I do. Or rather, I trust myself more than anyone else, egotistical as that is.
[ Harold used to struggle with this, but he's come to a kind of peace with it. He can either trust his own judgement, or he can passively defer it and watch people die around him knowing he could have done something. He's made up his mind, now, to do the former.
His eyes are calm. ]
I know I will be very careful with you. I can't be sure of that with anyone else.
[ He can't promise much, but he can promise that. ]
[He breathes out slow but shaky. Harold has always been up front about being imperfect. He's always said he'll make a mistake eventually. Pope never owned up to that. Not in the Army and never, ever after the world ended.]
[ A beat of silence before he points out, tentative, ]
I don't actually know how he hurt you. But I doubt it.
[ He doesn't know. He's only made inferences about any of Pope's behavior, which have been damning enough on their own. Harold's not sure he really wants to know. ]
[ This is a longer silence. Harold wasn't looking for Bossie to fill in those blanks, but this is a blank he doesn't fill in himself much. Almost never.
In this circumstance, he thinks it's warranted, but he still has to find the words. There's so many ways to explain it, all of them deeply personal, and painful like the cut of a fine-edged knife: silent at first and then you look down and see the blood flowing, and it won't stop. ]
There was a bomb, [ is all he can say at the moment, ] and my oldest friend died.
[ Because of me, is what he can't say. Because I make mistakes. ]
[The silence is just long enough that he almost speaks up to change the subject. Let Harold off the hook. Maybe Harold doesn't trust him like that. Trusts him with weapons, yes, but not with words. Not with anything personal.]
I'm sorry. [Meaning it. Thinking of Michael Turner, the person he loved more than he's ever loved anyone, with half a wine bottle jammed into his head. With his skull staved in, leaking grey matter and blood as Bossie tried to hurry him home.]
...You still dream about it? I- you don't have to answer that. I just. I dream. A lot. And I dont' know what to do about it. I'd be less fucked up, maybe, if I could stop dreaming.
Not lately, [ Harold admits softly. ] I have other things to dream about now.
[ New nightmares, new tragedies. That's the only reason he can talk about what happened to Nathan to this extent; it's become faded compared to more recent horrors.
Harold watches Bossie with concern. ] Did the potions from Auriel help? I may have found a way to create more, or something similar.
[ Pope killed him. He goes still for a moment, processing that, gaze frozen and piercing.
It's only a moment, but it's palpable when it passes and Harold seems to sink back into his skin. ] It might be more than he deserves, [ Harold says a shade coolly, ] but it's not messed up. He's an incredibly important figure in your life. It's natural he'd appear in your dreams, positive or negative.
[ The amount of dreams he has about the Machine still... ]
Mr. Carver has been respectful of your right to tell your own story.
[ It's something Harold appreciated, and never pushed for more. Everyone gets a chance from him, and so far Carver hasn't wasted it. There's no practical reason for Harold to distrust his judgment. If he didn't think Harold needed to know the details, then Harold didn't ask for them. ]
Whether you want to defend him is one thing, [ he goes on, regaining some equanimity, ] but if you need practice not doing it, you don't need to defend him to me of all people. I asked Ms. Shaw to acquire a long-range rifle in the event that he ever shows up.
[ Harold asking someone else to get a specific weapon is, notably, unprecedented. But losing so many people in such quick succession recently has changed him. ]
[ Harold wouldn't ask Ms. Shaw to kill anyone, including Pope. As he'd said to her a while back, that man isn't going to be the one to make him break that rule, especially not when it's pointless here. He'd just return to life, madder than ever, probably.
Ms. Shaw is more than capable of taking out a knee. And Harold is sure he could convince Dr. Romano not to help him fix it.
Bossie laughs, but Harold is completely serious and perfectly calm, gaze almost flat. ] Not anymore, no. Not about this.
You didn't have to do anything, [ he says gently. ] I'd like to protect anyone I can.
[ Without qualifications, just about. The exceptions are so vanishingly rare that Harold wouldn't know how to articulate them. ]
But I do, [ he admits a beat later, ] want to protect you especially. [ Something he's no longer ashamed to admit the way he used to be, before he lost Elias, Root, John, the Machine in quick succession, within the span of days. ]
[That is Harold: protecting the masses. The nameless masses, the ones Bossie was once sent to massacre.
But then Harold goes on and Bossie looks up at him, ears red.]
Especially?
[He asks it softly, bewildered, hopeful. Don't be fucking greedy, he can hear Pope say and he flinches because it's just that vivid in his head. The disgust Pope would feel if he could see him now.]
[ There's a moment of silence as Harold takes in Bossie's demeanor, the fragility behind it. He isn't thinking about him being greedy, or about how many people he's killed, how many children. He's thinking about how long it took him to reach the point that he could see this preference as a good thing.
Something the Machine taught him, rather than the other way around. The most important thing she could have taught him. ]
You've agreed to trust my leadership in some respect, [ he points out, ] which I take very seriously. And...
Didn't we just establish that, apart from any sort of authoritative hierarchy, we're friends?
Yeah I just- ah, I haven't really had friends besides the Reapers.
[Maybe not since high school, but even those friends don't really count. He didn't miss any of them when he was deployed. He never went back to visit them.]
...But I never made a scarf for anyone before. Wouldn't have done it if we weren't friends.
I would've been your friend in your world. If we'd met.
[He smiles at Harold--a shy smile, an earnest one. He'd liked making that scarf. He'd found a kind of peace in considering the colors to use, in researching how to make the wren figure.]
[ If they'd met. That's a big if, considering Harold deliberately tried to keep people from meeting him, much less knowing him.
Saying that would be pointless cruelty, so he only stands there, takes this in soberly. He looks at Bossie with the full weight of knowing how little surety he can offer him. But he can offer him something. ]
Aurora has assured me we don't need to go back if we don't want to. And I intend, [ he says without explaining his reasoning, a tiny note of steel resolve in his voice like a glimpse at just the tip of an iceberg, ] to stay here.
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[ Harold used to struggle with this, but he's come to a kind of peace with it. He can either trust his own judgement, or he can passively defer it and watch people die around him knowing he could have done something. He's made up his mind, now, to do the former.
His eyes are calm. ]
I know I will be very careful with you. I can't be sure of that with anyone else.
[ He can't promise much, but he can promise that. ]
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You afraid what'd happen if someone else got hands on our loyalty?
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Yes, he cares that others might be hurt. But he also cares about them, just as much. ]
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He rakes gloved fingers through his hair and fights the impulse to pace.]
I'm trying to do good here, you know. Like you and Carver are doing.
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When you break a bone, you're much more likely to break that same one again, rather than a new one. Maybe you've experienced that yourself.
I at least think if I do wrong, it will not be the same wrong you were done before.
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Did anyone ever hurt you like Pope hurt me?
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I don't actually know how he hurt you. But I doubt it.
[ He doesn't know. He's only made inferences about any of Pope's behavior, which have been damning enough on their own. Harold's not sure he really wants to know. ]
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Can I ask how you got hurt? [Motioning, very slightly, at Harold to indicate his back injury.]
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In this circumstance, he thinks it's warranted, but he still has to find the words. There's so many ways to explain it, all of them deeply personal, and painful like the cut of a fine-edged knife: silent at first and then you look down and see the blood flowing, and it won't stop. ]
There was a bomb, [ is all he can say at the moment, ] and my oldest friend died.
[ Because of me, is what he can't say. Because I make mistakes. ]
I didn't.
cw gore
I'm sorry. [Meaning it. Thinking of Michael Turner, the person he loved more than he's ever loved anyone, with half a wine bottle jammed into his head. With his skull staved in, leaking grey matter and blood as Bossie tried to hurry him home.]
...You still dream about it? I- you don't have to answer that. I just. I dream. A lot. And I dont' know what to do about it. I'd be less fucked up, maybe, if I could stop dreaming.
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[ New nightmares, new tragedies. That's the only reason he can talk about what happened to Nathan to this extent; it's become faded compared to more recent horrors.
Harold watches Bossie with concern. ] Did the potions from Auriel help? I may have found a way to create more, or something similar.
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I had nice dreams about Pope though. That's messed up, right? Dreaming good things about the guy who killed me.
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It's only a moment, but it's palpable when it passes and Harold seems to sink back into his skin. ] It might be more than he deserves, [ Harold says a shade coolly, ] but it's not messed up. He's an incredibly important figure in your life. It's natural he'd appear in your dreams, positive or negative.
[ The amount of dreams he has about the Machine still... ]
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I guess Carver didn't tell you what he did to me, huh?
...Fuck I just want to get to a point where I don't want to defend Pope anymore.
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[ It's something Harold appreciated, and never pushed for more. Everyone gets a chance from him, and so far Carver hasn't wasted it. There's no practical reason for Harold to distrust his judgment. If he didn't think Harold needed to know the details, then Harold didn't ask for them. ]
Whether you want to defend him is one thing, [ he goes on, regaining some equanimity, ] but if you need practice not doing it, you don't need to defend him to me of all people. I asked Ms. Shaw to acquire a long-range rifle in the event that he ever shows up.
[ Harold asking someone else to get a specific weapon is, notably, unprecedented. But losing so many people in such quick succession recently has changed him. ]
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You don't fuck around, do you?
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Ms. Shaw is more than capable of taking out a knee. And Harold is sure he could convince Dr. Romano not to help him fix it.
Bossie laughs, but Harold is completely serious and perfectly calm, gaze almost flat. ] Not anymore, no. Not about this.
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I don't know what I did to earn that from you.
[He's not a good person. Hasn't been in a long, long time now.]
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[ Without qualifications, just about. The exceptions are so vanishingly rare that Harold wouldn't know how to articulate them. ]
But I do, [ he admits a beat later, ] want to protect you especially. [ Something he's no longer ashamed to admit the way he used to be, before he lost Elias, Root, John, the Machine in quick succession, within the span of days. ]
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But then Harold goes on and Bossie looks up at him, ears red.]
Especially?
[He asks it softly, bewildered, hopeful. Don't be fucking greedy, he can hear Pope say and he flinches because it's just that vivid in his head. The disgust Pope would feel if he could see him now.]
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Something the Machine taught him, rather than the other way around. The most important thing she could have taught him. ]
You've agreed to trust my leadership in some respect, [ he points out, ] which I take very seriously. And...
Didn't we just establish that, apart from any sort of authoritative hierarchy, we're friends?
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[Maybe not since high school, but even those friends don't really count. He didn't miss any of them when he was deployed. He never went back to visit them.]
...But I never made a scarf for anyone before. Wouldn't have done it if we weren't friends.
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[ A beat of silence. ]
So I appreciate the scarf very much.
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[He smiles at Harold--a shy smile, an earnest one. He'd liked making that scarf. He'd found a kind of peace in considering the colors to use, in researching how to make the wren figure.]
Carver says all our family are dead back home.
...I don't want to go back, Harold.
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Saying that would be pointless cruelty, so he only stands there, takes this in soberly. He looks at Bossie with the full weight of knowing how little surety he can offer him. But he can offer him something. ]
Aurora has assured me we don't need to go back if we don't want to. And I intend, [ he says without explaining his reasoning, a tiny note of steel resolve in his voice like a glimpse at just the tip of an iceberg, ] to stay here.
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CW: suicidal ideation
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