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

[ Harold had wanted to believe that John didn't want to die, but it's not until he hears it out loud from John that he realizes how hard it was to convince himself of that. His breath comes unevenly, fraught with the intensity of his relief. John should want to live for more reasons than just that -- and Harold will encourage that however he can -- but privately, in that secret soft corner of his soul that has felt so exquisitely alone without Grace or Nathan, he craves the simplicity of knowing John didn't want to leave him. ]

I don't have a new purpose to give you, [ he confesses, throat swelling with the force of emotion. ] Not one beyond learning the truth of what's going on here, and protecting as many worlds as we can.

[ Harold's other hand joins the first, holding John's between them both. ]

But if you'll try to keep going, then so will I.

[ He'd been afraid -- so afraid, acute and cutting in a way he couldn't examine closely -- that John's death indicated he would give up, consider his mission over. The Machine telling him that he'd be dead by suicide without her (without him) has twisted over and over in his heart into something gnarled and fearful. If Harold has to go on, go forward, he doesn't want to do it without John -- and his physical existence in Etraya turns out not to be enough. ]

[ Harold seems to care very much about John's declaration about his death, where John had been worried it would upset him again. He's not entirely sure it hasn't, but it hasn't driven Harold away. At the very least Harold has doubled down on staying here with him, which is all John really wants in the end. ]

I don't know what living just to live is like anymore, [ he confesses, almost a bit sadly. He's had enough distance, enough learning opportunities to realize at least in part how much his path has hurt him. ]

But I'm willing to try. I guess I'll have a long time to learn. And I want to help people here, too. As long as there are missions, as long as there's worlds that need saving.

[ In Etraya, a place without death, there's no escape from this life. It will go on and on. He'll probably get to die of old age, something he hasn't thought possible since he entered the Army, a lifetime ago. But if he gets to spend what's rest of his life with Harold then it will be worth it. After all they've been through over the years, John has realized he doesn't have to be alone; he isn't alone. More than just Harold, he has the whole team, and Shaw said she wanted to stay here too. ]

[ Harold's thought about that, too, about saving worlds here, and hearing John say it out loud makes several thoughts run rapidly through his mind. They're instinctual calculations, the kind of adjustment in future planning Harold makes constantly, like breathing.

The difference between saving one irrelevant life and a whole world is one that matters to him very much, but not in the way John might expect. Harold had been forced to consider saving the whole world from Samaritan -- Root had vociferously argued that to him for so long, and he finally saw her as right -- but he still believes that it isn't what they should pursue normally. ]

I agree, but what you said on the roof -- [ Harold falters, the memories momentarily intense, before he pushes through them. ] About saving one life at a time. That's still what I want to do. We'll save worlds if we can, of course, but...

In the end, that was the difference between us and Samaritan. I don't want to lose sight of that.

[ Perhaps this is a swerve from talking about their personal reconciliation with staying here, staying together, staying alive, but for John and Harold that agreement has always rested on their shared drive to help others. It feels natural, even necessary, to return to that now. ]

[ The thing that brought them together in the first place, the thing that brought John back from Italy, the thing that meant he could never leave Harold to just be Professor Whistler, was this purpose. This belief that they should be helping others. The years have only made John more committed to it. ]

I don't think we can help the worlds without helping people. We're not alone here. When we first arrived I didn't fully agree that this wasn't going to end up a competition, but I don't believe that now. We're all in this together, we have to help each other out.

[ He believed that before he regained his memories and his time at home hasn't changed that one bit. He has friends here, in all shapes and sizes and ages. Gorgug who he's going to fish with, Shadowheart who he baked a pie with, even Carver who probably doesn't really trust him. These are not people he could ever lift a hand against, he will always find another way. He will always walk that path with Harold, and if he feels he's lost the way he'll just follow Harold's footsteps; that's what he'd meant by the right life. ]

[ Earlier on, Harold would have left it at that, wouldn't have explained himself. But now he trusts John on such a deep level that he takes the time to explain his perspective. At the same time, John saying that makes his heart wring into a knot, love and loss indistinguishable. This is why he doesn't know how to go on without him; John feels on an intrinsic level what Harold has been trying to pin down his whole life. ]

They're intrinsically linked, but they're not the same, [ he pushes, something in him catching fire in a slow, banked smolder. ] I don't trust anyone but the Machine to make those kinds of bigger decisions. Certainly not us.

[ That he does trust the Machine to do that -- it's a monumental shift, the movement of a planet, but Harold doesn't want to focus on that. Doesn't want to talk about how his distrust and doubt in her had turned out to be completely unfounded. She'd called him father... ]

And not Echo. We can't know what's really happening here, but for as long as we're present, I want to focus on saving those that are in front of us.

We won't get numbers, but the idea that no one is irrelevant... [ He breathes, feeling the absence of Nathan expanding inside his ribs, before he finishes. ] That's never led us astray. Has it?

[ He can see what Harold is getting at, what Harold believes. It's not really about those far away worlds at all, the big decisions, the grand vision for the future. Harold is just talking about the here and now, the people in front of them, the people living in this apartment building and also the people who have found their homes outside of it. Just helping them.

And helping them without the Machine's guidance, without her hand. He didn't get to talk with her much, even on the rooftop it was a very one sided conversation where she made sure he wasn't alone, and he regrets that. They shared so many moments over the years. He's sure Harold misses her much, much more. ]

It hasn't. No one is irrelevant. I can't promise I won't think of those worlds out there, but I won't sacrifice the people here for them. I'll fight to find a way to save them both.

[ And he doesn't doubt Harold will help him if he needs it. He doesn't even ask. But it's impossible for him to not think of all those lives at stake. In a way this is what he always wanted to do, to fight to save the world. He joined the Army and the CIA thinking he could get an opportunity at that, thinking he could do some good for his country. And now he has a chance to do something bigger than that, not just for his own world but for others as well. John agrees with Harold that they have to save the people in front of them, but he can't lose sight of the larger goal as well, it's a dream that exists in the marrow of his bones. ]

[ He understands precisely. They can't save the trees and forget about the forest -- the balance has to be so, so careful; they've gotten it wrong before and they'll probably get it wrong again -- but they won't take the mental shortcut of sacrificing one for many.

Over the past week, Harold had wondered at times if he was being too dramatic in his grief. He's lost people before and he'd found his way again, however excruciating it was. But hearing John say this, he knows he was right, that living without him would be an unbearable loss. A huge release of tension goes through him, like the moment he walks in the door to his favorite safehouse.

There's water standing in his eyes, and he knows John won't understand it, will think he's hurt him again somehow. He has to say something. ]

You are such a good man, [ he tells him painfully, thinking of when he tried to convince the malfunctioning Machine that they weren't monsters. ] Before I found you, I'd lost my way. I don't think I ever told you that. I came very close to doing dark things.

When I'm with you, John, I'm a better person.

[ John wants to protest that, to say that he's not a good man. He's crossed so many lines, how could he be? But Harold believes it, and John trusts Harold. It feels impossible to accept, but he doesn't challenge it, thinks of another way to say what he means. He doesn't want to upset Harold, who this clearly means a lot to. He doesn't think he could stand to see Harold cry again, doesn't really understand what his tearfulness means in this moment. ]

I've done so many terrible things, Harold. I let myself do them. But you asked me to be better than that, gave me a chance to do good things instead. [ He thinks of the senator, how Harold was the one voice of reason in the room, how they all followed him. ] I know I can trust you, follow you. I guess we helped each other. I wouldn't be here without you.

[ If Harold says that he's a better person because of John, he won't refute that. He can't put those words in Harold's mouth even if he doesn't understand how they're true. ]

Of course we helped each other.

[ Of course it's mutual. That's what Harold meant when he said more than just the mission -- there's something between them that's truly special, that he wants to hold onto as tightly as he can.

We helped some people, didn't we?

In a burst of emotion, Harold stumbles forward and practically falls onto John for a hug. ]

[ Harold is suddenly near, suddenly there, and John is frozen for a moment where he doesn't know what to do— but then he gently wraps his arms around Harold's shoulders. It's a loose gesture, almost unsure. Is he allowed to have this? Harold doesn't know his feelings, doesn't know that John has longed for this. If he returns this gesture in full, is that deception? Is that a lie of omission?

But John is weak and full of longing and pain so he wraps his arms tighter around Harold. Lets himself feel Harold's warmth, the texture of his suit under his hands. Engraves the shape of Harold into his mind. He may never get this again and he's so greedy for it, he has to etch every part of this moment in his memory.

There's nothing for him to say, because anything he could say would be a damning admission of how much he loves Harold, how full his heart is in this moment. The want, the sadness, the joy. He will let this moment last as long as Harold will allow. ]

[ 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.

Edited 2025-04-25 02:11 (UTC)

[ Harold stays longer than John expects. He thinks any moment now that Harold will pull away and yet he stays moment after moment and John just... lets it happen. He doesn't think about what it means, he just holds Harold. He died just over a week ago, he shouldn't get to have this, he died and then fell apart completely, but here is Harold still. Here is Harold by his side, in his arms, Harold who never gave up on him, not before and not this time. Harold who still came to see him morning after painful morning when he didn't want to see John at all.

But Harold does pull away eventually and John lets him go. He immediately wants Harold back, wants him in his arms again, but he restrains himself, tells himself he shouldn't be too greedy. It has to be enough that he got it once.

Harold in the aftermath is sure and steady in the way that John is familiar with. Whatever he has grappled with, whatever decisions he has made, he has settled on them for good. If he says that he killed the Machine then yes, he must have decided that. John doesn't know all the details, so if Harold says that, John won't refute. The Machine is dead, that much is undeniable. They died together on that rooftop. John wonders briefly how she feels about her own death, whether it was one she was satisfied with. Whether she wanted to live longer. Unlike John, she won't get a chance to tell anyone.

Unlike John, who will get to stay in Etraya with Harold. Is it selfish for Harold to stay? John doesn't think so, but he's not about to tell Harold how to feel about it. They've gone over this already but John still feels immense relief when Harold says he's staying, relief followed up by so much love. It feels overwhelming, like it might just burst out of his chest if he breathes wrong. In this moment he's so close to that feeling, and closer to losing control of it than ever before. John reaches across the distance and smooths the shoulder of Harold's suit, feels the wool beneath his hands, the warmth of Harold beneath. A gesture to bleed off some of that feeling, a way to keep himself from saying anything unwise. Harold wants to stay with him, what more could he ask for? ]

Regardless of what rules you broke, you're still the person I've chosen to follow, to be with. I won't choose to leave you again.

[ Choose, because Echo might have plans that John is powerless to stop, but he understands now what it means to Harold. Next time—if there is a next time—he'll make sure to talk with Harold before making any decisions. ]

[ There are still places he won't go, lines he won't cross, but Harold has pushed that boundary just a few inches past where it used to be, and in the gap of that space he finds the possibility of being selfish. Because it is so, so selfish to want to stay with John, to keep him, when he's left things behind at home. He should go back, ensure Samaritan is truly gone; determine what happened to the Machine, make sure there's no traces of her left that can be recovered by an enemy actor; check on Fusco and Shaw and Bear, if nothing else, rather than disappearing to Italy like he can wash his hands of all of it as easy as that.

But he doesn't want to. He wants to be with John, wherever that is. And he knows that John will follow him those few inches further, and not push him farther; knows without asking that John trusts him so completely that he doesn't even need to explain his rationale. Harold doesn't want anyone to blindly follow his orders, but he's stopped giving orders to John a long time ago. What they have isn't like that.

What they have is... something else. And he wants the time to discover what that is, instead of shying away from it, too afraid of loss to take risks.

John runs his hands over his shoulders, a wholly unexpected gesture that inspires Harold, in a burst of affection, to reach up and grab his hands in his before he can completely take them back, holding them loosely between them again. He wants to stay, he gets to stay, he can be here-- not alone in a dusty library with Nathan's face flashing before him, irrelevant-- but in a clean, used, lived-in library, where he's with those that care for him. ]

I won't choose to leave you either, [ he says like a vow. ] Will you... that is, I'll be moving back to the second floor residence in the library later today. You're welcome to join me if you wish.

[ If he stopped giving orders, it's only because now he makes offers, issues invitations. ]

[ John recognizes it for what it is: asking but not asking, an offer but room for him to back out if he wants; Harold is asking but not pushing. It's like that between them now, they've reached an equilibrium over the years where they rarely double down; is the last time when John didn't let Harold back out of the numbers?

But here is Harold holding his hands, here is Harold offering him everything he's wanted. He gives just the hint of a smile, something that feels foreign after his recent mood, but it slips out nonetheless. He tightens his hands in Harold's grasp ever so slightly as he speaks. ]

Yes. [ Honesty, honesty. It takes effort but he can no longer take their relationship for granted given the past week. Given that he's dead. ] That's all I really wanted.

[ Is that too honest? Too forward? Is he giving away too much? Can Harold see how much his life has hinged on what's between them? Others have come and sometimes gone, have left imprints on him, have even driven him from Harold, from this purpose that brought them together, but at the core there has always been Harold. The beginning and the end. Harold gave him a life and John returned it; he can see now that it wasn't a debt but a gift. Harold gives everything freely, and John spent it how he wanted, selfishly.

And now they have taken a step forward, a step closer. This commitment to stay together. It's not the full extent of John's feelings, but it's enough. It's enough. Harold is holding his hands, Harold is returning to the closeness they shared in the library, Harold won't leave him. He got to hold Harold and when he reached for Harold again he didn't let John go. John could not ask for more. ]

[ Unless push comes to shove, their preference is always to be respectful with one another, a wordless gentleness in making space for the other's decisions. They'll offer their opinion, unguarded; but ultimately both John and Harold have settled into a relationship where neither one pushes the other.

It makes things slow, delicate... and now Harold sees that if he really doesn't want to put a step wrong, but also isn't content to retreat into passivity, it needs to be coordinated.

They need to communicate, like a dance, so they don't step on each other's feet. ]

Well. I have several more things on my list, as it turns out. [ He's always wanted more than John, always looked for more and strived for it. But for now-- ] Like breakfast, for one. Let's at least eat what you've prepared before we move.

[ He steps away, breaking their handhold, but there's a lightness to Harold now, a scrap of hope peeking through that hasn't been seen in months. He's tired, exhausted really, but there's a direction to move in now. He thinks of Root: I know who I am, and where I'm going. He'd never really been certain of that before, had he? He still has some of that left to figure out. ]

[ There's a moment of blankness where he catches up with Harold's train of thought; he'd forgotten about the breakfast in the moments between them. Hugging Harold, holding his hands, had completely derailed the situation that they're in. There had been far more pressing things than the food gone cold. He looks at it as if seeing it for the first time and then recognizes it for what it is. ]

I'll make new eggs while the food goes back in the oven. Pancakes will probably be cool but the bacon should warm back up. Can you get your tea ready and pour me coffee?

[ He puts both back in the still-warm oven and dumps the cold eggs in the trash. There's an ease to the movement that wasn't there before, as if a great burden has been lifted. Talking with Harold, understanding him at least a little, the promise of returning to the library— he still feels the weight of the past week, the weight of his death, but it's easier to carry now.

When he'd said "all" he'd meant all he wanted from Harold, but it's an all encompassing "all"; he'd wanted to return to the life they had there, the easiness and comfort between them, not just the location. And now he's gotten more than he bargained for, more than he could have imagined. A new closeness, a spoken vow, something defined rather than just seeing the shadow of it. Maybe that really was "all" he wanted, "all" he needed; when it was torn away from him his life fell apart. In the aftermath John can recognize that he needs to continue down the path he started to walk as Riley: living for more than just his purpose, more than just Harold.

John thinks through all of this as he cracks new eggs, scrambles them quickly and with practice. It's a near automatic task that he can execute while his mind wanders. It's not too long before the food is ready again and he plates the eggs and delivers them to the table before going back for the pancakes and bacon; the butter, syrup, and silverware are already on the table, butter soft from being out overnight and syrup warmed up to room temperature. It's not that John went all out on breakfast, but it's more than he usually does. ]

[ Making tea and preparing coffee while John cooks is an old reminiscence now, one it takes a moment to place as specific to Etraya. Something they'd shared years ago for a few spare months, unique and priceless. Harold marvels to realize he can recapture it now, heating water and making their morning drinks while John does the real work. It's an allegory he recognizes.

For as little patience as he has with the particularities of cooking, he somehow engages fully in making beverages. His tea is exactly as he likes it and John's is just to his taste, despite never once asking him how he preferred it. He just noticed. He paid attention, the way they are always watching each other.

He wants John to live, not for him but with him. He wants him to know that Harold will be here for him always, so he doesn't have to strain to merit his regard. He can measure who he is for himself and rest easy that no matter what he comes up with, Harold will be here, waiting, trusting fully.

John scrambles eggs while the tea steeps and the coffee brews -- he's making a new pot -- and Harold sits, ruminating over how so little and so much has changed in one conversation. Nothing real is different, but how they understand one another, what's said aloud, is completely new. There's real value in taking things out of the shadows and into the light (as Root had said before she'd died--) and now Harold, coward that he'd been, is finally facing it.

He should move past the emotion of what they've just discussed; he'd been the one to push them in this banal direction, to cooking, having breakfast. But he's been such a coward-- and he doesn't want to be, not yet another time. ]

Have patience with everything that remains unsolved in your heart, [ he says softly, mostly to himself, as John places the ready food on the table and takes his seat. ]

... I was always very taken by Rilke.

[ The new pot of coffee is nice; trust Harold to be particular about drinks. He also does trust Harold will make it just as he likes it, though he learned to drink the terrible coffee at the precinct.

It's easy, going back to this routine, like slipping on his favorite pair of shoes. The months in Etraya and the years back home lay on top of each other in a dissonant way, so it feels like just yesterday and somehow so long ago that they went through these same steps. It's familiar, but at the same time he recognizes how precious it is to him, how much it lodges in his heart. Especially after this past week he doesn't take it for granted.

Still, despite how bad things got, there's a surety in him that he will not drive Harold away. Even when he falls apart and tries to drive everyone away, even when he hurts Harold so badly, Harold will not leave. Harold had said "it's still my intent that we face it together" and John believes him. Once he resisted naming himself as Harold's partner, resisted the potential implications, but now it seems so obvious: they are partners. There's no one he'd rather be by his side. He can say that without reservations.

But the food is done fast enough and he brings it to the table, sets it down between them, and almost misses it when Harold speaks. It doesn't seem directed at him, and he has no clue what to make of it, though he thinks it over as he sits down. Is it more cryptic than just saying to "have patience"? What's "unsolved in your heart"? But Harold says "Rilke" and John remembers that as the author of the poem Harold left behind.

He lets Harold take the first round of pancakes and bacon off the plates between them, takes a sip of coffee; the bacon is of course cooked just the way Harold likes it. ]

Who is Rilke?

Edited 2025-05-12 00:11 (UTC)

[ Harold doesn't assume anyone is uneducated -- actually, he hates that word. It implies something he doesn't like, that education means being informed about certain predetermined things, a scope of knowledge set by insufferably privileged academics. Rather, he doesn't assume John is unfamiliar with Rilke, or with poetry at large, but upon being disabused of that idea he's ready to explain.

He still doesn't assume John hadn't understood the poem he'd left, or the quote he'd just made. Understanding is probably not the right word, either. He doesn't assume he shares Harold's interpretation -- that would be closer.

He takes his pancakes and bacon and answers equably. ]

Rainer Maria Rilke was a late 19th and early 20th century Austrian poet. An extremely sensitive man, he was utterly changed by his drafting into the Great War as a German, and took years to recover his voice as a writer. When he did, he wrote what most consider to be his masterpieces.

[ In a clearer voice than before, deliberately quoting as demonstration: ] Let this darkness be a bell tower, and you the bell. As you ring, what batters you becomes your strength.

[ John still isn't sure what to make of this new line Harold has quoted for him, but he does think about it as he takes his serving of the food. There's butter and syrup for the pancakes and he's certain Harold won't mind his moment of silence, will take it for what it is; quiet consideration so he can speak clearly. They're still in uncharted territory, to some extent.

He can understand being changed by time under duress; he's removed enough from his own situation in the CIA to recognize that it hurt him, changed him in ways he doesn't know how to fix. Ways he doesn't think can be fixed. Ways he'll spend his whole life trying to fight against. ]

Sounds like he found that strength himself.

[ He doesn't think he came out stronger, everywhere he can see his deficiencies. The ways he fails to be a normal person, the ways he fails to treat others well, the ways he doesn't know how to connect. Harold has accepted who he is with grace and kindness, and there's a shared recognition between him and Shaw. Root was the hardest to connect with, but even they learned to work together eventually, united in purpose, though he doesn't know how she felt about him; even if he could ask he wouldn't, though he's almost certain she wouldn't mind telling him in her clear and exacting way.

And Fusco, Lionel who showed him just how short he was falling of the mark. Lionel who opened his eyes to his isolation, the safety he found in holding people at arms length. Who showed him his mistakes in such a brutally honest way. ]

[ He appreciates John taking time to think it over before responding, and as John had thought, he waits patiently. He thinks he sees something in John's response, a doubt that he could find that strength in himself, and he responds without thinking, sure and certain. ]

So did you.

[ He sets his fork down. Harold doesn't believe in trite condolences like telling oneself tragedy at least made you stronger. That belittles the tragedy, paints it as something that had to happen, ignores the culpability of those who were responsible for it. But letting what hurt you, what broke you in some measure, become your strength... that part he understands.

The person he was ten years ago would hate the person he is now. Harold is sure of that. ]

Loss doesn't make us stronger -- I don't buy into so prosaic a narrative. But it's been an honor and a joy to watch you use skills that once hurt others to help them instead. I can't do this without you -- literally, practically, I can't.

You had to be who you were to become who you are now, to be capable of doing what you need to do. And so did I.

[ He had to once be idealistic to see now where idealism fails. ]

Edited 2025-05-23 23:33 (UTC)

[ He takes a bite of pancake while he considers that, not meeting Harold's eyes and instead watching the syrup soak into the porous surface. What he's said... is true. The skills he developed in the CIA have served him well in doing the numbers. He wouldn't be capable of them without going through the program, without doing the job and all it entailed. And he gets to do so much good now. As Harold said, he gets to help people, which is all he's ever really wanted to do.

But it doesn't change the rest of it. It doesn't mean that he doesn't wake from nightmares in the night, it doesn't mean that he hasn't held others away for so long, it doesn't mean that he doesn't struggle through some days when it feels like the specter of his past is weighing down his every heartbeat. Even with Joss, even with Iris, he didn't really let them get to know him. He's not even sure Harold can see that part of him, however close they are; he sees so much good in people that sometimes is too charitable.

He finishes slowly chewing and pushes around the eggs with his fork before stabbing a few pieces, looking at the motion like it means more than just his wariness of the topic. ]

There's a difference between strength and capability.

[ And John has, for the past week, not demonstrated any strength. It feels in some ways that he's barely taken one step forward from when Harold first found him. Surely someone like Harold can see that difference, surely it's close to mind just how deficient John has been. ]

There is, [ he agrees readily. ] Strength is using your capabilities to do good.

[ Harold sounds even, assured. He has doubts about many things -- about the trustworthiness of the Machine, about his own decisions, about the infinite potential for abuse when humans are put in positions of power and authority -- but he has no doubts about John. If Harold is the center of gravity that John orbits around, then John is his constant, a variable he doesn't need to solve for. The one that lets him solve the rest of the equation instead. ]

If we didn't have moments of weakness, there'd be nothing remarkable about when we're strong.

[ A momentary pause as he sips his tea. Based on this exchange and John's lack of familiarity with Rilke, he has a thought. ]

May I see the poem I left you the other day? [ He trusts that he still has it; Harold doesn't even have to ask. ]

[ John gets up when asked and goes into the bedroom to fetch it. He came to his senses somewhere along the way and decided to stop hiding it in obscure places; it's in the nightstand next to his bed now.

It gives him time to think, too, about Harold's words. About strength being using capabilities for good. About his nightmares. About staring down Alonzo Quinn in a motel room and pulling the trigger. About offering Daniel Casey a pair of pliers.

Is it remarkable when he's strong? He doesn't think so. He doesn't feel so. It just feels like something he should be doing. Rather than it being remarkable, it feels like the baseline, and all his failures are just that. Does it look remarkable to Harold? Does Harold paint him in such different light? It wouldn't be a portrait John can recognize himself in.

He returns with the paper, folded in half so the personal message and poem are separated by a crease, but it's in otherwise pristine condition; John would never treat something like this carelessly despite the number of times he's read and reread it. Wordlessly, he hands it over. ]

Edited 2025-06-03 02:41 (UTC)

[ Harold doesn't comment on either where John retrieved it from or the condition of the paper. He hadn't thought about what John did with it, but if pressed, he could've assumed it would've been treated respectfully, if for no reason than Harold did things like this vanishingly rarely. That he has now is testament to his decision to stop being a coward, more than anything else.

He pushes his breakfast to the side on the table and lays the note flat before him, taking a pen out of his inner jacket pocket, capped so as not to seep ink onto the cloth. He looks down, reading the poem through a few times more, and then starts to write, adding an annotation off to the side. He's never liked underlining or writing directly next to the text; he wants it to stand alone in case John wants to read it without Harold's version coloring it.

When he's done he slides it across the table to John. ]

I lack the poeticism of Rilke, of course, but if you wanted my interpretation...

[ Because he thinks if he's not going to be a coward, he might need to do more than inch out of his comfort zone. John deserves to know what he really feels, and this is an easier way to do it than talking. A more committed one, too -- the solidity of the paper, a concrete object that he can take and review whenever he needs the reminder. ]

I don't know what's coming next for us, but it's still my intent that we face it together. H
Again and again, even though we know love’s landscape and the little churchyard with its lamenting names and the terrible reticent gorge in which the others end: again and again the two of us walk out together under the ancient trees, lay ourselves down again and again among the flowers, and look up into the sky. Rilke	We know that it will end in tragedy that those we love will die, some without even a grave to mark them, but we keep trying anyway, over and over choosing to see beauty and submit to love together.

Edited 2025-06-07 22:53 (UTC)

I won't run, the guilt is mine

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