John grasping his hands no matter how lightly halts his withdrawal. He's his soulmate. Why wouldn't he take down a few layers of self-protective distance? Neither of them are ready for all of them to come down, not yet, but Harold assumes that would be the natural endgame of a healthy soul-to-soul communion.
"It's fortunate for all of us that we don't need to get what we deserve," he says with an insistent frankness, passionate that that is the case. Harold advocates mercy for killers, second chances, programmed the Machine to prevent loss of life wherever possible no matter whose life it is, no single one weighing more than another. And he himself is sometimes in his darker moments convinced he deserves to be dead.
But these are not sentiments to make decisions on. He remembers Alicia Corwin terrified in a car, and a phone ringing.
"Truthfully, John, I could not have less interest in what we should have. I am interested in what we can."
It's a familiar concept, or it should be: the people they can save now, versus the ones they couldn't. The often futile struggle to make a difference in a world that has never actually been keeping score. The strange asymmetry between the gratification of saving the person in front of you compared to the faces you see in the dark on the ceiling at night, how they never equal out. Because you can't weigh lives, Harold would insist.
You can't come up with a scale that will ever balance out.
Harold wants him. Harold wants him. John was right, it hits him like a wave, but he's braced himself. He knew this was going to hurt. Harold wants him. John doesn't even know what that looks like. How does Harold see him? Can he see all the parts of him that have broken off over the years, all the things he has killed in himself to make it to this point, to be sitting here and holding Harold's hands? Some days John wakes up and the only thing that gets him out of bed is knowing that there's a number out there. He does his best to pretend to be good but sometimes he has a second drink, and on rare occasions a third. Does Harold know this? Can Harold see this in him?
And yet, Harold wants him. Despite everything, Harold wants him. John doesn't know what he has to offer. What does this vision of the future look like for Harold? He always has some plan, is thinking something, is giving John guidance; and John takes it, trusts him, follows him. In this moment John can't even envision anything past, well, this moment. Past holding Harold's hands. He wants to cradle them to his chest like something precious, or maybe run his fingers over the smooth skin, the fingertips, the softness of his palm.
His heart had shuddered to a stop during all of this and now it picks up again, beating too fast, painful. John wonders if Harold can feel that in his delicate grasp. He hurts and something in him is still so broken and jagged and painful but it also means there's a crack in him and there's something he thinks might be hope dripping through that crack, a puddle barely forming, not enough to drink at yet.
"What can we have." He means it as a question but he can't get enough inflection out to make it sound that way. "Tell me," he begs.
Can he see all the parts of him? Can he? Harold isn't convinced that's the right question. True caring -- dare he say it, love -- is based on a leap of faith. On a jump and a fall that never hits the bottom. The line between nurturing affection and desperate fear of loss is thin indeed, and he knows it so well, knows it like the slip of every memory from his father, like the tacit lie after lie he'd told Grace.
He's not sure it matters. He doesn't take being soulmates to mean they're perfect for one another; no one's flawless, no one's beyond reproach. He just takes it to mean that it's worth the leap.
Harold's fingers tighten again on John's, unreservedly, head lifting and eyes meeting his without an ounce of shame. He's too cautious to answer directly, to dictate where they go from here with careless words. He won't let John walk away with a caricature of a smile on his face and he won't let him walk a step behind him into this future, either.
"I'd like us to find out together." Merciless, uncompromising. "You and me, and no one else." No ghosts. No regrets. Harold breathes out. "There is so much I want to give you, if you'll have it."
He feels like he's boiling over with what he wants to give, a multitude and universe of affection squashed down into collapsed atoms like a beautiful custom sports jacket crumpled into a ball to travel discreetly in a carry-on bag. Harold has been carrying it everywhere, hiding it as best he can, letting a precious garment get wrinkled.
For John, he wants to shake it out, try it on again. An old part of himself he's been frittering away like a secret for years, allowing out in tiny pieces, small corners, with enough couching that he can pretend it's something else. What if he's done pretending? What if he reclaims this?
When Harold says "no one else" does he mean-- not Grace? Who he has left, has voluntarily walked away from despite loving her? Surely she must factor in to this somehow? Or does he mean the specter of Kara, who he can still hear mocking him? Does Harold know that he drags her behind him, clinging and clawing at his ankles, waiting to trip him up? Or Jessica, poor Jessica who he abandoned in her moment of need, the memory of it causing him to jolt awake at night. John doesn't think he can move forward without these memories weighing him down, just as he knows Harold has watched Grace from a distance for a long time now.
But Harold says together and looks at him, and John feels compelled to tear his eyes away from where their hands are joined and look back. He knows that his agony must still show on his face but Harold isn't letting him run away from this and he-- he doesn't want to. John is hurt and scared and doesn't know what to do, but he won't run away from Harold.
He can feel something building in Harold like water swelling behind a dam and it scares him a bit, what Harold wants. John doesn't know how to take, how to receive, he only knows how to make himself be small, slip through the cracks, let it run off of him. But he's going to try, for Harold, for his soulmate. But, truthfully, he would do this even if they weren't soulmates; being so is just the catalyst for arriving at this juncture.
"Yes," he rasps out. "Whatever you want. I'm--" is he going to say this? Now? Can he say this? Is it allowed? He owes Harold-- honesty. He owes him honesty. "--yours."
They can't leave anyone behind, can't erase those memories or the impact they've had on who they are, and Harold wouldn't want to. But he refuses to let someone else, anyone else alive or dead, dictate his relationship with John.
He must have one thing that is his, truly his. He'd tried not to, tried to make himself survive on starvation rations, told himself that he should've died in the ferry bombing anyway. What does it matter if he's a ghost moving through the city, disconnected and unattached? It's just a matter of time until his strange afterlife existence runs out. No need to complicate things.
But now here is John. Saying he's his. A smile breaks over Harold helplessly, automatically, his relieved pleasure at getting through to John cresting into another wave of unreserved joy.
"And I'm yours as well," he responds without hesitation. He wants to kiss his hands to punctuate it, but Harold restrains the impulse. Too much too fast again, he assumes, so his grip only tightens, a pulse of reassurance. "We needn't decide anything definite right away. I'd rather wait until we've both had a chance to adjust. But yes, I very much want to."
Mostly he means he wants to wait until John is less shocked, hopefully less desperately accommodating to his wishes, because Harold doesn't foresee his position or feelings changing at all. But he suspects John will find that more palatable if he makes it a we.
John can see Harold's joy, can feel it because they're soulmates, and it's too much again. It's like staring at the sun. He turns his back to the wave that is Harold's joy and lets it crest over him. He's not sure what expression is on his face right now, he feels-- relief, terror. He's still broken up, still dripping hope out of that crack, and now he can go lap at it. It's muddied with his mind saying you don't deserve this, you don't deserve this, but it's hope all the same.
It feels like too much. He's not used to so many emotions. He's not used to hope and joy, even if that joy is Harold's. He wants to hide from them, to run away for just a moment. John brings their joined hands up to cover his face, turning them so Harold's hands are pressed into his forehead, his cheeks, as though Harold can protect him from this. Of course, it doesn't actually work, he still feels too much, but it does have the benefit of bringing Harold closer. Maybe one day Harold will do this for him, will place his hands on John's face, comfort him. John wants it desperately, has wanted Harold's touch for so long.
He wants Harold to hold him, to tell him that this will be okay, that this is good. But he also knows it would destroy him.
John takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes. Okay." He realizes that he's agreeing to wait while he still has Harold's hands pressed into his face. He takes one more moment to memorize the feeling of soft skin on his brow and cheeks, and then returns their hands to his lap, but cannot imagine letting go.
There's probably nowhere else this conversation can go that won't result in him pushing John somewhere he isn't prepared for in the name of appeasing Harold. For all they'd started their relationship on tenterhooks, feeling out each other's character like putting the edge pieces of a puzzle down first, Harold thinks he has a good idea of how John operates now. However mystifying it is to him emotionally, intellectually he can't deny based on prior actions that one thing is true:
He hasn't yet found the limits of what John would do for him.
So he coaxes him carefully and kindly back to earth, takes his time seeing John out the door, ensures he actually goes home and rests and perhaps even eats something. He does not monitor him remotely. Privacy is a gift whose sense of timing matters and Harold feels, somehow, that if this is ever to work, he has to give John space and time to adjust.
Maybe he needs it, too. They have a number the next day and Harold has to drag his mind back to focusing. Fortunately, he's good at compartmentalizing, so he manages fine. He's completely professional, despite John's fears that this might affect their work, that he might become more solicitous or fearful of his safety. Harold is exactly as concerned as he's always been (perhaps that's telling, honestly) and in between moments of action, when he's sitting at the library table surrounded by monitors and his hands are still on the keys, Bear snuffling a toy into his bed, it seems surreal. He's adrift, shocked himself. He's in his fifties and he's now finding his soulmate.
Harold keeps it together until they can assure the number is safe and the perpetrator is taken care of, and then he breaks his professional façade. It's been days of wondering if what had happened really happened, days of just the faintest edge of emotion coming from John, difficult to distinguish, and uncharacteristically he feels like he needs new proof.
He takes out a brush-tipped pen specially produced for skin-writing between soulmates -- something he'd procured just the day before -- and carefully inks a message onto his left forearm in elegant script, across the wrist, over the major artery.
418 W 160th St 8 PM If you wish
An invitation to an out of the way uptown townhouse, nice enough to meet Harold's standards but unremarkable in its sameness to those beside it. Communicated over skin so John knows precisely what the premise is.
And with a few hours to spare, so Harold has time to arrange things.
That first night is agonizing. John listens to Harold's instructions, goes home, eats two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches (scraping the spreads on two pieces of bread is as much effort as he has in him), and showers. He's tempted for a moment to turn the water on cold but remembers how Harold had silently forbidden him earlier at the sink and turns it on hot instead, finally scrubbing the remaining ink off his hand. Once out he sits on the edge of his bed in only a towel for an unknown amount of time, just staring at the blank expanse of his arm, of his hand. He wants words to appear there. He wants to grab a pen and write Harold's name, a plea for-- something. He doesn't know what. Maybe just for Harold to materialize at his door.
Eventually he gets dressed for bed and lays there in the dark until an uneasy sleep claims him.
The next morning dawns with a number, and he's never been so thankful to have this job. He has no clue what to say to Harold about how his life is fundamentally different, how their relationship is irrevocably altered, but it's easy to fall back on this habit. It's easy to let his mind blank out on a stakeout, to focus on tailing their number, to focus on his hand colliding with a jaw, to focus on the solidity of his gun in his hand. He's so practiced at averting his gaze from what he feels.
But inevitably their number wraps up and John's distractions are gone with it. He can feel something vibrating inside him, rattling and wanting to break loose, but still he won't look at it. At least not until he notices the writing across his wrist in Harold's unmistakable handwriting. He stares at it and realizes what he feels is desire. The thing in his chest that shudders with every breath is want. Just to be with Harold, to have a chance at something. The terror from that first day is back in equal measure, but he feels more in control of it. With hands that shake, John pulls out the ballpoint pen from his pocket, pulls the cap off, and circles the time in acknowledgement.
This gives him enough time to shower, which he always needs after a number. Once out he's about to do his hair and hesitates before putting the product back away. He passes by his suits and puts on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not Mr. Reese right now, he's just. John. He doesn't think he's purposefully shown this part of himself to Harold before; the last time he dressed casually like this in front of Harold was that fateful first day when Harold kidnapped him and tied him to a bed. John grabs his leather jacket as he walks out the door in comfortable pair of boots.
This is how he is when he knocks on the door exactly at 8PM, heart in this throat, nervous and hopeful beyond measure.
Clothing became armor for Harold years ago, and his comfort level can be calibrated based on the number of layers he's wearing. He's shed his jacket, but still in a vest over his shirtsleeves, and he putters around restlessly while he waits. However certain he himself feels, he's still concerned with rushing John, worried about making a misstep and damaging something irreparably. The trouble with being so wholly trusted is that he feels immense pressure to live up to said trust.
He frets, distracted. Of course John uses whatever ballpoint he has lying around to confirm the time. Harold will really have to get him something better. If this continues. If John wants to write to him again. If...
Oh thank God, it's eight o'clock and John is punctual. He lurches to the door to open it. Although this is one of several residences, and Harold doesn't keep a longer-term home for more than half a year or so, John may be able to tell that this is a place Harold sleeps more often than at others: there's neat stacks of books, covert server racks, cleaned tea cups drying face down beside the sink. Harold invited him here intentionally as a gesture, and he's lowered the lights to decidedly ambient and tried to eat and failed due to nerves.
It should feel ridiculous, but it doesn't. It feels... like he's been waiting a very long time.
He breaks into another helpless smile when he opens the door and sees John. Being allowed to care is the single most precious gift he could be given with this discovery. Then he registers how differently he's dressed, and he flushes faintly, stepping back to let him in. All of the words he had planned dry up in his mouth.
"Oh. You've... well. I'm so very glad to see you. Thank you for coming."
It's awful and awkward and Harold means it completely.
John doesn't say anything as he steps inside, looking around eagerly. He can tell that this is not just any safe house, this is somewhere Harold lives. He had hoped-- that Harold might trust him with this. That it wouldn't be just a throwaway location. He can feel a smile spreading across his face, involuntary and light in a way he hasn't felt in a long time. Harold's blush, his awkwardness, are reassuring to John, put him at ease. John isn't the only one fumbling here. John is still so nervous that what they want might not be the same, that this won't work in some way-- but he's not nervous that Harold will reject him outright. That Harold will have decided over the past few days that he doesn't want this. He can feel that Harold is happy to see him.
"Thanks for inviting me." He wonders if Harold will be able to hear that he really means "there's no place I'd rather be." Suddenly he wishes he'd thought to bring something with him, John doesn't actually have a clue what to say now. What does one say to one's very private reclusive billionaire boss who ends up being one's soulmate? Especially when they invite you to their very secret home? Or whatever approximates as a home for Harold.
He could bring up their number, but that seems too impersonal for this moment. John is realizing, again, that he knows very little about Harold outside of the numbers. There's no easy thread of conversation to resume. If he's being honest, what he wants-- he wants to hold Harold's hand. He wants Harold to hold his hand and show him all the little things around the place he lives, all the things that make this Harold's home-- the fact that Harold has trusted him with this washes over him. He wants to hold Harold's hand in Harold's home and he thinks he might have a chance at that. It feels dizzying to think about. The fact that he might get what he wants.
Not what he deserves but what he wants.
John takes another look around from where he's standing but there's so much more to see-- what's his kitchen like? Does Harold cook? Does he leave books lying around on random surfaces? John is sure he won't find pictures, but there's personal touches everywhere in a place someone lives. But he knows how difficult it must have been for "very private person" Harold Finch to invite him over in the first place, so John doesn't push it. He wants to see but he wants to respect Harold's privacy more, wants Harold to choose to give him this.
And yet despite all of this, John still doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth and lets something fall out to fill the silence he's created. "How was your evening?"
It's so awkward but this is uncharted territory and means so much to him. He doesn't want to push Harold-- doesn't want to push himself. Already his heart rate is rising but he owes it to Harold to hold it together better than he did the first day.
Seeing John smile buoys him further, and he can feel a greater sense of steadiness at the edges of his perception, like John is less likely to crumble into dust with a wrong touch. It gives Harold renewed confidence.
He closes the door behind John and activates a characteristically sophisticated security system before he turns back to respond to the question.
"Truthfully, I sat around fretting," he says dryly, "so I'm relieved you're here. Feel free to snoop; I expected as much."
He's not asking for self-restraint, is what he means, though it's frightening for him as well in certain measure, to let down his defenses and let John in. To deliberately reveal these aspects of himself that he's become so accustomed to keeping under wraps. But it's a reflexive discomfort, like removing a cast and being unfamiliar with the limb that's underneath. Harold has to get to know himself again with this in a sense. He remembers who he was with Grace and a few before her, but who is he now? Who has he become?
Harold guides them away from the entrance and toward a rather understated sitting area, furniture chosen for simple comfort rather than style. A familiar laptop is left open on the coffee table, surrounded by orderly paper notes and a variety of pens, including the brush-tipped one he'd used on his arm; a knitted throw blanket is tossed over the loveseat; and there is a surprising quantity of dog toys that Harold has collected onto a very luxe dog bed tucked in the corner.
John decides suddenly that if he's going to look around he'll do it the next time he's over. If he's allowed over again. He hopes-- thinks that there's a good chance of that, considering he was allowed here in the first place. It all depends on how tonight goes. He doesn't think Harold will reject him outright, he's said and shown already that he won't, but they... might not want the same thing. His mouth goes dry at the thought, and anxiety claws at his chest. He's glad Harold has offered a drink.
"Tea, please. I'll look around later." Certainly he wouldn't get drunk off one drink, but it feels symbolic. As if he's saying that he's committing to being fully present for whatever is about to happen. There's no denying that he can drink casually, but there's always the knowledge in the back of his mind that he doesn't always do so. Has not always done so. A score both he and Harold know.
When Harold goes to the kitchen John follows, trying not to look around too much and only partially succeeding. What he can see without opening drawers and cabinets suggests that Harold isn't much of a cook, or at least doesn't do it very much. He does spy some traditional tea-ware that he's guessing gets a lot of use.
Once again John realizes that he should say something, but he's filled with a certain... joy, at seeing Harold move around Harold's kitchen in Harold's house. It balloons in his chest, somewhat abating the anxiety from moments ago. It's a gift he thought he'd never get. He realizes that he could walk out right now and go to sleep wrapped in this warmth and be satisfied. But some part of him is greedy and is saying more, more so he just watches Harold and hopes he understands how much he's given John already.
Well aware that John usually drinks coffee as his caffeinated beverage of choice, Harold can't help but feel a little pleased himself at the chance to share tea with John. It's quite silly and trivial, but these little domestic moments are the things he's lost completely with his isolation. And he knows the same has to be true for John, too, can feel the echo of his warm pleasure as Harold puts together the tea things.
Mindful of John's taste for coffee and not wanting to fuss with proper technique too much under the circumstances, Harold selects a houjicha, a green tea that's roasted to impart a lovely depth of flavor and holds up well under lackadaisical brewing technique should he get distracted. He uses his standard tea pot and hot water from a water boiling appliance he has on his counter, something ubiquitous in Asia and a convenience he's learned he can't do without.
He sets a timer for it to steep and turns to face John as he waits, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. Harold feels a bizarre, momentary impulse to start rambling about his taste for tea, how growing up he hadn't known there was anything beyond Lipton, and the journey he'd gone on discovering so many other tastes while at MIT. The way his whole world had expanded in so many ways in those years with Nathan and Arthur. Harold suppresses it because he assumes being so forthcoming out of nowhere might alarm John.
But... one day, maybe sooner than later, he'll tell him.
Harold grasps for a way to start this conversation and comes up inadequate. He doesn't know what thread to start pulling from that doesn't make presumptions about John. Finally, he admits in a tone of confession, "I didn't have a plan or an intention for tonight. I only wanted to see you. We can discuss whatever you'd like, or sit around like old men drinking tea, and I'll count it time well spent."
Perhaps it's unfair to lob it back into John's court, but Harold truly feels he needs some sort of signal for which direction to head.
Oh, Harold just-- just wanted to see him. Like how John wanted to see Harold. They-- maybe they do want the same thing. John doesn't know if-- he can feel the anxiety bubbling up again and quickly looks around the kitchen, finding something to focus on. He choses the water heater-- examining the buttons, noting the little details, the shape of it, thinking about how this is part of Harold's life, how Harold drinks enough tea that he has on demand hot water-- until he calms down enough to take a breath that doesn't shake. He's not going to fall apart here. He should do something about this.
"Maybe we should talk about what we want," and he's sure Harold will hear in his voice how much that terrifies him, but John has always needed something concrete. An answer. A direction. Left to his own devices he knows what direction he'll go (the cold water, a run until his lungs feel raw, the bottle) and he doesn't want that right now, doesn't think that Harold would want that either. So they only option that leaves him with is forward.
"Let's start from the basics, shall we?" Harold responds, as if only waiting to be asked. Ground rules, as it were, for stability. "Perhaps it should go without saying after the last few days, but I think we both want to ensure we can continue to work on the irrelevant numbers to our usual level of efficacy."
He's spent this time mulling over various potential options for their relationship in his head, weighing them, forming his own opinions. He finds there's very little he wouldn't give John that he can imagine John wanting from him in the first place, which means his primary task is gently sussing out what that is. If John even knows himself.
"I understand your concerns about this being used against us." A momentary pause as Harold thinks of how to phrase this. "Which means we should be circumspect with this information, but... if you wish to tell anyone, I trust your discretion."
In other words: Harold doesn't feel the need to keep it a secret except for practical reasons. It would be foolish to hand their enemies leverage so easily, but if John wants to tell anyone for personal reasons, Harold doesn't mind at all.
The timer beeps and he turns in place to shut it off and remove the strainer from the tea pot.
John immediately shakes his head. "No, we shouldn't tell anyone. Especially with our line of work, it's not safe. It's not even safe for us to know." But if he's being honest then this really... hasn't changed anything for him. He was already willing to go to any length for Harold. There's no greater action this knowledge could inspire in him. He can't speak for Harold but... he thinks of Harold typing numbers into the bomb vest on the rooftop. It's a memory he sometimes dredges up when there's a deep aloneness that eats at him and he needs to pretend it means something to get through the night.
"We should also refrain from using skin writing as a communication method unless absolutely necessary. It's..." John has thought about this, and it makes him sick. His voice is rough but insistent when he continues. "Sometimes people want to know who you are, and there's a good chance I'll be captured and questioned in the future, and I need you to promise not to use me to give yourself up. I need to know you'll protect yourself."
He can see it all too clearly, the capture, the interrogation, Harold knowing that John is being hurt because he won't give Harold up. Because he's protecting Harold. Harold using skin writing to give himself up in exchange for John. And John has done so many terrible things and deserves every hurt that life dishes him, but if he can save Harold then it will all be worth it. But Harold has to agree to save himself.
Harold pours the tea while John speaks, handing John a cylindrical cup of hand-thrown pottery and retaining one for himself. Rather than interrupt the flow of the conversation, he remains standing in the kitchen for the time being, because he knows how important this topic is. Knows that everything that proceeds must rest on this.
One thing at a time, in order.
"I need you to trust me. I know it may be difficult." Harold speaks plainly, but there's an air of Finch to it, of the mysterious reserved man who can orchestrate ten plans at once if he puts his mind to it. "I promise I won't do anything so reckless and ill-advised as to believe such an exchange would ultimately save you."
Probably not literally and certainly not metaphorically. Harold is all too aware that no one keeping John in such a position would be likely to be telling the truth, and even if they were, to be effectively used against him would be a very cruel fate for John. But he won't preclude the possibility that there is a scenario in which it behooves them to reveal their status.
"And although I'm not planning to tell anyone," he goes on pointedly, "I want to make clear that I have no reservations about being known as your soulmate in its own right."
Harold reaches into a pocket, withdraws a small tin of balm and places it on the counter. The balm works to erase ink from skin remarkably quickly, and with it he's wordlessly demonstrating to John that he has thought of the consequences, he won't write messages to him cavalierly. But he trusts John, calculated the time today when it was safe to write his address on him with sufficient interlude for it to be washed off, and prepared in advance.
Now, as he'd said, he needs John to trust him. Harold placidly sips his tea.
John accepts the tea and listens to Harold, who is asking him to trust him. Harold, who won't promise him this, won't give him this.
John feels his jaw locking in place, distantly realizes that there's a tremor in his hands. He doesn't want to trust Harold, he wants to know that Harold is safe. That he's not taking risks. This isn't a new request, it's not like John hasn't asked Harold to stay back, stay safe before. But there is a new weight to it.
He doesn't want to cede this to Harold. Not this time. He barely unclenches his jaw to get the words out, quiet and pleading. "Please. Promise me you'll be safe."
Harold has said some other things, something about how he doesn't mind being known as John's soulmate, but John is just so preoccupied with Harold deliberately avoiding giving John a straight answer.
Harold sighs, sets his tea cup down. Realizes he's fixated on this. But as he'd said years ago, he won't lie to him.
"I can't make you that promise," he tells him softly. "You know that as well as I do, John. I won't agree to sacrifice you wholesale for my own welfare." He meets his gaze, firm and unyielding. "If you wish to keep me safe, you must add yourself to the equation."
Maybe there is something more important than this suicidal crusade to atone for the lives they've lost -- maybe that something is each other.
And that's-- that's really it. Out there between them now. That Harold cares about John. About John's well-being. That Harold won't let him get away with whatever he wants, whatever he thinks he deserves. That he's tied their safety together in this way.
It's too much again (he swore he was going to keep it together this time, now look) and John turns away from Harold, places his tea cup on the counter and grips the edge for support. He tries to take a breath but doesn't quite get all the way through it. Harold is asking John to take care of himself in a way that John hasn't for-- years. Well since before he met Harold. He's been cutting away little pieces here and there, trimming himself down to something unrecognizable, and Harold is asking him to stop. Is asking for him to plan for there to be a tomorrow. Not just another number, but a tomorrow.
John makes another attempt at breathing, manages a shuddering gasp. There's really only one answer he can give here.
"Okay."
He knows he won't follow through on his end of this bargain every time, that he will slip up, that they will probably have this conversation again. But Harold has made it clear his terms and John has to accept them.
Oh. It's so much more impactful than he'd expected. Harold had assumed this would be the obvious part, the part they could agree on, but-- clearly, that's why one thing has to happen at a time, in order. Because making assumptions is dangerous.
Harold edges closer to John and lays a hand on his arm, well above where he's gripping the counter. Not demanding, not insisting, merely resting there and indicating his presence.
"I'll owe you the same, of course," he says softly. "I won't endanger myself without thinking of you. Having a soulmate is-- means--" Harold falters. He'd spent so many years suppressing these thoughts, trying to make peace with what he couldn't have. Being presented with it suddenly leaves him reeling, all those pieces of yearning assembled again from where he'd dismantled them.
"It means we have to think of one another, no matter what." He swallows. "It means we... by definition, we aren't alone."
He keeps arriving at this conclusion no matter how he examines it, and it makes him dizzy, nearly faint. He'd prepared himself to spend the rest of his days as remote to human connection as possible, and although John had infiltrated that, he hadn't broken his overall resolve. Harold had still intended to keep him as distanced as he feasibly could.
But having a soulmate... is that even possible, to remain distanced? And if it were, what would the point be? That's the thought he's been spinning over for the past several days. He can't come up with a reason to deny them. Not one that achieves anything other than senseless self-denial and pain.
Alone. John remembers what he said to Jessica that day in the airport. "In the end we're all alone, and no one is coming to save you." He had meant it then, has believed it for every moment since then, had proven himself right when he let Jessica die. And now here is Harold saying that they're not alone. That he's not alone.
It feels like he's been hit, and suddenly he's not just gripping the counter but leaning on it as if his legs can't support his weight, and he breathes out with something that almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't think he's crying, he doesn't think he knows how to cry anymore, but he is shaking.
Suddenly he want's to hold Harold, can't imagine not-- but no, what he wants is to be held by Harold. He wants to fold in on himself until he's small enough for Harold to engulf, but-- they haven't talked about that. He doesn't know if that's something Harold wants. He doesn't have the wherewithal to ask for that right now. Instead he raises his hand to where Harold's is resting on his arm and slides his hand under it, entwining their fingers. John realizes distantly that he's probably gripping too hard, that he's still shaking, that he hasn't taken a steady breath in a while. But this is his silent answer for Harold. Together.
Oh dear. Harold had drastically underestimated the impact, it seems. But he doesn't think there was another option, that maybe there isn't a way to do this gently enough with John that he doesn't come loose like the tape holding him together has held on too long.
It defies articulate words, but Harold senses something like a request from John, a plea, in his body language and mentally, and he responds with the automatic surety of a switch being flipped. He leans in toward him and wraps his free arm around his back, pushing close to him and noticing the strangeness of doing this with John in a t-shirt, as if they needed any added element of vulnerability.
He hushes him softly (shhh, shh, it's alright, John) and feels something in him break apart and crack open, too. He did this for his father so many times. Harold providing comfort is his natural state of being and he's had to keep it tightly walled off for so long, the reflex is withered and stale, but so gratifying to indulge.
If John sends him a silent requesting signal, Harold sends back yes, yes, yes -- always.
Suddenly John has everything he's wanted, everything he's desired in the dark of the night; Harold's arm around him, Harold's comforting words, his touch. Everything has been so hard and sharp for so long and all he's really wanted is something soft, something comforting; a balm.
He feels something in Harold change too and lets go of Harold's hand, turning in his arm so he can slide between him and the counter, and wrap his arms around Harold's shoulders. John tries not to hold on too tight, to find a balance between clinging and comforting. He's still unsteady, still shaking, but he leans back slightly against the counter instead of using Harold as his support. He rests his head against Harold's and lets himself hold, lets himself be held.
After what feels like ages, but was probably a few minutes, John realizes his shaking has stopped. He tries taking a deep breath and finds he can get most of the way through it without his lungs shuddering. He tries thinking about all the things they just talked about and feels himself tremble before turning his mind from the topic. That will take some time to work through. He'll probably do this again, it still feels terrifying and foreign, but hopefully next time will just be in the privacy of his loft where he doesn't-- but Harold would-- John realizes that Harold wouldn't like it if John just went away to curl up on himself and shook himself to pieces. He is, after all, not alone.
He should probably let go, should give Harold his space again, their tea will get cold, but he doesn't. He just continues to hold Harold, continues to be in Harold's arms.
Time passes. Likely the tea does get cold, or at least room temperature, but it's not like it matters. Harold doesn't care in the slightest, not with John in his arms trembling his way from shaky to regular breathing. Harold has to put on so much armor, so much distance, because in private with loved ones Harold is tremendously soft, from the fine-combed cotton of his shirt to the timber of his voice, patient and caring.
He waits until he thinks John has recovered enough to speak real words again, and coaxes him back lightly, with a mild invitation to humor. He shifts away only to put them at a more natural speaking distance face-to-face, but doesn't truly withdraw.
"I really did think that would be starting off easy," he says, somewhat bemused, making fun of himself but all over warm. "It seemed to me that you'd refused to let us go our separate ways some time ago. This is a shift in... in character, but not intensity."
Harold couldn't possibly have missed that much, he just assumed previously that John preferred to leave it all unspoken.
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"It's fortunate for all of us that we don't need to get what we deserve," he says with an insistent frankness, passionate that that is the case. Harold advocates mercy for killers, second chances, programmed the Machine to prevent loss of life wherever possible no matter whose life it is, no single one weighing more than another. And he himself is sometimes in his darker moments convinced he deserves to be dead.
But these are not sentiments to make decisions on. He remembers Alicia Corwin terrified in a car, and a phone ringing.
"Truthfully, John, I could not have less interest in what we should have. I am interested in what we can."
It's a familiar concept, or it should be: the people they can save now, versus the ones they couldn't. The often futile struggle to make a difference in a world that has never actually been keeping score. The strange asymmetry between the gratification of saving the person in front of you compared to the faces you see in the dark on the ceiling at night, how they never equal out. Because you can't weigh lives, Harold would insist.
You can't come up with a scale that will ever balance out.
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And yet, Harold wants him. Despite everything, Harold wants him. John doesn't know what he has to offer. What does this vision of the future look like for Harold? He always has some plan, is thinking something, is giving John guidance; and John takes it, trusts him, follows him. In this moment John can't even envision anything past, well, this moment. Past holding Harold's hands. He wants to cradle them to his chest like something precious, or maybe run his fingers over the smooth skin, the fingertips, the softness of his palm.
His heart had shuddered to a stop during all of this and now it picks up again, beating too fast, painful. John wonders if Harold can feel that in his delicate grasp. He hurts and something in him is still so broken and jagged and painful but it also means there's a crack in him and there's something he thinks might be hope dripping through that crack, a puddle barely forming, not enough to drink at yet.
"What can we have." He means it as a question but he can't get enough inflection out to make it sound that way. "Tell me," he begs.
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He's not sure it matters. He doesn't take being soulmates to mean they're perfect for one another; no one's flawless, no one's beyond reproach. He just takes it to mean that it's worth the leap.
Harold's fingers tighten again on John's, unreservedly, head lifting and eyes meeting his without an ounce of shame. He's too cautious to answer directly, to dictate where they go from here with careless words. He won't let John walk away with a caricature of a smile on his face and he won't let him walk a step behind him into this future, either.
"I'd like us to find out together." Merciless, uncompromising. "You and me, and no one else." No ghosts. No regrets. Harold breathes out. "There is so much I want to give you, if you'll have it."
He feels like he's boiling over with what he wants to give, a multitude and universe of affection squashed down into collapsed atoms like a beautiful custom sports jacket crumpled into a ball to travel discreetly in a carry-on bag. Harold has been carrying it everywhere, hiding it as best he can, letting a precious garment get wrinkled.
For John, he wants to shake it out, try it on again. An old part of himself he's been frittering away like a secret for years, allowing out in tiny pieces, small corners, with enough couching that he can pretend it's something else. What if he's done pretending? What if he reclaims this?
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But Harold says together and looks at him, and John feels compelled to tear his eyes away from where their hands are joined and look back. He knows that his agony must still show on his face but Harold isn't letting him run away from this and he-- he doesn't want to. John is hurt and scared and doesn't know what to do, but he won't run away from Harold.
He can feel something building in Harold like water swelling behind a dam and it scares him a bit, what Harold wants. John doesn't know how to take, how to receive, he only knows how to make himself be small, slip through the cracks, let it run off of him. But he's going to try, for Harold, for his soulmate. But, truthfully, he would do this even if they weren't soulmates; being so is just the catalyst for arriving at this juncture.
"Yes," he rasps out. "Whatever you want. I'm--" is he going to say this? Now? Can he say this? Is it allowed? He owes Harold-- honesty. He owes him honesty. "--yours."
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He must have one thing that is his, truly his. He'd tried not to, tried to make himself survive on starvation rations, told himself that he should've died in the ferry bombing anyway. What does it matter if he's a ghost moving through the city, disconnected and unattached? It's just a matter of time until his strange afterlife existence runs out. No need to complicate things.
But now here is John. Saying he's his. A smile breaks over Harold helplessly, automatically, his relieved pleasure at getting through to John cresting into another wave of unreserved joy.
"And I'm yours as well," he responds without hesitation. He wants to kiss his hands to punctuate it, but Harold restrains the impulse. Too much too fast again, he assumes, so his grip only tightens, a pulse of reassurance. "We needn't decide anything definite right away. I'd rather wait until we've both had a chance to adjust. But yes, I very much want to."
Mostly he means he wants to wait until John is less shocked, hopefully less desperately accommodating to his wishes, because Harold doesn't foresee his position or feelings changing at all. But he suspects John will find that more palatable if he makes it a we.
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It feels like too much. He's not used to so many emotions. He's not used to hope and joy, even if that joy is Harold's. He wants to hide from them, to run away for just a moment. John brings their joined hands up to cover his face, turning them so Harold's hands are pressed into his forehead, his cheeks, as though Harold can protect him from this. Of course, it doesn't actually work, he still feels too much, but it does have the benefit of bringing Harold closer. Maybe one day Harold will do this for him, will place his hands on John's face, comfort him. John wants it desperately, has wanted Harold's touch for so long.
He wants Harold to hold him, to tell him that this will be okay, that this is good. But he also knows it would destroy him.
John takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Yes. Okay." He realizes that he's agreeing to wait while he still has Harold's hands pressed into his face. He takes one more moment to memorize the feeling of soft skin on his brow and cheeks, and then returns their hands to his lap, but cannot imagine letting go.
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He hasn't yet found the limits of what John would do for him.
So he coaxes him carefully and kindly back to earth, takes his time seeing John out the door, ensures he actually goes home and rests and perhaps even eats something. He does not monitor him remotely. Privacy is a gift whose sense of timing matters and Harold feels, somehow, that if this is ever to work, he has to give John space and time to adjust.
Maybe he needs it, too. They have a number the next day and Harold has to drag his mind back to focusing. Fortunately, he's good at compartmentalizing, so he manages fine. He's completely professional, despite John's fears that this might affect their work, that he might become more solicitous or fearful of his safety. Harold is exactly as concerned as he's always been (perhaps that's telling, honestly) and in between moments of action, when he's sitting at the library table surrounded by monitors and his hands are still on the keys, Bear snuffling a toy into his bed, it seems surreal. He's adrift, shocked himself. He's in his fifties and he's now finding his soulmate.
Harold keeps it together until they can assure the number is safe and the perpetrator is taken care of, and then he breaks his professional façade. It's been days of wondering if what had happened really happened, days of just the faintest edge of emotion coming from John, difficult to distinguish, and uncharacteristically he feels like he needs new proof.
He takes out a brush-tipped pen specially produced for skin-writing between soulmates -- something he'd procured just the day before -- and carefully inks a message onto his left forearm in elegant script, across the wrist, over the major artery.
418 W 160th St 8 PM
If you wish
An invitation to an out of the way uptown townhouse, nice enough to meet Harold's standards but unremarkable in its sameness to those beside it. Communicated over skin so John knows precisely what the premise is.
And with a few hours to spare, so Harold has time to arrange things.
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Eventually he gets dressed for bed and lays there in the dark until an uneasy sleep claims him.
The next morning dawns with a number, and he's never been so thankful to have this job. He has no clue what to say to Harold about how his life is fundamentally different, how their relationship is irrevocably altered, but it's easy to fall back on this habit. It's easy to let his mind blank out on a stakeout, to focus on tailing their number, to focus on his hand colliding with a jaw, to focus on the solidity of his gun in his hand. He's so practiced at averting his gaze from what he feels.
But inevitably their number wraps up and John's distractions are gone with it. He can feel something vibrating inside him, rattling and wanting to break loose, but still he won't look at it. At least not until he notices the writing across his wrist in Harold's unmistakable handwriting. He stares at it and realizes what he feels is desire. The thing in his chest that shudders with every breath is want. Just to be with Harold, to have a chance at something. The terror from that first day is back in equal measure, but he feels more in control of it. With hands that shake, John pulls out the ballpoint pen from his pocket, pulls the cap off, and circles the time in acknowledgement.
This gives him enough time to shower, which he always needs after a number. Once out he's about to do his hair and hesitates before putting the product back away. He passes by his suits and puts on a t-shirt and jeans. He's not Mr. Reese right now, he's just. John. He doesn't think he's purposefully shown this part of himself to Harold before; the last time he dressed casually like this in front of Harold was that fateful first day when Harold kidnapped him and tied him to a bed. John grabs his leather jacket as he walks out the door in comfortable pair of boots.
This is how he is when he knocks on the door exactly at 8PM, heart in this throat, nervous and hopeful beyond measure.
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He frets, distracted. Of course John uses whatever ballpoint he has lying around to confirm the time. Harold will really have to get him something better. If this continues. If John wants to write to him again. If...
Oh thank God, it's eight o'clock and John is punctual. He lurches to the door to open it. Although this is one of several residences, and Harold doesn't keep a longer-term home for more than half a year or so, John may be able to tell that this is a place Harold sleeps more often than at others: there's neat stacks of books, covert server racks, cleaned tea cups drying face down beside the sink. Harold invited him here intentionally as a gesture, and he's lowered the lights to decidedly ambient and tried to eat and failed due to nerves.
It should feel ridiculous, but it doesn't. It feels... like he's been waiting a very long time.
He breaks into another helpless smile when he opens the door and sees John. Being allowed to care is the single most precious gift he could be given with this discovery. Then he registers how differently he's dressed, and he flushes faintly, stepping back to let him in. All of the words he had planned dry up in his mouth.
"Oh. You've... well. I'm so very glad to see you. Thank you for coming."
It's awful and awkward and Harold means it completely.
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"Thanks for inviting me." He wonders if Harold will be able to hear that he really means "there's no place I'd rather be." Suddenly he wishes he'd thought to bring something with him, John doesn't actually have a clue what to say now. What does one say to one's very private reclusive billionaire boss who ends up being one's soulmate? Especially when they invite you to their very secret home? Or whatever approximates as a home for Harold.
He could bring up their number, but that seems too impersonal for this moment. John is realizing, again, that he knows very little about Harold outside of the numbers. There's no easy thread of conversation to resume. If he's being honest, what he wants-- he wants to hold Harold's hand. He wants Harold to hold his hand and show him all the little things around the place he lives, all the things that make this Harold's home-- the fact that Harold has trusted him with this washes over him. He wants to hold Harold's hand in Harold's home and he thinks he might have a chance at that. It feels dizzying to think about. The fact that he might get what he wants.
Not what he deserves but what he wants.
John takes another look around from where he's standing but there's so much more to see-- what's his kitchen like? Does Harold cook? Does he leave books lying around on random surfaces? John is sure he won't find pictures, but there's personal touches everywhere in a place someone lives. But he knows how difficult it must have been for "very private person" Harold Finch to invite him over in the first place, so John doesn't push it. He wants to see but he wants to respect Harold's privacy more, wants Harold to choose to give him this.
And yet despite all of this, John still doesn't know what to say. He opens his mouth and lets something fall out to fill the silence he's created. "How was your evening?"
It's so awkward but this is uncharted territory and means so much to him. He doesn't want to push Harold-- doesn't want to push himself. Already his heart rate is rising but he owes it to Harold to hold it together better than he did the first day.
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He closes the door behind John and activates a characteristically sophisticated security system before he turns back to respond to the question.
"Truthfully, I sat around fretting," he says dryly, "so I'm relieved you're here. Feel free to snoop; I expected as much."
He's not asking for self-restraint, is what he means, though it's frightening for him as well in certain measure, to let down his defenses and let John in. To deliberately reveal these aspects of himself that he's become so accustomed to keeping under wraps. But it's a reflexive discomfort, like removing a cast and being unfamiliar with the limb that's underneath. Harold has to get to know himself again with this in a sense. He remembers who he was with Grace and a few before her, but who is he now? Who has he become?
Harold guides them away from the entrance and toward a rather understated sitting area, furniture chosen for simple comfort rather than style. A familiar laptop is left open on the coffee table, surrounded by orderly paper notes and a variety of pens, including the brush-tipped one he'd used on his arm; a knitted throw blanket is tossed over the loveseat; and there is a surprising quantity of dog toys that Harold has collected onto a very luxe dog bed tucked in the corner.
"Tea? Whiskey?"
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"Tea, please. I'll look around later." Certainly he wouldn't get drunk off one drink, but it feels symbolic. As if he's saying that he's committing to being fully present for whatever is about to happen. There's no denying that he can drink casually, but there's always the knowledge in the back of his mind that he doesn't always do so. Has not always done so. A score both he and Harold know.
When Harold goes to the kitchen John follows, trying not to look around too much and only partially succeeding. What he can see without opening drawers and cabinets suggests that Harold isn't much of a cook, or at least doesn't do it very much. He does spy some traditional tea-ware that he's guessing gets a lot of use.
Once again John realizes that he should say something, but he's filled with a certain... joy, at seeing Harold move around Harold's kitchen in Harold's house. It balloons in his chest, somewhat abating the anxiety from moments ago. It's a gift he thought he'd never get. He realizes that he could walk out right now and go to sleep wrapped in this warmth and be satisfied. But some part of him is greedy and is saying more, more so he just watches Harold and hopes he understands how much he's given John already.
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Mindful of John's taste for coffee and not wanting to fuss with proper technique too much under the circumstances, Harold selects a houjicha, a green tea that's roasted to impart a lovely depth of flavor and holds up well under lackadaisical brewing technique should he get distracted. He uses his standard tea pot and hot water from a water boiling appliance he has on his counter, something ubiquitous in Asia and a convenience he's learned he can't do without.
He sets a timer for it to steep and turns to face John as he waits, leaning his weight against the kitchen counter. Harold feels a bizarre, momentary impulse to start rambling about his taste for tea, how growing up he hadn't known there was anything beyond Lipton, and the journey he'd gone on discovering so many other tastes while at MIT. The way his whole world had expanded in so many ways in those years with Nathan and Arthur. Harold suppresses it because he assumes being so forthcoming out of nowhere might alarm John.
But... one day, maybe sooner than later, he'll tell him.
Harold grasps for a way to start this conversation and comes up inadequate. He doesn't know what thread to start pulling from that doesn't make presumptions about John. Finally, he admits in a tone of confession, "I didn't have a plan or an intention for tonight. I only wanted to see you. We can discuss whatever you'd like, or sit around like old men drinking tea, and I'll count it time well spent."
Perhaps it's unfair to lob it back into John's court, but Harold truly feels he needs some sort of signal for which direction to head.
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"Maybe we should talk about what we want," and he's sure Harold will hear in his voice how much that terrifies him, but John has always needed something concrete. An answer. A direction. Left to his own devices he knows what direction he'll go (the cold water, a run until his lungs feel raw, the bottle) and he doesn't want that right now, doesn't think that Harold would want that either. So they only option that leaves him with is forward.
He thinks Harold will understand.
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He's spent this time mulling over various potential options for their relationship in his head, weighing them, forming his own opinions. He finds there's very little he wouldn't give John that he can imagine John wanting from him in the first place, which means his primary task is gently sussing out what that is. If John even knows himself.
"I understand your concerns about this being used against us." A momentary pause as Harold thinks of how to phrase this. "Which means we should be circumspect with this information, but... if you wish to tell anyone, I trust your discretion."
In other words: Harold doesn't feel the need to keep it a secret except for practical reasons. It would be foolish to hand their enemies leverage so easily, but if John wants to tell anyone for personal reasons, Harold doesn't mind at all.
The timer beeps and he turns in place to shut it off and remove the strainer from the tea pot.
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"We should also refrain from using skin writing as a communication method unless absolutely necessary. It's..." John has thought about this, and it makes him sick. His voice is rough but insistent when he continues. "Sometimes people want to know who you are, and there's a good chance I'll be captured and questioned in the future, and I need you to promise not to use me to give yourself up. I need to know you'll protect yourself."
He can see it all too clearly, the capture, the interrogation, Harold knowing that John is being hurt because he won't give Harold up. Because he's protecting Harold. Harold using skin writing to give himself up in exchange for John. And John has done so many terrible things and deserves every hurt that life dishes him, but if he can save Harold then it will all be worth it. But Harold has to agree to save himself.
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One thing at a time, in order.
"I need you to trust me. I know it may be difficult." Harold speaks plainly, but there's an air of Finch to it, of the mysterious reserved man who can orchestrate ten plans at once if he puts his mind to it. "I promise I won't do anything so reckless and ill-advised as to believe such an exchange would ultimately save you."
Probably not literally and certainly not metaphorically. Harold is all too aware that no one keeping John in such a position would be likely to be telling the truth, and even if they were, to be effectively used against him would be a very cruel fate for John. But he won't preclude the possibility that there is a scenario in which it behooves them to reveal their status.
"And although I'm not planning to tell anyone," he goes on pointedly, "I want to make clear that I have no reservations about being known as your soulmate in its own right."
Harold reaches into a pocket, withdraws a small tin of balm and places it on the counter. The balm works to erase ink from skin remarkably quickly, and with it he's wordlessly demonstrating to John that he has thought of the consequences, he won't write messages to him cavalierly. But he trusts John, calculated the time today when it was safe to write his address on him with sufficient interlude for it to be washed off, and prepared in advance.
Now, as he'd said, he needs John to trust him. Harold placidly sips his tea.
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John feels his jaw locking in place, distantly realizes that there's a tremor in his hands. He doesn't want to trust Harold, he wants to know that Harold is safe. That he's not taking risks. This isn't a new request, it's not like John hasn't asked Harold to stay back, stay safe before. But there is a new weight to it.
He doesn't want to cede this to Harold. Not this time. He barely unclenches his jaw to get the words out, quiet and pleading. "Please. Promise me you'll be safe."
Harold has said some other things, something about how he doesn't mind being known as John's soulmate, but John is just so preoccupied with Harold deliberately avoiding giving John a straight answer.
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"I can't make you that promise," he tells him softly. "You know that as well as I do, John. I won't agree to sacrifice you wholesale for my own welfare." He meets his gaze, firm and unyielding. "If you wish to keep me safe, you must add yourself to the equation."
Maybe there is something more important than this suicidal crusade to atone for the lives they've lost -- maybe that something is each other.
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It's too much again (he swore he was going to keep it together this time, now look) and John turns away from Harold, places his tea cup on the counter and grips the edge for support. He tries to take a breath but doesn't quite get all the way through it. Harold is asking John to take care of himself in a way that John hasn't for-- years. Well since before he met Harold. He's been cutting away little pieces here and there, trimming himself down to something unrecognizable, and Harold is asking him to stop. Is asking for him to plan for there to be a tomorrow. Not just another number, but a tomorrow.
John makes another attempt at breathing, manages a shuddering gasp. There's really only one answer he can give here.
"Okay."
He knows he won't follow through on his end of this bargain every time, that he will slip up, that they will probably have this conversation again. But Harold has made it clear his terms and John has to accept them.
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Harold edges closer to John and lays a hand on his arm, well above where he's gripping the counter. Not demanding, not insisting, merely resting there and indicating his presence.
"I'll owe you the same, of course," he says softly. "I won't endanger myself without thinking of you. Having a soulmate is-- means--" Harold falters. He'd spent so many years suppressing these thoughts, trying to make peace with what he couldn't have. Being presented with it suddenly leaves him reeling, all those pieces of yearning assembled again from where he'd dismantled them.
"It means we have to think of one another, no matter what." He swallows. "It means we... by definition, we aren't alone."
He keeps arriving at this conclusion no matter how he examines it, and it makes him dizzy, nearly faint. He'd prepared himself to spend the rest of his days as remote to human connection as possible, and although John had infiltrated that, he hadn't broken his overall resolve. Harold had still intended to keep him as distanced as he feasibly could.
But having a soulmate... is that even possible, to remain distanced? And if it were, what would the point be? That's the thought he's been spinning over for the past several days. He can't come up with a reason to deny them. Not one that achieves anything other than senseless self-denial and pain.
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It feels like he's been hit, and suddenly he's not just gripping the counter but leaning on it as if his legs can't support his weight, and he breathes out with something that almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't think he's crying, he doesn't think he knows how to cry anymore, but he is shaking.
Suddenly he want's to hold Harold, can't imagine not-- but no, what he wants is to be held by Harold. He wants to fold in on himself until he's small enough for Harold to engulf, but-- they haven't talked about that. He doesn't know if that's something Harold wants. He doesn't have the wherewithal to ask for that right now. Instead he raises his hand to where Harold's is resting on his arm and slides his hand under it, entwining their fingers. John realizes distantly that he's probably gripping too hard, that he's still shaking, that he hasn't taken a steady breath in a while. But this is his silent answer for Harold. Together.
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It defies articulate words, but Harold senses something like a request from John, a plea, in his body language and mentally, and he responds with the automatic surety of a switch being flipped. He leans in toward him and wraps his free arm around his back, pushing close to him and noticing the strangeness of doing this with John in a t-shirt, as if they needed any added element of vulnerability.
He hushes him softly (shhh, shh, it's alright, John) and feels something in him break apart and crack open, too. He did this for his father so many times. Harold providing comfort is his natural state of being and he's had to keep it tightly walled off for so long, the reflex is withered and stale, but so gratifying to indulge.
If John sends him a silent requesting signal, Harold sends back yes, yes, yes -- always.
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He feels something in Harold change too and lets go of Harold's hand, turning in his arm so he can slide between him and the counter, and wrap his arms around Harold's shoulders. John tries not to hold on too tight, to find a balance between clinging and comforting. He's still unsteady, still shaking, but he leans back slightly against the counter instead of using Harold as his support. He rests his head against Harold's and lets himself hold, lets himself be held.
After what feels like ages, but was probably a few minutes, John realizes his shaking has stopped. He tries taking a deep breath and finds he can get most of the way through it without his lungs shuddering. He tries thinking about all the things they just talked about and feels himself tremble before turning his mind from the topic. That will take some time to work through. He'll probably do this again, it still feels terrifying and foreign, but hopefully next time will just be in the privacy of his loft where he doesn't-- but Harold would-- John realizes that Harold wouldn't like it if John just went away to curl up on himself and shook himself to pieces. He is, after all, not alone.
He should probably let go, should give Harold his space again, their tea will get cold, but he doesn't. He just continues to hold Harold, continues to be in Harold's arms.
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He waits until he thinks John has recovered enough to speak real words again, and coaxes him back lightly, with a mild invitation to humor. He shifts away only to put them at a more natural speaking distance face-to-face, but doesn't truly withdraw.
"I really did think that would be starting off easy," he says, somewhat bemused, making fun of himself but all over warm. "It seemed to me that you'd refused to let us go our separate ways some time ago. This is a shift in... in character, but not intensity."
Harold couldn't possibly have missed that much, he just assumed previously that John preferred to leave it all unspoken.
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