The sky is pink with smog and, though he looks now, he can't remember the last time he looked to the stars. Maybe it was in Mexico, maybe it was rucksacks and small fires trekking through the wilderness, or maybe it was the night he received word of his father's death. Killed in action.
But now, now he stops and looks skyward and wonders at how he's still alive.
He's bleeding from a shallow cut that barely cut through the fabric of his oxford. Some part of him recognizes the burning sensation but the wound is so inconsequential he counts himself uninjured.
He tucks his .45 into its holster and flips up the color of his coat.
"Mr. Reese."
"Yeah, Finch?"
"Good work today, John."
He should go home, he knows he should go home. But the night is cold and the library is closer. The library is closer and he doesn't want to be alone.
The building is dark as he climbs the stairs and at one point he may have assumed the place unoccupied. But, they just wrapped up a number and he knows Harold.
As he expects, Harold sits before his monitors, fingers dancing across worn keys.
Standing in the entrance to their sanctuary, he watches the man work without a word. He stands silent for so long he knows his presence hasn't gone unnoticed. Bear looks up at him from his bed but otherwise ignores his lurking
He waits and after a while, Harold rubs his eyes and pushes back his chair.
"Mr. Reese."
John slowly crosses the space between them.
Harold looks up at him and breathes his name.
He releases a breath he didn't know he was holding and as Harold's hand comes up to cup his cheek, he sinks to his knees.
The hand changes course and gently guides John's head against his thigh. His hand is warm and John inhales.
"Because your intervention, Ms. Sanders is out of harm's way. You did well, John."
He nods against Harold's thigh.
Bear whines from across the room before trotting over and setting himself beside John's bent knees.
If he opens his eyes, he can just barely see the pink of the sky.
As he always can, he can hear the life resonating from the streets below. The City that Never Sleeps.
With more energy than he can manage to muster, John rests his hand on their dog.
Their dog.
He strokes the dog's soft head and thinks of how similar they are.
Like John, he was given a second chance. And like Bear, if Harold said jump than he would jump.
"I can assure you that you are quite human, John."
And he knows. God, he knows.
His entire life he's tried to shut it off. His entire life he's tried to shut it off. And he did, for a while.
Blood drips from his hands and the stench caresses his nostrils. Harold's fingers rub gently on his neck and John wonders when he pulls away, if he would be covered too. He would never understand how Harold fancies himself a sinner but John a saint. No, not a saint exactly. But, if no good deed goes unpunished, then bad ones, the evil ones creep in at the dark of night. It's the way the world has always worked.
He is a fool for trying to convince himself otherwise and Harold is too.
They sit, as a couple of fools, in the dark of the only place people like them would ever belong. In their sanctuary of leather bound tomes and dust. Of scuffed wooden floors and the crisp scent of security.
He has at least two firearms within reach of Harold's desk and at least a dozen more scattered across the library. He is prepared. Prepared to defend his home and its creator.
From the moment he stepped into this room, he knew. He knew he would give and take life for this man he had barely known. And one might argue he doesn't know him now. But, he does. He does. He may be unaware of what one may consider basic information, but his disagreement in the assessment would be paramount.
He knows everything he feels he needs to know. He knows how Harold takes his tea, he knows how far he can walk before the pain sets in, and he knows how much he's willing to spend on a bespoke suit.
But, more importantly, he knows the hitch of Harold's breath in his ear when he's forced to watch John's reckless abandonment, he knows the sound of his voice forming every letter softly into his ear, he knows he is capable of great kindness and great cruelty. He knows everything he needs to, everything he could hope to.
Pieces of him, his favorite color, where he lived, his birth name, didn't matter. None of those things mattered. Their relationship was built on a mutual trust of each other's character.
John's soul wrenching desire to save the world and Harold's equal belief that they would, at least, die trying.
And it works, it had always worked, since the moment they began their partnership.
Bear whines and presses his nose into the wool of his trousers. And with Harold's hand in his hair, he doesn't know he how had survived so long without this.
And he knows in the depths of his soul that he couldn't live without this.
So, with no uncertainty, John knows it cannot last. It just can't. Feelings of home and security are fleeting in their world and day by day he watches people's lives falling apart and pieces them back together the best he knows how. It's his retribution, not to the world, no. But, to the man who and crouched down and fished his shattered pieces from the well he had long since drowned in. He does it for himself and he does it for Harold. He fights with his soul trapped behind closed lips to prove he can be more. To prove he has the right to live in the same world as the innocents they protect. In the same world as someone like Harold.
Someone like Harold who watched the towers fall and decided to build God. Who saw the towers fall and did exactly what he knew he could.
They are similar in that regard, they both fell into spaces only they could occupy. The only difference being, Harold build and John destroyed.
They are similar in the one way that stood for something. Every day they climb those stairs and every day they pick up their tools and go to work on fixing the world in the only ways they know how.
He looked up at Harold whose hand still remained gently stroking his hair.
Eventually, they would rise and John would trudge home never to speak of it again. Never to speak, not because of shame or remorse or embarrassment, but because there was no need. There had never been a need.
And that's why John knows he could never survive with out this.