etrayalogs | I won't run, the guilt is mine

Entry tags:

I won't run, the guilt is mine

WHO: Harold Finch & established CR
WHEN: Forward dated post-mission
WHERE: Around Etraya
WHAT: Harold canon updates to post-series and has a bit of a time. Closed starters below. There will be an open post for him after these are sorted through!
NOTES\WARNINGS: This whole post and all threads are full of descriptions of grieving and suicidal thoughts & ideation.

After it happens, after he recovers his memories of how everything fell apart, Harold questions his grip on reality. It would be appropriate if after all this time he finally met his limit. John is dead and Root is dead and Elias is dead and-- the Machine is dead-- and Grace is alive, but what right does he have to see her, how can he get a happy ending when he's the one who deserves it the least--

He's in the library they abandoned long ago and there's traces of his life here with John all around him. Rationally, intellectually, he knows where he is. This is Etraya. He can reread their text conversations, few though they were, and reassure himself that this is real and that this is happening. But there's no one here. It's eerie, everyone away on the mission; it's like Harold is in some kind of bizarre tortuous stasis. He's here but no one else is, survivor's guilt made manifest in its natural apotheosis.

He finds the remnants of all the projects he'd been working on so steadily what must've been a day ago, electronic pieces strewn around and multiple computers chugging test code, and stares at them. They seem so pointless now. Meaningless. Harold struggles to find an ounce of caring in his soul, for anyone, for anything. Surveillance? A covert encrypted network?

What does it matter? He's utterly alone.

Harold can't stay there. The numbness is getting increasingly punctured every time he finds something John left behind: washed dishes from making him dinner, a suit jacket left over the back of a chair, and then Bear himself. He has to leave the library or risk feeling things again and that's a tidal wave whose potential aftermath frightens him.

Mutely, he leashes Bear and heads out, and for hours he wanders the empty streets of Etraya, wondering how much longer he has to endure existence.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Oh, [ he breathes out, like he's been struck with a blow, ] please don't show me any respect right now, it's absolutely farcical.

[ Harold simply can't handle the pretense that he's in charge in any way. Not right now. Not with all his mistakes come back for others to pay the price for him.

He tries forcibly to reorient himself to the actual conversation that's currently happening. ] May I ask what you're doing here? [ Even thawing out of shock, painful as healing frostbite, Harold is polite. ]

[ Carver watches him for another long moment, reminded uncomfortably of Pope's worst moments. The times beyond his rages and strange moods, when the commander got quiet and melancholy, talking about their ghosts and how he'd failed them. He only ever did it when he was drunk and things always got worse when he sobered up. Harsher.

He twitches. He puts that traitorous thought away in a box and locks it down tight. ]

I live here. [ It takes effort to refrain from adding sir to that. ] It's trapped, though.

--You live here? [ he repeats helplessly, baffled for a long moment before Harold's mind keeps going, processing relentlessly. ] ... Ah. I did tell Ms. Shaw to find you somewhere suitable, didn't I?

[ He's still somehow surprised this was her conclusion. But it's not like he's going to do anything about it now. ]

I don't think I want to go in, [ he says, slowly. ] I've... regained some memories.

[ Carver tilts his head. He wonders if he's misstepped somehow, crossed an unspoken line. That happens sometimes, a game started in the Army that Pope continued after the end. You need me to spell everything out for you, son? You never struck you as stupid.

Some things you just have to know.

Carver stands up straight, watching Harold close. ]

Okay, [ he agrees, because what can you say to that? He wonders if Harold remembers all the things that Shaw does, now. ] What'd you want to do, then?

I really don't know.

[ Harold is being confronted with a human being who has his own thoughts and narrative going on, and is accordingly being forcibly dragged out of his own head. It's not an enjoyable process. He realizes he needs to explain himself at least a little but is absolutely at a loss. ]

I'm afraid I'm a bit of a mess right now, [ he tells him with perfect self-aware frankness. ]

[ Okay, then. Carver watches Harold for a moment and then shrugs, philosophical about the whole thing. In terms of bad moments, this one's going pretty well. Nobody's screaming or committing acts of violence, so that puts it above the moments he and Shaw had to deescalate with the other Reapers. ]

Mhmm. Happens. You want a drink or something?

[ He appreciates the lack of alarm deeply. Harold is so sick of people being concerned with him and his safety and his well-being. He considers the suggestion. ]

I'm not sure that's wise. I watched quite a lot of people I care about die recently. I'm still not convinced I shouldn't join them.

[ Harold blinks, surprised to hear himself say that, but it feels... inevitable. True. Coaxed out into the open by Carver's absolute equanimity and likely familiarity with such morbid thoughts. It's a bit like talking to the Machine in the worst possible way. ]

[ Ah. It's one of those moments, then. ]

Don't think that'd take around here, [ Carver says after a moment. One thing that he's found is that if people really want to die, they'll find ways to make that happen. Sometimes it's direct action, sometimes inaction. It was always, in its way, violent - if not to the ghosts, then to the ones left standing to bury the remains.

He puffs out a breath. Okay, then. And he motions toward the vending machine and its hidden door. ]

C'mon. I'll disable the traps.

Believe me, the thought of losing a memory is a profoundly effective deterrent.

[ It has its own particular horror for him, after all. Carver's lack of reaction continues to be comforting, though at his offer Harold looks at the vending machine with palpable hesitation. ]

Did Ms. Shaw explain to you what this place is?

She did.

[ Or pieces of it, at least. A safe place. He knows what it means that they've allowed him to stay here. Carver doesn't know if he could've done the same in their position. He steps closer, typing in the code. ]

Good, [ he adds, glancing at Harold. ] I've buried enough people I like.

[ That genuinely takes him aback, jarring him out of his morose thoughts. More has changed for Harold than just being traumatized, though; he's also become more direct, less apologetic. ]

The emotional manipulation isn't necessary, [ he says dryly. ] But I appreciate the sentiment. I don't recall us being that close.

[ Rather, Harold remembers Carver as a semi-feral person he was trying to slowly domesticate in some small way, to prevent collateral damage if nothing else. He's completely oblivious to the idea that Carver might actually like him. He'd probably have been less forthcoming about his suicidal thoughts if he'd known. ]

[ That gets a faint chuff of laughter. It's strange, Carver thinks. He doesn't feel much o anything right now; he knows it wouldn't help, to make a show of things. And so he doesn't. He pulls the door open and steps inside, trusting Harold will follow.

In the meantime, he begins the work of disabling his tripwires and other countermeasures. ]

I like you, [ Carver muses. ] I don't like many people. Mind the tripwires.

I can't imagine what I've done to merit that, [ he grumbles. Harold's slowly coming out of shock but that still leaves him in an obviously foul mood, openly self-critical.

Still, he stays well back and behind Carver as he disables the traps. Nothing like a healthy dose of immediate physical danger to make him realize he doesn't, actually, want to die. Not in any real, active sense. And certainly not pointlessly, stupidly, with no meaning behind it. ]

This all feels years ago for me now, you realize. And it's been an eventful few years. [ To say the least. ]

[ The traps come down with a practiced efficiency. It occurs to Carver, belatedly, that he should warn the others about their placement. He hadn't - saw no need to. Reflex took over.

The Reapers wouldn't need the warning. His brothers and sisters would have simply known.

Carver twitches a little. He puts that thought away. ]

Has it? [ he asks, absently. He wonders if Harold will tell him about it. ]

[ Why does Carver like him? He remembers well enough, he thinks, and Harold can't figure it out. Because he'd offered him a place and a purpose, however temporary? That doesn't seem like enough to merit being liked on a personal level. Respected and liked are two different things entirely.

But Harold wasn't fishing for reassurance there, so he just tentatively picks his way after Carver and answers the question that was posed. He doesn't ask or try to memorize the trap placement, honoring both his privacy and his paranoia. ]

We ended up unwitting participants in a very lopsided war, [ he tells him bluntly. Harold no longer tries to hide who he is more than necessary. He had his veil of self-deception punctured over and over and over. ]

[ He tilts his head, watching Harold for a moment. Considering that statement and everything it might mean. What Shaw's told him. Not everyone makes it out alive of that particular war, do they? ]

That happens sometimes. You lose?

We vanquished our enemy, [ he murmurs, picking his way down the stairs with laborious, limping steps. ] I've heard that counts as victory.

[ It doesn't feel victorious, not in the slightest, which is obvious in Harold's devastated shock. ]

[ He watches Harold make his way down the stairs. He doesn't offer to help, but Carver watches. Ready to intervene if it's needed. It occurs to him that he doesn't want Harold to die today; a rare thing. Usually, Carver doesn't care one way or another. Most people are just noise in his periphery, targets to be dispatched or enemies waiting to reveal themselves. Sometimes he likes them, the ones he's obliged to speak with and force secrets out of. Usually, he puts them out of his mind the moment they're out of his sight. He doesn't remember their names.

None of them lent him Don Quixote, though. ]

The commander had this line he liked to say. These things happen.

[ He meets Harold's gaze, unyielding. ]

It's war. These things happen.

[ That immediately ruffles his feathers. He scowls at Carver readily. If nothing else, it serves to jolt him out of his macabre headspace, the words jangling gratingly against Harold's too-acute knowledge of his own failings. ]

These 'things' don't just happen, [ he says insistently. ] Abdicating responsibility is a morally bankrupt position. It's convenient, violent tragedy being the product of an arbitrary force of nature, but it's not true.

[ That gets a thin, brief hint of a smile. No teeth. He likes this about Harold, Carver realizes distantly. The way this man doesn't balk or buckle, but instead stands taller when he finds something he deems worth challenging.

One day, Carver thinks, a little sadly, one day, the commander's going to mark you. And then it'll be on me to end it. ]

I killed my friend a few months back, [ he says after a moment, meeting Harold's gaze again. Voice soft. Almost conversational. ] He got bit, so I put a tourniquet on his arm. And then I took it off with a machete while my sister held him down. Sometimes it works if you do it quick enough.

[ Sometimes. Not often. ]

He died three days later. Sepsis. I did that. I didn't get him bit, but I did the rest. These things happen, Harold. Sometimes it doesn't matter. People just suffer. They die. That's war.

[ He nods, firm. ]

Tran. That was his name. God decided it was time.

[ A series of thoughts run quickly through his head in succession. A whole diatribe about following orders versus personal culpability; frustrated, continued horror at the kind of conditions Carver has had to live through; kneejerk intense resistance to religious reasoning justifying anything. But he doesn't want to prod at or mock or dismantle Carver's own beliefs, his own coping mechanisms. He just wants to be true to his own perspective, speak honestly in return. ]

Forgive me, but there is a distinct difference between actions you must rationally take under duress and calculated decisions made long before that lead to those circumstances.

[ Harold would once have sounded tart, maybe annoyed, arguing this position. Now he thumps down the stairs one painful swing of his bad leg at a time and he sounds steady, sure, iron underlining his sentences. ]

I have no desire to lay blame. [ Whatever his actual feelings are, he realizes that isn't practical or helpful. ] Yet pretending things happen out of nowhere prevents us from doing better.

And we must do better.

[ Carver tilts his head, doglike. Watching Harold so very close. God's watching too, he doesn't say. God knows the shape of our souls even better than your machine. ]

Okay. It's all your fault, then.

[ His voice is soft. Conversational, still. ]

What're you gonna do about it?

Oh, please. It's not all my fault.

[ He huffs and reaches the bottom of the stairs, looking around with an intense wave of deja vu. But it actually-- wait. It looks a little different. ]

And I already did what I intended to. Have you been cleaning in here?

Edited (homophones!!) 2025-03-23 15:25 (UTC)

Mhmm. Then there's no point in dwelling.

[ You have to keep moving or you'll get stuck in the mire of it all. Carver shrugs and stays where he is, watching Harold. ]

Yeah, [ he adds. ] I don't sleep much. And it promotes discipline. You want some coffee, or something?

[ No point in dwelling, honestly. What a thing to say. Harold keeps frowning at him but lets the conversation progress in the direction he's pushed it. ]

If there's tea, I'll take that, [ he allows with a sigh. ] I was hoping you would sleep more with a private, securable location. Would you like some electronic proximity monitors? [ It's a polite sort of offer Harold makes automatically, along the same lines as Carver's offer of coffee. ]

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw suicide

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

cw gore, amputation

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject