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.

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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. ]

[ John has— no clue what to do. Harold is crying. Harold is crying. Harold, who is always so unflappable, who always is calm and steady, is crying. He sloshed his tea and now he's crying. Should John— he doesn't know what to do. What do you do for people who are crying? He doesn't know how to comfort Harold. He's just rejected the only solace John has to give him.

Should John give him a hug? Would that be okay? Would that help him? They've never done that, even in their closest moments they've never been that close. He takes three steps forward, starts raising his arms— and then aborts the motion, standing there uselessly. Offering, perhaps. If Harold wants.

He speaks as softly and gently as he can. ]

I was always living on borrowed time.

[ It's tempting for a long moment to accept the hug, however clumsily offered it is. Harold needs something, has no idea what, but he meant it when he said he didn't know how to do this again. He needs some kind of lifeline to pull his way out of this.

Then John says exactly what Harold told him not to say. His mind scrambles frantically for anything that would make it hurt less. Looking at John-- hurts. Listening to him hurts. Animalistically, he needs to get away from the source of pain. ]

I don't think I can see you for a while, [ he says numbly. ]

[ He's— stunned, for a moment. John is just frozen like that, tensing up with his arms half raised. And then he lowers them, slowly, and pulls his body away from where Harold is standing, as if the motion could somehow reject, change what Harold is saying.

He doesn't understand. John wants nothing but to see Harold. They were so close. Harold had locked him in the vault and told him they were such good friends. He made dinner for Harold here, in Etraya. He just— he doesn't understand. Just last night Harold had demanded he stop offering to leave. It feels both distant and fresh, but he can remember how pained Harold sounded when he said it.

He doesn't know what to do, what to say. Even when Samaritan loomed over them Harold still met up with him, despite the danger to them all. They've been together for so many years, and now Harold wants to walk away. ]

[ It's clear to him, watching John stand there mutely, that more time with and exposure to John is not going to help him get past this. Harold feels vaguely like he wants to scream at him. This is not a sensation he experiences often, and he won't give into it, but part of not giving into it is removing himself from the situation. All of this conversation has been about John trying to make Harold understand, and there's a petty impulse in him to demand to know when it gets to be about him. When does it finally get to be about what he needs? ]

It won't be forever. [ It can't be; Harold is drawn to him too much, cares too much. But he doesn't know how long it will be, can't make any promises.

Hollowly: ] I'll move into Ms. Shaw's residence. [ So John knows where he is, knows that he's safe. He won't be cruel about it. ]

[ This is happening, this is happening and John doesn't know what to do about it. He can't do anything about it. Harold has made up his mind and John can recognize that. John couldn't make him understand before, and he can't change his mind now. He didn't know how to comfort Harold, and now Harold is leaving.

Kara was right when she said he was practically a different species. That normal people wouldn't understand him anymore. He feels as empty as he did in that bar. ]

I can leave so you can stay here.

[ It's the only thing he can think to offer. Shaw's residence is safe, but Harold lives here. He won't drive Harold away from where he lives, from where his comforts are, just because he doesn't know how to be a person anymore. ]

[ And again -- it's like John isn't listening, their usual rapport evaporated. Harold told John to stop offering to leave and he keeps doing it. The typical way they can read through each other's words is completely absent, and Harold feels stranded and bereft, underscoring his loss. John is here and not dead in an immediate sense, but there's no connection. Trying to grasp that frayed thread feels like he'd be trying to catch a live wire. ]

No, [ he refutes simply, and starts making his way out. ] I can't stay here with all these memories. I'll come back for my computers later.

[ Once he's made a decision, he's implacable; there's a profound relief to deciding to do something and then carrying it out, letting his frantic mind rest until it's done. Even living upstairs he thinks will be difficult, but at least Shaw's apartment is something that didn't exist at home, something he has no associations with. It's the best he can do while resisting the urge to pitch himself entirely off the map. ]

[ John just watches Harold go. He watches him go and suddenly the library feels so empty. Like it means nothing. There's no comfort here anymore, all he can hear is Harold saying he can't see him anymore. Not for forever, but for how long? How long can John stand to be in this space that should have Harold in it, has always had Harold in it, who is now gone?

The thought of going outside and seeing anyone is terrible, there's so much opportunity for him to run into people at the apartments and he simply doesn't know how he could face anyone right now, but the strangeness of the space feels like something he could stomach. He has no attachment to the place and as long as he keeps strange hours he'll be free to just drink until he can't think anymore. John suddenly realizes that's what he's going to do. He'll have to stop at the liquor store on his way over. Last night he held back, he was good, but he's already replaying this conversation over in his mind, already thinking about how Harold cried. He can't stand it.

And if he leaves, Harold won't have to see him when he comes back for his computers. He'll be giving Harold that, at least. Apparently it's the only thing he can give, since he failed at giving Harold what he needed before.

John leaves their living space, closing the door softly behind him, and goes to find something to drink. ]

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I won't run, the guilt is mine

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