[ For a moment, Carver just stands there. He holds himself very still, hands loose at his sides. No more pacing, he thinks absently. No one likes that.
Once, when he was so worked up he couldn't hear anything past the roar in his ears, when he couldn't stop himself until somebody stopped him first, Pope backhanded him into a wall. It knocked his thoughts back into alignment. For a moment, the world was even quiet. Peaceful. He remembers that moment and the dreamlike bubble that followed, barely even touched by the way Pope stared at him after. Don't make me do that again, son.
Carver reaches up to touch his face, where the blow landed. For a while, he'd thought Pope had broken his jaw. He almost says it, almost puts it to words, because there's a part of him that remembers Harold doesn't really understand. Harold was never a Reaper, never could have been. Trying to imagine him in uniform, with a mask hooked to his belt and a blade in hand, is so abjectly strange it almost makes Carver laugh. What world would ever do that to Harold Finch?
He drops his hand. A moment later, he realizes the dog is there. Bear, who isn't Leah's dog, who isn't Delaney's, but who fits some of the same shapes. Bear, who's bumping his narrow dog head against Carver's hand. He can hear the tac-tac-tac of Harold typing, a sound that hits strange now; no one typed anything back home, not for more than a decade.
These details keep catching against him like thorns. Biting in.
The dog whines. Bumps his hand again.
I'm dissociating, Carver supposes.
It happens sometimes.
He doesn't remember deciding to sit down. It just happens. It seems like the thing to do. He's on the ground, back to the wall, and the dog keeps nosing at him. For lack of a better idea, Carver lays his hand on the dog's back. Bear, that's the dog's name.
Bear's soft. ]
How'd you get fucked up? [ he asks softly. Not looking at Finch. This is a sin, too. ] Way you walk, it's a blast injury, right?
[ It's hard to focus right now. He can't remember if he's asked this before. It would've been a disrespectful thing to ask but Carver's not always a good soldier. ]
cw: abuse, cult shit
Once, when he was so worked up he couldn't hear anything past the roar in his ears, when he couldn't stop himself until somebody stopped him first, Pope backhanded him into a wall. It knocked his thoughts back into alignment. For a moment, the world was even quiet. Peaceful. He remembers that moment and the dreamlike bubble that followed, barely even touched by the way Pope stared at him after. Don't make me do that again, son.
Carver reaches up to touch his face, where the blow landed. For a while, he'd thought Pope had broken his jaw. He almost says it, almost puts it to words, because there's a part of him that remembers Harold doesn't really understand. Harold was never a Reaper, never could have been. Trying to imagine him in uniform, with a mask hooked to his belt and a blade in hand, is so abjectly strange it almost makes Carver laugh. What world would ever do that to Harold Finch?
He drops his hand. A moment later, he realizes the dog is there. Bear, who isn't Leah's dog, who isn't Delaney's, but who fits some of the same shapes. Bear, who's bumping his narrow dog head against Carver's hand. He can hear the tac-tac-tac of Harold typing, a sound that hits strange now; no one typed anything back home, not for more than a decade.
These details keep catching against him like thorns. Biting in.
The dog whines. Bumps his hand again.
I'm dissociating, Carver supposes.
It happens sometimes.
He doesn't remember deciding to sit down. It just happens. It seems like the thing to do. He's on the ground, back to the wall, and the dog keeps nosing at him. For lack of a better idea, Carver lays his hand on the dog's back. Bear, that's the dog's name.
Bear's soft. ]
How'd you get fucked up? [ he asks softly. Not looking at Finch. This is a sin, too. ] Way you walk, it's a blast injury, right?
[ It's hard to focus right now. He can't remember if he's asked this before. It would've been a disrespectful thing to ask but Carver's not always a good soldier. ]