"There's a hospital bed in the next room!" Harold says as they rush through the safe house door, John carrying Root in his arms.
"Pull it out here," John says, finishing Harold's thought as they hurry down the stairs.
Daizo snaps something back in Japanese then rushes ahead and through the door to the side bedroom. He appears a second later pulling the hospital bed out beside the long table. Jason shoves the table hard back toward the far wall to give the bed more room, skidding chairs along with it.
"There are medical supplies in the closet," Harold says to Daizo as John puts Root down on the bed.
"I'm fine," Root gasps weakly, her hand held against the bleeding wound in her side. "I'm fine."
"Quiet, Root," John says as Daizo reappears and hands John a med kit.
"What else?" Jason asks.
"We should have some antiviral bags, some penicillin," Harold points over Jason's shoulder in the direction of the kitchen. "Check the refrigerator." Then he turns to Daizo. "I don't know if she'll need it but we could use some blood."
Daizo says something in Japanese that Harold does not understand but he gets the gist. "However you can get it. She's…" He looks down at Root.
"B positive," she mutters.
Harold looks back at Daizo and he nods, already heading toward the apartment door.
It had seemed impossible, John and Root with a gun each and at least a dozen Samaritan operatives ahead of them – bullets flying both ways. John took a bullet in the arm and nearly lost his gun but Root jumped in front of him and earned another shot in the shoulder herself – both wounded, fading fast and Harold with no weapon at all and The Machine in hand – when suddenly the fight found itself with a deus ex machina. Apparently their side did have a cavalry and it was Daniel Casey, Jason Greenfield and Daizo.
A black SUV matching the Samaritan vehicles pulled up behind the Samaritan line, the three men jumped out of the car and shot down six Samaritan operatives before they had a chance to notice – before Samaritan caught on and warned them. Samaritan agents pinned in the middle, two dozen more shots between the factions and then the fight was over. Root was down on the ground, shot again somewhere in the stomach, but still breathing while Casey was dead, shot right through the chest. The Samaritan agents were all down – either dead or sufficiently knee capped.
"You must be Harold," Jason said as they opened the back door to the car, Daizo and John carrying Root. Harold nodded in assertion. "We got the shutdown warning from the Machine."
"You what?" Harold said in near disbelief.
"She, it… The Machine called Casey and…." Jason's voice made a choked off noise as he stared at Casey's body on the ground beyond Harold.
"Mr. Greenfield," Harold said in his best commanding tone so Jason's head snapped around back to focus on Harold. "We have to keep moving."
He stared at Harold then nodded. "Yeah, yeah…"
They turned back to the car; John and Daizo climbed into the back seat with Root while Jason and Harold climbed into the front to drive away as quickly as possible.
Now, John rips open Root's clothing looking for the bullet wounds.
"This would be better at a hospital, Harold," John says as he pulls out a needle in a plastic case from their professional grade medical kit.
"You know we can't," Harold says.
"We're lucky it's not in her liver."
"I'm sorry, John. Your best form of field dressing will have to do for now."
John makes a disgruntled noise but does not protest again. Harold steps back to give John room and takes off his hat. He notices blood on his hand as he does so. Beside him, John pulls the plastic off the needle then carefully injects Root with the pain killer.
She gasps quietly once at the needle then blows out a breath. "Crazy day, isn't it, Harry?"
Harold just gives her a look and touches his head again. He feels now – how he could not have noticed the sharp pain before must be down to adrenaline – the deep gash up his temple and toward his forehead; luckily whatever shrapnel from the power plant or bullet that grazed him missed his eye.
"I'm going to have to pull these bullets out, Root," John says to her, taking the plastic wrapping off some simple metal surgical tools.
"Oh fun."
"It's going to be messy."
"I think I'm already there," Root says waving her one bloody hand in the air with a pained hiss.
"Here," Jason says suddenly appearing beside Harold. "This was everything in the fridge." He puts a metal cooking pan with hospital IV bags as well as some sealed glass medicine bottles down on the table.
"Very good, Mr. Greenfield."
"Your head," Jason says, pointing at the cut.
Harold grimaces and pulls a piece of gauze out of the med kit, holding it to the cut. "I know."
Then Jason looks down and up again at Harold in confusion. "What's that?"
Harold blinks then looks down at his other hand. He did not realize until this moment that he is still holding the Machine – fist tight around the handle so his knuckles are white. Harold relaxes his hand somewhat but does not let go of the case. The tiny blue light at the end of the case keeps shining up at him like eyes, like a bright eyed child.
Harold looks up at Jason again. "It's The Machine."
A couple hours later, John has finished patching up Root to the best of his ability, Daizo is gone again after delivering five quarts of blood to them and Jason is asleep on the bed in the other room after assisting John with his own injuries.
"Ms. Groves?" Harold says quietly standing beside Root's bed, one IV bag with fluids attached to her.
She opens her eyes half way and smiles at him. "Thought you gave me a sedative."
"We did."
"Oh, must be why I'm so sleepy."
Harold cracks half a smile at that. "Are you still in pain?"
She purses her lips and shakes her head slightly. "Not much. Guess we had the good drugs."
"I believe Ms. Shaw originally assembled the kit."
Root's smile widens at Sameen's name. "I bet she did." Root laughs once in a weak way. "She's alive, Harold."
"Yes."
"She's alive," Root repeats.
"Yes, she is."
Root closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side, her one hand tapping a pattern on the bed sheet. "And you doubted her."
"I shouldn't have." Harold reaches out for a moment to touch Root's hair but pulls back and lets his hand fall down again. "You were right."
"It's okay, Harold." Root opens her eyes again. "I know you just wanted to protect me too."
Harold presses his lips together tightly and says nothing.
"Imagine that." Root smiles and closes her eyes once more.
"Sleep, Ms. Groves," Harold says.
He turns to walk away then stops and turns back. He reaches out, squeezes Root's hand once then turns away again. He hears a small, contented noise from Root as he goes.
Harold walks around the long table toward the couch. John sits on one side of the couch with his eyes closed. As Harold sits down, John opens his eyes.
"Harold?"
"You should be asleep, John."
He smiles and sighs. "I thought I was."
"I apologize. I did not mean to wake you."
"You didn't. More like this whole day has felt like a dream."
"A dream?"
"A nightmare maybe."
Harold touches the cut on his head and sighs. "One we knew was likely to come."
John nods, his eye lids fluttering slightly. "I called Fusco, he's all right, can't say the same for Dominic and Elias."
Harold grimaces. "Another event that seemed unavoidable."
John sighs and his eyes fall closed for a moment before he snaps them open again. Harold glances down at the gauze just visible under John's white t-shirt over his old wound which was not helped by Brotherhood torture. Another bandage is wrapped around John's arm and he has a small dried cut on his chin. Harold knows there is at least one other bandage on John's leg.
"Did you take something for the pain?" Harold asks.
John opens his eyes all the way and looks at Harold. "What?"
"You were shot, John." Harold raises his eyebrows. "More than once."
"I'm fine."
Harold purses his lips but knows John is unlikely to relent should Harold push the issue. John keeps looking at Harold then he frowns. He reaches out and touches the cut on Harold's head.
"Harold."
"I'm fine."
"I didn't see…" John glances behind himself toward the table. "We should put something on that."
"It's fine, John."
"No," John turns back and traces his finger gently along the edge of the cut. "I should –"
"I said, it's fine," Harold says grasping John's hand and pulling it away from his forehead. "It is not bleeding any longer. I was not shot and you were. You need to rest."
John frowns. "Harold, don't –"
Harold shakes his head once sternly and fixes John with a look. John closes his mouth and stops talking. Harold guides John's hand back down to the couch then reaches over and picks up a pillow. He puts it half over his left leg and half on the couch.
Harold taps the pillow. "Lie down, John, you need to rest."
Somewhat surprisingly, John does not protest. He shifts around, lies on his back, knees up leaning against the back of the couch and puts his head on the pillow in Harold's lap. Harold puts his hand over John's chest – over his heart so no bullet, no attack can find it.
"Sleep, John."
"'John.'" John chuckles. "No,' Mr. Reese.' It's been 'John' all day, Harold."
Harold glances down at John; his eyes still open looking up at Harold. "It has been a day for first names, John."
John smiles, slides one hand up to cover Harold's and closes his eyes. Harold pulls both their hands up briefly, kisses the back of John's hand then puts them down again. John smiles a little but does not open his eyes. Harold strokes his fingers over John's chest in a small circle, keeps John's finger tips between his. He watches John for a few minutes, his chest moving up and down, breathing in and out, telling Harold again and again that, yes, John is alive.
Harold rubs his other hand across the uninjured side of his face, up under his glasses and over his eyes. When he pulls his hand back and opens his eyes again he looks at the coffee table across from him. The Machine sits on top of the table. The handle of the bullet proof case – explosion proof even – is facing Harold. The blue light shines out still. Harold half expects it to start blinking Morse code though he knows that is impossible with the compressed state The Machine is in – if in fact The Machine has survived, has to have survived.
Harold is not really seeing the case, however. He is not seeing the machinery and RAM chips inside. He sees the screen of the laptop; he sees the capital letter words etching themselves across the screen, winking in and out and writing out a confession, writing out fears, writing out what could be last words, writing out feelings and emotions so very, very human.
FATHER.
John called it 'your Machine, Harold.'
Root said once, 'you have the relationships with her that you wanted.'
Arthur called it 'your child.'
Nathan said, 'like a baby bird,' smiling that roguish smile, 'good luck mommy.'
FATHER.
Harold knows he tried to deny it, every time, every single time – it is just a machine, it is not my child, it is not life. He was wrong and he knew it the whole time.
THANK YOU FOR CREATING ME.
Harold sighs heavily and rubs his hand over his eyes again. Perhaps he has been denying his role all this time, denying what he created and what that made him in turn. But nothing brings home the idea of really being a father more than the instinctive attempt to save your child's life without consideration for your own.
Harold pushes his shoulder blades back slightly and rubs his free hand across the back of his neck. His whole body is aching now, no doubt the after effects of being electrocuted in his rush to save The Machine. Still, he did not die and, it appears, neither has The Machine. He will still need to figure out how he can access The Machine in some way – a server bank will be necessarily and certainly a number of connected computers – to determine just how much of The Machine survived. It's strange but even though The Machine is there, is sitting on the table in front of Harold, he feels a sense of loss, of mourning.
"It won't be same anymore," Harold says out loud quietly.
The Machine they knew – the one who pinpointed Grace, the one who coaxed Nathan into making the contingency, the one who wanted to learn chess and blackjack, the one who only wanted to protect Harold before it learned to protect everyone, the one who considered murder, the one who also valued life, the one who chose Root, the one who helped Harold find the perfect partner of John – that Machine he raised and taught and wrapped his whole life around for thirteen years is gone.
"Harold."
Harold looks down and sees John looking up at him again. "John?"
John reaches up and rubs a thumb across Harold's cheek. When John pulls his hand back Harold sees tears on John's fingers.
"It's okay, Harold," John says as he reaches up and wipes tears from Harold's face again. "We're okay. We're safe."
"Are we?"
"For now," John says as he puts his hand back down over Harold's.
Harold moves his other hand over and cards it through John's hair. "I suppose that is all we can rely on now, temporary respites from danger."
"Maybe that's all we ever had, Harold. It's just more obvious now."
Harold cracks a small smile. "You do enjoy putting things into stark terms, don't you, Mr. Reese?"
"Mr. Reese?"
Harold slides his hand through John's hair again. "John." He glances up at The Machine – still and silent and safe for now – then back to John. "Perhaps I should start referring to you by your real name now with all our cover identities so well known to the opposition."
John chuckles low in his throat. "Sometimes I wonder if I remember my real name. Do you remember yours?"
Harold smiles. "My name has always been Harold but then yours has also always been John."
John smiles back. "And that's what matters."
"Yes."
John coughs once and grimaces. Harold's eyes tick to the gauze on John's chest and arm momentarily.
"We need to get Bear." Harold looks up at John's face again. John rubs his thumb over the back of Harold's hand still resting on John's chest. "Shaw wouldn't forgive us if we keep him cooped up too long."
Harold nods. "Bear will be fine until the morning. It is past one AM now. We should all sleep."
"You too, Harold."
"I will."
"I don't know if sitting up on the couch is the best place for it, Harold," John says but he makes no move to get up.
Harold just smiles at John and runs his hand through John's hair again. John gives him a look that is trying to be disapproving but just comes off weary. Then he is closing his eyes again to the soothing gesture of Harold's hand in his hair.
"Sleep, John," Harold says quietly. "Please."
Harold looks up at The Machine once more as he strokes John's hair. He wonders oddly, for a moment, if The Machine deserves a real name.
When Harold wakes up again, the lights are off and it is still dark outside. The first thing he sees is the blue light on the case of The Machine. It comforts him more than he would have ever expected. John's head is still in his lap on the pillow, though John's hand has fallen off of Harold's down to John's side. On Harold's other side, squashed between him and the arm of the couch, is Root. She is lying with her head on Harold's shoulder, her one arm draped over his back and her legs curled up underneath her. It does not look comfortable and cannot be helpful to her injuries.
"Ms. Groves," Harold says quietly.
She does not stir.
Harold moves his shoulder just a bit to try and rouse her. "Root."
She makes a small noise and Harold feels her fingers flex on his back. "Harold," she murmurs.
"That position cannot be comfortable."
"It's fine," she mumbles.
"Please, Ms. Groves, you'll aggravate your injuries."
She breathes in deeply and sits up slightly. "What?"
"You should be in your bed."
Root blinks a few times, focusing her eyes then she winces and pulls up her shirt to look at the bandages around her middle. There is a small spot of blood visible on the bandages now.
"Root," Harold repeats, "You should be in your bed."
She stares at Harold for a moment then says, "I didn't want to be alone."
Harold stares back at her then nods. He pulls his hand away from John's hair and holds it up in the air out of the way of his lap. Root gives him one of her 'sweet, Harold' smiles then lies down with her legs over the arm of the couch and her head in Harold's lap. Harold gets a flash of the digital clock on the side table as she moves, three-thirty in the morning now.
"Go back to sleep," he says to her as he puts his arms down with his hand on Root's shoulder. "It's late and you are still hurt."
Root does not respond and for a few minutes everything is silent. Harold hears the sounds of the city beyond the apartment windows – the faint noise of cars on the road and the indescribable sound of 'city' which only those that live in one can really understand, the undercurrent of people and a piece of earth that is never really still. Across from Harold on the table The Machine keeps shining its small blue light.
"What did She say to you?" Root asks quietly when Harold thinks she has fallen back asleep.
"Ms. Groves?"
"What did She say to you?" Root repeats. "I heard you talking to Her when She was downloading but I couldn't really see what She said. What did She say to you?"
Harold swallows and stares at the case. John's hand suddenly covers Harold's again and Harold looks down at John. John eyes are open in the darkness. He smiles just a little and squeezes Harold's hand.
"The Machine said…" Harold closes his eyes.
NOW YOU ARE NOT SURE.
IF I DO NOT SURVIVE...
...FATHER.
Harold opens his eyes again and breathes out a slow breath. "It said…" He cannot finish the sentence.
"It's okay, Harold," John whispers, strokes his fingers over the back of Harold's hand. "You don't have to tell us. What matters is that we're here and we're safe."
"And The Machine is safe," Root whispers. She slides her hand up over Harold's on her shoulder and squeezes once.
"And you're all alive," Harold says with one hand in Root's, his other hand on John's chest and his eyes on The Machine. "That is what matters. You are all alive."