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?
Harold tends to be composed. Exceptional circumstances aside, he keeps the bulk of what he feels to himself and lets out only small glimmers, carefully chosen tidbits he bestows like grace. He doesn't intend to be withholding that way -- it's protective, and self-protective, after everything he's been through and all the enemies he knows would use someone against him in a heartbeat. He can't bear to put someone else in danger.
Except for how he's forced to bear it with John, over and over again, based on the nature of their arrangement. It forces him to walk a balancing act like nothing he's ever walked before: how to let John find purpose and do good without taking advantage.
"There's nothing I need you to explain," falls out of his mouth, and he moves closer, sits beside John on the bed and finds one of his hands to clasp in desperate urgency. He can't stand for John to think he's found him wanting somehow. "There's nothing you need to prove. But however grateful I am for you, for you thinking that--"
Harold pauses, gathers himself.
"That hasn't happened by chance," he says softly. "I've been so very careful with you. And now I must be careful in a different way. I don't know who I am now, what I'm capable of. There's a whole new spectrum to be careful with that I don't know.
John can only stare at where their hands are connected. He's dreamed of this moment before, but it's different. Harold's hand is cold, still in a way that human hands aren't. John considers that carefully for a moment and then decides he doesn't care. Harold is still Harold, despite what he's saying.
And what is he saying? That he manipulated his relationship with John? That he crafted it in his exacting way? John thinks— he's always felt that while Harold is secretive and withholds things, he's genuine. He doesn't know how to interpret these words. They're soft, Harold is holding his hand, is saying that he has nothing to prove, has said how much he wants John. But he also said "that hasn't happened by chance." John doesn't know what to think. He can't quell the sudden rising anxiety and dread in his chest. He doesn't know what to do with Harold's hand now that it's here.
But he doesn't think that's what Harold is like. He doesn't think Harold is like Kara and Mark who shaped him to their image with every carrot and stick they could imagine. He just doesn't know how else to interpret what Harold is saying. But does that matter? Harold expects him to be good, asks him to rise to that challenge, has given him a second chance at everything.
It only matters because John is so desperately in love with Harold.
"Am I this way on purpose?" He finally blurts out, but it's desperate. He has to know.
"On purpose," he repeats, confused. Harold can't begin to imagine what he means, before it clicks all of a sudden, like a cresting wave of horrified realization that washes over him and leaves him not just cold but frozen.
"No. John, no. That's exactly what I'm saying--"
He swallows tightly, his hands pulling back and retreating into his lap. Even thinking of this hurts him. It means so much that John would even ask rather than assume, but to hear it out loud wrenches something deep and fundamental in him, like a core component is off-kilter. How does he say this? How does he explain the ocean to someone who's swam in it for years?
"I don't want to do that," he says helplessly, "not even by mistake. But it's so easy for it to happen without my meaning to, in part because you're so used to it."
Harold hesitates, thinks maybe he finds the words at last. "I want my presence in your life to make you more yourself, not less."
John takes a breath. And then another. Thinks about Harold's words, lets them sit in his mind without reacting to them right away.
Harold is... not wrong in his assessment. John is used to that. John is good at seeing what other people want from him and molding himself to that. He's done it for many years. Is that what he's done with Harold? Yes. That's the honest answer. Yes.
Harold has expectations for how he should act, and John follows them. He goes for kneecaps instead of heads. He dumps people in prison instead of in the ground. But these are good things. These are... things he wants. Harold has given him a second chance, a chance to be a better person. He's asked John to be a better person, but that's what John wants. It's okay that John has shaped himself to Harold's purpose.
But that's what Harold has been trying to say, this whole time. What John hasn't understood without it being spelled out in this way. John had said that he trusts Harold, that he places his absolute trust in Harold, but he thinks that's not what Harold actually wants. He wants him to think about the instructions he gives out, the things he asks John to do. John did that more in the beginning, but does so less these days. He's gotten comfortable taking Harold's instructions, follows them easier. He doesn't think he's done things he's not okay with, but that's not enough for Harold.
He takes another breath, lets it out. "Okay. You're right. I'll think about it." He wants to reassure Harold in some way, he sounded so stricken when he spoke, but he's taking his own promise seriously. He won't give Harold something he's not sure about. He needs to take the time to examine his feelings rather than blindly throw himself into them.
"No, not just think about," he presses, leaning in. "You have to tell me. I can't--"
Harold closes his eyes for a moment, tries to gather himself, rise to his usual level of articulate expression and not just blurt out the urgency of his feelings. He's always such a careful person, including in how he speaks; but there's so much thrumming through him now, John's own blood, coursing through his veins and giving him this simulacrum of life after death.
He owes everything to John. In more ways than one. He has always been careful with him, careful with his words, and he'll be careful now, no matter how much his skin itches and his mind clamors to claim him. (Whatever that means.)
His eyes open again, glazed with a red sheen as he represses the surge of his vampiric instincts. He will put limits on this for John's sake.
"Until now I have judged for myself when I think I've stepped too far. I haven't asked you to... to open up that way. I've just watched and listened and tried to correct myself when it's gone too far, like with your birthday. It's not that I don't make mistakes, John; it's that I pay attention very closely to when I do.
"But that isn't enough for me now. Not if I'm going to be-- feeding from you." There's still an innate disgust at the concept, his rational self not totally overridden. "We don't know what I want from you, how far I'll go. I can't depend on my own judgment now. There are mistakes I can't bear to make with you.
"So I'm going to need you to tell me. I know I've never asked you to do that before."
Oh. That is, of course, the obvious point of thinking about things. Communicating those thoughts. He's not just going to be able to get away with saying "yes" once and calling it a good job. He already knew he was going to have to examine these things every time, but he... he isn't sure what he envisioned. He didn't think that far.
But Harold cares so much about this, Harold is communicating things that are or are not okay with him. And John not expressing himself is a thing that's "not okay" with him. It's not something John is going to have a say in. No— that's exactly what he's not supposed to do. He has two options: agree to communicate his feelings with Harold or not to do that, and if he doesn't do that, then what? Will Harold just leave? As Harold said, it's not something John has done often before, not something that's been asked of him. But he recognizes it's a thing he should do. And he doesn't really want to know what the alternative is.
And Harold has taken care with him so far, John can see it now that they're talking about it, all the ways in which Harold has been careful. Of course Harold wouldn't do any of these things on accident, of course he would think through every decision; that's what he does. That's part of why John trusts him so much, he knows Harold wouldn't be careless. But the way which he does things on purpose is not the same way Kara and Mark did things on purpose. Harold has maybe tried to shape him to be a certain person, but he hasn't built that person to be someone John didn't already want to be.
"I might not be good at it, but I'll try." That's really the best he can offer right now, and he isn't meeting Harold's eyes, but. He'll try.
John is so shy about this. Of course, that's why Harold had never asked before. It felt like a leap for him to bring it up at all, to ask, and then here's John immediately willing to try, to do his best. Harold wants to help him, doesn't want to leave him to flounder. As always, he wants to support John in expressing himself, reaching his potential in ways that make him feel good about who he is instead of bad.
He scours his mind before responding, thinking quickly, watching John's averted face. "At the risk of," he starts slowly, then immediately stops, swallowing and reorienting. "At the risk of presuming where this may lead, may I suggest a communication system used in... ah."
Harold stops again. He debates whether it's better to say this out loud or not, and finally comes to the conclusion that it is.
"If you want me to make decisions for you," he starts again, "there is a method commonly employed by the consensual dominance and submission community. It's called the stop light method. You don't have to explain to me why, you just have to say red, yellow, or green. Stop, caution, or go. Does that make sense?"
John doesn't physically flinch at Harold's words but his mind grinds to a halt all of a sudden. Is Harold— implying something? Is there something more meaningful when he says "dominance and submission"? That's not something John really knows... anything about. At least anything he considers meaningful. Is that something Harold is interested in?
He tries to think very rapidly about what Harold actually said. "At the risk of presuming where this may lead" and "If you want me to make decisions for you" seem like the key points to focus on. Is that what he wants? For Harold to make decisions for him? For Harold to... to control parts of his life? Is that what they're talking about here?
John thinks back further in their conversation to where Harold said "I must have you". Is that what Harold meant when he said that? It feels like a lifetime ago now that they had that part of the conversation, he's realized so much since then. It is maybe true that John doesn't want that. He just doesn't know. He needs time to think.
There's a war within his mind right now where one part is unshakably trusting in Harold, wants to agree with everything Harold is saying, and there's a newer part of him that wants to take a step back. It feels so ingrained, so natural to just go with whatever Harold wants. Harold hasn't let him down so far, it would be so easy. It makes sense.
He chooses to take a breath and look at Harold again. "I need some time to think. About what I want. And then I'll tell you. But first I need to make sure you're going to be okay; that won't ever change."
It might be the hardest thing he's been brave enough to say to a person before. It's terrifying, pulling away from Harold like this. It's like plummeting to the ground. He doesn't know if he's going pull the chute in time.
A profound swell of love rushes over him. Harold smiles at John with utter helplessness, entranced the same way he was whenever Grace bowled him over with her unconditional trust. John refusing to answer him immediately, taking time to think about what he wants... it feels so much the same.
"Thank you," he exhales. "That's very good. That's exactly what I want."
Positive reinforcement wouldn't go remiss, he's sure. Harold wants what John wants. He has some wants of his own, but nothing significant that isn't being fulfilled already, by having John here in a safehouse bed, eating food he'd brought him, feeling his skin and warmth under his hands whenever he wants. It brings Harold a slight shiver just thinking about it. John is here, he's his, he'll make sure no one ever--
Best to cut off that line of thinking entirely. John is right; he really is getting ahead of himself. He returns to himself and answers the implicit question as honestly as he can, repaying the honesty John just gave him.
"This is going to be difficult for me. There are aspects of my personality my new instincts agree with entirely and some they don't, and I'm not sure which alarms me more."
He strokes his fingers unconsciously across the back of John's hand, close to petting. "But I will be alright so long as I have you."
The alternative, what and who he could've become if it wasn't John here when he woke up... he suspects he would have preferred true death to such a fate. He feels extraordinarily clingy, a very unfamiliar sensation -- like John is his security blanket. The person he loves too much to hurt, who can defend himself if need be, who will give him blood and tolerate Harold's possessiveness and open himself up to him enough to say what he does and doesn't want. With John he can find a way through this.
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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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Except for how he's forced to bear it with John, over and over again, based on the nature of their arrangement. It forces him to walk a balancing act like nothing he's ever walked before: how to let John find purpose and do good without taking advantage.
"There's nothing I need you to explain," falls out of his mouth, and he moves closer, sits beside John on the bed and finds one of his hands to clasp in desperate urgency. He can't stand for John to think he's found him wanting somehow. "There's nothing you need to prove. But however grateful I am for you, for you thinking that--"
Harold pauses, gathers himself.
"That hasn't happened by chance," he says softly. "I've been so very careful with you. And now I must be careful in a different way. I don't know who I am now, what I'm capable of. There's a whole new spectrum to be careful with that I don't know.
"And I won't be careless with you."
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And what is he saying? That he manipulated his relationship with John? That he crafted it in his exacting way? John thinks— he's always felt that while Harold is secretive and withholds things, he's genuine. He doesn't know how to interpret these words. They're soft, Harold is holding his hand, is saying that he has nothing to prove, has said how much he wants John. But he also said "that hasn't happened by chance." John doesn't know what to think. He can't quell the sudden rising anxiety and dread in his chest. He doesn't know what to do with Harold's hand now that it's here.
But he doesn't think that's what Harold is like. He doesn't think Harold is like Kara and Mark who shaped him to their image with every carrot and stick they could imagine. He just doesn't know how else to interpret what Harold is saying. But does that matter? Harold expects him to be good, asks him to rise to that challenge, has given him a second chance at everything.
It only matters because John is so desperately in love with Harold.
"Am I this way on purpose?" He finally blurts out, but it's desperate. He has to know.
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"No. John, no. That's exactly what I'm saying--"
He swallows tightly, his hands pulling back and retreating into his lap. Even thinking of this hurts him. It means so much that John would even ask rather than assume, but to hear it out loud wrenches something deep and fundamental in him, like a core component is off-kilter. How does he say this? How does he explain the ocean to someone who's swam in it for years?
"I don't want to do that," he says helplessly, "not even by mistake. But it's so easy for it to happen without my meaning to, in part because you're so used to it."
Harold hesitates, thinks maybe he finds the words at last. "I want my presence in your life to make you more yourself, not less."
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Harold is... not wrong in his assessment. John is used to that. John is good at seeing what other people want from him and molding himself to that. He's done it for many years. Is that what he's done with Harold? Yes. That's the honest answer. Yes.
Harold has expectations for how he should act, and John follows them. He goes for kneecaps instead of heads. He dumps people in prison instead of in the ground. But these are good things. These are... things he wants. Harold has given him a second chance, a chance to be a better person. He's asked John to be a better person, but that's what John wants. It's okay that John has shaped himself to Harold's purpose.
But that's what Harold has been trying to say, this whole time. What John hasn't understood without it being spelled out in this way. John had said that he trusts Harold, that he places his absolute trust in Harold, but he thinks that's not what Harold actually wants. He wants him to think about the instructions he gives out, the things he asks John to do. John did that more in the beginning, but does so less these days. He's gotten comfortable taking Harold's instructions, follows them easier. He doesn't think he's done things he's not okay with, but that's not enough for Harold.
He takes another breath, lets it out. "Okay. You're right. I'll think about it." He wants to reassure Harold in some way, he sounded so stricken when he spoke, but he's taking his own promise seriously. He won't give Harold something he's not sure about. He needs to take the time to examine his feelings rather than blindly throw himself into them.
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Harold closes his eyes for a moment, tries to gather himself, rise to his usual level of articulate expression and not just blurt out the urgency of his feelings. He's always such a careful person, including in how he speaks; but there's so much thrumming through him now, John's own blood, coursing through his veins and giving him this simulacrum of life after death.
He owes everything to John. In more ways than one. He has always been careful with him, careful with his words, and he'll be careful now, no matter how much his skin itches and his mind clamors to claim him. (Whatever that means.)
His eyes open again, glazed with a red sheen as he represses the surge of his vampiric instincts. He will put limits on this for John's sake.
"Until now I have judged for myself when I think I've stepped too far. I haven't asked you to... to open up that way. I've just watched and listened and tried to correct myself when it's gone too far, like with your birthday. It's not that I don't make mistakes, John; it's that I pay attention very closely to when I do.
"But that isn't enough for me now. Not if I'm going to be-- feeding from you." There's still an innate disgust at the concept, his rational self not totally overridden. "We don't know what I want from you, how far I'll go. I can't depend on my own judgment now. There are mistakes I can't bear to make with you.
"So I'm going to need you to tell me. I know I've never asked you to do that before."
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But Harold cares so much about this, Harold is communicating things that are or are not okay with him. And John not expressing himself is a thing that's "not okay" with him. It's not something John is going to have a say in. No— that's exactly what he's not supposed to do. He has two options: agree to communicate his feelings with Harold or not to do that, and if he doesn't do that, then what? Will Harold just leave? As Harold said, it's not something John has done often before, not something that's been asked of him. But he recognizes it's a thing he should do. And he doesn't really want to know what the alternative is.
And Harold has taken care with him so far, John can see it now that they're talking about it, all the ways in which Harold has been careful. Of course Harold wouldn't do any of these things on accident, of course he would think through every decision; that's what he does. That's part of why John trusts him so much, he knows Harold wouldn't be careless. But the way which he does things on purpose is not the same way Kara and Mark did things on purpose. Harold has maybe tried to shape him to be a certain person, but he hasn't built that person to be someone John didn't already want to be.
"I might not be good at it, but I'll try." That's really the best he can offer right now, and he isn't meeting Harold's eyes, but. He'll try.
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He scours his mind before responding, thinking quickly, watching John's averted face. "At the risk of," he starts slowly, then immediately stops, swallowing and reorienting. "At the risk of presuming where this may lead, may I suggest a communication system used in... ah."
Harold stops again. He debates whether it's better to say this out loud or not, and finally comes to the conclusion that it is.
"If you want me to make decisions for you," he starts again, "there is a method commonly employed by the consensual dominance and submission community. It's called the stop light method. You don't have to explain to me why, you just have to say red, yellow, or green. Stop, caution, or go. Does that make sense?"
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He tries to think very rapidly about what Harold actually said. "At the risk of presuming where this may lead" and "If you want me to make decisions for you" seem like the key points to focus on. Is that what he wants? For Harold to make decisions for him? For Harold to... to control parts of his life? Is that what they're talking about here?
John thinks back further in their conversation to where Harold said "I must have you". Is that what Harold meant when he said that? It feels like a lifetime ago now that they had that part of the conversation, he's realized so much since then. It is maybe true that John doesn't want that. He just doesn't know. He needs time to think.
There's a war within his mind right now where one part is unshakably trusting in Harold, wants to agree with everything Harold is saying, and there's a newer part of him that wants to take a step back. It feels so ingrained, so natural to just go with whatever Harold wants. Harold hasn't let him down so far, it would be so easy. It makes sense.
He chooses to take a breath and look at Harold again. "I need some time to think. About what I want. And then I'll tell you. But first I need to make sure you're going to be okay; that won't ever change."
It might be the hardest thing he's been brave enough to say to a person before. It's terrifying, pulling away from Harold like this. It's like plummeting to the ground. He doesn't know if he's going pull the chute in time.
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"Thank you," he exhales. "That's very good. That's exactly what I want."
Positive reinforcement wouldn't go remiss, he's sure. Harold wants what John wants. He has some wants of his own, but nothing significant that isn't being fulfilled already, by having John here in a safehouse bed, eating food he'd brought him, feeling his skin and warmth under his hands whenever he wants. It brings Harold a slight shiver just thinking about it. John is here, he's his, he'll make sure no one ever--
Best to cut off that line of thinking entirely. John is right; he really is getting ahead of himself. He returns to himself and answers the implicit question as honestly as he can, repaying the honesty John just gave him.
"This is going to be difficult for me. There are aspects of my personality my new instincts agree with entirely and some they don't, and I'm not sure which alarms me more."
He strokes his fingers unconsciously across the back of John's hand, close to petting. "But I will be alright so long as I have you."
The alternative, what and who he could've become if it wasn't John here when he woke up... he suspects he would have preferred true death to such a fate. He feels extraordinarily clingy, a very unfamiliar sensation -- like John is his security blanket. The person he loves too much to hurt, who can defend himself if need be, who will give him blood and tolerate Harold's possessiveness and open himself up to him enough to say what he does and doesn't want. With John he can find a way through this.
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