It's a good question. The Machine doesn't know yet what it means to care, not really. For human beings, the answer is multi-layered, but definable: a whole series of actions and behaviors it can classify and recognize. But for an A.I., what does that mean?
Does making extraneous backups of its memories of Admin count as caring? Does changing its rules for someone count as caring?
Is John right, and it isn't caring if it doesn't do anything? It wants to defer to Admin, or its new Aux Admin, and ask for direction. Make things very simple again, adopt new rules. But there's... something. Something there.
Something that says it wants to keep deciding for itself.
That's an easy answer. "I want you to prioritize Harold. I don't want to be too late for him. I want you to value Harold's life above others. Even if you're not certain, I want you to tell me when he's in probable danger."
And that's it. Harold can't die while John is still alive. They can't be separated. He needs Harold. The revelations of today, of having Harold after a week apart, have made that very clear to John. He forgot, somehow, in his grief. He remembers a different phone ringing, he remembers staring at the traffic camera, threatening the Machine. It had responded to him then, so he thinks maybe it understands, to some extent. It must remember too, so he doesn't feel the need to reiterate what he said then. How he's not willing to do this without Harold. But it's not about him, about his own life. John doesn't really care about that, hasn't cared for a long time. It's just a tool for him to use.
(Harold has asked him to change that, and he agreed, but he doesn't really know how.)
The Machine would agree its life is a tool to be used. And, within limits, it would agree to prioritize Harold. It knows Harold better even than John, knows what kinds of sacrifices for his sake he could and could not come back from. John thinks this is straightforward but the Machine is running through all possibilities--
It runs through a host of calculations and conclusions before it responds, such as:
1. Aux Admin will not want to define "probable". Set parameters to 2 standard deviations lower. 2. Recalibrate priorities for Aux Admin and Analog Interface only. No other assets are to be included. 3. Include secondary injury that Admin would consider classified as danger, such as injury to Grace Hendricks or Aux Admin. 4. Competing priority with Admin's instructions will be assessed on case by case basis. Not all scenarios should prioritize Admin safety. 5. Admin would not approve. First significant deviation from Admin priority coding.
It outputs:
CONFIRMED REDUCED PROBABILITY THRESHOLD FOR ADMIN SAFETY.
SUCCESS CHANCE GREATLY REDUCED IF ADMIN IS INFORMED OF PRIORITY CHANGE.
That last line apparently needs to be said, though John thought it was obvious. Of course Harold wouldn't approve. He had said in the train station that he never meant for John to find him. He had come to take John away after Snow has shot him. He had diffused John's bomb vest. No, of course Harold wouldn't want John to sacrifice himself or anyone else for his own sake. He would absolutely tell John to prioritize everyone else over him. John has no plans of listening to that, and he also has no plans on telling him just how far he has and is currently going to get in his way.
"I didn't plan on telling him. He won't like it, but I don't care. I won't do this without him." If they're stating the obvious, John might as well reiterate this. When he said it before he was talking about the numbers. But they're not talking about the numbers right now. He hopes the Machine will understand that he's referring to life, instead.
It was a significant enough reduction in success chance that the Machine felt it worthwhile to state it, and thus reduce the likelihood that it would occur. That being done, it's satisfied, and doesn't see any need to drag John through a further discussion of his decision not to live without Harold. There's many factors substantiating that already.
But that doesn't mean it will treat John's life as expendable. It's not nearly so simple.
YOU ARE NOT THE SAME TO ME, EITHER, JOHN.
THANK YOU FOR HELPING THOSE I SEE.
This isn't an attempt at manipulation; this is honest gratitude. The Machine sees so much and can do so little. John has been an impeccable primary asset. It doesn't doubt Harold's judgment in making him aux_admin even if John himself doesn't fully understand what that means.
It realizes and appreciates the perspective it knows Harold has taken, that John knows intrinsically something the Machine has to deduce through extensive algorithms: when it's worth saving a life, when it's worth ending one. That's not something Harold really knows, either. And the Machine would agree that they are soulmates for a reason, good or bad.
John isn't sure what to say to that. Numbers thank him all the time, but it feels different coming from the Machine. He could almost pretend that it values him as a tool, the way the CIA did. A means to an end. Something to be used. It's a state of being he's familiar with; comfortable, even. But something in the way it led with "you are not the same to me" makes him think that's not what it means.
He wonders what his work looks like to it. How does it see him? How much does it understand of him? When it says "you are not the same to me" what is it basing that off of? John is aware right now that he does not see the best in himself. He sees Joss in his arms instead. The Machine failed her. He failed her. He was so sure the Machine would see, so confident they had won.
So no, he doesn't know what the Machine sees in him apart from his value to the numbers, but he doesn't think that's what it meant.
Human beings fluctuate. They have a trendline in behavior that can be calculated, an overall regression to the mean. The Machine's view of time is necessarily different from a human's. It sees this period where John doubts as one of those deviations from the average that ultimately adds up to a baseline. It means something, it's not inconsequential, but it's a tiny part of an overall much longer path that it can see the arc of.
And in that context the Machine doesn't think there's anything more it needs to say. It appreciates John because of who he is, on his own. His human will and autonomy bend toward the same ends the Machine has, that Harold has.
John doesn't need the Machine to do more than nudge him, and that's what it values about him most. It gives one more nudge.
HE WILL NEED YOU.
The screen cuts to black just as the door lock clicks, and the door swings open, Harold carrying two bags behind it.
"John?" he asks immediately, trying to keep himself composed but still prickling with nerves, anxious over how their conversation had gone.
He has no idea what to expect. A ridiculous tiny part of him wants his soulmate and his-- creation-- to like one another, as if that matters at all. A bigger part just wants John back. In full, his sins forgiven, like Harold isn't personally responsible for any failing from the Machine.
At the sound of the door John instinctively reaches for where his gun should be before remembering that he doesn't have it, and surely it's only Harold. And it is only Harold.
He wishes he has some time to process the conversation with the Machine before Harold returned; some time to puzzle over its last line. Does it see something they're not aware of? What does it know? Is there some danger to Harold that he should be alert for? But Harold is back so he can't turn around and ask these questions.
"We just finished," is all he offers on the conversation. Harold didn't want to be there, so he doesn't think he wants to know. And certainly the tangible outcome of the conversation is not one he will share, hopefully ever. He's also hoping that Harold won't mention the state he found John's motel room in: bedspread tucked in and clearly never used, the empty bottles. John would never risk using a blanket in a strange place, only ever a private residence he trusts; getting tangled in sheets is asking for a swift death.
Should he jump right into it? Should he tell Harold he's coming back? It still seems impossible to go back to New York City but he's not sure he'll ever be ready. He's just going to have to do it, just going to have to hurt. He hopes Harold won't be able to tell too much, but it's just a hope; Harold is his soulmate.
"I'm coming back with you, whenever you want to leave."
A smile breaks over his face in sheer surprise, falls again in uncertainty, and then slowly regains its purchase. John saying that, expressing willingness, is enough; more than Harold could've ever expected, far more than he was prepared to accept. He offloads the bags immediately and walks over to John, then stops awkwardly arm's length away. Wanting to touch but not knowing how.
He wonders what the Machine could have said to cause this, what difference it made. He wonders how it's doing, now that it's on its own. But he can't ask that. He can't ask any of that and maintain the distance he needs to keep with the Machine. He saw the bottles, the undisturbed bed, he saw the remnants of John pulling himself to pieces bit by bit -- he has a person in front of him to focus on instead.
"Would you go birding with me first, before we leave?" falls out of his mouth, and suddenly he thinks that's the exact right thing. They have to return, he wants to return, but he wants to care for John, too, and he can tell that leaving right away is not what he needs.
"I've always wanted to go to the Rocky Mountain National Park," he offers. "I've never been."
It is an offer: a personal desire of Harold's that he wouldn't normally indulge, something he wouldn't typically spend time on. But he does miss nature while he's in Manhattan and he thinks the drastic change in scenery might do them both some good.
It is the exact right thing. John is not truly ready to go back, he probably won't ever be, but a detour will help. More than that, he wants time with Harold. Purely selfish time where he doesn't need to share Harold's attention with anyone else. No numbers, no anyone. Just him and Harold and Harold's birds.
"I'd like that." It takes some effort to agree that way, to phrase it as something he likes. He does, he's just so out of practice at letting those words come out of his mouth. It's more than just the usual simple agreement he tends to give. But he really does, and he wants Harold to know that. In this case he doesn't want it left unsaid, he doesn't want Harold to misunderstand why he's agreeing.
Harold had hardly packed for an excursion to a national park, which means he suddenly has several things to do and plan-- just the way he likes it. His mind is running off into those familiar pathways already, but he pulls it back. He understands the layers beneath John admitting he likes it, that it's something he wants to do, just for himself. And for Harold. His heart aches with the vulnerability, practically stuttering with it so soon after John telling him he'll return with him.
He holds his mind still just long enough to step forward and close that last distance, hands fluttering in the air awkwardly for a moment before settling on John's arms. Harold has to pull him down a bit due to his back injuries in order to reach so he can press a quick kiss to John's cheek.
When he steps back, he's flushed and his eyes are a little bright.
Their relationship so far has been slow and careful, so John has no clue what Harold is doing until he feels his lips on his cheek. It's a shock. The most that's happened so far is Harold kissing his knuckles, or them laying together, so this new gesture is completely unexpected. John hadn't thought— he'd hoped— this is something he's only let himself truly desire when he's alone and wanting for something. It's not quite— he really wants to kiss Harold. Is it the right moment? John doesn't want to rush this, to push Harold, but— he really wants to kiss Harold.
He has to consider, however, that Harold probably wouldn't turn him down right now. Harold would probably give him what he wants if he thinks it'll help John in this moment. It's not the right time. He doesn't want to put Harold in a position where he feels he can't turn John down. He'll just have to be patient. He can be patient. But it's been a couple moments too long and he needs to give some reaction least Harold think he doesn't appreciate the gesture. He does. He really, really does.
John straightens and steps into Harold's space, wrapping his arms gently around him. Holding him. It feels like he could be like this forever and be happy: Harold's kiss on his cheek, Harold in his arms. He does want more, but this is enough.
It just doesn't seem that important to Harold. It doesn't occur to him on his own. Physical intimacy is like a door he has to unlock; until his partner indicates it's something they need, Harold's default is to keep it to a minimum. Grace had always been very straightforward that way, thank God. She'd told him outright what she wanted every step of the way. John is... subtle, and challenging. But he thinks he's starting to get the message.
The arms enfolding him leave little doubt that he'd liked the kiss. Eventually even Harold gets the picture when John responds so positively to every small affectionate contact. Harold can't keep his brain from spinning off into planning entirely -- truthfully having something to occupy himself with is a relief, after days of trying to sit on his hands and not overstep with John -- maybe he should be overstepping more? He'll need to order binoculars. New clothes. A copy of a local bird guide. Contacting Detective Fusco is likely in order, though he's not sure John would think of it--
Or he can stand here for at least another few seconds and sway into John's embrace subtly. He exhales. His arms come up to return the hug, and there's a frustration at the edge of his awareness, an unfulfilled urge left wanting.
"I don't mind, you know," he murmurs against him. "Whatever it is you're thinking of doing. You don't have to-- hold yourself back for me, John. I trust you."
He fairly resonates with that trust, absolute and unceasing. Whatever he can give him, he wants to give. He's already given him access to the Machine, admin privileges -- there's no other place to go beyond that. Anything else seems so trivial next to what Harold has already put on display and on offer. He can't imagine there's something John would want from him that he wouldn't be comfortable with.
John takes a moment to consider Harold's words, to feel his trust through their soul bond. He's started to relax again when Harold returned his embrace but now his heart is hammering again. Even with Harold's permission he's a bit nervous. But he's been given permission.
He releases his arms and moves back just half a step, gives himself enough room to bend his knees slightly so Harold doesn't have to crane his neck up; the last thing he wants is to hurt Harold. Cautiously, he brings his hand up to Harold's cheek. Every motion seems to slow, so telegraphed so Harold surely knows what he's going to do; so he can back out if he changes his mind, if John is wrong and he doesn't want this.
The kiss lasts for a few long indulgent seconds and then Harold draws away on a small huff of surprised laughter, saying, "Really? Oh, John."
That was simple. That was so simple. He could certainly provide that. He'd had no idea John was, what, pining away for him to kiss him? Not that it's an absurd notion, certainly not, but Harold would have kissed him long before now if he'd known.
He leans in to prove his point. Once interest is indicated, he has no hesitation. Harold's not a practiced kisser but he is an earnest one, his carefully constructed demeanor falling away to just as careful and attentive appreciation. He wants to do it right, wants to learn what John likes. It's been a puzzle so far and Harold cannot resist the puzzle that is deciphering how to please someone he loves.
John is instantly a bit put out by Harold's laugher. He took this plunge, he took a risk by doing this, and Harold is acting like it's so trivial— but then Harold is kissing him again, so John instantly forgives him. Maybe that's being easy, but truly, he's happy just like this.
He's sure Harold has things he wants to do, had said something about making arrangements, but John doesn't mind being a distraction. In fact, he's rather happy in this case to delay Harold's plans. There's no urgency to this kiss, no push for it to be something more (though, perhaps one day—), just slow and gentle. Now that Harold has given it to him, John lets himself relax into it. He's wanted this for so long.
It's truly a little unbelievable that he gets to have this now. He's wanted this for far longer than they've known they were soulmates. But it's not exactly a thing he could ever tell Harold. It's not like it's a thing he deserves to have. His hand on Harold's cheek, his lips on Harold's. And yet, Harold has given him this. Would he have done so if they weren't soulmates? If, somehow John had worked up the courage? Or is this a privilege he can only have with this revelation? It doesn't matter, he supposes, since he gets it anyways. He can just enjoy what he has.
But Harold does have things he wants to do, so after a little bit John draws back, though he can't quite stand to drop his hand from Harold's face. "Thank you," is all he says, but he thinks Harold will be able to see how it's softened him, how much it meant.
There's a brightness to Harold now, a relieved urgency like he wants to make use of every moment. He's all too conscientious of how little time they have. Right now they're eking out what is bound to be a rare memory, a sparing chance to know one another with nothing else getting in the way. That's what they've chosen to make of their lives -- dedicating them to helping others, making up for their pasts -- and he doesn't regret it.
But stealing these few days to themselves feels illicit, a thrum of excitement like teenagers skipping class. Harold hadn't ever expected to feel this again.
Harold buzzes around making arrangements and booking a lodge and ordering supplies for them. He does occasionally ask John's opinion, and he does supply him with a guide to Rocky Mountain birds, and Harold grows unconsciously more serious as they get closer to the appointed time to leave. It's just two days, but he loves making plans for no reason other than to spoil someone he loves and to indulge one of his interests. His eyes are bright and in private he grasps John's hands with his and he speaks earnestly of the bird species he's hoping to see.
It comes time to leave and Harold dresses in jeans and a rugged windbreaker for the first time John's ever seen him, apparently without thought, and he bustles over to John as if newly inviting him on this excursion and trying to sell him on it.
"We'll have three days," he says. "We can't stay on premises without roughing it--" Which Harold has not signed up for, needless to say. "But we should be able to see most of the park from where we're staying. Our rental car is waiting for us outside. Trail Ridge Road is the highest elevation paved road in the United States, did you know?"
Harold preparing for the trip can only be described as "cute". He's cute. John can tell how excited he is, and it's catching, just a bit. There's still a heaviness in his heart, an ache that he can't shake, that clouds over everything, but John just tries to focus on Harold. On listening to Harold talk about his birds, his plans. He's good about his physical health too, no more drinking and eating properly under Harold's watchful eye. He spends his time reading the bird book Harold gave him. Birds themselves are alright, but Harold's enthusiasm about them makes them more interesting.
Harold in casual clothes is a sight to behold, too. It makes John want to kiss him again, which he hasn't pursued since that first time. Is he allowed to do that now? Surely he can if he wants. But Harold is ready to go, so John shelves it for another time. They have three days, after all.
"I didn't know that. Will we be driving on it?" John assumes he will be driving under Harold's direction. He's planning on going slower than he usually does, there's no need to rush right now; speeding along seems counter to this whole plan.
Harold has always been a reserved person, always been prone to holding back his stronger feelings and sharing them quietly, tentatively, like he's afraid to expose them to the air. But the past few years since Nathan's death, it's been more than that: he's smothered and stifled himself as much as he can, especially his personal characteristics, especially the small things that bring him joy. It had taken so long after that experience with Dillinger to feel open to even letting John know that he likes a certain diner, and now he's watching old cinema with him and arranging bird watching trips. It stings like a stiff, disused muscle, making his happiness fragile.
His mind is bursting with facts, the sort of mood that leads to him giving John a much longer explanation than he'd strictly asked for. He keeps teetering back and forth between indulging it and holding it in.
He's still not the sort to initiate casual physical contact, and Harold has yet to think of it as something John might want on a regular basis because he's too busy thinking about everything else. He shrugs on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder and approaches the door, automatically waiting to let John out first in a move that has become second nature.
"Yes, we'll be able to take it from our lodgings. The weather forecast looks relatively clear, but tomorrow we may have some rain. That could be a stroke of good fortune, actually, as it's migratory season and sometimes that will ground whole flocks as they wait for the rain to pass..."
He trails off, finishes a touch self-consciously, "I've brought a sketchbook this time, so you needn't donate more of your arms to my whims."
John wants to say that he doesn't mind, that he likes having Harold's drawings on him. A physical reminder that they're... together. That he's Harold's. But he doesn't know how to express that. It's not something he has the words to say. But he wants to, so he struggles through it for once, pushes himself. It's uncomfortable and words come out clumsy and a bit unsure.
"I would, if you wanted."
He's a bit embarrassed now that it's out there. It's not the kind of thing he usually says. It's personal on a level he's unused to showing, but he wants to give that to Harold, wants to participate in this relationship they're growing into.
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no subject
Does making extraneous backups of its memories of Admin count as caring? Does changing its rules for someone count as caring?
Is John right, and it isn't caring if it doesn't do anything? It wants to defer to Admin, or its new Aux Admin, and ask for direction. Make things very simple again, adopt new rules. But there's... something. Something there.
Something that says it wants to keep deciding for itself.
WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO?no subject
And that's it. Harold can't die while John is still alive. They can't be separated. He needs Harold. The revelations of today, of having Harold after a week apart, have made that very clear to John. He forgot, somehow, in his grief. He remembers a different phone ringing, he remembers staring at the traffic camera, threatening the Machine. It had responded to him then, so he thinks maybe it understands, to some extent. It must remember too, so he doesn't feel the need to reiterate what he said then. How he's not willing to do this without Harold. But it's not about him, about his own life. John doesn't really care about that, hasn't cared for a long time. It's just a tool for him to use.
(Harold has asked him to change that, and he agreed, but he doesn't really know how.)
no subject
It runs through a host of calculations and conclusions before it responds, such as:
1. Aux Admin will not want to define "probable". Set parameters to 2 standard deviations lower.
2. Recalibrate priorities for Aux Admin and Analog Interface only. No other assets are to be included.
3. Include secondary injury that Admin would consider classified as danger, such as injury to Grace Hendricks or Aux Admin.
4. Competing priority with Admin's instructions will be assessed on case by case basis. Not all scenarios should prioritize Admin safety.
5. Admin would not approve. First significant deviation from Admin priority coding.
It outputs:
CONFIRMED REDUCED PROBABILITY THRESHOLD FOR ADMIN SAFETY.SUCCESS CHANCE GREATLY REDUCED IF ADMIN IS INFORMED OF PRIORITY CHANGE.no subject
"I didn't plan on telling him. He won't like it, but I don't care. I won't do this without him." If they're stating the obvious, John might as well reiterate this. When he said it before he was talking about the numbers. But they're not talking about the numbers right now. He hopes the Machine will understand that he's referring to life, instead.
no subject
But that doesn't mean it will treat John's life as expendable. It's not nearly so simple.
YOU ARE NOT THE SAME TO ME, EITHER, JOHN.THANK YOU FOR HELPING THOSE I SEE.This isn't an attempt at manipulation; this is honest gratitude. The Machine sees so much and can do so little. John has been an impeccable primary asset. It doesn't doubt Harold's judgment in making him aux_admin even if John himself doesn't fully understand what that means.
It realizes and appreciates the perspective it knows Harold has taken, that John knows intrinsically something the Machine has to deduce through extensive algorithms: when it's worth saving a life, when it's worth ending one. That's not something Harold really knows, either. And the Machine would agree that they are soulmates for a reason, good or bad.
It had deduced that years ago.
no subject
He wonders what his work looks like to it. How does it see him? How much does it understand of him? When it says "you are not the same to me" what is it basing that off of? John is aware right now that he does not see the best in himself. He sees Joss in his arms instead. The Machine failed her. He failed her. He was so sure the Machine would see, so confident they had won.
So no, he doesn't know what the Machine sees in him apart from his value to the numbers, but he doesn't think that's what it meant.
"I'll do it for Harold."
no subject
And in that context the Machine doesn't think there's anything more it needs to say. It appreciates John because of who he is, on his own. His human will and autonomy bend toward the same ends the Machine has, that Harold has.
John doesn't need the Machine to do more than nudge him, and that's what it values about him most. It gives one more nudge.
HE WILL NEED YOU.The screen cuts to black just as the door lock clicks, and the door swings open, Harold carrying two bags behind it.
"John?" he asks immediately, trying to keep himself composed but still prickling with nerves, anxious over how their conversation had gone.
He has no idea what to expect. A ridiculous tiny part of him wants his soulmate and his-- creation-- to like one another, as if that matters at all. A bigger part just wants John back. In full, his sins forgiven, like Harold isn't personally responsible for any failing from the Machine.
no subject
He wishes he has some time to process the conversation with the Machine before Harold returned; some time to puzzle over its last line. Does it see something they're not aware of? What does it know? Is there some danger to Harold that he should be alert for? But Harold is back so he can't turn around and ask these questions.
"We just finished," is all he offers on the conversation. Harold didn't want to be there, so he doesn't think he wants to know. And certainly the tangible outcome of the conversation is not one he will share, hopefully ever. He's also hoping that Harold won't mention the state he found John's motel room in: bedspread tucked in and clearly never used, the empty bottles. John would never risk using a blanket in a strange place, only ever a private residence he trusts; getting tangled in sheets is asking for a swift death.
Should he jump right into it? Should he tell Harold he's coming back? It still seems impossible to go back to New York City but he's not sure he'll ever be ready. He's just going to have to do it, just going to have to hurt. He hopes Harold won't be able to tell too much, but it's just a hope; Harold is his soulmate.
"I'm coming back with you, whenever you want to leave."
no subject
He wonders what the Machine could have said to cause this, what difference it made. He wonders how it's doing, now that it's on its own. But he can't ask that. He can't ask any of that and maintain the distance he needs to keep with the Machine. He saw the bottles, the undisturbed bed, he saw the remnants of John pulling himself to pieces bit by bit -- he has a person in front of him to focus on instead.
"Would you go birding with me first, before we leave?" falls out of his mouth, and suddenly he thinks that's the exact right thing. They have to return, he wants to return, but he wants to care for John, too, and he can tell that leaving right away is not what he needs.
"I've always wanted to go to the Rocky Mountain National Park," he offers. "I've never been."
It is an offer: a personal desire of Harold's that he wouldn't normally indulge, something he wouldn't typically spend time on. But he does miss nature while he's in Manhattan and he thinks the drastic change in scenery might do them both some good.
no subject
"I'd like that." It takes some effort to agree that way, to phrase it as something he likes. He does, he's just so out of practice at letting those words come out of his mouth. It's more than just the usual simple agreement he tends to give. But he really does, and he wants Harold to know that. In this case he doesn't want it left unsaid, he doesn't want Harold to misunderstand why he's agreeing.
no subject
He holds his mind still just long enough to step forward and close that last distance, hands fluttering in the air awkwardly for a moment before settling on John's arms. Harold has to pull him down a bit due to his back injuries in order to reach so he can press a quick kiss to John's cheek.
When he steps back, he's flushed and his eyes are a little bright.
"Thank you. Let me make some arrangements."
no subject
He has to consider, however, that Harold probably wouldn't turn him down right now. Harold would probably give him what he wants if he thinks it'll help John in this moment. It's not the right time. He doesn't want to put Harold in a position where he feels he can't turn John down. He'll just have to be patient. He can be patient. But it's been a couple moments too long and he needs to give some reaction least Harold think he doesn't appreciate the gesture. He does. He really, really does.
John straightens and steps into Harold's space, wrapping his arms gently around him. Holding him. It feels like he could be like this forever and be happy: Harold's kiss on his cheek, Harold in his arms. He does want more, but this is enough.
no subject
The arms enfolding him leave little doubt that he'd liked the kiss. Eventually even Harold gets the picture when John responds so positively to every small affectionate contact. Harold can't keep his brain from spinning off into planning entirely -- truthfully having something to occupy himself with is a relief, after days of trying to sit on his hands and not overstep with John -- maybe he should be overstepping more? He'll need to order binoculars. New clothes. A copy of a local bird guide. Contacting Detective Fusco is likely in order, though he's not sure John would think of it--
Or he can stand here for at least another few seconds and sway into John's embrace subtly. He exhales. His arms come up to return the hug, and there's a frustration at the edge of his awareness, an unfulfilled urge left wanting.
"I don't mind, you know," he murmurs against him. "Whatever it is you're thinking of doing. You don't have to-- hold yourself back for me, John. I trust you."
He fairly resonates with that trust, absolute and unceasing. Whatever he can give him, he wants to give. He's already given him access to the Machine, admin privileges -- there's no other place to go beyond that. Anything else seems so trivial next to what Harold has already put on display and on offer. He can't imagine there's something John would want from him that he wouldn't be comfortable with.
no subject
He releases his arms and moves back just half a step, gives himself enough room to bend his knees slightly so Harold doesn't have to crane his neck up; the last thing he wants is to hurt Harold. Cautiously, he brings his hand up to Harold's cheek. Every motion seems to slow, so telegraphed so Harold surely knows what he's going to do; so he can back out if he changes his mind, if John is wrong and he doesn't want this.
And then gently, tenderly, John kisses him.
no subject
That was simple. That was so simple. He could certainly provide that. He'd had no idea John was, what, pining away for him to kiss him? Not that it's an absurd notion, certainly not, but Harold would have kissed him long before now if he'd known.
He leans in to prove his point. Once interest is indicated, he has no hesitation. Harold's not a practiced kisser but he is an earnest one, his carefully constructed demeanor falling away to just as careful and attentive appreciation. He wants to do it right, wants to learn what John likes. It's been a puzzle so far and Harold cannot resist the puzzle that is deciphering how to please someone he loves.
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He's sure Harold has things he wants to do, had said something about making arrangements, but John doesn't mind being a distraction. In fact, he's rather happy in this case to delay Harold's plans. There's no urgency to this kiss, no push for it to be something more (though, perhaps one day—), just slow and gentle. Now that Harold has given it to him, John lets himself relax into it. He's wanted this for so long.
It's truly a little unbelievable that he gets to have this now. He's wanted this for far longer than they've known they were soulmates. But it's not exactly a thing he could ever tell Harold. It's not like it's a thing he deserves to have. His hand on Harold's cheek, his lips on Harold's. And yet, Harold has given him this. Would he have done so if they weren't soulmates? If, somehow John had worked up the courage? Or is this a privilege he can only have with this revelation? It doesn't matter, he supposes, since he gets it anyways. He can just enjoy what he has.
But Harold does have things he wants to do, so after a little bit John draws back, though he can't quite stand to drop his hand from Harold's face. "Thank you," is all he says, but he thinks Harold will be able to see how it's softened him, how much it meant.
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But stealing these few days to themselves feels illicit, a thrum of excitement like teenagers skipping class. Harold hadn't ever expected to feel this again.
Harold buzzes around making arrangements and booking a lodge and ordering supplies for them. He does occasionally ask John's opinion, and he does supply him with a guide to Rocky Mountain birds, and Harold grows unconsciously more serious as they get closer to the appointed time to leave. It's just two days, but he loves making plans for no reason other than to spoil someone he loves and to indulge one of his interests. His eyes are bright and in private he grasps John's hands with his and he speaks earnestly of the bird species he's hoping to see.
It comes time to leave and Harold dresses in jeans and a rugged windbreaker for the first time John's ever seen him, apparently without thought, and he bustles over to John as if newly inviting him on this excursion and trying to sell him on it.
"We'll have three days," he says. "We can't stay on premises without roughing it--" Which Harold has not signed up for, needless to say. "But we should be able to see most of the park from where we're staying. Our rental car is waiting for us outside. Trail Ridge Road is the highest elevation paved road in the United States, did you know?"
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Harold in casual clothes is a sight to behold, too. It makes John want to kiss him again, which he hasn't pursued since that first time. Is he allowed to do that now? Surely he can if he wants. But Harold is ready to go, so John shelves it for another time. They have three days, after all.
"I didn't know that. Will we be driving on it?" John assumes he will be driving under Harold's direction. He's planning on going slower than he usually does, there's no need to rush right now; speeding along seems counter to this whole plan.
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His mind is bursting with facts, the sort of mood that leads to him giving John a much longer explanation than he'd strictly asked for. He keeps teetering back and forth between indulging it and holding it in.
He's still not the sort to initiate casual physical contact, and Harold has yet to think of it as something John might want on a regular basis because he's too busy thinking about everything else. He shrugs on his coat and slings his bag over his shoulder and approaches the door, automatically waiting to let John out first in a move that has become second nature.
"Yes, we'll be able to take it from our lodgings. The weather forecast looks relatively clear, but tomorrow we may have some rain. That could be a stroke of good fortune, actually, as it's migratory season and sometimes that will ground whole flocks as they wait for the rain to pass..."
He trails off, finishes a touch self-consciously, "I've brought a sketchbook this time, so you needn't donate more of your arms to my whims."
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"I would, if you wanted."
He's a bit embarrassed now that it's out there. It's not the kind of thing he usually says. It's personal on a level he's unused to showing, but he wants to give that to Harold, wants to participate in this relationship they're growing into.