[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.
[ That would be too simple. Harold had tried so many times, if passively, to let himself die. Whatever value he brought to the world had long since become outweighed by the risks he presents, and although he doesn't feel like he actively wants to die, it just seems appropriate. It seems like his story should come to an end.
But it hasn't. Instead, others keep flinging themselves on swords specifically to keep him going, and Harold finds himself in the position of holding the precious, incalculable gifts of their lives in his hands and needing to go on. ]
No, [ he says evenly, tone quieting and the steel vanishing into faint echoes of sadness like currents of air moving across the surface of water. ] John is.
[ He would rather go on here, with John, than back home, without him. Without Root, without the Machine, without so much else. What he has left there is Grace -- and she is painfully and indisputably better off without him. Harold's presence does nothing but endanger her. That won't change with the downfall of Samaritan; if anything, it might even get worse, and going to see her in Italy had been the product of severe shock, not a reasoned decision.
Staying in Etraya is at once the most selfish and most selfless decision he's ever made. Whether or not it's the right decision by any metric, it's one he's committed to. ]
[ Survival hasn't been a priority for Harold for a very long time. He's not sure when, but at some point it was like he crossed the Rubicon without noticing, come out the other side with other motives.
It wasn't happiness and it wasn't survival -- it was doing something that mattered before he died. ]
Like knitting? [ Harold prompts, a wry twist of his mouth accompanying it, eyes soft with understanding. ]
[ Harold does tease, but it's usually obvious when he does it. Even his more acerbic comments are targeted either to provoke some thought or deliberately aimed at a place he thinks the recipient can withstand some prodding. ]
I've always liked birds, [ he admits in return. ] They're beautiful, of course, but they're also fascinating from an evolutionary perspective. The diversity is astonishing. There's over two hundred species of woodpeckers alone.
It's quite a deep subject if you have interest in exploring it. Ornithology, that is.
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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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Why? Are you dead back home, too?
CW: suicidal ideation
But it hasn't. Instead, others keep flinging themselves on swords specifically to keep him going, and Harold finds himself in the position of holding the precious, incalculable gifts of their lives in his hands and needing to go on. ]
No, [ he says evenly, tone quieting and the steel vanishing into faint echoes of sadness like currents of air moving across the surface of water. ] John is.
[ He would rather go on here, with John, than back home, without him. Without Root, without the Machine, without so much else. What he has left there is Grace -- and she is painfully and indisputably better off without him. Harold's presence does nothing but endanger her. That won't change with the downfall of Samaritan; if anything, it might even get worse, and going to see her in Italy had been the product of severe shock, not a reasoned decision.
Staying in Etraya is at once the most selfish and most selfless decision he's ever made. Whether or not it's the right decision by any metric, it's one he's committed to. ]
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I get it. I just want to be wherever Carver goes.
You gonna be happy here?
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What a question, [ he huffs mildly, lips quirking in amusement as he deflects for a moment. ] I'm sure I don't know. I could be.
Happiness has never been my foremost priority.
[ And isn't that the truth? ]
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Brandon says this place can be different. We can be different here. Maybe we get to pick things that make us happy, sometimes.
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It wasn't happiness and it wasn't survival -- it was doing something that mattered before he died. ]
Like knitting? [ Harold prompts, a wry twist of his mouth accompanying it, eyes soft with understanding. ]
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And bird watching. I really like birds. I, uh, I think I heard a woodpecker the other day.
[Either that or he was hallucinating percussive sounds. Not unusual.]
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I've always liked birds, [ he admits in return. ] They're beautiful, of course, but they're also fascinating from an evolutionary perspective. The diversity is astonishing. There's over two hundred species of woodpeckers alone.
It's quite a deep subject if you have interest in exploring it. Ornithology, that is.
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After Afghanistan though, my memory isn't so good.