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

[ For a moment, it’s like the air goes icy. Like being stabbed through the chest and feeling the knife twist inside. Seeking out the pain points.

Carver doesn’t drop the mug. He sets it aside deliberately. And when he speaks, his voice is flatter than before. Colder. He doesn’t look at Harold. ]

You don’t get to ask me that. You understand?

Then don't ask me, [ he says easily, point made.

Harold knows most people won't respect what the Machine is to him-- god, does he feel for Root now, too little and too late-- but having finally come to the inescapable conclusion that she is, was, his child, at least his creation and he her father by her own admission, he won't allow anyone else to treat her as something less. ]

I killed her. It wasn't sepsis, Mr. Carver. It was my decisions and my actions that caused her to die.

[ It's plain and true and he can't hide from it, mitigating factors aside. ]

Get out.

[ It’s almost comical, in a way, how quickly things can swing. Harold’s still talking but Carver barely hears it beyond a ringing in his ears not unlike tinnitus. Like the first time he felt an IED go off so close to his feet. It shook the earth, but the world just kept on going. A machine isn’t a child, he’d say, if he could manage anything coherent right now. How dare you compare the two.

He’s shaking, Carver realizes distantly. He feels somewhat apart from himself. ]

Get out.

[ He doesn't say anything. Harold had been starting to get a glimmer of normalcy -- talking about what happened like it could be accepted and lived with, making idle conversation, sharing tea even in the surreal environs of his former hideaway -- but this makes sense. It fits. Harold doesn't know how to find normal anymore, keeps periodically drifting off into a mental quagmire he no longer tries to resist.

He gets up and leaves without a word, respectful and quiet. ]

[ There's no fight. Not even any yelling. The moment just ends. Carver takes one breath, then another. He gets his breathing back under control. He unplugs the coffee machine and washes the mugs. Then he resets the traps.

Work is good. Work means you don't have to think. And so he doesn't for a while. He goes through the motions and he doesn't sleep and he doesn't let himself drift back to his ghosts.

It can't go on like that forever, though. That's a weakness, and therefore a sin.

Three days later, he shows up at the library carrying a few boxes of the tea Harold picked. Carver doesn't know if Harold actually likes that kind or just picked it at random; maybe it doesn't matter. The thought of having choice with something like that feels so strange to Carver. It's been years since he's tasted coffee, real coffee.

He moves silently. He didn't message to see if Harold was there or not, but he'll hang around for a while just to make sure. ]

[ Harold is now staying in Shaw's apartment and she in his and John's, places swapped, but he still has access to the camera feeds across the library and it doesn't take him long to notice Carver's presence, hovering about with a peace offering. He has plenty of things he could be doing but nothing that can hold his attention. Something about John knowing and being present, alive, makes him ache in a way he can't ignore. Like the days his neck hurts so much he can barely move.

He puts together a thermos of hot water, a tea pot and mugs, and brings them on a book cart to where Carver is waiting. Between the clatter of the tea things and his limp, he makes plenty of noise on approach, but he doesn't say anything until he starts unloading the cart onto the study table. ]

I think I'm the one who owes you an apology, [ he notes. ]

[ There’s an air of ritual to this. Penance often does, Carver’s found. He watches Harold for a long moment, eyes slightly narrowed. But he doesn’t bolt. Doesn’t draw a knife. Just watches, and breathes, and the moment plays itself out. ]

You outrank me. No need to apologize.

[ It’s said flatly. Carver doesn’t close the distance between them. He just sets the tea down: penance of his own. Luxuries like tea are hard to find back home. These things matter. ]

[ His patience is immediately tested again as irritation flares up sharp and insistent. Harold realizes that Carver had found a place with them, so to speak, largely out of a need for structure and community, and in that sense he likely finds hierarchy at least somewhat reassuring. But Harold does not. And if there is a hierarchy, he resents being at the top of it now of all times, when he sorely wants to be nothing more than a grieving, normal man.

He holds his tongue as he puts three tea bags and then hot water into the tea pot. He wouldn't necessarily bother with the whole ceremony normally, but Carver's right about one thing: the air of ritual implies something, Harold's own attempt at a tacit peace offering. ]

Nonetheless, [ he says finally, taking a seat. ] I do apologize. My losses are very recent to me. [ They're incredibly raw still, though Harold is calm at the moment, a still surface of water. ]

It's made me... indelicate, and I found your lack of reaction... perversely comforting.

[ If it were the commander that Carver had misstepped against, there'd be consequences for this. Something pointed, something that would stick in the mind so he wouldn't do it again. He doesn't know what's required here and so he stands very still, arms at his side, and he watches Harold close. ]

Did you want me to get emotional? [ he asks after a moment, in that same flat tone. ]

Our professional association has no bearing on personal expectations, [ Harold corrects. ] Which is to say, I was in no way acting as your superior in that conversation, or in this one.

[ Is that plain enough without being inflammatory? Harold doesn't want to set things off again, far from it, but he refuses to put up with the implicit assumption that he has any say over how anyone on his team reacts to something. ]

Please take a seat, [ he adds. ]

[ Eyes ahead, son. The expectations in these moments are clear—or at least they ought to be. They would have been back home, under Pope or Leah’s command. He doesn’t know what Harold wants and that sends something ill twisting through Carver’s chest, an anxiety that he’s known since boot camp and never been able to fully shake. Harold might not like talking about rank out loud but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a factor—yet another detail that Carver will have to body, lest there be consequences.

His fingers twitch. He sits his ass down. ]

It’s not my place to talk out of turn, [ he explains, in his nothing voice. There are always rules. He sinned by forgetting. ]

[ Harold squints at him faintly like he's spotted a deeply perplexing puzzle and is trying to find the first thread to pull on. He's long wondered how he could better help Carver but hadn't found a suitable way to pry at it. Now, it's a welcome distraction from his own issues. ]

I'd really rather you did it more, [ he counters frankly. ] You're astute and experienced and I value your input.

[ He means it sincerely, but he's also looking to see what kind of reaction that gets. Straightforward praise can throw John completely off kilter, push Shaw into an awkward gruffness, and cause Root to bloom like an irreverent flower. Harold isn't skilled interpersonally, but he is observant and methodical, and he can put things together if he's paying attention. ]

[ That’s a frankly baffling thing to say, one that prompts Carver to stiffen and risk making direct eye contact. This isn’t how it would go with Pope, or Shaw. Sometimes Pope made him guess when he’d fucked up, but the lines of penance were always clear. You falter, you prove yourself again, then you move on. The world keeps turning.

This feels like a trap. He stares at Harold, calculating. Wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to say to any of that. ]

Sure, [ he says after a while, slowly. You have to say something, even if they’re still maneuvering around all the shit that’s left unsaid. ]

[ Something like a blue screen error, it seems. Unknown if that counts as effective or ineffective in terms of getting the results he wants. But however clinical Harold can be in rational thought, he's not detached at all in his attempts to understand those around him; he cares greatly that he isn't hurtful in the attempt.

He lets that lie and takes the tea bags out of the pot, setting them aside on a saucer and replacing the pot lid.

He continues in a normal conversational tone. ] To answer your question, no, I wasn't looking for you to get emotional, or anything in particular. But it was nice to feel that talking about my hardships wouldn't burden you.

You get used to things like that in the field, [ Carver replies, a little softer than before. No leas stiffly, though. He doesn’t know what his role is here and the uncertainty nags at him, a trap waiting to be sprung. A test he doesn’t know how to pass. There are always consequences for that shit. ] Losing people, the ones who matter. You learn how to body it.

I really haven't, [ he says crisply, but not like he's judging Carver for it; just that Harold has never managed or wanted to get accustomed to immense loss. ]

But just because I feel something doesn't mean it should be acted upon. [ Harold stares down into his empty mug before finding his mental place again and pouring them both tea. ] The truth is, I think I've had my fill of people being concerned for my well-being as of late.

[ He could do with a little more callousness aimed in his direction. ]

[ Carver just tilts his head at that, watching Harold. Wondering what the proper thing to say here is. If he should show sympathy.

Probably not, given their conversation. ]

I've seen people, break, too. You're not there.

That would be a gross abdication of responsibility on my part, [ he answers with a tone of agreement.

Harold is having an episode of some kind, he's fully aware; he has been ever since Elias was shot through the head right in front of him. It's fluxuated and evolved as events progressed, but he still feels like he's opened a whole series of doors inside him that he'd adamantly wanted to keep closed.

That's far from what Carver's talking about, though. Truly breaking is not something he can afford to do without drastic repercussions. ]

[ That gets a faint incline of the head. Leaders don’t get to break. Leah never did. Poor—

Best not to think of that right now, Carver thinks.

He watches the tea steam, but doesn’t t touch it. ]

You want something to fight right now? That it?

That's never been my coping mechanism of choice, [ he disagrees dryly, startled out of his own thoughts by how poorly the idea of fighting resonates with him. That much, at least, hasn't changed at all.

He takes a sip of his tea. ]

I really very much assumed I would be dead by now, and that I'm not puts me at a complete loss.

Never said it had to be with your fists, [ Carver points out softly. He watches Harold, considering the situation, and realizes that it reminds him of some of Pope’s earlier tests, the ones that didn’t usually involve pain. Just a conversation and all the things churning underneath.

He lays his hands flat on his knees, centering himself. ]

Do you know what I did in the Army? Have you guessed?

Not with my fists and not otherwise. [ Running away is more his poison of choice.

The veer in the conversation is a surprise, and Harold looks up with mild interest, raising his eyebrows. He's read Carver's file and John has passed on some intel, but that doesn't tell him everything.

It's more his experience with Carver himself that leads him to say, ] I don't know the specifics, but I imagine you were an interrogator.

Winner, winner.

[ In the end, it’s not a huge surprise that Harold guessed it correctly. This isn’t a profession for fools. The mask Carver pulls wouldn’t hold for long against a team like this.

He meets Harold’s gaze, steady and calm. ]

Most people assume I was just a door kicker. I like that assumption. It makes people stupid. Gives me openings.

[ Not Harold, though. ]

Means I’m good at reading people. And you need to find a way to let some steam off, or you’ll wind yourself tighter and tighter until something really does give.

[ Carver is so reserved and unforthcoming himself, but he always says just enough to compel the other person to keep the conversation going. Harold thinks of Detective Carter, another military interrogator, and is momentarily struck with an older loss. These pangs keep hitting him out of the blue, some softer, some harsher --

Which he supposes is Carver's point. He decides not to point out that this is some very astute back-talk, lest he scares him off from speaking further. ]

You're right, [ he admits, staring down into his tea, tracing one finger along the rim of the mug. ] I've always been the sort to... quietly implode.

[ A pause as he runs through what possible options he has to let off steam. ]

Would you like to go bird watching with me? There must be birds in Etraya. [ Also, if he takes Carver with him, John can perhaps suppress the need to stalk him to ensure his safety out in the wilderness. ]

[ Quietly implode, Harold says, and Carver inclines his head slightly because yeah, that sounds about right. Sounds, too, like the result they were inching toward one moment after another, one conversation after the next. These things happen but you always have choices about how to control yourself, how you react.

Still. His eyebrows lift a touch. ]

You're really committed to the bit, huh? Sure, I'll go bird watching with you, Harold.

[ He doesn't understand the appeal, but that's okay. He doesn't have to. It's not about him. ]

I won't run, the guilt is mine

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)

(no subject)