Harold Finch (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ornithologist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
etrayalogs2025-03-22 10:05 am
ornithologist) wrote in etrayalogs2025-03-22 10:05 am
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.
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.
no subject
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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
no subject
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.
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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?
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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.
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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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
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[ 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. ]
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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. ]
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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. ]
but it's still my intent that we face it together.
H
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
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.
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But together? John doesn't know what he's implying with "together". Is he asking something of John? He doesn't think so. Harold doesn't push him down a path in that way. He might see the best in John but he doesn't force that on him, always lets him make his own choices, take his own steps. But he said at the top of the page he wants to walk together, he ended his thoughts on the poem with "together".
What path is he asking John to walk with him? What destination? To what end? ]
It's a nice poem, [ he replies after reading Harold's writing a few times, feeling the emptiness of his words.
He doesn't have any adequate thoughts to share that match the effort Harold has given him here. He opens his mouth to try again. ]
I can see why you like it, it's hopeful.
[ Harold would pick something hopeful, would want to share that hope. His belief, his hope, all of it. John doesn't always see it, doesn't understand where it comes from, but he has always followed Harold like walking in footsteps in the snow, even when he doesn't know where they lead.
What if, this time, Harold is asking for them to walk side by side? What then? Where does that leave John? ]
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They've fallen into that complementary trade without speaking a word about it. He'd tell himself that was cowardice again, but this time, he doesn't think it is. It feels so much more like bravery, the way letting trust be unconditional always does. ]
I hadn't thought of it as hopeful, [ he admits, not refuting John but just pondering, looking down at the page himself even though he can't read it upside-down and from this angle. Reflecting on the words. ]
What did I tell you once, that we were both likely to wind up dead? [ Harold sounds nostalgic and only a little pained at the recollection of how blithely he'd rattled that off to John at the time. ] But we still kept going. We each tried to quit-- [ His lips curve in rueful humor, interrupts himself with a clear echo of Rilke. ] But again and again, even though we knew how it would end, the two of us walked out together.
Isn't that strength?
[ Strength they struggled to find alone, but so easily found together. ]
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And just earlier, hadn't Harold told him that he didn't want to outlive the numbers? Are they really so different on that count? He won't put words in Harold's mouth, but John won't pretend to be something he isn't. ]
We did help each other, [ he agrees. That's undeniable. They did. They found something together. ] But Harold, you know who I was when you recruited me. For all the times it almost ended, I didn't really think about it until after it was over. Not for either of us.
[ He pauses for just a moment before continuing, not looking at Harold but at the poem instead. It's not entirely true that he didn't think about Harold's death, he just was so confident in his ability to prevent it, so unthinkingly sure in his plan. And how did that serve him? ]
When I think of strength I think of all those numbers who we saved. People like Megan Tillman. Or Sarah Jennings. They kept trying, they figured out how to live even after their lives fell apart.
[ John's been doing a lot of running up until now. It's not to say that he won't again, but he's here with Harold, trying at least to slow his pace. Etraya had frustrated him before because it made him stop, took away the pavement from beneath his feet, but now he's going to have live in that space. He's going to have to learn the shape of what's around him, his life.
It's a little terrifying. He doesn't know how to be a bell, let alone ring. ]
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But as much as he can accept that as truth for himself, he also thinks there's more to it for John than he's prepared to admit. ]
I did know who you were when I recruited you, [ he says quietly, but in a tone that implies he means something entirely different by it than John does. ] We didn't just help each other, we helped so many other people.
That was-- [ He falters, withdraws a bit. ] That was what the Machine wanted to know, in the end. That we'd helped some people.
And I think we did. How you feel about it, your motives, doesn't matter. Like I quoted earlier, have patience with what remains unsolved in your heart. Your actions have still done good.
no subject
But he has done good. He knows that. He knows the numbers were good. That's why he didn't let Harold quit, that's why he came back. The numbers were good. They helped so many people. It was all worth it.
His death saved Harold. It was all worth it.
Now though he does look up, directly at Harold. ]
Thank you. For giving me that chance. [ There's a hesitation where he almost leaves this unsaid, but he wants Harold to know. ] You saved me.
[ He's not talking about his death, he's talking about everything that happened before then. The person he became. The person he is now, sitting at this table with their food gone cold. He wouldn't have had that chance without Harold. ]