Archive of Our Own ^beta

When they meet again, John—quite wisely—does not tell him of his condition until they're in the sanctuary of their new hideout days later. "There's something else we need to talk about," John says, quietly, before they head out there, and Harold decides to hold off on sending directions to Shaw. "Just me and you."

Out of all the possible interpretations of that statement, Harold is not prepared for what John is concealing beneath his baggy jacket.

Harold can't quit staring at...it. At John's belly. It's just John's belly, he tells himself, another part of John's body that he is intimately familiar with. But it's damned unsettling now, an incongruous firm curve jutting out of John's lean torso, bloated—no, swollen—in a way that makes Harold nauseated and cold. While Harold only knows the barest minimum about pregnancy by choice, the rate of growth suggests that John is carrying more than one child. John shouldn't have gotten this big in the short amount of time they've been separated—or is it because his body is not built for pregnancy, or...no, that doesn't matter. The number of fetuses inside is irrelevant. There shouldn't be a fetus in there at all.

"I think the plan was to breed a bunch of almost-guaranteed soldiers," John says. "That's the line they fed us, anyway. Once we had the kids, we were supposed to try to encourage them to join the military when they grew up."

Harold knows he should say something, but nothing comes from his gaping lips but a nearly-inaudible croak.

"They said I had the right body for it," John continues. "Healthy, plenty of room to—" He gestures toward his belly, then places his hand against the small, round protrusion. Harold's stomach turns. "—grow. I thought it sounded kind of cool, and I wanted kids someday, so my dumb ass said yes."

Dear god. The sheer wrongness of it all leaves Harold's own abdomen twisted with a nausea so intense he can hardly breathe through it. John is pregnant, his mind screams on repeat.

"Yeah, I was young. Really young." John lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "Obviously. It was before 9/11, even. Highly, highly classified. Never told anybody." He pats his belly, and Harold quietly chokes. "Guess I should've made an exception for you."

Harold has always found normal pregnancy greatly disturbing. Children aren't a problem. He loves children. But the gestation of those children? For a perfectly natural process, there is something about it that seems highly unnatural. The parasitic nature of the unborn fetus. The deformation of the carrier's body, the sapping of their resources, the manipulation of their mind through hormones. The public nature of it all.

The movement of the baby—that's the worst part, to him. Imagining having another being moving within his body has always left him deeply grateful to be born without such capabilities. He's had dreams about it, about watching his body change with the growth of something unborn, about feeling it squirm and kick and writhe against his insides, about seeing hands and feet protruding from within, especially when he was building The Machine. For years, he had recurring nightmares of carrying living code within his abdomen, bright green monospace text lighting up the black expanse of his belly, filling it until it swelled beyond impossible proportions, each character moving about inside him until he gave birth to it all in a deadly torrent of blood and agony.

(In hindsight, that terrible birth isn't far off from what actually happened when he finished The Machine. The particulars are quite different, of course, but the symbolism and the reality align frightfully well.)

Human experimentation. On John's body. They tampered with his body, doing god knows what to alter its capabilities. And now John is pregnant with his child—or, possibly, his children—through the damn government's unnatural means. The whole thing might be slightly more tolerable if John were naturally capable of bearing children, but in this case? The specifics fill Harold with a deep, visceral horror that goes far beyond his long-standing phobia.

It's hardly a shock to hear that these sorts of experiments were conducted. Harold lost his ability to be surprised by the government's actions many years ago. And, really, doing something that leads to the creation of life is a tiny bit better than them taking it. It's just...John should not be pregnant. But John is pregnant. And Harold hasn't quite figured out how to process that information yet.

John, of course, notices. "Harold," he says, "are you okay? You're looking a little pale."

Is he okay? John is pregnant, and he's asking if Harold is all right, then putting his hands on Harold's shoulders to comfort him. There is something wrong with this, and yet so fundamentally John about it. It takes a great deal of effort not to let out a panicked burst of laughter, or to perhaps even faint. Goodness, he can't breathe, can scarcely move beyond the tiny nod he manages to finally give in reply.

"Harold. Breathe."

Somehow, Harold manages to draw in a slow, tremulous breath that only stokes the ember of anger coming to life beneath the shock. This damn government of theirs, this country. John was serving his country. The same country that turned such a kind man into a killer. The same country that ordered that man's death, Nathan's death, Shaw's death, so many deaths. That allowed the mangling of Root's ear. That left Harold himself limping and in constant physical and emotional pain, that has no doubt ordered his execution as well. That said yes to The Machine, to Samaritan. That was willing to experiment on a young soldier's body until he was capable of becoming pregnant.

What else did they do to him? Lord knows they were willing to do anything. But what other hurts are lying in wait? Does John even know about all of them?

God, Harold wants to destroy something, someone so badly, could rip them apart with his bare hands in this moment if presented with the opportunity. But in this case, the damage is already done.

"I'm sorry," John says, stepping away and absently brushing a hand over his belly, then wrapping his arms around himself, breaking Harold's train of thought and his heart all at once. The anger abruptly burns out, replaced by aching sadness. "I didn't...I know I should've told you before we—look, none of the others stuck. They made it a few weeks at the most, and then I, uh." John takes a shaky breath, looking away for a moment. "I lost them."

"Oh, god," Harold blurts out. That makes it all even worse. "I'm so sorry."

"Thank you," John quietly, sincerely replies. "It was, um..." He swallows hard. "Anyway, I never thought this would be a probl—"

"John, if anyone should be apologizing in this situation, I really don't think that it is you." So much has been done to wound this man who is so dear to him, this wonderful person he cares for so much it kills him. So much pain has been inflicted upon John already, and the world insists on delivering more hurts that Harold can't fix. He wants nothing more than to fix this.

He sighs heavily, taking off his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose, his tired eyes. "I do wish you had told me what they did, though."

"I thought you knew everything about me," John says, a ghost of his typical teasing.

"Obviously I missed something," Harold says, and slips his glasses back into place. "Maybe when I still had the means, I could've arranged for something to be done to prevent this. Now..."

But perhaps there is still a way to fix this particular hurt. He can't undo what has been done, but surely they can put a stop to it. There has to be a way to end this pregnancy before—

Then John touches his rounded belly again, his big hand gentle and affectionate on the tiny swell. Harold's suggestion that they find a way to terminate dies on the tip of his tongue. He watches the movement of John's hand, his nausea ratcheting up significantly.

"What if I'm kind of glad?" John asks. "Glad that I didn't tell you. That it wasn't prevented."

Harold's mind refuses to parse that statement, though he's already concluded that John wants to—inexplicably—remain pregnant. Something about hearing it stated aloud leaves him gaping at John for what feels like a very long time. Glad? How?

Then, slowly, Harold's brain boots back up enough for him to say, "I beg your pardon?"

"What if I'm glad? I know it's a bad time for us to have a kid, much less two—" So it is multiples, then. Twins. Oh, god. But at least John knowing that means he's had some kind of medical care. That's a microscopically small relief. "—but I...these are my kids, Harold. You don't have to be involved if you don't want, but I...I want them."

John looks down at his belly, and Harold has never seen that much softness in John's eyes, not even when they cared for young Leila years ago. It's painful to watch. John wants this, somehow. With him.

And Harold will be damned if he'll be the one who rips it away from him, no matter how horrified and disgusted and angry he may be. He's not angry at John. John's been hurt so many times, has lost everything over and over again. If Harold has any say at all, he won't lose this.

"I've been trying so hard not to," John whispers, and he gives Harold a pleading look, like he's seeking permission to want this pregnancy, to keep his unborn children, "but I've kind of gotten attached."

At that, the last of the screaming in Harold's brain goes quiet. "Get attached all you want, my darling," he says, reaching out to take John's hand, just as John shifts position. Harold's hand lands on John's belly instead. He freezes, eyes widening with alarm, until something else registers: the tension leaving John's body at the touch, the subtle sigh of relief.

That's the only thing that keeps Harold from jerking his hand away from the bulge. Physical comfort may not be his forte, and he may find pregnancy repulsive—especially this one—but it's John. This is someone he cares about, someone who is important to him, someone he loves beyond all reason, and, good heavens, these are his children. He has to get used to this, for their sake and for John's.

He forces himself to breathe, and to lightly stroke John's belly. It feels...like a body part, warm and human beneath John's white dress shirt. Curved like his own belly, but firmer. Nothing dangerous or sinister—just another part of John's body.

John lets out another sigh, and when Harold glances up, he finds John's eyes have fallen shut. There are deep, dark circles surrounding them, cast further into shadow by his long eyelashes, but, for once, John looks relaxed. Harold's heart and insides clench. John needs his acceptance, his support, him, and, in this moment, seems to believe he is getting them all.

Harold won't let him down. He moves to the edge of his seat, so it's easier to reach John's belly without straining his own back, and keeps rubbing, running his hand all over the curve. It's far too soon to feel the babies kick, and he's torn between feeling grateful and, to his immense surprise, disappointed, for some reason.

Maybe...maybe he can get used to this eventually. And if not, well, at least pregnancy is a temporary state.

Whatever happens, he will not allow himself to let on that this pregnancy unsettles him ever again. John needs him. His children need him—and, oh, god, the idea of him having children is enough to make him dizzy on its own, and will inevitably lead to further panic later. For now, he makes himself keep going, saying, "I promise you, I will do everything I can to make this work," as he moves his hand. "And I will be fully involved in our children's lives for as long as I am able."

"I know you will," John says, with a small smile. "Never doubted you for a second, Harold."

Well, Harold thinks, that makes one of us.

He distracts himself with considering the practical side of this, the logistics much easier to contemplate than the profound horror of the rest. They'll need a plan, so Harold starts mentally sketching the barest outline of one. Prenatal care, birth, childcare, anything else a previously-impossible pregnancy might throw at them. Research—he needs to do a lot of it. Money. Children require money, and a pregnancy like this will require a great deal of bribery. He'll need to get more money, somehow. Perhaps he can find a way to tap into his old accounts without catching the eye of—

Samaritan.

His hand freezes. Damn. How on earth are they going to hide this from Samaritan? No doubt it has already noticed the anomaly that is John's condition, if John sought medical attention and had an ultrasound. Someone will inevitably be sent to investigate this pregnancy, and when they do, it won't be long until somebody realizes that John Riley is actually John Reese. The mere thought of what could happen next, of what an entity like Samaritan might order done to its enemies and their innocent unborn children is terrifying—far more terrifying than the pregnancy itself.

It will not happen. Not if Harold has any say. Whatever it takes to get John and their children through this, Harold will do it. Or he will—quite gladly—die trying.

"You will certainly have to go into hiding for a while," he says, starting to rub John's abdomen again, "and lord knows how we'll arrange for the birth, or what excuse we'll use for us suddenly having a pair of babies—if there even is one that Samaritan will find satisfactory. But if this is what you want, then I will support you completely."

"I do want it," John says. "I can't think of anything I've wanted more." He smiles faintly, and lays his hand atop Harold's, lightly holding it in place on his belly. "Thank you, Harold. Really."

"Don't thank me yet," Harold says. "Thank me when we're all at our wit's end because our perfectly healthy babies won't stop crying in the middle of the night."

John huffs out a small laugh. "Is it weird that that sounds great?" he asks, and Harold scoffs.

"Not nearly as weird as you being pregnant." Oh, goodness, it still makes him shudder. But, for John's sake, he suppresses his grimacing, and will continue to do so.

"Hey. I know this is freaking you out." John smiles gently, and pats Harold's hand. "Thank you for pretending that it's not. You're kind of doing a terrible job at it—" He chuckles. "—but thanks."

"You're welcome," Harold says. "And I can only imagine that it is significantly weirder from your side of the fence, is it not?"

With another soft laugh, John says, "It's pretty weird. But I've had a little bit of time to get used to it. Now I'm mostly just getting used to the idea of being a dad, if this goes well." Voice gone rough, John adds, "Never thought I'd know what that felt like."

Harold manages a weak but genuine smile. John with a child—with children of his own. He hasn't forgotten what John said after they cared for Leila. "Be nice to have a child. Children. Think that'll ever happen?" Nor has he missed the way John lights up whenever interacting with a child. Nothing will make John happier than having kids of his own.

"John, you will excel at parenthood, as you do most things," Harold says. "These children of yours are exceptionally lucky to have you as their father."

"You? Sure. Me? I don't know about that." John's eyes are shining, Harold notices. "But I'm gonna try to make them think they are, anyway."

"You won't have to try very hard." Harold finally pulls his hand away, with surprising reluctance, taking a moment to capture John's in his own and bring it briefly to his lips before turning to his keyboard. "I have some things to look into now. Please, do tell me if there is anything—anything at all—that you need. As long as it's not radioactive, I will try to provide it."

That gets a small laugh as John wipes his damp eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. "No nukes," John agrees. "Bad for the kids." Then, sounding more serious, he says, "I think I've got everything I need." He sinks down in one of the hard plastic chairs, smiling fondly at Harold as he settles in, a hand resting comfortably on his belly. He looks content. Harold thinks he might be able to get used to anything that makes John look so content. "Just help me keep them safe."

As Harold considers his response, his gaze catches on the ever-present gun at John's hip. He would kill for these children, he realizes abruptly. Without question, he would die for any child. But he would kill for these babies. His loathing of weapons and causing fatal harm wouldn't matter one whit. If their children needed it, Harold would pick up a gun and fire it, and he would shoot to kill.

It's frightening how suddenly he is certain of this, and how unshakable the realization is once it occurs to him. Instinct, he suspects. Pure instinct. He's been here before, the first time he looked into a camera and realized someone—someone he made—was looking back. It horrified him then. Now, all that horrifies him is the sudden, unwavering conviction, not the idea. How odd.

(He refuses to examine the accompanying thought that flits through his mind: I would likely kill for her, too.)

"In that case," he says, "there is something I need from you, actually."

John, of course, notices where Harold's gaze is directed. His free hand goes to the handgun and rests upon it, light and easy, comfortable. "Okay, Harold," John says. "When would you like to start?"