fatherofmachine-a

[fatherofmachine-a]

Sorry to have to move again, but I’m over @fatherofmachine​ !! I’m working on updating / organizing the tags in pages and things atm and then I’ll be good to go. Thanks for your patience with me friends <3

[fatherofmachine-a]

Sorry to have to move again, but I’m over @fatherofmachine​ !! I’m working on updating / organizing the tags in pages and things atm and then I’ll be good to go. Thanks for your patience with me friends <3

[fatherofmachine-a]

Sorry to have to move again, but I’m over @fatherofmachine​ !! I’m working on updating / organizing the tags in pages and things atm and then I’ll be good to go. Thanks for your patience with me friends <3

[fatherofmachine-a]

Sorry to have to move again, but I’m over @fatherofmachine​ !! I’m working on updating / organizing the tags in pages and things atm and then I’ll be good to go. Thanks for your patience with me friends <3

[fatherofmachine-a]

Sorry to have to move again, but I’m over @fatherofmachine​ !! I’m working on updating / organizing the tags in pages and things atm and then I’ll be good to go. Thanks for your patience with me friends <3

[fatherofmachine-a]

OOC; I really, really didn’t want to if i could avoid it, but ... I think I gotta remake this blog, my tags are a hot mess. It’ll be the same url ofc, but I’ll keep y’all updated. Anything I started here I’ll move onto the new one, including memes sent in!

[fatherofmachine-a]

you’re  gonna  realise  that   someday ❞        —-         ❝       you &  me  together  would  be like  a four alarm fire in  an  oil  refinery.               @herinterface   /   @itsasset

[fatherofmachine-a]

[fatherofmachine-a]

had to do it for team machine 

[fatherofmachine-a]

@anurbanlcgend​ CONT.

The steady beep of the heart monitor had become little more than a drone in the back of John’s mind, a tiny little message from Harold saying I’m still alive, Mr. Reese. At least that was how he imagined it in the hours he spent sitting in the chair, alternating between watching Harold, watching the door, and watching out the window for any approaching operatives. Occasionally he spared a glance upwards to the patient camera the nurses used.

Are you still up there? he thought once. He opened his mouth to say it, hesitated as the sound caught in his throat, and closed his mouth again, returning to watching the window.

Reese spent hours that way. He needed medical care too, and at least one of the nurses coming and going tried to talk him into it, but he couldn’t explain to them the life altering fight that had just went down, that he didn’t know if they were still safe, that he had to keep an eye on Harold, that he had to make sure he was safe above all else.

At some point, exhaustion won out and he nodded off in his seat, leaning his head against the windowsill. Everything hurt, a full body ache that made it hard to pinpoint the major injuries—a consequence of having a missile bring a building down on your head, he supposed—with the exception of his left leg. It was… it wasn’t doing good, crushed under rubble and then some. He’d have to have it checked out, eventually, but now wasn’t the time. First he had to make sure Harold was fine, and then he had to make contact with Shaw. Then he’d worry about his leg.

“…John?”

The voice brought him out of his sleep and dreams of fire and gunpowder with a shocking abruptness, sitting up sharply, sending pain corkscrewing around bones, fractured and otherwise, and badly bruised muscles. A soft grunt escaped him, bringing a hand to his stomach, bruised from the multiple gunshots his vest had caught, but he was already looking over at Harold.

“I’m here,” he said, a little hoarse, and cleared his throat as he stood up unsteadily on his good leg, before limping over to the bed with a little assistance from leaning on the end of the hospital bed for support. He slid onto the bed next to him, even now as he was wracked with pain being mindful of Harold’s injuries. He reached up to rest a hand on his chest, but his other hand came up to take Harold’s hand nearest to him. “You’re awake.”

They talked a little, John filled him in on what he knew so far, that they were safe for now, that he hadn’t made contact with Shaw or Fusco yet [ I wanted to focus on you went unspoken. ], and an emphasis on I’m okay when Harold turned his attention to it, even though he’d just watched John limp, heavily, from the chair to the side of Harold’s bed. Still, a smile settled onto his features. Tired, world worn and exhausted into the bones, but a smile all the same.

But for the moment, Harold seemed okay to let it go, at least, instead disentangling his hand and reaching up for John. John, who put up no resistance at all, leaning down gladly to capture Harold’s lips with his own. One hand came up, an instinct at this point, to slide beneath Harold’s neck, calloused fingers brushing across old scars with as much tenderness as an ex-assassin could possible muster… which turned out to be quite a lot, as he braced Harold’s neck, ensuring it didn’t bend any as they kissed.

The sweeping relief the kiss started with drained into a kind of desperation as his other hand, the one that had previously been clutching Harold’s hand, slid up to cup the side of his face, fingers curled gently around the warm skin of his cheek and the side of his neck, his thumb resting lower down on his chin as they sat there.

Some of Harold’s scent, the smell of tea and incense that hung so heavily around him, had mostly been replaced by something more sterile, iodine and alcohol or some other disinfectants, along with the stony-cement smell that hung around John, still clinging to his suit despite his best attempts to brush off.

When they parted, he still leaned in, even as his joints and his bones and his muscles ached at the position, so he could rest his forehead against, the end of his nose brushing Harold’s.

“I think we’re okay,” he said, eventually, in a low rasp so quiet it was almost impossible to hear beyond them. “I think we won.”

   The ONLY THING Harold remembered about reaching the hospital was that he'd somehow made it there on foot. Everything else was either entirely blank or a blur. He'd lost a lot of blood, been in far more pain than he'd EVER experienced all at once—which, for someone with chronic pain, that was saying something. And yet, somehow he'd made the trek down from the top of the building, through the streets of New York, where he remained unconscious in a hospital bed, for the moment.

   Harold hadn't known then if he'd ever see John again; in fact, despite his desperate hope, he practically BET on it being incredibly unlikely. When he began to stir, all of his senses gradually coming back to him as consciousness encompassed him once more, he'd expected to be alone. Those who would have stayed until he awoke were gone, he'd thought, and truly, he didn't blame the others for not being here. They had their own lives to rebuild, their own wounds to heal.

   As blue eyes fluttered open, however, Harold turned head and shoulders stiffly, glancing around—and it felt like his heart had practically leapt into his throat at the sight of John’s sleeping form. He was perched on a chair, his head resting against the windowsill ... and he looked like hell, even if the sight of him at all, STILL ALIVE, was the most incredible thing he could've asked for. Harold felt an overwhelming surge of emotion swell in his chest, curl in his throat enough to make his eyes burn. He cleared his throat softly before finding his voice.

"... John?"

   John awoke with a start at the MERE SOUND of Harold’s voice and he couldn’t help but wince at the clear pain the movement caused; but the sound of John’s voice caused another twinge of emotion, so much desperate love and relief. 'I'm here,' he'd said, sounding absolutely as pained as he looked. Of course Harold noticed the way he moved, the CLEAR INDICATORS that he was in worse shape than Harold was now. He resolved himself to convince John to get the help he needed.

   At first, however, they discussed the situation at hand; all the while, Harold easily twined their fingers together when John took his hand, rested his other atop the wrist of the hand resting against his chest. They needed to touch bases with Miss Shaw and Fusco, Harold found out what exactly had happened to John—which was when he did try to bring attention to his injuries, but ... he emphasized how fine he was. Harold let out a quiet sigh ... before disentangling one of his hands to reach for him, coaxing him to lean in so that he could capture John's lips with his own.

   A sweeping, bone deep relief encompassed him, as if kissing John was like a long drink of water after having been SEVERELY dehydrated. Things intensified quickly, however, and Harold's other hand came up to curl into the lapels of his ruined suit jacket. A soft, wavering sigh escaped him as they parted and Harold could FEEL the way the answering pain made him wince—he tried to stifle it, but ... he knew John too well for that.

   "Yes," he agreed, speaking just as softly between them, briefly allowing blue eyes to flutter shut. "I believe so." They lingered there like that for a few minutes, Harold allowing himself to simply BASK in John's presence, knowing that he was here and he was alive. Now, he had to try and CONVINCE the most selfless man alive to get his injuries taken care of. He glanced up to regard John’s features, breathing in a scent that was DISTINCTLY John underneath ( a smoky musk scent, very frequently with a hint of gunpowder ), but partially shrouded by the dusty cement smell that clung to him. Harold slid his hands up to hold John's face between them, gently urging him to look up.

  "You've gotta get yourself checked out now, John. I can handle contacting Miss Shaw and Fusco—my phone's in reach, I won't exert myself. YOU, on the other hand, nearly got crushed to death by a collapsing building," Harold affectionately smoothed his thumbs over John's cheeks and his eyes closed again, albeit TIGHTLY this time as dark brows tensed. "Please, John. I ... suspected you might not be here when I woke up. I need you to let them take care of you."

[fatherofmachine-a]

[fatherofmachine-a]

that’s the problem with humans… they just sit around, hoping that someone will fix things. but no one will. no one cares. The universe is infinite and chaotic and cold. And there has never been a plan. At least not til now.

independent, private, highly selective ROOT of cbs’ person of interest. show based and headcanon influence. written & loved by king.

[fatherofmachine-a]

@griim​ gets a Plotted Starter!

After Harold received GEMMA HARDING’S number, he considered her the runner up for the most MINUSCULE digital footprint he’d ever seen. However, what he was able to find ... it allowed him to make some reasonable guesses as to her home life, her childhood. Mostly that something had CLEARLY been very wrong from the first glimpse—she’d only been given a name, a social security number, a proper identity when she was two years old and the person who’d given it to her hadn’t been either of her parents. Her mother hadn’t been listed, but ... what Harold did find about her father, well ... it WASN’T difficult to assume that he may be the reason she was in danger.

There had already been ONE attempt on her life thus far and Harold had managed to cut off their comms—but not without a loud, SCREECHING noise that pierced through their ears, which was more than distracting enough to aid in Gemma’s escape. CLEARLY they were running out of time and Harold couldn’t keep protecting her from afar, so ... he’d tracked the phone she had on her to a motel.

It was immediately obvious that she was DEEPLY shaken, on edge; a feeling Harold understood all too well. He knew approaching her would be ... challenging. She was like a wounded animal, ready to STRIKE at the first thing that moved toward her that she didn’t recognize; it made his heart twinge painfully in his chest. This young woman had gone through MORE than her fair share of hell and here she was, still tangled up in it, trying to evade the traps. Harold had anticipated some kind of defensive response, but it didn’t stop the IMMEDIATE spike of anxiety that pierced through him when she drew a knife on him. Her gesture was loud and clear— stay back, unless you want a knife lodged into you.

Harold froze where he stood, blue eyes wide and brows lifting sharply in alarm; slowly, CAREFULLY, he spread his hands out, indicating that he was unarmed. “Miss Harding, please—you don’t know me, but my name’s HAROLD. All I wanna do is help you,” a quiet, wavering breath escaped him as he briefly glanced down to regard the knife, then back up to meet her eyes. “I know you’ve got no reason  to trust me, but I’m afraid we’re running out of time.”

[fatherofmachine-a]

RETURN ZERO. ( CAUTION,  SEASON 5 SPOILERS !!!  )

PAIN was nearly everywhere  &  a SHIVER wracked Harold’s frame every now  &  then,  as he was feeling a great deal more affected by the cold than he normally  would be.  He wasn’t certain he CARED much,  anymore.  

The fingers of his left hand clutched TIGHTLY to the suitcase,  the one he believed was to be used to upload the VIRUS into a satellite that Samaritan had retreated  to.  In his RIGHT hand,  he held a firearm …. something that Harold had REFUSED to even touch,  until now.  He hadn’t needed to actually use  it yet  &  he HOPED it would stay  that way.  

With the tremors  that had long-since settled within his hands,  Harold couldn’t shoot straight if he’d TRIED (  &  he wasn’t  good at it to begin with ).  He’d been SPOOKED by a thud behind him a moment earlier  &  he’d turned with a PAINFUL start,  holding the gun up with a shaking  hand—–but no one had been there.  Now,  his back was facing the door  &  he slowly  limped forward.

❝ Are you there ? ❞

Harold’s words DRIFTED above the high,  frigid  wind upon the rooftop—–but his own voice sounded STRANGE within his own ears … distant.  He’d spoken SLOWER than he’d intended to,  almost dreamlike.  Breathing was STEADILY becoming a challenge ( as he was breathing heavily  through his open mouth ),  even as his limping steps slowed considerably.  

❛ Yes, ❜  Root’s The Machine’s voice  answered within his earpiece  &  it elicited a flood of RELIEF to wash over him,  to know that She was still listening.  ❛ I’m sorry—–is this …. NOW ?  ❜ 

Pausing mid-step,  dark brows NARROWED briefly as … the question didn’t make any sense.   Looking back upon this moment,  his reaction could EASILY be attributed to the gunshot  wound ;  SEPSIS tended to make cognitive ability suffer  considerably.  Tired CONFUSION was audible  as Harold replied,

 ❝ …. What ? ❞

The Machine’s words weren’t  so hesitant this next time.  She answered matter-of-factly DESPITE the ICE-9 virus steadily destroying  Her from the inside out.  He KNEW that She had a limited amount of time left  &  truthfully … he didn’t want  to let Her go.  He wanted to SAVE Her,  like She had saved him,  &  countless others.  Harold couldn’t save Her this time,  albeit,  &  he knew that.  

 ❛ My mind  is beginning to SLIP,  Harry,  ❜  She clarified  &  the added use of Root’s nickname  for him caused a heavy ACHE to stir  within his chest—–Harold had begun to get USED to it,  but it still hurt.  ❛ Am I speaking to you NOW,  in this moment ?  Or is this one of my MEMORIES ? ❜

 Something  about these questions caused a BRIEF upward curve of lips,  FONDNESS somehow unfurling within him,  pushing  through the pain.

 ❝ Yes,  to the EXTENT that it is possible for me to be  certain … this IS now. ❞

Harold was now approaching the rooftop edge  &  blue eyes fluttered closed for a few seconds,  letting out a QUIET,  but strained  gasp as another pulse of PAIN reverberated throughout his entire body—–that’s what it had felt  like anyway,  with the mix of his normal nerve pain  &  the gunshot  pain.

 ❛ Ah,  thank you, ❜  The Machine added,  sounding relieved Herself to have an anchor.

Brows LIFTED with a vague  sort of emphasis in reply as,  Harold knew She’d see it—–or,  he …. HOPED She could still  see,  for the most part.  Reaching the buildings electrical radio frequency equipment  ( stationed as four metal boxes all connected to one another  &  held upright by metal beams ),  Harold simply leaned  against the largest one,  allowing his head to tilt back somewhat.

 ❛ We have eight  &  a half minutes …. give or take.  ❜

Exhaling SHARPLY,  Harold barely inclined his head before offering,

 ❝ … Then I’m gonna REST for a bit, ❞

A pause  &  he breathed in through his nose,  shifting somewhat  &  wetting his lips that constantly seemed to remain uncomfortably dry.  The thought of his FRIENDS (  or,  the ones that were left  )  weighed heavily  upon his mind  &  upon what was LEFT of his tattered heart,  the feeling twisting  like barbed wire within his chest.  Closing his eyes,  Harold continued,

 ❝ I know  what happened to JOHN … but the others …. D’you think that they still—– …. did they MAKE it ? ❞  He DESPERATELY hoped so,  but …. it was too difficult to outwardly express it.

The Machine’s pause was LONGER,  which left Harold feeling immensely anxious.  He knew what was going to happen to Her,  but he was DREADING it  &  it was painful  to hear Her struggle.  He was to lose three  people that he loved,  incredibly DEEPLY.  He likely wasn’t going to be around much longer to grieve,  though,  was he ?  ❛ I’m … sorry,  Harold … I’m … not sure ? ❜ 

  ❝ I understand … you have to keep track of  E V E R Y O N E …      All those people  over the years … did you LEARN anything ?  ❞

A somewhat pained  breath of a laugh escaped as the question hung between them—–it was VAGUE,  but he believed that She would understand exactly  what he’d meant.  His own mind was almost fogged  &  overloaded with PAIN,  which made it … difficult  to put his thoughts into …. more precise  words.  The Machine answered within a second,  but … DESPITE the swiftness,  Harold could hear  the strain in Her voice.

 ❛ I learned …. that EVERYONE dies alone.  There was more to it than that,  but …. I can’t remember.  It was something someone said. ❜

Blue eyes narrowed  thoughtfully—–THAT wasn’t  exactly the insightful,  complex answer he’d been hoping for.  Although,  Harold supposed having BUILT Her to watch humanity’s mistakes,  their cycles of violence,  that would certainly be a reasonable takeaway.  &  yet …

 ❝ I had HOPED that you might have gleaned something a little  less … MORBID. ❞

 ❛ You built me to predict  people,  Harry.  But to PREDICT them,  you have to truly understand  them  &  that proved to be VERY difficult indeed.  So I began by breaking their lives down into moments.  Trying to find the CONNECTIONS,  the things that explained  why they did what they did.  &  what I found was that the MOMENT that often mattered the most  ….  the moment where you TRULY found out who  they were …. was often their LAST ONE. ❜

Having straightened somewhat as The Machine had begun to EXPLAIN,  Harold listened  &  throughout all of the pain,  he felt something …. different.  It was MORE than mere fondness,  but in fact an almost all-encompassing affection,  perhaps a feeling of PROUD  closure,  in a way.  Throughout his life,  he had never truly believed  that he’d created an Artificial Intelligence that TRULY had any kind of emotion,  any kind of core empathy,  morals,  DESPITE his best efforts.  

This,  however …. along with the time they’d spent simply … talking,  Harold realized that he’d been WRONG.  His Machine was not only greater  than himself,  than humanity in terms of KNOWLEDGE,  understanding …. but She was more human than he ever could have believed possible.  Harold was suddenly ACUTELY aware  of how truly PROUD of Her he was,  within that moment.  Nodding his head as She finished,  Harold offered,

 ❝ Fair enough.  I’ll be INTERESTED to hear your thoughts,  then.  Because …. in ADDITION to this being now, ❞

Reaching down,  he PRESSED against his abdomen which had been pulsing  with pain for HOURS now.  Blood  had long-since soaked through his vest  &  the copper-like smell had come to his attention a long time ago …. he’d KNOWN it was there,  felt it,  but …. as he pulled his hand away  &  actually SAW the bright red tarnishing the pale skin of his fingers,  it seemed all the more REAL.  More real,  despite  all of this feeling like it could be half  a dream.  A simulation.  

Harold knew  it wasn’t.

 ❝ … I think it’s also PROBABLY the end. ❞

[fatherofmachine-a]

OOC; Cute Things Harold Finch Does, even if it wasn’t in the final cut of the pilot: Reminding people of things they say they wanted to mention, but haven’t yet. i.e. “You said TWO questions.” after someone has only asked one and then paused for a long time afterward.

[fatherofmachine-a]

OOC; Juno and I luring @modifiedcode​ & @assetrisen​ back to their POI blogs like—

[fatherofmachine-a]

griim​:

[ … ] I’VE TASTED BLOOD AND IT IS SWEET, I’VE HAD THE RUG PULLED BENEATH MY FEET, I’VE TRUSTED LIES AND TRUSTED MEN, BROKEDOWN AND PUT MYSELF BACK TOGETHER AGAIN

  ‒‒‒‒‒ Gemma Elizabeth Harding ▐ Independent, Selective & Mutuals only. MCU, Dollhouse (Heavily Inspired), & Military inspired Hitwoman/Mercenary Original Character. This blog has themes of; blood, war, death, survivors’ guilt, alcohol problems, and memory loss.

Handled by KAI (They/Them), 27. Est. 7.1.2021