Hot water
by Badgergater
Missing Scene, Season 2, Episode: Dead Reckoning
Summary: Reese must deal with the aftermath of his encounter with Kara Stanton
Author's Note: Thanks to Scully for the beta, and, as always, to Corinne for the gift of POI
- POI - POI - POI -
His body was screaming at him for three things, three entirely incongruent and equally urgent demands… food, sleep and hot water. In whatever order he could acquire them.
Reese unlocked the door to his apartment but, weary as he was, his always finely tuned radar was in full threat detection mode. The place felt empty, filled with the stale air of an enclosed place unoccupied for days. Regardless, he checked his tells. Nothing had been moved; his hardware closet was untouched, weapons where he had left them. Satisfied that his residence was undisturbed, John bent to untie his shoelaces. He winced as he did so, his ribs protesting sharply, reminding him of the abuse they'd suffered over the past few days. He pushed past the stiffness, ignoring the discomfort as he unknotted the laces and removed his footwear, setting the shoes neatly on the small floor mat near the door.
With a weary sigh John shrugged out of his suit coat and tossed it on the perfectly made bed, uncharacteristically letting it lay where it had fallen in a crumpled heap while he continued on his way to the kitchen.
His empty stomach growled demandingly at the thought of food - he hadn't eaten since what passed for food at Riker's more than 24 hours before. Reese opened the refrigerator and stared inside, knowing his quest was fruitless. The milk was long outdated, the bread looked a bit greenish around the edges. The cartons of takeout - which he opened with caution - emitted a foul smelling whiff that made his stomach roll uneasily.
Damn. Cross food off the list. He shut the fridge door and turned slowly, abandoning the kitchen. John instead headed for the bathroom, his stocking feet gliding silently on the polished floor. He pulled the tails of his shirt out of his pants to hang loose over his belt, undoing the buttons as he walked. Reaching the bathroom he flipped on the lights and slid the shirt off his shoulders and down his arms. John turned to toss it in the dirty clothes hamper, then stopped, staring hard at it. He was pretty sure he could smell her on it, combined with the rank scent of his own sweat and desperation and maybe even the faint lingering order of semtex.
Then again, maybe that was just his over-tired imagination.
Changing his mind about the hamper, John instead balled up the shirt and tossed it into the waste basket. He was never going to wear it again. He pulled the undershirt over his head and threw it into the garbage can beside the shirt. Unbuckling his belt, pulling it through the loops of his trousers and setting it on the counter, he then unbuttoned and unzipped the suit pants. Maybe in working for a billionaire he'd become wasteful, but he slid off the trousers, stepped out of them and tossed them into the trash as well. It had been an expensive suit but he was never going to wear it again; he was going to burn it, every last stitch of it.
Finally, he pulled off his socks and then his underwear, sliding the briefs down his long lean legs, and added them to the pile of castoffs as well.
Fresh start, head to toe. That was where he would begin.
He wished it were as easy to dispose of the ugly memories swirling in his head.
John turned toward the shower and as he did so caught sight of himself in the mirror.
He was a mess.
The familiar pattern of scars that was the roadmap of his life was clearly visible, tiny ridges of gnarled raised skin that marked him like abstract art tattoos. Some were old and dim, going all the way back to his days in the Army. The more recent ones from Snow's bullets were much more prominent, raised and still-angry red marks, one on the abdomen and the other on his thigh. Odd how the scar a bullet left was so insignificant, so small and round and giving no indication of the damage - and the pain - it caused.
Now though, now those small scars were overlain by a plethora of bruises. Bruises layered upon bruises, newer over older, a wide range of hues discoloring his body - the deep purple and blue-black of fresh contusions, the yellow-green of older ones - his body reflecting the profusion of violent impacts it had been subjected to over the past few days.
It seemed like much longer, but he silently counted and it really had been less than a week since that fight in the prison yard. Well, he couldn't actually call it a fight - it had been a beating administered by his fellow inmates. He'd had no choice but to let those men pummel him, submitting himself to the punishment they'd dished out in order to protect his cover. He'd countered their blows ineptly, unable to effectively defend himself without revealing combat skills that no Wall Street money man could possibly possess, even one who had been in the army a few years before. Yes, he was strong and tough and fit, but well-delivered blows did damage regardless. That first layer of bruises acquired at Riker's was beginning to fade, their rainbow hues waning to a dull, sickly yellow-green now.
There was nothing dull about the newer contusions, however, the ones acquired in that grinding car crash just one very long day ago. He had a red and tender bruise just above his left eyebrow, already showing the first signs of morphing into a classic shiner by the time it had aged another day or two. Much of the right side of his body was gaudily black and blue, colors just beginning to blossom into their intense peak, flesh battered in the thunderous impact against the car door when the SUV somersaulted through the air. John's right wrist was severely abraded, deeply bruised and slightly swollen, the elbow above it intensely black and blue. Though there were no outward signs of it, his shoulder had been nearly wrenched out of its socket by the wrist Donnelly had cuffed to the vehicle's handhold. His ribs on that side were contused too, maybe cracked, if the sharp painful twinges he was getting were any indication - though some of the soreness surely went back to the prison yard beating. His hip was splashed with purple as well, revealing deep tissue bruising. Even his right ankle was contused and slightly swollen. When he spotted the solitary yellowed bruise on his left shin he had to think hard to remember where it was from - finally recalling that Abby had kicked him there when he'd first met her, back before they'd gone to break into the bank.
One more small but intensely dark discoloration marked a spot at the junction of his neck and shoulder - the place where Kara had jabbed that needle into his skin, injecting whatever drug she'd used to subdue him in the aftermath of the crash. Involuntarily he raised a hand and rubbed at the spot, then compelled his hand away, forcing himself not to brush it across his chest to verify that the vest was gone. No, the device Kara had placed there hadn't left any marks on his body, but it had marked him deeply nonetheless.
John sighed. His body ached from head to foot, not just because of the bruising but also from the stress of muscles held unceasingly tense for the endless hours he'd been in Kara's clutches.
Kara Stanton.
The very thought of her made him feel dirty.
Involuntary, he shuddered. HHHHis stomach twisted and curled in on itself and he wanted to retch. He suddenly couldn't wait to get into the shower, to scrub away the lingering memory of her and the way just the thought of her had made his skin crawl.
John turned away from the mirror and stepped into the huge walk-in shower, one of the luxuries of this extravagant apartment Harold had gifted to him. Hot water - gallons and pools and oceans of steaming hot water, as searing as the human body could stand- was what he craved. He turned the water on full force and it hit him like a deluge, staggering him. He was so exhausted he needed to extend his arms and brace himself against the cool solidity of the granite tiled wall. Reese wearily closed his eyes and ducked under the showerhead, letting the hot water beat down on his scalp, cascade down his shoulders and his back, stream down his long legs and pool around his feet. He turned the spray hotter, relishing the cleansing feel of it, letting it sluice away the effects of the past few days.
After a few moments he snatched up the bar of soap and furiously began rubbing his long fingers across it, raising a lather and soaping his body, lathering every inch of his skin. Scrubbing at his short-cropped hair, John discovered the hard lump on the back of his head inflicted when Snow pistol whipped him. He worked down his neck with the terry wash cloth and across the broad strong shoulders, down his chest and muscled ribcage; he soaped the scarred abdomen, his groin and genitals, long thighs and slender calves, all the way down to his toes. He soaped his body thoroughly and scrubbed at his skin, then he rinsed off and lathered himself again and again, washing every inch of his long, lanky battered body once, twice, three times.
Even as he worked, John knew his efforts were futile. No amount of water no matter how hot, no soap no matter how thick or fragrantly scented, could wash the smell of her off of him. She was there, under his skin, imbedded in his psyche, a loathsome part of his past that he could never expunge.
Even from the grave, she wouldn't let him go. Kara haunted him, still taunting him in death as she'd done in life when she'd twisted him, warping his love of country and his innate need to protect it into something vile and ugly. She'd taken the best thing about him and sullied it - and him. She'd perverted his passion to serve his country into dark, malignant deeds that violated all the good things he'd once believed in. It was Kara who had scraped away the veneer of civilization and brought to light the monster lurking within.
He was a good soldier, but he had never been able to turn off that spasm of conscience over an unjust death. John could never be the cold-blooded, unquestioning killer she'd demanded he be - and then she'd ridiculed him for not matching her deformed standards. Somehow she'd unerringly bored in on his weaknesses and exploited them, wrapping him around her little finger in ways that now, looking back, made him condemn himself.
Past deeds can't be undone, John, he sternly reminded himself. All you can do is live in the present - turn away from the dark, move forward into the light. Do the good you had always intended to do, always been capable of doing. Be the honorable man you had once wanted to be. Use the skills they taught you to stand up for the innocent and the deserving. Do what needs to be done for the right reasons.
But tonight it was beyond him to see past the crushing darkness inside his soul. Maybe tomorrow, maybe when he had eaten and slept and the sun was shining once again, maybe then he could find the equilibrium that eluded him tonight. But it all seemed such an impossibly long, long ways away, the thin tendrils of hope overwhelmed by the tidal wave of damning deeds that dominated his memories. Deeds done with Kara. Ruthless. Merciless. Devoid of any shred of humanity. Things he couldn't let himself think about in order to sleep at night. Things that had raced unbidden through his mind on that rooftop when he'd been staring into the looming void and assessing the cold, hard facts of his life. Facing death, with too much time to think about his failings.
A man of his ilk ought to go out in battle, in the rage and fury of a fight - alive one moment, gone the next - with no time for regrets.
John suddenly realized that he'd scrubbed his skin red, almost raw, and forced himself to stop. Great, now he'd added red to the vivid hues of blue, black, purple and yellow on his body. And for nothing - the blood on his hands could never be washed away; the stench clinging to him could never be removed. Even if no one else knew it was there, he did, and always would.
He shut off the cascading water and emerged dripping from the shower, taking a towel off the shelf and wrapping it around his waist. Heedless of the water dripping onto the gleaming wood floor, the tall man padded barefoot to his closet, donning boxers and sweat pants before picking out a soft plain blue t-shirt and sliding it on.
Reese went back out to the kitchen where once again he stared optimistically into the refrigerator, hoping to find something edible. He was about to concede to the inevitable when the buzzing of the door call startled him. Looking over to the video monitor he recognized Harold down in the vestibule. What was the man doing here?
The buzzer shrilled again, and John could clearly read Finch's lips. "Let me in, Mr. Reese."
He contemplated ignoring his boss, and then realized that if he didn't answer, the ever-obstinate Finch - who he knew had a key - would just let himself in anyway.
John reluctantly cleared Harold into the building. Within a few moments he heard Harold's distinctive uneven tread in the hallway so he opened the door and silently let the man in. Finch was carrying a large bag, and the fragrant smell of takeout wafting from it immediately set John's mouth to watering and his empty stomach to growling.
"I was worried I might be too late and you had already turned in for the evening, Mr. Reese," Finch stated, brushing past John and proceeding directly to the kitchen. Harold set the bag on the counter and began removing its contents. He lifted several cartons and a paper-wrapped item from the bag and arranged them neatly on the counter. "After what you've been through the past few days, I wouldn't blame you for that. But I was thinking that you might not be asleep yet. And I know you must be hungry." He turned a very perceptive gaze on the tall man who stood with one hip leaned against the kitchen's large island. Harold purposefully refrained from mentioning that this night John might find sleep elusive if not impossible, that he might need to deal with the night's events even as exhausted as he had to be.
John remained quiet, watching Harold work, and Finch felt the necessity to fill the silence. "I'm aware that you prefer food from the deli down the street, but it's closed at this hour. So I got this from the Lyric, I know you appreciate their offerings." Finch selected a plate from the cupboard, put the still wrapped sandwiches on it, carried the loaded plate across the room and set it down on the coffee table in front of the sofa. Returning to the kitchen, he put several cartons into the microwave to warm them. "I'm afraid these got cold while I waited," he explained, throwing John a compassionate look. "I thought that hot soup might be just the thing tonight. It was chilly up on that roof."
Harold realized he was chattering like a magpie. He was, however, trying to avoid recalling the image of John's grim face during those dire moments when he'd been attempting to hack the phone that was the bomb's timer. Reese's expression had betrayed a hopelessness Finch never wanted to see ever again. "I brought both of tonight's specials- vegetable and cheddar tomato. If I recall correctly, you prefer the former. But you may have either," he offered.
"The vegetable is fine, Harold." The rare use of his boss' first name acknowledged the thoughtfulness of Finch's act. John headed across the room to the sofa and flopped down on it, hungrily eying the plate.
The man in the glasses nodded. "Dig in, Mr. Reese," he suggested.
John didn't wait for any further encouragement; he was, he realized, ravenous. Unwrapping the package he found two roast beef sandwiches - thin slices of tender meat mounded between thick slabs of homemade wheat bread. Harold, of course, knew that was one of his favorites. He hadn't eaten since … since far too long ago, since back when he'd been in jail, days ago. He hadn't eaten a thing during the 24 hours while Kara… while wearing that… He realized his hand had once again moved toward his chest and he forcibly stopped it, clenching his fist tightly.
John was grateful for the distraction of Harold choosing that moment to cross the room carrying a tray with his own bowl of steaming cheddar tomato soup, John's equally hot vegetable soup beside it, and a glass of -
"Milk?" John asked incredulously.
"It will help you sleep."
"That's a myth, Finch."
"Perhaps. But it is soothing nonetheless." Harold smiled expectantly. "Drink up."
Reese picked up the glass, eying it dubiously, then complained, "You didn't bring cookies."
A smile flitted cross Harold's face at the display of John's dry wit. "I'll remember next time," he promised.
It was silent then as both men hungrily consumed their food.
There was nothing left of the first sandwich except crumbs when John finally sought the answer he needed. "Finch…"
Harold knew Reese's question before it was asked. "It's quite certain Kara Stanton was killed along with Agent Snow when the bomb went off. A witness saw a woman matching her description get into the car just moments before it exploded. She is definitely dead, Mr. Reese."
"She's been dead before," John reminded grimly.
"This time, Mr. Reese, I assure you, she is scattered into a million pieces…" Harold immediately regretted stating the obvious - he didn't miss John's involuntary shudder, nor the way the tall man's hand had unconsciously reached toward his chest where the bomb vest had been. The thought of how close Reese had come to that same fate - and he himself along with him on that rooftop - made the computer genius cringe at the thought. "I was monitoring the FBI's communications while on my way over here. They are confident there were two victims in the vehicle."
"Snow must have been waiting for her," John mused. "Blown up by her own bomb…" his mouth quirked into a grim and feral grin, "…there is a certain poetic justice to that."
"Yes, there is."
"No one else was hurt?" John asked hopefully, setting the empty soup bowl aside.
"No one, thankfully." Harold confirmed. "The street was quite empty. The identities of the victims haven't been officially announced yet, of course, but speculation is that the other person in the car was New York's most wanted man…"
Devouring his second sandwich, John raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
"I was monitoring the NYPD frequencies. They believe that the man in the car was the Man in the Suit." It was Finch's turn to smile. "So I do believe that you are dead again, Mr. Reese."
Now that he knew Kara was dead and that she had taken no innocent victims with her, maybe he would manage to get some sleep tonight, or so John hoped. Yet he knew how hard it was going to be to bury all the ugly memories that had bubbled up from his subconscious by being caught up in Kara's web once again.
As soon as his soup was finished, Harold climbed stiffly to his feet and gathered up the empty bowls, plate, and spoons, returning them to the kitchen. Clean up chores complete, he turned back toward John. "It is late and I should let you get some rest, Mr. Reese. It has been a very long night. For the both of us." He was exhausted, the stresses of the evening having taken a toll on him as well as his employee. "Don't get up, I can let myself out. Though you might want to get an ice pack for that." He pointed at the ripening bruise just above John's eye.
The tall man nodded wearily. "I'll do that, Finch."
As Harold turned to go, he stopped and looked back once more, his face filled with concern. He would never forget the haunted look, the deep despair that he had seen so plainly written on John's face during those intense moments on that rooftop. The resignation on the tall man's strained features, the regret so clearly visible there - so much desolation. "You were never like them, John."
The ex-CIA agent shook his head, his eyes haunted and his voice dark. "You didn't know me then, Finch."
"But I know you now." Harold searched for the right words to provide some solace to this man to whom he owed his own debts, so much more than he could ever repay. "We all need forgiveness, John, and it starts with forgiving yourself."
With those words, the man who had saved John Reese's life - more than once, on more than one level- bid him good night and left.
- The End -
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