Finch had suggested, gently once and then more firmly the second time, that Reese treat Shaw like something more than an operative.

"If we're to work with her, John, then you might try getting to know her. Be polite!"

Of course, Finch always flinches when Shaw enters the room on light feet, startling him with her sudden ownership of a previously empty patch of air. Shaw grins evilly, and each time she gets closer and closer to Harold before he sees her.

Shaw's a soldier, like John. When they walk into a fancy restaurant three names down the waiting list from their number, her eyes flit between all seven possible exits and mark the faces of each new waitstaff member that catches her eye. They finish at the same time, glance at each other, and then look away. The silence is neither comfortable nor awkward; it simply is.

The way Shaw stalks to the table with ever-moving eyes and a low glare draws attention. The mercifully under-lit dining room is elegantly full with couples and murmurs; the angry black-clad assassin, as beautiful as she is, sticks out like a criminal in a cop bar. Polite moues of disapproval follow her, and by extension, John.

He moves quickly to pull out the chair facing the wall, standing with a straight back behind it so that Shaw can take her seat. Instead, she rounds the table and, with a low crow of satisfied victory, drops herself into the opposite chair. This puts her back to the wall and her eyes to the door. She grins a challenge at John.

"You gonna sit?" The waiter looked entirely nonplussed at her attitude. John nods to him and sinks gracefully into the waiting chair.

"We'll have the '89 Chateau," he indicates in a low voice. The waiter nods and turns to leave, but Shaw's monotone stops him. There's a hint of glee there, an enjoyment usually found only when she plays her game of cat-and-mouse with Harold as her unwilling playmate.

"Macallan 25." Did she just… wink at John? "Bring the bottle." The waiter leaves a bit more quickly than he arrived.

"Expensive taste, Shaw. The waiter's not gonna forget us now."

She shrugs and her voice returns to its usual monotone, accompanied by a blank face. "You were going to leave a huge tip anyway. This isn't a date. As long as we watch the number, who cares if I get my scotch?"

Reese sits back and risks a glance at the number. He's comfortably ensconced with the mistress of the month, and unlikely to move for at least an hour. He shifts to the other side to accommodate the return of the waiter with their drinks. Before the other man can scurry away again, John pulls him back with his voice and a steady hand on his sleeve.

"Could you bring another tumbler?" The waiter nods, but John is not finished speaking. "I'd hate to make my wife drink scotch alone on our anniversary." The waiter stumbles away as if in fear for his life, but Shaw's murderous glare is directed only at John. He smiles softly and raises his water glass in a silent toast. The score is one-one, and the night's only just begun.

I just love the idea of John being like 'okay I'll try treating Shaw nicely' and Shaw being a little shit about it, thus beginning their sibling relationship of mutual respect and love based on being tough guys and annoying the hell out of each other.