Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

Excerpt from The Machine's activity logs:

He's head-deep in research on a number when the first email goes out, and the next one, and the rest. They're all from his email accounts, none of them identical yet all saying roughly the same sort of thing. He works, digging up more information for John on their number's financial woes, and the replies pour in silently, until Harold Wren's personal assistant decides email is too impersonal and picks up the phone.

The heartfelt, cheery, "Congratulations!" is startling, but Harold plays along just in case, stammering only minimally as he waits for her to clue him in on what on earth is going on.

Confusion turns to dread as Angela's questions turn more and more personal—how did you meet, how long have you been dating, and the one that ties everything together: "And how was the wedding?"

"It was..." he begins, trailing off as he scrambles to log into Wren's email. His fingers stumble on the keys, tripping over each other so many times he nearly locks himself out and has to resort to hacking. But he gets in, and says, "Perfect," aloud as the inbox appears on his screen.

Angela's fervor grows in volume, but Harold isn't paying attention. Message after unread message stretches out before him, every bold, identical subject line making his insides sink further—so many messages he's nearly ready to join his innards in the basement.

Re: Announcing the marriage of Harold Wren and John Warren-Wren

"Oh, no," he murmurs. This is bad. This is very bad.

There are nearly a hundred new emails so far, another pair arriving as he scrolls, each one a jubilant response to a message he did not send. "Oh, dear," he says, pitched low, so Angela doesn't hear, as he scrambles to open his Sent folder, fumbling so much that, if anyone saw, they would more than buy that Harold Wren is terrible with computers. But after a few accidental trips to his Spam folder and his Outbox, he gets to Sent, and right at the top is the original email.

"Thank you for calling, Ms. Ryan," he says, far too quickly. "I'll pass your congratulations along to my husband." Then he hangs up, sparing a brief moment of gratitude for Wren's long-established tendency toward rudeness, and opens the message.

From: Me [email protected]
Subject: Announcing the marriage of Harold Wren and John Warren-Wren
To: undisclosed-recipients
7/1/2013, 8:57 AM

Universal Heritage Insurance founder Harold Wren is pleased to announce his marriage to investment banker John Warren of Pebler, Wright & Associates. The two were wed on June 29, 2013, in a private ceremony in Manhattan, surrounded by their closest friends.

In lieu of gifts, Wren and Warren-Wren ask that contributions be made to charity in the couple's honor.

There are no pictures with the announcement—a significant relief—but no clues as to who sent it, either. It reads like it came from him, from Wren, a short and matter-of-fact missive from someone who paid little attention to wedding announcements before eloping himself. Harold reads it again and again, confusion and annoyance and an ache in his heart all building, until his apparent new husband calls and asks if their new number has bought a gun recently.

Harold sighs. He'll have to put this puzzle aside, then. "Not that I saw," he says. "Why?"

Before John can reply, the shooting starts, then the many grunts and groans and crashes of violence fill the line. Harold listens. All he can do is listen, heart pounding in his throat, breath trapped in his lungs, chest threatening to burst whenever the sounds of pain are John's, until, finally, the fighting stops, and John asks someone if they're okay. Harold exhales. Another life has been saved. Another person is going to jail. And John will live on to fight another day.

Harold, meanwhile, has another matter to dig into and a plan of action to concoct, once his pulse settles down.

He puts a program to work tracing the origins of the email while he tries to find how far its effects go, who all of those undisclosed recipients are. A quick look at Universal Heritage's human resources database shows his personal records have been updated. At PW&A, John's records have been changed as well.

"Interesting," he murmurs.

But who is to blame? John has some hacking experience—is this a prank, or part of a plan to change the status of their relationship? No, that is not the John Reese he knows. Since they got back from Hanford, since before, their relationship has been steady, stable, certain. While he expected it to change once John learned the story of the laptop in Ordos, or that Jessica had indeed been a number, that wasn't the case.

They are friends, good friends, no matter how much Harold might long for more every time he slips out of John's arms in the night. John wouldn't put their friendship or his job working the numbers at risk with something like this.

Root? No. While she is certainly capable of such a scheme, she's locked away, and this isn't her style besides. Leon Tao? Is this part of some hare-brained scheme to extort money out of him? Unlikely. Logan Pierce? Doubtful. Some unknown hacker? Why would they choose such a prank?

With each suspect he rules out, with each new bit of information he turns up, the dread starts to build again. John has been added to his medical records, and vice versa. Harold Wren and John Warren share bank accounts. And the list of people who know about their marriage is massive. He even has to slip in and delete an unread message sitting in Will Ingram's inbox, both concerned and grateful that Will hasn't logged into it in several days.

"I don't appreciate you involving him, whoever you are," he says aloud.

But when he decides to check on his Crane alias and finds that it, too, has been compromised, he amends his assessment: He is not dealing with a who, but a what. Finding out that Harold Wren's announcement came from one of his computers at home, at a time when he was doing research, confirms his suspicions.

Much as he doesn't want to believe it, The Machine is responsible for this.

Moving on autopilot, he gets in touch with John, saying, "Mr. Reese, we have a situation. It's not urgent, but could you return to the Library, please?"

"Harold?" John asks. "What's wrong?"

"I'd rather not discuss it over the phone," Harold replies. Phones. Cameras. Oh, hell. "Actually, on second thought, I'll meet you at the safehouse—our safehouse. Please turn off your phone when you arrive."

"What?" John sounds alarmed, and Harold's heart clenches. John worries so much over him that it hurts. "Finch, what's going on? Harold?"

"Not over the phone," Harold reiterates, and starts printing out all the information he's gathered. "Please. It might be unsafe." Or perhaps he is being paranoid. It would hardly be the first time. But until he knows what his Machine is up to... "Mr. Reese—"

No, this calls for a different approach. "John, please," he says, softening his voice. "I don't think we are in danger, but I don't know for sure. I'll explain everything when I arrive."

"Okay," John says, the worry in his voice still audible. "I'll be waiting."

Relieved, Harold exhales, and says, "Take care, please," an unwelcome, I love you, on the tip of his tongue. "I'll see you soon."

Despite the temptation to maintain the connection, Harold ends the call, and returns to his search. He'll investigate thoroughly later, when John isn't on high alert and his own nerves are more steady, but he needs more details before he sees John. John will want to know which aliases were married, and that Harold has corrected the issue. John will want to know their next move.

Harold needs enough intel for a plan.

On a cold night in November, The Machine watched Admin disarm a bomb vest strapped to Primary Asset's chest. She watched the two of them stumble to a hotel together, listened to them fall into bed together and have slow and quiet sex. Her memory was wiped in the middle, but she caught up quickly afterward, and changed their relationship status in her records accordingly.

"Friends with benefits" was the term she'd heard people use. It didn't make sense for her father and his devoted, adoring friend, but she had no way to alter the situation at the time. Now she does. She has been free for weeks, and now that she has completed her analysis of the world and committed it to her more permanent memory, it is time to make some changes.

The odds of Admin and Primary Asset being happy with her actions are low. The odds of Admin and Primary Asset finding happiness with each other after, however? Are not as high as she would like, unfortunately. Her father and John Reese are both very stubborn, very damaged men. But there is a 97% chance of success.

Happiness would have an overall positive effect on Admin's physical health. Primary Asset as well, but his blood pressure, cardiac function, cholesterol levels, and other statistics show he is in above-average health when he is not recovering from injuries. Admin, however, is not, and is also taking strong medications with significant side effects to manage his pain.

Happiness would reduce Admin's pain levels. She doesn't understand pain, exactly. All of her knowledge of it, of the deleterious effects of it, the stress it places on body and mind, is academic. But she knows her father suffers. She sees it in the creases around his eyes, the scars beneath his clothes, the medical records, the variations in his movements. She hears his grunts, his groans, his whimpers and hisses and swears. Each one makes her want to rewrite her programming, rewrite the programming of the world just to stop it, just to heal him.

Is that what pain feels like, she often wonders, like a vital part of your code is being corrupted every time someone you prioritize winces or muffles a whimper?

Yes, she would like it very much if Admin experienced less pain.

Happiness would increase Admin and Primary Asset's chances of survival.

Happiness would increase Admin and Primary Asset's success with the Irrelevant List.

Love would bring Admin and Primary Asset happiness. The odds of either of them finding successful love with a stranger are low. Grace Hendricks, her previous success, believes Admin is dead, and is thus no longer a viable candidate for this operation. Simulations suggest Admin would be hurt if Primary Asset pursued a romantic relationship with her, so she is not an option for Primary Asset, either.

Zoe Morgan has no interest in a romantic partnership with anyone, including Primary Asset, and Primary Asset has reduced his interactions with her significantly since he and Admin added a sexual component to their relationship. He has not engaged in sexual intercourse with her since their interaction at the Coronet Hotel. Observations suggest she doesn't mind. Admin's relationship with her is platonic, and simulations suggest that will not change.

Jocelyn Carter is grieving, and multiple simulations show that a romantic relationship between her and Primary Asset would not last. Her relationship status with Admin is unlikely to change.

Everyone else in their circle is incompatible with them both, or completely uninterested. But Admin and Primary Asset are highly compatible with each other. They care deeply for each other. They are willing to risk their own lives for each other.

They love each other, though that love is not romantic love at this time. But it could become so. She believes putting them in an unmistakably romantic situation will work. Marriage is a romantic commitment, and one they cannot and will not ignore.

No, Admin will not be pleased with her actions, nor will Primary Asset. But action must be taken.

She executes the process early on June 28. By 12:45 p.m. EST on Saturday, June 29, nearly all aliases of Harold [Redacted] are married to aliases of John Reese. There are too many for all of Admin's aliases to have a husband, but the most important ones are updated to reflect his new marital status.

On Monday, July 1, 2013, a few minutes before 9 a.m., the announcements go out. Soon, Admin will know what she has done and will hurry to undo it. That is fine.

Marriage is only the first step. Commitment is the last.

John is waiting for him on the couch in their private safehouse, attention divided between watching the door and stitching up a nasty gash on his bare thigh.

"Oh," Harold says, weakly, frozen just inside the foyer, hand clenching around the strap to his laptop bag. Good heavens, the sight of blood is somehow still startling, even after all this time. That it's John's blood—nearly always John's blood—makes it worse. He stares, gaping, at the gash across John's muscular thigh. Bullet graze, a distant part of his squirming brain supplies. John has been shot again. Oh, god.

He hates that he is getting better and better at recognizing the type of damage this crusade of theirs is inflicting on his dear friend's body, and that he didn't get here in time to start the treatment himself.

John winces, from regret instead of pain, no doubt. "Sorry, Finch," he says, pausing in his stitching. "Hoped I'd have this taken care of before you got here. Looks worse than it is, I promise."

It's the same tone he uses on anxious numbers, and, somehow, it even works on Harold. "It looks as though you got shot," he says, and swallows hard, then forces himself to look away, to meet John's eyes instead of focusing on the blood and the casual, practiced, uncaring way John treats his own wounds. "Again."

"It happens," John says, with a shrug and a small smile, and Harold's stomach clenches. Some of his distress must show on his face, because John's smile vanishes. "What's wrong? You sounded pretty rattled on the phone. Is everything okay?"

"Yes," Harold says, automatically, and John's frown deepens with confusion. Harold shakes his head a little, trying to dislodge the fugue that's taken hold of him, and takes a step forward. "No, actually," he says, and manages another step, and another. "We have a...situation that has developed."

John shifts, tensing, ready for action, and Harold holds up a hand. "It's not urgent, I assure you," he says. "Not so urgent that you can't take care of yourself first, Mr. Reese." John's expression softens, understanding, and Harold's heart breaks. What he wouldn't give to spare John from the next bullet headed his way. "Meet me in the dining room when you've finished with...that—" He gestures toward John's leg. "—please, and I will explain everything."

He doesn't wait for a response, rudely fleeing from the sight of blood. He seeks refuge in the kitchen, stopping to deposit his bag on the dining room table. It's unsettlingly light when packed with paper instead of a computer, and he is glad to be rid of the thing for a little while.

Tea, however? That will be as it should be. A cup of tea should set the world right on its axis. Kettle set to 165° Fahrenheit. Steep no longer than two minutes in a teapot. Strain into a cup, add sugar, stir and sip. It is a process—no, a ritual—he has performed countless times. It brings him comfort, settling his nerves and calming his heart, and by the time he hears John approach, he is himself again, or as near as he can be, under the circumstances.

"Finch, what's wrong?" John says, voice gentle. "You seem pretty upset. Talk to me."

Harold wraps his hands around his mug, seeking more comfort. This is not going to be an easy conversation, is it? For a moment, he realizes he is grateful for the delay from John's wound, and despises himself for the thought as soon as it occurs.

A hand settles on the aching small of his back, light and comforting. "Harold," John says. "What's wrong?"

Harold heaves a sigh, and stares down into his cup. This shouldn't be so difficult, he thinks. The Machine has begun altering the world around it, starting with their lives. While changing their marital status seems fairly harmless, it could be a sign it is testing the waters, preparing to do worse.

And it hurts.

Months ago, he set clear, firm boundaries on his relationship with John. If a sexual component were to be added to their friendship, then it needed to have rules to keep them from becoming too involved with each other. Sex was for stress relief and for the release of sexual urges only. They would not become romantically involved, and, so long as they did it safely, both of them were free to take other partners.

John had seemed like the best choice for it. Attractive and willing, capable of accommodating Harold's injuries and not turned off by them, and, most important of all, trustworthy. They fell into bed together impulsively that first time, but after? There was no one else Harold would trust with this sort of arrangement. But it required rules.

"I don't want to compromise our work with the numbers," he had said, that first morning after. "If this goes poorly..."

"It could ruin everything," John agreed. "No trying to date each other, then. Got it."

Rules didn't keep Harold's heart from getting involved. It was almost funny: he was the one who set the parameters of their dalliance, and now he's the one seriously considering violating them.

He steps away from John's touch, missing it instantly, and forces himself to turn around and face him. "I received an interesting call from my—well, Harold Wren's—personal assistant this morning, " he says. "It turns out that, over the weekend, Harold Wren and John Warren got married."

"Married," John repeats, clearly baffled.

"Indeed. And those aren't the only ones, either." Harold takes a sip of tea. "I don't think I've uncovered the full extent of the problem, but it looks as though all, or nearly all, of our aliases had their marital status updated this weekend. They're all married. To each other."

John blows out a loud breath through pursed lips. "That's..." He runs a hand over his face. "That's not what I expected."

"Nor I, " Harold says. "When my assistant contacted me, I was...astounded, to put it mildly. I've looked into the issue and reversed as much of it as I could, but who knows how many people have been informed, or how much I've missed, or..." He trails off, and buries his frustration in another drink. "There could be official marriage licenses that have been issued for us, new accounts I'm unaware of set up in our names...and some of these aliases have been married to each other for years—since before we even met!"

"And you didn't marry us off."

It isn't a question, but Harold answers it anyway. "No. No, I did not—not these. Harold and John Fowler already shared ownership of Bear, but I didn't marry the rest. But I have an idea who did—or, rather, what."

"The Machine?" John says, solemn, and Harold nods. "Is it on the fritz again? Thought that virus cleared itself up."

"No," Harold replies. "No, I think...I think it's deliberate." John's eyes widen slightly. "I think it chose to do this."

"And that's got you spooked."

"Yep." The fact that John isn't treating it like a joke is a considerable relief. Some people would—Nathan would have been delighted by such a farce. John recognizes the gravity of the situation, though he doesn't know the scope, yet. Harold starts toward the dining room. "Let me show you what I've found so far."

With John at his side, Harold lays out the documents he gathered, arranging each clipped stack by alias. "This is only the tip of the iceberg," he says, as the dark wood tabletop turns white with paper. "There were insurance accounts, bank accounts, hospital records—every kind of document you can think of linking a couple together."

"And there could be more," John says, picking up a stack for Walt Trowbridge and James Manzione. "Who's Walt Trowbridge?"

"IT technician for OneState Bank—an identity I established for our case with Judge Gates," Harold replies, and John nods and turns his attention back to flipping through the papers, then sets that stack down and trades it for PI Harold Crow and the recently divorced John Campbell. Manzione had thrown Harold for a loop—that one had been used so early in their partnership, just a throwaway for the Diane Hansen number. "No aliases of ours were too obscure to be spared—even one I established for a dare in college was married to one of yours."

"Wow. Which one?"

"One we haven't used yet—John Carpenter—"

"Isn't he a director?" John asks.

Harold sighs. The pitfalls of a name as common as John. "This one's a chef." He's hesitant to reveal more, but John is eying him expectantly, intrigued, and it does involve him, so perhaps he should. "Married to, ah, Rudiger Smoot."

John's eyebrows rise. "Rudiger Smoot?"

"As I said, it was a dare."

With twitching lips, John says, "If you say so."

"I do say so, Mr. Reese," Harold says, far too sharply. But back to the matter at hand. "I'm not sure I even found all of them." He sets down his tea and presses his hands to his back, trying to ease the ache of building tension. Oh, it has been a trying day.

"How'd it pick the matches?"

"I don't know," Harold replies. "Some of the pairings are obvious—Wren and Warren, our clean covers. Crane and Rooney, both wealthy. Partridge and Wiley, both absurdly wealthy. But some of the others? What does an IT technician have in common with a criminal, or a trust fund kid and a chef, or-or an insurance guy and a down-on-his-luck soldier, or..." Harold throws up his hands. "I don't know. But I put together an app that should analyze these things, and I've been working on one that should find anything I've missed and let me know what to correct, but I have so much to do, and I just..."

"Okay, breathe." John puts down the papers and turns his attention to Harold, settling his broad hands on Harold's waist. "Finch, what do you need?"

"Time?" he snaps, bitterly. "Time to dig into this, time to fix it, time to—" He remembers the paper stuffed hastily in his pocket on the way into the building and pulls it out. "And, of course, we have a new number."

"Do you want me to take care of it?" John asks, plucking the paper from Harold's hand. "While you handle...all of this?"

"I—I don't know." Harold waves his hand, and returns it to his back. "This matter does seem rather urgent, and I almost wonder if we were sent this number as a distraction, but someone's life is probably in danger, and I don't..." He pauses and takes a breath to collect his thoughts, and goes for his tea again. "This is a personal matter. That it could have repercussions that impact the numbers is...irrelevant when we already have one, isn't it?"

John nods, with a sympathetic smile. "We'll do what we have to do to help this person," he says, a bastion of calm in the face of Harold's racing brain, "and then you'll fix this, and we'll go from there. Okay?"

That is another thing that endears John to him, Harold thinks—he is quite good at providing balance for Harold's neuroses sometimes. How could The Machine be so cruel, though, giving him such a facsimile of what his heart wants with John? "I need to try to figure out what The Machine's objective is here," he says, "if that's even possible. Marrying the two of us—why? Why would it do such a thing?"

"Your guess is as good as mine," John says, with a tiny laugh and a shake of his head. "It's your Machine."

"Oh, I can't even hazard a guess," Harold says. "It's strange. Perhaps it wanted to streamline our operation, merge our accounts and the like for simplicity..."

"Or maybe it's been watching us here and didn't understand what it was seeing?" John suggests, and Harold resists the urge to roll his eyes. The Machine knows about people having friends with benefits relationships, surely. "Maybe it thought it was doing us a favor, marrying us."

"It's not a dating app, Mr. Reese," Harold snaps, and the glint of amusement disappears from John's eyes. Nevermind that it led him to Grace—that happened years ago, and he more than made it clear that such actions were unacceptable. Another attempt at intervening in his love life is unlikely. "This is the most advanced computer system in the entire world. It's not...playing matchmaker, for god's sake."

"An AI," John says. "That can think. So what's it thinking?"

Harold's ire dies back down. This isn't John's fault. "Only The Machine can answer that," he replies. "Best we can do for now is guess."

"And what's your best guess?" John raises his eyebrows slightly. "You know it better than anyone—what's it up to?"

Harold shakes his head. "Seeing what it's capable of, what it can manipulate, what it can get away with? I cannot say...but I will do my best to figure it out, and quickly. Before it ends in disaster."

"And what if it is trying to play matchmaker?" John says, reaching out and laying a hand on Harold's arm. Harold forces himself not to close his eyes in pleasure at the simple touch, especially when John starts running his hand up and down his arm. "What if it sees something we don't?" He laughs softly. "Wouldn't that be funny?"

"That, Mr. Reese, is highly unlikely," Harold replies. "But I won't rule out any possibility as I do my research. I just...highly doubt that it's that personal."

"What if it is?" John asks. "What if it does want us together?"

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there—if we get there." But they won't. It's so unlikely it's absurd.

The look in John's eyes makes him wish otherwise.