sound of his voice, Harold blinked open drug-hazed eyes. Then he jolted upward, heedless of his injuries, uncoordinated and terrifyingly clumsy under the influence of the medication. John knew that he wasn't awake, even before Harold grasped at his arm with a weak, ineffectual grip and spoke in a trembling, gasping voice. "Nathan...please...don't...please. They're going to...they'll kill you…"
His voice cracked and broke, devastation in his eyes, and John felt like he was looking into Finch's very soul, looking at a wound torn raw and bleeding through his friend's psyche. "Nathan…"
The word choked on a sob, as Finch clutched at him like a drowning man. Shudders that had nothing to do with the spasms of before wracked his frame. Then Finch looked at him again, torment, grief and guilt tangling through his expression, desperation bleeding through every line of him. "Did you...know?"
He wondered who Harold was asking the question of. Nathan Ingram, dead for almost three years? Himself? Or perhaps The Machine, which might have seen the truth of his friend's death before it happened?
Either way, such raw pleading and desperation begged for an answer, and John gave the most honest one he could. "No. I didn't."
It was the truth. He couldn't know if Ingram had known of his own impending death, or if The Machine had seen his Number come up, but he was certain that Harold in the past hadn't known what was going to happen. John hadn't known either. He'd been in the Agency, back when the ferry had been destroyed and Ingram died. He hadn't heard about the incident until much later.
Harold trembled against him, all his defenses shattered and grief tearing through him like a jagged blade. Then his hands tightened again. There was anguish in his face and in his voice. "Grace…"
"She's safe." John pressed a soothing hand to his friend's less-damaged shoulder, then gave in to his impulse and pulled the smaller man close, offering as much comfort as he could.
"I...I have to...I have to leave…" Harold's gaze darted up. "I...can't…I can't be near...not her. Not you. I…"
"We're safe. It's all right." Reese soothed the man quietly, remembering how Jess had handled him, on those nights when the memories were too strong. They were rare, but there had been bad nights. He had more of them now, but he also had Harold, and their mission, to distract him. And sometimes Bear, who was good at providing a solid, warm source of comfort to cling to in the dark, when it was the worst.
"It's safe. We're safe."
"No. You're not." The bitterness, the utter anguish in Harold's voice, cut like a knife. "No one is. Not...near me. Never."
Eyes full of old ghosts and pain that not even the worst torture could evoke stared into memories that only Harold could see. "You don't even...who am I? You don't know...and I can't...I've never told you. I'm not even myself...haven't been since I was a boy…"
He was trailing off, fading as the dreams and ghosts of the past receded into the darkness, and oblivion tugged him under once more. John was grateful for the respite. The unguarded suffering of his friend's dreams hurt, and he wasn't sure he could bear to hear more of it, nor that Harold would be able to endure his knowing about it.
Harold's eyes slid closed, his breathing evening out as unconsciousness dragged him under. It was only then that John realized that his friend was weeping, soft, silent tears streaking his face and dotting both their shirts.
Weeping. Mourning. He wondered if Harold had ever properly mourned his friend's passing, or the loss of his beloved to the necessity of his disappearance. He wondered if Finch ever allowed himself to express or experience his anguish, outside of those times when his medication or weariness broke through his defenses and allowed the pain to reach him.
'Knowing about the Machine is like a virus, and that makes me Patient Zero. Even being near me would place her in incredible danger.' Harold's words, from when he'd discovered Grace's existence, came back to him.
Patient Zero. Forever quarantined, isolated by his knowledge. Even for such a private and reclusive individual, such isolation would be painful. The weight of it...John knew about that weight, had ever since he was recruited by the Agency. But even then, he'd had other operatives, and a support network of sorts.
Until recruiting him, who had Harold Finch had? Nathan Ingram, perhaps, and Grace, for a brief time. And he'd lost both of them in one terrible morning.
'Who am I? I've never told you...I'm not even myself...haven't been since I was a boy…' The words circled in his mind, and he considered them.
Had Finch been running, even before he met Nathan Ingram? Had the words been addressed to John Reese, or to the man who'd died in an explosion years ago? Either way, the implication was clear – Harold had been alone, bearing his secrets and constantly looking over his shoulder, for a very, very long time.
Ever since he was a boy. He wondered what Harold had done, what he could have done, that would have sent him into hiding before he was even an adult. He wondered if Finch would tell him if he asked, once the recluse was awake and once more himself.
He wondered if he even wanted to ask, in the face of his friend's obvious suffering. Did he want to subject Finch to further torment, now that he'd had a glimpse behind the mask that Harold used to hide himself from the world?
He settled the unconscious man back into the pillows, as carefully as he could, though he left a hand on his shoulder for a moment, seeking evidence of the muscles spasms that had wracked the man before. They seemed to have quieted – the muscle relaxant had taken affect, easing his physical pain at long last.
For the small price of subjecting him to mental anguish that might far exceed the pain that had tortured his body. Even with the small glimpse he'd been given, John no longer questioned why Harold had been so reluctant to take the medicine, or why he'd been so resistant to the idea that John might witness him in his unguarded state.
It wasn't just secrets Harold protected so fiercely. There were wounds there. Wounds that John had occasionally prodded, but never before realized the depths of. Wounds that were bound to The Machine, and to the past. Harold's past.
Connected, like bones and muscles, a mental and emotional system that had endured every bit as much torture as his physical frame, and with far fewer options for relief.
John retreated to the living room, his thoughts twisting about themselves as he considered what he now knew, and what might happen once Finch regained his awareness.
Finch would want to know what he had done, what he had said. That, John was certain of. Harold Finch was too private and too paranoid not to want to know what might have happened during those hours when he was defenseless, especially knowing that John had been within earshot.
He could say that nothing had happened. That Finch had merely passed out and slept through the medication. He could also claim that he'd never seen or heard anything, that he'd been taking Bear for a walk or out getting food.
It was tempting, but he had no idea if Finch had installed cameras or monitoring equipment in his own safe house. It was likely that he had done so, for their protection, if nothing else. If he had, and if he chose to check the feeds and discovered John was lying to him...it would break the trust their partnership was built on.
On the other hand, what would happen to their relationship if he told Finch what the man had said in his drugged haze? How would Harold react to knowing he had inadvertently revealed so much of himself? The billionaire was a reclusive person, intensely guarded. He would hate knowing that John had seen him stripped of his defenses.
Then again, Harold had revealed the physical scars, told him the story of the ferry bombing, let him massage out the knots, and submitted to his presence while he was drugged. And it wasn't as if this was the first time Harold had shared personal information. John already knew about Grace, after all. And he'd seen how deeply Finch could, and did, care about people.
He could still remember the day Snow had shot him. Still remembered staggering down the stairs, telling Harold to stay away – stay away, thanks for the job, don't come – and he still remembered stumbling into the bottom level of the parking garage, only to have the car come screeching up in front of him. He could still remember the feeling of arms around his shoulders, holding him up. The sight of Harold at his side, his grip stronger than expected and unwavering, supporting him and helping him into the car, unflinching even while facing down Detective Carter.
For that matter, he could still remember their third job together, when he'd been undercover with a gang of thieves, and Harold had discovered they were about to be burned. The way the man had met him at the evidence locker, submitted to the threats and the manhandling of himself and the others – as well as the danger of being shot – in order to warn him of the danger.
If he really thought about it, only two things had changed. Perhaps three. He had seen Finch set aside his armor voluntarily. He had seen the true depth of the man's emotions – the grief and anguish that must haunt him waking and sleeping.
And one statement that he still had no context for. 'I am not myself...haven't been since I was a boy.'
He only had to decide whether or not to admit to Harold that he had heard that one admission.
Bear whined again. Reese returned to the bedroom to find Harold semiconscious and staring, once more, at something he couldn't see. Then the man's eyes fixed on his face, aware of his presence, but at the same time, not really seeing him at all. His voice shook and cracked when he spoke. "I'm so sorry."
John approached slowly. "Sorry?"
"I...I tried. I couldn't...save her. I tried. I couldn't reach her...not in time." Harold's voice was filled with regret, rough and broken with sorrow. "I'm sorry...so sorry."
Someone he couldn't save. It could be any one of several women who were on Harold's board of lost chances and unsaved Numbers. But the way he spoke the apology, and the way he seemed to be fixed on Reese's face...
The words slipped out before he could think to stop them. "Did you try to save Jessica?"
"Yes." Finch still wasn't looking at him properly. Drugged, and so far out of it there was a good chance he'd never remember this conversation. "I tried…"
His eyes shuttered closed, desolation on his narrow features as fresh tears slid down his cheeks. John swallowed hard, remembering what Finch had told him, a conversation a few days after the first birthday he'd spent in the man's employment, after the case with the woman who had been living with the man who'd kill her.
'Was Jessica one of the recurring Numbers? Did you know what was going to happen?'
'What I know, Mr. Reese, is that New Rochelle happened before I met you. There was nothing either one of us could have done to save her.'
Harold knew, because he had tried. John felt a lump in his throat that threatened to choke him. Finch had tried.
"I'm so sorry." Harold's voice was soft, aching with pain and regret.
John forced himself to move forward, to touch his friend's shoulder. "I know."
Harold gazed at him for a moment, then his eyes slid closed as the drugs took him under again, back into oblivion. John stared at the tracks of tears on Finch's face. His own eyes burned, and he blinked to will the sensation away.
Harold had admitted he'd known about Jessica, but only in the most roundabout way. He'd never mentioned that he'd tried to save her. But why? Because he thought John would be angry that he'd failed?
John had failed too. He'd known something was wrong when Jessica called his old number. But he'd been in the middle of preparing for a mission, and he hadn't gone back to her. He would always regret that – that and the day he hadn't asked her to wait for him.
He had failed because he'd been too focused on his work, his duty, to come when she needed him.
Harold it seemed, had tried to do what John should have done, and been unable. For whatever reason, he'd simply been incapable of protecting Jessica, even knowing the danger. But then, how could Finch have managed? He would have been a stranger to Jessica, and his injuries...even if he could have reached Jessica in time, even if he could have convinced her to listen to him, could Harold have stopped Peter?
Or would there have been two bodies in the car, and no one to save John himself from the spiral of grief and rage that had sent him down into the bottle after he'd discovered the truth?
John slipped back into the living room, his mind churning as he settled down on the sofa. He'd guessed he might learn more about the reclusive man he called his partner and his best friend, but he'd never realized that Harold's incapacitation might reveal so much. Nor that those revelations might affect him so personally.
Eventually, he stood, grabbed a book at random off the shelves, and made himself focus on the words. There was nothing else to do, unless he wanted his mind to spin itself uselessly in circles.
Three hours later, he took Bear for another walk, and picked up some pizza. It was a standard pizza, nothing fancy, just pepperoni and sausage and onions and cheese in a slightly grease-stained cardboard box that Harold would probably hate on sight. But it smelled good and tasted better, and it was exactly what John wanted.
He ate half and put it next to the untouched diner box from before. He gave Bear a snack of his own, from some treats he found in a cupboard, then sent the dog back to his cushion in the bedroom and tried to refocus on his book.
Some time later, long after darkness had fallen, he heard Bear whine again. He set the book aside and went to the bedroom, bracing himself to guide Finch through another round of delirium based memories or dreams.
Instead, he found the bed empty, a light on in the bathroom. A moment later, the toilet flushed, and he heard Harold's distinctive gait, before the man opened the door and blinked weary, slightly hazy eyes at him.
He wasn't completely out from under the medication yet, but from his eyes, he was clearly lucid. Harold blinked twice at him, slow and heavy. "John."
"Harold." He took a couple steps into the room, ready to help if Harold needed the assistance. He stopped when Finch lifted a hand and shook it in a gesture of negation, then hobbled to the bed, staggering slightly under a drug-induced loss of coordination. "How are you feeling?"
"Better." The word was slow, slightly slurred, but coherent. Then Finch blinked again, swallowed hard, and made a visible effort to collect himself. "How long was I…?"
"About seven, eight hours. Just like you said." Reese made his way to the chair nearby and settled into it, making his posture deliberately relaxed in hopes that Finch would relax as well.
"I...see." Finch frowned, and Reese knew he was casting his mind back, seeking for any memories, any hint of what had happened. "I recall taking the medicine...you were out walking Bear. But I seem to...did we talk?"
He'd known Finch would ask. And now that the question had been spoken aloud, it was easy to answer. "A couple of times. You weren't very coherent though."
"I imagine not." Harold's mouth tightened. "I don't suppose…"
He didn't want to ask what he'd said, what he'd done. Perhaps he didn't want to know, on some level. But on another level – the part of him that was an intensely private and paranoid person – he needed to know. To understand what John now knew. Reese understood that.
Understood, and was more than willing to relieve his partner's fears, as much as he was able. "You talked about the ferry...you thought I was Nathan, and you tried to warn me."
"Inevitable, I suppose." Harold sighed with resignation. "It is my most...common recollection, in these states."
"You talked about Grace. About leaving her. Mostly what you said was similar to what you told me when I discovered who she was."
"Another common theme of these episodes." Finch grimaced, but he didn't look surprised.
"You apologized to me. For not saving Jessica." For some reason, it was harder to admit to that particular conversation. Harold winced, his face averted so John could only see part of his expression. "I asked you before. You said…"
"I said that there was nothing either one of us could have done. That was the truth."
"But you didn't tell me you knew that because you'd tried."
"I didn't want you to think…" Harold paused. "I was afraid you'd think I was lying, to try and mollify you. Or that you'd be angry with me for my failure."
"I'm not. I just wish you'd told me." John blew out a breath. "That's how you got my name, isn't it? Researching Jessica. How you knew who I was."
"How I got your name, yes. But as for knowing who you were…" Harold exhaled slowly. "I didn't know that for certain until our first encounter."
"You seemed awful sure of yourself." John could still remember the confident, implacable billionaire in Battery Park, saying 'You need a purpose. More importantly, Mr. Reese, you need a job.'
Harold paused for a moment, then shook his head. "You might not remember it, but we'd actually encountered one another, very briefly, before that."
John frowned. "I would have remembered."
"I doubt it. You were...preoccupied at the time." Harold hesitated again. "In the hospital where Jessica worked before she was killed, when they told you Jessica had died...on your way out of the building, you bumped into a man. A man in a wheelchair."
John did remember that, vaguely. Grief had been consuming his mind, wrapping his whole being in a fog of anguish. He recalled that he'd turned away from the nurse's desk, started to walk away. His thigh had hit an armrest, then his hip had bumped into a handle. He'd barely stopped, didn't think he'd said much of anything, and couldn't even remember if he'd bothered to apologize.
The man in the chair had spoken though. He thought it had been an apology of some sort. He hadn't listened. Hadn't cared. Even now, despite all his training, he didn't recall much beyond the wheelchair and a man with a slim frame and short hair, glasses on his face, and papers in his lap that he'd used one hand to keep from falling. He'd only noticed the papers because he might have stopped to pick them up if he'd knocked them loose. But he hadn't, so he'd kept walking.
A slim man in a wheelchair with files in his lap and glasses. John looked at Harold, sitting on the bed. "You were the man in the wheelchair."
"Yes. Recovering from spinal surgery. I admitted myself just before Jessica passed. Afterward…" Harold shifted. "I had already discovered how vulnerable my continuing incapacitation at the time made me. It seemed reasonable to have the surgery, since that was the reason I was supposedly in the hospital to begin with."
He'd been in a wheelchair then, but walking unassisted when John met him formally for the first time. "You must have been fresh out of rehab when you recruited me."
"Two weeks. More or less." Harold's acknowledgment was soft. "Of course, one never fully completes rehabilitation with a chronic injury. However…"
"Two weeks." John mused over that.
He'd slammed Harold into a wall, their second meeting. He could have done more damage than he knew. A part of him felt guilt, but he didn't voice it. Finch knew the circumstances, and what the consequences might have been, as well as he did. He'd chosen the danger, accepted it. It was done and it was passed, and he would never do that to his partner again.
Nathan. Grace. Jessica. There was only one topic that lingered between them. Reese considered leaving it alone. Harold would never know what he knew, if he didn't tell him.
But if he didn't ask, he'd never know if Harold would be willing to tell him the truth. And the question would tease at his curiosity. Eventually, Finch might find out, simply because John himself would be unable to stop searching for answers.
That, and Finch might remember more later. It was potentially far more damaging for him to keep the secret than to reveal its existence.
"There was one more thing you talked about. When you were…" John stopped when he saw Harold's mouth tighten in acknowledgment.
"Yes?"
"You thought I was Nathan. You said I didn't know who you were. That you hadn't been yourself since you were a boy."
Harold flinched, stiffened at that. His eyes closed, resignation and despair on his face as his hands clenched, white-knuckled, on the sheets. "And?"
"That's all." John leaned forward. "I'd like to know what you meant. But I won't ask."
And he wouldn't. He was curious, extremely so, but he wouldn't ask. He wasn't sure Finch would tell him if he did, but he also understood that some things couldn't be spoken of easily.
Whoever Harold Finch was and had been, he'd been running for a long time. Perhaps it was impossible for him to lay down the layers of protection between who he was now and whoever he'd been before.
After several moments of silence, Finch took a breath. "I don't suppose you brought back food."
John nodded, accepting the change of topic. "There's a sandwich and fries from the diner round the corner, and half a pizza in the fridge. Take your pick."
"A shower first, I think."
That was also expected. "You want me to leave?"
There was a pause, then Harold sighed and shifted his head in a careful head-shake. "You should probably eat whatever I don't."
"Okay." He could do that. Both the diner meal and the pizza would be tasty enough, once they'd been reheated.
Harold stood and limped into the bathroom. Reese watched the door close behind him, then went to the kitchen and set about figuring out the best way to reheat the meals.
He was nearly finished heating up the sandwich, with the pizza slow-warming in the oven, when Finch limped out into the dining area, hair freshly washed and dressed in slacks, shirt, socks and vest. Without shoes, jacket and tie, it was clear he was in 'casual' – as close as Harold ever got when he wasn't on an assignment.
He sniffed at the air, then at the food. "I think I'd prefer the sandwich."
John nodded. "Sure." He turned his attention back to the food, while Harold shuffled around getting plates, utensils and napkins, as well as putting on a kettle for tea.
They finished the preparations in relative silence. John watched Harold, and wondered what his partner was thinking. Was he planning to ignore the revelation between them? Or was he deciding that John knew too much, and it might be time to rethink their partnership altogether?
Or was he thinking of something else entirely? With Finch, it was difficult, if not impossible, to know. Especially if he had his walls up, and right now, Harold was so locked down his psyche might as well be a bank vault.
John knew more than he'd ever expected to know – but he had to admit, he might know too much. Too much for Harold's peace of mind. It was some small comfort to know the recluse wouldn't burn him the way the Agency had.
But he might send him away, and vanish into the city. Harold Finch was capable of doing that. If he could hide from the government as efficiently as he did, then he could hide from John Reese if he chose to.
But John couldn't ask what Harold was planning. If Harold was about to send him away, he didn't want to know.
They ate in near silence. John was finishing the last bite of his pizza when Harold spoke, his voice carefully emotionless. "Forty years ago, the government began developing an inter-agency communications network. Arpanet. Very private. As secure as they knew how to make it. It was meant to provide a means of sharing classified information more safely. More securely. More quickly."
"Uh-huh." John wasn't old enough to remember much about that, and computers had never been one of his interests anyway. He was more interested in how the apparently ancient history was relevant to the moment.
"Thirty years ago, a teenage boy in Iowa hacked the government using a homemade computer and a phone line, and released the network code through a series of interrelated connections to several universities. That boy let the cat out of the bag, so to speak. The Internet was born."
John grinned. "I'm betting the government didn't take kindly to that."
"Not at all. The boy was considered a threat to National Security. But they never found him. By the time they traced the initial connection, he was gone." Finch paused, and there was something – old pain smoothed over by time but never quite healed – in his voice. "They found the boy's father, but he couldn't help them."
"He didn't want to betray his son." John guessed. He could feel himself poised, on the verge of something important, but he didn't know what it was yet.
"He didn't know who his son was. Early onset advanced dementia, though it wasn't so well diagnosed at the time, of course. He couldn't tell them anything."
Harold paused again, and his voice was soft, aching with the same depth of regret that he'd shown before, when he was drugged and all his shields were down. "He was very fond of birds. The boy's father, I mean."
The pieces clicked together with a snap. A boy with a computer who hacked the government and released what would one day be the internet. A boy whose father liked birds...connecting through years to a man who was almost always 'Harold', but sometimes Finch, or Martin, or Partridge, or Wren, or another type of bird.
A boy who'd run, connecting to a man who hid behind a dozen names and aliases, and a wall of technology that had been born, much of it, from that boy's one action.
Fusco had told him, when John had set him to watching Finch, that Harold had been running for so long he wasn't sure Harold even knew who he'd been any longer. But clearly, Finch did remember. Remember, and cherished the memory, for all the grief it clearly invoked in him.
"Harold...and birds. The two things you took with you." Like the way Jessica's phone number had gone with him into his Agency identity, along with the number to access his voicemail.
"Yes." Finch was very carefully not looking at him, and John thought he understood why.
Finch wanted to know if he'd ask for more. If that was enough, or if curiosity would prompt him to try and discover who the boy had been. Wanted to know what John would do with the knowledge of what, and who, his partner had once been.
He'd discovered Harold's alias at IFT's offices, and Harold had burned the identity without a thought, organizing a transfer for himself and disappearing into his library without a trace of hesitation, or regret. This, however, wasn't so easy to run away from. He'd given John the keys to the truth at the heart of the mystery, and everything hinged on how John responded.
John Reese knew the secret now, or at least enough of it to follow the threads and connect the boy who'd unleashed Arpanet to the man who'd become 'Harold Wren' at MIT, and later created The Machine.
He also knew, or thought he knew, why Harold chose the names he did. Finch. Partridge. Wren. Martin. Small birds, easily lost in the sky or in large flocks. Easily hidden. Easy to make safe.
His next words would make all the difference, and John chose them carefully. "I like Finch. It's a good name."
Harold blinked. "Mr. Reese…John…" His voice was uncertain, far more uncertain than John was used to hearing from his usually very assured partner.
"It suits you. Everyone should have a name that suits them." He finished the last bite of pizza.
"You…"
John shook his head. "I was curious. Still am. Always will be. But this...I don't need to know anything more." He turned and met Harold's eyes. "Knowing who you were doesn't matter. I've known who you are...what kind of man you are, since our first meeting."
Harold's words, modified to fit the situation and no less true for all of that. Finch blinked again, then the lines of his shoulders and his mouth softened, and relief filled his eyes. "I think it took you a little longer than that."
"It took me longer to trust what I was seeing." John corrected. "But I still know who you are. A billionaire recluse who's trying to save the world...one person at a time."
"If you choose to look at it that way." Harold finished the last of his own meal, then stood to take their plates to the dishwasher. "I don't think I'm nearly as noble as you make me sound."
"Close enough." John shrugged.
A phone buzzed. Harold stuck his hand in his vest and pulled it out, then sighed. "It appears we're being called back to duty. You're free to get some rest, if you like. Research will take some time…"
"I'm good. I'll rest later." Reese gathered up the rest of the dishes and loaded them. "You get dressed, I'll finish cleaning up."
Harold nodded and went back to the bedroom. John watched him go. The recluse's gait was a little stiff, but his shoulders were relaxed, and there was no sign of the debilitating pain that had nearly felled him before. If anything, he seemed to move a little easier, as if some weight had been removed from him.
Perhaps it had. Perhaps, in surrendering his secrets, Finch had found relief instead of fear. It was a nice thought, even if John was certain it couldn't be that easy. Finch had carried those secrets for a long time – sooner or later there would be fall-out from the fact that he'd allowed John to see so much.
But for now, they were all right. And, strange as it seemed, the accident and vulnerability that John had feared might drive a wedge between them had instead brought them closer together. Finch's secrets, rather than tearing the partnership apart, had connected them all the more tightly.
There would be more, John knew. More incidents. More secrets. More connections, either made or broken. But for now…
For now, it was good.
Author's Note: I was watching the show while recovering from back spasms caused by an old injury of my own, and my brain went 'Harold must have some really bad days then...'. And this was born. Because chronic pain and injuries are no joke, and it is, quite frankly, amazing how often Harold gets hurt and never really addresses the fact (exploding car, hit over the head a couple of times, Root, etc). So I felt like writing a fic that DID address what happens when it all gets to be a little...too much.
Plus, good excuse for Reese and Harold to have bonding time.