Authors Note; McMoni, you're awesome. Thanks as always for the encouragement to keep this story going. If you've reviewed this story at all, you're awesome too. If you've got this far and you haven't, then what are you waiting for? Let me know what you think.
Chapter 7
Harold was so tired and so sore that he had no idea how he was managing to put one foot in front of the other. He hadn't hurt this badly since the accident that had taken his mobility in the first place. He was also too hot, soaked through with sweat, sticking his clothing to him and making it uncomfortable. He was being plagued by an insect that buzzed around his head and he must have touched something poisonous at some point because there was a blotchy, itchy rash on the back of his hand. To rub salt into his wounds, the sunlight that filtered down through the trees was turning his pale skin pink, while frustratingly appearing to just give his colleague a healthy-looking tan. His feet were the worst of his complaints though, and they burned with every step, sending pain up his legs.
Not that he was complaining, as much as he wanted to. As John forged on ahead of him, Harold watched the progress of the taller man's bruises extending from under the sleeve of his tee shirt and felt infinitely inferior. Although John had allowed Harold to take the first watch the night before, the ex-soldier had taken only a few hours to sleep before waking up and taking the task over again. The bag with their meagre supplies in looked heavy, and must have been hurting John's shoulder and yet Harold had been too afraid to offer to carry it in case the other man said yes. He felt certain that should he be weighed down by anything, then he would not have the strength to go anywhere.
And so he trudged onward, scarcely noticing what was happening around him. When he stumbled, it barely registered until John's hands were on him, keeping him steady. He mumbled his apologies. John said nothing but offered him the water which Harold gulped down greedily until it turned his stomach. When he handed it back, John weighed it in his hand and when he drank he barely wet his lips with it. Rationing, Harold realised, and he felt a pang of guilt at having drunk so much. He mumbled his apologies again and John just gave his shoulder a slight squeeze.
They spent the rest of the day walking in this way, again. By late afternoon, John had gone on ahead, cutting back a stretch of particularly dense vegetation, while Harold suffered along at his own pace. Suddenly, John came hurrying back to him, with a renewed energy. "We've found the river Finch." He announced.
Harold wanted to feel relief, but he was just too tired. The achievement had invigorated John, but Harold had no reserves left and couldn't find the emotion he wanted. John shot off ahead again and he didn't catch up until he got to the riverbank. John had dumped his pack and had discarded his shoes and clothes. The ex-operative was wading out into the wide, slow-moving river in just his dark boxers, and then dove smoothly under the dark water. When he popped up, even further out, his hair plastered to his forehead, he turned to look at Harold and his look was one of relief.
"You should come in Harold." John said. "The water is perfect."
Harold stood at the riverbank and frowned. The water looked far from perfect, for a start it was really discoloured, a murky brown that made it look like over-steeped tea at the bank, and almost black where it was deeper. "I think I'll pass thanks." He frowned.
John ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back, and then swimming back over to the side to talk to the older man.
"Should you really be swimming in that?" Harold asked with a grimace, his thoughts filled with horror stories of parasites getting attached to sensitive areas.
"It's a blackwater river Finch." John leaned his head back and scrubbed the water through his short hair. "The tannins that leech into it are what causes the colour. It makes it low in nutrients and that stops insects and parasites from breeding. Haven't you noticed, you've not been eaten alive by mosquitos?"
Harold was impressed with the other man's knowledge, and wondered again just what he had been doing last time he'd been in the country.
"Come on," John urged. "You'll feel better for it. Don't be shy."
Harold shuffled his weight slightly, he was running out of excuses, and the cool water would feel nice. "It's my feet, if I take my shoes off I'm not sure I'll get them back on again."
"What do you mean?" John swam to the edge and hauled himself out onto the bank. Water glistened on his toned body, littered with scars. Harold noticed his two latest bullet wounds, the skin puckered and pink. They'd taken a long time to heal, longer than they should have due to the wild crusade that John had lead himself on the moment he'd woken up. "Let me see."
"I really…" Harold faltered, but gave up. John indicated he should sit on the pack, and sighing, he did. John knelt in front of him in the mud and started unlacing the other man's shoes, sensing he was too stiff to reach over and do it himself. John eased the ruined shoes off the other man's feet gently. As he began to peel back his filthy socks, it became clear that they were stuck to his feet. John took them off slowly and carefully. Harold felt incredibly embarrassed at the attention, it was further proof of his hopelessness. As the first sock came free, Harold let out a gasp, he'd known they were bad but the visual proof was still a shock. John rested the foot on his thigh while he inspected the damage. The stiff shoes had caused huge blisters, filled up with yellow liquid, ballooning the skin up at his heel and on the ball of his foot. Another blister on the side of his big toe had burst and was leaking pus and blood.
"Harold, you should have said something." John admonished. "Is the other one the same?" He asked as he stripped the other foot carefully and revealed that it was.
"I assumed yours would be the same." Harold admitted. "And you weren't complaining so…" he trailed off.
"I'm used to walking long distances in mine, they're worn in." He pointed out. "You've got to look after yourself, these are looking pretty infected."
Harold gave John a pointed look at the hypocrisy of such a statement coming from the man and he had enough self-awareness to shrink away from it. But he was also right, the edges of the blisters were ringed with red, a sure sign that infection had settled in.
"You can't walk on these. They need draining."
Harold paled at the thought.
"Don't worry." John patted his shoulder. "It will be a relief, trust me. Just sit tight."
Harold watched, fascinated as John built a fire. He'd missed this ritual the night before and even though he knew the science behind it, watching John make fire out of friction and wood was still impressive. While it was getting going, John took his shirt into the river and washed it, beating it and scrubbing it against a rock until most of the pigs blood was out. Once it was as clean as he could get it he tore it into strips of bandage. While he was there, he also rinsed out his own tee shirt and pants and Harold's shirt. He left the shirts to dry on a branch and put his pants back on before kneeling beside the older man again.
Harold tried not to be nervous as John brought Harold's feet into his lap again, cleaned them up with a wet strip of shirt and then pulled the knife from his belt and held it over the fire, watching the blade darken as it heated. In an attempt to take his mind off what was about to happen, he studied the man in front of him. John had been refreshed by his swim, no matter how brief it had been. The man had looked weary long before this latest disastrous escapade, there were lines that had been etched into his face for months, but now his facial expression was neutral as he concentrated on his task. He certainly didn't look like he was about to cut into his friend's foot.
He looked up at Harold and gave him a comforting smile. "Don't look so nervous. It won't hurt." He promised. "You know when I was in basic training we did a three-day march. I had these new boots and they blistered my feet up like this. At the end of the first day I thought I was done, they hurt so bad, but my Sarge lanced all the puss out of them and they were fine after." As he told the little anecdote, he pierced the largest blister with his knife gently. The skin was already dead, and so to Harold's surprise he didn't feel any pain, just a mixture of relief and disgust as the viscous yellow liquid spilled out, running down the knife and over John's fingers.
"Oh dear." Harold murmured, grimacing at the sight.
"Better?" John asked, as he gently pressed on the bubble, releasing all the nasty fluid, ignoring the mess it was making of his hands.
"Yes." Harold admitted. "Although it can hardly be a pleasant experience for you."
"Come on Harold, you've patched me up plenty by now. I'm just returning the favour."
Harold returned his gaze to his friend's battered chest, with its numerous evidence of Finch's ministrations on the man. "Mr Reese, how many times have you been shot in my employ?" He knew the answer, but for some reason couldn't stop himself from asking.
"Harold," the word was a warning, he cringed under the older man's scrutiny.
"I'm sorry, it's just that…"
"Come on, Finch. This isn't anything new to you. You've seen all of this before." He started on the next blister.
That was true. Harold remembered the first time he'd helped John change his bandages. It had been right after the Snow incident, and he'd walked in on John trying to reach the exit wound on his lower back. He'd been horrified by the amount of scarring then, particularly a couple of nasty whip scars that stretched across his back. John had been embarrassed then, and was clearly embarrassed again now. "I know, it's just that when I look at you now, all I can see are bullet wounds. Wounds that are my fault."
John abandoned what he was doing to grab his tee shirt and pull it back on, but the thin fabric was soaked through and just clung to his body, hiding nothing. "You've never shot me Finch." John pointed out. "In fact, half of them are from my own partners at the CIA."
"Who first shot you because you were sent to get a laptop and weren't supposed to come back." Harold countered sadly. "I was getting you shot even before we met. No wonder you wanted to leave. I'm sorry for bringing you back."
"Harold," John's tone had changed. "Can we not talk about this while I'm holding a knife to your foot?"
"Yes, of course. I'm sorry." They fell into silence as John finished off his ministrations, wiped them with a wet cloth and then wrapped Harold's feet in the strips of cotton that he'd turned into bandages. They really did feel better, and he was touched by the care the other man had shown him, even though he'd been unable to look Harold in the eye since they'd started that awkward conversation.
"Thank you." Harold said warmly.
"I'm going for a swim." John replied, his voice gruff with emotion, and he got up and went back to the water, diving in fully clothed this time. Harold watched him go with a pang of guilt. How was it he'd managed to cause his strong yet fragile friend even more pain?
John couldn't look at Harold, not while his eyes were stinging. And so he did what he usually did when things got too much, he ran away. Or in this case, swam away. He took a deep breath and dove in, closing his eyes and allowing himself to just feel the water as it engulfed his head and the rest of his sore body. Kicking his legs gently, he propelled himself as far as he could under the water, until he had to come up for air, at which point he switched into long powerful strokes, only partially hampered by the damage round his shoulder. He imagined the water stripping his pain and anger away, leaving it in his wake. It was a visualisation exercise he'd used for years, before he'd even consciously been aware that that was what it was. Some days it worked better than others, but if nothing else, at least it allowed him to shed a tear without anyone noticing.
He'd swum a lot in the CIA, mostly just to get away from Kara and her incessant needling at him. She'd derided him for it, as she did with most other things, told him he thought too much while he poured all his strength into doing relentless laps of whichever hotel pool he could find. But actually, the opposite was the case, he emptied his mind, concentrating on his stroke, counting the lengths so he knew just how far he'd gone, attempting to beat his own record each time. The water loosened too tight muscles and soothed his aches, it helped him see things more clearly when he was without distractions, and gave him the space to find the strength to do what needed to be done.
Eventually the energy left his wounded arm and he came up to breathe, treading water with gentle but effective kicks. He'd swum a lot further than he'd realised and couldn't see where he'd left Harold anymore. The jungle was quiet, the only sounds were a far-off cawing from an unidentifiable bird. He glanced around at his surroundings, he'd been too preoccupied so far to take it all in. The river was wide but the trees towered over him on either side, some growing straight up out of the water. At the bank he spotted the watchful eyes of a caiman, hidden between the tree roots, but it was a small one so he remained unconcerned. But as he was watching the reptile, something touched his bare foot and he pulled back instinctively, unable to see in the murky water. He had a moment of panic until he realised there were trees beneath him too, completely submerged and yet still managing to survive until the dry season when the water levels would drop and they would be revealed. A rustling up above him and a shake of the branches revealed a troop of capuchin monkeys, almost thirty of them at a quick estimate. They leapt through the trees elegantly, some with tiny babies clinging to their bodies. They were on their way somewhere, at a brisk pace, coming from the direction that John had just swum from. He wondered it Harold had seen them.
With his thoughts turning to Harold, he knew he had to get back to the older man. It had been unfair of him to leave the injured hacker all alone in the jungle and he'd been gone for longer than he'd meant to. He knew the conversation that had caused him to flee had been borne of good intentions and it was irresponsible to bail on him. He started a steady swim back, exchanging his previous furious freestyle for breast stroke that was gentler on his arm.
During the course of his return swim, the clouds started to come over, and just like it had on previous days, the rains appeared. The rain was heavy, and pelted down on the slow-moving river and John's head. He felt guilty for having left his friend exposed to the elements and picked up the pace to hurry back.
Harold was hobbling round the small piece of land, trying desperately to put the tarpaulin up before the rain put the fire out. He'd managed three of the corners but was struggling with the fourth when a pair of large hands reached out and look it from him. Harold jumped and turned around at the sudden intrusion, even though he knew who they belonged to. John was stood, soaking wet beside him, damp hair plastered to his forehead.
"I'm sorry I left you Harold." He said as he tied the tarp up around a tree, higher than Harold himself was able to reach. "That was unfair of me."
"I'm sorry too." Harold replied sadly.
"Just so you know," John began firmly, "I'm back because this is where I'm supposed to be, where she'd want me to be."
And Harold knew he wasn't just talking about back from his swim. He almost asked when the ex-operative had taken to using Root's pronoun for The Machine, but then realised that wasn't the 'she' he was talking about. "And I will be eternally grateful." He said instead.
