John is aware of what Harold is doing, but there's a certain fuzziness to it. It says something about his habits that he's feeling the drink this much, that it's been long enough that he's lost noticeable tolerance, but he also realizes that he doesn't have time to sober up fully before he shows up again, given that he's been emptying the bottle in his motel room before the bar opens. He'd gotten used to operating like that for a while, back before Harold picked up and gave him a new life, so he still feels rather in control of the situation. He watches him pay for the drinks, realizes what Harold is going to do before he does it, withdraws his own hand from Harold's even though he misses the contact desperately.
Maybe he is drunk.
He lets Harold guide him outside and folds himself into the passenger seat with ease and does his seatbelt without any fumbling. He remembers this, too: even with this much alcohol he's still very much in control of his body; anyone watching wouldn't be able to tell the condition he's in.
And then he just sits and lets Harold take control of the situation. Wherever Harold is taking him is where he'll go.
Harold is not fooled in the slightest -- he's been John's eyes and ears far too many times to fall for something like his control over his physical body being an indicator of his mental state -- but he doesn't comment on it as he drives them away.
Instead he keeps up a seemingly idle chatter about the types of birds he's drawn on John's forearm over the past week. It makes him think painfully of his father and how he would do something just like this for Harold, so many times; but the pain is lanced through with something pure and sweet, a kind of gratitude for having had his father at all. He doesn't expect John, drunk as he is, to be fully paying attention or absorbing what he's saying, but the words come nonetheless, like a habit he didn't know he had finally let free.
He stops when they get to the nicer hotel he'd booked. It's still not nice enough to have a valet (this is nowhere, Colorado, after all) so Harold parks and then takes John by the elbow to guide him in. He already has a key card for his room, so he doesn't have to check in. They'll go back to get their things from his motel later.
"You should sleep for a while and then take a shower," he informs him as they ride the elevator up, arm still laced through his at the elbow.
John does listen to Harold talk about birds on the drive. He doesn't lean against the side of the car, he really is quite in control of his body, but he watches Harold more than the road. He lets Harold drive them through the town and listens, though he reflexively does things like check the mirror for a tail; he doesn't even notice that he's doing it.
Once at the hotel, which is decidedly not the one where he was staying at, and he's very confident Harold knows about, Harold guides him inside and John just lets him take the lead. He's glad for the return of Harold's hand, can feel the ghost of his warmth through his jacket, can feel the weight of his touch on his elbow. It's a relief, surrendering to Harold's instruction like this. He doesn't even acknowledge Harold's directions, just lets himself be led down the hall and ushered into a hotel room.
He doesn't spare too much attention to it, but does map out the crucial pieces of information: location of the beds in relation to the door, heavy objects that could be used as weapons. There are two beds which is both a relief and a disappointment. Relief because it means he doesn't have offer to sleep in the bathtub, but disappointment because one bed meant a small chance he could get Harold to lay down with him.
If he's thinking that, he realizes, then he really does need to sleep this off.
John chooses the bed closer to the door and almost reaches for his gun before he remembers that he left it behind in New York. He covers for the start of that motion by reaching down and pulling his shoes off. The bed covers get only a moment of consideration before he leaves them as they are and simply lays down on top of the bedspread; if something happens he doesn't want to be tangled up in the sheets.
"If you need to go out or if someone knocks on the door, wake me up." It's doubtful that anything is going to happen in the middle of nowhere, Colorado, but this is Harold. John is always cautious with Harold. He doesn't wait for an answer, just lays on his side facing the door, closes his eyes, and starts with a breathing exercise before he drops off all too quickly.
Harold would not want to bet against John in a fight or in being sufficiently paranoid even while inebriated (maybe especially not then?) so he doesn't challenge any of it. He at least has his own personal bag with him so he has a laptop and a couple books to keep him occupied while John sleeps. He would be more baffled and amazed at John's ability to seemingly push himself into sleep on command, but he's, somewhat shamefully in retrospect, observed it himself several times already through his remote monitoring.
He takes a few minutes in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face until his nerves settle. He'd found him, he hadn't pushed him away, he's... he's here with him again. It feels like the adrenaline surging since Detective Carter's death and John's subsequent disappearance has never really stopped. Harold is not used to operating under strained conditions for that long, and he feels suddenly exhausted, his actual bones weary and mind turned to sludge.
He'd planned to pull a chair over and read beside John's bed until he woke up again -- it's early afternoon, for God's sake -- but as he goes to sit, he looks at John's sleeping face, a sight he's sure very few get to see these days, and he imagines never seeing it again.
Not like this; only through screens, probably. Harold knows himself and knows he'd try to keep tabs on John wherever he was and whatever he was doing, but he doesn't want that.
He wants to shed his shoes and belt and cardigan and slide into bed beside him, taking an extra pillow from the second bed to prop up his bad leg. The relief that hammers through him is profound, like a narrowly averted disaster, heart thudding with an awareness of mortality and how very little he can truly control. One loss avoided, for now. For once, with the solidness of the foundation they've built bolstering him, Harold does what he wants to do without second-guessing it.
He crawls into bed beside John and closes his eyes to disallow himself from checking if John notices or reacts before he falls asleep.
The movements in the room don't disturb John, but the bed dipping does. His brain is immediately processing the information in his half awake state, but deems it not a threat and he drops back into sleep without giving it too much thought.
When next he wakes he's forgotten all about it, lost in that haze between moments of sleep. He thinks based on the light in the room that it's been a few hours, afternoon has shifted into early evening. John is, unfortunately, quite a bit more sober now. He feels awful. This is the price he has to pay for nearly a week of inebriation. He remembers how this felt the last time they were in this situation: John coming out of his drink because Harold decided to enter his life.
And speaking of, where is Harold? John's view is of the door, but he can't hear the sound of a keyboard or the turning pages of a book. Instead all he hears is soft breathing, and from— behind him? Cautiously, John rolls over in place, and is stunned breathless by what he sees: Harold asleep on the bed with him.
He's seen Harold asleep before, but not like this. At his desk, still all buttoned up, jerking awake at John's approach. Here his glasses are off, he has no suit to wear as armor, he's just... asleep. His face looks so different, and yet he's still definitively Harold. There's this unguardedness to him, a wall that's been let down by sleep.
John hasn't forgotten the second step of Harold's instructions, and logically he knows he should get some food in him, but he doesn't want to waste a moment of this precious situation. What he wants to do— to let his fingers brush Harold's cheek, to see him wake slowly, to turn that gaze upon John, to hold this moment between them. Maybe, if he was feeling particularly bold, he would kiss Harold gently, so gently; it feels like it would be appropriate in this moment. But he does none of that. He just watches Harold in silence, etching this moment into his mind.
Harold wakes slowly, naturally, someone who's never slept on a battlefield in his life. He tends to get up early out of sheer habit and because he likes routine. Taking a nap isn't characteristic of him, but lately he hasn't been sleeping well for abundantly obvious reasons, and his whole body had felt leaden with ease after laying down next to John. It was the easiest thing in the world to fall asleep.
His eyes flutter open briefly and then close again, and he turns to press his face into the pillow like he's rejecting waking up for a moment. Despite that attempt, his brain starts to kick into gear, placing him in time and space, and in proximity to John.
So he shifts and makes himself actually wake up, unable to contain a yawn, looking mildly disgruntled and nothing less than rumpled. He's embarrassed to be caught taking a nap but not embarrassed to be sleeping in the same bed as his soulmate. That seems entirely reasonable.
"Forgive me, it's been... Well." At the last second Harold rethinks saying that the past couple weeks haven't been easy for him, either. That might come out combative. He blinks several times, trying futilely to bring John into focus without his glasses and only getting more disgruntled. "I was more tired than I thought," he says instead.
The only word to describe watching Harold wake up is "cute". It's cute. The way he tries to burrow into the pillow, the unguarded yawn, the little furrow in his brow. There's still an aching sadness welling up in John now that he's more awake, like his brain has caught up with the world, but he tries to focus on Harold instead. Focus on what's happening right now, narrow his world down to just the bed. He can read between the lines too, can fill in what Harold didn't say. John left Harold by himself, went off to drink himself numb and left Harold with who knows what. Root, whatever she was doing now, and Shaw. Of course Harold would be tired. That hurts, knowing the consequences of abandoning Harold.
But Harold is here. Harold chose his bed to sleep in, slept next to him rather than in the other bed. He wanted to be with John.
He wanted to be with John.
He wanted to be with John and John lets that thought fill him up. They're together again. Things might not be the same, they have to talk, but they're together. Emboldened, John lifts his hand and brushes the tips of his fingers against Harold's cheek, a lingering touch. He feels... less empty with Harold here. Less like there's a gaping maw inside him that's eating away at everything. There's still so much sadness, yes, but it's not all encompassing.
John's hand is still hovering by Harold's face so he repeats the motion, still so gentle, like he could break this moment between them. He almost lets his hand lay on Harold's cheek at the end but decides to lay it on the bed between their heads instead. He's torn between saying "I'm sorry" and "I'm glad you got some sleep" but finds he can't get any of the words out. Harold deserves something though, and John manages to push out a whispery, "thank you."
Thank you for finding me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for sleeping with me. Thank you for not leaving me alone.
Thanking him again? Harold really thinks there's a disproportionate amount of thanking that goes on; he owes John at least as much as John owes him. Not that there's any sense in quantifying it or trying to compare. If he learned one thing from Grace, it's how to love someone without measure or condition. It feels-- right, somehow, to think that he needed Grace in order to be this person for John, his soulmate. And he thinks she would understand that.
He smiles just a little, helplessly, as John strokes the lightest touch across his face. Harold recognizes it as brave. He finally gives into an urge he's had for weeks now and finds John's hand where it rests on the bed with his own, draws it in for a dry press of lips to his knuckles.
"If you don't want me to let you go," he murmurs, "I won't."
He thinks maybe he shouldn't have let him leave alone in the first place. He'll remember that if there's a next time. Harold's instinct to give space and privacy, what he himself would want, is not always the correct one. And he knows John needs routine and craves trust and certainty; Carter's death was so destabilizing, maybe letting him withdraw was the exact wrong course of action. Maybe what he needs is more from Harold, not less.
"I don't," is the immediate answer. He doesn't even have to think about it. He doesn't want to be separated from Harold.
The ink on his arm has been the only anchor he's had for the past week. The promise that Harold was with him, in some way. John wants Harold, wants to be with Harold. It feels like the only light in his life right now. More than just his soulmate, he's just... Harold. The fact that they're soulmates hasn't changed how he feels, it's just made him more forward with those feelings. Shone a light on them instead of hiding them away in the dark.
John still doesn't know what the future looks like. What they'll do. What he can do. He never envisioned a life for himself outside of the numbers. What else is there for him? The uncertainty begins to well up in him so he focuses on the present moment as much as possible. The feeling of Harold's lips on his knuckles, the feeling of his hand in Harold's. An anchor point that he clings to least he get swept up in sadness, in uncertainty. He doesn't know, but Harold will. Harold always has a plan, John just needs to follow it.
The immediacy of the answer is its own response, and Harold nods to himself, cheek sliding against the pillow, embedding that information in his processing. He'll take that as given, now; and with that solidified, quite a few things change. More than being given permission, it's like being invited. Like being asked in. Harold's always-- wanted, in ways he wasn't comfortable expressing; has been careful to couch as anonymous gifts so as not to be too overbearing-- but he's always wanted to just...
Have the license to take care of things, the best that he can.
This is a desire he'd never expressed even to Grace, never found an avenue that felt safe enough to explore it. But with John, who struggles to tell him what he wants at all, who just wants to be sure-- it feels like he could try, without overstepping or offending him.
"Okay," he exhales, a glimpse of less-formal speech, of Harold with all his pretense removed. He's still sleepy, blinking slowly but waking up and embracing that he is here with John. Four years, four days-- he'll take whatever he can get. He thinks of saying I miss her, too, and he thinks of saying I've missed you, but he thinks John has probably had enough of emotions for the moment.
"Would you like to shower? I'll order us dinner." More softly, in a serious deviation from their normal exchanges and thinking of the decision he's just come to, he adds, "I won't go anywhere, I'll just be answering the door."
John thinks about that, immediately starts doing the math. He can probably shower and be out before the food arrives; his time in the Army drilled short showers into him. In fact, that will be his plan. He can be out and dressed to answer the door, though— he's just being paranoid. Nothing will happen out here. Probably. And that's just it, the probably. He and Joss were just— they were just walking down the street. Just around the corner. And Harold is cautious, but this is the perfect opportunity to spring a surprise, to catch them unawares.
"I'll take a shower and you can order food, but I'll be out by the time it arrives." He hopes this doesn't feel to overbearing to Harold, to have John need to be present for all these situations. It's not like Harold hasn't taken care of himself so far. Well, there was Harold's kidnapping. First that Alicia Corwin, and then Root, who both found Harold— but in light of everything, John can't afford to take any risks. Not with Harold.
He wonders vaguely when it will end, when he'll feel like he can let Harold out of his sight. How had he left him in the first place? Laying here in bed together, it seems like an impossible task. Maybe if they'd had this moment earlier he wouldn't have been able to leave. Maybe he would have talked with Harold instead of just announcing his departure. They'll have to talk about this. All of this. John has no doubt some of their conversations will be excruciating, but they have to talk.
In another circumstance, Harold would challenge this. He'd push John to get comfortable with a degree of separation.
Right now, he just says, "I'll wait to order until you're finished. Please don't rush on my account." He levers himself upright, pushing his bolstering pillow impatiently to the side and off the bed with an uncharacteristic carelessness, so he can face John and meet his eyes, his hair mussed from sleeping.
"I want you to take your time, John."
It shouldn't be an order, the way he says it; it's just Harold expressing his honest opinion. But he knows how it'll be received, that John will take it seriously. He wants him to. He cares for John so desperately and he doesn't trust that John will act on that on his behalf without explicit instruction, so he needs to be clear.
John does take it like an order. He's still not in the right mind to be making decisions about is own wellbeing, he knows that. So if Harold wants him to take his time, he will. Truthfully, it's been a long time since he spent more than five minutes in the shower and he's not sure what to do with himself, but he'll figure that out. He just sits up, gives a nod of confirmation, and bussies himself with the task, leaving his socks folded on the chair his jacket is draped over.
The bathroom here is much nicer than the one in his motel. The shower has a tub, for starters, and the room is well lit, clean, and has plenty of counterspace. He undresses, folds his clothes out of habit, grabs the complementary shampoo and bar of soap, and turns the water on hot. Once in the shower he decides to shampoo and scrub twice, because he feels rather unpleasant sobering up. It's been a bad week and he hasn't taken the best care of himself. And then, because Harold said so, he just stands under the hot water. Lets it pound on his shoulders while he traces water drops to keep his mind occupied. The problem with just standing and doing nothing is that he can hear the gunshots, can hear the phone ringing.
John thinks it's only been a few extra minutes when he can't stand it any longer and turns the shower off. He towels off mechanically and gets dressed again. A quick check in the mirror shows only what he already knows: he needs to shave and there's a detached sort of look to his eyes, like he's looking at a stranger. The former he can do something about when they get his stuff from the motel. The latter... the latter he doesn't think about in favor of opening the door and stepping back out to rejoin Harold.
Task accomplished, he sits on the end of the bed and watches Harold, waiting for whatever is next.
Harold does spend the time reading this time. Well, after he checks on all his accounts and alerts, tidies things up; then he settles back on the bed they'd been sleeping in with a multitude of pillows, and his severe concentrating expression softens as John exits the bathroom, damp and shower-warm.
He immediately puts his book down after memorizing the page number and holds his hands up and out to John.
"Come here, please?"
He wants to touch him, reaffirm to him that he's still here, and he's concluded already from previous interactions that John likes physical contact. Accordingly, there's no reason to hold back. He's done what he asked and Harold is pleased with that, just pleased to see him, truthfully, but there is an added dimension to knowing John does listen to him that soothes his weariness. He'd been right to come here and impose himself and he's right to operate on the belief that John wants him there.
He goes, easily and without hesitation, crawling up the length of the bed to Harold. Once there he lays down on his side, head on Harold's shoulder, inside Harold's arms. John can feel some of the tension he gathered in the shower ease away. Harold is here, Harold wants him. He can be with Harold.
John wraps his arm around Harold's chest, not tightly, just draped there. Both holding Harold and holding onto Harold. Truthfully, he knows he should eat but he feels like shit and doesn't mind if they just fall asleep like this again. It's probably too early to sleep, he knows Harold stays up late working, but isn't sure about his sleeping habits otherwise. Still, if all they do is lay here together it will be enough for John. He lets himself think about how Harold's body rises and falls with each breath, the feeling of Harold's shirt beneath his fingers, the warmth of Harold beneath his cheek.
It's already a huge improvement, John showered and now laying in his arms. Harold indulges in some long quiet minutes of resting there with him, letting them both have this interlude where everything else is far away. They'll figure it all out -- or at least Harold will; he'll make sure of it -- but not just yet.
He knows he should make good on his promise to order food, so eventually he bestirs himself with a sigh and leans over to fetch the hotel phone, pulling away from John just enough to reach it. He orders room service with his usual calm courtesy, keeping it to plainer breakfast foods (fruit, croissants, eggs) because he suspects John has been living on an alcohol diet for at least a few days.
When he hangs up the phone, Harold grabs the felt-tip pen he'd left beside his wallet and keys on the night stand. He turns back to John, sitting more fully upright now, and uncaps the pen.
"Can I have your arm? I thought I'd draw on you instead of me."
It's a silly impulse, but Harold has gotten attached to giving John little bird doodles, and doing it directly will keep them physically close without demanding anything from John. He also finds his older yearning to share more of himself rising up again, and knows exactly what he wants to draw this time.
When Harold starts to move around John withdraws enough to give him space to do so. If he's honest, he immediately misses the contact. Getting to be close like this with Harold is an indulgence he doesn't want to give up. But it can't last forever, so he gives Harold space.
The food Harold orders sounds... reasonable. He can probably get it down. And he knows it's good for him to eat, he hasn't been doing much of that these past days. Just enough to get by, just enough to drag himself back to the bar and drink himself numb again. Food doesn't sound appetizing right now, but he'll eat.
John is curious what Harold is going to do when he reaches for the pen, but at his request he bares his arm immediately. He realizes that he hasn't said anything for a little while, not since before his shower, but he doesn't feel the need to. There's no need to force a conversation. Things are... comfortable between them, like they're in some sort of cocoon, wrapped up and safe for the moment. He can just concentrate on this moment, be here with Harold. How had he left in the first place? How had he not turned to Harold, found this solace? Or, maybe, it was only through separation that he understood truly what Harold means to him. Perhaps this was a lesson he needed to learn the hard way.
That's not a lesson Harold needs reinforced, personally, not after losing his father and then Grace and Nathan, each in their own ways; but this separation has taught him that John shouldn't and doesn't want to be left to his devices. Harold can be sure of his reception -- critically, not just for his own sake, but for John's. Knowing what he needs (more of him, more contact, more honesty) makes it extraordinarily simple to give it to him.
Unbeknownst to John, Harold practiced extensively on paper with this very pen before the first time he took ink to skin. It's too cumbersome to try to wash off and re-draw lines, so he is slow and careful, deliberate. He steadies John's arm with his other hand and strokes one clean line across the expanse of his wrist.
"Wren was my first alias," Harold says out loud, eyes focused on his work. It's easier for him to share if he isn't looking right at him, if he can keep himself in this quiet space where nothing intrudes. He wants to share, but it's still...
Nerve-wracking, by default. He strokes another line, making the curve of a tiny beak.
"I had to pick something when I went to college because I have a treason charge on file under my birth name. When I was young I thought that every system vulnerability was an invitation." There's something between wry satisfaction and profound sadness as he speaks, a complicated blend of emotions, Harold aware of his accomplishments but equally aware what it had cost him with his father. The path it had set him on to lie, and keep lying, about who he is.
Harold's touch on John's arm is like an anchor, holding him steady in the wake of his words. Harold, the ever private Harold who John tried to figure out at first and then later simply... let be. He didn't need to hear it, didn't need to know. He trusts Harold even if he doesn't know who he was before they met. John knows who he is now and that's what matters.
But if Harold wants to share? If Harold wants to give him this gift? John will accept it. He knows how hard it is to speak of the past, can only imagine how much harder it is for Harold. How much bravery has it taken to share even this much? He thinks... he thinks Harold wants to share this. John didn't ask, hasn't asked any truly probing questions for a long time now. If Harold is sharing this in this moment, it's because he wants to.
"So you hacked the government because you could." John doesn't want to ask follow up questions, doesn't want to force him to share something he doesn't want. If this is all Harold wants to say, John won't push him for more. He's here to listen, to accept.
Harold knows John doesn't need to know anything in specific, but he's starting to think he does need to know something, the broader contours of Harold's life and personality. Something to fill a hollow gap where Detective Carter's loss resides, where frank friendship stood for John. He also knows he wouldn't ask, that it has to be something he gives unbidden, and maybe he can use this too as a way to express that he understands intense reactions to grief more than John might think.
It would be natural to talk about his father here -- he's been thinking about him enough this whole day -- but that's too painful still, and wouldn't push the conversation the direction Harold needs it inevitably to go. They need to address the numbers, and leaving it too long seems unwise. It's too integral to their relationship.
"Yes, I did a lot of things because I could, without thinking through the consequences," he admits, sketching another line. A small round wren begins to take shape on John's arm. "But I never liked the attention. I met Nathan in school, at MIT. He did like the attention."
Harold has carried this loss with him for so long in utter silence, lying in large part even to Will, that it surprises him how easily the words come. That fondness can seep through the cracks instead of just sadness, that he can smile faintly, thinking of Nathan and Arthur and those years and appreciating them now for what they were. A chance to have true friends, to grow and stretch his skills, to find the niche he wants to occupy in the world. Many are never that fortunate.
"So after we graduated, we established IFT, and Nathan let me hide. He took all the credit for my work, handled all the business deals. It made sense for him to do the same with the Machine."
A wren is a small bird, so Harold is just about finished, but he keeps going. He starts outlining a second figure just below the first.
John watches Harold drawing on his arm instead of watching Harold. It seems like... giving him some privacy, in a way. Even though he's sharing all this. John isn't sure if there's a purpose to this other than just sharing, but he's listening, taking it all in. He can feel some of the loss but also that fondness, just whispers of emotions. This isn't a casual conversation, but of course it wouldn't be. This is Harold sharing some of his past with John. There's nothing casual about that.
"I saw a picture of you together, hidden in a book in the Library," he admits. He's never talked about it before, but he does think of it sometimes; thinks of the young, smiling Harold. Harold before so many things happened to him, things John knows nothing about, but might hear about now. He doesn't think Harold will ever smile like that again, John knows his own such smiles are a thing of the past, but he wishes he could. Wishes that one day Harold will give him something close to that pleasure.
"I'm not surprised," he says with equally the same knowing wry affection as he strokes another line across John's arm, "I did say I expected you to make up the difference."
Harold wouldn't have left it there if he wasn't alright with John finding it. That's the thing-- he was. Talking about it is something else altogether, but John knowing he's never minded. He appreciates the sham of privacy, of John watching him draw and him looking at his drawing, as if nothing else more interesting is happening, because right now, he is talking.
"Nathan was my front man, but he wasn't a slouch at programming, either. It was his idea to make the Machine. He was auxiliary administrator from day one."
The smile fades, but there's attachment, love, left pulsing across the bond, constricted with pain. "I taught the Machine to determine what was relevant to national security and what wasn't, and Nathan..." Another line, swooping a flaring crest above the bird's head, ostentatious and unashamed. A cockatiel taking shape.
"Nathan didn't think anyone should be called irrelevant. He--" Sadly, fondly, he finishes, "He was never shy about telling me when I was wrong."
It's a lot to take in. To feel Harold's love for Nathan and try to understand it for what it is. To hear him talk about the Machine, about their differences. John is silent, thinking it over.
It's clear, even after all this time, that Harold feels very strongly towards Nathan. John feels... his first instinct is to be jealous, but he finds that he isn't. Maybe a couple weeks ago he might have been, or at least unsure, but his life has been drastically altered since then. For one, he's had to face how deep his own feelings for other people run (even if he turned his face and hid from it all at the end), and two, he's much more confident in his position with Harold. Harold came to find him, Harold isn't going to let him go. This feeling Harold has for Nathan is just a part of the man drawing sure lines on his arm, is part of Harold's whole, is part of the person he loves. He can accept that.
And to hear Harold talk about the early days of the Machine— Harold has said a lot in not so many words. John can read the implications in what he said. That it was Nathan who fought for the irrelevant list, the numbers. That Harold disagreed with him. It feels impossible to imagine Harold without the numbers, to imagine a time where Harold opposed them. That's the antithesis of who Harold is now. John can't imagine a Harold before the numbers, and he can't imagine his own self without them in his future. That, of course, is the problem— but he won't get sidetracked with that now. John takes a breath and refocuses his attention on Harold's grip, on the feeling of pen on his skin. Continues thinking about Harold and Nathan and the numbers.
How would two rich tech guys work the numbers? He's making a guess that Nathan wasn't secretly a trained military operative. Obviously they would have to hire help, but between their resources it shouldn't have been trouble. And yet now there's only Harold, Nathan having died in a ferry bombing. The kind of thing that the Machine should have caught. Nathan should have been a relevant number. What went wrong? Was the Machine not finished yet? He doesn't want to ask Harold; if Harold wants to tell him, today or in a week or never, he'll accept it as it is.
Harold doesn't try to hide from his mistakes. Now the grief swells, now he pushes himself toward the part that chokes him to talk about, but feels necessary to explain to John why he won't choose between him and the numbers, why he wants to have both. He can feel John struggling with the idea that Harold in the past spurned this responsibility, can feel him wonder how he and Nathan managed it. He needs to puncture that blind belief in himself, become human to him.
He says, plainly, without artifice, "Nathan died because he wanted to tell the world about what we'd done, because we'd set out to prevent terrorism and instead discovered a way to save everyone. If only he could convince people like me to care."
Another line with the pen, his expression going remote, the only way Harold knows how to deal with the depth of his grief. Not the same as John numbing himself with alcohol after Joss's death, but-- he understands it, had gone untouchable and distant in the aftermath. Had thought there was nothing left but to enact revenge and then die. He knows that hollowness, what had driven John so recently to find Quinn, desperate and mortal.
That it was his fault.
"I'm sure you understand that the government wouldn't let that happen -- wouldn't be interested in that, when it would expose their operations. I tried to tell him, but he wanted to take the risk. And because he never once told them who I was, Nathan died because he was willing to protect me from the consequences of what I'd made."
Harold has to stop drawing, pen poised above skin, hand trembling finely. He closes his eyes. He could stop here, wait for John to encourage him further, but it feels cruel. It's not the point. It's not the point of this story, or of Nathan's memory -- it's something larger, stronger, that Harold needs to honor.
"The Machine told me afterwards that it knew. It knew Nathan was an irrelevant number, but I was ignoring them, then. I didn't want to know. He died because I didn't want to know." There's a rhythmic repetition to Harold's words, he died because-- and a long, slow breath, Harold unwillingly reliving that moment and forcing himself past it. "It was only after-- when I'd lost him. When I woke up and I couldn't walk right--"
He opens his eyes.
"When I realized that if anyone learned I was the one who was responsible, the one who'd made the Machine, Grace would be killed because of me, too. To keep the secret I'd never even told her--"
Harold finishes the cockatiel and moves lower a few inches, adds one more, slower line. It's broader, bigger, a larger bird mid-flight rather than perched. His love for Nathan had an interruption in the bleak stretch of hopelessness that Harold hadn't thought he could come back from -- and deciding not to kill Alicia Corwin, deciding that the Machine was right and it wasn't in him, was not it. That made him bleaker, blanker, more of a nothing who was existing only until he could fade away. He didn't truly believe he had a future then. Not one that mattered.
"I told you it was a dark time for me. I thought there was nothing I could do but try to prove Nathan right until the end. That I owed it to him. But I didn't think that was even possible until I met you."
Harold hadn't even thought he could, not really, had thought he was on a beautiful but futile quest to give honor to Nathan's memory. Not until John proved him wrong. Starting to fill out the osprey, he finishes with utmost softness: "I can't give up the numbers, but I can't give you up, either. Whatever you need to stay with me, John, I'll give you. I'll make it work. I can't make that mistake again."
He can't put his ideals above a loved one again, not yet another time. Harold has to pull his hand back because it's shaking too much now, and he haphazardly caps the pen, curled over and hunched in on himself, afraid of further loss.
John just listens and listens and listens. Harold's unfolding story, the things he probably thought he'd never say again. His confession about the irrelevant list. His decision to leave Grace. And at the end, he seems so alone, so afraid. John doesn't know what to say yet, he has to think and he knows Harold will give him the space to do so, but he can't just leave Harold like this either. So he shifts until he's facing Harold on the bed and then draws Harold to him; gets his arm around Harold's waist and pulls Harold forward until he's leaning against John, until his posture is opened up but supported by John's chest. The arm around Harold's waist holds him to John, but his other hand finds one of Harold's and laces their fingers together. He hopes Harold understands this signal that even if he has to think on his response, he's with Harold; Harold is not alone.
Immediately he realizes that he has to face Joss's death. He can't afford to run from it any longer. Harold needs an answer and even though it's going to be excruciating, even though he wants nothing more than to sink into a bottle again, he deserves one.
What is John without the numbers? He's been serving in some way for twenty years now; the Army, the CIA, now the numbers. He can't imagine a civilian life; every time someone reaches into their pocket he comes to attention, every time he's in a car he checks for a tail, every room he enters has an escape plan. No, it's impossible for him. So what else is there to do? He could do contract work, but that feels... empty. Soulless. It's better than nothing, but is it better than the numbers? John thinks of the Machine, hears the phone ringing in his memory, feels his heart rate pick up. But he forces himself not to turn away from it. Harold can probably feel how much it hurts to think about how the Machine failed her. How he failed her. This isn't the numbness, the denial he had after Jessica's death, this feels like something is clawing at his chest. But he doesn't turn away from it, just holds onto Harold a little tighter.
But he's not sure he believes in the numbers anymore. He held Joss as she died and she didn't deserve it. Out of all the numbers they've done, she didn't deserve it. They saved that stupid couple who put out a hit on each other, that mobster who wanted to protect his girl, even Elias. All people he would have traded in a heartbeat to save her. And yet he couldn't. If the Machine is for everyone, isn't it for no-one? John's not sure he can do that anymore. The endless cycle of trying to save people over and over again, only for it not to matter in the end.
John's aware that he's trembling, as if he's trying not to cry. Something he's forgotten how to do. It would probably be appropriate right now to do so, but he thinks a lot of it is probably due to being run down from all the drinking, from sobering up, from being short on food. He takes a deep breath and tries to stop the motion, but is largely unsuccessful. That's okay. He can still support Harold like this.
"I won't leave you. No matter what. But I don't know if I can do the numbers anymore. I... trusted blindly, but I'm not so sure the Machine cares who matters and who doesn't."
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Maybe he is drunk.
He lets Harold guide him outside and folds himself into the passenger seat with ease and does his seatbelt without any fumbling. He remembers this, too: even with this much alcohol he's still very much in control of his body; anyone watching wouldn't be able to tell the condition he's in.
And then he just sits and lets Harold take control of the situation. Wherever Harold is taking him is where he'll go.
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Instead he keeps up a seemingly idle chatter about the types of birds he's drawn on John's forearm over the past week. It makes him think painfully of his father and how he would do something just like this for Harold, so many times; but the pain is lanced through with something pure and sweet, a kind of gratitude for having had his father at all. He doesn't expect John, drunk as he is, to be fully paying attention or absorbing what he's saying, but the words come nonetheless, like a habit he didn't know he had finally let free.
He stops when they get to the nicer hotel he'd booked. It's still not nice enough to have a valet (this is nowhere, Colorado, after all) so Harold parks and then takes John by the elbow to guide him in. He already has a key card for his room, so he doesn't have to check in. They'll go back to get their things from his motel later.
"You should sleep for a while and then take a shower," he informs him as they ride the elevator up, arm still laced through his at the elbow.
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Once at the hotel, which is decidedly not the one where he was staying at, and he's very confident Harold knows about, Harold guides him inside and John just lets him take the lead. He's glad for the return of Harold's hand, can feel the ghost of his warmth through his jacket, can feel the weight of his touch on his elbow. It's a relief, surrendering to Harold's instruction like this. He doesn't even acknowledge Harold's directions, just lets himself be led down the hall and ushered into a hotel room.
He doesn't spare too much attention to it, but does map out the crucial pieces of information: location of the beds in relation to the door, heavy objects that could be used as weapons. There are two beds which is both a relief and a disappointment. Relief because it means he doesn't have offer to sleep in the bathtub, but disappointment because one bed meant a small chance he could get Harold to lay down with him.
If he's thinking that, he realizes, then he really does need to sleep this off.
John chooses the bed closer to the door and almost reaches for his gun before he remembers that he left it behind in New York. He covers for the start of that motion by reaching down and pulling his shoes off. The bed covers get only a moment of consideration before he leaves them as they are and simply lays down on top of the bedspread; if something happens he doesn't want to be tangled up in the sheets.
"If you need to go out or if someone knocks on the door, wake me up." It's doubtful that anything is going to happen in the middle of nowhere, Colorado, but this is Harold. John is always cautious with Harold. He doesn't wait for an answer, just lays on his side facing the door, closes his eyes, and starts with a breathing exercise before he drops off all too quickly.
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He takes a few minutes in the bathroom to splash cold water on his face until his nerves settle. He'd found him, he hadn't pushed him away, he's... he's here with him again. It feels like the adrenaline surging since Detective Carter's death and John's subsequent disappearance has never really stopped. Harold is not used to operating under strained conditions for that long, and he feels suddenly exhausted, his actual bones weary and mind turned to sludge.
He'd planned to pull a chair over and read beside John's bed until he woke up again -- it's early afternoon, for God's sake -- but as he goes to sit, he looks at John's sleeping face, a sight he's sure very few get to see these days, and he imagines never seeing it again.
Not like this; only through screens, probably. Harold knows himself and knows he'd try to keep tabs on John wherever he was and whatever he was doing, but he doesn't want that.
He wants to shed his shoes and belt and cardigan and slide into bed beside him, taking an extra pillow from the second bed to prop up his bad leg. The relief that hammers through him is profound, like a narrowly averted disaster, heart thudding with an awareness of mortality and how very little he can truly control. One loss avoided, for now. For once, with the solidness of the foundation they've built bolstering him, Harold does what he wants to do without second-guessing it.
He crawls into bed beside John and closes his eyes to disallow himself from checking if John notices or reacts before he falls asleep.
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When next he wakes he's forgotten all about it, lost in that haze between moments of sleep. He thinks based on the light in the room that it's been a few hours, afternoon has shifted into early evening. John is, unfortunately, quite a bit more sober now. He feels awful. This is the price he has to pay for nearly a week of inebriation. He remembers how this felt the last time they were in this situation: John coming out of his drink because Harold decided to enter his life.
And speaking of, where is Harold? John's view is of the door, but he can't hear the sound of a keyboard or the turning pages of a book. Instead all he hears is soft breathing, and from— behind him? Cautiously, John rolls over in place, and is stunned breathless by what he sees: Harold asleep on the bed with him.
He's seen Harold asleep before, but not like this. At his desk, still all buttoned up, jerking awake at John's approach. Here his glasses are off, he has no suit to wear as armor, he's just... asleep. His face looks so different, and yet he's still definitively Harold. There's this unguardedness to him, a wall that's been let down by sleep.
John hasn't forgotten the second step of Harold's instructions, and logically he knows he should get some food in him, but he doesn't want to waste a moment of this precious situation. What he wants to do— to let his fingers brush Harold's cheek, to see him wake slowly, to turn that gaze upon John, to hold this moment between them. Maybe, if he was feeling particularly bold, he would kiss Harold gently, so gently; it feels like it would be appropriate in this moment. But he does none of that. He just watches Harold in silence, etching this moment into his mind.
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His eyes flutter open briefly and then close again, and he turns to press his face into the pillow like he's rejecting waking up for a moment. Despite that attempt, his brain starts to kick into gear, placing him in time and space, and in proximity to John.
So he shifts and makes himself actually wake up, unable to contain a yawn, looking mildly disgruntled and nothing less than rumpled. He's embarrassed to be caught taking a nap but not embarrassed to be sleeping in the same bed as his soulmate. That seems entirely reasonable.
"Forgive me, it's been... Well." At the last second Harold rethinks saying that the past couple weeks haven't been easy for him, either. That might come out combative. He blinks several times, trying futilely to bring John into focus without his glasses and only getting more disgruntled. "I was more tired than I thought," he says instead.
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But Harold is here. Harold chose his bed to sleep in, slept next to him rather than in the other bed. He wanted to be with John.
He wanted to be with John.
He wanted to be with John and John lets that thought fill him up. They're together again. Things might not be the same, they have to talk, but they're together. Emboldened, John lifts his hand and brushes the tips of his fingers against Harold's cheek, a lingering touch. He feels... less empty with Harold here. Less like there's a gaping maw inside him that's eating away at everything. There's still so much sadness, yes, but it's not all encompassing.
John's hand is still hovering by Harold's face so he repeats the motion, still so gentle, like he could break this moment between them. He almost lets his hand lay on Harold's cheek at the end but decides to lay it on the bed between their heads instead. He's torn between saying "I'm sorry" and "I'm glad you got some sleep" but finds he can't get any of the words out. Harold deserves something though, and John manages to push out a whispery, "thank you."
Thank you for finding me. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for sleeping with me. Thank you for not leaving me alone.
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He smiles just a little, helplessly, as John strokes the lightest touch across his face. Harold recognizes it as brave. He finally gives into an urge he's had for weeks now and finds John's hand where it rests on the bed with his own, draws it in for a dry press of lips to his knuckles.
"If you don't want me to let you go," he murmurs, "I won't."
He thinks maybe he shouldn't have let him leave alone in the first place. He'll remember that if there's a next time. Harold's instinct to give space and privacy, what he himself would want, is not always the correct one. And he knows John needs routine and craves trust and certainty; Carter's death was so destabilizing, maybe letting him withdraw was the exact wrong course of action. Maybe what he needs is more from Harold, not less.
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The ink on his arm has been the only anchor he's had for the past week. The promise that Harold was with him, in some way. John wants Harold, wants to be with Harold. It feels like the only light in his life right now. More than just his soulmate, he's just... Harold. The fact that they're soulmates hasn't changed how he feels, it's just made him more forward with those feelings. Shone a light on them instead of hiding them away in the dark.
John still doesn't know what the future looks like. What they'll do. What he can do. He never envisioned a life for himself outside of the numbers. What else is there for him? The uncertainty begins to well up in him so he focuses on the present moment as much as possible. The feeling of Harold's lips on his knuckles, the feeling of his hand in Harold's. An anchor point that he clings to least he get swept up in sadness, in uncertainty. He doesn't know, but Harold will. Harold always has a plan, John just needs to follow it.
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Have the license to take care of things, the best that he can.
This is a desire he'd never expressed even to Grace, never found an avenue that felt safe enough to explore it. But with John, who struggles to tell him what he wants at all, who just wants to be sure-- it feels like he could try, without overstepping or offending him.
"Okay," he exhales, a glimpse of less-formal speech, of Harold with all his pretense removed. He's still sleepy, blinking slowly but waking up and embracing that he is here with John. Four years, four days-- he'll take whatever he can get. He thinks of saying I miss her, too, and he thinks of saying I've missed you, but he thinks John has probably had enough of emotions for the moment.
"Would you like to shower? I'll order us dinner." More softly, in a serious deviation from their normal exchanges and thinking of the decision he's just come to, he adds, "I won't go anywhere, I'll just be answering the door."
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"I'll take a shower and you can order food, but I'll be out by the time it arrives." He hopes this doesn't feel to overbearing to Harold, to have John need to be present for all these situations. It's not like Harold hasn't taken care of himself so far. Well, there was Harold's kidnapping. First that Alicia Corwin, and then Root, who both found Harold— but in light of everything, John can't afford to take any risks. Not with Harold.
He wonders vaguely when it will end, when he'll feel like he can let Harold out of his sight. How had he left him in the first place? Laying here in bed together, it seems like an impossible task. Maybe if they'd had this moment earlier he wouldn't have been able to leave. Maybe he would have talked with Harold instead of just announcing his departure. They'll have to talk about this. All of this. John has no doubt some of their conversations will be excruciating, but they have to talk.
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Right now, he just says, "I'll wait to order until you're finished. Please don't rush on my account." He levers himself upright, pushing his bolstering pillow impatiently to the side and off the bed with an uncharacteristic carelessness, so he can face John and meet his eyes, his hair mussed from sleeping.
"I want you to take your time, John."
It shouldn't be an order, the way he says it; it's just Harold expressing his honest opinion. But he knows how it'll be received, that John will take it seriously. He wants him to. He cares for John so desperately and he doesn't trust that John will act on that on his behalf without explicit instruction, so he needs to be clear.
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The bathroom here is much nicer than the one in his motel. The shower has a tub, for starters, and the room is well lit, clean, and has plenty of counterspace. He undresses, folds his clothes out of habit, grabs the complementary shampoo and bar of soap, and turns the water on hot. Once in the shower he decides to shampoo and scrub twice, because he feels rather unpleasant sobering up. It's been a bad week and he hasn't taken the best care of himself. And then, because Harold said so, he just stands under the hot water. Lets it pound on his shoulders while he traces water drops to keep his mind occupied. The problem with just standing and doing nothing is that he can hear the gunshots, can hear the phone ringing.
John thinks it's only been a few extra minutes when he can't stand it any longer and turns the shower off. He towels off mechanically and gets dressed again. A quick check in the mirror shows only what he already knows: he needs to shave and there's a detached sort of look to his eyes, like he's looking at a stranger. The former he can do something about when they get his stuff from the motel. The latter... the latter he doesn't think about in favor of opening the door and stepping back out to rejoin Harold.
Task accomplished, he sits on the end of the bed and watches Harold, waiting for whatever is next.
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He immediately puts his book down after memorizing the page number and holds his hands up and out to John.
"Come here, please?"
He wants to touch him, reaffirm to him that he's still here, and he's concluded already from previous interactions that John likes physical contact. Accordingly, there's no reason to hold back. He's done what he asked and Harold is pleased with that, just pleased to see him, truthfully, but there is an added dimension to knowing John does listen to him that soothes his weariness. He'd been right to come here and impose himself and he's right to operate on the belief that John wants him there.
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John wraps his arm around Harold's chest, not tightly, just draped there. Both holding Harold and holding onto Harold. Truthfully, he knows he should eat but he feels like shit and doesn't mind if they just fall asleep like this again. It's probably too early to sleep, he knows Harold stays up late working, but isn't sure about his sleeping habits otherwise. Still, if all they do is lay here together it will be enough for John. He lets himself think about how Harold's body rises and falls with each breath, the feeling of Harold's shirt beneath his fingers, the warmth of Harold beneath his cheek.
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He knows he should make good on his promise to order food, so eventually he bestirs himself with a sigh and leans over to fetch the hotel phone, pulling away from John just enough to reach it. He orders room service with his usual calm courtesy, keeping it to plainer breakfast foods (fruit, croissants, eggs) because he suspects John has been living on an alcohol diet for at least a few days.
When he hangs up the phone, Harold grabs the felt-tip pen he'd left beside his wallet and keys on the night stand. He turns back to John, sitting more fully upright now, and uncaps the pen.
"Can I have your arm? I thought I'd draw on you instead of me."
It's a silly impulse, but Harold has gotten attached to giving John little bird doodles, and doing it directly will keep them physically close without demanding anything from John. He also finds his older yearning to share more of himself rising up again, and knows exactly what he wants to draw this time.
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The food Harold orders sounds... reasonable. He can probably get it down. And he knows it's good for him to eat, he hasn't been doing much of that these past days. Just enough to get by, just enough to drag himself back to the bar and drink himself numb again. Food doesn't sound appetizing right now, but he'll eat.
John is curious what Harold is going to do when he reaches for the pen, but at his request he bares his arm immediately. He realizes that he hasn't said anything for a little while, not since before his shower, but he doesn't feel the need to. There's no need to force a conversation. Things are... comfortable between them, like they're in some sort of cocoon, wrapped up and safe for the moment. He can just concentrate on this moment, be here with Harold. How had he left in the first place? How had he not turned to Harold, found this solace? Or, maybe, it was only through separation that he understood truly what Harold means to him. Perhaps this was a lesson he needed to learn the hard way.
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Unbeknownst to John, Harold practiced extensively on paper with this very pen before the first time he took ink to skin. It's too cumbersome to try to wash off and re-draw lines, so he is slow and careful, deliberate. He steadies John's arm with his other hand and strokes one clean line across the expanse of his wrist.
"Wren was my first alias," Harold says out loud, eyes focused on his work. It's easier for him to share if he isn't looking right at him, if he can keep himself in this quiet space where nothing intrudes. He wants to share, but it's still...
Nerve-wracking, by default. He strokes another line, making the curve of a tiny beak.
"I had to pick something when I went to college because I have a treason charge on file under my birth name. When I was young I thought that every system vulnerability was an invitation." There's something between wry satisfaction and profound sadness as he speaks, a complicated blend of emotions, Harold aware of his accomplishments but equally aware what it had cost him with his father. The path it had set him on to lie, and keep lying, about who he is.
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But if Harold wants to share? If Harold wants to give him this gift? John will accept it. He knows how hard it is to speak of the past, can only imagine how much harder it is for Harold. How much bravery has it taken to share even this much? He thinks... he thinks Harold wants to share this. John didn't ask, hasn't asked any truly probing questions for a long time now. If Harold is sharing this in this moment, it's because he wants to.
"So you hacked the government because you could." John doesn't want to ask follow up questions, doesn't want to force him to share something he doesn't want. If this is all Harold wants to say, John won't push him for more. He's here to listen, to accept.
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It would be natural to talk about his father here -- he's been thinking about him enough this whole day -- but that's too painful still, and wouldn't push the conversation the direction Harold needs it inevitably to go. They need to address the numbers, and leaving it too long seems unwise. It's too integral to their relationship.
"Yes, I did a lot of things because I could, without thinking through the consequences," he admits, sketching another line. A small round wren begins to take shape on John's arm. "But I never liked the attention. I met Nathan in school, at MIT. He did like the attention."
Harold has carried this loss with him for so long in utter silence, lying in large part even to Will, that it surprises him how easily the words come. That fondness can seep through the cracks instead of just sadness, that he can smile faintly, thinking of Nathan and Arthur and those years and appreciating them now for what they were. A chance to have true friends, to grow and stretch his skills, to find the niche he wants to occupy in the world. Many are never that fortunate.
"So after we graduated, we established IFT, and Nathan let me hide. He took all the credit for my work, handled all the business deals. It made sense for him to do the same with the Machine."
A wren is a small bird, so Harold is just about finished, but he keeps going. He starts outlining a second figure just below the first.
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"I saw a picture of you together, hidden in a book in the Library," he admits. He's never talked about it before, but he does think of it sometimes; thinks of the young, smiling Harold. Harold before so many things happened to him, things John knows nothing about, but might hear about now. He doesn't think Harold will ever smile like that again, John knows his own such smiles are a thing of the past, but he wishes he could. Wishes that one day Harold will give him something close to that pleasure.
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Harold wouldn't have left it there if he wasn't alright with John finding it. That's the thing-- he was. Talking about it is something else altogether, but John knowing he's never minded. He appreciates the sham of privacy, of John watching him draw and him looking at his drawing, as if nothing else more interesting is happening, because right now, he is talking.
"Nathan was my front man, but he wasn't a slouch at programming, either. It was his idea to make the Machine. He was auxiliary administrator from day one."
The smile fades, but there's attachment, love, left pulsing across the bond, constricted with pain. "I taught the Machine to determine what was relevant to national security and what wasn't, and Nathan..." Another line, swooping a flaring crest above the bird's head, ostentatious and unashamed. A cockatiel taking shape.
"Nathan didn't think anyone should be called irrelevant. He--" Sadly, fondly, he finishes, "He was never shy about telling me when I was wrong."
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It's clear, even after all this time, that Harold feels very strongly towards Nathan. John feels... his first instinct is to be jealous, but he finds that he isn't. Maybe a couple weeks ago he might have been, or at least unsure, but his life has been drastically altered since then. For one, he's had to face how deep his own feelings for other people run (even if he turned his face and hid from it all at the end), and two, he's much more confident in his position with Harold. Harold came to find him, Harold isn't going to let him go. This feeling Harold has for Nathan is just a part of the man drawing sure lines on his arm, is part of Harold's whole, is part of the person he loves. He can accept that.
And to hear Harold talk about the early days of the Machine— Harold has said a lot in not so many words. John can read the implications in what he said. That it was Nathan who fought for the irrelevant list, the numbers. That Harold disagreed with him. It feels impossible to imagine Harold without the numbers, to imagine a time where Harold opposed them. That's the antithesis of who Harold is now. John can't imagine a Harold before the numbers, and he can't imagine his own self without them in his future. That, of course, is the problem— but he won't get sidetracked with that now. John takes a breath and refocuses his attention on Harold's grip, on the feeling of pen on his skin. Continues thinking about Harold and Nathan and the numbers.
How would two rich tech guys work the numbers? He's making a guess that Nathan wasn't secretly a trained military operative. Obviously they would have to hire help, but between their resources it shouldn't have been trouble. And yet now there's only Harold, Nathan having died in a ferry bombing. The kind of thing that the Machine should have caught. Nathan should have been a relevant number. What went wrong? Was the Machine not finished yet? He doesn't want to ask Harold; if Harold wants to tell him, today or in a week or never, he'll accept it as it is.
"So Nathan convinced you to work the numbers."
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Harold doesn't try to hide from his mistakes. Now the grief swells, now he pushes himself toward the part that chokes him to talk about, but feels necessary to explain to John why he won't choose between him and the numbers, why he wants to have both. He can feel John struggling with the idea that Harold in the past spurned this responsibility, can feel him wonder how he and Nathan managed it. He needs to puncture that blind belief in himself, become human to him.
He says, plainly, without artifice, "Nathan died because he wanted to tell the world about what we'd done, because we'd set out to prevent terrorism and instead discovered a way to save everyone. If only he could convince people like me to care."
Another line with the pen, his expression going remote, the only way Harold knows how to deal with the depth of his grief. Not the same as John numbing himself with alcohol after Joss's death, but-- he understands it, had gone untouchable and distant in the aftermath. Had thought there was nothing left but to enact revenge and then die. He knows that hollowness, what had driven John so recently to find Quinn, desperate and mortal.
That it was his fault.
"I'm sure you understand that the government wouldn't let that happen -- wouldn't be interested in that, when it would expose their operations. I tried to tell him, but he wanted to take the risk. And because he never once told them who I was, Nathan died because he was willing to protect me from the consequences of what I'd made."
Harold has to stop drawing, pen poised above skin, hand trembling finely. He closes his eyes. He could stop here, wait for John to encourage him further, but it feels cruel. It's not the point. It's not the point of this story, or of Nathan's memory -- it's something larger, stronger, that Harold needs to honor.
"The Machine told me afterwards that it knew. It knew Nathan was an irrelevant number, but I was ignoring them, then. I didn't want to know. He died because I didn't want to know." There's a rhythmic repetition to Harold's words, he died because-- and a long, slow breath, Harold unwillingly reliving that moment and forcing himself past it. "It was only after-- when I'd lost him. When I woke up and I couldn't walk right--"
He opens his eyes.
"When I realized that if anyone learned I was the one who was responsible, the one who'd made the Machine, Grace would be killed because of me, too. To keep the secret I'd never even told her--"
Harold finishes the cockatiel and moves lower a few inches, adds one more, slower line. It's broader, bigger, a larger bird mid-flight rather than perched. His love for Nathan had an interruption in the bleak stretch of hopelessness that Harold hadn't thought he could come back from -- and deciding not to kill Alicia Corwin, deciding that the Machine was right and it wasn't in him, was not it. That made him bleaker, blanker, more of a nothing who was existing only until he could fade away. He didn't truly believe he had a future then. Not one that mattered.
"I told you it was a dark time for me. I thought there was nothing I could do but try to prove Nathan right until the end. That I owed it to him. But I didn't think that was even possible until I met you."
Harold hadn't even thought he could, not really, had thought he was on a beautiful but futile quest to give honor to Nathan's memory. Not until John proved him wrong. Starting to fill out the osprey, he finishes with utmost softness: "I can't give up the numbers, but I can't give you up, either. Whatever you need to stay with me, John, I'll give you. I'll make it work. I can't make that mistake again."
He can't put his ideals above a loved one again, not yet another time. Harold has to pull his hand back because it's shaking too much now, and he haphazardly caps the pen, curled over and hunched in on himself, afraid of further loss.
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Immediately he realizes that he has to face Joss's death. He can't afford to run from it any longer. Harold needs an answer and even though it's going to be excruciating, even though he wants nothing more than to sink into a bottle again, he deserves one.
What is John without the numbers? He's been serving in some way for twenty years now; the Army, the CIA, now the numbers. He can't imagine a civilian life; every time someone reaches into their pocket he comes to attention, every time he's in a car he checks for a tail, every room he enters has an escape plan. No, it's impossible for him. So what else is there to do? He could do contract work, but that feels... empty. Soulless. It's better than nothing, but is it better than the numbers? John thinks of the Machine, hears the phone ringing in his memory, feels his heart rate pick up. But he forces himself not to turn away from it. Harold can probably feel how much it hurts to think about how the Machine failed her. How he failed her. This isn't the numbness, the denial he had after Jessica's death, this feels like something is clawing at his chest. But he doesn't turn away from it, just holds onto Harold a little tighter.
But he's not sure he believes in the numbers anymore. He held Joss as she died and she didn't deserve it. Out of all the numbers they've done, she didn't deserve it. They saved that stupid couple who put out a hit on each other, that mobster who wanted to protect his girl, even Elias. All people he would have traded in a heartbeat to save her. And yet he couldn't. If the Machine is for everyone, isn't it for no-one? John's not sure he can do that anymore. The endless cycle of trying to save people over and over again, only for it not to matter in the end.
John's aware that he's trembling, as if he's trying not to cry. Something he's forgotten how to do. It would probably be appropriate right now to do so, but he thinks a lot of it is probably due to being run down from all the drinking, from sobering up, from being short on food. He takes a deep breath and tries to stop the motion, but is largely unsuccessful. That's okay. He can still support Harold like this.
"I won't leave you. No matter what. But I don't know if I can do the numbers anymore. I... trusted blindly, but I'm not so sure the Machine cares who matters and who doesn't."
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