It begins with an invitation.
The hour is late. Or early, depending on who you ask. For John it's a bad time. His mother used to call midnight 'the witching hour'. There may be some truth to that because he feels restless. Too restless for his own good. Normally when he gets like this he walks for an hour or five. However long it takes for him to calm the images in his head, the voices, enough to catch some sleep. Tonight, though, he needs more than that. He needs--
“Finch? You awake?” he calls softly after belatedly realizing he's turned on his ear piece. He stands next to the window in his new apartment, not seeing anything.
“Mr. Reese?” his employer answers immediately. His tone is as alert and flat as if it's daylight.
John takes a breath. “Do you.....?” He doesn't finish the question. He's not sure what he was even going to ask anyway. “Do we have another number?” he inquires instead, trying unsuccessfully to hide his desperation.
“Not at the moment.” The ex-agent closes his eyes and leans his head against the wall. “Is there something I can help you with?”
Unlike himself Finch doesn't attempt to hide anything. The note of concern filters through his brain slowly, as if it's too foreign a concept. To make matters worse he can't come up with an honest response. He doesn't know how to define what's wrong in terms the recluse would understand.
“When did you last eat, Mr. Reese?”
John blinks his eyes back open. “What?”
“I haven't had anything substantial in the past six hours so I'm sure it's been even longer for you.” At that he smiles. The older man knows him a little too well now. He's finally getting to a point where that's a good thing. “I hope you can cook...”
Finch hangs up without another word. Already, he can feel himself settling back into his skin as he wanders into the kitchen, his smile growing wider with every step he takes.