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Harold is watching him with sad eyes. It is an expression he rarely sees. One reserved for memories of Grace or life before he stopped being whoever he had been and became a vigilante with a Machine guiding his way. He looks at him and says eight words that rattled his brain and echoed through the room.
“I’m afraid this is where I get off.”
This is where I get off.
This is where I get off.
John woke up gasping and immediately reached for his pistol. His nerves were on fire, his body suddenly pumping mass amounts of adrenaline. He felt his anxiety level skyrocket as he breathed rapidly and shallowly. The room was cold and he was covered in sweat to the degree that his shirt was soaked and his pants clung uncomfortably to his clammy skin. The last thing he noted was the fact he was shaking and his pistol clattered from his hand back to its place on the side table.
“Harold,” the name left his lips before he could stop it and he was up off of the couch he’d slept on. When he stood upright he swayed slightly, his legs almost giving out. He grabbed the arm of the couch and squeezed it as he closed his eyes for a moment to try and reassemble some measure of control. Instead, he had a flashback to his childhood when he’d woken up after a terrible nightmare and went to seek out his father only to be reminded that his dad was gone for the night and he was alone in the house.
The flashback made breathing hard.
Nonetheless, John pushed through the uncomfortable feelings and made the short walk to the bedroom where Harold had holed up. They’d fought. John had held a gun to the senator’s head and nearly pulled the trigger until Harold’s soft voice talked him back from it. After they had shed the heat that had been tailing them, they’d all gone their separate ways, only John took a chance and showed up at the safe house he knew Harold would retreat to. Of course they had snapped at each other with tense voices.
“You stepped over a line, John!” Harold scowled with the words, eyes narrowed unhappily.
“Your Machine is the one who wanted me to step over the line, Harold. It was his life or the lives of millions of people.” John replied, attempting to keep his voice down lest they disturb any nosy neighbors.
“We’re here to save lives, Mr. Reese. That has always been our mission. The Machine gives us a number, it gives us the story of a person that the government finds to be irrelevant and we make them relevant. We do not get to decide who we save and who we kill. We just save lives. Period.” Harold snapped back and when John went to respond he was met with a hand and a dismissal.
“I am tired and I am going to bed. I do not wish to discuss this further.”
John stood in the doorway of the bedroom, a trembling mess of a man as words echoed through his mind.
This is where I get off.
We save lives.
“Harold.” His voice came out slightly choked and he cursed his body’s betrayal. It had been through too much and he was exhausted but still on high alert. Nothing seemed right anymore, least of all that he and Harold had fought. John hadn’t realized how much he’d gained until the moment came where he was looking to lose it all.
“John?” Harold’s voice was laced with sleepy confusion but he watched as the other man bolted up and tensed. “Is everything alright?”
“No. Yes. We’re safe, Finch.” John murmured and could see Harold’s eyebrows furrow in the pale light leaking through the space between the curtains on the window. He could see the concern and felt worse for it but continued to advance on the bed.
“John.” From the tone, John knew Harold had finally assessed the situation. He’d no doubt taken in his shaking, his uneven breathing, and as he crawled onto the bed Harold would be able to feel his clammy skin and know that something was wrong.
So when John felt a warm hand rest on his cheek he leaned into it, breathed deeply for the first time since he’d woken up, and then pulled Harold against him.
“You can’t get off, Harold.” John murmured into the older man’s hair as he inhaled deeply once more, taking in his friend’s scent. “I lost Joss. I’ve lost a lot of people. I can’t lose you, too.”
He broke on the last part and felt unwanted tears in his eyes which were quickly pushed back and ignored.
“John, hush.” Harold’s armed made their way around his waist and John slid down to nestle his face into the curve of the other man’s neck. There were warm fingers running through his damp hair, confident fingertips digging into the muscles around his neck to try and ease the tension and trembling, and a familiar body slowly pressed him back into the bed. Soon there were blankets pulled up around them and John felt grounded.
“You matter, Harold,” John whispered as he shoved a hand beneath Harold’s shirt and splayed his fingers out against his lower back. “You’re life wasn’t worth the life of that senator.”
“That isn’t our decision, John. It never has been.” Harold replied gently, but there was a certain resolute tone beneath the kindness that caused John’s anxiety to spike.
“It is my decision.” John mumbled even though he already felt the effects of the adrenaline wearing off. He was slipping back into exhaustion, into sleep, but he curled his fingers into a fist where they lay against Harold’s back and tried to fight it.
“Sleep, John. Rest. We’ll talk in the morning, perhaps with less animosity than earlier. I am not going anywhere.” Harold soothed.
John trusted him and slipped back into pleasant unconsciousness.