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A war ends before most people know there's one. Their chance of winning is zero in billions, which equals to impossible, let alone for them to survive. But they win.
The world had been a daze since all networks are down, the internet, communications, every channel of information is blocked. News, suspicions, and rumors spread no slower than the Ice-nine virus. It's a global-scale panic fed up with all kinds of noises.
For Harold, it's sitting in radio static waiting for someone to call. There are only a few things matter to him now, but those who hold the information are either still fighting for the world on a far away satellite or trying her best in the surgery room. There's not much Harold can do apart from trusting them.
It's during the third surgery when Harold gets the call. The surgery will take hours, so he leaves the hospital shortly to grab a bite, and a pay phone's ring wakes him from the drowsy silence he's been carrying with. He picks up the phone with heart in his throat, wondering whose voice, which news he'll hear. What will be the first sentence she chooses to say to him?
Nothing as complicated as he thinks. The simplest nine digitals, which means a person waiting for their help, which means she's won, recreated herself and back to her job, which means life regains its rhythm composed with numbers that each is as unique and complex and worth fighting for.
Weeks later, another information Harold's been waiting to confirm also settles. John's allowed to leave the hospital with tons of doctor's instruction. Stay at home and rest properly. Eat properly. Change the wound dressing properly. No. I don't care how important the job is you have to take care of yourself first. So no running around. Avoid strenuous exercises. Walk the dog? You may sit with the dog in the first few weeks.
Harold promises the doctor he'll take the responsibility and John will follow doctor's orders before she gets mad. Then, he drives them back to the apartment. Not Professor Whistler's or Detective Riley's. Theirs. There's no need to hide away from Samaritan's eyes. No need to hide in lives belonged to two strangers anymore.
Harold feels the knot that has tangled in his chest finally starts to loosen the moment he sees John's face lits up stepping into the living room.
"You haven't seen the other rooms yet," Harold says, allowing his self-proud to show just a little.
John turns to him with amazement and adoration in his eyes. He wraps his arms around Harold's waist, pulling him closer. "You continue to surprise me, Harold."
"I'm glad," Harold says, and then stands on tiptoes to gently press his lips on John's, tasting the curve brought back on his face because of happiness. "Welcome back."
Harold had made sure their apartment looks the same as the old one they shared before being forced apart. The relative position of the lamp, the side table, and the sofa, where they used to read together. John's favorite carpet which is soft and warm enough for them to walk on it barefoot. The exact height of the kitchen table for John to prepare their meals and for Harold to work there while enjoying each other's company. Their bed with Harold's favorite sheet on it and nightstands on both sides, John's nearer to the door and with an extra drawer.
Harold loves to think of rebuilding those familiarities as a way to reclaim their life before everything that happened - those hurt and suffering John had been through because of him. He loves to think that everything will start to get better from now.
It's not everything.
All seems well at first when their concern is mostly about John's physical recovery. John needs lots of sleep for his body to regain strength. Sometimes when he's tired but having trouble falling asleep, Harold will read to him. John will doze off hearing his voice before the book is finished. Harold also makes sure to be there whenever John's awake in case he needs anything. Harold can work at home, and they are also not the only team now, so he can spend as much time as he wants to help the one person he cares for the most whom the fate didn't take away from him. After John's state gets better, Shaw comes three times a week to help with his physical training.
To his surprise, despite John's teasing back in the hospital - Harold can recall the first thing he did after waking up from the almost death was to tell him he was fine and apparently couldn't die yet since he still had a job to do. Which Harold knew was again John's tender way trying to comfort him - John doesn't ask to go back to the field after he knows the Machine starts giving numbers, or after he can move around more easily, or after the first week of his training with Shaw.
Harold is relieved. He thought it'd take lots of talking, but it turns out John suddenly becomes the best patient of the year. John even admits multiple times that he doesn't feel well and asks if Harold can stay with him and of course Harold says yes. If this change is just about John becomes more willingly to show his vulnerability, about John finally understands that he doesn't need to put the weight of the world on his shoulder all the time, there's nothing Harold wants to complain. But something isn't quite right. Harold doesn't know what it is. He hates the feeling.
Every day after the sun sets, something creeps in during the night, like liquid seeping into every crack on its way, it starts slowly, soundlessly, and before being noticed, it soaks through their bed sheet and mattress. It brings dark shadows both under John's eyes and haunting in their room.
Sometimes Harold is wakened by John's groans - a series of low, intermittent sounds like weeping chocked in his throat. His body is sweaty and stiff as if he's fighting against something in the dream that paralyzes him but is failing to move any limb.
"Hey, John, it's okay, you're safe here, my dear." Harold leans close and puts a hand on John's arm, patting and then stroking firmly. "I'm here."
John's eyelids flutter at Harold's word, struggling.
"You're fine. I'm here, John."
John opens his eyes with a gasp, and Harold can see the terror and sorrow swelled in them up-close. John seems so lost like he's drowning and desperate trying to catch something, to find some proof to make sure he's safe now.
This is real. Harold wants to say. He's at home. Not somewhere from the nasty dream. Not alone on a windy, cold, goddamn rooftop.
But Harold can't trust his voice if he says any of those things. Instead, he closes the gap between them, wrapping John into his arms. He can feel John's heart beating fiercely as their chests pressed together like this. He smooths up and down John's sweat-soaked back and keeps giving comforting words.
Moments later, John pushes out a breath, voice hoarse and broken. "Harold?"
"Yes," Harold answers, feeling John's one hand tightens on his elbow. He clings to this touch as much as John does. The storm has passed.
He's safe now. Harold tells himself, trying to make peace with the aching in his chest.
John is safe.
Harold knows it takes time for both of them to believe their luck. Even given John's CIA history, what he'd been through on that roof was something huge. John almost died. Just thinking about how close he was to lose John drives him crazy, and he can't imagine how bad it must feel, almost dying. The pain, and fear, and loneliness.
And Harold refuses to let John feel that way ever again.
John never tells him what he dreams of. Retelling one's dying experience must be hard. So, Harold only offers that whenever John wants to talk about it, he'll be there, but doesn't push it.
Because if John Reese decides to guard something deep inside his heart - like how he used to do before they realized their feeling to the other was mutual - even Harold's ability won't be able to pass the wall and access it. Also, he doesn't want to force it. He will wait and be prepared for him in case someday John needs it.
—
When John says goodbye to Harold, he really believes it's the last time - and he's happy, satisfied with how it ends. He's lucky to die saving him.
But he doesn't die.
Before waking up from the darkness, John expects there'll be scolding. A part of him wishes it to happen, actually, because it means Harold survives, and - John laughs at himself because although he's willing to give up everything, even his life, there's still something he doesn't want to lose - it means Harold doesn't leave him.
Harold is alive. And Harold doesn't scold him. There are only lots of tears and smiles and Harold Finch being speechless for the longest time John has ever seen because he's too overwhelmed knowing John beats death again. And Harold doesn't leave him. In fact, he stays with John 24/7 making sure every need John might have is fulfilled.
John knows the Machine is back online and is giving numbers to the team on a daily basis. Shaw and Fusco cooperate as partners in the field with Harold's and Leon's help as tech and information support. Root only drops by occasionally. Helping numbers is never her interest, but, to quote what she says, it doesn't hurt to relive some cozy, good old day vibes with Shaw in the middle of it. She probably still does some things the Machine assigns her, but since she promises there's nothing even close to an AI war, they don't want to be too concern about what she does.
Secretly, John thinks the reason why Harold sticks to his side, apart from taking care of him, is because he's afraid John might slip away and go back to the field before full recovery. John understands where Harold's worry comes from, considering his own record. But now? John fears Harold to leave him too much to consider leaving him to save the world.
John doesn't blame Harold for what he did because he also did the same to him. He understands the feeling all too well. They've loved each other for so long they both know that John will go through hell any time for Harold and Harold will always choose to leave his loved ones if he believes they'll be safer without him.
Those nightmares shouldn't bother him that much. John tries to reason with himself. They aren't real. It's just his mind doing tricks. This syndrome always shows after people get back to a relatively safer situation, John knows how it works. They are both safe here, at their home. Harold prepares this place for both of them. Harold isn't going to leave him behind.
But he can't control how he feels once his consciousness enters the dream's territory, where it's still at war, where he's still fighting.
How long? He can't tell. It feels like he never really leaves here. There's no sound, no one pulls the trigger, but he feels he's shot through the chest. He presses his hand on where hurts the most, but there's no blood. He grabs his shirt tightly and finds his heart is breaking. It all just dust. He tries to make sounds. There's something so important he must say it out loud before it's too late. He feels it's all too late, every word chocked in his throat, and he can't breathe. His eyes are burning.
Somewhere behind his back, there's a phone ringing.
John must catch that call. It's important. There's a deal he had made a long time ago. But he can't move.
He and Harold are walking on the street, like always. Harold is explaining something to him. Bear is there with them. '... you understand.' Harold says. John doesn't catch it. They are in a park. But Bear is not there. And then John can't move his legs, but Harold doesn't seem to notice. There are so many people between them all in an instance. Harold keeps walking further and into the crowd, The way he limps seems painful but determined. Harold does notice John doesn't follow. But he doesn't wait. He is leaving.
The world stills as he realizes, people between them stand like endless doors that are more like walls now, blocking the way and leading to nowhere. John can't find a way to open them. There's no way to open people's heart like doors. '... I'll call you.' It's Harold's voice. He's a very private person. Sometimes he leaves doors half-opened for him to find. Sometimes he's the shut door. The door means don't follow. The door means goodbye.
The phone keeps ringing. John has to catch the call. But he doesn't know where it is, and he can't move. 'The Machine? The Machine is everywhere.'
Harold is nowhere to be seen. This world is cold and empty and there's no one on the street. No doors. No walls. All he sees are pay phones standing in an abandoned city like nameless tombs. He tries to move his legs toward one of them. They're so heavy, like stones. Stones that make tombs. John picks up the receiver - the ringing still echoing in his ears - and she apologizes, 'Sorry, John. A deal is a deal.'
"No," he groans, "Please."
There's no sound, but he feels he's shot. The bullet must pierce through the lungs because he can't take in the air anymore. He hears himself grasping hard. 'You know as well as I do... he wasn't... let you die.'
She's almost gone, her voice distorted.
"No." John fights to take back control over his body, but it refuses to follow his will. John doesn't have a body. He's just a tomb. He is already dead. "Wait!" he screams, but no one is there to hear it.
But there's someone else's voice among those screams, calling his name. There's a firm hand grabs him and pulls him gently.
"John... John..." He recognizes the voice. Anywhere. In every life. The voice that always leads him out of the dark and to somewhere safe. "I'm here."
John inhales sharply and wakes up. Harold looks at him, eyes full of worry and concern.
Harold is here.
John wants to say something but can't find his voice. For a few minutes, he just stares at Harold's face, trying to believe this is real. Harold is here, holding him, his body warm and his heart beating steadily. Harold keeps smoothing his arm and back through his daze. Harold kisses his sweaty temple and hair. Harold murmurs comforting words near his ear.
This is real. This has to be.
After a while, when his heartbeats gradually slow down and in sync with Harold's, Harold loosens their hug a little without breaking the touch, hands cupping his cheeks.
"Do you want some water?" Harold asks, and then passes him a glass of water. He always puts it on his nightstand before they go to bed because John'll need it but there was one time when Harold was about to leave and fetch water, John unconsciously grabbed his arm too hard it left a bruise on it.
John feels miserable.
Harold worries, but he never forces John to tell him about his dreams. John is grateful that Harold gives him space. He doesn't know how to say it without sounding accusing, without reminding both of them that John was the one who almost succeeded to sacrifice himself.
Although what Harold did in the vault hurt him, so much deeper than he thought, John feels he's the one should be blamed. Not Harold. Never Harold. So he chooses to endure in silence, hoping those nightmares will one day fade away.
It only gets worse.
It's getting harder for John to fall asleep. Knowing Harold is just inches away only makes those potential dreams even more terrifying. What if all these aren't real after all? What if this time John wakes up and finds the other side of his bed is always cold and empty and he's just too grief to tell dreams from the reality?
And John's nightmares also start to affect Harold. The second time John discovers Harold is dozing off in front of his laptop, he suggests it might be better for him to sleep in another room that night. To which Harold disapproves immediately.
"Why do you have to stay in another room in your own home?" Harold asks while taking off his clothes.
"It's bad enough that I can't be useful to help numbers, Harold. And now I'm making you sleep deprived. You didn't hire me for this."
"You're still recovering. Doctor's orders. And I remember what I hired you for, Mr. Reese," Harold replies, his tone tightens as if he's angry at himself, "And you've always given more than this job requires. I hope I know how to let you see it. Don't you think after eve... everything you've done, you're owed at least some good night's sleep? Besides, how does it have anything to do with the employment?" Harold holds his tie, lost as if he doesn't know where to put it. As if it's something beloved, something he cherishes too much to know what to do with it apart from holding it upon his palms.
After a while, John takes it from his hands and then hangs it up carefully for him.
"I started to do this because Nathan was right," Harold continues, "Everyone has someone waiting for them to come home safe. This job is important to me, John, and so are you."
"Simply think it doesn't worth it." John swallows while paying close attention to his voice.
Harold glances at him but says nothing. He goes to fetch the water, put it on the nightstand, and then pushes back the blanket. "Come on," he says, inviting, and then waits patiently for John to join him.
"You know, it's interesting, when I think about it," Harold says after they're both lying comfortably in bed, shoulder touched.
John reaches out a hand to massage Harold's neck and back shoulder like he always does. Harold turns a little for John to get better access.
"Thank you, dear," Harold says, then continues, "You might feel you aren't worthy of the love people willing to give, but you are. There's no one unworthy of the love they receive. Never doubt it. Never. Because I only understand this because of you."
John lets out a sound, and Harold pats his thigh gently. "I understand you also concern about the job, John. And I can assure you now that the Machine is entirely free, and we also have some more help hands, what you're worrying about won't happen. Everything is going to be fine."
—
Harold hopes he knows how to make John feel better. He doesn't care that much about his own lack of rest, but his heart aches every time seeing John struggling in his sleep, where should be the place brings him peace and rest. Here should be his home. Here should make him feel safe.
If he could walk into John's dream and chase those bad things away, he would, but people's minds aren't computers that can be scanned to get rid of the virus. Harold doesn't know what to do except to stay with him if John doesn't want to talk about it.
A few more weeks pass, John is fully recovered and back to the job. It's like he never left for a day. He's doing it excellently. Harold pays attention to their connection and camera feed carefully, but nothing seems to be out of ordinary. Ms. Shaw and Detective Fusco don't pick up anything worrisome, either. Everything is fine. John's physical ability and judgment are as sharp as ever, and he doesn't show symptoms that might be fatal in the field. All these don't explain why John still endures those nightmares at night. Harold knows this can be more complicated than just examining factors he comes up with, but it's getting harder for him to see John suffer helplessly.
Then, in the middle of helping a number, their connection is down. Harold tries and tries but still can't fix the technical issue. Ms. Shaw is already on her way to the number's house, but the perpetrator might slip away if John doesn't get the info in time. Worrying that there might be some other people get hurt, Harold leaves their new HQ and the handler role to Leon and goes to reach John.
John looks very uneasy seeing Harold goes to the post. Harold understands. John always gets worried when Harold is also in the field. He doesn't want to distract him, so he's going to make it quick and simple. He gives John the info he needs and then is about to leave, but-
"No!" John rushes to catch up with him so fast they almost clash. "Don't." His voice is breaking. It shakes Harold's heart.
Harold turns back, startled and confused. "What? What happened?"
John shuts his eyes and barely shakes his head, one hand still clinging to the sleeves of Harold's coat, his knuckles painfully white. John grabs it like it's the one last thing that holds the world together. As if everything is going to vanish once that piece of cloth slips from his fingers.
"No, it's not..." John shakes his head again - as if he's making an effort on arguing with himself - but he doesn't let go. He can't let Harold leave for some reason, but at the same time, he's afraid that he might be hurting him. He's in so much agony.
"Okay, John, I won't. What happened? Are you in pain?" Was there anything happened when he couldn't access the audio and video feed? Did it hurt him or trigger his bad memories? Do they need to ask for backups now? And how? Harold starts to list every possible thing he might have to go through while touching John's face trying to calm him.
"No." Still the same word. John visually tries to control his breathing, and after a few seconds he says, voice hoarse, "It's nothing. I'm sorry, Harold." And then he loosens his grab. "I'll take care of the rest."
"Sorry for what?" Harold whispers, utterly lost with his heart sinking.
But John already closes himself off and back to his usual self.
No. It's an overly-controlled and emotionless machine which is everything John isn't.
That night John's dream turns out to be so bad he's crying.
Harold leans closer to wake him up, thinking he can't bear to see this anymore. They'll have to talk about it. And he'll do whatever he can to solve this. He'll have to.
Eyes-opened but still a bit out of focus, John can't stop tears falling down his cheeks, but he doesn't make any sound. He looks so lost, so confused. His gaze falls on Harold's face, but Harold can't be sure if John sees him, or his gaze just passes through him as if he's a ghost.
Harold wipes those tears tenderly with his thumb, his other four fingers caressing John's jaw. "What happened, John?" he asks, "Can you please tell me? What did you dream of that makes you so upset?"
John's eyelashes flutter. They are soft and frail and now wetted because of tears. Under them is something raw and unguarded.
John makes a sound.
"Yes?" Harold doesn't quite catch it.
"I called for you but you're so far away." John buries his face on Harold's chest, murmuring.
Harold stills, his heart soaked with John's sorrow in a trice and then it bleeds all over him. Why didn't he understand it earlier? How could he be so stupid?
None of them says anything for a brief moment. John can't hold back his sobbing once he let his dream pass the boundary. Harold sees his fear drops and forms and grows between them. A little monster. He thinks. And tentatively, Harold moves his arms around John, hugging him along with the creature they sort of created together.
"I kept asking myself what devil was there in your dream," Harold says after John eventually stops crying and shaking, "and I missed the obvious, that it is me. I'm so-"
"No, I'm sorry, Harold. It's me," John interrupts to apologize, and Harold's heart only sinks deeper.
"Was that why you couldn't talk to me?" Harold asks, "Why you chose to endure it all by yourself?"
"I didn't know how. I didn't want you to feel like it was your fault because it wasn't."
"I hurt you," Harold says unhappily.
"You have your reasons." John's words come out stiff.
It's not a deny. He hurts John. Harold repeats it in his mind.
"I did the same thing to you, I know," John says while sitting back, even though Harold doesn't even think of mentioning it. Even though they both always know what'd happened that day without actually talking about it. "But it's just unacceptable. You created the Machine, Harold. She listens to you, and if I hadn't... You might be dead, and I can't... You must know that I-"
"I know. I know." Harold reaches out and covers his hand on John's, craving to remain the touch. "I understand the feeling all too well. There's never a day it isn't terrifying, knowing what you're willing to do to protect people. To protect me. And it did hurt like dying, I know it now, to be left behind-"
John shifts uneasily, but Harold only pats his hand for a few times and then continues in a mild voice. "-When I stood there seeing you saying goodbye, and when I couldn't do anything but waiting for the doctor to come to me. I feared what news she'd bring to me, that maybe I'd leave the hospital alone."
John pulls him into an embrace, his lips pressed on the small of his neck and his arms holding tight around his waist. "Harold, I'm-"
"I am sorry that I make you feel that way, John," Harold finishes slowly but firmly, "I never want to hurt you. It seemed like there wasn't another way back then. But maybe I should've tried harder. There must be another way."
He'll find it for him. And if it hasn't existed yet, he'll build it.
Harold lets himself relax further into John's embrace, surrounded by his warmth and scent and heartbeats that beats strongly and steadily. He is here. They are both here. Alive. This is real.
After a while, John chuckles.
"What's so interesting, my dear?" Harold asks, amused but happy. He misses how happiness feels like through John's whole body.
"Nah, just... You can be dramatic sometimes, Harold."
"Oh? How so?" Harold decides to indulge him a bit more.
"And unreasonably romantic," John mutters, "You know what you just say sounds pretty impossible, right?"
"Indeed," Harold agrees, "I'm well aware of it. But John, we fought an ASI that wanted to take over the world and won the war. I think we'll manage."
John agrees.
—
A few numbers later, one day Harold comes out of the shower and finds John fast asleep on their bed. He didn't even pull up the covers, parts of it pressed under his body.
At first, Harold thinks of waking him. He might catch a cold. Or maybe he'll need to adjust to a more comfortable position, but-
John sleeps so soundly, his forehead and eyebrows relaxed, and his lips parted just a little. He looks younger and very peaceful, and Harold is willing to give anything to make this moment stay longer.
He takes another blanket and covers it gently over John, then he sits soundlessly beside him, can't help reaching out to touch John's face, wondering what might be happening in his mind right now.
He hopes John is dreaming something beautiful. The world he protects. People he loves. People who love him. He hopes it is full of light and hope and everything John deserves. And if he dreams of him, then, he hopes he is braver this time.
Harold falls asleep curling up with him.
When he wakes up again, he senses John's gaze falling on him.
"Morning," John says, smiling.
"Did you sleep well?" Harold asks.
"Hum."
"What time is it?"
"Five in the morning." Then John yawns.
With chuckles, Harold suggests, "Stay and sleep for a bit more?"
"Good suggestion," John murmurs, "as long as you're here."
"Sure. Always," Harold replies while kissing the corner of John's curved lips.
Saving the world won't be enough if he isn't in it.
And what's the point of appreciating the world's beauty if they can't do it together?
They think before drifting back into the dream's land in each other's arms.