Chapter Text
Harold twisted and bent cautiously. The wetsuit was tight and uncomfortably restricting in multiple ways, and it had been a particular source of embarrassment to have to ask one of the others in the group to zip him up.
Going to Saint Ida’s had been a spontaneous decision, but the first couple of days in the heat had done wonders for his aches and pains. It wasn’t that he minded the cold in New York - in fact his mind found it as stimulating as ever. It was simply that his body was getting older, and the wear and tear of 15 years with a disability was taking it’s toll.
Deciding to learn how to scuba dive had been even more spur-of-the-moment, based on a colorful poster. Well. Harold never had lost his appetite to learn, and scuba diving wasn’t something he’d ever tried before.
There were nine of them, standing around in their wetsuits; the assistant moving among them, checking the fit. Harold had just begun reflecting that wetsuits did nothing for the appearance of the human body when a new figure appeared at the end of the pier, putting his observations to shame. Even against the light, he was tall, lean and solid, and moving with an easy gait Harold could envy.
One of the pair of middle-aged women beside him elbowed her sister and muttered; “now that’s why we’re here. You see Madge?”
Harold snorted silently, and returned his attention to the approaching figure. There was something familiar about the proportions. About the movement.
Silver hair and a neat silver beard became apparent as he drew closer, but it was the assistant calling out; “yo, John!” and the man’s face splitting in a heartbreakingly familiar smile that buckled Harold’s knees.
“Oh, shit,” he heard the young assistant exclaim, before multiple hands moved to hold him up. Or maybe push him down. There seemed to be conflicting impulses.
“Lay him down,” the well-groomed 40-something man who’d zipped up Harold without question, barked. “He needs to lie down until he comes around.”
Then Harold’s eyes locked on blue eyes he never thought he’d see again, and him staying upright became a moot point as the breath left his body.
“Whoa, whoa,” the well-known voice said, and strong arms caught him as Harold’s brain checked out of the proceedings for a reboot.
***
Harold came back to himself a few minutes later. The instinct to get up, get out, get away was immediate - but so was the response of a large, strong hand on his shoulder, holding him down.
“Easy,” that all-too familiar voice said, and Harold’s heart squeezed.
His eyes resolved the blobs above him after some furious blinking; for a second he missed his glasses, then he remembered he’d put in contacts this morning specifically for the dive.
Oh, god. The dive!
”Yeah, you’re not going diving today, buddy,” the voice said, and Harold finally pulled himself sufficiently together to actually look around.
“The others?” He asked, his voice cracking helplessly.
John - because it was, undoubtedly John Reese, still resting a hand on Harold’s shoulder, smiled cautiously.
“They’re all loading up. Martha’s going to take them out, Ben’s gonna spot the skipper when he’s her second.”
None of that made sense, but then again, none of anything made any sense at this moment. “You’re not…?” Was all he managed to ask, but John interpreted it easily.
“Perks of being your own boss. And I have to admit, I’m very curious about you, sir?”
Harold tried sitting up again, and this time John assisted him.
“Nothing interesting about me,” he dodged, but John was like a dog with a squeaky toy.
“I have to admit it’s rare people pass out just from the sight of me.”
”Could be the heat,” Harold offered, knowing it was a weak defense. John shook his head. “Nerves?” John cracked another tiny smile.
“That would be a first, but no. Something tells me you don’t scare easy.”
Harold clenches his jaw, quite involuntarily. “You don’t even know me.”
”True,” John says, and helps Harold to his feet when he indicates he’d like to finish this conversation standing up, thank you very much. “John Smith,” he introduces himself.
Harold feels one of his eyebrows raise sceptically. Another involuntary tell. Dammit, he’s out of practice.
“Very generic, I know,” John raises a hand. “It seemed fitting at the time. But if you want that story, I’m going to need your name and a cool drink to tell it over.”
Harold finds himself fighting a smile. “Harold Finch,” he offers, by way of his own name. He’d never wanted a different name, and in a post-Samaritan world nobody was even looking any more. He could be who he was most comfortable being. And he’d grown fond of Harold Finch. ”I’ll take your recommendation on where to get that drink.”
John grinned and swept out an arm to show him the way.