Everything goes to shit at the last second. Harold is supporting John from outside and gets jumped when John doesn't properly get the drop on their mark. It's a little more complicated than that, they hadn't expected a vampire to be involved in this situation, but the fact of the matter is he gets away. John is too busy dealing with the other goons to pursue but he doesn't think much about it, just assumes he ran away, until he hears Harold's exclamation of surprise over the comms. After that there's no response but it takes John too long to extract himself. By the time he sprints out of the building Harold is on the ground and John doesn't hesitate to shoot the vampire on the spot. He doesn't know if Harold is dead, all he knows is blind anger and desperation. Not Harold, not Harold, not Harold, is all that races through his mind as he makes his way over. But once he's by Harold's side relief washes over him. Harold will never be the same, his life will be forever changed, but he's not truly dead. John's heart remains whole. He doesn't have to learn what he'd do without Harold in his life.
Of course, this introduces a complication. After only a moment of consideration John throws out the idea of bringing Harold to the hospital. No, he would hate having to be registered, having to be scrutinized, having his life intruded upon like that. It might be safer for him in the short term, but the long term ramifications would be too much to handle. The least John can do is not make this worse for him. John debates taking him to his own loft or the safehouse and settles on the latter. It's a "safehouse" for a reason.
The clock is ticking but he has enough time to gather some supplies, mainly blood bags. John knows enough to know that they're not preferable, but he makes sure to get his own blood type; there's a good chance that Harold will feed on him when he wakes up and John isn't sure how much control he'll have. John thinks there's a very real chance Harold kills him without even realizing, and if that's the case then so be it. Maybe he should leave a note behind so Harold doesn't feel too badly about it. It's short, to the point, and he sticks it in his jacket pocket.
In the end with all his preparations made all he can do is settle in by Harold's side as he lays in the bed and wait. He doesn't allow himself any distractions, doesn't let himself close his eyes, just waits. He'll be by Harold's side as long as is necessary.
He is truly dead. There's an immutable reality to vampires that some try to romanticize away but Harold is of the opinion can't be ignored: they're dead, they're living an alternate existence, they're not human. As someone who prides himself on his absolute dedication to humanity, that's going to be a very hard pill to swallow.
Not that there's coherent thoughts in his head when he first returns to consciousness. There's a strange lack of pain in his back but it's completely overshadowed by a blinding, consuming thirst. He feels not just thirsty but dehydrated, woozy and out of it, unable to form coherent thoughts. It's almost like being intoxicated, except--
Except his focus is precise and unerring. There's someone beside him and there's no gradual awakening; he's dead and then he's awake and he's thirsty and there's--
He rolls over with a fluidity to his movement that would shock him in his right mind, and he presses his prey forcefully down beneath him on the bed, hair mussed and glasses gone. Harold's eyes are wide and gleaming faintly red and he has his jaw loose showing faint traces of his fangs between his cold whitened lips, not yet comfortable with how to carry them naturally.
He's about to bite, a perfectly natural and instinctive action, but then he stops.
"John," he says like it's an abstract concept, staring down at him unblinking.
Somewhere distant inside him, he's faintly certain he would rather starve to death than kill John. In all the horrid morbid detail that might mean. The thirst has run up against an immutable wall of resolve: Harold isn't human anymore but he is Harold, and if there's a place he's willing to bend his rules, it isn't here. It isn't something that would cause him to be the agent of harm to John.
Even for John it's hard to pay rapt attention for that long, so he misses the exact second when Harold's eyes open, but he's alert in the second before he finds himself pressed to the bed. It doesn't stop him from going tense at the sudden change in position, but he wills the urge to struggle to pass, lets himself go lax. Vampire or not, this is Harold. Whatever Harold wishes to exact on him, he'll accept.
And he thinks he probably has death coming, is glad he wrote that note, when Harold just... stops. It's like he's frozen, somewhere far away. It's not the usual way Harold says his name, it lacks precision somehow, but he doesn't miss that Harold calls him John.
He lays still, doesn't move at all. Tries not to breathe too much. "There's blood bags if you would rather, but if you want, it's okay, Harold." He says it as quietly and gently as he can. He's offering. Whatever Harold wants, he's offering. It's okay.
Blood bags? It sounds horrible. Stale and rancid. There's a live warm moving person beneath him offering himself up and he's--
Harold continues staring at him, fixated, eyes flicking up and down as he takes him in. "You smell lovely," he says in a musing tone, like he's noting an observation. "An aged roasted tea, rare and exceptional. I suspect that's my personal sentiment altering my sensory perception rather than an innate characteristic."
That would make sense. There's very little that's reputably verified about vampires, so Harold is going to be doing a lot of figuring things out for himself. He assumes immediately and automatically that John has killed his sire, which in this animalistic state feels completely right. There should be no one dictating his actions, no one thinking he has power over him. Not when he has John to take care of. Harold would not accept anyone else thinking they could step over his role in their relationship.
"You deserve so much more, but I would be honored to taste you."
It's solemn, careful, the thirst clawing at him angrily but Harold holding fast, resolute and stubborn. John deserves his very best and here he is, a slavering desperate creature slaking his thirst on him rather than savoring him as he deserves. But he can't deny...
John's being the first blood he ever tastes is as it should be.
John just listens to Harold. He's clearly not in his normal state of mind, so he just listens. Time will tell if this is a more permanent change, but he's willing to bet not. It's like Harold is just below the surface, a glimmer in the water. That analytical streak, always thinking, always planning, even in this moment.
Actually having Harold suck his blood is uncomfortable. Highly. He can feel his blood pulled through his body, can feel the sharp pain where Harold bit him. It's impossible not to tense up at first. But he's been through pain before, he knows how to take it. John stares at the ceiling, finds little dots on it, maps them out like stars, counts them, forces his body to relax incrementally under Harold. He decides that he won't mention it even if Harold asks, it's inconsequential. What matters is that Harold will be better after this. Even if Harold isn't in control and John is incapacitated or dead, Harold will be better. And that's what really matters. He'll go through this again and again if that's what Harold needs, what Harold wants.
It's not just the guilt at his culpability for Harold being in this situation, he's felt that way for a long time now. Wanting to give himself to Harold, whatever that looks like. Harold asks him to do the numbers, so John does them. Harold buys him suits, so John wears them. Harold takes him out to dinner, so he eats. That's not the only reason he does them, the numbers are his repayment to the world, the suits feel comfortable, the food is good, but Harold is always a factor. He tries to keep it locked away, tries not to let it show. It's something he doesn't want to burden Harold with.
But Harold said "you deserve so much more". That Harold thinks he deserves something, anything, when John truly doesn't. Not from Harold, not from anyone. What he might deserve is death at Harold's hands, and maybe he'll get that today. Maybe it would be his atonement.
It is lovely. It is exceptional. Harold has never experienced anything like this before, never felt a sensory experience take over his whole consciousness this way. Normally he's so cerebral, it's rare for him to find something physical that sweeps him away. It feeds him and nourishes him simultaneously, and he can taste the devotion and acceptance. How that works is presently beyond him, his analytical mind shutting down completely, but he knows-- he knows John is his in a way he has never dared think before.
Harold takes care of what is his. He is careful and appreciative, and he can feel beneath him when the pain goes from something John can endure to something that will truly drain him, and he withdraws.
He licks slowly across the paired puncture wounds on his neck, unable to withdraw completely. Harold licks across his lips and teeth to trap the last drop of blood and feels completely inhuman, but he also-- feels exquisitely tender toward John. He'd never have expected a vampire to be capable of feelings like this toward what he'd think is a victim, but all of his instincts are clamoring, sensing John's dedication and responding mine, mine, mine.
Some slow clarity seeps into his thoughts, and he says in that some note of observation, "You waited here for me."
He's realizing now the alternatives and what it meant for John to sit beside his cold corpse and wait for whatever would come. To his vampire self that is right and satisfying, it wants to purr in contentment, but to Harold-- to the part of himself gradually resurfacing from where it'd been submerged-- he is...
He doesn't know yet. It's strange. Complicated. The light of his new instincts makes it harder to pretend, the crutch he's always leant on his whole life. But if he's not pretending, what's left? What's there, beneath that?
"There's nowhere else for me to be." It's a confession, of sorts. There's nowhere else for him to be but Harold's side. He wouldn't have cared if the Machine called him up personally to give him a number. He'd never leave Harold, not like this. No, the only place he could possibly be was by Harold's side.
John feels... he tries to take a catalogue now that it seems to be over. A little dizzy, he thinks. The fact that he's still pinned to the bed is for the best. The fact that Harold is pinning him is not something he thinks about. He'll surely think about that later, in private, but it's not a distraction he needs right now. He's a little tired. But he'd figured it was a coinflip if Harold had enough control not to kill him, so this is a good outcome. John might not be in shape to go out and do the numbers, but he'll be able to walk himself home whenever Harold dismisses him. Maybe he can convince Harold to leave first and hook himself up to the IV for a bit; he had gotten blood in his own type for a reason.
But that's not his main concern. His main concern is Harold. How does he feel now? Is he better for having taken John's blood? Does he want more? It seems like an unusual comment for Harold to make, but maybe Harold wouldn't do the same for him. That would be good, if Harold was willing to protect himself even if it meant leaving John on his own. But John doesn't ask, doesn't push, just lets Harold take things at his own pace.
"No," he says slowly, a heavy realization dawning and settling into him like a lead weight. "There isn't."
Where else would he be? Harold cannot imagine ever dismissing him now, tonight or any other night, not for some paltry ludicrous attempt at maintaining distance. Harold feels keenly that he wants to keep him with him at all times. (Forever? That's a concept he can't begin to grasp yet, and doesn't want to.) It makes a logical kind of sense; John tastes incredible, and he's a willing, renewable source of sustenance. Of course his vampire instincts would be shouting for him to hold onto that.
Beyond that, everything feels distant and remote still. It's hard to tell whether that's shock or his new state of being. Regardless, it's occurring to him now what the alternatives could've been if John hadn't stayed. Worst of all possible outcomes, Harold could have murdered someone, likely would have if it were anyone other than John here when he woke up. It was close to an autonomic reflex not to drain him fully dry, something his conscious mind didn't need to engage in.
One thing of all of it is very clear to him: he has to take care of John. John, so loyal, who never left his side.
"I feel rather hostile to the idea of you leaving," Harold comments like it's an interesting fact. He balances himself over John on one hand and the other lifts to lightly grasp his jaw, eye contact piercing. "I believe I'm in shock. I'm going to be very upset later. But right now..."
His fingers trace gently down the curve of his throat, and then his palm comes to rest on the puncture wounds, applying pressure.
Whatever is happening is moving very fast compared to the slow trickle of whatever their relationship was before. What was it? Just little smiles here, a glancing touch there, maybe a tease or joke. Now Harold is saying he doesn't want John to leave, how pleased he is to have John here. He's touching him deliberately, purposefully, in intimate places.
John isn't sure how to interpret this. Is this, as Harold says, just shock? Is this just Harold acting on some new instinct that he hasn't learned how to control? Or, his desirous mind supplies, just something Harold has been hiding away all this time? John has no way of knowing. But he does know that this is a break from Harold's historical behavior, a breach of the careful space they maintain. Should he say something? Should he push back? He doesn't know.
"I won't go anywhere until you want me to." John settles on being supportive. Is that what that is? Supportive? Or will Harold look back on this exchange in hours or days and wish John had said something else, not... enabled him? This answer seems to be what the Harold of now wants to hear, but John has no clue how the Harold of later will react. Will he think John is humoring him? Will he be disturbed by John's willingness to be in this position? Because really, John is willing. He feels like he's taking advantage of Harold somehow, getting this thing he's always wanted out of Harold's misfortune. He'll play it off if that's how Harold wants to treat it later, but he means every quiet word he's said. He knows his face is too openly honest right now, stoic as usual but he can feel it around his eyes.
He needs to hold his hand there long enough for the wound to begin to close, which means he has an excuse to stay right where he is, acclimatizing. The scent and feel of John so close beneath him is almost dizzying, but Harold has a considerable ability to focus, and beyond that he can tell things are different. Everything is clearer, sharper. The faint sounds of neighbors, the slight mustiness in the air, even the familiar crispness of the sheets...
"Then you won't go anywhere," he informs him somberly, relaxing slightly. The submission, horrifyingly, makes him feel good. There's a distinct thrumming pulse beneath his palm and it's John's, proof of his life, keeping pace under him. There's still that strange dichotomy of his reflexive feelings and then the analytical submerged personality judging it.
How is he ever going to reconcile that, he wonders?
"We're in the safehouse in Washington Heights," Harold realizes, putting things together. "It's been over a week since the cleaning service came. You brought my corpse here, likely after killing the man who turned me." A short pause. "A wise precaution, and it saves me from needing to do it myself. That would upset me."
Ah. What a relief that he isn't so far gone that his new nature would override his deeply-ingrained moral code.
"In that regard, my vampiric instincts are in rebellion against my higher thinking. But in others... they're in complete agreement. John. I'm sorry." He closes his eyes, immobile suddenly, unbreathing.
What is Harold apologizing for? What has Harold done that deserves an apology? John has not given him anything he wasn't prepared to give in the first place. All of this is John's fault, John's failure. He shouldn't have let Harold be turned in the first place; should have been more cautious taking him into the field, should have been more cautious in the field.
Is he apologizing for, what, wanting John to stay? For taking John's blood? John is more than happy to stay by Harold's side, now and, well, he can't see a time where he stops wanting that. It's something he's desired for a long time. As for the blood, that's something he's willing to provide. Happy, even. He hates the thought of someone else being in this position, Harold touching someone else like this. Of course there's Grace, who John has no recourse against; if Harold chooses Grace then John will cede this position with only good wishes, but he doesn't want to imagine how he would feel if some shadowy stranger was this close to Harold.
"I did kill him. I wouldn't have let you do it even if I hadn't, this doesn't change our agreement." The arrangement, as far as John sees it, is that Harold sits behind his computers and helps John find who to shoot and when. "And you have nothing to apologize for, Harold. It's my fault for not controlling the situation and getting you in this position. Whatever has happened since then is okay."
Can he touch Harold? Is that okay? So far John has just laid still, accepting whatever Harold is doing. Slowly he brings his hand up to cover the one Harold has on his neck. Just a gentle touch, a bit unsure, but he hopes it communicates his acceptance of where things have ended up.
What he's done already does merit an apology, but it's what he knows he will be doing and hasn't yet that he's really apologizing for. Because Harold can see it suddenly sprawled out in front of him: an eternity of wanting John, of keeping him and guarding him, whittling away his autonomy sliver by sliver until he's only his and nothing else.
His hand shifts under John's when he touches him, a minute hypnic jerk, something like a shiver but from someone or something that can't feel cold.
"There's nothing here that was your fault. I'm sorry because now I will never let you go," he confesses in a low tone, eyes still closed, ashamed and afraid of what this means about who he has become. "I've tried-- so hard. Not to take liberties." That sounds so silly, juvenile, but Harold can't bear to be more direct.
In a soft whisper, hand spasming and tightening on his throat, "You are so precious to me. But now I think I can't-- No.
He's been doing his best to keep still, not to disturb whatever Harold is battling with right now, whatever he's surely going through in the wake of waking up as a vampire. But at Harold's confession, Harold's tightening grasp on his throat, he freezes, tensing up despite himself.
The thing that Harold is threatening, promising, is what John has never let himself dream too much about. Thoughts of Harold watching him when they're apart, thoughts about Harold caring enough to do so, thoughts of Harold stepping into his life just a bit more, interceding in ways he has carefully drawn lines. John is well aware of those lines if only because he'll never cross them himself, if only because he wants Harold to cross them. And now Harold is what, saying he will?
Anxiety flutters in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling. He's usually so sure of everything, knows what he'll do next, has all these rules drawn up and plans laid out. He fills his days with the numbers so his mind has little time to wander. When he can't fall asleep or wakes in the night, he pulls up memories of Harold, lets little fantasies unravel in the dark where he can keep them hidden away and banish them entirely come the morning. But now they're bursting out, unlocked by Harold's words.
How can he communicate this? That he doesn't mind? That this is what he wants? He's never let himself dream of what he might say, he doesn't know what he should do to communicate his feelings. It's never been his strong suit, but he has a flashback to watching Jessica walk away, saying what he needs to say only when it's too late.
This time he will not be too late.
John makes himself relax, bit by bit, working his way in from his fingers, to his arms, to his chest. Accepting. His touch on Harold's hand, the hand that has him pinned, is firmer, more sure.
"That's what I want."
Not what he's okay with, not just what he'll accept. What he wants. Just Harold, who he was already not willing to live without.
He catches the nuance. Want is not a word he hears John use very often, and he takes note each time he does, files it away in his treasured internal inventory of personal details he has gathered about John.
Harold almost chokes on the words as he repeats them, physically frozen in place. "You want that?"
He feels shaky, dizzy, all of his senses overly loud and his emotions unusually sharp, pushing against his typical resolve to maintain distance. His composure is unraveling, the dead weight of his unbeating heart in his chest eerie against the rising distress. There's so little that's definitively known about vampires, much less their most intimate relationships, which they naturally guard closely. Harold knows; he looked up everything he could that's reputable when they got assigned this number, and it wasn't nearly enough.
Him keeping John, feeling entitled to call him his, like a possessive ownership of a thing-- that could go anywhere. It could go somewhere awful. And Harold would be the perpetrator.
"You can't know what that means. I don't know what that means!"
His declaration seems to have upset Harold, even though Harold was the one who started it. Harold had said so certainly what he wanted, had even said the word "must". What was he supposed to do, reject him? This is what John wants. How does he express this? How does he say this? What can he do to convince Harold?
"I have wanted this," he hesitates, he doesn't know how to say the next part, he didn't plan this, didn't ever dream they would have this conversation, "since Root took you." It's frustrating to be so ineffectual with expressing himself. He needs to share himself in ways he hasn't in years, ways he trained himself not to even think about. "I realized I didn't want to be without you."
It sounds so flimsy to his own ears when he says it like that. But he doesn't think he can say that he decided he wouldn't live without Harold, not so blatantly. It's true, but it might be too much truth. He might not be doing a good job of explaining himself but he hopes Harold will understand, hopes Harold will believe his sincerity as he keeps eye contact, doesn't shy away from this conversation.
"I trust you."
It's more than that, he can't imagine Harold doing something that he's not okay with, can't imagine a limit of the lengths he'd go to for Harold. Certainly Harold has changed in a fundamental way, not just physically but there's an emotional shift in him, obvious in the way he's been talking to John since waking up. It's possible that this change in Harold is more drastic than John expects, but as he said: he trusts Harold. He made up his mind long ago that he'd never leave him. That doesn't seem likely to change now.
"But I don't trust myself," he returns, voice cracking.
John giving him total, absolute trust is terrifying. It means Harold has to be responsible, fully responsible. He can't duck away or hide behind a shield, has to confront his own decisions and his own failings. He can't bear to hurt John irreparably, not of all the possible mistakes available to him.
It feels like that would be the end. That whatever good he's been doing with these final days would come to a close. He can't do good and hurt John at the same time. It's a fundamental contradiction.
"I don't know who I am now. I just drank your blood--" He falters, loses momentum. "I couldn't stop that. It was everything I could do not to drain you dry and kill you."
Hearing it out loud is stark, a coldness taking him over. Harold pulls back, removes his hand, almost stumbles off the bed and onto his feet, staring at the traces of blood left on his palm and telling himself he doesn't need to appreciate them like a fine dessert.
"I need," he breathes, "I need a moment. Please stay here."
When Harold talks John always listens carefully, always takes in every word. Harold's directions are instructions for him to take, Harold's commentary smooths out the hard edges he builds up over time, the details Harold rarely doles out are treasures for him to keep.
It's unusual to see Harold lose his composure like this, to see him falter in uncertainty. But given the situation he's in now it makes sense; even Harold cannot be infallible though he could never lead John astray.
John doesn't know what to do here, if there is anything to do. He realizes that he probably shouldn't tell Harold that his death at Harold's hands would have been fine, that would probably only upset him further than he is.
When he says he needs a moment John doesn't question it, doesn't ask anything more, just slowly sits up and turns to swing his legs off the bed, plant his feet on the ground. He doesn't get up though, just sits; part of that is because Harold asked him to stay, and part of that is because there's a decent chance he'd fall over if he stood too fast. Just sitting up made his head swim and Harold doesn't need to concern himself with that right now. "Okay, take your time. I won't go anywhere."
Harold can't stay. He needs to leave. His nerve endings are afire with the urge to go, to remove himself from the potential to do harm or be harmed himself, and the moment John agrees he evacuates the room like a spooked horse. He has to-- he can't--
He's a vampire now. That's reality. Harold has become an undead creature that depends on the blood of the living to exist. There's a split second in which he considers whether death itself is preferable, true death, to preying on others; and then he thinks of what John would do in his absence-- he thinks of more efficient methods-- and he realizes that isn't an option.
He has to deal with this, to face it. John is forcing him to. It's cruel and unbearable in the most loving way possible.
There's some time Harold spends pressing his face in his hands, noticing too harshly the lack of breath against his skin, the way he can sit there in utter stillness with no imperative to move or breathe. It's awful. It's horrible. Who has he become? What is he now--
Harold forces himself to focus again. John. John is in the other room, waiting. He needs to take care of him.
After some time he comes back in with a tea tray, arranged with milk and juice and a simple sandwich. He mutely comes to John's side and sets it down wherever it's convenient, subdued. He's upset and doesn't know what to do, but he can do this.
"I took a lot of blood from you," he says quietly as explanation.
The time he waits for Harold seems to stretch for an eternity. He's not used to just waiting. But Harold asked him to stay, so he stays. He doesn't fidget, doesn't get up, doesn't move, just stays put. Waits. Harold will come back.
Harold comes back. And with a tray for John. This happens on occasion, Harold interceding in John's business in this way, when John has been far too busy with a number to do it himself. It feels... special, when it happens. There's something warm in his chest that he doesn't look at carefully. He feels that way now, too, but there's something more intimate about it. Like it means something more. He doesn't really know how to address that, so he covers by taking a bite of the sandwich and washing it down with some juice.
"I've lost blood before, it's nothing I can't handle." John means it to come out casually, maybe even a bit dismissively, brush off Harold's concerns, but it comes out too softly, too... emotional. More of a soft reassurance. That's not what he intended but maybe it's more right for what's happening between them. He still feels compelled to busy himself with another bite of sandwich, more juice.
John sounds soft but it's not enough. He's too wrapped up in his own worries to take that as adequate, and Harold's whole expression contracts with distaste. It's at least partially ameliorated by John overtly eating and drinking in front of him, recovering his lost blood.
"If we're doing this," he says tartly, tense and conflicted, "I'm not going to be something you can handle."
It needs to be more than that. It has to be. It's beyond just having a net positive balance, the good outweighing the bad; he can't do something to John that he just has to tolerate, he can't. There's a tiny piece of himself left that he has never let go of because Grace always saw it there in him, and...
This is. Hard. Having to explain himself to Harold, having to do more than maintain the careful distance they hold, not just going about things his own way. There's always a part of John that wants to close that distance, to have Harold close to him, but there's advantages of being able to step back, to pretending he doesn't want that. Even with Harold, he's so good at just being alone, hiding away. And now he's going to have to come out of hiding if he wants Harold to understand.
"I told you already, I want this. I wouldn't—" and this is the hard part. John looks down at the sandwich he's started to grip too hard and forces his fingers to loosen. He thinks Harold will be able to tell that he's struggling but he needs to say this for Harold. For himself. "I wouldn't want it to be someone else."
He has to be honest so Harold understands him. This has to be a back and forth, not just John listening and listening and accepting whatever Harold says. He has to put in the effort here; Harold deserves that much.
Harold would vastly prefer to maintain their usual distance, but it's evaporated. He has a blurry memory of being held down and fed from, teeth piercing his flesh as cleanly as scalpels. The terror in that moment and the slow quiet sinking into nothing had only preceded waking up and tasting John's blood in his mouth. He'd died and come back, and now he feels an immovable resolve to keep John his that he can't fight against.
Can't, because he doesn't want to. That's the real truth of it. John says, I want this, and Harold wants this, and maybe that should be enough, but-- he can never be sure with John. Because John won't ask for anything more than what he's given.
"I won't use you that way," spills out of his mouth, harsher than normal, Harold's polished diction worn off at the edges. John has been used so many times already. He has an extremely unfamiliar urge to hit something that alarms him and he forces himself into unnatural stillness, body poised and expression flinty.
"I'll subsist on bagged blood if I have to." He'd seen it in the fridge, knows it's there. John doesn't want it to be someone else but Harold doesn't think it could be. "Whatever happens between us will be only good. I won't allow anything else."
The places where his vampiric nature and his personality align surge together into a cresting wave he can't resist: taking control, setting limits, declaring how things will go. And taking care of John is in there. The conflict comes where he deeply wants to feed from John for the rest of eternity, but also refuses to take advantage of him in any way. In this aspect, Harold is iron-willed and stubborn enough to fight his own instincts. He's determined that he can find a way to fulfill the mutual desire to keep John as his without crossing any lines that shouldn't be crossed.
It would be damnably difficult to resist feeding from him, and Harold doesn't think that's truly what's needed here, but it is on the table. He will do it if he thinks he needs to. John preferring it to the alternative isn't enough.
John is... confused. He looks up at Harold and lets it show on his face. Harold is battling with something, is talking about something that John doesn't understand. What does he mean when he says "I won't use you that way" and "will be only good"? John has already confessed his desire, what more does Harold want from him?
"You're not using me, Harold. I said this is what I want." It was good, having Harold so close. Is there some sort of etiquette that he's missing? Was he supposed to do something? What he wanted, what he resisted, was touching Harold. He'd wanted to bring his hands up to rest on Harold's shoulders, hold him in the lightest way. Is that what Harold means by "good"? He'd said that he wants John, but what does that really mean? There are so many ways for John to be his, and John is already all of them, so he really doesn't know.
How is he supposed to explain this? Moreover, how can it be this easy, this straightforward, for John? Harold sees a plethora of pitfalls every way he turns, possible ethical violations springing up like weeds in his mind. He always has. The intensity only heightens as it becomes less abstract and more real, about a dear loved one sitting in front of him instead of a hypothetical mass of people.
Maybe he should just say that he wants to take things slowly. He knows John would respect that. Wouldn't even press him to define what he means by things. Harold could take his time, tentatively feel out his reception in various areas, make sure the welcome is warm and not just tolerant.
That's not what he says.
"You've wanted a great many things that were not good for you before, John," he says. "I won't be one of them."
How could Harold say that? How could Harold even think that? Of course, it's because John has never expressed himself, or so rarely that it matters. He made a flippant comment about the job making him happy, thanked Harold for giving him a second chance a couple of times, but he's never made it clear what Harold means to him. The depth of his feelings for Harold. No, those he's hidden away and promised to never uncover. Does he have to now?
"Harold, you're the best thing that's happened to me." It comes bursting out, a sudden overly emotional declaration. He has to look away from Harold again, can't stand to see how Harold will react to this. "That will never change. What else do you need me to explain?"
Is Harold expecting him to tear open his chest and let the light shine in on everything inside? Does he need to tell Harold just how much he craves every touch, every word? How his day is bright and warm every time Harold says "well done, Mr. Reese"? Is that what Harold wants to hear?
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Of course, this introduces a complication. After only a moment of consideration John throws out the idea of bringing Harold to the hospital. No, he would hate having to be registered, having to be scrutinized, having his life intruded upon like that. It might be safer for him in the short term, but the long term ramifications would be too much to handle. The least John can do is not make this worse for him. John debates taking him to his own loft or the safehouse and settles on the latter. It's a "safehouse" for a reason.
The clock is ticking but he has enough time to gather some supplies, mainly blood bags. John knows enough to know that they're not preferable, but he makes sure to get his own blood type; there's a good chance that Harold will feed on him when he wakes up and John isn't sure how much control he'll have. John thinks there's a very real chance Harold kills him without even realizing, and if that's the case then so be it. Maybe he should leave a note behind so Harold doesn't feel too badly about it. It's short, to the point, and he sticks it in his jacket pocket.
In the end with all his preparations made all he can do is settle in by Harold's side as he lays in the bed and wait. He doesn't allow himself any distractions, doesn't let himself close his eyes, just waits. He'll be by Harold's side as long as is necessary.
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Not that there's coherent thoughts in his head when he first returns to consciousness. There's a strange lack of pain in his back but it's completely overshadowed by a blinding, consuming thirst. He feels not just thirsty but dehydrated, woozy and out of it, unable to form coherent thoughts. It's almost like being intoxicated, except--
Except his focus is precise and unerring. There's someone beside him and there's no gradual awakening; he's dead and then he's awake and he's thirsty and there's--
He rolls over with a fluidity to his movement that would shock him in his right mind, and he presses his prey forcefully down beneath him on the bed, hair mussed and glasses gone. Harold's eyes are wide and gleaming faintly red and he has his jaw loose showing faint traces of his fangs between his cold whitened lips, not yet comfortable with how to carry them naturally.
He's about to bite, a perfectly natural and instinctive action, but then he stops.
"John," he says like it's an abstract concept, staring down at him unblinking.
Somewhere distant inside him, he's faintly certain he would rather starve to death than kill John. In all the horrid morbid detail that might mean. The thirst has run up against an immutable wall of resolve: Harold isn't human anymore but he is Harold, and if there's a place he's willing to bend his rules, it isn't here. It isn't something that would cause him to be the agent of harm to John.
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And he thinks he probably has death coming, is glad he wrote that note, when Harold just... stops. It's like he's frozen, somewhere far away. It's not the usual way Harold says his name, it lacks precision somehow, but he doesn't miss that Harold calls him John.
He lays still, doesn't move at all. Tries not to breathe too much. "There's blood bags if you would rather, but if you want, it's okay, Harold." He says it as quietly and gently as he can. He's offering. Whatever Harold wants, he's offering. It's okay.
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Harold continues staring at him, fixated, eyes flicking up and down as he takes him in. "You smell lovely," he says in a musing tone, like he's noting an observation. "An aged roasted tea, rare and exceptional. I suspect that's my personal sentiment altering my sensory perception rather than an innate characteristic."
That would make sense. There's very little that's reputably verified about vampires, so Harold is going to be doing a lot of figuring things out for himself. He assumes immediately and automatically that John has killed his sire, which in this animalistic state feels completely right. There should be no one dictating his actions, no one thinking he has power over him. Not when he has John to take care of. Harold would not accept anyone else thinking they could step over his role in their relationship.
"You deserve so much more, but I would be honored to taste you."
It's solemn, careful, the thirst clawing at him angrily but Harold holding fast, resolute and stubborn. John deserves his very best and here he is, a slavering desperate creature slaking his thirst on him rather than savoring him as he deserves. But he can't deny...
John's being the first blood he ever tastes is as it should be.
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Actually having Harold suck his blood is uncomfortable. Highly. He can feel his blood pulled through his body, can feel the sharp pain where Harold bit him. It's impossible not to tense up at first. But he's been through pain before, he knows how to take it. John stares at the ceiling, finds little dots on it, maps them out like stars, counts them, forces his body to relax incrementally under Harold. He decides that he won't mention it even if Harold asks, it's inconsequential. What matters is that Harold will be better after this. Even if Harold isn't in control and John is incapacitated or dead, Harold will be better. And that's what really matters. He'll go through this again and again if that's what Harold needs, what Harold wants.
It's not just the guilt at his culpability for Harold being in this situation, he's felt that way for a long time now. Wanting to give himself to Harold, whatever that looks like. Harold asks him to do the numbers, so John does them. Harold buys him suits, so John wears them. Harold takes him out to dinner, so he eats. That's not the only reason he does them, the numbers are his repayment to the world, the suits feel comfortable, the food is good, but Harold is always a factor. He tries to keep it locked away, tries not to let it show. It's something he doesn't want to burden Harold with.
But Harold said "you deserve so much more". That Harold thinks he deserves something, anything, when John truly doesn't. Not from Harold, not from anyone. What he might deserve is death at Harold's hands, and maybe he'll get that today. Maybe it would be his atonement.
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Harold takes care of what is his. He is careful and appreciative, and he can feel beneath him when the pain goes from something John can endure to something that will truly drain him, and he withdraws.
He licks slowly across the paired puncture wounds on his neck, unable to withdraw completely. Harold licks across his lips and teeth to trap the last drop of blood and feels completely inhuman, but he also-- feels exquisitely tender toward John. He'd never have expected a vampire to be capable of feelings like this toward what he'd think is a victim, but all of his instincts are clamoring, sensing John's dedication and responding mine, mine, mine.
Some slow clarity seeps into his thoughts, and he says in that some note of observation, "You waited here for me."
He's realizing now the alternatives and what it meant for John to sit beside his cold corpse and wait for whatever would come. To his vampire self that is right and satisfying, it wants to purr in contentment, but to Harold-- to the part of himself gradually resurfacing from where it'd been submerged-- he is...
He doesn't know yet. It's strange. Complicated. The light of his new instincts makes it harder to pretend, the crutch he's always leant on his whole life. But if he's not pretending, what's left? What's there, beneath that?
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John feels... he tries to take a catalogue now that it seems to be over. A little dizzy, he thinks. The fact that he's still pinned to the bed is for the best. The fact that Harold is pinning him is not something he thinks about. He'll surely think about that later, in private, but it's not a distraction he needs right now. He's a little tired. But he'd figured it was a coinflip if Harold had enough control not to kill him, so this is a good outcome. John might not be in shape to go out and do the numbers, but he'll be able to walk himself home whenever Harold dismisses him. Maybe he can convince Harold to leave first and hook himself up to the IV for a bit; he had gotten blood in his own type for a reason.
But that's not his main concern. His main concern is Harold. How does he feel now? Is he better for having taken John's blood? Does he want more? It seems like an unusual comment for Harold to make, but maybe Harold wouldn't do the same for him. That would be good, if Harold was willing to protect himself even if it meant leaving John on his own. But John doesn't ask, doesn't push, just lets Harold take things at his own pace.
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Where else would he be? Harold cannot imagine ever dismissing him now, tonight or any other night, not for some paltry ludicrous attempt at maintaining distance. Harold feels keenly that he wants to keep him with him at all times. (Forever? That's a concept he can't begin to grasp yet, and doesn't want to.) It makes a logical kind of sense; John tastes incredible, and he's a willing, renewable source of sustenance. Of course his vampire instincts would be shouting for him to hold onto that.
Beyond that, everything feels distant and remote still. It's hard to tell whether that's shock or his new state of being. Regardless, it's occurring to him now what the alternatives could've been if John hadn't stayed. Worst of all possible outcomes, Harold could have murdered someone, likely would have if it were anyone other than John here when he woke up. It was close to an autonomic reflex not to drain him fully dry, something his conscious mind didn't need to engage in.
One thing of all of it is very clear to him: he has to take care of John. John, so loyal, who never left his side.
"I feel rather hostile to the idea of you leaving," Harold comments like it's an interesting fact. He balances himself over John on one hand and the other lifts to lightly grasp his jaw, eye contact piercing. "I believe I'm in shock. I'm going to be very upset later. But right now..."
His fingers trace gently down the curve of his throat, and then his palm comes to rest on the puncture wounds, applying pressure.
"I am extraordinarily pleased to have you here."
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John isn't sure how to interpret this. Is this, as Harold says, just shock? Is this just Harold acting on some new instinct that he hasn't learned how to control? Or, his desirous mind supplies, just something Harold has been hiding away all this time? John has no way of knowing. But he does know that this is a break from Harold's historical behavior, a breach of the careful space they maintain. Should he say something? Should he push back? He doesn't know.
"I won't go anywhere until you want me to." John settles on being supportive. Is that what that is? Supportive? Or will Harold look back on this exchange in hours or days and wish John had said something else, not... enabled him? This answer seems to be what the Harold of now wants to hear, but John has no clue how the Harold of later will react. Will he think John is humoring him? Will he be disturbed by John's willingness to be in this position? Because really, John is willing. He feels like he's taking advantage of Harold somehow, getting this thing he's always wanted out of Harold's misfortune. He'll play it off if that's how Harold wants to treat it later, but he means every quiet word he's said. He knows his face is too openly honest right now, stoic as usual but he can feel it around his eyes.
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"Then you won't go anywhere," he informs him somberly, relaxing slightly. The submission, horrifyingly, makes him feel good. There's a distinct thrumming pulse beneath his palm and it's John's, proof of his life, keeping pace under him. There's still that strange dichotomy of his reflexive feelings and then the analytical submerged personality judging it.
How is he ever going to reconcile that, he wonders?
"We're in the safehouse in Washington Heights," Harold realizes, putting things together. "It's been over a week since the cleaning service came. You brought my corpse here, likely after killing the man who turned me." A short pause. "A wise precaution, and it saves me from needing to do it myself. That would upset me."
Ah. What a relief that he isn't so far gone that his new nature would override his deeply-ingrained moral code.
"In that regard, my vampiric instincts are in rebellion against my higher thinking. But in others... they're in complete agreement. John. I'm sorry." He closes his eyes, immobile suddenly, unbreathing.
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Is he apologizing for, what, wanting John to stay? For taking John's blood? John is more than happy to stay by Harold's side, now and, well, he can't see a time where he stops wanting that. It's something he's desired for a long time. As for the blood, that's something he's willing to provide. Happy, even. He hates the thought of someone else being in this position, Harold touching someone else like this. Of course there's Grace, who John has no recourse against; if Harold chooses Grace then John will cede this position with only good wishes, but he doesn't want to imagine how he would feel if some shadowy stranger was this close to Harold.
"I did kill him. I wouldn't have let you do it even if I hadn't, this doesn't change our agreement." The arrangement, as far as John sees it, is that Harold sits behind his computers and helps John find who to shoot and when. "And you have nothing to apologize for, Harold. It's my fault for not controlling the situation and getting you in this position. Whatever has happened since then is okay."
Can he touch Harold? Is that okay? So far John has just laid still, accepting whatever Harold is doing. Slowly he brings his hand up to cover the one Harold has on his neck. Just a gentle touch, a bit unsure, but he hopes it communicates his acceptance of where things have ended up.
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His hand shifts under John's when he touches him, a minute hypnic jerk, something like a shiver but from someone or something that can't feel cold.
"There's nothing here that was your fault. I'm sorry because now I will never let you go," he confesses in a low tone, eyes still closed, ashamed and afraid of what this means about who he has become. "I've tried-- so hard. Not to take liberties." That sounds so silly, juvenile, but Harold can't bear to be more direct.
In a soft whisper, hand spasming and tightening on his throat, "You are so precious to me. But now I think I can't-- No.
"I think I must have you."
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The thing that Harold is threatening, promising, is what John has never let himself dream too much about. Thoughts of Harold watching him when they're apart, thoughts about Harold caring enough to do so, thoughts of Harold stepping into his life just a bit more, interceding in ways he has carefully drawn lines. John is well aware of those lines if only because he'll never cross them himself, if only because he wants Harold to cross them. And now Harold is what, saying he will?
Anxiety flutters in his chest, an unfamiliar feeling. He's usually so sure of everything, knows what he'll do next, has all these rules drawn up and plans laid out. He fills his days with the numbers so his mind has little time to wander. When he can't fall asleep or wakes in the night, he pulls up memories of Harold, lets little fantasies unravel in the dark where he can keep them hidden away and banish them entirely come the morning. But now they're bursting out, unlocked by Harold's words.
How can he communicate this? That he doesn't mind? That this is what he wants? He's never let himself dream of what he might say, he doesn't know what he should do to communicate his feelings. It's never been his strong suit, but he has a flashback to watching Jessica walk away, saying what he needs to say only when it's too late.
This time he will not be too late.
John makes himself relax, bit by bit, working his way in from his fingers, to his arms, to his chest. Accepting. His touch on Harold's hand, the hand that has him pinned, is firmer, more sure.
"That's what I want."
Not what he's okay with, not just what he'll accept. What he wants. Just Harold, who he was already not willing to live without.
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He catches the nuance. Want is not a word he hears John use very often, and he takes note each time he does, files it away in his treasured internal inventory of personal details he has gathered about John.
Harold almost chokes on the words as he repeats them, physically frozen in place. "You want that?"
He feels shaky, dizzy, all of his senses overly loud and his emotions unusually sharp, pushing against his typical resolve to maintain distance. His composure is unraveling, the dead weight of his unbeating heart in his chest eerie against the rising distress. There's so little that's definitively known about vampires, much less their most intimate relationships, which they naturally guard closely. Harold knows; he looked up everything he could that's reputable when they got assigned this number, and it wasn't nearly enough.
Him keeping John, feeling entitled to call him his, like a possessive ownership of a thing-- that could go anywhere. It could go somewhere awful. And Harold would be the perpetrator.
"You can't know what that means. I don't know what that means!"
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"I have wanted this," he hesitates, he doesn't know how to say the next part, he didn't plan this, didn't ever dream they would have this conversation, "since Root took you." It's frustrating to be so ineffectual with expressing himself. He needs to share himself in ways he hasn't in years, ways he trained himself not to even think about. "I realized I didn't want to be without you."
It sounds so flimsy to his own ears when he says it like that. But he doesn't think he can say that he decided he wouldn't live without Harold, not so blatantly. It's true, but it might be too much truth. He might not be doing a good job of explaining himself but he hopes Harold will understand, hopes Harold will believe his sincerity as he keeps eye contact, doesn't shy away from this conversation.
"I trust you."
It's more than that, he can't imagine Harold doing something that he's not okay with, can't imagine a limit of the lengths he'd go to for Harold. Certainly Harold has changed in a fundamental way, not just physically but there's an emotional shift in him, obvious in the way he's been talking to John since waking up. It's possible that this change in Harold is more drastic than John expects, but as he said: he trusts Harold. He made up his mind long ago that he'd never leave him. That doesn't seem likely to change now.
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John giving him total, absolute trust is terrifying. It means Harold has to be responsible, fully responsible. He can't duck away or hide behind a shield, has to confront his own decisions and his own failings. He can't bear to hurt John irreparably, not of all the possible mistakes available to him.
It feels like that would be the end. That whatever good he's been doing with these final days would come to a close. He can't do good and hurt John at the same time. It's a fundamental contradiction.
"I don't know who I am now. I just drank your blood--" He falters, loses momentum. "I couldn't stop that. It was everything I could do not to drain you dry and kill you."
Hearing it out loud is stark, a coldness taking him over. Harold pulls back, removes his hand, almost stumbles off the bed and onto his feet, staring at the traces of blood left on his palm and telling himself he doesn't need to appreciate them like a fine dessert.
"I need," he breathes, "I need a moment. Please stay here."
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It's unusual to see Harold lose his composure like this, to see him falter in uncertainty. But given the situation he's in now it makes sense; even Harold cannot be infallible though he could never lead John astray.
John doesn't know what to do here, if there is anything to do. He realizes that he probably shouldn't tell Harold that his death at Harold's hands would have been fine, that would probably only upset him further than he is.
When he says he needs a moment John doesn't question it, doesn't ask anything more, just slowly sits up and turns to swing his legs off the bed, plant his feet on the ground. He doesn't get up though, just sits; part of that is because Harold asked him to stay, and part of that is because there's a decent chance he'd fall over if he stood too fast. Just sitting up made his head swim and Harold doesn't need to concern himself with that right now. "Okay, take your time. I won't go anywhere."
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He's a vampire now. That's reality. Harold has become an undead creature that depends on the blood of the living to exist. There's a split second in which he considers whether death itself is preferable, true death, to preying on others; and then he thinks of what John would do in his absence-- he thinks of more efficient methods-- and he realizes that isn't an option.
He has to deal with this, to face it. John is forcing him to. It's cruel and unbearable in the most loving way possible.
There's some time Harold spends pressing his face in his hands, noticing too harshly the lack of breath against his skin, the way he can sit there in utter stillness with no imperative to move or breathe. It's awful. It's horrible. Who has he become? What is he now--
Harold forces himself to focus again. John. John is in the other room, waiting. He needs to take care of him.
After some time he comes back in with a tea tray, arranged with milk and juice and a simple sandwich. He mutely comes to John's side and sets it down wherever it's convenient, subdued. He's upset and doesn't know what to do, but he can do this.
"I took a lot of blood from you," he says quietly as explanation.
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Harold comes back. And with a tray for John. This happens on occasion, Harold interceding in John's business in this way, when John has been far too busy with a number to do it himself. It feels... special, when it happens. There's something warm in his chest that he doesn't look at carefully. He feels that way now, too, but there's something more intimate about it. Like it means something more. He doesn't really know how to address that, so he covers by taking a bite of the sandwich and washing it down with some juice.
"I've lost blood before, it's nothing I can't handle." John means it to come out casually, maybe even a bit dismissively, brush off Harold's concerns, but it comes out too softly, too... emotional. More of a soft reassurance. That's not what he intended but maybe it's more right for what's happening between them. He still feels compelled to busy himself with another bite of sandwich, more juice.
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"If we're doing this," he says tartly, tense and conflicted, "I'm not going to be something you can handle."
It needs to be more than that. It has to be. It's beyond just having a net positive balance, the good outweighing the bad; he can't do something to John that he just has to tolerate, he can't. There's a tiny piece of himself left that he has never let go of because Grace always saw it there in him, and...
He wants to give that piece to John.
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"I told you already, I want this. I wouldn't—" and this is the hard part. John looks down at the sandwich he's started to grip too hard and forces his fingers to loosen. He thinks Harold will be able to tell that he's struggling but he needs to say this for Harold. For himself. "I wouldn't want it to be someone else."
He has to be honest so Harold understands him. This has to be a back and forth, not just John listening and listening and accepting whatever Harold says. He has to put in the effort here; Harold deserves that much.
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Can't, because he doesn't want to. That's the real truth of it. John says, I want this, and Harold wants this, and maybe that should be enough, but-- he can never be sure with John. Because John won't ask for anything more than what he's given.
"I won't use you that way," spills out of his mouth, harsher than normal, Harold's polished diction worn off at the edges. John has been used so many times already. He has an extremely unfamiliar urge to hit something that alarms him and he forces himself into unnatural stillness, body poised and expression flinty.
"I'll subsist on bagged blood if I have to." He'd seen it in the fridge, knows it's there. John doesn't want it to be someone else but Harold doesn't think it could be. "Whatever happens between us will be only good. I won't allow anything else."
The places where his vampiric nature and his personality align surge together into a cresting wave he can't resist: taking control, setting limits, declaring how things will go. And taking care of John is in there. The conflict comes where he deeply wants to feed from John for the rest of eternity, but also refuses to take advantage of him in any way. In this aspect, Harold is iron-willed and stubborn enough to fight his own instincts. He's determined that he can find a way to fulfill the mutual desire to keep John as his without crossing any lines that shouldn't be crossed.
It would be damnably difficult to resist feeding from him, and Harold doesn't think that's truly what's needed here, but it is on the table. He will do it if he thinks he needs to. John preferring it to the alternative isn't enough.
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"You're not using me, Harold. I said this is what I want." It was good, having Harold so close. Is there some sort of etiquette that he's missing? Was he supposed to do something? What he wanted, what he resisted, was touching Harold. He'd wanted to bring his hands up to rest on Harold's shoulders, hold him in the lightest way. Is that what Harold means by "good"? He'd said that he wants John, but what does that really mean? There are so many ways for John to be his, and John is already all of them, so he really doesn't know.
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Maybe he should just say that he wants to take things slowly. He knows John would respect that. Wouldn't even press him to define what he means by things. Harold could take his time, tentatively feel out his reception in various areas, make sure the welcome is warm and not just tolerant.
That's not what he says.
"You've wanted a great many things that were not good for you before, John," he says. "I won't be one of them."
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"Harold, you're the best thing that's happened to me." It comes bursting out, a sudden overly emotional declaration. He has to look away from Harold again, can't stand to see how Harold will react to this. "That will never change. What else do you need me to explain?"
Is Harold expecting him to tear open his chest and let the light shine in on everything inside? Does he need to tell Harold just how much he craves every touch, every word? How his day is bright and warm every time Harold says "well done, Mr. Reese"? Is that what Harold wants to hear?
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