Work Text:
John Reese: Earlier, what did you mean when you said "bad code"?
Harold Finch: It means a flawed design. The term applies to machines, not people. We have the ability to change, evolve.
John Reese: Even killers.
(S2E4 - Triggerman)
This might be how he'd die then; chained up in an rundown warehouse and gradually bleeding to death from a bullet in his thigh.
John had tried yanking at the heavy iron chain above his head, but the concrete beam he was hanging from was never going to break, and all he'd accomplished was chafing his wrists raw. He had nothing to pick a lock with, or any plausible way of getting it up into his hands even if he did. His calves burned from being on his toes.
Unfortunately, his earpiece and phone had been destroyed, before his captors had proceeded with this clumsy (and fruitless) attempt to force him to tell them who'd sent him, and then they'd fled, believing they'd accidentally killed him. (Amateur torturers - the worst.) Hence he had no way to say his goodbyes to Finch. He'd have liked some last words - thanks for giving him this job - that sort of thing.
Not that he was feeling completely maudlin or anything. Today he'd prevented a hit on a fifteen year old who'd bravely tried to testify against the rest of his criminal gang, so silver linings.
Rapid high-heeled footsteps approached, and he blinked heavy eyelids open. Root, striding purposefully towards him. Ah, he thought with a smile, not today then.
"Hello Root."
"Reese," she said, lowering her pistol.
She pulled out a roll of duct tape, and started wrapping it extremely tightly around his thigh. It hurt like hell.
"You should be more careful John." She flicked her big doe-eyes up at him. "One of these days we won't find you in time."
"You'd find a replacement. Country's full of veterans who'd want my job."
From her sudden icy expression, that's pissed her off. Currently she reminded him of the old Root, and it's not, not terrifying.
"People are not replaceable," she snapped.
(Sure, but sometimes he thinks that some people are more replaceable than others.)
She unlocked the manacles above his head with a key. Then she lowered his arms carefully, and guided him to lean against her shoulder while she rubbed circulation back into his wrists.
"At least worry about Harry, if not yourself." The anger in her voice didn't match the weird gentleness with which she was touching him.
"Not even his first helper monkey," he mumbled.
"I hope for your sake you're suffering from a concussion, otherwise you truly are a lost cause in the brains department!"
He laughed weakly. And God, that stung. "Root, I need medical attention. Can you insult me later?"
"Idiot. I'm perfectly capable of multi-tasking."
But she did drop it, for now at least. She wrapped his tattered jacket around his shoulders (he'd begun to shiver) and she helped him walk out, propping him up from under his shoulder, on his side without any cracked ribs. On their way she asked him questions: did he actually have a concussion (no), was he drugged (no), other injuries (plenty, but nothing immediately life threatening).
Her car was waiting outside and he collapsed gratefully across the back seats. During their journey, she didn't pay much heed to speed regulations, to say the least.
"Remember when you saved Harry from me at the train station?" she asked over her shoulder.
(He remembered.) He grunted.
"Did he ever mention what he said when you turned up-?" She broke herself off with a tight annoyed eye roll. "No, he wouldn't have would he?" The tires skidded as she parked outside one of their safehouses. Halfway through helping him out of the car, she said to him, "His exact words were, 'He proves you're wrong. Not all humans are bad code.'"
He stared at her. That's not nothing, but he's not quite understanding her point here.
She cupped his cheek in one hand. "Can you really not see it John? He loves you."
He didn't have much time to react to that emotional grenade, because then the front door banged open, and Finch was hurrying out to meet them. "Mr Reese!"
"I'm OK Finch," he tried, but Harold's eyes stayed enormous with concern. He probably looked a mess, huh.
Root and Harold helped him get inside. There was a medical cot already set up in the kitchen, and Shaw, who gruffly herded him towards it, and onto it.
"Prognosis for our big Lug?" Root asked her.
Shaw glanced him up and down. "He'll live."
Root's shoulders relaxed - in relief apparently. Perhaps he really needed to stop finding that so strange.
Unlike Root, Harold remained in the kitchen. While Shaw was in the background getting things ready, Harold took John's shoes off and checked his pulse and generally pretended to be being useful.
"Did you spend four years in medical school too?" Shaw asked Harold sarcastically. "Look, if you really must, go hold his hand from the other side of the bed."
She'd put on a medical gown and was wielding a scalpel menacingly, so John was probably about to become a spurting risk.
"Perhaps I should wait in the other room," Harold decided, face a little green, but he lingered long enough to gift John's hand a quick squeeze.
John has a habit of keeping his eyes closed for a few minutes when he woke up somewhere unfamiliar. Scanning his sense, he was lying in a proper bed with a good mattress, not the cot. Shirtless, and heavily bandaged. No unbearable aches or pains, but he was still hazy from whatever painkillers he'd been given. He flexed his toes and fingers surreptitiously. Everything seemed normal.
On his right, there was the crinkle of a page being turned and the huff of a very familiar breathing pattern.
"Hey Finch," he murmured, very croakily. Harold put down his book quickly to hand him a glass of water with a straw, which he drank gratefully from.
"How are you feeling?"
John smiled and shrugged his general OK-ness. "I've had worse."
Harold pursed his lips. "Ms Shaw did say you'd probably be right as rain in no time." After a pause he added, "We are all very relieved to have you safe and returned."
Frowning, Harold returned to his book.
John propped himself up on some very soft, very comfortable pillows. He could spend a lifetime reading and he'd probably never catch up with Harold, but that didn't mean it wouldn't be fun to try.
"I liked his other one, the Count of Monte Cristo," John said, nodding at Harold's novel, "I should read that at some point."
"Oh, read it now, by all means." Harold pressed the well-worn paperback copy of The Three Musketeers into John's hands. "I've already read this many times, I don't mind. I imagine you'll enjoy it; it's not dissimilar in tone to those action movies you like, what with the titular swashbuckling heroes getting into illegal duels or mishaps and generally causing trouble for the authorities of Paris."
"Uh-huh. Do they remind you of anyone?"
Harold raised one eyebrow and smiled.
It sounded like the Three Musketeers was one of Harold's favorites. They'd come a long way from their early days then, when Finch wasn't even comfortable telling him his breakfast order at his regular diner. Not that that meant Root had a point or anything of course.
John spent the day alternating between reading and dozing, while Harold worked on his laptop. Root and Shaw were out in the field running their new number, and Harold spent the day either offering his remote assistance whenever they needed it, or writing whatever coding project he had on the go in-between. Probably an algorithm that could break into the global banking system or something. You know, just for fun.
"Good work today," Harold said to Root and Shaw when they returned in the evening, dusty from what John had gathered had been a long shoot-out in a building site. It had sounded like a lot of fun. "I was planning on ordering in food for us all to celebrate," Harold said.
"Biggest burger you can find," grunted Shaw.
"Chocolate pancakes with strawberries," said Root, with enthusiasm.
Harold nodded acceptance, and turned to John, who'd just been thinking that he could definitely eat.
"I know a place that does good chicken soup - if you think you could manage it…?" Harold asked him.
"Sure," he agreed, ignoring Root. She'd tilted her head and smiled at him in an annoyingly knowing manner, but luckily she did that sort of thing all the time (from the Machine in her head telling her weird facts about people, usually) so nobody but him noticed this as anything out of the ordinary.
Their takeout arrived - Harold had somehow managed to get them all delivered at the same time, piping hot - and they all got chairs around John's bedside to eat together. Too tired to join in much with the conversation, John mostly just listened contentedly. He had a wooden tray across his lap and a bowl and spoon for his soup - good soup, and he felt very warmed.
Naturally, he couldn't stop thinking about what Root had said to him. He'd had more time than usual to himself - to relax and recover as Harold had put it - and consequently too much time to stare into space.
"Get your ass out the way," a New Yorker told him as they barged past. Oh, right. The crosswalk lights had changed to green.
He clutched his and Harold's breakfast to his chest, and picked his way through the sprawling, milling crowds. There were about 8 million people in this city, and most of them could prove that 'humans weren't bad code' a damn sight better than he could. Harold had lived a very reclusive life when they'd met, but he knows Harold has actually met some of them by now. Wasn't it absurd that he'd cite an ex-CIA black ops of all people as his example?
No, that's probably not what Harold meant, is it? It's simply because of what John used to be that Harold is impressed by how different John is now. But John's still the exact same man doing the same things, just with better information.
But that's not quite right either. All thanks to Finch and his Machine, he's doing a level of good that he never once dreamed he'd be able to do. In fact when ever he stops to think about it, it feels kind of transcendental to him the number of people they've saved. Comparing their work now to the work he did with Stanton and Snow… it's ungrateful isn't it?
His throat felt tight as he climbed the Library stairs. His head felt like that time once when he'd found a small hole in his combat fatigues, and instead of repairing it straight away with his sewing kit he'd picked at it, and picked at it, and picked at it.
Their only current occupant of the Library, Finch, greeted him good morning with a warm smile. The smile was of course partly directed at the box of his favorite rugelach in John's hand.
John's thoughts were still elsewhere. He and Harold had already discussed the whole 'humans being bad code' topic, after Root had brought it up to Harold in the first place. Briefly that is. When John had asked him if 'even killers' weren't bad code, Harold had smiled sadly like he wasn't sure. He'd never answered. Perhaps if John asked him now if he'd meant what he'd said to Root, Harold would smile sadly the same way and reply, 'Oh. I was heavily drugged at the time.'
While describing their current number to him, Harold kept shooting John occasional glances that were too perceptive by half.
"...You'll be on the corner of 12th and 13th in the town car, ready to alert Ms Shaw if the authorities appear, and provide her a quick get away vehicle. Oh - do you think you can drive yet, with your leg? Of course, she could take over that part…"
"I can drive," John replied. A stakeout on his own with no distractions, the opposite of what he needed. "…Do you want to join me?"
Harold turned his whole chair to really stare at him. "As diverting as that sounds, I need to be here to guide Ms Shaw through the firewalls." Before John could flee without looking like he was fleeing, Harold asked, "John, are you alright?"
"No. I mean yes." (Terrific job there John, he told himself.) "It's nothing really, just something weird Root said to me."
"Oh? Well, I wouldn't take everything she says too seriously."
John startled.
"What I mean is," Harold continued, confused, "While I like Ms Groves a great deal for her many other good qualities, she does enjoy trying to needle you."
"…Sure, I'll keep that in mind."
In the end, their case went well. He didn't get to do anything that dramatic, but he didn't mess anything up either, and by the end of the day they'd prevented a pharmaceutical company from knowingly poisoning some of their pregnant customers with their new drug. Multiple executives were now under criminal investigation.
After they'd said good night to each other, John went for a late evening walk alone through dark empty streets. Without planning it, he wound up by the bench overlooking Brooklyn Bridge. He sat. His cheeks hurt from smiling.
Today he'd helped save countless mothers and their unborn babies. Like a pain-free punch to the gut - if such a thing were possible. Truthfully he could state that he'd left the world a much better place than it was this morning.
He recalled what Root had said, and dared to imagine that Harold loved him.
It wouldn't be anything like attraction, he knew that already. On a case there had been this man once, in a bar, who'd tried to chat Harold up. To extract himself Harold had very politely but clearly explained to this man why he was barking up the wrong tree, and afterwards Harold had wryly remarked to John in his ear, "Due to the unfortunate dress sense of most heterosexual men in this country, that's not the first time that has happened to me."
So, the love of a friend then? They were friends by now, he thought, not that he doubted his own affection for Harold for a second. There was the obvious stuff - like his admiration for Harold's incredible drive to save as many people as he could, or John's unending gratitude for everything he'd done for him - but besides that, he just really liked spending time with the man and his brilliantly dry sense of humor.
He'd be an idiot to ignore those times Harold had risked his own life to save his or, less dramatic, all those times Harold had asked him to come see a movie, or try a new restaurant together. Harold would miss him. It was easier to convince his brain of this than his heart.
He heard a familiar limping shuffle approaching from behind. Delighted, he turned to Harold as he lowered himself carefully down on to the bench beside him.
"Hey Finch. Good day huh?"
"…Yes, it undoubtedly has been."
They sat comfortably like this for a few minutes, like they so often did. Harold's company made him feel instantly at ease. Safe - insane as that sounded when John was usually the most dangerous man in any room.
"He proves you're wrong, not all humans are bad code," John said.
Harold understood immediately. "Ah. I see. Well, I meant every word."
John's fingers curled around his knees. Without turning his head he could sense the way Harold had shifted his whole body to regard him.
"Is that really a surprise to you?" Harold asked, "I must apologize; I'm good at machines, not necessarily people. Of course you're good code. …It's me I question more."
Harold meant the Irrelevant numbers he didn't save, and his guilt over giving the Relevant numbers to the US government in the first place. Was that why Harold didn't answer his question before?
"Don't look like that," Harold continued, half-amused. "We both know you don't have to be the person on the end of the gun to be a killer. We saw that today."
"It's not the same thing. Harold, you are not a killer."
Harold smiled, as if to say that while he might have heard John's opinion, he wouldn't agree.
They fell back into silence. This time, John's skin felt itchy. He had all these angry rebuttals rocketing around his skull. He wanted to prove to Harold that he wasn't good at all, but that would mean disappointing him.
"John, I promise you that I wouldn't be able to work as closely as I do with you if I didn't believe that you're fundamentally a good man. You're not perfect, but…"
"You make it sound like I chew with my mouth open, or litter."
"Either one of those would be fatal, I'm afraid," Harold said with a laugh.
More serious, he continued, "I suppose you don't realize the effect our friendship has on me. With a certain amount of money it's very easy to seclude yourself from the rest of the world, and I'm afraid I wasn't immune. Getting to know you is one thing, but it's more than that, it's watching how you connect to the numbers, and your empathy… you've taught me how to open up. I consider knowing you a great gift John."
"That's funny, because I feel the same way about you."
Because before he met Harold, John had given up on ever connecting with another human being again. He'd been sure he'd lost whatever the key part of himself was with which to do that; some essential 'goodness' he was missing. His soul perhaps. It was true befriending some of the numbers had helped him feel less alone and less inhuman, but they never learned who he truly was. Harold on the other hand - there could be no doubt that he knew John pretty well.
"…Do you think it's possible to truly know another person?" John asked him.
"Well certainly. Otherwise love's not real is it?"
John tried to school his expression away from startled deer in the headlights, and likely didn't succeed.
"I believe I do know you John…" Harold began in a very carefully pointed tone of voice. He trailed off though.
"What I am trying to tell you is…" Harold broke himself off again with a sigh. "Forgive me, I'm not particularly good at this… and if you don't mind me saying so, I don't suppose either of us are."
"…People can change?" John suggested, with wry humor.
Harold laughed again. "Yes, that is true. Very well then. I love you Mr Reese." A pause. "A-As a friend that is - by which I mean of course an extremely dear friend - I don't wish to diminish the sentiment-"
John grinned over Harold's nervous flustering. "I love you too Harold."
He might have been more embarrassed about the way his vision had misted up, if Harold's returning wide smile wasn't similarly watery.
Harold rested his hand on top of John's on the bench between them. He rubbed gentle circles into the scars on John's knuckles.
Affection had never come easy to John, or often with the kind of life he's led. Slowly, he turned his hand and threaded their fingers together. With their hands entwined, calmness settled into John's heart.