ANALOGUE INTERFACE UNKNOWN

John scowled at his reflection as, yet again, his bow tie failed to cooperate. It was the happiest day of his life, and it wouldn't be ruined by a silly strip of silk, but he couldn't help but swear as his fingers fumbled with the offending accessory once more.

"Wooow," Shaw drawled from the couch, "You're terrible at this." She was sprawled out with a mimosa in hand, feeding bits of appetizers to Bear, who was also dressed to the nines.

John sighed. "Harold is usually the one helping me get dressed up," he explained, trying the tie again, "Frankly, I wish he were here."

"Well, I'd say it's bad luck to see the groom before the ceremony, but I think it's lucky that we all made it here at all." She smirked as she said it, but John knew that she was right. It was a miracle they'd all lived to see the day. His stomach fluttered just thinking about it.

"Believe me, I know," he replied. Trying to distract himself and keep his hands from shaking, he added, "I just assumed- with plenty of supportive evidence- that I wouldn't get this. The happy ending."

Shaw hummed, staring into her now empty flute glass. "I know the feeling."

"And then... when I proposed..." John shook his head, smiling to himself. "There was one horrifying moment where I was afraid that the universe would realize its mistake, that things weren't supposed to turn out this way."

"And now here you are," Shaw said, lifting the glass in a faux toast, "Every inch the blushing bride."

"You know," John replied, turning to look at her, "You could stop making snarky comments and lend a hand."

Chuckling, Shaw stood and joined John in front of the full-length mirror. "All right, if you're sure you can't figure it out."

"You're the maid of honor," John mumbled, lifting his chin to give Shaw access, "This is basically you're job."

Shaw chuckled. "At least you're not a total bride-zilla."

On the other end of the engagement, Harold was having his own anxieties. Root had calmed him down on plenty of other occasions, but it was one thing when they were facing life and death situations in the field. This was different. This was personal.

Harold was fervently pacing back and forth, muttering to himself. They'd made the choice to write their own vows, and he wanted to get it right.

"Relax, Harry," Root purred, "You're getting married, not facing off against an evil super intelligence."

Harold chuckled dryly. "I'd almost wish I were. At least I've done that before. I never... actually got to. The first time around."

Root patted the spot next to her on the couch. "Come here. Tell me about your previous engagement. You don't really talk about Grace."

Taking a seat, Harold scoffed. "Why would I? Especially now, on my wedding day. Leaving her was one of my greatest regrets. It's not exactly something I'm anxious to revisit."

Root stroked his shoulder soothingly. "Trust the process. When did you know you wanted to marry her?"

"She was painting." Harold gazed off into the distance, losing himself in the memory as a soft smile played across his lips. "We were looking out at the river. I went to the railing, and when she looked up, she told me not to move. We just stayed like that, as she added me to her work." His face lit up. "I told her, 'That's not what I look like. I looked so content, at peace. But she told me, 'This is how I see you.'" His eyes were glistening as he finished, "I bought a ring the next day."

Root smiled at him. "And you feel that way now? About John?"

Harold met her gaze. She could see the conviction in his eyes as he said, 'I do. And... if I could paint him... if he could only see the way I see him..."

They shared a moment of companionable silence. Harold swallowed, smiling a watery smile. He was grateful for Root's company, and everything she'd done to help him get to that moment.

The opening door interrupted Harold's thoughts, and he stood. Fusco stuck his head in, looking dapper in his uniform. "All right, Glasses," he said, unable to restrain his grin, "It's about time to get started. Ya ready?"

If Harold thought John was overly protective before, he was unprepared for the shift that occurred after they'd officially become an item. John became something possessive, and fierce. He always placed himself between Harold and any perceived threat.

Part of it was left over from John's military and CIA training, but Harold knew there was more to it. John always had to be touching Harold in some way- a hand on his shoulder or his knee, ankles brushing under restaurant tables. When they were apart on a mission, John would collapse into Harold's arms when they were reunited. It caught Harold off guard, how affectionate John became when Harold gave him permission.

It was far from unwanted- Harold hadn't had any intimacy with anyone in quite some time, and it felt... wonderful, if slightly strange. He couldn't help but feel a flutter now, when John placed a hand on the small of his back, or a soft kiss to his temple. It was a frequent reminder to Harold, that John was his partner in more ways than one.

The point was really driven home when Harold was in the field. Well, "in the field" was a friendly way of saying being held at gunpoint," but Harold viewed it as a necessary evil, in order to rescue the Machine's designated number, who, as far as Harold knew, was in a safe house with John, while Harold was negotiating.

"I assure you, all of  your demands will be met, in exchange for Miss O'Brien's safety," Harold said, his soft voice echoing in the vast emptiness of the warehouse.

The mobster sneered. "Well, maybe I ain't done making demands yet."

Harold swallowed. He'd come prepared for the initial agreement and not much else. He was massively outnumbered. If the mob overestimated how deep his pockets were, he'd really be in trouble.

All at once, there was a pop, and the mobster in question fell to the ground with a shout. Two more pops brought two more mobsters to their knees.

"Was this your idea?!" one of the gunmen yelled, swinging his rifle around and aiming at Harold's head. "I swear to god I'll-"

The gunmen was dead before he could finish his sentence, collapsing at Harold's feet. Harold staggered backwards. All of the criminals had been easily dispatched, to Harold's surprise and great confusion.

From the top of a shipping container, John descended with his rifle in hand. He stormed forward with long strides, his eyes glaring and his expression dark. Dramatic shadows from the overhead lights cast harsh lines across his brow and cheekbones. And Harold knew why people looked so afraid when they spoke of "The Man in the Suit."

As John reached Harold, his demeanor changed completely. He slung his gun over his back and reached out to touch Harold, checking him over for wounds and bruises. "Are you all right?" he asked urgently, "Did they hurt you?"

Harold blinked, amazed to see John before him. "You came for me," he murmured.

John didn't seem fazed by this. "Of course I did," he said, not breaking his concentration, "You're my partner." He missed the softening of Harold's eyes when he turned, looking for approaching threats. "Let's get out of here," John added, guiding Harold with an arm around his waist, "I'll drive."

They were in the car before Harold found his voice to speak again. "I can't believe you came for me," he echoed as the warehouse disappeared in the rear view mirror.

"Before you chew me out," John started, "I left Miss O'Brien with Fusco. You can't expect me not to protect you, now that we're... you know, official."

"No, that's not it," Harold replied, "As much as I might not approve of you prioritizing my safety." John titled his head, and Harold sighed. "I spent a long time making myself invisible. In that time, I made sure that nobody cared about me, so that nobody else would get hurt."

John glanced at his partner. He knew Harold was thinking of Grace, and the life he left behind. He place his hand on Harold's thigh in a show of sympathy. Harold covered John's hand with his own before he continued.

"I did it to protect anyone I might come into contact with, but I also did it out of fear. I thought I was being selfless, but coming back from the dead was the hardest thing I've ever done." Taking a deep breath, he finished, "What I'm trying to say is that it's nice to be cared about again."

John smiled. He knew what Harold was talking about- letting someone close to him was terrifying, but being care for was worth it.

"I do care about you," John inserted, "and I won't let anything happen to you."

Harold pursed his lips. "Relationship status aside, you know that's not why I hired you."

"I'm not protecting you because it's my job, Harold. I'm doing it because I love you."

Harold gasped softly. His eyes glistened in the dim light of the passing streetlamps. "I love you, too, John," he replied. It was the first time the sentiment had been exchanged aloud, though they had both known for quite some time.

The car slowed to a stop at a red light, and John and Harold looked at each other. After a long moment, John cleared his throat. "Protecting people is what I do," he began, quietly, carefully, "If I can't keep the people that I love safe..." He swallowed, his voice thick with emotion. "If I can't do that... then what do I have to offer, to show them how much I love them?"

"Oh, John," Harold whispered, fighting back tears. Harold had always known that the impact of Jessica's death stemmed from John's unconditional love. Being on the receiving end of such ardent and unadulterated devotion was... powerful, bordering on overwhelming.

Bringing John's hand to his lips, Harold pressed a tender kiss to John's calloused knuckled, before pressing John's palm against his cheek. "You have so much more to offer," he said, his words feeling fragile in the heavy stillness, "but you are worthy of love regardless of what other stand to gain. Do you understand?"

John swallowed again, nodding silently. Harold had been quite generous with affection and they'd crossed the threshold, but John was unprepared to hear that he didn't have to earn it.

Harold shook his head disapprovingly as a couple of jersey-clad teenagers raced past them. "I'll certainly be relieved to stay in the Ritz-Carlton again," he muttered, adjusting his glasses.

John chuckled at his disgruntled boss. "Does the Ritz-Carlton have cocoa puffs and fruit loops with its continental breakfast?" he teased. Harold merely rolled his eyes.

They'd passed a number of other high school soccer players on the way to their room. Their number was among them, though the danger was currently unknown. Unfortunately, the soccer team had booked up most of the hotel in anticipation for the game. Harold had been lucky to get them a room at all.

As he slid the key card into the slot Harold spoke again. "I do apologize for the accommodations, Mr. Reese, but this was the best I could do on such short notice."

Upon entering, John realized what Harold was apologizing for. The room was humble in size, lacking the amenities and luxuries Harold was probably used to. In the center of the room, there was only a single queen-sized bed.

Swallowing the sudden rush of nerves at the implications, John shrugged. "No big deal. I don't plan on doing much sleeping anyway." He deposited his duffel bag in the closet before starting his cursory sweep of the room.

Harold clicked his tongue and John's anxious nature. "I highly doubt that our room has been bugged, Mr. Reese."

"Until we know exactly why the Machine gave us Charlie's number," John retorted, "I'd rather not take any chances."

Pursing his lips, Harold busied himself with hacking into the motel's surveillance. While he admired John's vigilance, he did lament that John had yet to truly let his guard down when they were together. They spent so little time within physical proximity to each other, an absence that Harold felt keenly. Shaking the thought, he turned his attention to finding Charlie on the security feeds. The teen was exactly where the itinerary said he would be- in the lobby, reviewing the strategies for the next day's soccer game.

"You should get some rest," Harold commented, his eyes still on the screen.

John blinked. "We're not here on vacation, Harold," he murmured, stepping closer, "We're here on a job."

"John, please," Harold sighed, dropping formality and letting his partner's first name slip. He looked up into John's piercing blue eyes. Steeling his resolve, he continued, "I admire your dedication to the cause, but he's with his coach and his teammates, they'll be in the lobby for a few hours." When John opened his mouth to protest, Harold pressed on. "The computer will alert us if he starts to move. Please, get some sleep while you can."

Unable to deny Harold's gentle pleading, John conceded, compromising by staying fully dressed except for his jacket. He didn't want to be caught barefoot if he had to move quickly. Even so, he found his eyes fluttering closed, and lulled by the sound of Harold's fingers on the computer keys, he drifted off in minutes.

The sound of John's slow, even breathing assured Harold that John was asleep, and Harold sighed. He knew that their work was important, and that he couldn't do it without John, but Harold often wished that he could just keep Harold safe and comfortable, instead of putting him in mortal peril. Harold wished that John could always be as peaceful as he looked now- his face unguarded, his lips slightly parted, and his hands unclenched. Harold studied his partner, committing every detail of the tableau to memory.

His reverie was broken by a yawn, and he realized he'd been awake even longer than John. Glancing at the security feeds, Harold assured himself that Charlie was still safely planted in the lobby, sprawled out on a couch toying with a soccer bawl.

"A few winks probably wouldn't hurt," he whispered to himself as exhaustion set in. Removing a few layers of his own, Harold settled as carefully as he could, doing his best not to disturb the sleeping ex-soldier. John shifted as Harold nestled beside him, but his eyes didn't open, and his breathing remained steady. Harold couldn't resist the opportunity to study John's face up close, counting the freckles and scars he hadn't yet noticed. Up close, Harold realized with delight that John snored ever so slightly. With the gentle noise, Harold didn't even notice when his eyes closed.

John woke with a start to a chiming sound. It was Harold's computer, alerting them to new activity. But before he could move to locate Charlie and take action if necessary, he had to disentangle himself from Harold.

He never would have guessed that Harold was like an octopus- clinging to John in a tangle of limbs. How he managed to wrap himself around John without John noticing was baffling. John trusted Harold with his life, sure, but even more than that-

John didn't have time to think about it now. Rearranging Harold as delicately as he could, he moved to the laptop to get eyes on their number. To his great relief, the team had moved to the hotel pool, and Charlie was currently doing a cannonball into the water. He was safe for the time being, but John should keep an eye on him anyway.

With a sigh, John grabbed his jacket and checked his gun before heading for the door. He paused a moment before turning back. Draping a blanket over Harold's still sleeping form, John carefully tucked Harold in, removing his glasses and placing them on the bedside table. Next to the glasses, he left a note- "Gone poolside. Be back later. -J."