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

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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

[ Being left alone in their library residence gives Harold a kind of dissonance. He's been here for a couple weeks now, but it's not the same as seeing John occupying it in the present, asking whether they have groceries and automatically lapsing into making him dinner. They're even closer here in a strange domestic way than they were at home, and it makes him feel the loss a second time, a separate, finely-honed cut across the muscle of his heart.

Maybe they can have this here, maybe Etraya is a multidimensional exception to reality, but it doesn't feel real.

What self-control Harold finds in John's absence leaves him distant, more numb than calm. It's better than falling apart and having to explain himself, though, so Harold takes his seat and reminds himself that it would be uncouth and ungrateful to take any of his grief out on John. This John, especially. He thinks, We never got the chance to do this at home, and then, Being in the library again makes me feel like I'm dreaming, and finally, If this is a dream, it's a very painful one.

Instead, he shakes out his napkin. ] I've been working with Mr. Thistlespring on establishing a covert surveillance network around Etraya. His idea, if you can believe it.

[ Obviously Harold has had that idea many times, but never quite implemented it, cautious of making waves. With a long-standing resident backing him up, he's all in. ]

[ It's been a month but John feels like he can still remember how Harold talks, how Harold sounds, and Harold now is... different. He's more... careful? Precise, maybe. John didn't examine all the differences in Shaw when she arrived here, didn't really care about them, but he finds himself wondering about Harold. About what happened to Harold to change him, even if it seems subtle. He's far from a stranger but there's a dissonance in John's mind between the Harold sitting across from him and the Harold he left behind.

Still, he's Harold. ]

He mentioned something about that before. I think he cares about Etraya, I remember a conversation on the network where he was friends with the helper bots. How's it going?

Going well enough. I have a rudimentary A.I. I'd been working on before this mission -- nothing like the Machine, of course -- that detects any violence around the library and sends me an alert.

[ Harold sounds stilted compared to normal, but he also mentions the Machine smoothly, in the same breath as the rest of the sentence like he has no qualms about discussing it. He sets in on his meal without fanfare. ]

We're expanding that to a broader network.

[ They so rarely talk about the Machine in any capacity, the casualness catches John off guard for a moment, though he doesn't let on. Is the Machine more involved, in the future? All John truly knows is that it gives them numbers in an obscure fashion. ]

To detect external threats or internal ones? Seems like a lot of ground to cover.

[ But Harold is eating dinner well enough, so that's one of John's concerns addressed. ]

Both, ideally, but we'll have to rationally limit it to hot spots. We can't cover the whole subcontinent, [ he acknowledges. ] Aurora told Mr. Thistlespring that he could send modified bots outside the perimeter to monitor it externally, so we may as well take advantage of it.

[ It's tempting to try to treat this like any of a thousand discussions he's had with John before his death. Over the past two years Harold has become extremely frank with him about his capabilities, the veil of mystery totally pulled aside. He can't even remember what it's like to try to hide things in this sense from him anymore. He only didn't tell him in more detail about the Machine and Samaritan before the end because he didn't see the purpose to it.

But he can't quite convince himself this is just another conversation about surveillance. He stares down at his food as he makes slow progress, unable to make eye contact no matter how smoothly he talks. ]

[ Harold is avoiding him. It feels like some veneer, this conversation they're having. Like they can both see the gap that's stretched between them and don't know how to talk about it. John doesn't know how to talk about it. He doesn't know how to tell Harold that it's okay if he wants to leave. That John doesn't want to force him to be here, even if it'll feel so empty without Harold. So he'll talk about surveillance. Buy himself some more time in this farce. ]

I wonder if the people from Solmara will be able to find a way inside that doesn't involve crossing the barrier. Probably best to monitor outside the barrier though.

[ Ah. John is catching on. That makes sense; their relationship has changed, but John has always been frightfully observant, and he's always cast it particularly in Harold's direction. It's just become more benign and tacitly understanding over time.

There's an awkward too-long silence where he should reply. He sets his fork down and says something totally different. Harold doesn't want to talk about it, but he can at least say something. He's trying, however futile it may be, to be less avoidant. The consequences can be dire. ]

I'm sorry, Mr. Reese, it's been very difficult for me lately. [ It feels like he shouldn't be here, in more ways than one. John shouldn't be here, either-- ] I couldn't prevent us from falling into a covert war. [ An immense failure on his part. ]

I didn't imagine I'd ever end up having a casual dinner with you again.

[ Oh, there it is. Harold is braver than he is. John would have clung to this for far longer. Or maybe Harold just doesn't care that much anymore. Even in this close setting, even though Harold has known him for years longer, he's "Mr. Reese" in this conversation. And for Harold to say that he didn't imagine they'd have dinner together. Well. ]

I can go back to the apartments if this isn't comfortable for you.

[ Now it's John's turn to look down at his plate, fork still in his hand. He just wants Harold to be okay. He'll leave if that's what Harold wants. ]

No-- no, that's not it at all.

[ Harold really hadn't meant to make it seem like he wanted him to leave, though he doesn't have any real idea what he had been asking for with that admission. Abruptly he has no idea what to say or how to talk to this John, who hasn't chased him down across New York and insisted that he had to be more than just Professor Whistler. Who hadn't gotten his number and realized it was for Harold as a perpetrator, not a victim, but still hadn't backed down. ]

I don't want to give the wrong impression. You have been and-- [ However awkward this is, Harold's fumbling now because his throat is closing up with emotion. ]

You will always remain -- a very dear friend to me.

[ John is so relieved that he almost sags with it, but controls himself at the last moment. Now he looks up at Harold and even though he's trying not to let on, he thinks Harold will see it anyways. It clearly means a lot to Harold. It means a lot to John to hear Harold say that they're friends. They've never talked about it before, not even in Etraya, not so explicitly.

He also can't help but read into exactly how Harold says it in the short moments of silence between them after Harold's confession. He's probably dead. Harold didn't think he'd get to eat with him again. The way he said "will always remain". Does John care? Not really. He was meant to die a long time ago. There doesn't seem to be a reason to even ask for confirmation. ]

I missed being in the library with you this past month.

[ He doesn't quite know how to say that he thinks of Harold the same, that he wishes Harold was more than that. He hopes this quiet statement gets the sentiment across. ]

[ Harold had known he'd likely catch on to what he wasn't saying there, the tacit confession that John was dead, but he'd been hoping it would explain his behavior to John in a way that didn't invite further discussion. And it did. In that sense, mission accomplished.

Except John's complete lack of reaction to his own death casts a dark despair across his thoughts that he doesn't know how to shake. I missed being... with you-- is what he's saying, but John leaves. He leaves because he won't let Harold leave first. He missed him over the past month but now Harold is going to miss him forever, for the rest of what days he has left. What he should say lines up neatly in his mind, obvious: I thought you'd have enjoyed a spate of action after so much idleness. He's sure he did, can tell it was good for him by the liveliness in John's demeanor when he came in. ]

I'm sorry, [ he breathes out, chair clattering as he pushes himself to his feet. ] I can't do this right now. Please forgive me.

[ Forgive me, forgive me. Of course John will forgive him. He knows that. Just like Harold knows he will never be done asking for his forgiveness. ]

[ Oh. John is taken aback for a moment by the abruptness of Harold's statement. He can't help the small stunned look before he can smooth it away. Harold might consider him a friend but he doesn't want to be here. ]

I'll keep the food as leftovers. You can have it later. [ He hesitates for just a moment. Harold had brushed him off before, but— ] I can go, if you want.

[ Go back to the apartments, give Harold the space he clearly desires. John wants to stay here with Harold, to make food for him at least, to be with him, but it doesn't seem that's what Harold wants, even if they're friends. ]

Please stop offering to leave, [ falls out of his mouth unwarranted, painful and severe.

Asking him about leftovers is so domestic, so facile. It's like they're going to have a tomorrow together -- and they are, here in Etraya. Harold can't begin to comment on it without taking out his grief inappropriately on John, but he can't bear to stand here or sit here and witness John's passive acceptance of his own demise.

He limps unsteadily out of the room to his own bedroom without saying anything further. ]

[ That went. Poorly. He clearly only upset Harold further. He's not used to Harold being so emotional like this, he doesn't know what to do. But Harold leaves without further comment and John is left at the table with barely touched plates in front of him. So he does the only thing there is to do and takes the plates away, puts the pasta in their respective leftover containers, puts the remaining pasta in a third, puts them all in the fridge. And then he just stands in the quiet kitchen, feeling the emptiness of the space. He'd been so happy to come back, and now he doesn't know how to reach Harold. Now Harold is so far away.

It's tempting to go for the bottle, he doesn't think Harold would come out now to stop him, but he pulls back from that at the last moment, changes into exercise clothes, and calls Bear for a run instead. He wanders around Etraya, thinking how even though it was recently rearranged that it seems familiar. He tries not to think about Harold, tries to push himself harder instead, tries to think about his feet on the ground, about Bear happily racing along beside him. It doesn't work particularly well, and when he gets back to the library the liquor cabinet still is tempting. He showers, makes himself to go bed, and after too long of staring in the dark he finally falls asleep.

Waking up is unexpected. He's disoriented for a while, unsure of where he is, what's happening. And finally he realizes that he's back in Etraya. He died, and he's back in Etraya. He's wearing the same clothes he fell asleep in years ago, only he never remembered. John pulls his shirt off and feels the healed over scars of the bullet wounds he suffered what feels like moments ago. Yes, he was on that rooftop with the Machine, yes, he died. And Harold lived. And Harold lived. John was always meant to die, always living on borrowed time, and when he died it was finally the best death he could ask for. He died for the thing that means the most, not just to him, but to the world, even if they don't know it.

He dresses easily in familiar clothes and leaves his room, only to be stunned by the room he walks into. It's different, in a way, they've changed it, but it's still the library. Some emotion he's not sure of swells in his chest at the sight. He missed the library, those simple early days, and now he gets to have it again. It feels surreal. He just stands there, taking it all in.

And there's Harold. There's Harold, sitting with his tea, and John can't help but break into a smile again. Not the quiet, accepting, satisfied one he gave on the rooftop, but one of joy. Harold in the library. Harold alive. He doesn't even have the words to express how he feels about that, the hope and wonder he feels. ]

[ Harold did not get much sleep, but he did at least reach a place of greater emotional equanimity, he thinks. He's prepared himself to button up his feelings better, compartmentalize. He doesn't know how much he can sustain acting normal with John, but he owes it to him to try. It's not that John's betrayed him.

Not in any real sense.

He looks up as he hears John enter, having long since abandoned his cold tea. He'd been too immobilized by his own thoughts to get up and refresh it. Reaching more outward control has left him inwardly bleak. Harold can't fathom why John is smiling at him so effusively, so he sticks to the basics, tentative: ]

Good morning, Mr. Reese.

[ There's a sudden clash of memories. The Machine made it to the satellite. He died on the rooftop. But he also had dinner with Harold, Harold stood up and left, he put the pasta in containers. It leaves him unsure, he doesn't know what he's supposed to do. Harold said they were good friends, in both sets of memories, but he also walked away from John at the table. His smile falters as he tries to figure out what to do.

He needs to tell Harold that he remembers, it's one thing to guess at his death and another thing to have experienced it. To have seen Harold turn and walk to the stairs. To have seen Harold walk to safety, to life. But he also wants to cling to what he remembers here in Etraya; the warmth that grew between them. Only he doesn't think that's what Harold wants, even if he doesn't understand why. Harold doesn't want John to make him eggs and toast, or pancakes. ]

I remembered, this morning. You made it down the building. She told me you would, but I didn't know for certain.

[ Oh. No. He hasn't reached any kind of inner stability at all, he realizes, as his heart compresses in his chest with a force of emotion he can't begin to name. ]

You've remembered, [ he echoes distantly, not processing yet. ] You died. And so did the Machine.

[ Harold has to say it so he can hear the words out loud for the first time since he came back to Etraya. It cuts at him, makes his gut ache where he took the bullet, still not totally healed. What else is there to say? John died. The Machine died. Harold had to say goodbye. ]

I died. The Machine made it to the satellite.

[ In John's eyes they both got a good ending. The Machine cared about everyone and she got to fight for them all. John cared about Harold and he got to save him. John dedicated himself to the numbers and the whole world turning into a number and he got to die for them. He was always meant to die, it was always coming sooner or later, and he got to go out exactly how he wanted. He feels... peace. It's over.

Except it's not over, except he's in Etraya, and Harold is in front of him, and he gets to see Harold every day, gets to live with him. Is this a reward? Or punishment? He doesn't know what to think of it. He feels off balance with these memories, with this dissonance, with Harold's behavior. ]

That means she died, [ he says bluntly, breath stuttering in and out. ] Since I wasn't located and summarily executed afterwards, we can assume she defeated Samaritan.

But she was never going to make it off the satellite, like I wasn't supposed to make it off the roof.

[ It would have been poetic. It would have been right, the two of them finding an end together, accomplishing what he'd set out to do when he created her. Harold closes his eyes and tries to find some scrap of self-control, some way to feel even a little bit at peace with what had happened, but there's nothing. He's vacant of any rational desire to keep himself level or return to normal life. It's absurd in the face of all that tragedy to just keep going like nothing changed. ]

[ It's true, he and the Machine thwarted Harold's self-sacrificial plan. Harold had wanted to protect John, had wanted to spare him in the end, because that's what Harold does. Just as it was always John's intention to save Harold. As many times as necessary. However he could. From Root, ages ago, from Samaritan, now.

John gives a small, soft smile. ]

You were always supposed to make it off the roof.

[ John is pretty sure the Machine agreed with him, that's why she went along with his plan. Between the two of them, Harold was always supposed to make it off the roof. ]

No one told me--

[ He cuts himself off, the frustration rising in his tone alarmingly fast. He doesn't truly blame John, or the Machine -- they both loved him, he knows that, he just doesn't know what he has left in him anymore.

Harold has to close his eyes to say this, can't look at that same smile John gave him right before he died for him. ]

I'm tired of being the one who's left alive, John. [ His voice trembles with exhaustion. ] I don't know how to do this again.

[ Of course no one told him, because if anyone had the power to thwart the plan, it would be Harold. Of course it had to be kept a secret.

He is, however, concerned by what Harold says next. He frowns, unable to keep it from his voice or his face. ]

Harold— [ How does he say this? ] We wanted you to live. Please don't throw that away.

[ John isn't sure what he would do if Harold died. Even if Harold died to save him, how would he go on? He thinks of standing on the bridge, letting the bottle drop into the water, turning away. Could he do that again? Could he change his mind a second time? What would he even do without Harold, without the numbers? There would simply be nothing left for him. Everything he did was for the purpose Harold gave him, but Harold has more than that. Has always had more than that. Surely. ]

I won't make light of what you did -- of what Ms. Groves did, and Elias -- and everyone else. What you've all sacrificed for me. I won't take any drastic measures.

[ Harold's never been the type to be actively rather than passively suicidal. He can make this assurance and he means what he says; he was given the same gift over and over, repeatedly, by people he can't deny or forget or ignore. The gift that he would get to keep on living, and they wouldn't.

His speech is rough, halting, the words scraped up from against the bone. ]

But you can't expect me not to mourn you.

[ John visibly relaxes when Harold says he won't take "any drastic measures". He was concerned, he was so worried for the moments before that declaration. But he can ease Harold's mind some, he can help him understand what this meant to John. ]

I was meant to die a long time ago. Before you met me, when the CIA found me, when Kara found me, after Joss died. For any of the numbers. But you gave me chance after chance. You gave me better than I deserved. I couldn't have picked a better way to die.

[ He's so calm, he feels so at peace confessing that. Death was inevitable, he'd accepted it long ago. Now he got to die for the right life, the one that mattered the most. What more could he ask for? ]

[ It's impossible. He can't listen to this. Harold lurches to his feet, his tea cup shaking and liquid sloshing as he knocks the table but then steadying. There's an intrinsic rebellion against the concept that anyone is meant to die, but John especially, because absolutely everyone gave up on John, including John himself.

Everyone except Harold. He can't bear to do it now. ]

You were never meant to die, [ he whispers, eyes wide, gleaming with unshed tears. ] But you did.

Don't tell me that it makes sense-- don't tell me that it's right. I can't stand to hear it.

[ The tears well up and spill over silently. ]

I won't run, the guilt is mine

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