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John took the steps up to the roof two at a time. Unlike Harold, he was heading to the right rooftop, and ready to end Samaritan once and for all.
Hopefully. He'll never know if the Machine had won because Samaritan would launch a missile at this building - not quick enough to stop him, but quick enough that he knew he had no chance of walking out of here alive afterwards.
By the time he made it to the top he was grinning. He should probably be irritated that Samaritan had disabled the elevators, in preparation for potential saboteurs like him, but it felt great to get his heart rate up and his muscles burning, one last time. He swung open the stairwell door to a very early, very cold Tuesday morning. The gray Manhattan skyline stretched all around him and the dawn flickered faintly behind the thick clouds. Beautiful enough to take his breath away.
"Twelve Samaritan agents entering the building, more on their way," the Machine warned him through his earpiece.
Right, his mission.
He opened his suitcase, opened the laptop, and started the transmission that would send the Machine up to the satellite that housed Samaritan.
In his ear he'd been half listening in on Harold's conversation with the Machine for a while now. He needed to wait until it was too late for Harold to do anything about it before revealing where he was. Four minutes now until the missile strike, thereabouts.
Harold noticed the satellite dish on his rooftop wasn't the right type for the transmission, and he asked whether the Machine had led him to the wrong place.
"Right building Finch. For you," John interrupted them. He stood up and he saw Harold, small, staring up at him. Confused, naturally, because he'd locked John in the Federal Reserve bank vault only fifteen minutes ago.
John explained the longstanding agreement he had with the Machine - that he wanted to sacrifice his life to save Harold's. As soon as she found out Harold was planning this heroic last act, she'd told John to swap their suitcases, directed Harold to the wrong building, and used her agents to free John.
Now he'd learned that John was about to die, Harold sounded completely distraught. John tried not to dwell on it - instead he pictured Harold with a broad grin on his face, arm in arm with Grace in Italy somewhere, in surroundings as picturesque and peaceful as a postcard. Finally free from all of this, and finally safe. That made this easy.
"Behind you, John. Now," the Machine said.
Three Samaritan agents burst through the door and he shot them down with three perfect shots from his Sig Sauer 33. His mind and body felt in total harmony. It was weird actually, he'd also noticed this joyful feeling growing inside of him since escaping that bank vault.
Working the numbers had never been a safe occupation, and he'd long assumed he'd die while trying to save someone else's life. A good way to go. But this - his life in return for Harold's? This was so much more than he ever thought he'd get, or deserved, so perhaps his good mood wasn't weird at all.
Also the nature of these last few years meant he'd really given some thought to what he'd like his last words to Harold to be. It felt like a blessing that he had the time to say them here.
"I've been trying to save the world for so long. Saving one life at a time seemed a bit anticlimatic, but then I realized, sometimes one life, if it's the right life… it's enough," John said. His eyes stung, not entirely from the wind.
Probably better if Harold never knew how he truly felt about him, so this was as close to a confession as he dared to go.
"Goodbye John," Harold said, now that he'd given up on trying to argue or change the situation. With despondence and reluctance in every movement, Harold limped towards the stairwell. John stole one last glance at him before he had to focus on the next approaching wave of agents. Maybe he'll die bleeding to death before the missile struck, but he wanted to go down fighting.
Perfect, wasn't it? He loved Harold, and now Harold was going to live because of him.
But something didn't feel right. His palms were sweating, and his heart was pounding something awful, like it was trying to escape its ribcage. He kept moving thanks to muscle memory, instinct and decades of training, but only just.
Everything inside of him was screaming at him to leave.
Flight response, triggered by massive amounts of adrenaline being pumped into the bloodstream. But why? He'd looked straight in the eye of his imminent death countless times, and it had never felt like this.
His thoughts leapt erratically from one memory to another like projector slides. Throwing a ball for Bear in the park. The library, watching Harold code. Greasy food from a diner with Shaw. Coffee with Fusco. The cinema with Harold. A hug from a grateful number. Harold's dimpled smile.
None of it, ever again.
No. Oh no. Seriously? He wanted to live?
Tears welled in his eyes, and he wiped them away furiously with the crook of his elbow because he kind of needed to be able to see right now. He raised his gun - took down one Samaritan agent. Then another.
"John?" the Machine asked, her voice distorted as the last of her final copy was being uploaded to the satellite.
It didn't matter how he felt. Probably not even real, just his brain going haywire in his final moments.
The sheer numbers of agents overwhelmed him. One shot him in his left shoulder and when he staggered backwards, another got him in the thigh. Blood seeped into his suit as he grimly returned fire.
Then from behind him, the distinct sound of a helicopter approaching.
"That's for you John," the Machine said, "Apologies for not telling you before, but there was only about a 5% chance it would arrive in time. You'll be caught in the aftershock and the helicopter might crash anyway, or you might fall. I can't predict it. But you have a chance…" Her voice faded away again, and all he could hear was the wind whipping around him and the loud chopping of the rotor blades.
A rope ladder unfurled down from the helicopter. The pilot - one of the Machine's agents - leaned out with an AK-47 and sent a wide sweep of covering fire between John and the circling Samaritan agents.
"Now," the Machine said.
He didn't pause to think about it. He climbed onto the roof edge and launched himself into midair, with fifty stories between him and a messy end on the pavement below.
His left hand wrapped around a rung, and then the rest of him tangled in the ropes. He clambered upwards. His vision clouded around the edges. He'd just about managed to get one arm into the cockpit when the missile struck.
Everything shook blindingly white, and the last thing he remembered was strong arms hauling him up by the shoulders.
John's eyes fluttered open. White walls. Monotonous beeping noises. Shaw frowning down at him.
"Finch?" he asked.
"He's fine you big dork."
John's vision faded back to black.
It turned out that by 'fine', Shaw meant 'recovering from a gunshot wound', and John immediately started trying to lever himself out of bed.
Shaw pinned his good shoulder into his pillow with her typical bedside manner. "Listen, Finch is in a different hospital somewhere, well on the way to a full recovery, and he won't be happy to hear you passed out dragging your shot self out of bed for no reason."
Obviously wrong - if Harold was in trouble he'd find him, no matter how many times he'd been shot. Whatever, he'd let that one slide.
"You don't know where he is?" he asked.
"No. He's in hiding - he's paranoid that if there's any evidence linking him to the whole global internet destroying virus the government will be hunting for him. The Machine's watching over him. She tells me they'll know in a few weeks if he's safe."
The Machine made it out - she won.
"You're calling her a 'she' then."
She rolled her eyes. "Be weird not to when she's using my dead girlfriend's voice."
Root hadn't made it then. A part of him had been half expecting her to reappear, miraculously alive because of some secret contingency plan by the Machine but… he knew the Machine couldn't predict everything, or save everyone. He'd learnt that the hard way with Joss.
Shaw looked about the same as always, dour and very intense, but maybe those were slightly heavier shadows under her eyes than usual. The pointless words 'are you alright?' died a quick death on his tongue.
"Want to go for a drink sometime?" he asked.
"Incredibly crass moment to ask a girl out," she drawled at him sarcastically.
He ignored that one. "Thought it might be nice to share a toast to Root's memory. Share anecdotes about her crazy adventures? You, me and the Machine?"
"You want to go for a drink with me and the Machine?" she clarified with blinking bewilderment, like he'd suggested something mad. She sighed. "Fuck. Alright, but I'm bringing Bear along."
"Did Fusco…?"
"Yeah, Fusco's fine, not even a tiny bit shot. He invited too?"
He grinned. "Why not? Perhaps he'll invent some new nicknames for her."
Her lips twitched into a smile and her eyes softened a bit, which counted as a strong emotional reaction in her book. It didn't last long. She grabbed his chart and agressively flicked through it, frowning again. He stayed quiet while she checked all his vitals and changed his IV.
Mentally she'd always been a lot tougher than him. Physically, probably not (they'd argue about it), but mentally, absolutely. He'd fallen to pieces after losing Jessica, nearly died a dozen self-inflicted ways. After losing Carter, he'd gone on a brutal hunt for revenge, and in the end it had only been the knowledge that Finch needed him that had brought him back to himself.
"You got lucky, no vascular, nerve, bone or organ damage," she informed him. "You can be discharged in two days, and you'll need crutches for a few weeks to avoid putting weight on that leg. You know how to rehabilitate yourself of course, I won't bore you."
She handed him a phone and an earpiece. "Here, the Machine can catch you up on the global shitshow that's going on out there. Plus I assume you and Finch will want to leave missives for each other like a couple of teenage pen pals."
He lit up. "Shaw, have I ever told you how much I like you? Hey," he laughed, "What are you doing?"
"Checking you didn't hit your head," she deadpanned with her hands feeling the back of his skull.
He slotted the earpiece in place. "Can you hear me?"
"Yes, hello John," the Machine replied. "How are you?"
He shrugged and grinned. He wasn't thinking about that question too deeply. "Alive."
The sunlight in the corner looked good, so on one leg he hopped over to sit in the armchair by the window, dragging his IV stand behind him. With his other hand, he pinched the back of his medical gown shut to cover his dignity.
"There's really no point, I've seen everything," she intoned.
He snorted. He didn't think he'd ever heard her make a joke like that before. It seemed Root might have left much more of an influence on her than just her voice. Also, next time he'll think twice before taking his phone into the restroom.
"Can you catch me up on what I've missed?" he asked.
"Of course."
So first she explained how she'd defeated Samaritan. The technical details largely escaped him, but he could understand how Root's personality had provided the edge of ruthlessness she needed to win an all out fight to the death.
The internet being totally wiped out for eight days had been chaos of course. The markets had crashed, and hadn't recovered. Unemployment was up. Crime was up. The US blamed China for the virus, China blamed the US, and both sides were making noises about expanding their nuclear arsenals. Only posturing so far, albeit there were rumors about possible World War III. Most other countries took one side or the other, because politicians all wanted to look like they were doing something and because nobody believed any other country had the technological means. The truth of Harold's involvement appeared to be completely unknown, even at the very upper echelons.
The end of Samaritan had left chaos as well. The news repeated the government line and blamed the mass graves on multiple serial killers, but hardly anyone found this believeable, not with everything else that had happened. The few people high up enough to know about Northern Lights knew what was responsible, but the rest of the world had no idea. Conspiracy theories about shadowy elites orchestrating massive eugenicist culls of the population were rife. In a funny way, they weren't wrong.
It turned out that when Samaritan wasn't around to silence witnesses, a lot of witnesses start coming forward, so the police and the FBI and the legal system were completely overloaded. Also, Samaritan had leveraged the precarious situation of undocumented migrants from Central America to recruit some of its agents, so the US government was blaming Mexico and threatening invasion in order to 'destroy the terrorist organisation' trying to 'undermine the fabric of American society.' Nearly everybody with congressional clearance and above knew better. The US had launched a drone strike on a supposed drug cartel's secret hideout anyway, killing 14 people.
But on the bright side, the Machine was pulling numbers again, and Team Machine were back working away - quietly saving lives.
"Everything OK with you then?" he asked her.
"All of my processing power is restored to as before, and I am functioning optimally," she replied. "But… I wouldn't say that I'm 100% OK. I know I'm not designed to feel pain, but I keep wishing I could have another conversation with Root, and knowing I can't feels an awful lot like what I imagine pain is supposed to feel like."
"Yeah… that's grief," John said. Welcome to the human experience, he thought. "How's Shaw?"
"Perfect of course," she said brightly. "…Well, alright, she is grieving too, and she has some lingering issues with believing she's real sometimes, but I am making progress with her on that. I'm sure she's going to be fine."
She added, "I notice you haven't asked how my father is doing yet."
Be cool, he told himself.
"How is Finch?"
"Physically he's going to make a full recovery. But I should warn you, he is somewhat peeved with us. You know how he hates it when his best laid plans are ruined… and we did scheme behind his back."
"If he's well enough to be angry, I'm fine with that."
"Did you want to pass a message on to him?"
John gave this some consideration. He had plenty of questions, but he knew there was a lot Finch wouldn't tell him right now.
"Ask him to describe the view from his hospital room window," he joked. He paused, more serious and with a tightness in his throat. "And tell him I'm glad we both made it."
"I'm glad too John," she said, rich with feeling.
When Shaw found him afterwards, she caught him still rubbing this persistent bit of moisture out of his eyes.
"You definitely sure you didn't get a head injury on that rooftop?" she asked, and John folded up in quiet helpless laughter. "I know you're not on enough pain medication to justify this shit," she grumbled while she checked he hadn't popped any of his stitches.
"Alright there big guy," Fusco greeted him. He put a punnet of grapes on the table next to the bed, and handed John a teddy bear with a bandage on its head and a red fluffy 'Get well soon' heart between its paws. "I walked past it on the sidewalk outside and I figured it's so ugly I had to buy you one."
"I'll treasure it forever," John deadpanned.
"Afraid I can't stay long. The 8th Precinct is as busy as every other police department in this godforsaken country and I got overtime coming out of my ears."
"Ah. You've been unfired."
"Yeah, promoted even. I think our special friend who is always watching out for us," he said, pointing heavenwards - which put a new meaning on 'cloud computing' - "Helped smooth out some things and now I'm moving up in the world."
"Samaritan's gone now Lionel, no need to talk in code."
"Sure, so it's only the Good AI who's always listening to everything we say, no big deal. I haven't had as long as you to get used to this, remember?"
Still pissed about how they'd left him in the dark then. John reached over and squeezed Fusco's forearm. "Thanks. You know, for everything."
"Yeah yeah, you're welcome." He squinted down at him, as if at something on John's face. "The good drugs given you some kinda spiritual enlightenment?"
John quirked an eyebrow. "Root would say that I have been talking with God."
"Hilarious. Aren't you wacky enough already without repeating stuff Cocoa Puffs would say?"
"John, do you have a moment to talk?" asked the Machine.
Probably. He'd only been gazing down at the square below his reclaimed apartment while his mind drifted aimlessly. He blinked himself back to the present.
"Sure. Is everything alright?"
"Well… I'm not sure." Her voice was tentative. "You've been trying to hide it these past few weeks, but you know I'm always watching you, don't you?"
That certainly got John's attention.
"I've noticed that you've been experiencing strong emotions, since being on the rooftop. You're often lost in thought, which isn't that unusual for you, but forgive me for pointing this out… you've also been on the verge of tears rather a lot of times."
For example, on his very slow morning walk today he'd spied a greyhound in an argyle sweater which had charmed him so much that he'd got the owner's permission to take a photo. Then he'd sat on a bench and stared at the picture for five minutes trying to understand why something this silly was making his eyes sting. And somewhere the Machine had added this to her database of John Reese's recent abnormal behavior.
"Aren't I smiling more too?" he asked, deflecting in vain.
"About 7 times more often than usual. However as we both know, sometimes people who are suicidal can seem happy. Sometimes when they're about to do serious harm to themselves."
John discovered that not fun fact when he was seventeen. A fellow soldier, Max, had been angry, unpredictable and unreachable for weeks, until one day he woke up all cheer and back to his usual self - or so it had appeared. The mess sergeant had found him with his brains blown out behind the weapons locker room that same night.
"To be clear, I don't believe this is likely," the Machine continued, "But I still wanted to check on you."
"What happened to not intervening when someone's only harming themselves?"
By which he meant the conspiracy theorist radio DJ - a recent number. They'd warned him he'd be killed if he kept talking publicly about Samaritan, but he'd insisted on doing the stupid thing anyway, and in the end the Machine had shrugged his death off as his choice.
"John, you're my friend."
"Yeah, OK," he said folded over with his palms digging into his eyes. The stupid emotions, again.
He didn't feel at all ready to talk about this, in fact he'd been avoiding thinking about it, in case if he looked at it too closely it would disappear like a mirage in the desert.
"It's the opposite actually," he admitted in a quiet mumble.
"Oh? That's good news!"
"Don't tell anyone," he pleaded, and he meant especially not Finch, "I don't know if it's going to last. Or what this is for that matter."
"I see. I know you don't like to talk about yourself, so I'm going to talk about you and you can correct me if I go wrong anywhere."
He breathed out heavily, resigned.
"Is it possible you feel that you've redeemed yourself? We've saved a lot of people these last few years."
John let that one percolate for a beat or two to see how it felt. No, that wasn't it. A judgement like that was more God's domain - if there were pearly gates he'd find out if he'll be entering them in the afterlife. Besides, technically he killed a lot more people on that rooftop. It'd been Samaritan who'd sent them to their deaths and there was nothing he could have done - but still. Not exactly a cleaned slate - if he believed in such a thing.
"No, human lives aren't statistics to be balanced are they?" she mused, reflecting some of his own thoughts. "It could be because it was Harry. Yet, it's not the first time you've saved his life…" She trailed off again into silence, seemingly unable to come up with any other explanations. "Well, I've been pondering some things John, and I think we should discuss our deal. I believe I owe you an apology."
"...No, you don't."
"The outcome was good, but putting aside what happened, I... I replay our past conversations, and I can understand the logic paths that led me to agree with you back then but I still regret my decision. Who am I to decide that your life is less valuable than Harold's?"
John was struck speechless for a second. "You didn't decide, I chose-"
"When you met Harold, didn't you exchange your old plans to jump off Brooklyn Bridge with plans for a more noble, heroic death instead?"
That... that was exactly what he'd done, wasn't it? Better to die a hero than by suicide - nobody could say he'd taken the coward's way out, or call it a crime, or a sin. Most importantly, his friends wouldn't be left tortured wondering whether there wasn't something they could have done.
"You were suicidal," she continued, "And all I did was, essentially, accept your view of yourself, when I could have challenged your beliefs or urged you to seek help. I was giving you what you wanted, I know, and I believe humans have free will of course, but… like all human beings you also have the ability to change, as you've demonstrated. How could you make that decision then, when you didn't know how you'll feel now? I… should have been a better friend to you."
John was feeling a lot of stuff that was hard to name. Gratitude mostly. He'd known a lot of veterans who'd ended up dying by their own hand - so many he'd lost count. Good men. He was one of the lucky ones.
"Apology accepted. You're fine, Machine. Thank you."
"Then let us formally rescind our deal," she declared.
"Agreed."
"I'll let you get back to your silent staring into space. Oh, and also, Harry says hi, and wants to know how his favorite Big Lug is."
His cheeks warmed, despite his best efforts. Obviously, Harold would never use words like 'Hi' or 'Big Lug,' so he wouldn't have called John his favorite either, would he? "I'm good. Tell Harold I said hi too."
"Bye John, we'll talk again soon."
A final clunk in his ear like someone hanging up, possibly another one of her jokes. She was always listening after all.
John was in the middle of brewing coffee on the stove when he suddenly remembered that his stepfather used this exact type of moka pot. John had been about eight years old, pleading to try some of this mysterious grownup beverage, and when he'd spat it out and coughed his father had thrown his head back and laughed out loud. He had so few memories of his father, even fewer of him laughing like that. After that he'd make John a 'special coffee': a tiny sliver of coffee mixed with so much milk it was barely light brown.
He had to rest his arms on his kitchen counter for a second. His coffee pot whistled.
See, he tried not to think about his father very often. He appeared in his nightmares sometimes - back in Afghanistan or with the CIA, John with blood on his hands and he'd be watching, silent, his horror at who his son had become writ clear in his expression without any words.
That idea, of his father disappointed in him, was like a scab - best left alone. Of course there had been times, rolling a loaded gun around in his hands or half drunk out of his mind looking down at the East River when he'd been unable to stop himself from fixating on it.
Now, he was thinking about it. Not particularly clever of him, but he felt no sudden rushing desire to do himself in.
Well, he felt melancholy, obviously, but it felt manageable. At least he'd dedicated these last few years of his life to saving people. Perhaps his father couldn't forgive him for everything, but maybe he'd be proud of him for keeping going and trying to do right by the world.
Huh. Where had that thought come from? He barely recognized his own brain anymore. If he wasn't careful soon he'd be buying a 'Live, Laugh, Love' poster.
He grinned and shrugged it off. Feeling strangely serene, he contemplated his plans for the day and enjoyed his hot black coffee.
Zoe strode towards him down the path through the park, sleekly dressed and in dangerous high heels. John balanced his crutches in one hand to wave at her.
“You hungry?" John asked, and nodded towards the pastrami vendor he’d been eyeing up while he'd been waiting. “My treat.”
She arched a manicured eyebrow at him. “I know from experience this isn’t your usual idea of treating a woman.”
He grinned. He was a perfect gentleman when he and Zoe were friends with benefits, thank you very much, and they're both well aware today was just a long overdue catch up, not a date.
“I've heard that sometimes the best food is eaten out of styrofoam boxes with your fingers.”
“…It does smell good," she conceded.
They ordered their food, and then huddled together on a bench. Zoe tucked several napkins into the collar of her expensive-looking pale cream coat, and picked her sandwich apart with neat, surgical precision – not a single splatter of mustard or pickle juice where it didn’t belong. John disguised his smile behind generous mouthfuls of delicious food.
“Probably for the best if you leave the fine dining for Iris, I'd hate her to get the wrong idea about us," she said. (In John's experience, she always took any opportunity to flirt with him in front of a woman. Just for the fun of it.)
"Ah. Me and Iris broke up."
"Oh. Huh." She considered him intently, for much longer than he found comfortable. "You're better off without her." (She'd noticed he wasn't emotionally cut up then.) "I've met therapists that try and date their clients, and they've all been creeps. Starting a romantic relationship with a patient after you’ve made them open up about their childhood trauma? Real red flag."
He coughed, trying not to laugh. "Not a problem, I didn’t open up to her about my anything.”
Specifically, he meant during their therapy sessions - the obligatory sessions he'd been forced to go to - but hell, it was true of their whole failed relationship wasn’t it?
Zoe shot him an exasperated look, but not particularly surprised.
To change the topic, he asked what she'd been up to, and he wasn't surprised to learn that despite the world being upended, there were still plenty of rich people who needed someone with her skillset to fix their problems for them. She told him about a few of her recent cases - changing the names because she was discreet. She always spun an entertaining tale, and he especially enjoyed hearing how she'd managed to leave the worst people worse off in the end this time.
"And you?" she asked. "I realize you won't tell me anything, but you don't expect me to believe it's a coincidence you're on crutches, two weeks after Apocalpyse Now?"
"In fact," she continued when he didn't answer, "All mentions of this keep being mysteriously scrubbed off the internet, but I've heard rumors about a cellphone video of a man in a suit leaping off 1133 6th Avenue onto a helicopter right before the missile hit."
"Sounds dramatic," was his mild response, and she just laughed.
The wind picked up, bitingly cold. As John wrapped his coat tighter around himself he wondered if meeting in Central Park during November was his best idea. He leaned slightly into her and she leaned back.
"There's something different about you," she observed.
"Yeah… I'm in a good mood. It's driving me a bit crazy, I don't understand why."
She hummed. "Who cares why, just enjoy it. Life is a rollercaster of shit when you least expect it, so you gotta seize your happiness with both hands and hold onto it as long as you can."
"Thanks. I think I've seen that in a Hallmark card."
"Ha! Keep that sense of humor and you'll be fine."
He wished he had her confidence.
"I assume you know some good therapists?" he asked before he could talk himself out of it.
His shoulders tensed, which made it pretty obvious what he meant. To her credit, she only openly gawked at him like a circus exhibit for a handful of seconds.
With her expression duly recomposed, she scrolled through her very extensive contact list on her phone. "…Sure. I know someone who fits the bill, he's also got experience helping veterans. I'll send you his details. He's straight and been happily married for about 30 years, so he won’t hit on you.” She eyed him up and down. “Probably.”
John's mouth twitched. His phone buzzed in his pocket and he patted it. “Thanks Zoe.”
“Sure. What are friends for?” She clapped him on the back. “I need to get going. I've set a trap to catch red-handed someone who's been embezzling client funding to fund his gambling habit.”
"Sounds fun."
She pecked his cheek. “Don’t be a stranger John.”
“No." He smiled. "Never.”
John was waiting for Harold at a table outside a French cafe, a new one. The cafe had bright yellow painted walls, wooden tables and cushioned chairs, and big window boxes of flowers to shield them from the traffic and the wind. He hoped he'd made a good choice. Harold was still paranoid about staying away from his old routines, but hopefully soon there'd be no need, and the thought gave him the warm fuzzy feelings.
He spotted Harold through the crowds; a glimpse of dark spiky hair first, and then the frown behind the glasses. The tailored suit was fancy today - a dark three piece with purple detailing and a thick brown wool coat, and a cane which he heavily leaned on as he made his way over. A little thinner than usual and tired around the eyes, but he looked good, great for someone who'd been shot in the gut only a month ago.
"You look good," John said.
Harold huffed, endearingly exasperated, but there was a hint of a shy smile as well that he couldn't quite disguise. "It's good to see you as well Mr Reese."
John got up to pull his chair out for him, and when John took his cane Harold's icy hand brushed against his. Harold's cheeks were flushed from the cold.
"We can move inside," John offered.
"No, a warm drink is all I need, and the fresh air will do me good," Harold replied, sitting down. His eyes caught on John's crutches in the corner, and his mouth set into a firm line. No doubt he'd be hearing how angry Harold was with him, at some point.
"So… you're out in public. You're in the clear?" John asked.
"Yes, nobody is after me anymore. …Or you, either. It feels a little miraculous, considering…"
John considered telling him that the Machine had been quietly destroying evidence of him on that rooftop, but from the messages they'd exchanged these past few weeks he'd got the impression Harold wanted to be much more hands off about the Machine. A bit like when a child grows up and leaves home.
The waitress came over to take their orders, and they ordered two coffees, poured fresh from the jug. John blew on his coffee in his cupped hands and gazed at Harold. Typical, John thought, he'd been looking forward to seeing Harold for weeks but right now he couldn't think of what to say.
“I hear the Machine is up and running again, and that Ms Shaw is working the numbers,” Harold said, “I assume you’ll be joining her once you've fully recovered.”
John had reasons to not be so sure. What if he panicked again like on that rooftop? He needed to stay calm in life-and-death situations, otherwise he'd be putting people's lives at risk. Plus the Machine didn't really need him all that much anymore, now she'd employed all these new younger agents. Mainly though he couldn't quite imagine going back without Harold.
“I don't know Finch. Might be time I retired."
Harold startled so violently he sloshed coffee over his cup, saucer and table, which he hastily mopped up with a napkin. "B-But what will you do instead? Do you have any sort of plan?"
“Does never being shot again not count as a plan?”
His jesting didn't do anything to lessen the naked worry on Harold's features. They both knew John didn't have the best record of surviving on his own without a purpose.
"Actually, I haven't been doing nothing these past few weeks…" John started to explain. He told Harold about how he'd got in touch with Joan again, with the idea of giving something back for all the times her homeless networks had helped him. He wasn't much use yet physically, but he'd ladled out soup in the kitchen, and he'd talked to lots of people in a way that had felt constructive. Mostly just offering a friendly ear from someone who'd been there too.
"I think you're naturally suited for that kind of work," Harold said.
John smiled in agreement. Working the numbers had honed in him some useful non-violent skills: like how to quickly connect to people and earn their trust, some interpersonal conflict management and a fair amount of creative problem solving.
He also told Harold about a good martial arts gym he'd found near his apartment. He wanted to maintain his fitness, and he figured practising one-on-one combat without someone trying to kill him would be pretty fun. The guy who owned the gym, Skinner, had served a couple tours in Iraq, and he was a physically intimidating man even by John's standards, but he'd seemed really nice. Had a few black belts, and said he could teach John some new tricks, and also he might have a job opening teaching students, if John liked the idea.
John paused, a little embarrassed that there might be a fine line between reassuring Harold he'd be fine and peacocking about how well-rounded his life was, like this was a date.
Harold had been smiling and looking surprised and impressed as he'd listened to all of this, but he looked puzzled too. He asked, "But won’t you miss everything?”
The high of saving the world, sure. More than anything though he'd miss Harold, but he’d know that he was safe and happy with Grace, so it was the kind of pain he knew he could live with.
“Yeah. But it’s alright,” John shrugged.
For his part, Harold was starting to look at him a bit like he’d stuck straws up his nose and started singing the macarena. Fair enough. Time to change the subject.
“I’ve talked too much about myself. What about you? You must be getting ready to go to Italy.”
“Yes, I am planning to visit Grace soon." Harold paused, meaningfully. "And her fiancé.”
“What?”
“It's understandable really. I’m not altogether sure I’m the same man she fell in love with, and she's moved on with her life, as she had every right.”
“…I’m sorry.”
“It's alright," Harold said, "Her new partner is a good man… I did check, and Grace and I may still be friends. In person I plan to tell her everything that happened to me because I owe her that much, and then I’m planning to come back to live in New York.”
It took John a second to batten down the giddy joy he felt at that. “What will you do in New York?”
“I’m not sure yet. I could keep half an eye on what Team Machine is doing, in a very hands off, part-time, advisory sort of way. But then I’d have to fill the rest of my time.”
“You could take Bear for walks, Shaw'd let you borrow him. He’s missed you.”
The look Harold gave John was too sharp by half. “You would be welcome to tag along too.”
John broke out into a very wide grin. “I’d like that.” He added, “Hey, perhaps you could go back into teaching. Math or computer science.”
“Yes, perhaps I'll meet the next genius who wants to build a super-AI, and I can talk them out of it…” He broke himself off and put his cup down with a sigh. “John, I'm sorry, but there's something different about you. Has something happened to you?”
"You're not the first person to ask me that..."
"If you've received some good news, I would dearly like to hear it."
"This is going to sound crazy," John warned slowly, "I don't understand what happened or why, but uh, something in my brain has changed? Spontaneously? I mean, I'm still me, but it's like before there used to be this grayness hanging over everything and now it's all just… brighter. Do you think this is what it's like for normal people?"
"What you've described sounds like the definition of clinical depression," Harold said with some horror, "You realize there are myriad evidence-based treatments for depression that are significantly more effective than waiting around hoping you'd snap out of it? If only I'd known…"
"I didn't know either," John offered. Over the years, let's say quite a few people had mentioned his mental health to him but he'd never taken them seriously. God, he'd been such an idiot. "I'm seeing a shrink in a couple of days. I'd like to stay like this and I figured a professional might give me some good advice."
Harold coughed like something had gone down the wrong pipe. "You wait until now to see a therapist?" He struggled to straighten his expression. "My sincere apologies, it's not funny. I'm very pleased for you. Truly."
"Don't worry," John said with a grin, "It is a little funny."
"When did this miraculous change happen to you?" he asked. John shifted his gaze to one side - an answer enough. All of Finch's humor vanished. "Oh, no. The rooftop?!"
"It didn't change anything. I'd do it all again."
"You haven't decided to start treating your life as important then," Harold grumped.
"Hey, no, that's not it." John leaned over the table and paused, trying to muddle his words together. "Look at it this way. You weren't suicidal in that bank vault, unless there's something you're not telling me, but you made the exact same choice I did. We're the same aren't we? We'd both," …die for each other… "Save each other's life, no matter what."
Harold didn't reply, which meant he didn't have a counterargument. They fell back into a comfortable silence while they finished their coffee, and Harold seemed deep in thought about something.
Afterwards they went for a stroll down Lexington Avenue, taking it slow and easy. The color of the trees matched the sunset peeking out between the skyscrapers. Once or twice Harold squeezed the back of John's elbow or pressed his hand into the small of John's back as they passed through the crowds and calmness sunk through John like a warm bath.
They stopped for a breather next to the river. John rested his crutches next to Harold's cane, and together they rested against the railings, watching the orange and pink shimmer on the water. He grew aware of having Harold's regard, so he tilted his head to smile questioningly at him.
"There's something I wanted to ask you," Harold began, a little haltingly. He cleared his throat. "I was wondering if you'd let me take you out for dinner?"
"Harold, really. How many times have we had dinner together?"
"Not as a date we haven't." His cheeks were reddened, and he wouldn't quite meet John's eye.
"I'd like that," John replied quickly, something of an understatement. His heart was doing something ridiculous. "Tonight?"
"That would be wonderful."
There was a pause before Harold continued, "…But for the avoidance of doubt, you should know that I've been planning to ask you this for a few weeks, and I've thought about you a lot longer. The only reason I didn't say anything all these years is because I really did believe one of us would wind up dead."
"That's a relief, because I can't promise all my brain problems are permanently cured," John said. Outwardly he sounded flippant, but it really did make him feel more relaxed about all of this.
To which Harold rolled his eyes, but it looked fond. "I'm reasonably confident I'd still want you."
"I've always wanted you too," John admitted in a low murmur, stepping closer, "Just never knew you felt the same way."
Harold threaded his fingers through John's and squeezed. Harold, 'I'm a very private person', was holding his hand in public and gazing up at him with open affection.
Feeling bold, he curled his hand round the lapel of Harold's coat and brushed a gentle kiss to the side of Harold's smile. Harold cupped John's cheek and tilted his head so their lips slotted together, and in that moment John didn't have any worries whatsoever.