Work Text:
It hadn't gone badly, exactly. They'd managed to save their number in the end, and no one was really injured except the perpetrator. All in all, it should be considered a success. And yet, Harold itched with dissatisfaction and self recrimination.
He'd been distracted. He'd made mistakes. He'd been slow to make connections that he would normally have seen right away. They'd been up all night running in circles because he'd failed to identify the perpetrator until far too late, and it had put their number and Mr. Reese at risk. In the end, were it not for Mr. Reese's quick thinking and exceptional skills, it would have been a disaster. Instead, one car chase and a minor shootout later, their young number was safely home.
Harold frowned as he hacked the street camera network to delete any evidence of Mr. Reese's activities. Over and over, he scrubbed footage from one camera and moved on to the next. Each sequence deleted left him more irritable and upset with himself. The car chase and confrontation he was erasing shouldn't have happened at all.
Unable to focus on even such a simple task as this, Harold shoved his keyboard away abruptly and squeezed his eyes closed, frustrated and angry with himself.
Just because it was a difficult day was no excuse for his mistakes. He'd thought that he had his emotions well under control, and that something as harmless as a day on the calendar would be no big deal. That he could work the number like any other day.
He'd been mistaken.
August 26th. Nathan's birthday.
Harold snorted and scowled at his screens.
A day just like any other. Except it wasn't. And he'd nearly caused the death of their number in his distraction.
Harold took a steadying breath, then another. Shoving his grief back down where it belonged, he pulled his keyboard back toward himself and picked up where he'd left off on the traffic cams. He still had a job to finish.
Nearly an hour later, from the dog bed near Harold's feet, Bear raised his head, ears perked, and let out a soft whuff. Mr. Reese had returned to the library instead of going home as Harold had suggested. Of course he had. He always seemed to know when Harold would prefer to be alone and to go out of his way to ignore that wish.
“Morning, Finch,” Reese said as he made his way into the work space. Bear trotted over happily to greet him. “Thought you might not have eaten, so I brought a little breakfast.”
Next to the customary drinks tray, Reese placed a pastry box on the table next to Harold, who looked at it as though it might be poisoned.
“I was intending to eat at home, Mr. Reese, as I would have assumed you would do,” he replied, a little more testily than he meant.
“It was no trouble,” Reese assured him with a hint of a smile. He opened the box, and Harold's stomach dropped.
In the box were two perfect, fresh cinnamon rolls, the sweet, warm scent wafting out temptingly.
A thick lump lodged itself painfully in Harold's throat.
Nathan's favorite.
A swarm of memories fought for his attention. All night study sessions. Scrambling together to finish code before deadlines. Celebrating anything from birthdays to business contracts to pregnancy announcements. Commiserating over a broken marriage. Sometimes just because Nathan wanted them.
So many events, all marked with Nathan's favorite sticky, feel-good treat.
Suddenly, Harold found himself embarrassingly close to crying. Had Mr. Reese known? How could he possibly have known? He pressed his mouth into a firm line to keep his lip from trembling as he continued staring at the cinnamon rolls in their pretty pink box.
Mr. Reese stepped closer, put a hand on his shoulder, and gave a gentle squeeze. “Should I get plates?”
Unable to speak, Harold just nodded tightly.
Reese fetched two plates and forks from the kitchenette and transferred one of the rolls to each. He pushed half of the paper napkins Harold's way before starting to eat.
Eventually, Harold started pulling his cinnamon roll apart with his fingers, unrolling it enough to tear off a bite sized piece at a time. The forks sat unused as they slowly demolished the pastries.
When he reached the middle section (the best part), Harold finally spoke. “Did you know?”
Reese finished chewing his bite and swallowed it down. A moment later, he shrugged and replied, “You were upset.”
Harold accepted that as a yes. Reese could have easily made the connection of the date to Nathan's birthday. How he knew about the cinnamon rolls, though, was a mystery.
But instead of asking, he just said, “Thank you.”
They finished their cinnamon rolls in silence. After, they went to the kitchenette to wash their sticky hands and the plates.
Harold returned to his computer to finish consolidating the evidence from the case to send off to Detective Carter. Mr. Reese roamed in the background, eyeing the bookshelves and pulling the occasional tome out to examine before returning it. Considering the date and Harold's mood, he would have expected Reese's hovering to be irritating, but instead, it was soothing. Mr. Reese's calm presence in the library was a reminder that the number had been resolved successfully, and Harold was grateful for it.
He gazed at his partner and couldn't help thinking how pleased Nathan would be about John working the numbers with him. He wondered idly if the two would have gotten along. A smile tried to creep out as he considered it. There would be no middle ground – either they would hate each other's guts or get along like a house afire. He couldn't decide which.
“You know,” Harold hesitated, always resistant to sharing information, but the need to talk about him won out, “Nathan was the first one to use this library as a base of operations for working the numbers.”
Mr. Reese's eyes lit up, but he kept his expression carefully under control. “He was?”
Harold stood from his chair, stiff after a long night of work. “He was trying to work the numbers alone. A terrible idea, of course. But he tried.” He paused and frowned. “I...didn't want him to. I tried to stop him.”
Mr. Reese stepped close enough to touch his elbow briefly. “You're helping the numbers now. I bet he'd be proud of you.”
The painful lump returned, and Harold cleared his throat to dislodge it. He forced a small smile.
“I believe it's time for Bear to go on a walk,” Harold changed the subject, triggering an excited scramble by the dog to go fetch his leash. “Would you care to come to the park with us, Mr. Reese, before going home to get some rest?”
A corner of Reese's mouth turned up as he attached the leash to Bear's collar. “Always.”