When Carl Elias wakes up, alive but with one hell of a headache, even through the hospital-grade opiates, he's pretty surprised to say the least. He remembers all too well what had happened in the last few moments before he lost consciousness; the dead driver, realising the Samaritan agents had caught up with them, telling Harold to get in the car then hesitating just as one of them pulled the trigger. He isn't sure, but he thinks he remembers Harold's hands on him, checking for signs of life before being dragged away by the agents, but for all he knew that last part was his imagination, his mind filling in details after a trauma, and Harold had been shot too. He's never known anyone survive a direct, short-range gunshot wound to the head, he doesn't know what the side effects of this kind of injury are.

In the quiet before he dares open his eyes, the only sounds around him the buzz of something electronic, Carl goes over those last few moments over and over again, thinking of every single way he could have done things differently. It takes a long while for him to exhaust every option and realise that no matter what he did, nothing would have changed, that he would still be here, but if anything has happened to Harold because he failed to see the threat, Carl isn't sure he'll ever forgive himself. If anything has happened to Harold, he might as well have died back there himself. Bruce was his brother, Anthony his world. While Harold's morals have never let them get as close as he might have liked, he still feels the weight of fear on his chest as if they were.

He knows that when he opened his eyes, he'll find out what happened. Maybe that's why he can't, not yet.

For now, he's tired and in pain. A little more sleep can only do him good, and he'll do anything to delay what he can already feel will be bad news, one way or another.

Elias doesn't hear the other person approach, still drifting in the space between awake and asleep when they arrive. The first time he knows someone is there is when he feels a pair of soft, warm hands clasp around one of his scarred ones, a gentle finger curiously tracing the thick line his father's man's garrotte had left across his palms all those years ago.

The last thing he expected is a visitor, and it's almost enough that someone is still around to care to stop him worrying, but he hasn't survived this long by being sentimental. New York has been a power vacuum since he left and Bruce was murdered, and every street thug and punk in the world knows that the easiest way to get respect is by killing the last guy in charge. A couple of years ago, he'd killed the heads of the Five Families for that exact reason. If that's the case, he isn't sure what he can do to defend himself in his present state, but at the very least he can look his killer in the eyes before they finish him off.

Carl opens his eyes slowly and blinks, the artificial lighting stinging his retinas. When his eyes adjust, the world is still blurry, his glasses are missing, but he recognises the figure by his bed all the same. He'd know him anywhere.

Harold's skin is pale and, if such a thing is possible, his posture seems even stiffer than usual. He shifts slightly in his chair and winces, one hand flinching away from Carl's to clutch his stomach through his shirt. He's injured, and more than just a bruise if that reaction is anything to judge by.

The room is white, sterile and impersonal, like any other hospital room in the world. It's definitely not one of Harold's places.

It takes him a while to notice Carl is awake, then he freezes like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Harold knows he's crossed some kind of boundary, and he looks like he's going through every possible excuse in his head and finding none to satisfy. Carl squeezes his hand without a word as he starts to pull away and Harold stops. He's clearly relieved, but the expression that starts to form is more than that. It's one Carl recognises, but one he wishes he didn't have to see on Harold. Loss, desperation. It's a look he's most recently seen in the mirror every morning.

The fact they're both still here means Samaritan hasn't won, not yet at least, but that didn't mean they haven't lost.

Harold is silent for a long few seconds before swallowing hard and looking him in the eyes. "It's over."

Elias's mouth is dry and he's not sure how well his voice is going to work, but he clears his throat. He only needs to say one word: "Who?"

"First you, or so I thought. Then Root, the Machine," his voice cracks and he shuts his eyes tightly behind his glasses. "John."

He knew that was coming, somehow. He doubts Harold would be here with him if someone he trusted more was still around. Detective Fusco and Miss Shaw are his friends, but as Elias had pointed out, they were more alike. Perhaps there were other reasons, too, for him to avoid them. Carl squeezes Harold's hand again. He understands. He wishes he didn't. Too many people have died around him lately.

Harold lets go of his hand as he sits up. There's an IV needle in the back of the other that he knocks loose as he shifts, starting a piercing beeping from the machine, sending stabs of pain through his head.

Carl lifts his other hand to rub his forehead and feels the fresh scar in the centre. With all this new pain, he'd almost forgotten about the physical. "Harold?"

"Yes?"

"How am I alive?"

"Some friends of ours… interfered with an ammunition shipment to Samaritan. Rubber bullets instead of live ammo. It still caused some damage; they're not made to be safe to shoot for the head, and you've got the scar to prove it."

He nods slightly. There's an implication there: even if it hurts, at least he's still alive. From Harold's perspective, it could have been worse. Carl isn't sure he agrees.

Before he can reply, a nurse walks in the room. She's young, a kind of brightness about her that most people in the medical profession lost pretty quickly. She smiles at him but deals with the IV before speaking.

"Good to see you're awake, Mr Elias."

He glances at Harold, who shrugs slightly. If Harold had anything to do with his admission, it would have been under a pseudonym, so apparently he was telling the truth when he said he'd thought Carl was dead.

"Wish I could say the same," he manages a slightly sheepish smile and touches his head again.

"We can see about getting you some kind of painkillers, but Dr Madani will want to talk to you first."

Elias nods and the nurse smiles, then leaves. It doesn't take long for the doctor to arrive.

Madani blinks when he sees Harold, caught off guard for a moment, but quickly recovers and starts to ask questions, if Elias remembers who he is and what had happened (from which he carefully omits all mention of Harold and artificial intelligence), the usual questions for people who've suffered a head injury like what year it is and who the president is. He answers it all correctly.

Madani makes a couple of notes on his clipboard and smiles. "You're doing well for a man who has a handful of titanium in his skull."

He goes on to explain what had happened after Elias lost consciousness; that he'd been placed in an induced coma while swelling on his brain had gone down, that they'd had to put metal fixators in his skull to help it to heal, which it hadn't yet, not fully, and the possible side effects of all of it, none of which he's experienced yet. Elias listens, asks questions and makes sounds of agreement where appropriate, but his mind is still on other things. Out of all the casualties of this war, it doesn't seem right that he's one of the survivors. He has no family left and very few friends, no purpose to speak of. While he knows John will have happily sacrificed himself for Harold, he thinks about Root, who he'd come to know pretty well during his time in hiding, and everything she had to live for, especially with Shaw's return. If anyone could find a way to fake her death so well, it's Root, but he doesn't understand why she would.

Madani says that he'll be back at the end of the day or else tomorrow then leaves, carefully ignoring Harold.

"Friend of yours?"

Harold frowns slightly. "Something like that. I hadn't realised he was working here, or I would have been more careful."

"If it makes a difference, Harold, I'm glad you didn't," he says carefully. "I'm not sure what I'd have thought if I'd woken up here alone. Besides, who have you got left to fear?"

"The government, mostly. They're looking for answers, and if they can't find them, a suitable scapegoat. I was lucky enough to get past the officers on the door."

Officers. Oh. Carl guesses that makes sense; he's clearly here under his own name, and the NYPD has been after him since HR broke him out of jail. "How did you get in?"

"I claimed to be family. With all the… problems that everybody's been having with their computer systems recently they can't verify it either way."

He doesn't ask what problems. If the war is over, that means Samaritan is dead, and it won't have gone down easily.

"The NYPD have never been all that difficult to fool-"

The door opens and the nurse comes back in, this time with a purpose other than just a greeting. She draws blood from his arm, all while chattering away, Carl nodding along and smiling, somehow staying as patient as ever despite the fact that he really just wants some time alone with Harold. She talks about some other patients as she straightens, tells him that he's one of the easiest to deal with on her ward, because the others mostly wither make a fuss or have family that make a fuss. As she reaches the door on her way out, she turns and smiles at both of them.

"Your husband's barely left since he found out you were here. You're lucky to have each other," she says before she leaves, closing the door behind her.

Carl doesn't think he imagines the heat that rises in Harold's cheeks. He tries not to look too smug himself. There's a difference between just saying you were family, a cousin or a brother, and claiming to be married to someone.

"I had no idea you felt this way about me, Harold," he says it lightly but suddenly Harold can't meet his eyes and the slight colour that had appeared his cheeks before turns definite.

"When you lose someone," he starts, very quietly. "It tends to remind you about some things, things you should have said that you'll never get chance to, things you should have done. When you get that person back, well…" he hesitates. "I care about you, dearly. I hope you know that."

Carl's mouth goes dry again, because of all the things he expected to hear, that isn't one of them. He thought he'd get a dry comment and a raised eyebrow, not a confession. He takes a long moment to reply, wanting to think through what he needs to say before he says it. He and Anthony were together for more than half of his life so it's been decades since he's had to do this, not since he was a teenager.

Harold seems to take his silence as something else. "I know about you and Mr Marconi, so I don't expect you to respond in kind. I just didn't want this to go unsaid. I've let that happen far too often."

"This is a lot to drop on someone when they just woke up from a coma, Harold." Harold tries to speak, to apologise judging by the look in his eyes, but Carl reaches for his hand again and continues before he gets chance. "You're right about Anthony. He's all I had for a long time, and if you'd said that before all this, maybe my answer would have been different. Seems like getting shot is the only thing that puts things in perspective. Last time I realised that Anthony would have wanted me to live my life now he's gone, not give it up for revenge," he smiles. "This time I've realised what I should be doing."

Harold seems almost hopeful. "And what would that be?"

"This."

Carl leans closer and pulls Harold the rest of the way, carefully so not to jolt the unknown wound in his side.

It's not a perfect kiss. Between his own grogginess and Harold being both caught off guard and trying not to hurt him, it's messy and it doesn't last long.

But, he thinks, that rare, genuine smile on Harold's face as they pull away means it doesn't matter. They have time to get it right.