A POI Christmas Carol

Author's note: Okay so I had this really weird dream last night, probably a result of watching 'A Christmas Carol' and drinking blackberry wine at the same time right before bed. I woke up this morning, remembered every bit of it and decided to write it. Not sure if anyone's going to like this, but here's a little Christmas gift for all the POI/Joss-and-John fans out there.

He sat bolt upright, heart slamming around so hard in his chest it nearly hurt, a scream locked behind his lips. Because, even though he'd been asleep and having a nightmare, some unconscious thought had kept him from making a sound.

It took a moment for the mist of hurt and pain from the long-ago dream to clear from his vision; took a moment to realize where he was. His bed, in his room, the room he'd been renting in Joss's new apartment. And that instinct to not make a sound had been a good one, since Taylor's room shared a wall with his. He certainly didn't want to wake the boy up. Taylor might come in to see what was wrong and he didn't want the boy to see him like this.

He'd been back in the Canal Street warehouse, tortured by Simmons and Walker; one of the most painful memories of his life. They'd come to Joss's old apartment looking for her, had found him instead. Determined to find her, they'd captured him, taken him to a dingy warehouse on Canal Street, tortured him for her location, whereabouts.

It had evoked hideous memories of the last time he'd been tortured, in Kandahar. Captured by radical insurgents, they'd tortured him for information about troop strength, fortifications, movements. Despite his training, his conditioning, it was true what one of his Army SERE instructors had said; 'No matter who you are, what you are, or how tough you think you are, anyone can be broken by torture. If you're captured, your best bet is to lie, story after story, whatever you think they want to hear. If they torture you, you will eventually give them true information, but by then you should have given them so much false information that they won't know the truth when they hear it.' It had taken sixteen hours before those militants got just his name from him, but his endurance had been wearing thin by then and it would have only been a matter of time before they'd gotten everything he'd known. And the instructor's words had come true; at the point when he'd been rescued, John had known he was at the end of his resources and would have broken if it went on for much longer.

And then, last year, when Simmons and Walker had captured him, tortured him for information on where Joss was and how they could find her—the torture they'd put him through had reminded him of Kandahar. Except their torture had gone on for much longer, and they'd had more resources at their disposal—a constant source of electricity being one of them. And they'd had nearly two full days.

But this time, he'd had even more motivation that he had with the Army. Simmons and Walker had been after the only woman John Reese had ever fallen in love with—yes, he'd loved Jessica, but he was in love with Joss Carter, on a much deeper, more basic level than he'd ever felt for Jessica. And in the end, that love had been the only thing he had to sustain him as they'd hurt him, electrocuted him, beaten him…

He curled up in bed now, pressing a hand to his lips to stifle his sobs, unable to hold back the raw emotions any longer. In his dream, he'd relived the entire thing, screaming in agony from the electricity, howling as Walker had used electrical cord to whip him, as both Simmons and Walker had used his hanging body as a punching bag. Waking to feel a set of soft hands on him, the incredible joy as he saw Joss's face, saw the love in her eyes—and then realized that she had walked into this hell and sacrificed herself to save him. And then, the worst memories—not of his own torture, but of hers; Joss lying helpless and paralyzed on the floor of the warehouse as Walker had beaten her, as he'd raped her, as he'd nearly killed her by tearing her open…he curled up in a tight, miserable ball, shaking in remembered terror, lost in the memories, in the throes of one of the most intense PTSD flashbacks he'd experienced in recent weeks…

He was so lost in his own misery that he never heard his room door open softly, then close. Never heard the quiet footsteps cross the room. His first knowledge that anyone was even there was a sudden weight by the side of his bed, then a warm body slipped in beside him. A pair of soft but strong hands pulled him close, and he suddenly felt himself cocooned in those strong, graceful arms, held against a warm body that curled lovingly and protectively around him, and a soft feminine voice was humming a gentle tuneless lullaby in his ear. The scent of her perfume surrounded him, and he gave in to the sobs that tore out of him.

"I'm so sorry….Joss, I'm so sorry," he gasped now, an anguished mantra that had never left him since the moment Walker had slammed into her back there in the dingy warehouse and he'd heard Joss scream. "I didn't protect you—I couldn't make them stop—I couldn't reach you, couldn't save you…" He'd tried to reach her, tried to find some small bit of strength left inside him to stop Walker, to kill the bastard before he hurt Joss, but he hadn't been able to save her from that, couldn't save her from the weeks of agony that followed, as doctors stitched her body back together, as she endured the pain and nausea and vomiting from the anti-virals she'd had to take, the surgeries she'd had to endure to return her to health. "I would have taken it, all of it, and more to save you. I'm so sorry, Joss!" His hands tightened convulsively around her arms, her wrists, a desperate seeking of reassurance that she was here, alive.

"Nothing to be sorry for, John." A warm, comforting whisper in his ear. "I walked into that warehouse knowing this was the only way to save you. HR was my problem, not yours. It should never have spilled over onto you." Even with his eyes closed, he could see her warm brown eyes—when Walker had raped her at the warehouse, he hadn't been able to make himself look away; he'd locked eyes with Joss, tried to tell her how much he loved her through his gaze. He knew, if he looked up now, he would see the same look in those same eyes—no pain in them now, no condemnation, no accusation at his failure to protect her; just unconditional acceptance and love. And somehow that made his guilt at his failure all the worse, a sharp pain that he felt would never leave him. Whenever he looked down at his wrists, the thin white scar lines that had been left by the damn handcuffs Walker and Simmons had locked around his wrists as they tortured him reminded him all over again of his failure, her sacrifice.

Her love. Because he was certain that no one else in the world would have voluntarily walked into that warehouse to save him.

And her acceptance now, as she held him, cradled his body to her and held him as he endured PTSD symptoms from the incident; held him as he shook, hummed tunelessly to him as he cried uncontrollably; wrapped herself around him, offering him her own body's warmth as he went cold from emotional shock. She freed one arm long enough to pull the blankets over both of them, and then returned to hugging him, tightly, until finally the PTSD released him, leaving him limp and drained in her arms. But she didn't get up to leave; she simply hugged him tighter, closer; and her soft breathing, and the steady pulse of her heartbeat, finally lured him down into sleep…

He was standing in a formless fog, a white wispy mist that nevertheless obscured everything around him and limited his visibility. There was nothing except him in this featureless white fog, and he panicked, spinning, turning, trying desperately to figure out where he was—and more importantly, where Joss was.

"She's not here, John. It's just us." He turned at the sound of the oh-so-familiar voice, and saw Jessica standing there. She was so heart-stoppingly beautiful, looking exactly the way she did as he most liked to remember her; not terrified and bruised by Peter Arndt's fists, but as he'd known her when they were together. The blond hair he used to love to play with cascaded down her shoulders; she was once again perfect.

"Where—" his voice was raspy, harsh; he looked wildly about him, in this formless nothing.

"She's fine, John. She's safe. She's right beside you in bed at her place." Jessica smiled, the blindingly bright smile he remembered seeing the first time he'd ever met her, and she laid a gentle hand on one side of his face. "But you're not fine, John. You have to let go of this guilt or it will end up fracturing the two of you."

"I….guilt…"

Jessica tilted her head, her smile turning slightly sad. "You feel guilt that you didn't save her, that you didn't spare her what she went through. You hear her screaming in your sleep, and you think it's all your fault. She's tried to tell you that she made the decision to walk in there to save you, that to her, your life was worth her own, but you haven't listened. You can't see what she can see, John, you can't see how you've changed her, how you've saved her. Not from the physical incident with Walker, but how you've saved her life. Many times over. You can't see what I see, John."

"What…do you see?" It was the only thing he could think of.

"I see two people desperately in love with each other. I see two people so in love that you would give your lives for each other, without hesitation, without a second thought." Another sad smile. "I loved you, John, but not like this. I would never have been able to sacrifice myself for you, even though I know you would have done the same for me. If we had stayed together, John, eventually we would have gotten a divorce. You felt for me more than I ever felt for you. I never even told my family about you the entire time we were dating. But she and you love each other on a deeper level than you and I ever did, and it's time for you to let go of all your guilt so you can finally just be happy with her."

"But….you…"

"I just want you to be happy, John. And you'll never be that until you let go of all your guilt. Look." Jessica turned, waved a hand at the fog, which started to part, revealing a tall mirror seemingly floating in midair. "You have saved her life more times than you know, John."

The surface of the mirror changed, rippled, coalesced. And when it cleared, John saw a dark trash-strewn alley, and a homeless guy pushing a battered shopping cart filled with junk and rubbish. "Where you been, Carter? I been waitin'. You said you'd buy me dinner."

And Joss, walking down the alley toward him. "Sorry, I gotta fill out paperwork for the big payout. But here," she took out her wallet, dug into her billfold. "Take this, it's what I got right now." When he started to demur, she insisted, "I want you to have it."

John knew what would come next. The homeless guy had pulled a gun, had shot Joss; it hadn't been instantly fatal, as the guy had intended it to be, because John had warned her earlier that day that her life was in danger and she had put on a bulletproof vest. And that had given him just enough time for Finch to track her down, tell John where she was, and John had gotten there in time to take out the guy and keep him from killing Joss.

Except that wasn't what he was seeing in the mirror. Joss wasn't wearing a bulletproof vest; the bullet struck her high in the torso, and she fell backward into the filthy alley floor, choking in agony at the blood that started filling her lungs. "Sorry, Carter, you been real good to me, but Elias said it was me or you, and it ain't going to be me!" And he pulled the trigger. Joss stopped moving, her head falling to the pavement with the peculiar sound that John knew from long experience meant the owner of the body was no longer in it.

"No…no," he croaked, tears streaming down his face as he reached out involuntarily to the mirror, to the beloved figure lying too still, too silent, in a filthy New York alley. "No, Joss! No!" He spun toward Jessica. "It didn't happen like that! She lived!"

"You saved her life, John. If you hadn't cared enough about her to warn her to wear a vest, her life would have ended that night." He sucked in a harsh breath, barely seeing the mirror cloud over with the tears that filled his eyes. "Neither one of you really knew each other at this point, John. But even then, without knowing you, she trusted you. In a way that defies explanation, defies words, defies any definition. She trusted you. And you saved her life. Not just then, either; later, too."

The mirror clouded over again, and in it John saw Taylor. Kidnapped by Elias's men, held as leverage to make Joss give up police information. He remembered her helplessness as she'd spoken to him on the phone. "How can I make that choice, John?"

And his response. "You won't have to. Because I'm going to get your son back. Whatever the cost." He remembered his determination then; not only was Taylor an innocent, but Joss did nothing to deserve the loss of her precious little boy. He'd known that it didn't make sense; people lost their children every day to acts of senseless violence, people who hadn't deserved what happened to them…but he couldn't do anything about those cases. This one time, he could…and he would.

But the scenario the mirror showed was different. He saw himself, walking step by heavy step, toward a waiting Joss, with the still body of Taylor Carter in his arms. He'd failed to save Taylor, then. He saw Joss's lips shape a single word; NO! a shriek of wild grief, and then a storm of tears as she clutched her son's body to her screaming in mindless grief and a mother's ultimate agony; and he stood there, woodenly, useless, helpless in the face of her grief, his failure to save her son. And John stood there in the thick white fog, Jessica's presence beside him, feeling hot tears stream down his face as he saw the boy he'd slowly come to see as a surrogate son be laid in the ground; saw the woman he'd grown to love more than anything else in the world crying wildly at the loss of her boy, her son.

And then a scene of Taylor Carter's funeral; and then scenes from Joss's life as she bravely tried to go on without her son. But there was something missing in her eyes, her face, her voice, her soul; an emptiness that John had never seen. She never again spoke to John, to Finch; started drinking more; first a few drinks at a corner bar after work, bolstering herself with liquid forgetfulness so she wouldn't fall apart when she came home to an empty apartment after work. Later that changed to taking a few bottles home with her, then more and more until she was drinking the moment she got off duty until the moment she got on. Her work suffered; she lost her job as a result, but the drinking continued until one night when she got behind the wheel of her car to go and find her next drink. There was a quick change of a traffic light, a squeal of tires, and then a terrifying roll of her own car. EMTs pulled her out of the wreckage, tried to resuscitate her; but the last thing John saw before the mirror clouded again was an EMT drawing a sheet over her still face and staring, blank, dead eyes.

"If I hadn't saved Taylor…" John swallowed hard at the thought of the young man he'd come to love lying still and cold in a casket, "…Joss would have eventually died too?"

"Her son is her life. If he died she would have died too. Eventually. Grief would have killed her. John, you have saved her life more times than you know—more than you will ever know." Jessica's voice was gently chiding. "Stop feeling guilt that you didn't save her then, John. You had already saved her life countless times before. There is no need for this unnecessary guilt. She walked into that warehouse intending to save you both; and she succeeded. And for her, that is enough. It is enough, for her, that she has her son. And that she has you. She loves you far more and far deeper than I ever did, and John, you have never been as happy with me as you are right now with her. But if you continue to hang onto this grief, it will eventually split you. She feels guilt that she dragged you into her conflict with HR; you feel guilty that you didn't protect her from all of it to begin with. That guilt will drive an emotional wedge between you, and eventually you'll split up.

"It will hurt her son, who has come to like and admire you as a man, as the Dad his own father will never be; and seeing you hurt his mother emotionally will hurt him far deeper than you know. He'll lose faith and live a lonely life because he feels there's no such thing as true love." The mirror was showing quick scenes: Taylor, older, going through a succession of girlfriends with whom he had sex but no true attachment; how he refused to allow himself to feel love because he was positive he would be hurt, as his mother had been hurt first by his own father, then by John. Resentful and hurting and unable to love, he became a bitter old man, eventually to die alone, with no one to care about him because he'd been unable to learn to care about others; unable to let down the guards around his heart because he was afraid of being hurt.

"No. No, oh God, he can't live life like that." John saw himself in that older Taylor; saw the hard shell he'd built around his heart after Jessica had walked out on him and he'd been burned by Control, a shell unwilling to let anyone in until a chance fight with a group of thugs on a subway had brought him to a woman who had also built a shell around her own heart. Hurt by Paul Carter, she'd given up on finding love for herself, focused on helping others and loving her son, and had tried to tell herself she was content with that. But even as she'd started trying to chase John down, she'd seen someone who was just as lonely; and his devotion to his cause had broken through her shell, just as her devotion to her job and her service to others, in so many ways like his own, had broken through his. And in each other they'd found someone they'd been looking for their whole lives.

He'd fallen to his knees in that formless fog, eyes closed, barely feeling the hot tears on his face. Didn't even know where he was until he felt a gentle cool hand on his cheek, looked into Jessica's eyes. "That's what could have happened, John. And what might still happen if you don't let go of your guilt and pain and bring yourself to accept what happened."

"I will," he promised, staring into Jessica's eyes. There was an echo of love in him for her, but now it was merely a bittersweet memory; someone else held his heart now, had captured his soul and wound her love around him in a safety net, a cocoon of warmth and love. He could unravel that net, could free himself from it if he chose, but that was the only thing between him and darkness. And he didn't want that darkness. "I want Joss." Three simple words, but they were spoken from his heart, from the depths of his soul; a gut-deep expression of love and longing and need that nothing and no one would ever assuage except this one incredible woman.

"Then accept her as she gives herself to you, don't let your own misplaced guilt come between you, and be happy." Jessica's smile was like sun breaking through clouds, causing his eyes to mist over with tears again. He brought his hands up to rub his eyes...

...and when he brought them back down he found himself staring at the ceiling of his room, patterned in bright golden parallelograms from the early-morning sun that was creeping in through the window. Joss was curled up beside him, still asleep. And she was snoring.

He lay for a long moment, wiping tears from his cheeks as he listened to her snore—and remembered her insisting to him that she did not snore. The thought startled a laugh out of him, and at the rumble of the chuckle through his chest, she stirred sleepily and woke, rubbing her eyes. "Good morning, John. What's so funny?"

Some imp of mischief made him want to tease her. "You were snoring again."

She pouted. "I told you, I don't snore."

The pout was adorable, and he laughed aloud as he leaned down and dropped a quick kiss on her nose. "Okay, you were making cute little sounds that we won't call snoring."

Another pout. "I'm not cute."

This he wasn't going to let go. "Sure you are."

"Not according to Lionel."

He fell back on his pillow as he laughed. "Lionel doesn't count. I'm here, so I do." He sat up, cupped her face in his hand, kissed her softly, gently, at length. "And I'm the only one that counts here."

"What, I don't count?"

"Not where it concerns yourself. You're too hard on yourself, Joss."

"And so are you." She shot back.

He looked down at his wrists, at the thin scar lines that wrapped around them. But instead of the crushing weight of guilt he'd felt previously, there was now just gentle sorrow, gentle regret—which vanished in the next second as a warm, chocolate-skinned hand came up to touch the scars. "Yes, Joss. I am too hard on myself." And if I keep being that way I'll lose the best thing that's ever happened to me. And screw Taylor up for life.

A chuckle. "Finally the thick-headed male learns something." She leaned in and kissed him then, long and sweet. "Stop feeling guilty, John. I did what I thought I had to do. And we both made it, and we're here now. Nothing we can do about the past."

John's bedroom door opened, and he and Joss both jumped. John thanked God he was wearing a t-shirt and boxers, and Joss was wearing a tank and a pair of his boxers, when Taylor poked his head into the room. "You two all done saying good morning? I'd like to get some breakfast soon."

"Oh, you!" Joss grabbed a pillow and threw it at his head, which he ducked with a shout of laughter as he withdrew. Joss lunged off the bed, grabbing the pillow and giving chase, as John chuckled and headed for the bathroom to clean up from the night before and start the morning.

Thank you, Jessica. I won't forget.