[ Harold is his usual self, dressed nicely and today with a proper hat and scarf since he's expected to be outdoors for most of it. He looks like a gentleman gone for an afternoon constitutional.
He glances up at Carver as he approaches; he'd been bemusedly studying the chocobos. ]
It's truly egregious how Echo seems to prod at our weak spots, [ he says by way of greeting, pleasant and only a bit annoyed. ] I find it wholly unnecessary.
[ Carver stands up a little straight. Almost but not quite at attention. He tends to do that around Harold. It's what you do around the commander and right now, Harold's the closest thing.
That's blasphemy, Carver knows. That's a grave sin indeed. But he needs something, connective tissue between himself and the role he's meant to fulfill, and sometimes that means compromises. Leah will test him for it when the time comes and he'll repent. ]
It keeps us off balance. [ A control measure. Carver offers out the box. He opened it. He's seen what's inside. ] But I figured you'd want it anyway.
[ It's still fundamentally bizarre for Harold to see anyone paying such close attention to him -- bizarre and unwelcome -- but he's too charitable toward Carver to comment on it, not when he's trying to domesticate him a bit like convincing a wild songbird to take seeds from a feeder.
His expression turns remote, composed, as he reaches out to take the photograph, leaving the box. It is the one he'd thought it would be after all. ]
It will take more than a photograph of me and a dead man to put me off-balance, [ Harold muses, reflecting on how far he's come in the past years since Nathan's death. There's something just a little soft as he stares down at the picture, which he allows because he thinks he and Carver have that sort of relationship now. ]
There's so few physical possessions I bother to save. This is one of them. Thank you.
[ He's quiet as Harold examines the photo. Watching close. Grief is a physical thing, he's learned over the years. It lives in the body, in the breath. It has a weight when it's carried, enough that Carver likes to think he can recognize it in other people. And you honor that, he knows, when you can. The dead have earned their rest. ]
You don't have to tell me about it, [ he offers quietly. ] I understand.
[ For years, Nathan's loss was too acute to even breathe around. Harold never spoke of it, could barely acknowledge it even to Will -- had to embrace his false identity fully, play the role Will needed of him, just to get through the interactions. Shamefully, he hasn't tried to keep in contact with Will, used the same excuse he did with Grace: that it was too dangerous for them.
And it was. It was too dangerous. But Harold is starting to understand all the ways in which he's been a coward. He's been peeled open like a fruit and had all of his messy insides exposed, the pulp sweet and the pith bitter, and for how horrible it was he'd still come out the other side. Maybe not better for the experience, but less afraid. ]
He bought the library for me, [ Harold offers, an innocuous fact that nonetheless implies things about their closeness and their wealth.
He realizes he would like someone else to walk through the library who he knows appreciates it and think about Nathan, just once in a while. Nathan would've liked that. ]
The whole building. I was upset they were being closed, and he bought the property. He told me I was being histrionic [ a tiny smile floats onto his lips at the memory ] but he still did it.
[ It's the sort of thing only rich people could come up with, one of those cinema-grand gestures that Carver's never seen work in his own life. Even when he had money, he didn't have that kind of money. But he understands it, he thinks. What a place like this would mean to someone like Harold and what it could spell that someone saved it for him. Not a tomb, Carver thinks, but preservation. A continuance that eventually became safety. They based out of here for a good long while, didn't they?
More now than ever before, [ he confesses ruefully, with a sudden bought of insight into how much his life has drastically changed since he knew Nathan. And not all for the worse. Carver's right that Harold's feelings toward the library aren't all overshadowed by grief; it's a comfort, a reminder of a good friend. Preservation indeed. ]
And I could say the same for you.
[ If Harold is mysterious, Carver is confusing, a wall with a busy scene going on behind it that the viewer only catches glimpses of. ]
[ That gets a ghost of a smile. Barely there. Sometimes he shows his teeth to beg a reaction, to make the world loud to match the noise rattling through his skull. It isn't always a conscious choice and he hates himself in the aftermath when it's not; such an abject loss of control is the worst kind of sin and there's no one but his ghosts to call him to account for it. ]
No room for that back home, [ Carver replies simply. ] Only people who needed to know me was my team. Everyone else was a threat.
[ It was a hard mindset for Harold to fall into, realizing any person he encountered could be an agent of Samaritan, that he had to see literally anyone as a possible threat. He'd tried to give up rather than face it, and John hadn't let him. It was difficult for Harold to live in the type of world Samaritan was creating, and fighting it just wasn't in his nature.
So many people had paid the price for that weakness. ]
John and I have decided to stay here long-term, [ Harold informs him, as if this is a natural flow for the conversation. ] The terms of my offer remain the same. All I ask is that you let us know should you wish to end our affiliation before taking any action against us. Barring that, you have a place here.
[ Harold found Samaritan's world difficult, but one where he distrusts his own team is impossible. He thinks Carver knows them well enough by now to understand what he's saying: that if he doesn't stab them in the back, he can have the safety and trust of a team. He remembers when he'd first made that offer to Carver, thinking it was probationary, a way to contain a possible harm. Harold still thinks that's probably true, doesn't quite trust Carver out on his own... but now it's more than that. Now he also cares. It feels like it needs to be restated in this context. ]
[ There's a weight to those words, Carver knows now. He's learning the shape of these people moment by moment, day by day. And these things have a tendency to build, don't they? Carver spares a single, traitorous moment to wish that he could have met Harold and the others sooner, before he'd gotten so goddamn brittle.
Maybe then it could've lasted. Maybe then they could have kept him.
Carver tilts his head to the side, smiling briefly. Sadly. ]
If the commander marks you, [ he explains, softly, ] I'll kill you quickly.
[ Harold makes a face, disgusted just thinking about it. However much he's changed, he's never gotten acclimatized to violence, or cavalier about death -- his own or anyone else's. And he resents what this implies about Carver's commander, that he'd ever ask him to do such a thing. The terminology-- marked. Ugh.
But he's learned from Root not to argue with a zealot, so he reorients. ]
I don't believe that's what I asked, Mr. Carver. Will you or will you not inform me in advance if you wish to break our association?
[ Maybe not a comfort, Carver thinks, but a promise. Not many people get clean deaths, even if they've earned them. Quick deaths are the closest anyone can get to mercy in this life. He prays that most of his brothers and sisters died quickly, that they didn't linger in their pain. He prays that Pope went quickly when Dixon turned on all of them, but he doesn't know.
Sometimes, he wondered if Matthew suffered. He's never been able to ask Leah.
He tilts his head to the other side, watching Harold very close. ]
You're not afraid of me, [ Carver observes softly. That might change if Carver drew a knife, but he doesn't want to right now. ] I'll inform you if that changes, sir.
[ Whatever Root and the Machine said aside, Harold has never quite been on board with the idea that some deaths are better than others. Some are less physically painful, but morally speaking, a human life is a human life. He's always been adamant that they should be treated the same, and a concession to make it quick is not the kind of mercy he's looking for.
It's a pittance, a thing you offer to tell yourself you aren't totally without heart. Harold expects and demands better. Whether he's afraid or not -- he is, frequently, but fear is no reason to let go of his beliefs.
He appreciates getting a direct answer. ]
Thank you. I don't see why any of your companions showing up would need to be adversaries, in any case. We're well-established here; we have resources now. [ That wasn't always the situation, so Harold is painfully appreciative of it. ]
Consider my offer extended to them as well, should they arrive, with the same terms.
[ Harold's satisfied with that concession, and curious about this sister he mentions sometimes, but curious about something else, too. ]
There must be others as well? [ he comments, a note of question in his voice. ] How large is your outfit altogether?
[ He won't rescind his offer, but Harold does sorely hope he didn't just agree to potentially take on something like thirty violent and traumatized apocalypse survivors. ]
[ Oh. That must be why Carver never mentions them more explicitly. That's... ]
That's awful, [ Harold says quietly, truly pained to hear it. His own grief resonates empathetically, like a chime striking a familiar tone. ] I'm so sorry.
... Although, being deceased doesn't mean they can't show up here. In which case they deserve whatever we can offer them.
[ He means that, even without knowing them; it's not a platitude. ]
[ Carver works his jaw, forcing himself to breathe past that anger. It doesn't serve now. There's nothing to point it at. ]
We got hit. And they got the gate open.
[ What happened next was almost inevitable. ]
Enemy got me on the ground, [ he adds, without much emotion at all. ] I heard gunshots, but I didn't see my sister fall. And if I didn't see it, then she made it.
[ This doesn't totally fit the conversational flow, spilling out of Carver like he'd needed to say it, pus from an infected wound seeping out. Harold lapses into silence, respecting that there's nothing he can say to make it better. That isn't even what Carver is looking for, he's sure.
It just needs to be out in the air, facing the disinfectant of sunlight. ]
Nathan died because I wouldn't listen to him, [ he finally says, plainly. No attempt to mitigate the blame. ] In a very real way, he died in my place. [ Because he was the face, because he always let Harold hide. He took on all the risk. ]
Even the chance that she survived is precious. Hold onto that.
[ Carver stays quiet for a long time after that, watching a spot just beyond Harold’s shoulder but not really seeing him. In the beginning, when they first started this alliance, Carver called it convenient. A halfway familiar shape he could squeeze himself into, useful for a time but nothing he could ever trust. It never occurred to him that they might understand. And it occurs to Carver now that there’s something wrong with him, possibly very wrong, because he swears he can see black uniforms in the corner just past Harold’s shoulder. Waiting for them.
That isn’t right, is it? ]
Would’ve been okay if I’d died for her, [ Carver explains softly, a little unfocused. ] But I didn’t.
[ And Harold Finch knows the weight of that far better than most. ]
Sorry you lost him. [ He twitches, trying to refocus. ] It means a lot, that you’d take my people in.
[ The comment causes Harold to twitch, and he looks over at Carver irritably. ]
Okay for you, maybe, [ he says in a pointed tone. But he doesn't press it; Harold Finch indeed knows the weight of that better than most. He isn't trying to win an argument, just indicate that the death itself would not be inherently okay on its face.
He straightens up and tucks the photograph into his inner jacket pocket. ]
Nathan said something to me before he died: everyone is relevant to someone. I've taken it as a dictum, that there's no one whose loss wouldn't be missed. I count your people, as you put it, among that number.
[ In a different time, from a different man, that tone would've gotten Carver's hackles up. Made him brace for correction. Maybe he's too tired for that here, too heartsick and stuck with his ghosts, but he just watches Harold and doesn't balk. People die all the time, Carver doesn't say. Usually, they don't die for much.
It would've been good, and right, to die for Leah Shaw. But he didn't. ]
Relevant, [ Carver repeats softly. ] Yeah.
[ To someone. Even if they're all monsters like him. He's quiet for a long time again, quietly grateful to a man he's never met and never will, a man who influenced the shape of Harold Finch's world enough that this moment could be possible. It's a strange sensation to wonder at someone else's ghost, to honor them or at least want to. Maybe he'll light a candle for Nathan. Maybe he'll even tell Harold about it.
Then Carver breathes out and takes a small polaroid out of his jacket pocket with great, exacting care. He offers it out to Harold without really looking at him. ]
This is Leah.
[ He doesn't name the little boy held in her arms. ]
[ He doesn't make the obvious joke about her sharing a name with Shaw. He doesn't ask about the little boy. Harold takes the picture carefully, with palpable respect, examining it before offering it back, not looking to hold onto it for long.
He thinks about Carver's reaction to their conversation about the death of a child, and he doesn't ask about that either. It feels too precarious to talk about the Machine, when he still thinks most people wouldn't understand -- no one here except Accelerator, maybe -- but he feels something resonate that is alike, a hollow sadness where there was a pure innocence that was cut short.
And he thinks about Nathan, and how he'd always been Harold's lifeline to other people, to society, and he thinks that him remaining in that role is the truest homage he can ever pay him. ]
I'll remember. [ A moment of answering silence, Harold not pushing the conversation to progress just yet. ]
... How do you remember her? If I may ask. I told you how I remember Nathan.
[ He means not in the literal sense of what are the memories, but how do you honor the memory itself. ]
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I'll await you outside.
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He glances up at Carver as he approaches; he'd been bemusedly studying the chocobos. ]
It's truly egregious how Echo seems to prod at our weak spots, [ he says by way of greeting, pleasant and only a bit annoyed. ] I find it wholly unnecessary.
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That's blasphemy, Carver knows. That's a grave sin indeed. But he needs something, connective tissue between himself and the role he's meant to fulfill, and sometimes that means compromises. Leah will test him for it when the time comes and he'll repent. ]
It keeps us off balance. [ A control measure. Carver offers out the box. He opened it. He's seen what's inside. ] But I figured you'd want it anyway.
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His expression turns remote, composed, as he reaches out to take the photograph, leaving the box. It is the one he'd thought it would be after all. ]
It will take more than a photograph of me and a dead man to put me off-balance, [ Harold muses, reflecting on how far he's come in the past years since Nathan's death. There's something just a little soft as he stares down at the picture, which he allows because he thinks he and Carver have that sort of relationship now. ]
There's so few physical possessions I bother to save. This is one of them. Thank you.
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You don't have to tell me about it, [ he offers quietly. ] I understand.
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And it was. It was too dangerous. But Harold is starting to understand all the ways in which he's been a coward. He's been peeled open like a fruit and had all of his messy insides exposed, the pulp sweet and the pith bitter, and for how horrible it was he'd still come out the other side. Maybe not better for the experience, but less afraid. ]
He bought the library for me, [ Harold offers, an innocuous fact that nonetheless implies things about their closeness and their wealth.
He realizes he would like someone else to walk through the library who he knows appreciates it and think about Nathan, just once in a while. Nathan would've liked that. ]
The whole building. I was upset they were being closed, and he bought the property. He told me I was being histrionic [ a tiny smile floats onto his lips at the memory ] but he still did it.
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Carver's quiet for a moment, watching Harold. ]
He knew you. Got a feeling not many people do.
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And I could say the same for you.
[ If Harold is mysterious, Carver is confusing, a wall with a busy scene going on behind it that the viewer only catches glimpses of. ]
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No room for that back home, [ Carver replies simply. ] Only people who needed to know me was my team. Everyone else was a threat.
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[ It was a hard mindset for Harold to fall into, realizing any person he encountered could be an agent of Samaritan, that he had to see literally anyone as a possible threat. He'd tried to give up rather than face it, and John hadn't let him. It was difficult for Harold to live in the type of world Samaritan was creating, and fighting it just wasn't in his nature.
So many people had paid the price for that weakness. ]
John and I have decided to stay here long-term, [ Harold informs him, as if this is a natural flow for the conversation. ] The terms of my offer remain the same. All I ask is that you let us know should you wish to end our affiliation before taking any action against us. Barring that, you have a place here.
[ Harold found Samaritan's world difficult, but one where he distrusts his own team is impossible. He thinks Carver knows them well enough by now to understand what he's saying: that if he doesn't stab them in the back, he can have the safety and trust of a team. He remembers when he'd first made that offer to Carver, thinking it was probationary, a way to contain a possible harm. Harold still thinks that's probably true, doesn't quite trust Carver out on his own... but now it's more than that. Now he also cares. It feels like it needs to be restated in this context. ]
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Maybe then it could've lasted. Maybe then they could have kept him.
Carver tilts his head to the side, smiling briefly. Sadly. ]
If the commander marks you, [ he explains, softly, ] I'll kill you quickly.
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[ Harold makes a face, disgusted just thinking about it. However much he's changed, he's never gotten acclimatized to violence, or cavalier about death -- his own or anyone else's. And he resents what this implies about Carver's commander, that he'd ever ask him to do such a thing. The terminology-- marked. Ugh.
But he's learned from Root not to argue with a zealot, so he reorients. ]
I don't believe that's what I asked, Mr. Carver. Will you or will you not inform me in advance if you wish to break our association?
cw: death of a child
Sometimes, he wondered if Matthew suffered. He's never been able to ask Leah.
He tilts his head to the other side, watching Harold very close. ]
You're not afraid of me, [ Carver observes softly. That might change if Carver drew a knife, but he doesn't want to right now. ] I'll inform you if that changes, sir.
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It's a pittance, a thing you offer to tell yourself you aren't totally without heart. Harold expects and demands better. Whether he's afraid or not -- he is, frequently, but fear is no reason to let go of his beliefs.
He appreciates getting a direct answer. ]
Thank you. I don't see why any of your companions showing up would need to be adversaries, in any case. We're well-established here; we have resources now. [ That wasn't always the situation, so Harold is painfully appreciative of it. ]
Consider my offer extended to them as well, should they arrive, with the same terms.
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Maybe it could be different with Leah as commander, though. He wonders.
He wonders.
Carver takes a breath in, then lets it go. ]
I understand. I'll tell them, if any of them come here.
[ He's quiet for a long time. Then: ]
My sister would listen, I think. If she's still commander now.
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There must be others as well? [ he comments, a note of question in his voice. ] How large is your outfit altogether?
[ He won't rescind his offer, but Harold does sorely hope he didn't just agree to potentially take on something like thirty violent and traumatized apocalypse survivors. ]
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There were twenty-five of us. But I think most of them are dead now.
[ A lot of that is his fault. He lost control. Lost perspective. He didn't kill a man when he should have. ]
Leah was the second in command. Pope died, she took over. I'm her second now. I don't know if any of the others made it. I saw a lot of bodies.
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That's awful, [ Harold says quietly, truly pained to hear it. His own grief resonates empathetically, like a chime striking a familiar tone. ] I'm so sorry.
... Although, being deceased doesn't mean they can't show up here. In which case they deserve whatever we can offer them.
[ He means that, even without knowing them; it's not a platitude. ]
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We got hit. And they got the gate open.
[ What happened next was almost inevitable. ]
Enemy got me on the ground, [ he adds, without much emotion at all. ] I heard gunshots, but I didn't see my sister fall. And if I didn't see it, then she made it.
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It just needs to be out in the air, facing the disinfectant of sunlight. ]
Nathan died because I wouldn't listen to him, [ he finally says, plainly. No attempt to mitigate the blame. ] In a very real way, he died in my place. [ Because he was the face, because he always let Harold hide. He took on all the risk. ]
Even the chance that she survived is precious. Hold onto that.
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That isn’t right, is it? ]
Would’ve been okay if I’d died for her, [ Carver explains softly, a little unfocused. ] But I didn’t.
[ And Harold Finch knows the weight of that far better than most. ]
Sorry you lost him. [ He twitches, trying to refocus. ] It means a lot, that you’d take my people in.
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Okay for you, maybe, [ he says in a pointed tone. But he doesn't press it; Harold Finch indeed knows the weight of that better than most. He isn't trying to win an argument, just indicate that the death itself would not be inherently okay on its face.
He straightens up and tucks the photograph into his inner jacket pocket. ]
Nathan said something to me before he died: everyone is relevant to someone. I've taken it as a dictum, that there's no one whose loss wouldn't be missed. I count your people, as you put it, among that number.
If I can provide for them here, I will.
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It would've been good, and right, to die for Leah Shaw. But he didn't. ]
Relevant, [ Carver repeats softly. ] Yeah.
[ To someone. Even if they're all monsters like him. He's quiet for a long time again, quietly grateful to a man he's never met and never will, a man who influenced the shape of Harold Finch's world enough that this moment could be possible. It's a strange sensation to wonder at someone else's ghost, to honor them or at least want to. Maybe he'll light a candle for Nathan. Maybe he'll even tell Harold about it.
Then Carver breathes out and takes a small polaroid out of his jacket pocket with great, exacting care. He offers it out to Harold without really looking at him. ]
This is Leah.
[ He doesn't name the little boy held in her arms. ]
In case you see her one day.
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He thinks about Carver's reaction to their conversation about the death of a child, and he doesn't ask about that either. It feels too precarious to talk about the Machine, when he still thinks most people wouldn't understand -- no one here except Accelerator, maybe -- but he feels something resonate that is alike, a hollow sadness where there was a pure innocence that was cut short.
And he thinks about Nathan, and how he'd always been Harold's lifeline to other people, to society, and he thinks that him remaining in that role is the truest homage he can ever pay him. ]
I'll remember. [ A moment of answering silence, Harold not pushing the conversation to progress just yet. ]
... How do you remember her? If I may ask. I told you how I remember Nathan.
[ He means not in the literal sense of what are the memories, but how do you honor the memory itself. ]
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maybe handwave the rest of this?