A/N: Celebrating POI's return and inspired by Team Machine's dynamic in 3x1, Liberty. Mild references obvs, no major spoilers. Just a feel good dose of lightheartedness, really. :3 Finch/Reese if you squint, but more pre-slash/bromance than anything. Ensemble Cast fun and bickering ahead!

They say friends are the family that you choose for yourself.

"It's titanium reinforced," says Harold when the sharpened heel of Shaw's shoe fails to break the phone screen as per usual, after a case.

"Is that the company standard issue nowadays," Shaw says. She picks up the phone and flips the back case open, pulls a hairpin out of nowhere and pries around until the GPS chip is dislodged, which she promptly discards along with the sim card. She hands the brick of a phone back to Harold with a shrug. "Give it to Reese, maybe he'll like it better."

"You have broken eleven iPhones in the past month," Harold tells her, completely unfazed. "I may be forced to acquire a Nokia for you next time."

Shaw shifts her expression in the way that makes no difference at all. "You can try."

A pause. Harold watches her during the split second she lets the amusement through, then turns away. "Mr. Reese likes his standard issue iPhone just fine," he huffs, dignified.

Shaw wants to laugh but it would hurt her street cred so she twists her lips upwards instead. As if on cue, John slinks into her peripheral vision like a wisp of smoke.

"No luck with the titanium?" John smirks at the phone shell in Harold's hand. "Maybe you should try diamonds next time, Harold."

The look he gets from both parties are equally unimpressed and stoic. John grins wider and Shaw starts to leave, grinding the heel of her shoe into the pavement just to make a point. Then a nearby church struck its bell and she realises it's well past midday, and the last time she ate was the last time before dark.

"One of you is buying me a steak," Shaw declares, swishing back on the balls of her feet. She interrupts a look shared between two men, laden with some sort of unspoken question and tacit understanding and she doesn't have the time or the curiosity to decipher. "Well?"

John lifts a brow and shifts a sly glance at Harold. "Ask nicely and you might get kobe beef from the treasury," he says.

"What's that," Shaw says, unimpressed. "I'm in the mood for a pepper steak. Medium well, if you please."

"I shall relay that order to the relevant establishment," Harold allows graciously. "John?"

John shrugs and lifts the corner of his lips a little. "I'll take any of your recommendations, Harold."

Harold gestures for Shaw to lead the way to the restaurant before pulling at the leash for Bear to follow. They fall in step a couple of paces behind, a typical post-mission stroll through the park.

"I should think by now you have already ascertained most of my gastronomic tastes," Harold begins as they approach the restaurant.

"I know where this is going," John interrupts. "You still think I'm trying to figure out your favourite vampire novel by finding out how well you like your steak done?"

Harold stops, turns, opens his mouth, then closes it again. He squints at John's shit-eating grin and absently stops at a table under the shade to allow Bear to sniff it out.

"I was going to suggest that you pick a healthier option," Harold says, peeved.

"We eat doughnuts for breakfast," John points out.

Harold purses his lips and gives him a dirty look. "I will take your feedback into consideration," he says sarcastically.

Shaw straightens from looking at the menu on the board and calls to them, "Their 12oz looks good."

Harold appears befuddled momentarily by how a steak can look 'good' simply by studying the menu, but he offers no protest as they find themselves seated in a booth near the wall. Bear is graciously allow in and curls himself under Harold's feet, one paw lazily draped over John's left shoe.

They each order a steak and Shaw asks for a extra large portion of french fries, upon whence Harold insists also on a bowl of salad. "If nothing else then the placebo effect," he says, pushing the bowl to the centre of the table.

Halfway through lunch John realises this is the first time that Harold has seen Shaw eat a steak while ravenous, and the expression on his face can only be described as morbid fascination.

"Harold," Shaw says, completely deadpan, "It's not polite to stare at a lady while she is eating."

Harold looks pained and flits a quick look at John, who is hiding a face-splitting smirk behind his hand. "I apologise," he murmurs, but not before stealing another look at the steak that is currently dripping sauce onto Shaw's strategically placed napkin.

It gets even more cozy afterwards, when Carter and Fusco find them in the nearly deserted restaurant and drags two chairs around the booth. They exchange intel about the latest wrapped up case and Carter enthusiastically rubs at Bear's ears while Fusco calls loudly for a rib eye.

"Your treat," Fusco grunts at Harold, when the food arrives.

"Of course," Harold says, appearing surprised by the idea of anything but. "It is the least I can do."

Carter orders herself some dessert and smiles dazzlingly while Bear scratches himself near her feet. "This is nice," she announces, flashing her teeth.

Four pairs of eyes lock on to her appraisingly, trying to determine the level of sarcasm with each their own. Carter nearly snorts with laughter, and picks at the chocolate slice on top of her cake.

"I do agree," Harold speaks up suddenly. Everyone's eyebrows rise. Harold is unfazed, and gestures for the waiter to bring, of all things, Champagne.

"Perhaps a toast," Harold proposes.

They all set down their fork and waits expectantly. Harold raises his glass and smiles that small smile of his,

"To another person saved from unnecessary violence," he says.

"To unlikely partnerships and free steak," Shaw quips, draining her glass in one.

John quirks his eyebrow and drinks, clinking his glass against Harold's. Carter sighs with a fond but exasperated smile and says, almost a touch patronisingly, "To friends."

"Is that what we all are now," Fusco grunts. He also empties his glass in one go.

"Come now, Lionel," John prods, refilling everyone's share, "they say friends are the family that you choose for yourself."

"Is that so?" Fusco replies, sardonic, "Cos I don't remember having too much of a choice, thanks to you."

John grins wider and wider and Fusco rolls his eyes, waving his glass towards John's general direction before draining it again. He sighs elaborately afterwards. "Aw, this is the good stuff. At least Glasses here has great taste."

"Thank you," Harold says graciously. "Also, I do agree with the sentiment that friends are families that we make. Ms. Shaw, I'm afraid some of your steak has finally been introduced to your blouse."

"Sorry, mom," Shaw tips her head, sarcastic.

Fusco snorts into his steak and Carter coughs discreetly behind her hands, while the tips of Harold's ear burn red. "Is this an allegorisation to the fact that I stay in most of the time? If that is the case, then we must have a conversation about twenty-first century and gender roles."

"Really?" John questions helpfully, "You want to talk to her about gender roles?"

Shaw says nothing, sets down her fork and plunges the steak knife into the remaining meat, bringing it up to her mouth. Fusco slinks imperceptibly further into his seat, and Carter nearly chokes herself on the cake.

Harold scowls at John in a way that clearly states he expected backup, not back stab. "I regret the unexpected turn this conversation has taken," he says.

"Oh, I don't care which one of you is the mommy," Carter declares, throwing one hand in the air and the other down to pat at Bear's head, "I just wanna be the cool aunt, who gets to play with the kid. Isn't that right, Bear?"

"Man, I'm not drunk enough for this," Fusco groans. John flicks an eyebrow and passes him the wine list.

Harold purses his lips in disapproval. "Mr. Reese - "

John winces.

"Is mommy and daddy fighting?" Shaw asks innocently, though the tone contrasts curiously with the non-expression on her face. She quickly finishes her steak and folds the napkin back onto the table, peering at the men sitting opposite her. "Was it something I said?"

Harold flattens the lines of his mouth and sends an exasperated look her way, says nothing, then cuts into his own steak with a new level of premeditated precision and grace that somehow speaks louder than words. John grins and grins, inching the salad bowl towards Harold, who ignores it in favour of dipping the cut up pieces in pepper sauce.

"I think I'll just go up to my room now," Shaw says, a customary blend of sarcastic and bored rolled into a non-expression, getting up and staring at Fusco, who's blocking the booth exit.

"Say the magical word," Fusco grunts.

Shaw narrows her eyes. "I have a gun?"

"Yeah, and I'm the one who's actually licensed to carry it," Fusco says. "You know what? Since this is a family meeting - "

"Oh I beg pardon," Harold says, scandalised.

"A family meeting," Fusco continues, squaring his shoulder, "I ought to make some matters known. You, pretty lady, cannot use me as a human shield every time we go on a case together, okay?"

"I think Harold will tell you that 'cannot' is grammatically incorrect in this case," Shaw says, "So yeah, I can."

Fusco darts a desperate look at Harold, who responds by heaving a long sigh through his nose. "I think what Detective Fusco is trying to say is -"

"Oh, I know what he's trying to say," Shaw interrupts. "I just don't think I need to hear it. It's not my fault he's always conveniently in the way when all the fun starts."

Fusco makes a choked noise and John grins at him. "Don't worry, Lionel, she'll warm up to you. I did."

"I really don't think that helps," Harold notes.

"I haven't threatened your kneecaps or mentioned Oyster Bay in, what, three months, have I?" John counts helpfully. "A definite improvement for our relationship, wouldn't you say?"

"Carter!" Fusco says, grappling at last straws, "We are friends, aren't we, buddy?"

Carter doesn't even look up from scratching Bear's ear, who's looking blissed out from all the attention. "Hey, I'm just the cool aunt playing with the kid," she says, completely unhelpful.

"While I appreciate the metaphor," Harold begins, "I do not see why we must apply predetermined labels of familial roles onto ourselves - "

"Familial roles? I'm the human shield! What am I, next door neighbour?"

"Move or I'll show you where next door really is," Shaw says.

Harold's lips twitch despite himself. "Ms. Shaw, kindly stop bullying the good Detective," he admonishes, half-heartedly.

Shaw completely ignores him and stares pointedly at Fusco, one brow raised, a foot poised to strike.

"Out of the frying pan and into the friggin' fire," Fusco mumbles, and inches his chair away. "Say please?"

Shaw kicks Fusco's foot on the way out and bumps into the waitress, who is bringing a bottle of wine.

"On the house," the waitress announces cheerfully. "A happy occasion, is it? Would you like a picture taken?"

Shaw promptly settles back down at the promise of more alcohol and Carter suddenly brightens at Harold's cautious alarm at the mention of photographic evidence of his existence. "Yeah," she says, flashing a wide grin at the waitress and handing over her phone, "A picture would be nice. Thanks."

"Detective -" Harold begins.

"Don't worry, I'm sure you can remotely wipe it afterwards," Carter says, sliding in beside Reese. "Squish over."

Fusco looks at the expectant waitress and back at Harold, who appears resigned and has turned awkwardly on his side to make room for John. That leaves space for him only with on the other side with Shaw, which is both incredibly spacious because there's only two of them, and unimaginably claustrophobic, because it's Shaw.

Shaw gives him an unimpressed non-look as Fusco sidles in and settles his hands on his lap, every muscle in his body tense. Then she decides to drape a leg over Fusco's knee and a vein begins to throb violently in Fusco's temple.

"Very cozy," the waitress comments as she starts the camera app. "Smile!"

"Oh look, Fusco, you have your constipated face immortalised," Carter says afterwards, thanking the waitress and chortling at the picture on the screen.

"Very funny," Fusco responds. "That is how I think of all of you, by the way."

"You two don't look bad," Carter comments, pointing at the phone. Somewhere in the shuffling John must've slung an arm over Harold's shoulder because they are pressed together in the picture, in each other's personal space, Harold smiling that small, satisfied smile of his and John grinning the shark-eating grin, looking vaguely menacing and incredibly smug at the same time. Carter is flashing her teeth brightly, a crinkle around her nose; Fusco has half a nervous eye out for Shaw, who is stoically peering at the camera, but somehow radiating perverse contentment at Fusco's discomfort.

"Aw, a happy family," Carter says. Her tone is halfway sarcastic and gentle mocking, but they fool no one: in that small moment, they are.

"How do I send the picture to you?" Carter asks. Harold blinks at her, suddenly sheepish, and she sighs. "You already have it wired through, haven't you? Should've guessed."

"I must offer my gratitude in your trust," Harold says. "Of course I would never violate your privacy unnecessarily -"

"Yeah, the less said about that, the better," Carter says, waving it off. A beep, then the picture on her phone starts to delete itself. "Aw, I would've liked to keep it."

"Yeah, give it to her as a retirement gift when the time comes," Fusco says.

Harold smiles and says nothing.

They finish the wine among more bickering and Fusco is kicked three more times before they all leave the restaurant. Outside, it's starting to rain, and Harold pulls on his coat while John procures an umbrella from a nearby shop.

"You know how to find me," Shaw murmurs, and slinks into the crowd. Carter rubs out her goodbyes with Bear and gestures Fusco to follow, who bids his leave with an grunt and a grimace, met by a solemn nod and a smirk.

Finally, John extends his hand and Harold turns towards him.

"Yes?" Harold says.

John raises a pointed brow. "There is an old fashioned photo studio two blocks to the east," he says.

"Is there," Harold murmurs.

"I think the library could use some personal touches," John continues.

"Oh, I wouldn't know about that," Harold says. He peers up at John, then down at the hand that hangs close to his own, curled protectively, empty, waiting. "But I am always in need of a new photo bookmark," he says finally, handing over the phone.

John smiles, and their hands touch fleetingly. Harold steps a little bit closer to allow a pedestrian bike to pass, and their personal space converge, two bubbles as one.

"For the record, I don't think you are the mo-"

"Please don't reopen that topic," Harold says, pained. Bear woofs in his agreement, and John grins and grins. They start down the pavement, towards the east.

FIN