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Given the CIA, most of John’s experience with being sent to stand in corners over rather a few recent years isn’t really the kind to remember fondly. (Not that corners are particularly unique, in that regard.) Mark talking to Kara and unmistakably not to John, ordering him out of the way. Kara, annoyed, one or another occasion. Whatever he’s had since the army that was for him , or a them that included him, mostly it’s been what he’s been able to give, or find, himself.
It’s different, of course, with Harold, has been - another thing, yet, not unique to corners. Harold, who noticed John (and not because he wanted John less noticeable ). Harold who’d said ‘what do you need?’, quietly and with quiet touch, in that way that made John want to kneel and offer anything , in the way that said that what Harold wanted was his honesty. Harold, who’d tilted his mouth at the furniture of more than a handful of safehouses now, and told John what to move, making that space - for him, night and again.
This house, they’ve been in before. John remembers the carpet, dark red, deep enough for his feet to sink into. Remembers the walls, somewhere between white and cream and yellow, the shadows cast across them from Harold’s lamp.
He can hear Harold from here, sound seeming more vivid with his sight so limited - his keyboard, the rustle of his clothes when he moves. It’s soothing, reminder of presence and safety both - winds itself together with the quiet of the house, his own part of it. The way it’s grounding, this, like and also unlike sitting at Harold’s feet or kneeling next to him - nowhere he has to be, nothing to watch for, just the line where the two walls meet, the triangle of carpet. Like something unwinding, in his muscles, in the space below his lungs, like opening a hand on a life preserver you’d been clutching because the ship is under your feet again.
Tiredness he shows no outward signs of is yet another thing John is more than used to. Not to an enemy, not to anyone who might suggest he was falling short or else decide he might need help in staying awake (not that Kara would be dissuaded from that, particularly, however he looked). He can feel it now, the pull of it, curled in the back of his head and extending out - but it’s fine, Harold will call him to bed soon, probably, there’s coffee downstairs for what adrenaline is insufficient for when needed, and it’s not like he’s really doing anything right now except standing, wouldn’t even really need to keep his eyes open if he didn’t want to. Hardly a problem.
“John?” John realizes what must have happened when he starts awake, still in the corner, his head apparently having traveled the few inches to the wall in front of it, the rest of him - well, the physical parts anyway - mostly about where they had been. Didn’t actually fall over then, at least. That should maybe be something.
He turns around to face Harold’s voice, ducks his head. Considers not even for a second any idea involving pretense -
here I am sir, just where you left me, must have just moved my head a bit-.
He’d no sooner try to deceive Harold than he’d cross to the room’s window and jump out of it. Less soon.
“I’m sorry.” The conventional punishment for this kind of thing would be a whipping and then being sent back over with an extended time. (Kara might have made it all night, certainly a few hours. Had, on more than a few occasions). From Harold, he’ll take that and more than gladly. Wouldn’t ask for any kind of leniency (most certainly
does
have the self discipline to stay where he’s put properly when he’s being punished, whatever complacency his previous circumstances may have lulled him into). Not that Harold particularly tends toward conventionalness.
“I must have been more tired than I thought. That’s not an excuse,” he adds immediately, realizing what he’d said. (Somehow, it actually feels worse that this wasn’t a punishment. Like Harold had given him a gift and he’d thrown it at him). He keeps his eyes down, because it’s proper, but also because he’d have to bear seeing, Harold angry or disappointed or both.
Then suddenly Harold’s in front of him, his hands on John’s face, on his arms that have gone tense again, physically guiding him to turn, to come to the couch by the other wall. Nothing of either of that in his touch, gentle and careful.
On the couch, John has to resist the urge to lean into Harold’s shoulder. He might not deserve it, now, and anyway that might entail far too much risk of drifting off again. Harold, though, still keeps the touch between them, settles John against him and doesn’t move him away.
“You’ve - done nothing wrong,” he says after a moment. John doesn’t argue, of course he doesn’t - considerably more strange as it may be, he doesn’t think Harold would welcome disagreement with his assessment anymore than had anyone telling John what he had done wrong. “Exhaustion - is not a failure. Your body, your needs - are not failures.” John is feeling that tightness in his chest, the one he doesn’t know what to do with. His head is still tilted down, so he can see Harold’s thighs against the couch cushions, his feet on the carpet. He hesitates a moment, but Harold told him he could do this, that it was not presuming, that it was - welcome. He slides off the couch and to his knees. Harold doesn’t restrain him back, lets him go then sits forward to touch his fingers to John’s face. Tender so much that it hurts. “I - understand, I think, why you think it is, some of it.” He breaks off. Makes a gesture with his hand that John reads, moves his own arms so Harold is holding his hands in his lap.
“To be responsible for you, as I am, is a privilege that I cherish very much.” His other hand’s fingers brush over John’s throat, his collar. “Not to neglect your needs is - fundamental, to that. I know-” Harold’s voice catches for a moment. “I know I’ve failed that in the past. I’m sorry I did not attend as I should have, now. And I’m more sorry than I can express that so many in your life have demanded and taken so much from you while giving so little.” And it’s too much - too much to take in, process, feel, like a deluge, like being suddenly shown every camera in New York himself and knowing there’s a map to it, but - . He looks up momentarily (can’t stand it more than that), tries for a smile.
“I was an international spy, Harold. I could be a minute from falling over in front operationals trained in watching, and they’d never know.” Harold gives him a smile in return (John can see it when he glances up again). A different one, small and almost rueful. He squeezes John’s hand.
“I could have asked.” There’s another pause. Then Harold, again, the almost tentative carefulness of choosing his words, and then almost a rush of them. “I know we’ve discussed this. But if we hadn’t covered all situations, or some had not been considered - is this an area where, where punishment would - answer a need for you? Where it would be fulfilling, where you would want it there?” John swallows. It’s still almost incredible to him sometimes, how some answers will lay themselves out when Harold asks, when even the question would never have come to only him.
“No,” he says. Tries to make his voice less choked, on the deluge, on Harold. “I just - I don’t want to disappoint you. Or be ungrateful.”
Harold’s voice breaks slightly again, he thinks. “John, oh - of course not. Everything you did today, that you’re here - I’m nothing but pleased, and proud, and so fortunate. And to be able to give you some comfort, or ease in turn - it is for me to be grateful.” He’s overcome, again. In the quiet, the lines of muted light and shadow, the room is starting to become almost surreal, words like more than words.
He clenches his hands in, on Harold's (not enough to hurt him, never that). Presses his forehead to Harold’s knees, trying to push back the sense of the room starting to spin around him. Harold lets him stay that way, strokes his hair for a few moments. Then tilts his head up, looking at him with so much fondness John’s heart feels tight again. “Come to bed now, I think. The wall can’t have been that comfortable.”
“If you knew some of the places I’ve slept,” says John, but he follows Harold to the bedroom.
(“It means a lot to me, you know,” Harold says, later, almost a whisper in the dark. “That you could.”
“Mm- that I could what, Harold?” The softness of the bed, Harold’s warmth beside him, seem to be lulling him, the threads of the tiredness seeming to weave into them. He still pays attention though, when Harold’s talking again.
“I’m sure you’ve been considerably more exhausted than that, and kept on. I’m glad to know you can - relax, that much, around me. That you might feel safe enough.”
John swallows, thinking of the corner again. Of course that’s true. He’d called it complacency, and he’d called it unwinding, but of course that was the base of it.
He can’t seem to think of words again. Presses his forehead into Harold’s shoulder now.
“I’m yours.” An almost whisper itself, helplessly, all that seems to arrive to him, or matter. He feels Harold’s fingers, in his hair, over the place where his spine begins.
“Nothing of greater worth have I ever been given. Nor trust, to keep and to hold.” John’s pretty sure Harold is drawing on some book of his. Wants to respond in kind, but all that seems to be coming to mind is something like ‘very yours’.
He’s not sure if he ends up saying that or not, before he falls asleep.
He thinks Harold would have understood - one way, or the other.)