[ Oh. Oh. He feels John's tall, solid frame wrap around him and he's overcome, suddenly. Harold thinks of himself as a cerebral person, rarely remembers to account for his physical form except as a way to experience art (fashion, food, paintings) -- and then once in a great while he's shocked and overwhelmed to be reminded that he does still exist in his body, that physical sensation can translate to emotion directly.
He's been on tenterhooks, dangling over a cliff, for days and weeks now. He's felt like he was going to fall apart any minute, had to claw himself together to keep his dignity and, moreover, to not burden his friends and loved ones, John most of all. Now John is enfolding him physically and holding him together, shoring him up like a retaining wall, and it's not effortless but just some of the effort goes out of it, eases away. The tears spill over but then unexpectedly dry up entirely.
Resolve has taken him over. It's the same sensation he'd experienced sitting in that interrogation room speaking to a surveillance camera, but now aimed in a different direction.
Harold remains in the hug for longer than John might expect, for achingly long moments in which he can sense his own feelings solidify. That love cast into resin earlier becomes embedded, crystallized. He reorients himself around this truth and he accepts, finally, that he is allowed to do that. When they retract finally, when they step away, he's dry-eyed and resolute. ]
I've followed my own rules for so long. I thought if I just kept trying, kept following those rules, good would prevail. We'd win out in the end -- we'd all win out, somehow. Like there's a victory that could be achieved for the whole world.
[ He breathes into the empty space where that belief once resided. ]
But I had to break my rules to destroy Samaritan. I destroyed-- I killed-- [ He swallows harshly. ] The Machine is dead.
And I find I want to keep one last thing for myself, however selfish that is. I want to stay with you.
no subject
He's been on tenterhooks, dangling over a cliff, for days and weeks now. He's felt like he was going to fall apart any minute, had to claw himself together to keep his dignity and, moreover, to not burden his friends and loved ones, John most of all. Now John is enfolding him physically and holding him together, shoring him up like a retaining wall, and it's not effortless but just some of the effort goes out of it, eases away. The tears spill over but then unexpectedly dry up entirely.
Resolve has taken him over. It's the same sensation he'd experienced sitting in that interrogation room speaking to a surveillance camera, but now aimed in a different direction.
Harold remains in the hug for longer than John might expect, for achingly long moments in which he can sense his own feelings solidify. That love cast into resin earlier becomes embedded, crystallized. He reorients himself around this truth and he accepts, finally, that he is allowed to do that. When they retract finally, when they step away, he's dry-eyed and resolute. ]
I've followed my own rules for so long. I thought if I just kept trying, kept following those rules, good would prevail. We'd win out in the end -- we'd all win out, somehow. Like there's a victory that could be achieved for the whole world.
[ He breathes into the empty space where that belief once resided. ]
But I had to break my rules to destroy Samaritan. I destroyed-- I killed-- [ He swallows harshly. ] The Machine is dead.
And I find I want to keep one last thing for myself, however selfish that is. I want to stay with you.