Chapter Text
“Did you know?”
Dusk is fast approaching when John finally steps up next to her, Root turning to shoot him a look that easily telegraphs how stupid she thinks that question is.
“Thought they trained you not to ask questions you already know the answer to, Johnny.”
John sighs- at the sound of Root using something so close to his name, at the feeling of the wind whistling through their respective bullet holes, at the setting sun not doing a damn thing to chase away any of the chill he feels.
“Not whether or not we were gonna die, Root,” they both knew the answer to that long before it happened, “This- all of this.” He gestures to the world they’re now removed from with one spectral hand that he can barely manage to keep visible.
“Oh, the whole ghost thing? Nah; I told Sameen as much, I had no idea what was waiting for us. Even the machine didn’t know, though She had some guesses, after so many years spent watching people die…”
John heaves another sigh. He supposes this isn’t the worst thing that could’ve happened to him; then again, it’s hardly the first time he’s thought that. He wonders when he’ll finally reach that ultimate low.
--
There are some people on this Earth that are only good for how well they can bleed, and John has gotten very, very good at it over the years.
His body is a tool- he can use it to fight, to fuck, to run, and even sometimes to love- but that doesn’t make it any more his, it just means that he’s the one currently yanking its strings, telling it where to go and what to do. The CIA had no qualms against taking full ownership over him; they might have even preferred it if he could do every mission senseless, no sights or sounds to infect him with anything close to morality, just a body to dish out and take blows whenever necessary.
Kara preferred it when he thought he had some semblance of control, if only so she could prove how easily she could take it from him.
And Harold- well. Harold preferred to nudge him in the right direction, to guide him, as if John’s hands wouldn’t pilot the strings in whatever way he wanted him to regardless. John was never sure if Harold knew just how much control he had over him, what John would give him, would do for him, how much blood was ready and willing to spilled in the name of whatever bird it was that Harold decided to adopt that week-
John supposes it doesn’t matter now. Regardless of whose thumb he was under and how aware they were of it at the time, he still died ugly and vicious and bloody, riddled with bullet holes and the less-expected burn marks that come from getting too close to a missile. He still died a man reduced to a rabid dog, pulling at his leash and refusing to fall until the very last moment, until he’d done as much damage as physically possible and then some.
He feels the stinging, acidic burns stretching across his face dully now, remnants of how he’d turned to face that kiss of death in the sky as it plummeted down towards him. He wonders how he’s supposed to come to terms with actually being more than just a body now, considering he doesn’t have one at all anymore- Root claims that their ghostly silhouettes are products of their memory and nothing more, that they could quite easily look like the sheeted ghosts of cartoons if they wanted to.
John knows she’s right, because they are hardly the only corpses in New York City. He knows she’s right, because the ones that have lingered for too long and lost most of their memories are nothing more than vague, wailing shapes.
“I’m not sure I get it,” he admits, and Root gives him another please don’t say something stupid look. “I just- I thought ghosts were supposed to stick around because they have unfinished business. I don’t know about you, but…”
But John had only ever wanted to die for Harold.
Root hums, seemingly mollified by the lack of stupidity in his question. “To be honest, I’ve been thinking about that ever since waking up in the morgue. I didn’t exactly want to die when I did, but with Samaritan gone and Sameen alive… not sure what I’m sticking around for. Sure as hell isn’t the company.”
She sends a sickly sweet smile John’s way, and John returns a hint of an imitation of it at her.
“I don’t even really know how I found you,” he rasps. They’d become better friends during their hunt for Shaw, but that was always an unspoken thing, that shared knowledge that they would die and kill and bleed for the ones they loved, and they would do it quite well. “I just… felt a tug.”
He doesn’t mention that when he’d been drawn towards her, she’d been standing in Central Park and glaring at a payphone.
“Not to mention, I’m pretty sure there should be way more dead people with unfinished business in New York City. Hard to believe this place isn’t chock full of specters.” John’s eyes follow Root’s across a random crosswalk they’d wandered to, for lack of a better place to go and the sheer difficulty of moving with purpose in this realm. She’s right, of course; there’s only a ghost for every other city block or so, if that- it seems an impossibly small number.
John shrugs. “Maybe most people fade quick. Or they go somewhere…” he watches a rat scurry into a nearby sewer drain with a piece of pizza in its mouth, “... More pleasant.”
“Maybe. Maybe we should just be glad we didn’t end up in an ocean of blood or pushing a boulder up a hill for all eternity.” Her voice is chipper, but John hears the truth in it- he’s been wondering why he isn’t burning in Hell ever since coming to.
John’s adoptive family had been Catholic, sure, but religious guilt has nothing to do with the sins he can still feel weighing on his back or the fact that he doesn’t deserve this.
There’s silence for a long few moments between them- hours might pass, or days. It’s hard to keep track of it now, harder even to care. They don’t leave each other’s sides, because that’s somehow the most difficult task of all. John will find moments where consciousness becomes more clear, and the two of them will be in the middle of some office building, or on top of a highrise, or lingering in front of the drink cooler in a bodega.
He’ll glance at Root and notice her fingers prodding at her still-gaping bullet wound, blood sluggishly dripping out. He’ll catch his own hands peeling at the rawness of his burns, as if trying to get to some fresher pain, something that will make him real once more.
Sometimes, she’ll be resting on him on a park bench, the vague lines of their spectral bodies overlapping and melding into one indistinguishable dead thing. Sometimes, there’s a comfort in it. Sometimes, it just makes the both of them terribly cold, though that, too, can be comforting, when there’s little else to feel now.
He is glad she is with him, for the little that they actually remember to speak. He thinks her memory is keeping him whole more than his own- he’d always had a bad habit of fading into the back of his head to avoid the cacophony during missions.
And then, Harold returns to the library.
--
They both feel it- one moment, they’re sat back against a lamppost and watching their skin go translucent in the glow, the next, they’re turning to each other with wide eyes and fluttering edges.
“I didn’t,” Reese’s mouth feels dry, which is surprising, considering he usually can’t feel it at all, “I didn’t even think he was in the country.”
“Maybe something’s wrong,” Root murmurs, and they’re both thinking of Samaritan, of blood smeared across Grace’s pale skin, Sameen shuddering and hooked up to electrodes she barely realizes are there. They’re thinking of death, of the stink of it, of a rot that never leaves and instead lingers under the floorboards. They’re thinking of all the things they don’t deserve and all the things that the living still do.
The decision to move is made without words- even as they are now, the path to the library is familiar and well worn against the soles of their feet.
--
Harold is clearing out debris with a broom that’s far too small for the task. He looks- good, John thinks. Alive. His skin slightly tanned from the sun in a way it never was when John knew him, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes more prominent as if he’s been smiling a lot lately, but his body is still rigid with pain. John aches to step forward and do the work for him. John aches to step forward and feel those new wrinkles with the pads of his thumbs, to catalog every laugh that caused them, to ask him if John could try again, be better this time, warp himself into a person that can make Harold smile that often-
Root gasps beside him as Shaw marches into the space, body coiled with a tension that never quite manages to leave her fully. She does seem a bit more annoyed than usual, though, which is really saying something.
“You’re supposed to be out of the game, Finch,” she bites out, and if tones could kill, Finch would surely be bleeding. John frowns.
“I am,” Finch says, voice distracted, “I’m simply- well, Grace missed New York, and she was curious to see the former base of operations, and I figured I wasn’t going to bring her here while this place is still torn asunder, so-” Finally, Finch turns to face Shaw, blinking owlishly at her behind his glasses. “How did you know I was here?”
“She told me,” Shaw says simply, “She’s not as chatty as she used to be, but She was worried about you. I guess.” Shaw doesn’t say she was worried too, but it’s clear in her posture, in the way her eyes won’t stop sweeping over the exits. Root reaches for him and initiates their ghostly-approximation of holding hands, and he can feel the grief and lovesickness in her as if it’s a current, some kind of positive feedback loop fueled by the memory of this place, these people, the almost forgotten joy of conversation and tangibility.
“Ah. Yes, well, I’m quite fine, as you can see.” Harold stiffly gestures to himself, and John drinks in the sight of his three-piece suit crinkling as he moves, that human aspect of his primness that he could never smooth away or be fully rid of.
“... No offense, Harold, but at this rate, the place will have rotted through before you can even get the floor clean.” Shaw sucks in an annoyed breath, like she doesn’t want to offer but knows she’s going to. “Got another broom?”
John can feel Root attempting to match her breathing with Shaw’s, the expanses of her bullet wound ebbing and flowing with the movement. He finds himself trying to adjust his suit jacket, to cover up some of the dried blood and barely-attached skin of his torso.
It’s not like it really matters- they’re as insubstantial and unknowable to Finch and Shaw right now as if they weren’t here at all.
--
John and Root find their days pass much the same as they did before, except instead of basking in patches of sunlight on the middle of the interstate, they rest below the library windows- instead of contemplating their wounds while drifting through the throngs of people rushing to their jobs, they do so next to the newly-resurrected library shelves. Harold and Shaw have made neat work of the place, and the tomes that hadn’t been ruined or stolen during the initial raid were now arranged back in proper Dewey Decimal order.
John tenses up when Harold brings a laptop back to where his old desk has been reinstated. Shaw does too, turning to him with a raised eyebrow while finishing up the last of the window repairs.
“Finch. Any reason you’ve decided to work from here today? I’ve heard the Starbucks down the block has much better internet.” Finch just settles in a brand-new desk chair and opens up his laptop.
“You’re working a number right now, correct?” Shaw’s teeth grit- a look of despair passes over Root’s shadowed face.
“No.”
“You’ve been in and out of here much more frequently than usual, Miss Shaw; I recognize the signs. I figured, while we were both here, I might as well assist if I can. After all, you won’t need to stick around too much longer- the library is nearly back up and running.”
“No. No, Finch, you have a life and a fiance and you are not getting back into this- pretty fucking sure Reese will haunt my ass if I let you.” Reese feels a smile ghost his lips at those words, and he mutters out a damn straight .
“I hardly think that’s an issue, considering ghosts are not real and Mr. Reese always knew what he was getting into when he started working with me. Besides, I’ll hardly be going into the field- I’m just here to look up any records or track some license plates if need be.” The smile leaves, and Finch’s fingers begin their steady clacking that would be a comfort in any other circumstance.
Shaw lets out a frustrated exhale. “Fine. Fine, but this is it, one and you’re done, Harold. I’m serious- I’m not going to be the death of you, after everything.”
Harold is silent for a long few moments, and for a bit, it seems as if he might not respond at all. Then, he says, “I’ve already discussed it with Grace. She’s okay with me occasionally chipping in, as long as I’m open about it.”
John feels Harold impossibly slipping through his fingers all over again, and every single light in the library flickers.
--
Evidently, however, Harold wasn’t kidding about Grace being okay with this- she wanders into the library the next day, two takeout cups of tea in hand, eyes wide as she takes in the space. Sameen is waiting impatiently for Harold to look something up, hands bundled into her sleeves as if cold while Root drifts behind her and rests her head on her shoulder.
“Wow, this is- it’s really everything you described, Harold. Though I guess we will have to track down some more first editions to fill in the shelves…”
Harold smiles at her, a bright and open thing, and John feels the heat of the missile on his face all over again. He almost wishes he could be jealous over Grace, but he only feels a little sick at not getting to see Harold so light in life, at not kissing him when he had the chance.
There’s a certain kind of guilt that follows this thought, as there always is, as if John would have ever risked staining Harold’s pristine clothes with blood- but at least the guilt leaves him feeling a little more solid.
“Indeed, but, ah, for now- the number was most recently seen outside of this address in Queens. That’s probably where he plans to kill his fiance, if that is indeed what he hopes to do.” Shaw grabs the address and pictures that are leaving the printer and turns to run out of the library, but for just a moment, Root’s hand tightens on her forearm and she hesitates.
And then she’s gone, and Harold and Grace are left chatting about textiles and the possibility of new throw pillows for the library couch. John allows himself to drift to the sound of their voices.
--
Unsurprisingly, Harold does not stop at that number.
The days now find John pacing through the shelves, keeping an eye on Shaw’s arsenal, on every exit and entrance into the building, on how stiff Harold seems to be after working for too long. Grace, thankfully, makes sure he’s hydrated, orders takeout for them when she’s painting in the building or brings leftovers when she’s not, and John finds himself immensely grateful for her. He gets it, why Harold loves her, the way her hands are as delicate and clever as his but in an entirely different manner.
Sometimes, Root leans over Harold’s shoulder and watches as he codes, as if she’s itching to do the same. Sometimes, she’s tailing Shaw and chirping advice that she knows she can’t hear, keeping one hand on her trigger finger when she shoots as if Root could ensure her bullets will never miss.
John has never been this scared. He’s also never been this solid, not since waking up dead. Time becomes a bit more stable, if only because Harold should be eating three meals a day and sleeping eight hours a night and John likes to track how well he is. Numbers never took them much longer than a week in life, and this also helps categorize things, watching new scars arise and heal on Shaw’s form, marking the beginning of a new number and how her feelings, however dulled they may be, have shifted by the end of it.
John and Root get very good at haunting, at lingering, winding their way through the library and keeping it perpetually chilly with their worry.
It’s as close to life as they’ve managed to get, so far.
--
John knows before he’s even said it out loud what Harold is planning.
It’s been months since his return, since he and Shaw effectively teamed back up, and Harold is standing in front of a newly-installed mirror in the library and tying his tie up in an Eldridge knot, the kind he only wears when he’s preparing to play the part of Mr. Partridge. Mr. Partridge is not a presence that occurs over the phone- no, no, Mr. Partridge is a character best fit for the field.
Which means he’s going to go into the field.
Shaw walks in, camera in hand from tailing their number earlier. “So, how are we getting into this Gala, Finch- woah, playing a little dress-up?” Her eyes narrow, and John knows she knows what this means. Root shares a worried glance with John, both of them stationed at their usual spots, just behind Harold and Shaw’s right shoulders- personal space starts to mean a lot less once you lose a body.
“The easiest way to get into a gala is to be invited, Miss Shaw,” Harold responds, voice determined, “And I just so happen to be a donor for the event.”
“And Grace is okay with this?” Shaw demands, the other woman looking up at her from her painting and giving Shaw a soft smile.
“You’re going to be there, aren’t you? You’ll be able to protect him from any threats, and he’ll be able to protect you from having to make any small talk. It’s not my job to keep Harold in this library- if you don’t want him going out there, you’re going to have to own up to that yourself instead of placing it on my shoulders.” John aches at her words, her understanding of Finch and the situation and how long she’d clearly spent thinking this through.
He still can’t let Finch do this.
Just as Shaw’s jaw tightens and then makes to speak again, John can feel the word rasp out of his throat, a sharp contrast to the way speech normally drifts from him if he talks at all these days.
“ Please. ”
Every light in the building flickers as the temperature drops a solid ten degrees, one corner of the mirror fracturing into pieces, the subsequent sound sharp and terrible.
And John- John sees himself behind Harold, pale and raw and ugly but undeniably present.
Harold gasps, jaw working soundlessly; Grace drops her paintbrush and takes in a shuddering breath; Shaw lets out a startled “what the fuck.”
“ Please, ” John repeats, “Don’t go out there. Finch. Please.”
Finch spins around to face him, and John half expects to be invisible outside of the mirror- but no, the man is looking at him instead of through him, his gaze taking in his ruined suit and dried blood and flaking skin.
John feels, abruptly, ashamed. For inserting himself back into Finch’s life like this. For dirtying this room with his injuries, with his grief, lingering when he should have just left and allowed everyone to move on.
From the corner of his eye, he can see Root draped over the couch, and he can tell she’s far more solid than she usually is.
What have they done?
“J- Mr. Reese?” His name is stuttered from Harold’s mouth, and he feels himself shudder all over with it, body getting just a little more present.
“Finch. Harold. Don’t do this.” He can’t say anything else, can’t do anything but plead and hope he’ll be listened to.
“ Root? ” He hears Shaw’s tone from behind him, sounding as if she’s a cat that’s fallen off a building only to land and then stumble all over again.
“Hey, sweetie,” Root murmurs, and the lights flicker once more, “What's the matter? You look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“Harold,” Grace mutters, “Harold, it’s-”
A shaky hand reaches out towards him, grazing the burned remnants of one side of John’s face like one might brush their fingers through grass- not quite solid, but still something there. John leans into it before he can flinch away, and he swears he almost, almost feels warm.
“Can’t bear to see you bleed again, Harold,” he murmurs, “That’s supposed to be my job.”
I’m the one who’s good at it , he thinks, made for it in the same way Harold was made to smile and speak in those lilting tones of his and bless the world with a gift he would never brag about. Made for it so people like Harold didn’t have to be.
“No, no, this isn’t- how long have- John. I need to sit down.”
John supposes Harold is struggling to come to terms with both the whole “ghosts are real” thing and the whole “two of his former friends are haunting him” thing, so he steps aside and lets Harold collapse into his desk chair, tie only half done.
That makes John smile, just a little. He drifts closer, as close as he dares, making eye contact with Root as he does, and somehow he knows that they’re both keeping each other grounded and present, making sure they don’t lose this so soon, that they don’t lose themselves.
After all, wasn't it the same way for them in life? An unspoken contract that they would prop each other up, keep the other alive until they can die in the right way, at the right time.
“Shaw told you I’d haunt you,” he rasps, and Finch lets out a startled laugh in return.
“I- I suppose she did. I’m… sorry, truly, but this is real? I’m not hallucinating?” He’s looking at Grace and then Shaw, who’s currently in the process of being octopus-ed by Root now that they have regained some semblance of touch, the former hacker enveloping her with every limb and resting her head in the crook of Shaw’s neck; seems she doesn’t have nearly as many fears of getting too close as John does.
Even then, he’s pretty close to Finch himself. The difficulty of boundaries when one lacks a body, again.
“Jesus, Root, you’re cold-”
“Why don’t you let me warm you up a little, then?”
Grace just smiles at all of them, looking shocked but as skilled at composure as she usually is. Besides- it’s a little easier for her, not having known John and Root so intimately in life, to gaze upon them as wounded and tattered as they are in death.
Her voice is gentle when she speaks, making everyone in the room relax just an inch. “John, Root. It’s good to see you again. I guess we have some things to discuss, huh?”
John guesses they do- it’s time to finally figure out who he’ll be now that he can no longer bleed.