Harold still loves Grace. John can hear it in his words, knows it from the way he still goes to the park to watch her from a distance. Can feel his sadness, sure as the tide, and then sharp like the hit from a breaker. He feels guilty. Of course Harold still loves Grace. Why did he think he needed to ask? What was he trying to accomplish here apart from digging up Harold's pain?
He supposes it's because he secretly hopes he occupies some of the same space as Grace does in Harold. It seems like an understatement to say that he's "in love" with Harold; Harold means so much more than that. Harold is John's sun. His orbit would be lost without him; he would wither and die if Harold was gone. But just because they're soulmates doesn't mean that Harold loves John. Certainly throughout this evening he's shown that John occupies some space in him, but John doesn't know what. How much. Harold said that Grace is not a jealous person, and John feels the same way. Grace is a part of Harold and Harold's life, and yet John built his life around Harold. If, somehow, Grace did come back into his life, could John accept her too? The answer is immediately "yes." John would make sure they have the space they need even if it meant less of Harold in his life.
John just wanted to know if there's space in Harold's heart to love John too. But he asked in too roundabout a way, gave away too little and didn't get what he really desired. He needs to think of his question more carefully next time. Or just ask questions that aren't so indulgent of the things he doesn't deserve. Harold had said it's not about what they deserve— but John doesn't really deserve something so fairy tale as "love." He should be grateful for this much. Just for Harold's fingers in his hair, for Harold's warmth, for his honesty.
Words don't seem adequate to Harold either, love being an imprecise concept applied so many different ways. He uses them as an inelegant, imperfect solution, but they don't capture what he has with John at all. And he doesn't quite understand the connection here, why John was asking in the first place if it wasn't for reassurance that Harold wouldn't need to choose between them. Did he want him to say he'd choose? That doesn't seem like John, who has a generous heart of his own. (Harold does seem to have a type.)
Whether there's room in his life is a matter of time and practicality; whether he cares is an immutable fact Harold himself has no control over. Harold is slow to care about others and absolutely steadfast once he's there. Nathan's absence still cuts him deeply and he still finds himself wistfully wondering what could've been with Grace. He thinks of them and of Arthur and his father often, a small but poignant subset of people who've touched his life. He even thinks of the Machine practically every day, though with more complexity behind it, since he could technically reach out whenever he wanted to and their silence is a deliberate choice he's perpetuating.
He thinks of John not just every day, but often every hour of every day. To deserve something is a concept that has no bearing on what is.
Technically it's John's turn to answer the same question, which is convenient, because Harold needs to understand what had spurred him to ask in the first place. It feels unresolved.
"What about Grace?" he asks, nudging him gently. To make sure his intent is clear, he adds, "Why did you ask?"
"Why did you ask" is really the question, isn't it. John had expected the question to turn to Jessica, the mirror of his question to Harold. He had been bracing himself to return to those memories. He didn't expect the exact same question to be turned on him instead.
John feels caught, like a deer in the headlights. He has two options: stay this course and feel the impact of Harold crashing into him, or dodge the question and survive. It really does feel like survival. How could he tell Harold? How could he open his mouth and say the words? How could he even begin to explain the depth, how all encompassing his feelings towards Harold are? But he agreed to honesty, he agreed to answer Harold's questions and Harold had answered such an invasive one from John.
He can do this. He can open his mouth, and does, and nothing comes out. He's at a loss. The words simply don't come. Surely he can say just one word. "I—" he manages to choke out, and it's so painful, it sounds painful.
John realizes in a distant way that he's shaking again. That his body is rebelling against his mind, or maybe— this is his mind telling him that he can't do it. This is its way of saying "no, not yet". He takes a shuddering breath and tries to still himself. How can he not be honest with Harold in this moment? Harold is asking him, and has been so open with him, how can he not return it?
"I think—" you're the center of my life. I asked because I wanted to know if you had space in your heart for me. But the words won't come out. He can think them but they're caught inside of him, his throat closes on them before they can come to life.
"Can I tell you another time. I'm not— not tonight." It comes out as miserable as he feels. He had just said that he trusts Harold, had promised Harold he would be honest, and here he is breaking all of that.
The sense coming from the bond is so acutely painful it deserves to be called torment. It feels like he's pinned John down like a moth by its wings and then shone a microscope directly on him, and he's twisting reflexively to get away and then also suppressing that instinct, trying to fulfill his promise.
Harold is astounded into silence for an unforgivably long moment in which John fumbles to speak, and then he recovers. He shifts as best he can to more properly wrap his arms around him, shushing him immediately.
"John-- John, I'm sorry. You don't need to answer." In an aching voice, low and next to his ear, he murmurs earnestly, "Thank you for telling me that you can't. You said you wouldn't hide when you were hurt from me, and you didn't."
He fulfilled a much more important request than answering Harold's question about Grace. Moved by the intensity of John's emotions, Harold doesn't think twice before pressing a chaste kiss into his hair. Is that-- too far? Is he going too fast? Or is he torturing John by not going faster? It's damnably hard to tell.
When Harold kisses his head John stops thinking for just a moment. It's so— it's beyond what he dreamed he would get. Tonight certainly, but maybe ever. And then he's filled up so much desire, so much longing. He wants it again, he wants Harold— but he's here. He's wrapped up in Harold's embrace. Harold is comforting him just the way John has always wanted.
John is distantly aware that he should be relaxing, that he should be unwinding into Harold's hold, but his heart is hammering so fast and he wonders if Harold can feel how much he wants him. Harold knows to some extent, had offered this position to John, but John thinks he's done a good job of hiding the depth of this desire so far. This is not something he will be able to hide forever and maybe— he'll get what he wants if he's honest. But he doesn't want to ask for it, he wants Harold to find it, to give it to him. He's being greedy and testing both of them when he really shouldn't be playing a game like that. This is far too important.
And then he catches up with what Harold actually said. About how John didn't hide his hurt. John hadn't— when he'd said that he'd meant his physical hurt. He'd never intended to promise that he'd be honest about his feelings. That's difficult in a way he's not sure he's prepared for. If John is being honest with himself (which he is right now), he's a bit too good at hiding that. From himself included. He's not sure how to be honest about that kind of hurt. But he can't take it back now. There's not a good way to explain his own emotional lack of wellbeing in a way that doesn't sound... bad. They'll have to run into that brick wall later and discuss it when the issue is forced.
For now, he can just bask in Harold's touch. In his kindness. This feels like a reward, in a way. Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a reflex.
"You can ask me something else, I didn't answer your question." He sounds calmer now, like Harold's kiss has washed away his pain. John wants to uphold his end of the bargain, prove that he's not just receiving right now.
If that's not what John fully intended earlier with his promise, well, Harold is well aware of that. But he's not going to miss an opportunity to mercilessly push his agenda that John tell him if he's hurting him, in any way. He won't force him to -- it's not a hard limit, like he was thinking earlier -- but it also isn't something Harold is sanguine with letting lie where it is, not if they're going to be exploring ever more potentially fraught spaces in their relationship.
A simple press of his lips to his hair and John is frozen again, after all. Slow it is. That tells him it's time to lighten things. But how? Harold does know almost everything there is to know about John already, which means anything new would be about his thoughts, his inner experience, which as they've just covered he's not ready to fully divulge.
"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asks spontaneously. "As ourselves. Let me do this properly."
For as many times as they've eaten together before or attended a function together before, it's unquestionably not the same, and Harold thinks John will understand intuitively that it means something completely different to be asked deliberately as a personal invitation.
"Sure— Harold." John catches himself before he can say "Finch." It's an automatic response to the question, he doesn't even think before replying, but then his brain actually catches up.
Is that— a date? Is Harold asking him on a date? Surely not— but he said "as ourselves." What does that entail? Does he mean John and not Mr. Reese? He's not exactly dressed for the sort of establishments they often frequent, and certainly not dressed to match Harold. It might do him good to take a break, to put his suit back on, compose himself— but Harold said "as ourselves." John thinks Harold wouldn't like if he did that.
"What were you thinking? I'm not exactly dressed for going out. I could change."
"Oh-- not now," Harold clarifies immediately, dragging his mind back from spinning off into contemplating his options. He wants it to be something John enjoys, not just purely indulging Harold, though they could do that another time, too...
He's getting ahead of himself again.
"Just, well, perhaps this is foolish of me." A wry, self-aware smile twists his mouth, and he finds himself staring at their discarded tea cups, full of watered-down tea they'd never made more than a token attempt at drinking. It's horribly domestic.
"I realize we will always be... in the position we are." Legally dead. Perpetually in peril. Existing under the surface of normal life and not among it. Scrabbling out these little moments of peace between the chaos. "But if we weren't, if we were in another position, I would want to take my soulmate on a proper date."
A date. Harold wants to take him on a date— and, oh, maybe they do want the same thing. Maybe Harold will accept all the longing that's been denied in John's heart for so long. The feelings he's always denied he has. The things he promised he would never tell Harold. But— but. Not yet. No, this might just be Harold being Harold. He always does things properly. If John is thinking about what he actually said instead of what John wanted him to say, he said "soulmate" as a generic. Whoever that was. He didn't say "you". This is not a personal comment to John, this is just because they happen to be soulmates.
But. Still. There's no denying that John wants this. He's not going to reject this offer. Maybe eventually Harold will decide that he wants to take John on a date. Maybe if he can be— "as ourselves"— Harold will want him, specifically. It's a terrifying thought. John isn't sure Harold will still want him after he learns everything John is at heart. After he realizes how hard it is sometimes for John to be good. But he can cross that bridge later. This is why he has to wait.
"Yes." He sounds too emotional. He needs to dial it back some. John takes a deep breath. "Yes, I would like that."
There is a difference, in that knowing he's his soulmate means it's utterly fruitless for Harold to try to keep his distance. More than that, he only gets one of these in his life; is he really going to spend what time he has left denying what John means to him? Pretending they're nothing more than business partners who've grown to be friends, as if that ever encapsulated what they were? Of course John is his soulmate because Harold already had this depth of feeling for him. He's just run out of excuses for shoving it under the rug.
There's something complicated happening in John, but Harold can't begin to piece apart what it is. So he focuses on the effusive agreement and lets out a shaky breath of his own. He wasn't really nervous about the possibility of rejection, but he was opening a new door within himself as he asked that. He was admitting to himself that he was open to more than the unstated unconditional trust they'd had thus far.
Trust was a prerequisite for intimacy, but it wasn't the same. And Harold has been so very parsimonious with his intimacy. Even with John.
"Good. Good, I'll arrange something." There's a small thrill that goes through him at getting to plan something for someone he cares about again, rather than just happening upon one another and agreeing to spend time together. Harold loves taking care of others, feels that getting to do it unencumbered is a gift given personally and directly to him, and it's perhaps impossible to hide how much he's looking forward to it.
"And of course, I would go to dinner with you," he adds belatedly, fulfilling his end of the bargain. His mind is abuzz with ideas, distracted. "Your turn for a question, now."
John can feel how Harold is thrilled by the prospect of their date. Of planning something just for them. This is different than just them going to eat, this is more than just treating John to a nice steak because John won't buy such a thing for himself. No, Harold is planning something. John feels anticipation building within him, but he'll have to be patient. This is so new, and they are so busy, all the time. He wonders if this is something that Harold is used to, has done for Grace, for anyone that was before her. Has he dated men before? Is this familiar territory for him? It's been so long since John has dated, well, anyone. It feels a bit foreign to think about now. He's certainly slept with men, but Jessica was the last person he dated and that was so long ago. He was an entirely different person back then. He's not sure how John Reese will do on a date. He'll have to find out.
His turn for a question. John has to think on it for a bit, but he knows Harold will be patient as he comes up with one. Finally he settles on one that he's wondered for a while but never thought he'd ask. "Why pick me? To help with the numbers."
John supposes he'll have to answer why he chose to work the numbers, but. If he's going to be with Harold in some capacity (which Harold seems to desire, maybe) then it's something they should discuss. Who John really is and what he's really done.
That question succeeds in wrenching his spinning thoughts to a halt. (An art museum would remind them both of Grace, but perhaps something unconventional-- the New York Public Library exhibitions? That's almost romantic in itself for the two of them--) Once again, John has made good use of his opportunity, pinpointed a question Harold would be extremely cagey about under normal circumstances. There's a delay before he responds, thinking through that whole time period.
It's hard to think back on now. It has the black oily feel of murky water, something far under the surface that he's been avoiding by bobbing along the top and ignoring what's below. If they're likely to die soon, why reflect on it? Why dredge up that time in his life, which was mired in hopelessness and struggle?
Harold had given up on anything except doing one last good thing before he died. And most of the time, he'd been failing at that.
"You lied to your partner," he says out of nowhere, and it should be abrupt, but his voice is soft and his body is still, his heart aching as he thinks of it. "Kara Stanton. You told her you killed Daniel Casey, but you let him go."
A momentary pause as he closes his eyes and summons up those memories again, willingly, for John, pulse picking up speed with relived anxiety. It doesn't seem like he needs to explain how he'd known that or how he'd been involved; John can guess, and it's not important. Not really. He set up this exchange and he meant it honestly, intends to give the real complete answer and not sidestep it with a smaller truth like he usually would. Usually he would stop there, if he even went that far, but Harold had felt how cracked open John was through their conversations and he owes him no less. It feels like he's peeling away a scab and letting a wound seep blood again.
"You were not the first person I worked with." This is hard, harder, to relive. He swallows. He lets out a shaky breath. "I--
"I had Jessica Arndt's number, and I wanted to save her. But there was nothing I could do. You probably won't remember, but I saw you in the hospital-- afterwards." The whole, complete truth... "I was in a wheelchair. And I thought--
"You were the first person with the skills to make a difference that I believed would understand why. Why it matters to save one person."
John takes a breath. Harold had— he had seen the picture in the safe. Of Jessica. He had suspected it then but— to hear confirmation— it still hurts to think of her. Poor Jessica, who he abandoned more than once.
But he can feel how hard this is for Harold. This moment is not about John's long running guilt and despair about Jessica, it's about the two of them, together. It's about Harold. And it's clearly a question that hurts. But he's answering anyways, is telling John the whole truth, all of it. This is more than just not lying. John rests his hand on Harold's thigh and runs his thumb across the wool of his pants. This is something that comforts John but he doesn't know if Harold will feel the same.
He wants to learn how to comfort Harold.
This line of thought from Harold isn't direct. It's not organized the way he usually is. Scattered points instead of a straight line. John can trace their shape, fill in those lines. Harold knew about Casey, Harold worked with someone else. So it was probably Harold's previous associate that tried to keep Casey out of their hands. Casey was an irrelevant and... got lucky. John could mire himself in these memories the way he's asked Harold to, but he wants to be a support for Harold in this moment, so he drags himself away from the thought.
"Thank you for telling me." It's as simple as that. Harold had told him, and John is thankful. He is thankful, for the truth and for Harold's bravery. He doesn't need to push Harold more.
It's one thing to rationally and logically think that if this is going to work, he needs to give John an opportunity to ask all the questions Harold would normally dodge or duck or evade. He's learned from Grace, he's just never had a chance to put it into practice, hadn't really thought he ever would. But it's still another thing to give those answers, honestly and completely, with his whole heart. His eyes are closed and he absorbs the gratitude, the lack of pushing for more.
The absence of expectation makes him want to give. It's a deeply natural feeling for Harold, one he normally has to suppress or at least mask somehow with anonymity, but here he doesn't have to. Air across the wound, letting it breathe.
His hand covers John's on his leg, skin warm and dry and reassuring.
"You proved me right. Over and over again. The time before I found you--" He opens his eyes, smiles just slightly, each heart beat a pang as he realizes how fortunate he'd been. How much John had truly changed his life.
"It was a dark time for me. I never expected to find a way out of that. But... I can see that, with you."
This thing Harold is telling him— it's— John has to brace himself as the wave of Harold's words, Harold's emotion hits him. Harold is telling him that John has lifted him up. Has shown him some way forward. It's not something— he's not that kind of person. The thing that Harold sees in him is not something that John can see in himself. He just... he just might as well do some good in this world since he hasn't succeeded in doing himself in yet.
How can he explain that to Harold? How can he make him understand? John cannot lead him anywhere. There is no light left in him to shine on Harold's path. Harold is so far ahead of him, it's all John can do to follow along, chase after the sound of his voice. He doesn't know how to say any of this, but he has to, because he owes Harold his honesty. Because he wants Harold to know where they truly stand.
"I don't know what you see in me. I'm not— a good person. I've done so many terrible things and the numbers are just... but... I am with you. I don't know what that means, but I am." It's a bit choked off at the end, but John does a good job of holding himself together while saying it. He takes a deep breath and tries not to feel too miserable, the way he does when he looks at himself too carefully.
Harold struggles for words, uncharacteristically inarticulate when it comes time to express his own feelings. He's always struggled with human interaction, how to make himself known and understood. In his own way, training the Machine made more sense to him than talking to any organic person, because there's a fundamental logic to how machines operate that tracks along his same lines.
He feels John hating himself and he wants so acutely to salve it.
"I won't argue with you about how good you are, or what you've done, though I believe you are good, and you've done the best you could." He won't argue, but it must be said aloud, so there is no doubt in John about Harold's position on the topic. There's no heroes, no villains, just people like them doing what they can in their own lives, making sense of an infinite, chaotic universe that provides them no answers.
"But since you started working with me, I've believed I could do something good. After Nathan died, I... didn't know if I'd ever been capable of that."
He laces his fingers between John's on his thigh, squeezes them tightly.
"We can do so much more together than we can do alone. If there's a definition of soulmates that makes sense to me, it-- it must be that."
'Nathan' as in... Nathan Ingram? He had been the founder of IFT, had been in that picture he'd found with a much younger Harold. There was Ingram's son who Harold had been involved with early on... but John doesn't know much more than facts. Ingram— he should really call him Nathan, he supposes. He clearly means something to Harold, to refer to him so impersonally seems... wrong, now. Nathan had died in a terrorist attack, that ferry bombing. John has to wonder how that fits in with the Machine.
But he knows how much it cost Harold to talk about Grace, so he'll save his questions about Nathan for another day. For now he'll just take Harold's comment as fact.
The distraction of Nathan Ingram aside, John has to actually absorb the rest of what Harold has said. This isn't about John, this is about Harold. He realizes that it's somewhat self centered, to take this thing that Harold has shared about himself and twisted it to be about how John isn't worthy. He wasn't trying to, he's just— he supposes he didn't understand where Harold was coming from. What he was really saying. What he is saying, about how John has given him a chance to redeem himself. John feels like he still doesn't see the full picture, that he's missing something, but he can be that. He can be Harold's tool for good. That's something he can try to live up to. If the numbers are Harold's redemption then this purpose, being Harold's instrument, can be John's own. It's really what he's been doing, just a little more formal.
"I will be by your side," John reiterates. "We'll do this together."
He'd said Nathan's name once, and that seems like enough. Seems like it's not possible to say more, his throat closing up. Of course-- of course, John understands, doesn't ask. He's awash with gratitude. Is this what it's like for everyone to find their soulmate? Is that what all the hubbub and drama and over-the-top romances in media are about?
Harold doubts it. He thinks that he has gotten especially lucky, that John is particularly perfect, just for him. He's aware that maybe everyone feels this way when they find their soulmate, maybe this is selection bias, but he can feel it somehow. He can feel that he and John have gotten through the thorny difficult parts already and what remains is to make use of what time they have.
"No more questions," he says, rather than turning it back on him. "Would you-- that is, would you watch an old movie with me until we're both tired?" He almost says, The time I have with you is precious, but rethinks it in an effort to get their overly intense evening back to an easier place.
"I know we can't do this all the time, but I'd like to have a small piece of this with you. When we can."
A tiny corner that they carve out for each other when it's possible, the normal life they cannot have because of their own decisions, long past and now paying for. But occasionally -- every so often -- they can give this to each other as a gift, a thing they could never deserve but can only exchange freely.
John is relieved when Harold calls an end to the questions. He'd been... it would have been fair to ask John the same, but he's not sure he had a good answer to give. The reason for starting the numbers is so far from why he still does them today and while he thinks Harold would understand that, he doesn't particularly want to have to explain it right now. This is why they're soulmates. Harold understands.
He thinks back to the whole evening, how Harold has catered to him the whole time, has given and given and given. The invitation to his home, pulling him back from the edge of a breakdown, giving him the space he needs, holding him close when he wants, answering all these questions... John wishes he had something to give Harold in return. He doesn't think— he wonders if maybe his own answers, his own gestures, have been enough. Maybe when John is thinking This is why we're soulmates, Harold is thinking the same.
He can at least give him his honesty, quiet and sincere.
"I want this, too. We can watch a movie, or we don't even have to do anything. I'll be happy if we're together. Put whatever you want on."
They watch the Maltese Falcon. It's a classic Harold has seen a number of times, so it isn't too demanding; he's able to sink into the couch and feel John's strong toned form in casual clothes against him and try to sink that into his memory, too. He tries to convince himself not to feel any urgency, the message he'd been trying to get across to John, that there is time enough for this.
But is there? He had four years with Grace; he doesn't think he's going to get four years with John.
They part to sleep separately, Harold taking things as slowly and incrementally as he had every step of their relationship to this point. But he does take further steps: he plans dates for John, things John would like doing that are simpler and quieter, things Harold enjoys like the New York library exhibitions after all. In practice it doesn't look like much has changed from the outside, except they spend more time together than before, and occasionally Harold glances a touch, skin-to-skin, that he initiates, and once in a while when he judges it's safe enough he leaves a small note on his forearm for John to find. Nothing revealing or dramatic, just signs that he's thought of him when they're apart.
After Detective Carter dies and Harold finds John crumpling into a bloody mess in a motel room, holding a gun with a shaking hand-- after Detective Carter dies and John, hollow-eyed, insists on leaving and Harold can't find his voice to refute it-- after Detective Carter dies and Harold stands mutely at her funeral looking at her ex-husband and her son, crying, and Detective Fusco is blank, a piece of carved rock--
After Detective Carter dies, he keeps leaving little notes.
Today he doodles an outline of a bird with a brush pen, one of the few things Harold has any talent at drawing, and this from repetition and effort. He draws a northern flicker, a species of migratory woodpecker common to Colorado, and shades in the black barring in the feathers carefully. The focus helps keep his mind off of all the words he'd like to write instead, which he senses John doesn't want to see or hear. And then, for the first time, he uses a color: just a dash of red for the crest, one swipe.
The whole drawing is perhaps two inches in diameter, right over the pulse on his left wrist.
All these little moments building up between them have made John greedy for more. Every little touch from Harold is a thrill, suffuses him with something warm, something that eases his mind. He returns his own sometimes, a privilege he gets now; to be able to reach out and touch Harold when he wants, how he wants. He lets his hands linger a bit longer than is professional. When Harold writes to him John responds, maybe just a word or two, or a symbol, to show that he's gotten the message, that it means something to him. A couple times, heart jumping in his chest, he sends Harold something of his own, just a mark or symbol; just an "I'm thinking of you." He is, so often, thinking about Harold.
And then Joss is killed. Joss dies in his arms and John doesn't even feel his own wound, the only thing he feels is the stabbing pain in his heart. It's different from when he found out Jessica was dead, he felt numb then, this is so acutely painful. He holds her and doesn't cry, doesn't cry, but can feel himself falling apart, broken and crumpling.
In the aftermath, in Harold's safehouse, he awakens and realizes there is something still holding form in him, something he can lean his entire weight on. He will kill Alonzo Quinn, then he will kill Patrick Simmons. It's so simple.
He almost gets there, too. Almost crosses the finish line, but stumbles at the end. His gun doesn't fire. John isn't sure if it's defeat or his injuries that cause his collapse, and yet he turns instinctively towards Harold, towards his voice, towards the hands reaching for him. Harold says he's dying and John believes it. In the end, in his final moments, Harold is with him. That's how he wants it to be.
And then he wakes up.
John has nothing, this time. Just lays in the bed and listens to the machines that have been keeping him alive. Listens to Harold talk, but he has nothing to say. He has nothing but the stabbing pain he feels with every heartbeat. He knows how to solve that. But he can't do it here, he couldn't stand to walk past a payphone, to walk down the street and think "Joss would have been here, Joss would have seen that." So he leaves. He goes to Colorado because he knows a place there, knows a hole he can crawl into.
One of the benefits of Harold paying him so well (even if he gives most of it away) is that he has more than enough money to drink all day. More than enough to go for days. To stagger back to his motel and collapse in bed, to wake up and do it all again.
John catches sight of the bird drawing as he's reaching for his latest drink. He pulls his sleeve up just a bit, just enough that he can stare at it, and the ache he feels in his chest shifts. Longing. He wants to see Harold. He wants to curl up and burry his face in Harold, to feel Harold wrap his arms around him, to have Harold soothe him gently. But he can't go back. He can't face the numbers, can't face New York. He just can't.
Instead he curls his hand around his wrist, fingers bracketing the drawing, and stares, drink forgotten.
John doesn't write him back but Harold keeps track assiduously of whether he's been wiping off his doodles and words. He hasn't been. At all. Sometimes Harold has to wipe his arm clean to write the next thing, because he is trying to be cautious, he doesn't want to cover their skin, but in balancing caution and concern he keeps himself to his left forearm, top and bottom.
Harold gives him a week of private grief and then decides that's enough. He doesn't ascribe to tough love philosophy but he also knows what he'd been up to a week after Nathan's death, after this father's death, and if this isn't the same then it's certainly not that much better, not after the state he'd found John in. If nothing else he wants to check on his physical recovery, and he's not about to take John's words for it.
The life they live, there's no one to tell he's leaving; he just packs a single bag and picks an identity and flies to Colorado. Between the GPS signal in John's phone and the fact that he's still using his same credit cards, that and how he never wipes off Harold's ridiculous bird doodles, Harold figures he can't mind being found too much. John knows how to drop out of his sight if he wanted to. All he'd have to do is ask, even; he thinks they still have that much trust. He considers sending Detective Fusco instead, wonders if maybe it's him John doesn't want to see, can't stand the reminder of-- but he won't be such a coward as to send someone else to speak to his soulmate for him.
He occupies his worried mind while flying with another bird doodle, having bought out two first class seats to ensure no one would be sitting next to him. (He is not in the mood for nosy well-wishers catching him writing to his soulmate.) This time he draws a lark bunting, the Colorado state bird, in a subtle hint.
It's the kind of thing he amuses himself with but doesn't expect John to pick up on, not with the unceasing wash of blurred grief coming through the bond. They've never pushed its limits, almost as if speaking directly of it would whisper it out of existence, but Harold trusts what it tells him.
He books a room at John's low-end motel and another at a nicer one with a concierge, leaves his bags at the low-end one in the room adjoining John's, and then makes his way to the dive bar the GPS signal tells him John is presently at. Out here in nowhere, Colorado, a full suit would stand out, so he's wearing khakis and a rather grandfatherly cardigan, no tie. It makes him look dour but hopefully unmemorable.
Of course, there's no chance John will mistake him, and he isn't trying, doesn't want to startle him. He waits until John catches sight of him and they make eye contact across the bar before he makes his way over to sit beside him. He has a beer he hasn't touched with him and he doesn't even try to make things casual.
"I'll leave if you want me to," is all he says, quietly, respectful.
As Harold approaches John knocks back his current drink and motions for another one. Of course Harold would be here. Of course he would come find him. Of course.
Instead of looking at Harold, John looks at the bird drawing on his arm. He runs his thumb over it. He doesn't know what to say. How to explain the pain he feels. He wonders if Harold can feel it, is fairly sure he'll have picked up on it after a week. He doesn't know what to do. Sitting next to Harold feels like finding a lone fire in a blizzard. John isn't sure if it's enough, but it's something; a small comfort, perhaps. He feels like turning towards Harold, hiding his face in Harold's shoulder. Maybe Harold would hold him, maybe he'd run his fingers through John's hair, maybe he'd give John a soothing touch.
He doesn't do that though. He's drunk enough that he really doesn't care about being overly clingy in public, but he doesn't know how to ask for it. Even though he can think about the motion his body isn't responding.
"What kind of bird is it." His voice sounds strange in his own ears, a bit hoarse from lack of use over the past while and the alcohol he's been drowning himself in, day in and day out.
Harold is wrapped up in sadness himself, though it's likely a fainter echo against the intensity that John is trying to drown in alcohol. He knew it was a possibility -- a strong possibility -- that getting others involved in their crusade would leave them dead, but in Carter's case, he feels that attributing her death to them is doing her a profound disservice. To the end, she'd been doing what she wanted to do; they'd never persuaded her to budge an inch she didn't want to move.
But he still feels the loss. Another piece of his life carved away, another good woman making a difference lost to the pointless selfish cruelty of others. And here's John, lost completely, and Harold doesn't know how or if or when he can find his way back. If he never wants to work the numbers again, fine -- Harold won't stop, but he won't ask John to do something he doesn't want to do -- but he's not going to let him go. Not unless he's told to leave.
John doesn't tell him to leave, so he lays his left hand on the bar counter and deftly undoes the cuff button with his right. He folds the cloth back just enough to show the edge of the latest drawing, lines starker and sharper on his skin, real ink soaked in. Maybe the reminder that they share the same skin will do something, he doesn't know; but it comforts him.
"The lark bunting is the state bird of Colorado," he explains in a smooth, even voice, Finch giving intel but one note softer. "This is a male; they have extensive sexual dimorphism. They're known for impressive vocal displays as they travel their migratory route through the state."
A moment's pause, before he deliberately adds, "They're socially monogamous. No matter how many mating partners they might have, once they bond, they always return to their partner lark."
John holds his new drink between his fingers as he listens to Harold talk. He doesn't fidget with it, doesn't turn the glass, doesn't drink it, just holds it. It's quiet at this hour, it'll be another hour or so until people start trickling in for the evening, and the bartender is busy at the other end. Maybe giving them space. All things John has catalogued, despite the fact that he's trying to turn himself off. Parts of himself that are so ingrained. Things that are invaluable to what he does— has been doing. Has done. Past tense.
His reflex is to ask if that's what they are. "Socially monogamous." Bonded. But— of course they are. There's no one for him but Harold. Not even Joss, who he realized, that night in the morgue, that he loved in a way— not the way he loves Harold, who he wants in this moment to engulf him like the expanding sun, to just burn all of this away— but had wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to be part of that in some way.
He can still remember the phone ringing in the dark of the night.
He doesn't know what to do.
"I don't want to leave you, but I don't know how to be there." There being, of course, New York, but also there as in the Library. The numbers. Walking past those payphones. The endless cycle of life and death that they're powerless to control. That they believed they could impact in some way. The lies they told themselves.
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He supposes it's because he secretly hopes he occupies some of the same space as Grace does in Harold. It seems like an understatement to say that he's "in love" with Harold; Harold means so much more than that. Harold is John's sun. His orbit would be lost without him; he would wither and die if Harold was gone. But just because they're soulmates doesn't mean that Harold loves John. Certainly throughout this evening he's shown that John occupies some space in him, but John doesn't know what. How much. Harold said that Grace is not a jealous person, and John feels the same way. Grace is a part of Harold and Harold's life, and yet John built his life around Harold. If, somehow, Grace did come back into his life, could John accept her too? The answer is immediately "yes." John would make sure they have the space they need even if it meant less of Harold in his life.
John just wanted to know if there's space in Harold's heart to love John too. But he asked in too roundabout a way, gave away too little and didn't get what he really desired. He needs to think of his question more carefully next time. Or just ask questions that aren't so indulgent of the things he doesn't deserve. Harold had said it's not about what they deserve— but John doesn't really deserve something so fairy tale as "love." He should be grateful for this much. Just for Harold's fingers in his hair, for Harold's warmth, for his honesty.
"Thank you for telling me about her."
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Whether there's room in his life is a matter of time and practicality; whether he cares is an immutable fact Harold himself has no control over. Harold is slow to care about others and absolutely steadfast once he's there. Nathan's absence still cuts him deeply and he still finds himself wistfully wondering what could've been with Grace. He thinks of them and of Arthur and his father often, a small but poignant subset of people who've touched his life. He even thinks of the Machine practically every day, though with more complexity behind it, since he could technically reach out whenever he wanted to and their silence is a deliberate choice he's perpetuating.
He thinks of John not just every day, but often every hour of every day. To deserve something is a concept that has no bearing on what is.
Technically it's John's turn to answer the same question, which is convenient, because Harold needs to understand what had spurred him to ask in the first place. It feels unresolved.
"What about Grace?" he asks, nudging him gently. To make sure his intent is clear, he adds, "Why did you ask?"
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John feels caught, like a deer in the headlights. He has two options: stay this course and feel the impact of Harold crashing into him, or dodge the question and survive. It really does feel like survival. How could he tell Harold? How could he open his mouth and say the words? How could he even begin to explain the depth, how all encompassing his feelings towards Harold are? But he agreed to honesty, he agreed to answer Harold's questions and Harold had answered such an invasive one from John.
He can do this. He can open his mouth, and does, and nothing comes out. He's at a loss. The words simply don't come. Surely he can say just one word. "I—" he manages to choke out, and it's so painful, it sounds painful.
John realizes in a distant way that he's shaking again. That his body is rebelling against his mind, or maybe— this is his mind telling him that he can't do it. This is its way of saying "no, not yet". He takes a shuddering breath and tries to still himself. How can he not be honest with Harold in this moment? Harold is asking him, and has been so open with him, how can he not return it?
"I think—" you're the center of my life. I asked because I wanted to know if you had space in your heart for me. But the words won't come out. He can think them but they're caught inside of him, his throat closes on them before they can come to life.
"Can I tell you another time. I'm not— not tonight." It comes out as miserable as he feels. He had just said that he trusts Harold, had promised Harold he would be honest, and here he is breaking all of that.
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Harold is astounded into silence for an unforgivably long moment in which John fumbles to speak, and then he recovers. He shifts as best he can to more properly wrap his arms around him, shushing him immediately.
"John-- John, I'm sorry. You don't need to answer." In an aching voice, low and next to his ear, he murmurs earnestly, "Thank you for telling me that you can't. You said you wouldn't hide when you were hurt from me, and you didn't."
He fulfilled a much more important request than answering Harold's question about Grace. Moved by the intensity of John's emotions, Harold doesn't think twice before pressing a chaste kiss into his hair. Is that-- too far? Is he going too fast? Or is he torturing John by not going faster? It's damnably hard to tell.
"As I said before, there's time enough for this."
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John is distantly aware that he should be relaxing, that he should be unwinding into Harold's hold, but his heart is hammering so fast and he wonders if Harold can feel how much he wants him. Harold knows to some extent, had offered this position to John, but John thinks he's done a good job of hiding the depth of this desire so far. This is not something he will be able to hide forever and maybe— he'll get what he wants if he's honest. But he doesn't want to ask for it, he wants Harold to find it, to give it to him. He's being greedy and testing both of them when he really shouldn't be playing a game like that. This is far too important.
And then he catches up with what Harold actually said. About how John didn't hide his hurt. John hadn't— when he'd said that he'd meant his physical hurt. He'd never intended to promise that he'd be honest about his feelings. That's difficult in a way he's not sure he's prepared for. If John is being honest with himself (which he is right now), he's a bit too good at hiding that. From himself included. He's not sure how to be honest about that kind of hurt. But he can't take it back now. There's not a good way to explain his own emotional lack of wellbeing in a way that doesn't sound... bad. They'll have to run into that brick wall later and discuss it when the issue is forced.
For now, he can just bask in Harold's touch. In his kindness. This feels like a reward, in a way. Maybe he's reading too much into it. Maybe it was just a reflex.
"You can ask me something else, I didn't answer your question." He sounds calmer now, like Harold's kiss has washed away his pain. John wants to uphold his end of the bargain, prove that he's not just receiving right now.
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A simple press of his lips to his hair and John is frozen again, after all. Slow it is. That tells him it's time to lighten things. But how? Harold does know almost everything there is to know about John already, which means anything new would be about his thoughts, his inner experience, which as they've just covered he's not ready to fully divulge.
"Would you go to dinner with me?" he asks spontaneously. "As ourselves. Let me do this properly."
For as many times as they've eaten together before or attended a function together before, it's unquestionably not the same, and Harold thinks John will understand intuitively that it means something completely different to be asked deliberately as a personal invitation.
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Is that— a date? Is Harold asking him on a date? Surely not— but he said "as ourselves." What does that entail? Does he mean John and not Mr. Reese? He's not exactly dressed for the sort of establishments they often frequent, and certainly not dressed to match Harold. It might do him good to take a break, to put his suit back on, compose himself— but Harold said "as ourselves." John thinks Harold wouldn't like if he did that.
"What were you thinking? I'm not exactly dressed for going out. I could change."
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He's getting ahead of himself again.
"Just, well, perhaps this is foolish of me." A wry, self-aware smile twists his mouth, and he finds himself staring at their discarded tea cups, full of watered-down tea they'd never made more than a token attempt at drinking. It's horribly domestic.
"I realize we will always be... in the position we are." Legally dead. Perpetually in peril. Existing under the surface of normal life and not among it. Scrabbling out these little moments of peace between the chaos. "But if we weren't, if we were in another position, I would want to take my soulmate on a proper date."
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But. Still. There's no denying that John wants this. He's not going to reject this offer. Maybe eventually Harold will decide that he wants to take John on a date. Maybe if he can be— "as ourselves"— Harold will want him, specifically. It's a terrifying thought. John isn't sure Harold will still want him after he learns everything John is at heart. After he realizes how hard it is sometimes for John to be good. But he can cross that bridge later. This is why he has to wait.
"Yes." He sounds too emotional. He needs to dial it back some. John takes a deep breath. "Yes, I would like that."
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There's something complicated happening in John, but Harold can't begin to piece apart what it is. So he focuses on the effusive agreement and lets out a shaky breath of his own. He wasn't really nervous about the possibility of rejection, but he was opening a new door within himself as he asked that. He was admitting to himself that he was open to more than the unstated unconditional trust they'd had thus far.
Trust was a prerequisite for intimacy, but it wasn't the same. And Harold has been so very parsimonious with his intimacy. Even with John.
"Good. Good, I'll arrange something." There's a small thrill that goes through him at getting to plan something for someone he cares about again, rather than just happening upon one another and agreeing to spend time together. Harold loves taking care of others, feels that getting to do it unencumbered is a gift given personally and directly to him, and it's perhaps impossible to hide how much he's looking forward to it.
"And of course, I would go to dinner with you," he adds belatedly, fulfilling his end of the bargain. His mind is abuzz with ideas, distracted. "Your turn for a question, now."
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His turn for a question. John has to think on it for a bit, but he knows Harold will be patient as he comes up with one. Finally he settles on one that he's wondered for a while but never thought he'd ask. "Why pick me? To help with the numbers."
John supposes he'll have to answer why he chose to work the numbers, but. If he's going to be with Harold in some capacity (which Harold seems to desire, maybe) then it's something they should discuss. Who John really is and what he's really done.
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It's hard to think back on now. It has the black oily feel of murky water, something far under the surface that he's been avoiding by bobbing along the top and ignoring what's below. If they're likely to die soon, why reflect on it? Why dredge up that time in his life, which was mired in hopelessness and struggle?
Harold had given up on anything except doing one last good thing before he died. And most of the time, he'd been failing at that.
"You lied to your partner," he says out of nowhere, and it should be abrupt, but his voice is soft and his body is still, his heart aching as he thinks of it. "Kara Stanton. You told her you killed Daniel Casey, but you let him go."
A momentary pause as he closes his eyes and summons up those memories again, willingly, for John, pulse picking up speed with relived anxiety. It doesn't seem like he needs to explain how he'd known that or how he'd been involved; John can guess, and it's not important. Not really. He set up this exchange and he meant it honestly, intends to give the real complete answer and not sidestep it with a smaller truth like he usually would. Usually he would stop there, if he even went that far, but Harold had felt how cracked open John was through their conversations and he owes him no less. It feels like he's peeling away a scab and letting a wound seep blood again.
"You were not the first person I worked with." This is hard, harder, to relive. He swallows. He lets out a shaky breath. "I--
"I had Jessica Arndt's number, and I wanted to save her. But there was nothing I could do. You probably won't remember, but I saw you in the hospital-- afterwards." The whole, complete truth... "I was in a wheelchair. And I thought--
"You were the first person with the skills to make a difference that I believed would understand why. Why it matters to save one person."
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But he can feel how hard this is for Harold. This moment is not about John's long running guilt and despair about Jessica, it's about the two of them, together. It's about Harold. And it's clearly a question that hurts. But he's answering anyways, is telling John the whole truth, all of it. This is more than just not lying. John rests his hand on Harold's thigh and runs his thumb across the wool of his pants. This is something that comforts John but he doesn't know if Harold will feel the same.
He wants to learn how to comfort Harold.
This line of thought from Harold isn't direct. It's not organized the way he usually is. Scattered points instead of a straight line. John can trace their shape, fill in those lines. Harold knew about Casey, Harold worked with someone else. So it was probably Harold's previous associate that tried to keep Casey out of their hands. Casey was an irrelevant and... got lucky. John could mire himself in these memories the way he's asked Harold to, but he wants to be a support for Harold in this moment, so he drags himself away from the thought.
"Thank you for telling me." It's as simple as that. Harold had told him, and John is thankful. He is thankful, for the truth and for Harold's bravery. He doesn't need to push Harold more.
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The absence of expectation makes him want to give. It's a deeply natural feeling for Harold, one he normally has to suppress or at least mask somehow with anonymity, but here he doesn't have to. Air across the wound, letting it breathe.
His hand covers John's on his leg, skin warm and dry and reassuring.
"You proved me right. Over and over again. The time before I found you--" He opens his eyes, smiles just slightly, each heart beat a pang as he realizes how fortunate he'd been. How much John had truly changed his life.
"It was a dark time for me. I never expected to find a way out of that. But... I can see that, with you."
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How can he explain that to Harold? How can he make him understand? John cannot lead him anywhere. There is no light left in him to shine on Harold's path. Harold is so far ahead of him, it's all John can do to follow along, chase after the sound of his voice. He doesn't know how to say any of this, but he has to, because he owes Harold his honesty. Because he wants Harold to know where they truly stand.
"I don't know what you see in me. I'm not— a good person. I've done so many terrible things and the numbers are just... but... I am with you. I don't know what that means, but I am." It's a bit choked off at the end, but John does a good job of holding himself together while saying it. He takes a deep breath and tries not to feel too miserable, the way he does when he looks at himself too carefully.
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Harold struggles for words, uncharacteristically inarticulate when it comes time to express his own feelings. He's always struggled with human interaction, how to make himself known and understood. In his own way, training the Machine made more sense to him than talking to any organic person, because there's a fundamental logic to how machines operate that tracks along his same lines.
He feels John hating himself and he wants so acutely to salve it.
"I won't argue with you about how good you are, or what you've done, though I believe you are good, and you've done the best you could." He won't argue, but it must be said aloud, so there is no doubt in John about Harold's position on the topic. There's no heroes, no villains, just people like them doing what they can in their own lives, making sense of an infinite, chaotic universe that provides them no answers.
"But since you started working with me, I've believed I could do something good. After Nathan died, I... didn't know if I'd ever been capable of that."
He laces his fingers between John's on his thigh, squeezes them tightly.
"We can do so much more together than we can do alone. If there's a definition of soulmates that makes sense to me, it-- it must be that."
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But he knows how much it cost Harold to talk about Grace, so he'll save his questions about Nathan for another day. For now he'll just take Harold's comment as fact.
The distraction of Nathan Ingram aside, John has to actually absorb the rest of what Harold has said. This isn't about John, this is about Harold. He realizes that it's somewhat self centered, to take this thing that Harold has shared about himself and twisted it to be about how John isn't worthy. He wasn't trying to, he's just— he supposes he didn't understand where Harold was coming from. What he was really saying. What he is saying, about how John has given him a chance to redeem himself. John feels like he still doesn't see the full picture, that he's missing something, but he can be that. He can be Harold's tool for good. That's something he can try to live up to. If the numbers are Harold's redemption then this purpose, being Harold's instrument, can be John's own. It's really what he's been doing, just a little more formal.
"I will be by your side," John reiterates. "We'll do this together."
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Harold doubts it. He thinks that he has gotten especially lucky, that John is particularly perfect, just for him. He's aware that maybe everyone feels this way when they find their soulmate, maybe this is selection bias, but he can feel it somehow. He can feel that he and John have gotten through the thorny difficult parts already and what remains is to make use of what time they have.
"No more questions," he says, rather than turning it back on him. "Would you-- that is, would you watch an old movie with me until we're both tired?" He almost says, The time I have with you is precious, but rethinks it in an effort to get their overly intense evening back to an easier place.
"I know we can't do this all the time, but I'd like to have a small piece of this with you. When we can."
A tiny corner that they carve out for each other when it's possible, the normal life they cannot have because of their own decisions, long past and now paying for. But occasionally -- every so often -- they can give this to each other as a gift, a thing they could never deserve but can only exchange freely.
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He thinks back to the whole evening, how Harold has catered to him the whole time, has given and given and given. The invitation to his home, pulling him back from the edge of a breakdown, giving him the space he needs, holding him close when he wants, answering all these questions... John wishes he had something to give Harold in return. He doesn't think— he wonders if maybe his own answers, his own gestures, have been enough. Maybe when John is thinking This is why we're soulmates, Harold is thinking the same.
He can at least give him his honesty, quiet and sincere.
"I want this, too. We can watch a movie, or we don't even have to do anything. I'll be happy if we're together. Put whatever you want on."
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But is there? He had four years with Grace; he doesn't think he's going to get four years with John.
They part to sleep separately, Harold taking things as slowly and incrementally as he had every step of their relationship to this point. But he does take further steps: he plans dates for John, things John would like doing that are simpler and quieter, things Harold enjoys like the New York library exhibitions after all. In practice it doesn't look like much has changed from the outside, except they spend more time together than before, and occasionally Harold glances a touch, skin-to-skin, that he initiates, and once in a while when he judges it's safe enough he leaves a small note on his forearm for John to find. Nothing revealing or dramatic, just signs that he's thought of him when they're apart.
After Detective Carter dies and Harold finds John crumpling into a bloody mess in a motel room, holding a gun with a shaking hand-- after Detective Carter dies and John, hollow-eyed, insists on leaving and Harold can't find his voice to refute it-- after Detective Carter dies and Harold stands mutely at her funeral looking at her ex-husband and her son, crying, and Detective Fusco is blank, a piece of carved rock--
After Detective Carter dies, he keeps leaving little notes.
Today he doodles an outline of a bird with a brush pen, one of the few things Harold has any talent at drawing, and this from repetition and effort. He draws a northern flicker, a species of migratory woodpecker common to Colorado, and shades in the black barring in the feathers carefully. The focus helps keep his mind off of all the words he'd like to write instead, which he senses John doesn't want to see or hear. And then, for the first time, he uses a color: just a dash of red for the crest, one swipe.
The whole drawing is perhaps two inches in diameter, right over the pulse on his left wrist.
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And then Joss is killed. Joss dies in his arms and John doesn't even feel his own wound, the only thing he feels is the stabbing pain in his heart. It's different from when he found out Jessica was dead, he felt numb then, this is so acutely painful. He holds her and doesn't cry, doesn't cry, but can feel himself falling apart, broken and crumpling.
In the aftermath, in Harold's safehouse, he awakens and realizes there is something still holding form in him, something he can lean his entire weight on. He will kill Alonzo Quinn, then he will kill Patrick Simmons. It's so simple.
He almost gets there, too. Almost crosses the finish line, but stumbles at the end. His gun doesn't fire. John isn't sure if it's defeat or his injuries that cause his collapse, and yet he turns instinctively towards Harold, towards his voice, towards the hands reaching for him. Harold says he's dying and John believes it. In the end, in his final moments, Harold is with him. That's how he wants it to be.
And then he wakes up.
John has nothing, this time. Just lays in the bed and listens to the machines that have been keeping him alive. Listens to Harold talk, but he has nothing to say. He has nothing but the stabbing pain he feels with every heartbeat. He knows how to solve that. But he can't do it here, he couldn't stand to walk past a payphone, to walk down the street and think "Joss would have been here, Joss would have seen that." So he leaves. He goes to Colorado because he knows a place there, knows a hole he can crawl into.
One of the benefits of Harold paying him so well (even if he gives most of it away) is that he has more than enough money to drink all day. More than enough to go for days. To stagger back to his motel and collapse in bed, to wake up and do it all again.
John catches sight of the bird drawing as he's reaching for his latest drink. He pulls his sleeve up just a bit, just enough that he can stare at it, and the ache he feels in his chest shifts. Longing. He wants to see Harold. He wants to curl up and burry his face in Harold, to feel Harold wrap his arms around him, to have Harold soothe him gently. But he can't go back. He can't face the numbers, can't face New York. He just can't.
Instead he curls his hand around his wrist, fingers bracketing the drawing, and stares, drink forgotten.
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Harold gives him a week of private grief and then decides that's enough. He doesn't ascribe to tough love philosophy but he also knows what he'd been up to a week after Nathan's death, after this father's death, and if this isn't the same then it's certainly not that much better, not after the state he'd found John in. If nothing else he wants to check on his physical recovery, and he's not about to take John's words for it.
The life they live, there's no one to tell he's leaving; he just packs a single bag and picks an identity and flies to Colorado. Between the GPS signal in John's phone and the fact that he's still using his same credit cards, that and how he never wipes off Harold's ridiculous bird doodles, Harold figures he can't mind being found too much. John knows how to drop out of his sight if he wanted to. All he'd have to do is ask, even; he thinks they still have that much trust. He considers sending Detective Fusco instead, wonders if maybe it's him John doesn't want to see, can't stand the reminder of-- but he won't be such a coward as to send someone else to speak to his soulmate for him.
He occupies his worried mind while flying with another bird doodle, having bought out two first class seats to ensure no one would be sitting next to him. (He is not in the mood for nosy well-wishers catching him writing to his soulmate.) This time he draws a lark bunting, the Colorado state bird, in a subtle hint.
It's the kind of thing he amuses himself with but doesn't expect John to pick up on, not with the unceasing wash of blurred grief coming through the bond. They've never pushed its limits, almost as if speaking directly of it would whisper it out of existence, but Harold trusts what it tells him.
He books a room at John's low-end motel and another at a nicer one with a concierge, leaves his bags at the low-end one in the room adjoining John's, and then makes his way to the dive bar the GPS signal tells him John is presently at. Out here in nowhere, Colorado, a full suit would stand out, so he's wearing khakis and a rather grandfatherly cardigan, no tie. It makes him look dour but hopefully unmemorable.
Of course, there's no chance John will mistake him, and he isn't trying, doesn't want to startle him. He waits until John catches sight of him and they make eye contact across the bar before he makes his way over to sit beside him. He has a beer he hasn't touched with him and he doesn't even try to make things casual.
"I'll leave if you want me to," is all he says, quietly, respectful.
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Instead of looking at Harold, John looks at the bird drawing on his arm. He runs his thumb over it. He doesn't know what to say. How to explain the pain he feels. He wonders if Harold can feel it, is fairly sure he'll have picked up on it after a week. He doesn't know what to do. Sitting next to Harold feels like finding a lone fire in a blizzard. John isn't sure if it's enough, but it's something; a small comfort, perhaps. He feels like turning towards Harold, hiding his face in Harold's shoulder. Maybe Harold would hold him, maybe he'd run his fingers through John's hair, maybe he'd give John a soothing touch.
He doesn't do that though. He's drunk enough that he really doesn't care about being overly clingy in public, but he doesn't know how to ask for it. Even though he can think about the motion his body isn't responding.
"What kind of bird is it." His voice sounds strange in his own ears, a bit hoarse from lack of use over the past while and the alcohol he's been drowning himself in, day in and day out.
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But he still feels the loss. Another piece of his life carved away, another good woman making a difference lost to the pointless selfish cruelty of others. And here's John, lost completely, and Harold doesn't know how or if or when he can find his way back. If he never wants to work the numbers again, fine -- Harold won't stop, but he won't ask John to do something he doesn't want to do -- but he's not going to let him go. Not unless he's told to leave.
John doesn't tell him to leave, so he lays his left hand on the bar counter and deftly undoes the cuff button with his right. He folds the cloth back just enough to show the edge of the latest drawing, lines starker and sharper on his skin, real ink soaked in. Maybe the reminder that they share the same skin will do something, he doesn't know; but it comforts him.
"The lark bunting is the state bird of Colorado," he explains in a smooth, even voice, Finch giving intel but one note softer. "This is a male; they have extensive sexual dimorphism. They're known for impressive vocal displays as they travel their migratory route through the state."
A moment's pause, before he deliberately adds, "They're socially monogamous. No matter how many mating partners they might have, once they bond, they always return to their partner lark."
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His reflex is to ask if that's what they are. "Socially monogamous." Bonded. But— of course they are. There's no one for him but Harold. Not even Joss, who he realized, that night in the morgue, that he loved in a way— not the way he loves Harold, who he wants in this moment to engulf him like the expanding sun, to just burn all of this away— but had wanted to see her smile, to hear her laugh, to be part of that in some way.
He can still remember the phone ringing in the dark of the night.
He doesn't know what to do.
"I don't want to leave you, but I don't know how to be there." There being, of course, New York, but also there as in the Library. The numbers. Walking past those payphones. The endless cycle of life and death that they're powerless to control. That they believed they could impact in some way. The lies they told themselves.
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