Finch licked his lips as he rubbed the green through the baggy. “It’s been years,” he said, taking off his jacket and handing it to a startled John. He hadn’t expected this response. Hell, he thought the quiet, adorable genius would spurn the very idea.
But Finch placed a rolling paper on the sparkling coffee table and began picking through the greens. “Very nice! Not a seed or stem in the lot,” he observed, spreading a thick layer. But he hesistated.
“John?”
“Yes, Harold?” grinned the amused former op.
“I have to warn you. I’m, um, very friendly when I get high.”
John laughed, remembering the Jordan Hester Incident, something that was still referred back to with capital letters. “So I recall.”
“Let me re-phrase that,” blushed Finch. “When I smoked pot with Nathan… I’d relax and allow myself to feel very friendly. Handsy, you might call it.”
“Oh! You get lit and let your freak flag fly,” snorted John. But Finch wasn’t laughing. He tugged John’s sleeve. “I think I’d better go…”
John stopped. “Harold, I’m sorry.”
“Right…”