etrayalogs | December Library Catch-All [ OPEN ]

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December Library Catch-All [ OPEN ]

WHO: John, Harold, and anyone who might find themselves at the Library
WHEN: December
WHERE: The Library!
WHAT: The Library is here and open to all! Come borrow books, find a comfy chair to relax in, or snoop around.
NOTES\WARNINGS: Will be added as they come up

The Library is a five-story neoclassical building of terra cotta, brick, and stone. And the inside is, in fact, a library! And rather clean and organized too. There's no dust, no muddy footprints (apart from your own), and all the shelves are organized by Dewey Decimal, subject, and author. All literature is something you might find in a 2010 New York City library: various forms of fiction, children's and teens' sections, history, science, cooking, gardening, the list goes on. There's even small sections of audiobooks on compact disks and of DVDs ranging from old classics to history shows. The first floor has a reading/study room, a comfortable space with deep armchairs and tables with chairs; the fifth floor has some smaller tables clustered under a skylight. Part of the second floor is abruptly closed off by a door with a biometric scanner that denies entry to anyone who isn't John Reese or Harold Finch; the walls surrounding this section are soundproofed, so even a keen listener won't hear anything from inside. Otherwise, it's a perfectly normal library!

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Harold's eyebrows hike right up, wondering immediately about the details of this and how it works. "Your angelic charge?"

At least that makes more sense about why he'd be watching him sleep. Isn't that some Christian sentiment people think is quaint, angels watching over you as you sleep? Not that Harold can talk, when he's utterly certain the Machine is watching over him personally every second of every day on Earth. It does that for everyone to a certain extent, but despite his best efforts, it had never fully detached itself from him.

He glances over at the DVDs and finds he has to ask.

"Are you picking something to watch with him?"

"He was important to Heaven's plans, and I led the garrison to... Well, I raised him from the dead."

From Hell.

He doesn't know how many people Dean would want knowing that. Dazai warned him against saying too much about those he cares for, though he isn't too worried about Harold. He likes Harold. He thinks they might be friends, though he's not entirely sure what constitutes. But he should let Dean tell his secrets on his own time, or keep them to himself if that's what he prefers to do.

"I was hoping there would be something he might like."

Garrison sounds very military, but Harold recalls angels are sometimes referred to as warriors of God. He's drawing more on his art history knowledge than any real understanding of theology. Raising him from the dead is--

Well. At least Riz had warned him about that being possible in other worlds already. It's not Harold's first exposure to the concept, though he doesn't like it any more now than he did then. Being important to Heaven's plans, whatever that means, is a whole other concept. The idea of being important to any sort of divine plan is possibly the most unnerving thing Harold has ever heard of. He already spends his regular existence legally dead and faking who he is, constantly hiding.

Harold consciously decides to stay focused on banal Christmas plans. He clears his throat.

"I take it that means you're close," he says, faintly baffled about what else to make of it. "What kind of movies does he usually like?"

Why does everyone assume that?

It's the same conclusion that Dazai had come to, based on the same information. Granted, the way he had framed it to Dazai gave it an air of sentimentality. And perhaps he was somewhat sentimental about it, and a little proud, too, because even if everything had been a farce and it had all gone to shit, it was a monumental task to have been chosen for and he had a great amount of pride in himself for pulling it off.

Perhaps there's something inherently intimate in the idea from the human perspective. It was an intimate experience, but not in a way he imagines a human could imagine. Dean never seemed to put that must stake in it, himself. How confusing.

"We're..." Ugh. Humans. These things are always so difficult. "We've been through much together. He likes movies about cattle ranchers of the late 19th century." Cowboys. Dean likes Cowboys.

He likes other things, too. But that's the easiest genre for Castiel to conceptualize and explain.

They're celebrating Christmas together and Castiel had resurrected him; that seems pretty personal to Harold. He couldn't say either thing about John, really, and that's the closest relationship he has. Bringing someone back to life-- well-- in a certain way, that is what John and he have done for each other, and if forced, Harold would have to say that even in a metaphorical sense that was plenty intimate.

Intimate enough that they both talk around it with each other, at least, and don't address it directly. And then here's Castiel, stating it plainly and going on to say Dean likes movies about cattle ranchers of the late 19th century.

It takes Harold a second to puzzle that one together (running it through his computer literalism filter, honestly) and then he can't help but start to smile slightly.

"Westerns, I think you mean? Well, it's not a Western, but there is a traditional Christmas movie in a similar genre you might try."

Harold limps over to the racks of DVDs and peers through them until he comes across one, which he holds out to Castiel: Die Hard.

It was nothing personal to him when he got the orders. But, whether he understands it or not, something changed in him the moment he laid his hand on Dean's soul and dragged it struggling out of Hell, back into the body which he had prepared for it. The funny thing is, Dean doesn't even remember. He knows that it happened, obviously. He was dead and then he wasn't. He woke up in his grave and had to break his way out of the coffin Sam had buried him in. But that first meeting is a tiny piece of grit hidden in layers of nacre. Something his own mind had to shield him from.

Castiel remembers, though. It's funny how things can gain meaning after the fact. And how that meaning can change over time. When he considers it now, he feels a tenderness he didn't then. Poor Dean. Twenty years on the rack and twenty years with Alistair's blade in his hand, all for a war that would wipe out his own species. Maybe they had hoped Dean would want vengeance.

But that's not the kind of person Dean is. He didn't even want to torture Alistair. No, it was Castiel who forced his hand there.

Castiel follows Harold at a leisurely pace, reaching to carefully take the DVD case into his hands. He studies the front cover before turning it over to read the back.

"Yes. I think he would like this." He slips the DVD into one of his coat pockets and meets Harold's eyes. "Thank you, Harold. And for your advice before — At Hannibal's dinner. It came in handy."

Harold openly shudders a little at being reminded of it, nausea curdling in his stomach, and he has to push past it quickly to focus on what Castiel's actually saying. (He isn't going to be forgetting about his unintentional consumption of human flesh any time soon.) When he does push past, he finds himself gratifyingly distracted.

"My advice-- oh. About eating a meal with someone you care for?"

He and John saved each other inch by inch, tiny increment by increment, a day at a time and almost against their will. Is there a way to consign yourself to the end and then find someone else you respect so much, you can't stand to see them do that? Is there a way for that to be mutual, to the point you're forced to consider your own life again? It's confusing to be yanked out of self-imposed purgatory because someone else won't let you stay there.

Because someone else will defuse the bomb or chase you down, because a person you greatly admire refuses to give up on you, and there's nothing in you that can bear to destroy that belief. Yes, Harold has an idea in concept what it's like to bring someone back, and to be brought back himself, even if he has no idea what Castiel means in the literal sense of resurrection.

So although he isn't the sort to pry unduly, he finds himself curious enough to keep asking questions. Harold isn't slow to put two and two together.

"And you did that with ... Dean?" He really wishes he knew his surname, but oh well. He can't even really protest Castiel using his first name if he's a literal angel, by all accounts.

A faint leading note of inquiry: "I'm glad to hear it went well."

Castiel saved Dean. And Dean will try to save Castiel. But he won't succeed, no matter how hard he beats himself against that brick wall. Castiel is lucky not to know their fate, but Dean is here from their future, and he's burdened with it. He's heard Castiel admit in a quiet motel room, I'm afraid I might kill myself. He's had to stand by helpless as Castiel chose to make himself fatally ill for the sake of fulfilling his duty. He's watched him die already, three times, and it will happen again.

Nothing you could've done would've saved me, because I didn't want to be saved.

Dean will never be allowed to return the favor. Castiel will let go of his rescuing hand.

But it hasn't happened to Castiel yet. There's nothing weighing on him now but an apocalypse that in his eyes, Dean has averted, and the bitterness of a father's betrayal. For this one brief moment in time, Castiel is saved. But they'll all go home eventually. The alternative is...

"Yes. I baked him a pie with cherry filling." Castiel's lips curve into a small and gratified smile. "He was very grateful. It made me... feel good. To see him happy." He places a palm against his chest. "It was warm here. And I do think the food tasted better. Physiological emotional responses are... fascinating."

He's continuing their conversation from before. About food, and why it's better in a friend's company.

Years from now but not very many, John and Harold will succeed, and that success will mean John's death and the death of the Machine. Harold will come to find an understanding and an affection with his creation and then he'll have to let her go. The external world was never going to let them finish out their days peacefully, and they'd always known that, but--

Knowing the end is coming doesn't make the rest pointless. Harold believes more than ever that time is precious, and kindness one of the only things left that matters.

So he smiles back easily at Castiel, truly happy to hear that. He picks up the thread of their conversation from weeks ago without difficulty. "That's lovely," he tells him with complete sincerity. He thinks of drinking coffee with Grace and how coffee never tastes right to him anymore without her. Too sad and too personal a comment to make, of course.

"How we process sensory experiences is heavily influenced by our emotions, memories, and personal attachments. It must be odd if you're not used to it," he muses, wondering not for the first time exactly what Castiel is going through in that regard. "Perhaps you'll have an irrational fondness for cherry pie, now, based on that experience."

Castiel nods thoughtfully. This is information that he wouldn't have been able to appreciate before. He thinks on it now, with careful attention to similar past experiences.

"... It's why Dean likes it so much," He says, in realization. "It's because of the association."

Not with him, obviously. But he can't bring himself to speak of Mary Winchester, or Dean's short childhood, as though he had been there, as though he had some authority to speak on it. The angels watched over him, of course. They watched over both brothers. They were important to the apocalypse. They were important to the future (and, unbeknownst to Castiel at the time, the death) of this Earth. Every day Dean longs for what he lost. A home. A family. A normal, boring life. A mother's love. A father's love. Anyone's love.

It'll be the only thing that Castiel is ever able to give him, and in the end he'll fail that too.

But even now he expects the unkind future. Split between the hope of what Dean has shown him is possible and what he's seen with his own eyes, what he knows to be true.

He could learn a thing or two from Harold.

After a few moments, he casts his eyes to the Heavens and rubs a hand down his face.

"I have an irrational fondness for Dean, so probably."

Castiel really, really doesn't understand how that sounds.

Edited 2024-12-15 19:31 (UTC)

Harold is so surprised by that comment that he snorts mildly in humor. His mouth quirks into an amused expression, charmed by Castiel's continued confused experience of humanity.

"All fondness is strictly irrational, to be fair. I have plenty of associations myself." The most obvious one being birds, a subject he'd always loved but that his father didn't have to spend hours on end learning about to satisfy Harold as a fussy child with a lone parent. Now the whole subject is warm with bittersweet memories.

He's curious about the nature of the relationship between Castiel and Dean, but that would be personal curiosity, and Harold is too respectful to pry. Instead he clears his throat.

"Speaking of which, I irrationally enjoy giving Christmas gifts, so I have one for you."

Best to put it straightforwardly, he thinks, self-aware humor touching his words.

"Really?" Castiel perks up a little, like it's confirmation of something he'd hoped. If it's, in general, irrational, that means the irrationality isn't unique to him. That would be nice. It's still rather unique to him as an angel, but as a person walking around in a human body...

"You do?"

A blink. And now he seems genuinely surprised. He's never gotten a gift before. Not that he feels sorry for himself about it, even Sam and Dean rarely give each other gifts or celebrate the holidays that may be relevant to them. It's just — unusual. But not unpleasantly so.

It's hard to come up with a rational basis for sentiment, almost by definition. An emotion like fondness is, to Harold, an observable fact, a reaction to the environment. It's not something that can be argued or negotiated with. That had ended up forming the crux of how he taught the Machine to understand human behavior.

He had to teach it how to care in order for it to be able to observe caring in others.

"It's nothing significant," he demurs, taking a step away and then pausing to indicate he wants Castiel to follow him. "I picked out a book I thought you might enjoy."

Harold realizes this is taking the surprise out of it, but he's far more invested in keeping this as casual as possible. If it made any kind of sense he'd have left gifts for people anonymously, but penniless captive that he is, he has few options available.

Castiel has never received a gift before.

He'll probably receive some this Christmas. Even if Dean isn't planning on it, he'll probably feel compelled after Castiel gives him his own. Which isn't his intention, but he isn't going to decide not to give the gift just because it might slightly inconvenience Dean's sense of duty.

So he follows Harold without comment, though there's an interested, bird-like look on his face that can't be denied. Clearly, he wants to know what book it is.

Harold leads them to the circulation desk where he has a small neat stack of plainly-wrapped books set aside. One says Castiel on it in Sharpie in eloquent handwriting, which Harold selects and hands over without fanfare.

Upon opening, it's the Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Juster.

"Technically this is children's literature, but it has extremely clever wordplay and addresses key themes in the human experience," he says by way of explaining his selection.

Huh.

That's a lot of books. A lot of gifts. It doesn't exactly strike him as strange, that Harold would have so many people to give gifts to. He supposes what strikes him as strange is that life, even here, seems to go on as it always has, at least for the humans who've been brought into Aurora's care. He's long since left his own sense of normalcy behind. So he's not sure that he considered, until now, that there might be people here simply... living, and not just waiting for the next thing to happen.

Castiel takes the book carefully in both hands. He studies it. Is he... meant to unwrap it now? Or is he supposed to... wait? He recalls Dean making some offhand comment or two about how it's customary to unwrap specifically on Christmas day. For Sam and Dean, of course, that usually meant midnight.

"I wasn't aware that children wrote literature."

It doesn't seem like a lot to Harold, though having any to give at all is a fairly new experience. It's been years since he celebrated Christmas in any way and even when he did, the number of people he gave gifts to could be counted on one hand. But Castiel's right that there's a quiet urge to keep living life with what normalcy he can, even if it means recovering habits and traditions he'd long ago given up on. For some bizarre reason, Harold is still alive, and while he's here he doesn't want to use his time just waiting for it to end.

Castiel's remark provokes an amused twist to his mouth, Harold smiling just a little. "I'm sure they do, but in this case, it's literature meant for children. You can open it if you'd like." Since he seems to be uncertain and concerned about proper etiquette.

"I wasn't sure to what extent you'd have read human works--" Castiel's knowledge seems extremely thorough in some areas and entirely lacking in others-- "but this was a favorite of mine when I was younger."

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December Library Catch-All [ OPEN ]

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cw references to suicidal ideation

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