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The name and wallet of Harold Crane carries a lot of weight in New York's hospitals. Not a single awkward question has been asked since Harold used his waning strength to bark orders over the phone. No cops have shown up, even though it's standard procedure for a gunshot wound. One of Harold's orders was a firm, "He stays with me," and no one has said a damn word about making John leave.
Which is good. If he didn't go to jail for putting a bullet in Harold's gut, he would definitely be on his way there if someone tried to force him to leave him.
Instead, he gets to sit at Harold's bedside, waiting for Harold to wake up again, watching the muted heart monitor or the slow rise and fall of Harold's chest. Harold sailed through the surgery just fine, then woke up enough after to squeeze John's hand and smile at him before the drugs and exhaustion took him under again.
That was yesterday. Harold has been doing well, even managed a brief, miserable walk—at the staff's insistence—when he was awake. John has barely left his side.
Harold looks wrong like this. It's not the first time John's watched him sleep, but it's the first time Harold's ever looked frail. His skin is ghost pale, colorless, every shadow stark upon it. A thin hospital gown hangs loosely over him, covering the tangle of tubes and wires creeping away from his body. Small. Harold looks small beneath the blankets and the medical paraphernalia. Harold is always larger than life, a commanding presence no matter the circumstances. But like this...it's far too easy for John to imagine him as a corpse, cold and waxy and gone.
Harold's hand is cool in John's—but not cold, thank fuck—his skin soft and smooth, the back of the hand covered in an ugly bruise, similar to the other mottled reddish-purple bruises scattered on his arms that look even darker in the dimly lit room. John thinks of kissing the bruise, but doesn't, doesn't deserve to.
Difficult veins. John could've gone his whole life without having heard Harold apologize to a nurse for having veins that hated needles as much as him.
Better would be not knowing the look in Harold's eyes when he's wordlessly encouraging somebody to shoot him. Or what sound Harold makes when a bullet hits him, a quiet, pained grunt that's going to star in John's nightmares until the end of time. Or what situation it would take to make shooting Harold the right call.
Their number was young, barely eighteen, and six months pregnant. The perp gave John a choice—her or Harold. And there hadn't been enough time to wait for backup. Too many guns pointed at all of them and an ultimatum: Harold, or Madison and her unborn baby. By the time he'd learned that Madison was neither barely eighteen nor pregnant, that it was all a ploy to take out the Man in the Suit and his boss both at once before carrying out a bigger plan, John had put a bullet in Harold's gut.
Seconds later, Shaw and Fusco burst in.
The only thing that kept John from going on a killing spree after was Harold. Stemming the blood flow, keeping him calm, avoiding upsetting him with more bloodshed. Kissing him, just in case he never got the chance again. Apologizing—so many apologies. John still doesn't know what happened to the guys who snatched Harold, but he knows what will happen to them if Harold doesn't pull through.
John knows what will happen to him, too.
Guilt grinds away in his stomach, sickening and painful. He should've seen this coming, should've noticed somehow that Madison's bump was a fake, that she wasn't really a teenager. Or he should've found a way out that wasn't shooting Harold. He'd been careful with how he aimed his gun, trying like hell to minimize the damage to Harold's body, but he still managed to nick Harold's bowel, still caused the person he cares the most about in the world agonizing pain.
God, it doesn't matter how hard he tried. He hurt Harold. The second he aimed his gun, the second he accepted Harold's nod as the permission it was, he set out on that road. And there's no turning back.
He's always known he was a monster. This just confirms it. Harold never should've let him touch him. All John ever does is hurt everyone who matters. It's been his worst fear since the day he realized Harold was important to him, that Harold was special, that he loved this weird and brilliant and paranoid and beautiful man so fiercely—the fear that one day, he'd hurt Harold badly. And now he has.
A nurse comes in just as Harold's cool fingers start twitching against John's palm. John glances up, and finds Harold's eyes clenched tightly shut instead of relaxed with sleep. But the nurse is quick to take care of him. With a few exchanged words, the nurse is off to fetch a dose of painkillers, leaving John and Harold alone.
Neither of them speak for several minutes. Harold's fingers curl around John's, tightening slowly. His other hand wanders to his belly, pressed over the wound, a quiet, "Oh, that's very unpleasant," slipping out.
John holds his breath, waiting, watching. I did this, he thinks, over and over, the guilt gnawing even harder at his insides. He hurt Harold, shot him, could have killed him, could still kill him if an infection sets in or something else goes wrong or—
"I should have said this earlier: thank you," Harold says, and John looks up sharply, boggling.
"For shooting you in the gut?" He can't hide the incredulity in his voice.
"For choosing me over her." Harold gives him a small smile and squeezes his hand. "Thank you. You did good."
Unable to face that smile, Harold's forgiveness, John turns away. "We were tricked," he says, to a whiteboard on the wall. "I shouldn't—"
"John, look at me."
John looks—what else can he do?
Harold takes a slow, deep breath, seemingly gathering his strength. "Neither of us—mm." Harold's wince deepens, and John feels another stab in the center of his chest. "Neither of us knew that at the time. If Ms. Anders hadn't been lying, and you had shot her instead of me?" Voice strained, he adds, "Dearest, I know this is as painful for you as it is for me, possibly even more so, but you did exactly what I'd hoped you would do." He pauses to breathe. "If we were ever in a situation like that."
"I shot you in one of the most painful places to get shot," John says, and lays his other hand on Harold's stomach, light and careful, so careful, barely putting any pressure on Harold's sore belly. All those times he's been shot in the gut himself, and now...
He's the worst kind of person. Harold should shove him away, order him to leave. And John would. Nurses and doctors and security guards couldn't drive him away, but Harold could.
He doesn't.
"I can't imagine any gunshot wound actually feels good." Harold gives him a wry, pained smile, and moves his hand over John's. "And you had to make it look like you were trying to kill me."
"I could've really killed you." There's no safe place to shoot someone. Kara told him once about a guy she knew who died from getting shot in the hand. He didn't shoot Harold in the hand.
"You didn't. I know you chose where to aim carefully." He pats John's hand. "An abdominal gunshot wound is visually impressive, most people think it's a death sentence, it's safer than a shot to the chest or the head, it's..." Harold pauses briefly, then, sounding reluctant, adds, "It's excruciating."
John grimaces. "I'm sorry."
Harold pushes on. "And when the alternative is shooting a pregnant woman? It almost seems symbolic, wouldn't you agree?"
Trust Harold to still be eloquent and coherent, and talking about things like goddamn symbolism, when in a hell of a lot of pain, half-awake, and doped up on strong narcotics and lingering anesthesia. In the middle of the hell in his head, John feels another burst of fondness welling up inside him. He adores this brilliant, resilient man. But he can't forget…
"I still hurt you."
"You did," Harold confirms, "at my insistence, and only out of necessity." Much like John wanted to do to him, Harold pulls John's hand to his lips—with another brief grimace of pain in between—and kisses it softly. "I know you never wanted to hurt me, my darling. That means far more to me than the harm you inflicted on me. And while I think you did nothing that requires an apology, you should know that I forgive you, and that I am no more frightened of you now than I was before."
Something inside John's chest cracks, shatters. His eyes burn, and he blinks back tears that won't stay blinked back, no matter how hard he tries and tries and tries to fight it. God, he tries, but it's Harold. Harold is lying in a hospital bed because of him, Harold is hurting badly because of him, and yet...
"Oh my goodness," Harold says. "Come here."
John does. As carefully as he can, John buries his face against Harold's shoulder, and everything that happened hits like a blow to the chest. He takes a moment to breathe Harold in, the familiar warm scent of him overlaid by the sterile stink of hospital, not caring when the snaps holding Harold's thin gown together dig into his face.
Everything wells up inside him, overwhelming. He hurt Harold, could have killed him, and yet Harold still wants him close. If things had gone wrong—if things do go wrong—he might never have this again. Might never smell him again, might never feel his shoulder under his head again, or the warmth of his body. Might never hear the voice that's sunken so deep into his skin he can feel it in his bones.
Harold's hand untangles from his, and John tries to chase it. Harold shushes him, and splays the hand against the back of John's neck. "I'm not going anywhere," Harold says, softly. "I've got you, John. It's all right. I've got you." It's too much, too damn much, more than he deserves, better than he deserves.
John breaks.
He cries into Harold's shoulder, feeble little whimpers turning to deep, wracking sobs soaking the fabric of Harold's gown.
"It's all right, John," Harold says, and runs his fingers through John's hair. "Oh my goodness, darling, it's all right." The movement is shaky, weak, tired, instead of soothing like it usually is. All it does is spark up more of the guilt tearing at John's brain. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't, and it pours out of him, tears spilling fast and wet and breathless on Harold's shoulder.
Harold speaks again, saying, "The surgery went well. I'm sure they told you that, too. I'm going to be just fine," like John does deserve it, deserve him. "It's going to be fine. I still love you, I promise."
"You shouldn't," slips out without John's permission between gasps.
"Ours is hardly the most ill-advised love affair in history," Harold retorts. His strength is waning—John can hear it in his voice—just in time for the nurse to come back in, wheeling a cart. "Let me decide how I feel about you for myself."
John glances up—just a precaution—but it's the same woman from before, a short, plump woman with graying hair and a kind face. If John knows Harold as well as he thinks he does, she was carefully vetted long before Harold was shot. He buries his face in Harold's shoulder again, vaguely listening as the nurse checks Harold's vitals, then doses him with the drugs. Harold's hand doesn't leave his head, though his tired fingers do go still.
The nurse doesn't linger. Soon, they're alone again, together in the quiet. John's eyes burn. His cheeks sting. The tears have stopped, for now, for a while, but his breath still comes in shudders. He feels raw, broken.
"I'm about to fall asleep again," Harold says, half-slurred. "But I need to warn you of something in advance."
John tenses, a flareup of fear getting started in his chest. He looks back at Harold. "Oh?"
"Mm. When I wake up again, the fussing you hate so much is going to start." Harold gives him a fond smile, and slides his hand down to cup John's stubble-covered jaw. "So, if you'd like to avoid the worst of it, this—" He strokes John's cheek and jawline with his thumb. "—fur coat you are in the early stages of cultivating had better be gone. And a shower would be much appreciated. You are a tad bit—" Harold wrinkles his nose. "—malodorous."
For the first time since this happened, John actually manages to laugh. "You don't smell too good either, Harold," he teases. It's the antiseptic smell John doesn't like. He doesn't mind the sweat too much. Mostly, under the hospital stench, Harold smells like concentrated Harold, and they'll probably clean that up in the morning.
But he knows Harold's smell is below Harold's impossible standards. Sure enough, Harold's frown deepens. "Ugh. Please don't remind me." Then, his expression softens. "Eat, bathe. I know I can't make you sleep, but an attempt would be appreciated. They're taking good care of me here; I'd quite like it if you would take care of you for me."
For Harold, he'll try. He turns and kisses Harold's palm, and says, "Okay. Next time you see me, I'll be shaved and clean. Promise."
"And well-fed," Harold says. "Coffee—" He yawns. "Coffee doesn't count, John. Actual food."
"Clean, clean-shaven, and well-fed. With actual food. Okay." John kisses Harold's palm again. "Sleep well. I'll be here by the time you wake up."
At that, Harold relaxes against the bed, closing his eyes. John doesn't move to keep his promise for a long time.