Chapter Text
“Harold?” John’s voice sounded small and needy in the darkness.
“Mm.”
“Tell me about Dillinger.”
An eternity seemed to pass before the answer came: “Mr. Dillinger was my first ‘you’.”
John lay on his back, staring at the darkened ceiling. It was the small hours of the morning, and the hotel suite was sufficiently high to drown out all but the most persistent traffic horns of New York, but he hadn’t been able to fall asleep.
Turning his head, he could make out the outline of Harold sitting beside him. Dr Tillman had confirmed a single cracked rib and recommended over-the-counter painkillers, ice packs for the swelling, and to keep moving (when possible) during the day to stave off any problems to his lungs. She’d also made them promise that if the pain got too bad or he started coughing up mucus they’d come straight back to her. Solemn words of compliance having been given, she’d handed Harold a leaflet on strategies for sleeping and wished him well with a brush of her hand.
The leaflet had been a godsend. Harold had made several attempts at lying on his back or side until eventually John had been forced to borrow a high-backed chair from the lobby, place it by the side of the bed, and wrap Harold up in blankets and cushions. It wasn’t ideal for their first night together but being more upright made his breathing become less forced and he soon seemed to settle.
But John couldn’t.
At first he thought it was their vulnerability that was keeping him awake. If Samaritan Agents stormed the suite, he had little chance of defending it. But as that possibility seemed to wane, he’d worried about what Dr Tillman had warned about the bruising around the lungs and how Harold might have difficulty breathing at any time. So he’d spent the last couple of hours listening to every breath, ready to jump up if Harold needed him.
Needed him. That thought had sent his tired brain down the rabbit hole of memories and unanswered questions and how much Harold had ‘needed’ Dillinger. The ‘first you’ wasn’t enough of an explanation. John needed to know everything.
“You used his name to deploy the ICE-9 virus,” John said quietly, trying to keep vulnerability out of his voice.
“I could hardly have used yours.”
The outline in the chair shifted.
“He was my first attempt to help the numbers, so Mr. Dillinger...” Harold broke off to wheeze uncomfortably in his new position. “Mr. Dillinger was ‘you’. Proto-you at least. ‘You’ had you been an untrustworthy mercenary who didn’t care about saving lives so long as the checks cleared. It started with him; you see. He helped me protect Daniel Casey and then I got him killed.” John heard him take a deep breath that ended in a slight grunt of pain. “Fault on both sides, but mostly he died because I didn’t trust him.” There was fidgeting with the blankets. “That he tried to sell me out at the first opportunity he got, proved I was right not to trust him, but the causality loop bothers me. I still wonder if I let him down. Should I have done more for him? Could I have done more for so many people?” John heard him sniff. “Anyway, I needed a password, and I felt he deserved a little more than a shallow grave in Central Park.”
Dillinger, the blonde mercenary from Fusco’s cold case records, had looked familiar and now John understood why. Yes. He’d been the security detail protecting Daniel Casey and he’d done a fair job of it. Whisking him out from under the noses of Kara and himself. Trust Harold to find someone with some competence. John pulled him a millimeter closer to his heart. There had been no need to invent jealousies, to put up barriers over imagined relationships. Dillinger had been a gun for hire, and even though he was a dirtbag, naturally Harold still felt responsible for him.
“The cops found his body you know,” John said, wondering if that would surprise Harold but of course it didn’t.
“And I believe the family received an unexpected legacy to give him a proper burial.” Harold spoke as if it had nothing to do with him, but John knew better and smiled.
A hand reached out from the chair and stroked John’s arm. It was warm and comforting and rested itself and John felt alive and happy at the touch.
“Go to sleep, John. I promise I will still be here in the morning.”
There was nothing more to say, nothing more to worry about, and John finally let his body drift into slumber.
***
Morning light was defying the curtains and John opened his eyes. The hand on his arm was gone and the chair was empty. Panic and hurt washed into him because blankets and cushions had been cast to one side and there was no sign of Harold. For the third time in a row, he’d woken up and there was no sign of goddamn Harold.
“Don’t look like that, I needed the bathroom.”
All was forgiven. Harold’s voice was warm and as reassuring as a soft blanket as he walked carefully back to the bed. He was practically naked but for his undershorts and clutching a fresh ice pack from the suite’s icebox. They’d managed to ease him out of jacket and shirt but, despite his protests, Dr Tillman had had to cut off his undershirt and the angry bruising had visibly spread into his chest hair. He looked in discomfort, but John couldn’t help beaming.
“Hey, you,” he said simply, and Harold stopped to return him a warm smile.
“Hello.”
“Sleep much?”
“A few hours. You?”
“Same. Painkillers?”
“Spoil me.”
John scooted out of bed, popped the foil, and poured water. That Harold swallowed them without complaint indicated his pain level, but that he sat on the side of the bed, hugging the ice, and regulated his breathing, gave John some reassurance. It also left him uncertain of his next move, so he hit the head as well and rinsed the glass of water.
Maybe this was the start of the day? They’d checked in with just the clothes they stood up in and he supposed Harold would be wanting to make plans. As Samaritan agents hadn’t burst through the door with automatic gunfire during the night, John presumed The Machine was still in the Satellite kicking its rival’s butt, but that left him unsure what to do next. Harold, he supposed, would want fresh clothes, and to contact the others, and check on Bear, or rewire the subway lair, or do a million Harold things.
On quitting the bathroom, John had his second surprise of the day though, because Harold had moved a mountain of cushions and pillows to nest himself upright in the bed with his legs under the comforter. The color was back in his face, and he looked relaxed in his new position. He’d also found his glasses and cell phone and didn’t seem to be frantically texting or hacking anyone. Instead, he patted the side of the bed next to him as an invitation. John climbed in and carefully leaned his torso into the curve of Harold’s arm and side. Nestling in, he watched him scroll through the news sites.
“Anything about us?” John asked.
“Not specifically, although the intercepted missile is still big news. Things are calming down as ICE-9 is loosening its grip and systems come back online. And especially now that Samaritan is no longer controlling the main ones.”
There was an alarming headline: ‘Arrest Warrant Issued for Billionaire Tech Genius’ .
“Is that you?”
“Logan Pierce,” Harold clarified. “He and a posse of lawyers have since turned himself in.”
“Does that mean we have to go rescue him?”
“Oh.” The phone in Harold’s hand wilted slightly. “Could we leave it five minutes for my painkillers to kick in?”
John smiled. “Sure.”
“Frankly,” Harold resumed, “He seems to be doing a good job of rescuing himself. To quote: ‘I was in the right place at the right time and happened to have the skill set to stop a rogue missile. Who could blame me?’ ”
Yeah. That much publicity would be bad for the Army to try and press charges. Pierce was stopping short of playing the ‘I did what a Patriot should’ card but it was obvious he had it in his hand. Not a jury in the land would convict him.
John propped himself up on one elbow and took over the phone to scroll.
“There’s a number of conspiracy theories around the mysterious name that appeared across Times Square yesterday.” John read aloud: “It’s believed to be the arrogant signature of the hacker who deployed the ICE-9 virus. FBI are cautiously saying ‘Harold Finch’ is a person of interest in their ongoing enquiries.”
Harold shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
There didn’t seem to be anything else that concerned them, and John once again wondered about Harold’s plans for the day. What do you do the morning after you’ve saved the world? Should one of them be responsible and at least order breakfast? There could be a lot to do. Was it down to John to make some sort of list?
“We should probably get up,” he said dutifully.
“Why? Do you have some other place to be?”
John did not. In fact, for the first time in his life, he felt he was the one place he was supposed to be. There were medical considerations though.
“Dr Tillman said to keep moving,” he reminded Harold.
“I’ll let you know if there’s mucus.”
“I thought you’d want clothes?”
“Eventually,” Harold conceded, “But…” He tossed the phone over the side of the bed and then gave a look that John could only describe as wolfish. “But we don’t need clothes right now, do we?”
It was an invitation too good to turn down. John responded cautiously at first by brushing his lips against Harold’s arm. It felt good, it felt right and growing bolder, he shifted his position and kissed the small scar on Harold’s shoulder left by a Decima bullet a million years ago.
“Painkillers working yet?” he mumbled as he worked down to his chest.
“I believe so.”
Enjoying the feel of the wiry hairs on his cheeks, John went lower to his stomach where the hairs softened in texture. There was a deep rumble in Harold’s throat that ended in a surprised ‘Oh’.
John stopped immediately and looked up.
“Problem?”
Harold grinned. “Surprisingly not if you keep doing that.”
“Then I’ll keep doing that.”
EPILOG
Old training habits never die and even carrying a box of solar powered fairy lights, John was habitually stealthy as he made his way up the stairs and onto the roof space. It was late afternoon and New York was starting to dress in its jewellery of office lights and sparkle, ready to hit the spots and show off its finery. No-one could see John though. The roof was not a high building, but circumstances of geography meant it couldn’t be overlooked by anyone. The first time he’d found his way up there, he’d discovered some screening had already been erected to blind the only possible vantage point from a building four blocks away. Adding the fairy lights would not affect privacy.
He’d worked hard on the roof the past week, replacing what was weather damaged and adding some plants and new bird feeders. He’d found a single uncomfortable looking chair up there initially, so he’d replaced it with a freakishly long couch and coffee table. His renovations were almost complete bar the lights, but he was surprised to see a figure was already taking advantage of the couch he’d sweated so hard to haul up there. A figure so familiar, that John’s heart leapt. A figure who’d got a mug of tea on the table in front of him and was so engrossed in a newspaper that he hadn’t heard John’s approach.
The element of stealth and surprise was lost though, as Bear raised his head over the back of the couch and greeted John with a sharp bark. Harold smiled and rose, and they exchanged a slightly awkward hug, John realizing too late that he should have put down his box of lights first.
“You’re back early,” John said. “I wanted all this to be a surprise.”
“It’s a wonderful surprise. I didn’t know you’d ever been up here.”
“I hadn’t. But I figured, knowing you had a love of thinking up on rooftops, there must be a way up here.”
“And you are persistent.” Harold took the box from him and wrapped him in a confident embrace. Lips found each other as if they’d never been apart these two weeks. John draped his arms on his shoulders and grinned.
“I wanted it to be perfect for you,” he explained.
“It is perfect. Bear appreciates it too.”
John eyed the dog sprawled on the couch.
“That wasn’t what I had in mind,” he said. “ Bear, af. ”
Obedient to his core, the dog got down but, as Harold resumed his seat, John kicked off his shoes and laid himself the full length of the couch, resting his head on Harold’s lap. Bear shot him a look of disapproval but settled down at Harold’s feet in martyred protest.
“I wondered why it was so long,” Harold chuckled, and softly raked John’s hair through his hand. Closing his eyes, John gave way to the blissful touch, feeling the tips of fingers move from his hair, to cross his stubble, as a thumb caressed the outline of his cheekbone. Then Harold moved down to his neck and danced over his shirt. Finally coming to rest with two fingers between the buttons so John could feel him on his skin.
“How’s the jet lag?” John asked.
“Tolerable.”
The mysterious message displayed in Times Square had attracted unwelcome attention. Despite Senator Garret releasing a statement that the virus was the work of a rogue group in China, speculation about ICE-9 had continued for some weeks. Was the name ‘Harold Finch’, an accusation, or a boast? A little judicious hacking had shown that FBI Agent Roberts had flagged his suspicions about the man named Harold who’d disappeared from custody, and whose photographs and fingerprints had subsequently been classified as top secret. But Roberts was close to retirement and had been content to assume the files had gone to a higher agency. He wasn’t to know that Harold had prudently cleaned all their servers leaving no-one with any means of connecting him.
Zoe Morgan had been at work too. Fudging the story to suggest ‘Harold Finch’ was the name of the coder who’d originally written the software behind the advertising neon boards. In the event of a catastrophic error, the program had been written to display the author’s name as the programmer’s little joke and completely harmless. It had taken Root only an hour to hack the actual code to make it do that and lay the speculation to rest.
Traveling had still been the first great test of Harold’s brand-new identity and John had been nervous about him leaving the country on his own, but he had insisted it was the right thing to do. The past two weeks apart had felt like such a long time and John had renovated the rooftop to take his mind off Harold versus the FBI, CIA, Interpol, and the TSA. He needn’t have worried, clearly, they were no match. He’d even gotten an earlier flight home.
“I wasn’t expecting you until tomorrow,” John said softly. “Want to talk about it?”
Harold was silent for a full minute, but he kept his hand on John’s chest, emphasizing their connection as he wrestled with what to say.
“It was strange being able to see her and talk to her again,” he finally admitted. “I never thought I’d get a chance to explain everything that has happened.”
“How did she take it?”
“She didn’t actually slap me. So, there’s that… but it was rough at first.”
John laid his hand over Harold’s for support and let him continue. “After the ferry bombing, there were times I thought I should’ve just grabbed her and gone to… I don’t know…Canada or someplace. But I also knew too much had changed and that it was over between us.”
“You were injured and frightened.”
“I’d become a different person. With Nathan and the Government, I lost my sense of innocence. And I had some portion of the guilt for his death to bear.”
“Will she come back from Italy?”
“I don’t know. Possibly. We left things amicably enough I suppose. She did say she wants to speak to you.”
John gave a chuckle: “Maybe she wants to slap me instead?”
“I hurt her. I hurt her very badly. I do have a tendency to alienate the people I care about.”
He pulled his hand back ever so slightly, but John grabbed at it with his own and settled it back over his heart.
“Shhh. Nothing you ever do or say will drive me away.”
In the three months since they’d uploaded the Machine to the satellite, they’d negotiated their way together through so much. Healing. Learning. Rebuilding their lives, accessing what was left of Harold’s money after Samaritan had helped itself and spent so much of it. The hotel had been nice, a vacation from reality, provoking shyness, laughter, and the simple pleasure of exploring each other. They’d taken things slowly, and carefully, initially due to Harold’s ribs but also mindful of John’s relative inexperience. Neither had wanted to cause pain to the other but both had found joy and been hungry for more.
Finding an apartment had seemed a natural next step. Making the adjustments that need making to accommodate moods and habits. Sharing a kitchen: Harold was a hopeless cook but knew every delivery service in the five boroughs. Sharing a bathroom: John leant that despite the appearance of fussiness, he was by far the tidier of the two of them.
Sharing a bed.
Where John leant that Harold had nightmares and was deeply ashamed of them. He’d found him curled up on the couch at 2am and shaking. John was no therapist, so he’d just held him without words. Willing his strength to the other, accepting the tears on his chest, sharing his soul, soaring with his love.
And sometimes there were sleepless nights for the both of them when the weight of experiences threatened to break each of their chests. And they’d talked until dawn, about pain, grief, and silly things. John had shared the story of stealing the keys and driving his dad’s car into the neighbor’s fence when he was eight. Harold had told him about learning to drive a tractor aged seven and that he’d regularly taken responsibility for its use from around nine.
“See. I knew you knew how to milk cows.”
“We were mostly arable,” Harold had replied primly. “But I don’t believe cattle would be that hard to figure out.” He’d thought quite seriously for a time before adding, “Pigs are nice I believe”
“God, you really are from Iowa.”
They’d fantasized of getting a place then. Raising crops and herds. Away from it all. It was fun and silly talk, because they were both secure in the knowledge that neither of them really wanted that other life. Being together was what mattered and New York with its glamor and danger would always be their home.
Up on their rooftop, Root’s voice cut into John’s thoughts.
“Guys, we need you down here. We have a new number.”
The Machine had come back into their lives after two months. A pay phone had rung, and Root and Harold had sprung to action to assist her transition whilst Shaw and he restocked their armory, and Fusco had mostly rolled his eyes. And John and Harold both admitted that while they’d enjoyed the rest and play, they were never happier than to get back to work as well.
“No regrets?” John asked as they took the stairs down.
“Not about finding you.” Harold stopped and looked across at him with a warm smile. “Never that.”
“Good because two weeks apart have given me all sorts of ideas.”
Harold gave a playful shudder. “Oh god. I’ve created a monster.”
John pushed at the iron shutters and swung the empty bookcase out of their way. Ducking under the yellow tape declaring “Danger. Unsafe Area. Do Not Enter”, they relocked the ironwork and restored the pivoting bookcase. Finding Harold’s secret access to the roof in the library hadn’t been so hard once John thought of the vending machine entrance he’d set up in the subway lair.
They passed through stacks of books and the small kitchen area with its electric kettle, microwave, and hot pockets, until they reached the main work area, with its familiar windows with yellow borders and the solid round table holding four monitors and cables to God knows how many computers. The equipment had had to be replaced, and the glass board had been left in shards across Bear’s old bed, but there had been excitement in the clean-up because they were back in business. Harold had been thrilled to be back in the library, and John was happy to watch him bustle and fuss as he and Root rewired the place.
Bear ran through their legs to acknowledge the presence of Shaw, Root, and Lionel. He demanded pats and affection from all then flopped down in contentment on his new bed.
“So how’d it go?” Root asked.
“She didn’t actually slap me,” Harold began, only to be interrupted by a jubilant Lionel.
“Pay up, ladies,” he said with glee.
Harold looked hurt: “You wagered on whether Grace would physically hit me?”
“Hey,” Shaw said. “I thought you deserved it.”
Roo looked unabashed. “I thought it would be fun.”
Lionel gathered their money and said, “Hey, I knew she was too classy a lady. Not that I don’t agree with the deserving part.”
“We have a new number?” John cut in before Harold’s pain took too much of a hold.
“Yes! Peter Valverde.” Root taped a photograph enlarged from a driving license to their new board. “Personal Trainer to a number of bored, rich housewives. Financially solvent, keen runner in the park in the evenings with his dog. Moved to New York three years ago. Don’t know from where because his records are suspiciously sketchy before then.”
Shaw said, “Got to be a jealous husband.”
“Or a shady past catching up with him,” suggested Lionel. “I’ll check if there’s anything on file at headquarters.”
“I’ll go through his apartment while he’s out,” Root said with glee.
“And I’ll go for a run in the park,” said Shaw.
They seemed to have things in hand and Harold was puzzled.
“What do you need from us?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Root replied. “It’s all under control.”
“If everything is under control, why did you call us to come down?”
Shaw clipped the leash to Bear’s collar. “You had the dog.”
Suddenly they were gone, happy to be working together and joking that it was Lionel’s turn to buy lunch. All was quiet except for the reassuring hum of the computers.
“Remember when it just used to be the two of us?” Harold said, looking fondly around the library.
“Desperately making it up as we went along?” John remembered.
“Carter’s disapproval and trying to hunt us down?” A sadness entered the room as soon as Harold finished saying the words. Losing Joss had been their greatest failure. She had been their integrity, their beacon of light when they’d thought the only darkness in the world was HR. If anyone deserved to survive and thrive through the Samaritan madness it should have been her. She made them better people and then she was taken from them too soon.
“Do you think she’d be proud of us?” John asked.
“I don’t know.” Harold leaned back against the desk and put his hands in his pockets. “We took down Samaritan. We saved the world,” he said. “But she didn’t always approve of our methods.”
It was true that deploying ICE-9 would've met with her disapproval, but there was more to Carter than simply following the rules. From the first day John had met her in the police station, she’d tried to help him. As a former soldier herself, she knew the difficulty of readjusting to civilian life, but it was more than that. She’d seen John for the qualities he kept buried deep inside. Perhaps it was no surprise that he’d thought of her when he was dying of hypothermia and a gunshot wound all those months ago. Carter wanted him to appreciate the good person he was inside, and to allow others in. To remove the barriers he put up against the people he loved. To shorten the distance to himself and other people: especially to the person he loved the most.
And John realized he could say the words.
Harold had never pressed him or expected a declaration. He’d made it clear that he understood and that he didn’t need to hear the words to feel secure, but for the first time in his life, John was ready to say them. He slid his hands to Harold’s waist, planted a soft kiss on his forehead, and said, “I love you.”
Harold held his gaze. Long enough to show he understood the value of the moment. Long enough to show the reciprocity of his own feelings.
“I love you too,” he said.
“I know.”
Harold barked a laugh. “Well, if there’s nothing to do here." He grinned. "Let’s go home.”
THE END