Work Text:
“Stay there. I’m coming to get you.”
Harold doesn’t even register the click of the disconnected phone call. The part of his brain that is still somewhat functioning logically is torn between terror at how he has forgotten to take out his earpiece, and awe at how John has kept the connection going, even as Harold has fallen asleep at his table in front of his computers in the library. The part of his brain that’s still functioning clearly knows that this is his coping mechanism; he drives himself to exhaustion in order to forget the things he doesn’t want to think about, the things that are prohibiting him from doing what’s truly needed from him, especially when innocent lives are at stake.
The part of his brain, however, that’s still suffering from PTSD (he’s self-aware enough to acknowledge it) doesn’t let him forget. Root has invaded his dreams, and in them he has died a thousand deaths and has suffered a million tortures and has watched the varying degrees of disappointment in John’s face as it’s happening, and he hasn’t even realised that he has woken up screaming until John’s urgent voice in his ear pulls him harshly back to reality.
He isn’t sure what he said to John or what John said to him in the throes of his nightmare. He isn’t even sure he hasn’t imagined the steel in John’s voice as he declares he’s coming for him, because Harold isn’t sure that it isn’t his brain succumbing to wishful thinking all over again, the way it had when Root took him and—and—
A warm, wet nudge at his hand makes him look down, grinding his screeching thoughts to a halt, and the small smile that pulls at the corners of his mouth is genuine when he sees Bear whimpering in sympathy as he places his chin on Harold’s lap. He reaches out to thread his fingers through the dog’s soft fur; dimly he realises his hands are shaking. Bear seems to have felt it too, and whimpers louder.
He hears footsteps echoing from a short distance away—slow, deliberate, making themselves known—and Bear perks up, ears straight and tail wagging joyfully. A painful, tightly-wound knot in Harold’s chest eases despite himself, coupled with a leaden weight in his stomach that fills Harold with shame.
Harold looks up just in time to see a figure step out of the shadows, familiar and dear, and instantly the monsters in his head are quieted.
“Good evening, Mr. Reese,” he greets softly.
Bear leaps toward John happily, front paws clawing at John’s pants, and Harold feels the tension drain out of his limbs at the instant calm that washes over him, the sight before him suffusing him with warmth and fondness. He sees the rare moment John’s features soften as he ruffles Bear’s ears, before he looks up and catches Harold’s gaze, making Harold inhale sharply.
Something in John’s eyes seems to harden again, and he bends down to whisper something to Bear and pats the dog’s rear twice. Bear seems to understand, and instantly he is padding toward Harold again. Harold blinks as Bear settles himself by Harold’s feet, looking up at him with rapt attention, and Harold feels himself flushing as he realises the implications of John’s quiet command.
Bear is on guard duty—and it seems like he isn’t the only one.
Feeling his pulse quicken for an entirely different reason now, Harold watches John’s movements, almost feline in its quality: slow, graceful, quiet. John settles himself on the couch by the far end of the wall from across Harold, giving him a wide berth the way one would give a scared, helpless, wounded animal, and Harold doesn’t know whether to be relieved, thankful, or ashamed.
Bear must have sensed his distress because he noses tentatively at Harold’s shoes, and it gives him the courage to pull himself together.
“I’m sorry to have frightened you, Mr. Reese,” he says sincerely, and he is horrified to hear his voice tremble; he feels even the tips of his ears flush at the shame that courses through him. He takes a deep breath as he struggles to continue. “I’m perfectly safe, as you can see for yourself.” He looks down at Bear and manages a small smile as he pats the dog’s head; Bear closes his eyes as his tail thumps against the floor, relishing the praise and gratitude. “Bear here has been a very efficient guard dog.”
Bear woofs in agreement, and the warmth that fills the inside of Harold’s chest at the proud little smile that spreads across John’s features has nothing to do with shame anymore. When John’s eyes flicker from their dog (their dog? Harold thinks in alarm) to gaze at him, Harold has to force himself to not look away.
John’s expression is deliberately, carefully neutral, but there is a simmering heat in his gaze that even the shadows of the library can’t mask. Harold has always felt it directed at him, but more so recently, as John doesn’t seem to anymore notice nor care if Harold sees.
In fact, it seems like John… wants Harold to see him. To see… the way he looks at him.
He swallows. “Mr. Reese?” Harold inquires hesitantly when the silence stretches.
John tilts his head thoughtfully, starkly reminiscent of Bear, before he finally speaks.
“What were you apologising for, Finch?”
Harold blinks. There is no judgement in John’s tone, just mere curiosity, and for a moment, Harold has no idea what John’s talking about. He looks down at Bear, whose head is cocked similarly but in the opposite direction, and he has a moment of comical amusement before it all comes crashing back.
Root’s bland smile, the syringe in her hand transforming into various torture devices; sometimes a blade, sometimes a gun, sometimes something much, much worse.
The screaming, so much screaming. So much blood. So many dead faces, so many people he failed to save, the images tacked to his wall transforming into cold, lifeless corpses in front of him, their blank eyes staring accusingly at him.
(In one of the dreams, Root used a branding iron to mark him with the word: “MURDERER”)
Pain. So much pain. None of it hurting as much as… the look on John’s face.
“I’m sorry, John. I’m so, so sorry.”
A shudder wracks his frame violently, and he feels more than sees the way both of his devoted guardians suddenly tense. He shakily raises a hand, a wordless indication to just let him be, and he senses both his guards force themselves back, Bear nudging at his legs, John sitting slowly back down.
So that’s what John heard over the phone, Harold realises, and the shame washes over him tenfold. He removes his glasses and wipes a clammy hand over his face, and isn’t surprised to feel the cold sweat breaking out of him.
He takes several, deep, calming breaths. He once promised that he would never lie to John. He isn’t going to do so now. Not when John deserves to know this from him.
“I’m sorry,” Harold says quietly, mournfully, “for disappointing you, John.”
He can’t quite meet John’s eyes—he’s terrified of what he’ll see—so he looks at Bear instead even as it’s John he’s addressing. “There are things…” he hesitates for a moment, swallowing against a suddenly dry throat, “there are things I know about you, Mr. Reese, that I know you’d rather not let anyone else know.” He reaches out to scratch Bear’s chin; the dog’s ears flatten in obvious distress over him. He smiles in sincere apology—both to the dog, and to the man who deserves it most from him.
“I know about the things the CIA made you do. The things they made you go through. The things they made you—” he stumbles over using the word ‘suffer’ and quickly thinks better of it, “—endure.”
Bear is quiet and still as Harold gently strokes the top of his head. “Do you know… exactly what it is that leaves me in awe of you, Mr. Reese?” he says softly as he finally, finally forces himself to face the man he deeply admires the most—and the one to whom he now owes his life.
There is so much pain in John’s eyes that Harold can’t help but be struck breathless from it. And yet at the same time, there is so much wonder in them too, as John seems to be holding his breath along with Harold, waiting for him to continue.
“John,” Harold breathes, and he doesn’t anymore care how vulnerable he sounds, because this is John, and he knows, without a doubt, that with him, he’s safe. “I want you to know… that I am humbled by your strength despite it all.”
John’s eyes widen.
Harold lets out a harsh, watery laugh. “And yet here you are, working for… for such a weakling like me, who can’t even… function, after just one measly kidnapping, and—”
“Stop.”
Harold stares at him helplessly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Reese… for failing you, for disappointing you, for not being strong enough to—”
“I said stop it, Harold.”
“Why?” Harold cries, slamming his palm flat on the table and making Bear jump in surprise; he is suddenly, inexplicably angry. “Why won’t you just let me admit how weak I am?”
“Because I won’t let you continue to insult the best man I know.”
Harold pulls back as if he’s been struck. John’s hands are curled into fists, the tension obvious in the hard set of his shoulders, and Harold knows that whatever anger he’s feeling at the moment is nothing compared to how John is vibrating with repressed fury.
Harold slumps in his chair, defeated; below him, Bear lets out a woeful whine. “How can you say that, still?” Harold whispers tiredly, feeling all the fight bleed out of him.
John swiftly stands and approaches him, a fierce intensity burning in his eyes like a predator on the prowl, and for a moment, Harold is reminded of how formidable a presence John Reese is. He straightens and braces himself when John reaches out, and is overwhelmingly startled when John touches his computer instead.
“… Mr. Reese?” Harold says timidly, feeling strangely off-kilter.
And just like that, the fire in John’s gaze fizzles into something softer, gentler.
“You know, Harold,” he murmurs as his fingers trail over the monitor, his gaze following the movement. “For a genius, you can be utterly obtuse.”
Bear woofs and pants in enthusiastic agreement. Wounded, Harold glares at the dog in utter betrayal. Bristling, he begins to protest. “Mr. Reese—”
“Compared to a genius like you,” John speaks over him deliberately, and Harold doesn’t know whether to be relieved or insulted at the lightness of John’s tone and at the playfulness that’s back in his gaze. “What I know doesn’t even touch the tip of the iceberg compared to what you know.”
His arm drops to his side as his gaze takes on a faraway look. “I know that a genius like you knows how the world works,” he murmurs. “And I know you know that it’s… merciless.” This time, John levels his piercing gaze straight at him. “You created the Machine. You know that more than anyone.”
Unbidden, Harold thinks of Nathan, and then of Jessica, and remembers their lifeless faces in his dreams, sometimes blurring into one. He swallows, but doesn’t speak. John regards him a moment longer, pinning him with his gaze, and Harold allows himself to be held still like a butterfly under a microscope, ready for whatever judgement John will give him.
He knows he deserves it, whatever it will be.
Bear is looking back and forth between them, unsure of which master is in more need of his comfort and support. Harold holds his breath at their tense stalemate, his heart thumping against his ribs like a trapped bird flapping its wings against the cage—and feels it leap to his throat when John suddenly speaks.
“Do you know… exactly what it is that leaves me in awe of you, Finch?”
Harold opens his mouth soundlessly, too stunned at the way John meaningfully throws his own words back at him. There is an equal softness to John’s smile and his gaze, and Harold finally realises… he has been utterly obtuse indeed.
“Why?” he whispers, feeling something akin to hope bloom in his chest.
John steps closer. “Because despite it all… you are still a good man.”
John kneels before him, and by some unspoken communication, Bear shuffles back to make room. This way, he and John are finally level, seeing each other eye-to-eye, equal in every way.
Slowly, John reaches out to take Harold’s injured hand. He turns it over and runs his forefinger lightly over the bandage, and Harold shivers, feeling the tingling sensation all the way down his spine.
“You’re not weak, Harold,” John whispers. He bends down and presses a lingering kiss to Harold’s knuckles, and Harold feels the way they both tremble. “But without you… I am.”
Harold’s eyes widen as John guides his hand to press against John’s chest. Beneath his fingers, he could feel John’s heart beating in sync with his own: rapid-fire like a rain of bullets, just as dangerous… and just as thrilling.
“So do me the courtesy,” John’s other hand reaches out to cup Harold’s cheek, and Harold can’t help but lean into the touch, so comforting and warm, “of not leaving me behind.”
His half-lidded gaze finds John smiling serenely at him, like he is something precious, something to be treasured, to be protected at all cost.
Harold’s heart skips a beat as he realises that the sentiment is completely reciprocal.
“And don’t insult me,” John says, the threat of the words gentled by his tone, low and soft, as he leans forward and touches his forehead to Harold’s, the gust of his breath warm against Harold’s face, “by thinking I would just easily let you go.”
Harold finds himself smiling back as he steadily cups the back of John’s head, gently urging him closer. “I’m sorry,” he says, heartfelt, and this time—for all the right reasons.
Harold looks at the way John’s eyes shine for him, because of him, and allows the light in them to obliterate the lingering shadows of his dreams.
John mimics him, sliding his hand to clutch at Harold’s nape, and in their mirror image, Harold realises that they are one and the same: two men who finally found something worth fighting for, in each other.
John smiles, and breathes against his lips.
“Apology accepted.”