One of those 'I just had to' fics, after watching 2x22 God Mode. Minor spoilers for the Machine's behaviour, 100% crack.

Idea comes from a discussion with fromchive 3 Many thanks and love 3

"How long has this noodle been sitting in the fridge?" John's voice floats back as he rummaged around in the supply closet for an afternoon pick-me-up.

Harold pauses and looks up from the keyboard. "I can't remember," he says, craning his neck a little. "It's probably best if -"

"Do you think it's still good?" John asks.

"I don't know," Harold answers, "why don't we just -"

"Two minutes in the microwave it is, then," John finishes, emerging from the room, noodle in one hand and phone in another.

Harold narrows his eyes. "Mr. Reese," he begins, "please tell me you haven't been asking The Machine for advice... on leftovers."

John gives him a vaguely amused look and shrugs. "Why not? It doesn't take a lot of computing power, does it?"

The phone vibrates on Harold's desk. Harold looks down to see a single text:

0.0000000012seconds

He sighs.

"I think we need to teach it the meaning of sarcasm," John says amiably.

Harold opens his mouth. "I did not build the Machine so you can -"

John interrupts him. "Do we still have milk?" he asks, unabashed.

Negative, the text says.

"I just bought some last -" Harold begins, indignant.

Expired, the text flashes.

"Well," John says. "it does see everything, you know."

Harold forcibly removes his eyes from John's smugly raised brows and suppresses the irrational twitch of his mouth. "Fine," he concedes, "I'll bring some on my way back."

"Legwork?" John asks mildly.

"I need physical access to our latest Number's company database," Harold replies. Then, "Estimated traffic flow in downtown Manhattan?"

The indicator light on phone buzzes red.

"Find a way for me to get to Mr. Patrovich's company in less than thirty minutes," Harold says.

Seven o'clock, the text answers.

Harold shoots John a significant look. "This, Mr. Reese," he says, "Is what I built the Machine for."

John opens his mouth as the phone buzzes again. The map application opens by itself and a detailed route to downtown pops up, along with a return stop near one of the supermarkets, where Harold has a significant share in holding.

"...Sure, Harold," John concludes, smirking.

In the end, Harold does make a pit stop at the supermarket on his way back. He fills the cart with regular supplies for their late night hours and afternoon cravings, then opens the shopping list on his phone.

"Hot pockets, milky way, tea, instant coffee... beer," Harold reads, scowling at the last item. He does not remember putting it on the list himself. "Where might that be," he mutters, glancing around.

The phone buzzes.

Seven o'clock, the incoming text says.

Harold turns and finds the liquor aisle. He slowly drags his gaze down towards his phone. "Did you add beer to the list?" he asks, a little incredulous.

The list promptly refreshes itself and all the items in the cart are crossed out as complete. Harold's brow flicks.

"This is... inappropriate," he decides, without much conviction.

No reply. Harold finds himself walking into the liquor aisle anyway, the back of his mind doing some sort of calculation on the minimal computing power it would require for the Machine to behave in this strangely... congenial way.

Two o'clock, the phone buzzes.

Harold glances to his right. "That's John's favourite, is it?"

Affirmative, the text says.

Harold purses his mouth and feels oddly ridiculous and fond at the same time. "Don't suppose you'll let me know what snack he is in the mood for today, then," he says, with just a hint of sarcasm.

Aisle seven, the phone responds. Then, five o'clock.

Harold follows the lead and sees a shelf full of chocolate covered pretzels. "Guilty pleasures no longer a secret," he mutters, smiling a little despite himself. He has seen John stealing these for stakeouts, when John doesn't think he is watching.

Stop, the phone says, as Harold reaches out to grab a bag.

Harold scowls and glances around. No one in sight. "Why?" he asks.

An ascending tone suddenly plays from the speaker and the level changed when Harold waved his hand in confusion.

"Oh," Harold says, moving his hand along the shelves tentatively.

The tone continues to play until it hits an end and Harold returns his gaze to the product under his fingers.

"Low sodium and low fat," he reads blankly. "Really?"

The phone doesn't do anything, but Harold has a funny feeling that the Machine would've shrugged.

"I don't think - " Harold begins as he retracts his hand, and the phone protests violently.

Risk of cardiovascular disease 32.6%

Harold huffs an incredulous laugh. "You are not a doctor," he says.

The phone vibrates once but no text comes forth. Harold takes that as a harrumph.

"Fine," Harold says, half exasperated and wholly amused. "If you insist." he takes a bag of the healthy pretzels, feeling certain that it is a contradiction in terms.

The phone buzzes to life again as he approaches the checkout.

Milk, it says.

"Oh yes," Harold says, turning on his heels. "Thank you for reminding me."

The screen flashes once, and Harold thinks it's being smug. Which is completely ridiculous and utterly inappropriate, but he smiles anyway.

Harold returns to the checkout realising it has started to rain outside. "Oh dear," he murmurs. "Don't suppose they sell umbrellas here too?"

There was a brief pause, then,

Twelve o'clock.

Harold looks up and frowns. Straight ahead is the exit. "They don't?" he wonders out loud.

Twelve o'clock, the phone repeats, buzzing with certainty this time.

"Okay," Harold says, slowly. He pays for the items and proceeds towards the exit, a little bewildered.

Outside, the fresh smell of rain and the damper chill of autumn greets him, as the phone buzzes once more, longer, softer.

Three o'clock, the text says.

Harold turns and sees John standing near the car park, umbrella in one hand, smiling.

FIN