ornithologist | .//open post

Oh, Harold just-- just wanted to see him. Like how John wanted to see Harold. They-- maybe they do want the same thing. John doesn't know if-- he can feel the anxiety bubbling up again and quickly looks around the kitchen, finding something to focus on. He choses the water heater-- examining the buttons, noting the little details, the shape of it, thinking about how this is part of Harold's life, how Harold drinks enough tea that he has on demand hot water-- until he calms down enough to take a breath that doesn't shake. He's not going to fall apart here. He should do something about this.

"Maybe we should talk about what we want," and he's sure Harold will hear in his voice how much that terrifies him, but John has always needed something concrete. An answer. A direction. Left to his own devices he knows what direction he'll go (the cold water, a run until his lungs feel raw, the bottle) and he doesn't want that right now, doesn't think that Harold would want that either. So they only option that leaves him with is forward.

He thinks Harold will understand.

"Let's start from the basics, shall we?" Harold responds, as if only waiting to be asked. Ground rules, as it were, for stability. "Perhaps it should go without saying after the last few days, but I think we both want to ensure we can continue to work on the irrelevant numbers to our usual level of efficacy."

He's spent this time mulling over various potential options for their relationship in his head, weighing them, forming his own opinions. He finds there's very little he wouldn't give John that he can imagine John wanting from him in the first place, which means his primary task is gently sussing out what that is. If John even knows himself.

"I understand your concerns about this being used against us." A momentary pause as Harold thinks of how to phrase this. "Which means we should be circumspect with this information, but... if you wish to tell anyone, I trust your discretion."

In other words: Harold doesn't feel the need to keep it a secret except for practical reasons. It would be foolish to hand their enemies leverage so easily, but if John wants to tell anyone for personal reasons, Harold doesn't mind at all.

The timer beeps and he turns in place to shut it off and remove the strainer from the tea pot.

John immediately shakes his head. "No, we shouldn't tell anyone. Especially with our line of work, it's not safe. It's not even safe for us to know." But if he's being honest then this really... hasn't changed anything for him. He was already willing to go to any length for Harold. There's no greater action this knowledge could inspire in him. He can't speak for Harold but... he thinks of Harold typing numbers into the bomb vest on the rooftop. It's a memory he sometimes dredges up when there's a deep aloneness that eats at him and he needs to pretend it means something to get through the night.

"We should also refrain from using skin writing as a communication method unless absolutely necessary. It's..." John has thought about this, and it makes him sick. His voice is rough but insistent when he continues. "Sometimes people want to know who you are, and there's a good chance I'll be captured and questioned in the future, and I need you to promise not to use me to give yourself up. I need to know you'll protect yourself."

He can see it all too clearly, the capture, the interrogation, Harold knowing that John is being hurt because he won't give Harold up. Because he's protecting Harold. Harold using skin writing to give himself up in exchange for John. And John has done so many terrible things and deserves every hurt that life dishes him, but if he can save Harold then it will all be worth it. But Harold has to agree to save himself.

Harold pours the tea while John speaks, handing John a cylindrical cup of hand-thrown pottery and retaining one for himself. Rather than interrupt the flow of the conversation, he remains standing in the kitchen for the time being, because he knows how important this topic is. Knows that everything that proceeds must rest on this.

One thing at a time, in order.

"I need you to trust me. I know it may be difficult." Harold speaks plainly, but there's an air of Finch to it, of the mysterious reserved man who can orchestrate ten plans at once if he puts his mind to it. "I promise I won't do anything so reckless and ill-advised as to believe such an exchange would ultimately save you."

Probably not literally and certainly not metaphorically. Harold is all too aware that no one keeping John in such a position would be likely to be telling the truth, and even if they were, to be effectively used against him would be a very cruel fate for John. But he won't preclude the possibility that there is a scenario in which it behooves them to reveal their status.

"And although I'm not planning to tell anyone," he goes on pointedly, "I want to make clear that I have no reservations about being known as your soulmate in its own right."

Harold reaches into a pocket, withdraws a small tin of balm and places it on the counter. The balm works to erase ink from skin remarkably quickly, and with it he's wordlessly demonstrating to John that he has thought of the consequences, he won't write messages to him cavalierly. But he trusts John, calculated the time today when it was safe to write his address on him with sufficient interlude for it to be washed off, and prepared in advance.

Now, as he'd said, he needs John to trust him. Harold placidly sips his tea.

John accepts the tea and listens to Harold, who is asking him to trust him. Harold, who won't promise him this, won't give him this.

John feels his jaw locking in place, distantly realizes that there's a tremor in his hands. He doesn't want to trust Harold, he wants to know that Harold is safe. That he's not taking risks. This isn't a new request, it's not like John hasn't asked Harold to stay back, stay safe before. But there is a new weight to it.

He doesn't want to cede this to Harold. Not this time. He barely unclenches his jaw to get the words out, quiet and pleading. "Please. Promise me you'll be safe."

Harold has said some other things, something about how he doesn't mind being known as John's soulmate, but John is just so preoccupied with Harold deliberately avoiding giving John a straight answer.

Harold sighs, sets his tea cup down. Realizes he's fixated on this. But as he'd said years ago, he won't lie to him.

"I can't make you that promise," he tells him softly. "You know that as well as I do, John. I won't agree to sacrifice you wholesale for my own welfare." He meets his gaze, firm and unyielding. "If you wish to keep me safe, you must add yourself to the equation."

Maybe there is something more important than this suicidal crusade to atone for the lives they've lost -- maybe that something is each other.

And that's-- that's really it. Out there between them now. That Harold cares about John. About John's well-being. That Harold won't let him get away with whatever he wants, whatever he thinks he deserves. That he's tied their safety together in this way.

It's too much again (he swore he was going to keep it together this time, now look) and John turns away from Harold, places his tea cup on the counter and grips the edge for support. He tries to take a breath but doesn't quite get all the way through it. Harold is asking John to take care of himself in a way that John hasn't for-- years. Well since before he met Harold. He's been cutting away little pieces here and there, trimming himself down to something unrecognizable, and Harold is asking him to stop. Is asking for him to plan for there to be a tomorrow. Not just another number, but a tomorrow.

John makes another attempt at breathing, manages a shuddering gasp. There's really only one answer he can give here.

"Okay."

He knows he won't follow through on his end of this bargain every time, that he will slip up, that they will probably have this conversation again. But Harold has made it clear his terms and John has to accept them.

Oh. It's so much more impactful than he'd expected. Harold had assumed this would be the obvious part, the part they could agree on, but-- clearly, that's why one thing has to happen at a time, in order. Because making assumptions is dangerous.

Harold edges closer to John and lays a hand on his arm, well above where he's gripping the counter. Not demanding, not insisting, merely resting there and indicating his presence.

"I'll owe you the same, of course," he says softly. "I won't endanger myself without thinking of you. Having a soulmate is-- means--" Harold falters. He'd spent so many years suppressing these thoughts, trying to make peace with what he couldn't have. Being presented with it suddenly leaves him reeling, all those pieces of yearning assembled again from where he'd dismantled them.

"It means we have to think of one another, no matter what." He swallows. "It means we... by definition, we aren't alone."

He keeps arriving at this conclusion no matter how he examines it, and it makes him dizzy, nearly faint. He'd prepared himself to spend the rest of his days as remote to human connection as possible, and although John had infiltrated that, he hadn't broken his overall resolve. Harold had still intended to keep him as distanced as he feasibly could.

But having a soulmate... is that even possible, to remain distanced? And if it were, what would the point be? That's the thought he's been spinning over for the past several days. He can't come up with a reason to deny them. Not one that achieves anything other than senseless self-denial and pain.

Alone. John remembers what he said to Jessica that day in the airport. "In the end we're all alone, and no one is coming to save you." He had meant it then, has believed it for every moment since then, had proven himself right when he let Jessica die. And now here is Harold saying that they're not alone. That he's not alone.

It feels like he's been hit, and suddenly he's not just gripping the counter but leaning on it as if his legs can't support his weight, and he breathes out with something that almost sounds like a sob. He doesn't think he's crying, he doesn't think he knows how to cry anymore, but he is shaking.

Suddenly he want's to hold Harold, can't imagine not-- but no, what he wants is to be held by Harold. He wants to fold in on himself until he's small enough for Harold to engulf, but-- they haven't talked about that. He doesn't know if that's something Harold wants. He doesn't have the wherewithal to ask for that right now. Instead he raises his hand to where Harold's is resting on his arm and slides his hand under it, entwining their fingers. John realizes distantly that he's probably gripping too hard, that he's still shaking, that he hasn't taken a steady breath in a while. But this is his silent answer for Harold. Together.

Oh dear. Harold had drastically underestimated the impact, it seems. But he doesn't think there was another option, that maybe there isn't a way to do this gently enough with John that he doesn't come loose like the tape holding him together has held on too long.

It defies articulate words, but Harold senses something like a request from John, a plea, in his body language and mentally, and he responds with the automatic surety of a switch being flipped. He leans in toward him and wraps his free arm around his back, pushing close to him and noticing the strangeness of doing this with John in a t-shirt, as if they needed any added element of vulnerability.

He hushes him softly (shhh, shh, it's alright, John) and feels something in him break apart and crack open, too. He did this for his father so many times. Harold providing comfort is his natural state of being and he's had to keep it tightly walled off for so long, the reflex is withered and stale, but so gratifying to indulge.

If John sends him a silent requesting signal, Harold sends back yes, yes, yes -- always.

Suddenly John has everything he's wanted, everything he's desired in the dark of the night; Harold's arm around him, Harold's comforting words, his touch. Everything has been so hard and sharp for so long and all he's really wanted is something soft, something comforting; a balm.

He feels something in Harold change too and lets go of Harold's hand, turning in his arm so he can slide between him and the counter, and wrap his arms around Harold's shoulders. John tries not to hold on too tight, to find a balance between clinging and comforting. He's still unsteady, still shaking, but he leans back slightly against the counter instead of using Harold as his support. He rests his head against Harold's and lets himself hold, lets himself be held.

After what feels like ages, but was probably a few minutes, John realizes his shaking has stopped. He tries taking a deep breath and finds he can get most of the way through it without his lungs shuddering. He tries thinking about all the things they just talked about and feels himself tremble before turning his mind from the topic. That will take some time to work through. He'll probably do this again, it still feels terrifying and foreign, but hopefully next time will just be in the privacy of his loft where he doesn't-- but Harold would-- John realizes that Harold wouldn't like it if John just went away to curl up on himself and shook himself to pieces. He is, after all, not alone.

He should probably let go, should give Harold his space again, their tea will get cold, but he doesn't. He just continues to hold Harold, continues to be in Harold's arms.

Time passes. Likely the tea does get cold, or at least room temperature, but it's not like it matters. Harold doesn't care in the slightest, not with John in his arms trembling his way from shaky to regular breathing. Harold has to put on so much armor, so much distance, because in private with loved ones Harold is tremendously soft, from the fine-combed cotton of his shirt to the timber of his voice, patient and caring.

He waits until he thinks John has recovered enough to speak real words again, and coaxes him back lightly, with a mild invitation to humor. He shifts away only to put them at a more natural speaking distance face-to-face, but doesn't truly withdraw.

"I really did think that would be starting off easy," he says, somewhat bemused, making fun of himself but all over warm. "It seemed to me that you'd refused to let us go our separate ways some time ago. This is a shift in... in character, but not intensity."

Harold couldn't possibly have missed that much, he just assumed previously that John preferred to leave it all unspoken.

In the aftermath John feels a bit... embarrassed. Here he is, ex-CIA assassin, crying (or near enough) because his soulmate told him he wasn't alone. He doesn't quite know what to say to Harold now, though he is grateful that he's trying to lighten the mood.

"I never would have left you, Harold. This job...," John trails off, looking for the right words. He suddenly feels unsure, they still haven't talked about this much. He doesn't know how Harold would react if he was fully honest. So he isn't. John leaves it at that. "It means everything to me. And you're part of that. I wouldn't have left you before, and I won't now."

That's maybe underselling it a bit, but John realizes he's maybe not in the best place to be making grand confessions about how he never wants to leave Harold, how he craves Harold's comfort, how he hoards every smile Harold gives him. There's also no good way to talk about what just happened, he can't exactly say "also I apparently have a breakdown when people genuinely care about me because that hasn't happened in about a decade, and I've been ready to give my life up for every single number so far and it seems I need to stop."

He realizes suddenly that he really, really does need to change the subject. John twists slightly, angling himself so he can awkwardly reach behind to find his cup. As expected, the ceramic is no longer warm. "Sorry about the tea, it got cold."

Fortunately for John, Harold's staunch morals arise directly from his belief that people are all people, no matter their capabilities or what they've done. His surprise is only that John would show such emotion to him, not that he has it; and he's honored, truthfully, that he would. Once again he can't help but think that there was something oddly right about the timing, in them getting to know one another so thoroughly before they realized.

He wonders how it would've gone if they hadn't. Useless speculation, but he's grateful for the surety he feels now, the lack of hesitation in his acceptance. How all of the truths he's bottled up inside him feel light as air, and he's only waiting for the right time to share each of them with his soulmate. He wants to tell him everything.

Harold neatly plucks the tea cup from John's hand and backs away a step. It gives them some space again, but it also means he can add a splash of hot water from the appliance and hand it back to him, warmed if diluted.

"Don't tell anyone," he says wryly, "it'll ruin my reputation. But I didn't start out this particular."

Just a small hint, a glimmer of the spectrum of things Harold wants to share with him. Taking it slow, he reminds himself. A tiny personal reveal instead of a huge emotional declaration. It'll still mean something to John, but hopefully help orient him in a different direction, trading some of his vulnerability for Harold's.

Oh, there it is, a little gift that Harold has given him. John has a collection of these and he carefully places it with the others, like the baseball teams Harold likes. Maybe... maybe he'll get more of these now. John has always wanted to know more about Harold, at first because he wanted whatever edge he could get on his mysterious employer, and now because... he just wants to know Harold. His friend, his soulmate. Harold is the only person John trusts in this way and to be trusted in return is more than he could ask for.

John accepts the tea with a small smile. "Don't worry Harold, your secret is safe with me." And it really, truly is. John would rather die than give anyone else this moment between them. It's not just that Harold asked him, but this moment is precious, delicate. No one else would understand what it means and to share it out would tarnish it, somehow. "Besides, no one would believe me if I said you weren't born in a three piece suit."

It's a joke, and it feels good to be able to make it. There's a certain lightness in his shoulders now that the storm of emotion has passed. He feels... not better, but maybe a bit freer.

Harold twists awkwardly to refresh his own tea as well. He turns back to John immensely relieved his ploy to lighten things a bit has worked.

"Far from it," he replies mysteriously, a slight smile hovering around his mouth. Much as he wants to tell him everything and knows he shouldn't move too fast, Harold has to admit he also gets some pleasure out of the back and forth he has with John where he parcels out tiny personal details. It baffles him that anyone would find him this interesting, this compelling, but it's undeniable that he does and that John hasn't gotten tired of it learning each tidbit. Of course they're soulmates, he reflects.

"Let's try this again, shall we? We'll keep working the numbers, and we'll both refrain from doing anything reckless with our own safety." There's a slight dry note to the statement indicating Harold is well aware which of them will struggle with that more. He sips his watered-down tea and nudges the forgotten tin of balm closer to John across the counter.

"That's for you. I won't be offended if you wipe everything off, but..." A short hesitation. "I'd like to be able to write you sometimes, as is feasible."

He won't be reckless, as he'd said, but. There's a part of Harold still so astonished and quietly delighted to have found his soulmate at all, and he doesn't want to let go of it just yet, breathing oxygen onto that small ember.

Harold's summary of their agreement just gets a silent nod of agreement from John. He does know what Harold's tone implies, but. He'll work on it. For Harold.

John accepts the offered tin and slips it in his pocket. If he's honest (which he is being, right now) he wants nothing more than to have Harold's elegant script on his skin. This proof that they belong together, that they're soulmates. John tries looking at that thought with just the corner of his mind, like staring at the sun through the cracks in his fingers. There's really no one he'd rather it be. Not even— Jessica. She was so sweet and he was so happy with her, but he feels like a puzzle that's found its missing piece with Harold. He wonders, just for a moment, what it would have been like to find Harold before, back before the CIA, before Ordos, before everything— but it's a moot point. They didn't. But they have each other, here and now.

"I'd like that too. I'd also like to write to you, if that's okay." John isn't sure what Harold wants, but he thinks he'll want this. Will want John to reach back, an invisible hand breaching the distance between them.

Harold won't say a single thing at this juncture; he has to trust John, give him chances, only react to what actions he actually takes. If he didn't feel that way, he'd have given the Machine a much more slippery slope to act on by far. But judging someone for actions they haven't yet taken is not in his nature.

He smiles at him again, that same helpless smile. "Of course-- John." He almost called him Mr. Reese. That doesn't seem appropriate for the conversation, but he'd lost himself for a moment.

"I trust your discretion," he says again. And he does. "Let's have a seat in the living area."

He's already compiling his thoughts and how he'll present them, realizing John is going to need direction-- or rather, reassurance in the form of direction, stability-- before he gives himself up further. Harold doesn't mind. It feels extraordinarily easy to be the one to put his cards on the table first. He just needs to make sure he isn't somehow coercing John, in any direction, by doing so.

There's that smile again and John can feel himself take a deeper breath, an easier breath. He can feel just a hint of Harold's joy and it buoys him, he lets himself ride that feeling. Feels it mirror in himself, slightly. This promise that they're together.

John follows Harold back into the living area and looks at the arrangement of furniture. Part of him wants to be able to see Harold's face, his reactions, but this is the part of him that's always calculating, always wanting to be in control of his situation, always wanting to be able to say the right thing.

What he really wants is to sit shoulder to shoulder with Harold, to be able to feel him breathe, to feel his warmth. But that might be-- Harold might not want that. He doesn't know how Harold feels about his own body, if he wants to be touched the way John wants to touch him. The way John wants Harold to touch him. Certainly Harold held him in the kitchen, but John's not certain he didn't coerce him into doing so with his breakdown. So. He'll just. He'll just ask.

"Can I sit next to you?" His voice sounds unsure and the slightest bit shy even to his ears; he wonders what Harold will make of it.

"Oh, of course," he says again, thinking belatedly that he has not made himself clear enough, or maybe John has had too much cause to think himself unwelcome based on prior experiences. That won't do. He has to amend this misapprehension, yet he's also still convinced he has to tread carefully, ensure he isn't overstepping and compounding the damage. John seems -- very fragile, somehow, after this revelation.

Harold takes his hand without a second thought and draws him to sit beside him, angling toward him, still soft and receptive if not overtly smiling anymore. He sets his tea on the coffee table with his other hand.

"Please don't think me unreceptive. I'm only being... cautious. Our partnership is very precious to me, John, even before learning this. I would not be careless with you."

John follows Harold's movement, sits beside him, mirrors Harold's position. He places his cup on the coffee table as well; in truth he doesn't care about it very much, it's more of something to do with his hands. But what he truly wants is in his hands right now-- or, at least in one.

He brings his now free hand up to join with its pair where he's holding Harold's. This is maybe too brave of him, but Harold is saying-- Harold has indicated as much-- that this might be okay. John lets his thumb run back and forth across the back of Harold's hand, a slow, delicate touch.

"It's important to me, too. I don't want to jeopardize it. If I make you uncomfortable, if I'm too much, or doing something you don't like, tell me." The question is implicit: is this okay? Can he touch Harold like this? Does Harold even want his touch?

John has always been braver than him in certain ways. Not that it's ever been a competition, but Harold is acutely aware of how often John still astonishes him, proves his faith right again and again in example after stunning example. What he says is exactly the right thing to say, the words Harold has been trying to build up to, and John merely lays them out there without pretense. Too important to dither around.

He squeezes his hand tightly in reassurance.

"I will, if you'll make me the same promise." He's not about to miss this opportunity. Harold meets his eyes with the demanding expectation of someone who knows what John is capable of, and expects him to live up to it.

"I have never been shy about setting my boundaries, but I admit to some reservations about making sure I do not cross yours."

If John is going to be bold, then he will be, too. It's a bit scary, nerve-wracking, to put his real concerns out there on the table, but it has to happen sometime and Harold won't give him less than he receives.

John understands what Harold is getting at, what he really means. He's not talking about how he knows more about John than John probably remembers about himself, he's talking about how John just accepts things. How John just lets things happen to him. It's a quality that he's aware of, and is also aware of how well it works for him. If he's fine with everything then he's fine. Right?

Probably that's not healthy. He's aware of that, in a textbook way.

There's also the other side of the equation where he wants anything from Harold. Whatever Harold is willing to give him. As long as Harold's attention is on him. That's probably also not healthy, but not really negotiable.

John takes a breath. He won't lie to Harold. Long ago Harold promised never to lie to him, and while John never made the promise back, he has never forgotten it either. Harold has (with only very slight exception) held up his end of the bargain. "I don't know what my boundaries look like. But if I find one I'll tell you."

John takes a breath, and Harold lets one out, relieved he'd taken his requirement seriously and responded in kind. He wouldn't presume to tell John how to cope with the rest of his life -- not when Harold himself depends so regularly on his ability to do so. He's all too aware that he, as much as anyone else, is using John.

But he won't tolerate that happening on a personal level as well as a professional. Harold is keenly sure of the difference.

"Then please have patience with me if I go slowly, or check in with you," he says softly. "We can do nothing but sit and hold hands and drink tea and I will be so pleased to share that with you. I want to find your boundaries by finding their edge, not by crossing them.

"We may not have all the time in the world, but there is time enough for this."

He listens to Harold and tries to remember the last time anyone handled him so gently. He's not— used to this. It feels strange. Wrong, somehow. There should be something here that cuts, something sharp and bright that brings everything into clarity— but there just isn't. John feels a bit lost. He doesn't have a good handle on this. The line has always been drawn by someone else and now Harold has handed him the marker, is letting him be the one to draw it.

John's thumb is still going back and forth across Harold's hand, he hasn't stopped, he doesn't want to stop. Harold is letting him have this and he doesn't want to let go. He doesn't— feel like he should push further, not tonight. Realistically he hasn't even been here very long, but it feels like an age. Like his insides have been stretched out and rearranged. He just looks Harold in the eye and hopes Harold can see his promise, that this is what he wants, that he wants more but he's respecting Harold's desire to go slow. That he's not going to push things.

"Okay," is all he says. And then, again, in case once wasn't enough, "okay."

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