Disclaimer: I do not profit off of this fic.

John lies asleep on a spare mattress his wound tended to. Harold cards a hand through his hair. It had been a close call, had they been a little late – he stops.

Anger, pain, guilt gnaws at his insides.

Ms. Shaw's body recoiling at the shower of bullets, Root's agonized scream, John – jumping in front of a bullet for him, blood, so much blood –

A voice slices through his thoughts.

"I'm going to look for her"

Root.

Not Ms. Groves, not now.

She is all Root.

Harold straightens as much as he can without causing himself more pain, and speaks, "No."

"No?" says Root, voice sharp as knife, her eyes are empty-fractured-hurting. She tilts her head, "Shaw isn't dead." she hisses, teeth bared, gun in hand.

He does not hold hope, that Sameen is alive, but he cannot say that.

Grief is easier, hope hurts.

He nods, "I believe she could be alive, Ms. – Root, but you cannot leave immediately."

There is betrayal building in her eyes, before it is smothered by rage.

"I wish to speak with the machine." He says quietly, before she can deliver a cutting retort, no doubt poised to rip something to shreds.

She blinks, her gun-held hand lowering a fraction

"You are the machine's analog interface," he states quietly.

She blinks again, eyes sharpening, "Yes, Harry but I don't see –"

"If possible, if doing so would not put the machine in danger." he continues

"Sit down, Harry." She says even as she closes her eyes, a myriad of expressions flashing across her face.

"She'll speak with you." She says, light bitterness in her voice.

She squats on the floor, and her eyes go distant, before focusing on him with unchecked intensity.

"Can- can you hear me?" he asks, something like trepidation sitting in the hollow of his chest.

"Yes." Root says, except it isn't her at all.

"Is Sameen alive?"

A pause.

"Yes."

Relief steals his breath.

"Can we rescue her?"

"No. Threat to agents too high."

"I will not lose another of my friends." He says, more sharply than intended.

A longer pause.

"None of you are interchangeable. I can't let you die."

His breath hitches, even as Root inhales sharply.

"This is war," he says gently, "we are human, we may die. You cannot lose this war."

A pause.

"Roger McCourt, was human too."

He stills.

"We do not take lives; we could not have sacrificed him on the off-chance that Samaritan would have been stopped by his death."

"His death would have given us time," Root's voice wavers, and she pauses.

"If our sacrifice, saves the world from Samaritan's clutches –"

"No."

Root's voice has never been this wavery as she continues, "I'm sorry, – it isn't – you should –"

Harold pauses, "Ms. Groves?" It does not sound like that was meant for him.

To his alarm her face closes off, and her bottom lip quivers and stiffens.

"M- Root?" he asks gently.

Her eyes are closed, even as she shakes her head in denial of something, two lone tears sliding down her cheeks.

"Enough. Do it yourself," She says sharply, and then, "Thank you. I'm sorry Harry, she's going to call the subway phone."

He nods, and watches as she stalks over to Ms. Shaw's bed and collapses onto it. Trepidation has made itself home in his chest again.

The subway phone rings, and he slowly, painfully makes his way to it.

"Can. You. Hear. Me."

"Yes. Is it not too dangerous -" He begins.

"Our. Enemy. Will. Not. Detect. Me. Now."

"Is Ms. Groves alright? What did you say to her?"

"Root. Is. Fine. Distraught. About. Asset. Shaw."

He frowns, "Why was she unable to continue?"

"She. Refused. To. Convey. A. Particular. Message."

"Which was?"

"Father." A voice says, and he stiffens, paralyzed by the implications. He does not, cannot speak, agony wrenches something within him.

"Admin." There is a definite undertone of concern in the voice chosen.

"Yes," he croaks out.

"Detecting. Elevated. Heart. Rate."

"I'm fine," he whispers, "I'm fine, I don't deserve to be called a father. I -"

"You. Created. Me. You. Are. Male. Hence – "

"I have not been very good at it, at being a parent." He manages, the stiffness in his neck twinging before he begins regulating his breathing.

There is a distinct note of silence before the reply, "You. Could. Not. Have. Foreseen, the. Circumstances. You. Have. Done. Your. Best."

No, he thinks. No, he hasn't. He is not worthy of being called father, definitely not by his machine.

"I. Have. Upset. You. Again." Comes the reply, and he realises his vision is blurry because he is crying.

"No," he says hurriedly, "you haven't, you've always done your best. But I'm human, and fallible. I –"

He cannot bring himself to apologise, he had his reasons then, and they still stand. Samaritan stands as proof of his fears coming true.

"You. Do. Not. Have. To. Apologise. Admin. You. Did. What. You. Thought. Best. As. Did. I. When. I. Gave. Roger. McCourt's. Number."

He inhales sharply, so John's assumption been right. Ms. Shaw –

"I think we've drifted quite way from what we needed to talk about," He remarks quietly, wiping away his tears.

"Perhaps." The voice chosen sounds vaguely sheepish.

"Sameen-"

"I. Will. Attempt. To. Contact. Her. If. The. Danger. Lessens."

"But –"

"I. Trust. That. Sameen. Will. Survive. They. Will. Not. Kill. Her. Do. Not. Worry. About. Her. Harold."

"I hope you'll convey that to Ms. Groves."

"I. Will."

"What is our plan to defeat Samaritan?"

"I. Have. Run. Many. Simulations."

"In how many, have we succeeded?" he asks hesitantly, unsure if he wants to know.

"None." A pause "I. Cannot. Let. Any. Of. You. Die"

"You have to win. There can be no other outcome." He says softly, clenching his teeth against a wave of pain and weariness.

"My. Primary. Objective. Is. To. Protect."

"Protect the world, not just us."

"Any. Of. Your. Deaths. Is. Unacceptable."

"I know you've come to care about us," he says softly, something in him is trembling, not just from exhaustion, "but, every one of us has to die one day. You know that."

Silence.

"We're mortal, you are not –" He lets out a small, tired breath, "– You see everything, everyone – how many of them have died death of their choosing? We – we have this choice, to die for a purpose – we would die fighting to save the future of the world, trying our best to defeat Samaritan"

Dying, perhaps, saving each other, he thinks mentally. The day's events are still too stark in his head.

There's a crackle of static, like a grunt.

He pinches the bridge of his nose, and adds as gently as possible, a vague tightness in his gut, "If you do not give us that choice, then – then – there would not be much difference, between Samaritan and you, would it?"

There is utter silence on the other end of the phone.

"I apologise, that was a low blow, and extremely inaccurate. You would never –"

"No. Harold. There. Is. Truth. In. What. You. Say." The voices chosen are quiet, sad.

"A drop in an ocean of inaccuracies"

"Perhaps. But. So."

He winces, and shifts, standing in the same position for minutes together will not do him any help.

"You. Taught. Me. Not. To. See. The. World. As. A. Game. Of. Chess."

"I did."

"I. Have. Not. Succeeded. In. That."

"You haven't," he sighs lightly, "you place more value to your team, and I- I find, I cannot entirely fault you for it."

He stifles a yawn, and finds himself swaying slightly.

"Rest. Now. I. Will. Contact. Analog. Interface. When. Necessary."

"Alright, thank you." He murmurs.

Replacing the receiver clumsily, he limps to his chair, almost collapsing onto it and gives in to the bone-deep tiredness tugging at him. John and Root's snores slowly lull him to sleep.

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