Work Text:
The Library was a mess. It was unbelievable how much chaos a toddler could cause. Books were scattered across the floor, only half of the fort still standing. The blanket was crumpled and bunched up to the side. A bottle lay in the middle of the hallway, leaking steadily onto the hardwood floor. There were towels, a packet of diapers, and wet wipes. The carrier lay forgotten, tossed away absentmindedly, in a corner. Everywhere Harold looked he saw evidence that Leila had been here, under their care.
And now she was gone.
Safe, thank the heavens, with her family.
Under the soft illumination the scene looked surreal. Like it belonged in a different movie. Like a crack had appeared in the fabric of space and time, allowing an alternate dimension to bleed through. A glimpse of what could have been, if things had been different.
A life that was not Harold’s. Not John's. Certainly not theirs.
A hand touched Harold’s shoulder and John appeared by his side, quiet and dark. Despite the grim twitch of his lips, his expression was soft when he looked at Harold and they shared a knowing look.
‘For what it’s worth,’ John said quietly, ‘I think you made the right decision.’
Harold nodded. He didn’t need to ask which of the decisions he had made the past few days John was referring to.
They got to work, coordinating effortlessly to return the place to its original state.
It was a slow progress. Both of them were exhausted. Harold knew that this Number had taken its toll on John more than he tried to show. Holding the life of a small child quite literally in his hands had impacted Harold too, in more ways than he expected.
And it was not just Leila. It was also the way John seemed to have changed from the moment he laid eyes on her. Harold had marveled at the seemingly natural way John had picked the girl up, had carried her around, had changed her diaper without complaint, had walked the streets with her strapped to his chest. He would protect her with his life and Leila seemed to sense it, trusting him intuitively and falling asleep in his arms.
It was a side of John Harold had never expected to see, and yet it didn’t surprise him. As if Harold had known all along that John would be great with kids. The way Harold would always be too awkward, too analytical, too-
‘I meant what I said.’
John’s soft voice rang loudly in the quiet room.
Harold looked up from where he was wiping lemonade off the floor. John had his back turned and was inspecting the contents of a duffel bag that Harold had not seen before.
‘Which part?’
John glanced over his shoulder and smiled ruefully. ‘About having kids.’
He looked so vulnerable that Harold wanted to hug him. An unfamiliar urge that was occurring with increasing frequency lately. Harold hadn’t acted on it, afraid that the touch would be unwelcome, but it was getting harder to restrain himself each time it happened.
‘You’d make a great dad,’ he managed.
In an uncharacteristically telling movement John ducked his head. ‘I don’t know about that.’
He turned around and showed Harold the contents of the duffle bag.
Blood drained from Harold’s face. There were different kinds of guns and ammunition, and Harold thought he spotted more tear gas grenades. As John hadn’t left the room, they must have come from somewhere in the space they had kept Leila.
‘Yeah,’ John muttered. ‘At least this means I’m moving my arsenal, right, Finch?’
‘John-’
‘You’d be the better dad, Harold. You’d have kept Leila safe.’
Before Harold could react, John had disappeared down the hallway, duffel bag slung over his shoulder.
Harold pushed himself to his feet and tossed away the dirty wipes. Then he pulled the library cart out of its corner and started to break down the ruins of the book fort. With a cold pang of guilt he remembered building it, thinking it would contain Leila. He should have realized the little girl would be smarter than that. Harold didn’t dare think about what could have happened if John hadn’t taken the grenade from Leila in time. He would have blamed himself for the rest of his life had any harm come to her.
‘Maybe it’s just not for people like us.’ John had returned. He knelt down next to Harold and shot him a tired glance. ‘Maybe we have a different purpose in this life,’ he mused. ‘A responsibility to watch over others from a distance.’
‘Maybe.’
Quietly they stacked books onto the library cart. When it was full, John pushed himself to his feet and, after a brief moment of hesitation, offered Harold his hand.
Normally Harold would have refused. His pride forbade him to accept help he didn’t need. John knew this and respected it. However, tonight something in John’s expression made Harold wonder if maybe John needed this. He took John’s hand and allowed his sore body to be pulled from the floor.
John took the cart and slowly wheeled it away. He didn’t look at Harold when he spoke again. ‘Maybe one day we could get a dog.’
It took a moment before Harold’s tired brain had digested that sentence. He turned as sharply as his injuries would allow him. ‘We?’
John glanced over his shoulder, a little shyly. ‘Wouldn’t make sense if I got a dog and left it at home all the time. And since I’m spending most of my day with you anyway… Just think about it.’
The silence stretched into uncomfortable lengths before Harold noticed the serious undertone in John’s voice. By then John had already disappeared between the bookshelves. Suddenly feeling uncomfortable being alone, Harold went after him. John was reshelving books, determinedly keeping his eyes fixed on the spines. Even from a distance, Harold could see that John was not paying attention to his shelving system.
‘John, wait.’ In a few steps he was by John’s side and deftly plucked the book from his fingers. John had frozen, but relaxed when Harold handed him the book that belonged in the gap on the top shelf.
‘Sorry,’ John murmured.
Harold handed him another book. ‘What you said about getting a dog,’ he said quietly, ‘Maybe it’s not a bad idea. Someday.’
John turned his head to look at him, an expression of hope that flickered weakly in the dark. Neither of them pulled away when their fingers brushed as Harold handed him the next book.
‘Yeah,’ John said. ‘Maybe someday.’