Harold Finch (
ornithologist) wrote in
etrayalogs2025-03-22 10:05 am
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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.
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
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ 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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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.
no subject
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? ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
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. ]
no subject
Perhaps I did, in a literal sense, [ he finally answers, tone of voice growing soft and hollow, gaze drifting to the tabletop to avoid eye contact. ] The Machine calculated that without its existence, the most likely outcome was that you would have died before we ever met.
But...
[ Harold hesitates, eyes coming up, still soft but the hollowness filling with a faint kind of warmth like the embers of a banked fire late into the night. ]
John, I don't want to be your savior. I see us as equals -- partners.
[ That word he'd used months ago when they'd first arrived. He'd meant it then, but it has new weight now, a solidness to it that makes it less window dressing and more a foundation. ]
no subject
Harold is just— he's there, he's part of John's life, not the reason for it, but one of the foundations. Again, not what he thinks Harold wants to hear, so he keeps that to himself as well. It's fine if he keeps these secrets. It's fine if Harold never truly understands what he means to John, his feelings are things he's kept to himself for a long, long time now; swallowing those words from Kara and Mark felt like shards of glass, and these feelings are smooth and warm, they go down easily.
But it doesn't preclude Harold's desired relationship, at least not in John's mind. They are equals, they are partners. How many times have they stood shoulder to shoulder? Like puzzle pieces, matching curves, the ebb and flow filling out the gaps they each have. The work they have done has long since been on equal footing, even if John will always follow his direction. That's built on history, a large body of evidence John has gathered over the years; not one sole event, no matter how significant it was. In John's mind that's part of their partnership, even if he's not sure Harold would see it that way; Harold has his domain and John has his own. ]
We are partners.
[ As simple as that. They are partners. There's no doubt in that for John, he can say it with honesty, with conviction. ]
no subject
It's more than Harold's ever gotten before.
He'd felt tears earlier, tears he knew he couldn't explain to John, not because words would fail him but because he thinks John is still so far from understanding what it's like to be overwhelmed with emotion in a way that doesn't cause damage. It hurts, of course it hurts, and Harold fully believes it always will hurt to have lost him. To know there is no way they can walk back from a movie in the rain down the streets of New York, a cautious hand fluttering lightly at his back and an umbrella overhead, and there is no way to have again the refracted-crystal clarity and focus of working on the numbers. All of that which had defined them before is lost to them now.
But this is so much more than he's ever known following any previous loss. Harold suppresses the tears now, and his smile falters tremulously as he takes a shaky breath. He doesn't want to be John's savior because his heart is too full with respect and admiration, and anything that implies a power imbalance creates a distance, and--
He's here, and he won't be a coward again, and he can be selfish at least in this one way. ]
Any mystery around the corner is one we can discover together.
[ If Harold remembers Nathan by treating no one as irrelevant, then he honors Grace with this lesson, that with real love it becomes effortless to be equal. ]