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“It looks good on you.”
The words are spoken so softly that at first John thinks he might have imagined it. “What?”
He pauses and looks back, raising his eyebrows at the way Harold suddenly straightens. Clearly, his employer hasn’t meant for the words to be heard. John waits, half-amused and half-curious, as he observes the internal war in his employer’s features before they smoothen into something akin to resignation.
The corner of John’s mouth quirks. Harold must have remembered his promise never to lie to John. It’s not that he enjoys Harold’s discomfort, but it’s very rare that he catches the aloof and enigmatic man off guard, so like any trained soldier, John decides to press his advantage. “What did you say, Finch? I didn’t quite hear it.”
Harold peers at him from above his glasses, glinting eyes eerie in the way they’re scrutinising him, and John braces himself for the usual sarcasm, deflection, or dry remark.
He doesn’t expect the direct, gentle truth.
“Happiness,” Harold murmurs. “It looks good on you.”
John is stunned as his own words are echoed back at him, soft and almost shy:
‘I woke up this morning and felt, took me a while to put my finger on it, but I felt happy.’
It’s been awhile since John has been sucker punched, but he hasn’t forgotten how it feels like. It’s the first time, however, that it is delivered through words.
Then again, Harold Finch has always managed to disarm him in ways he never thought possible. In ways he is all too willing to yield to—ways that he is terrified to examine too closely when he knows exactly what happens when he allows himself to want too much, selfishly.
(He ends up losing it, the source of his happiness, and he can’t, anymore, he can’t lose this—)
Harold is now walking toward him, face impassive, but even his glasses can’t hide the tenderness in his gaze. John feels like there’s a bomb about to explode from inside his chest.
“I hope,” Harold says softly, “that it will be a permanent look on you, Mr. Reese.”
It takes John approximately seven seconds to realise that he has been holding his breath. He hears Harold’s shuffling gait from behind him as the older man walks on.
‘Must be this job,’ he remembers saying earlier. All the breath comes out of him in a rush, and he feels lightheaded and unmoored. He sways on his feet as he turns around, seeking the one anchor he needs.
It’s not the job, he realises with sudden, blinding clarity, and the bomb inside his chest explodes. It’s not just the job.
“Finch,” he tries to say, but the word gets caught in his throat. He swallows thickly. “Harold.”
He sees the other man pause and square his shoulders, as if bracing for impact. Slowly, he turns around. “Yes, John?”
John has never seen Harold look so vulnerable, as if John holds Harold’s life in his hands.
(If he does, then he fiercely vows to protect it until his dying breath.)
Slowly, slowly, Harold raises his gaze to meet his… and the debris of John’s explosive happiness must have flown to his face because whatever it is that Harold sees there makes his eyes widen.
John smiles: soft, yielding, permanent.
“It looks good on you too.”