"The phoenix hope, can wing her way through the desert skies, and still defying fortune's spite; revive from ashes and rise" – Miguel de Cervantes
Phoenix
Jezyk
Spoilers: Anything through Blue Code
Disclaimer: Not mine
Author's note: This is a sequel to my fic Ashes, which would be tremendously helpful to have read if you'd like to understand the situation here.
Part One
She didn't know what to do. Never in her life had she known anyone who so thoroughly uprooted her world. From the first moment she'd seen him, she'd been drawn to him. Something about those haunted eyes possessed her with the need to know what drove the tortured man. But it had been more than that too, more than the desire to understand him. She felt like she already knew him, like she needed to know him better, like he was a trusted friend she just hadn't met yet.
She'd chased him, growing more and more obsessed with seeing him again, with the idea of actually getting on even ground with him. His elusiveness only spurred her on, his taunting of her making her desperate to know if he felt it too or if she'd imagined this connection. Once she'd finally met him, once she'd started working with him, it hadn't helped. He hadn't become any easier to read or understand. The man remained a complete mystery. It was mind boggling. The better she knew him, the less she knew him it seemed. The more time she spent with him the more confusing it all became.
The only thing she knew for certain, the only thing that had never changed, was that she cared for him. Irrational. Ill-advised. Unbelievably stupid. Yes, she knew all that was true. But she also knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that she was in love with the enigma.
She'd thought it would kill her to leave him. Losing her husband, telling her young son that his father was dead, it hadn't compared; nothing had hurt as much as the idea of never seeing John again. But she didn't have a choice, not with Snow and his cronies breathing down her neck, not after they'd scared the shit out of Taylor.
John was all about protecting people, after all. She was sure he'd understand that she had to protect her son.
At least, that was what she'd told herself.
She'd tried to break it to him slowly, tried to get him to understand. Snow knew, somehow he knew about their connection if he didn't know about their working relationship. It wasn't just to protect Taylor. She'd seen what Snow would do if he found John. She wasn't going to lure John to his death. The only thing she could do to keep all of them safe was to cut ties with John and Finch.
She tried to explain herself, her motivation. Despite his continuous flirting, she'd come to the conclusion that her feelings were unrequited. He was a handsome, confident, skilled man and charismatic as all hell. It was simply easier to flirt his way into what he wanted than any other option. He had to know how she felt, how she smiled and blushed like a school girl when he smiled at her. She'd given him credit for never mentioning how easily he'd manipulated her. He deserved credit for never using her feelings for him against her.
It had thrown her when he'd reached for her, his hands on her cheeks as he solemnly promised he would protect her. She hadn't been prepared for the pleading, heartbroken eyes.
She honestly hadn't realized she would be hurting anyone besides herself by separating them. And even after she saw how much pain she was causing him, there was nothing she could do. It was still the safest thing for all of them. Actually, seeing that he was so attached to her proved that he wouldn't be able to make any rational decisions. She had to do it.
When he'd finally understood that her mind was made up, when he'd given into his anger and stormed away from her, she'd been desperate for one more moment of eye contact, one last chance to let him know she was hurting too, but he'd refused it. He'd been wrapped up in his own pain. He'd been too angry. She hadn't been able to blame him.
She remembered the way he'd looked when he came to her door. Unkempt and unshaven and lost, she hadn't known what to do. She'd broken the man. Completely. In a way Snow probably would have envied her for. She'd put up token resistance, faked being angry when all she'd wanted to do was wrap her arms around him and promise that she'd never hurt him again.
And then, oh god, the way he'd touched her. The look in his eyes when he'd finally put his hands on her. He'd hidden his desire, his attraction so well. But when he let her see it, it overwhelmed her. She hadn't bothered pretending to resist at that point. She'd wanted him every damn bit as much as he'd wanted her.
In those few, precious, intimate moments, she'd thought somehow everything would be ok. Certainly they'd both suffered enough in their lives that they deserved to have that little bit of comfort. She'd believed it so fully that, even though she'd been full of venom, angry with the situation rather than him, she'd given herself to him. She'd let him in.
She'd stupidly envisioned that they'd make their way to her bedroom and make love slowly, exploring each other's bodies and letting their romance bloom in peace, if only for a short while before facing reality. She would have trusted him then, lying exhausted and sated in his arms, and accepted his pledge to keep her and Taylor safe.
Hell, she'd have happily agreed if he'd asked her to marry him.
Instead of reaching out to her, instead of trusting her, he'd recoiled. He'd pulled away and fled in terror. He'd been so sure she would hurt him again.
He'd refused her the hug or sweet kiss that would have reassured her. For those few moments, he'd seemed to shut down on her. He was walking away.
So she tried to build her walls back up, the very ones he'd just completely destroyed, pretending that she was still convinced that parting ways was best for them.
It was only then that she realized how thoroughly wrong she'd been. He wasn't strong and confident; he was weak and scared. He put on the bravest front he could, and it was damn good. It had certainly fooled her. He'd needed her to be the one to reach out. He'd opened himself up enough to show her he wanted her. He'd made sure she was willing when it came down to it. He'd been afraid that he'd hurt her.
The son of a bitch had needed reassurance.
He'd needed to be told everything was ok.
He'd needed a god damned hug.
But rather than ask her, he'd assumed she hadn't been willing to give him that, not even after she'd given him her body. He just walked away.
If he'd told her where he was calling from, she would have followed him. She would have held him until he begged for mercy.
Maybe he'd changed his mind about calling. Maybe he'd expected her to find him.
But fuck if that wasn't far more complicated than it should have been.
Under normal circumstances she'd just have a trace run on her phone, but this wasn't some perp. This was John. And with Snow watching her every move, he'd have the address before she did. There was only one person she would trust with the number John had called from, only one person she could hope to help her find where John was staying.
Unfortunately she had no way of getting in touch with Finch. His number had always been blocked when he'd called her and John had destroyed the phone she'd once carried as her link to them. She'd tried calling John's number, but she hadn't been a bit surprised to find the number not in service.
Without access to police resources or her former acquaintances' omnipotence, tracking someone down was difficult. But she needed to find John and the only way to find him was to find Finch. The only hint she had of where to find the recluse was a sarcastic comment she'd overheard John making to his boss regarding the latter's precious books. She spent that night scouring an old phonebook, slow but private, looking for ideas of where Finch could be hiding out. She'd thrown the book in frustration when she had come up empty, realizing after a few hours that he wasn't hanging out in a bookstore or running a publishing house.
She was tired, her emotions raw from the night, as she sat on the kitchen floor and wondered if maybe she'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe she'd wanted to see him so badly she'd conjured up a little fantasy where John had finally touched her the way she'd secretly hoped he would since the first time she'd seen him clean-shaven.
Despite the exhausted, abused state of her body, she truly started to believe it hadn't happened. She abandoned the kitchen, trying to think of why her legs were shaking from something she'd imagined. The moment she turned into the living room, however, she was faced with the evidence she couldn't deny. Broken glass, furniture askew, front door not fully closed. It had really happened.
And he hurt a hell of a lot more than she did, which frightened her.
She closed the front door and threw the lock, deciding since Taylor was staying with his grandmother that the mess could wait until the morning. She needed a shower and sleep and then she could figure out what the hell she was going to do. But when she tripped over the phone book lying in the hall where it had landed, she couldn't ignore it.
It was right there in front of her.
It had fallen open to a list of libraries. The perfect hideaway for an eclectic weirdo who liked books.
#####
It took her three days. Three impossibly long days, using Fusco's computer whenever he wasn't at his desk, searching through old phone books to keep her mission from producing any records Snow could ever follow. Armed with a list of closed libraries, she tackled them one at a time, determined to find the man who was her only hope of finding John.
Had she been working a regular case, she would have had a partner with whom to split the list. Instead she had to do it all herself, pounding on locked doors of dark buildings with no encouragement whatsoever. Until finally, in the midst of her pounding, a door opened. She was shocked for a moment, surprised at something resembling success. She withdrew her gun, telling herself she was infinitely more likely to find a gang or a group of squatters than Finch.
The first floor was in shambles more or less, books strewn everywhere, library stacks knocked over, graffiti sprayed on the walls. It caught her attention, however, that there was no dust. No cobwebs or rats running around. She climbed the stairs, weapon in hand, but no longer raised. She knew she was right. She could just tell.
The second floor was a different story altogether, neatly arranged shelves, and more obviously, heat and light.
She holstered her gun and followed the sound of typing until she came upon him, sitting in front of his bank of computers, a screen in front of him revealing her progress. She shook her head.
"Took you long enough, Detective." He spoke before he turned around, his body moving stiffly as he shifted to make eye contact. "I would have expected more from you."
She ignored the bait. "I need to find John."
He sized her up before he shrugged. "Yes, well, it doesn't appear he wants to be found." Though he hid it well, she could see how angry he was. He hadn't wanted to lose John either, and he most certainly blamed her.
She moved closer, holding out her phone. "He called me."
Finch couldn't hide the shock. "That doesn't sound like him." He glanced at her phone, but didn't take it. "He's not really much of a talker."
She dropped the phone on his desk. "I need you to find out where he called from. You can do that, can't you?"
"I could, if I were so inclined." He turned away from her. "I'm not, by the way."
She wasn't shy. She surged forward, spinning Finch's chair around, forcing him to look at her while she leaned into his face to intimidate him. "I can get him back for you. Find out where he called from. Now."
Finch's startled eyes held hers, finally moving lower for a brief moment. She knew what he was looking at. Even three days later, the dark bruise stood out on her throat, evidence of the control that had snapped in John.
Swallowing hard and snarling in distaste, Finch pursed his lips. "I'm quite convinced you're the reason he left. What makes you think he wants to see you."
"Because he wants to hear what I have to say."
"I never understood why he trusted you." He twisted his chair away and typed something on his computer. "You certainly haven't been very nice to him."
"Give me a damn address and then we can go back to despising one another." She was going to threaten what she'd do to him otherwise, but her attention was called to what he'd brought up on the screen, a video feed from a surveillance camera, the quality was awful, but the figure was unmistakable. There was John, his eyes closed, his face twisted in pain, the phone receiver pressed to his ear.
A few keystrokes later, there was another feed, a much better quality, showing the tears running down his face.
"You made him cry, detective. I'm not sure anyone has ever achieved that before. Congratulations."
She wanted to cry herself, knowing she'd hurt him hadn't been nearly so painful as seeing evidence of it. Tapping the screen, she forced back her tears. "Where is this? Where is he?"
He indicated the screen, as the video showed John disappearing into a motel. "He hasn't come out since. I'm actually worried about his well-being."
Three days in a by-the-hour dive. He'd probably been living there the previous few days as well. He'd spent a week in the dive, probably in the same clothes. Probably drinking. He'd been in rough shape when she'd seen him; she knew he wasn't any better off, having likely given up altogether. Coming to see her had been his last ditch effort. She knew that now.
With a shaky voice she barely recognized, she questioned Finch. "What's the address?"
Finch pushed her phone at her, motioning at the computer monitor that showed the name of the motel. "Can't you do anything?"
"The fucking CIA is watching me and Snow shows up in my path whenever the hell he wants. Anything I do, he's likely to find out about." She glared at Finch, reminding him that she absolutely wouldn't have anything to do with him if it was up to her. "That bastard still thinks I'm going to lead him to John."
Finch snarled at her. "I wonder where he ever got that idea."
"When I find him, I'm going to tell him what a great help you've been." Snatching her phone off the desk, she started searching for the address.
Before she finished typing in the name, Finch had scribbled down the address on a slip of paper. And then she was on her way, moving with a purpose.
#####
Mindful of her CIA friends, she was especially paranoid. She hadn't cared too much if she led Snow to Finch's lair, but John, that was different. John hadn't been in any shape to defend himself against his former friends. She didn't want to waste any more time either, so she was as careful as she possibly could be while she hurried.
He'd waited long enough for her to come to her senses.
It seemed like forever had come and gone by the time she opened the door, her eyes barely lighting on the phone he'd used to call her. She had to get to him; her anxiety was growing by leaps and bounds as she got closer.
A flash of her badge at the counter and a flight of stairs later, she was standing at a door, the door that was the last thing separating them. She knocked, her eyes sliding sideways at the manager, hoping she was convincing him that she was there on business instead of… well, instead of whatever she was there for. It wouldn't be pleasure, not with the despondent way she was sure to find John.
She waited for any kind of response, any sound from inside the room. Then she pounded harder. "Police, open up!"
The only response she got were a few doors down the hall opening, glancing at her and then going back to whatever illegal activities they were engrossed in.
She looked at the manager. "Open it."
He looked uncertain, checking over his shoulders. "You got a warrant or something?"
"No, I don't." She glared. "Open the damn door or I'll kick it in."
He shrugged. "Yeah, ok." He turned the key in the lock and disappeared down the hall before Jos even realized the door was open.
As soon as she was alone, she eased the door open. "John?" It would be a very bad idea to surprise him, particularly if he was drunk. He was a dangerous man, after all. But there was no response and as she stepped through the door, she wondered if silence was all she was going to get, if he intended to stonewall her, if he had already decided he was done with her.
The room was eerily still as she closed the door behind her, the mindless drone of CNN far too happy a sound for the dark room. The lights were off and the curtains drawn, the flickering television the only source of light in the room. She edged forward terrified, her heart pounding as she realized that she was infinitely more afraid of what she would find than what he would do if he were angry. He was a suicide risk, she realized belatedly, a middle-aged loner, no family, no job, no friends, and a recently ended relationship of some sort with her. That was what Finch had been alluding to when he said he feared for John's well-being.
Drawing out the inevitable wasn't her style, so she took a deep breath to steel herself against any possible outcomes, and stepped around the corner of the bathroom.
He was face down on the bed, his jacket cast aside, though still dressed in the pants and shirt he'd been wearing a week earlier. He didn't move at all in response to her entrance.
"John, wake up." She waited a moment, spying the disturbing pile of empty whiskey bottles on the floor and the one in his lax hand. Shaking her head, she decided the lecture would be better served when he was sober. "John!"
When he didn't move or even groan at her shout, she flipped the light switch.
Finally able to make out more than a darkened outline, she knew the situation was much worse than she'd thought. His skin was pale, his lips blue.
"John, oh my god!" She crawled onto the bed, fighting his heavy, unresponsive body as she rolled him onto his back. His skin was cold to the touch when she felt for a pulse. "John, please," she cried, her hand shaking so hard she barely felt the irregular movement. She wanted to reach for her phone and call a bus, but she couldn't. Snow would know. He would find them. He would let John die.
Instead she grabbed the hard line phone next to the bed as she pulled the blanket over him. As soon as she heard the sound of Finch's voice, she cut him off. "I need help. He's sick. You need to send a car and someone to help me carry him, room two-thirteen."
His voice reflected his concern. "What do you mean sick? Has he done something rash?"
"I think it's alcohol poisoning, but I don't know. I'm not a damn doctor!" She hung up, unable to waste precious time dealing with Finch. She ran her hand along his face, gripping his chin, shaking him. "John, wake up!"
She couldn't believe this nearly lifeless man was the same one who'd been so strong, so determined, so full of life and energy and passion.
Grabbing his collar, she shook him again. "John, wake the fuck up!"
When he moaned in response, she almost cried in relief.
She leaned into his face, ignoring the awful stench of whiskey that assaulted her. "John! Did you take anything?" She glanced around, looking for evidence of anything besides alcohol. Alcohol poisoning was dangerous enough, she didn't want to think he might have done worse to himself, but she had to. She dug her nails through his shirt, into his skin, hoping the pain would help bring him around.
His eyes fluttered open, unfocused, unseeing.
She stood up, searching through the limited contents of the room, pleased that there was no evidence of anything else he could have ingested. Luckily, she also found a single bottle of water. Returning to his side, she lifted his shoulders and propped him up against her. "Here, John, you need water. You need to get the alcohol out of your system." She pressed the bottle to his mouth, urging him to drink, though he didn't. "Please, John, work with me."
He grunted, turning away.
She took his chin in her hands and wrenched his face back to look at her. "Damn it, John, don't do this to me!"
His eyes fluttered again, his mouth moving, no sound coming out.
"Just try to drink, ok? Finch is sending someone to help us." At least, she assumed he was. She doubted he'd just let John die.
It felt like forever before there was a knock on the door, a tall, thick blond man peering around the corner a moment later. "Mr. Finch sent me."
"Oh, thank Jesus!" She stood, carefully lowering John's head back down onto the bed. "What the hell took so long?"
The man made up for lost time, quickly sliding one of his enormous arms under John and lifting him, tossing the barely conscious man over his shoulder like he was a feather. The awful groan John issued in protest made her happy, if only because he was more aware than when she'd first found him.
She didn't bother to argue with him, simply followed as he led her back to the car, roughly tossing John in the backseat. She climbed in beside him, lifting her head onto his lap, feeling bad for his intermittent whimpers. One of her hands cradled his head while the other gripped one of his. His fingers were still icy cold, his skin a pale gray which she couldn't really call an improvement from the vaguely blue tint it had held minutes earlier. At least they were moving, heading somewhere to get John some help.
But after the driver went right past the second hospital without hitting the breaks she had to speak up. "Hey, this man is sick and needs medical attention. Where the hell are we going?" The driver didn't give any indication he even heard her. She turned her attention back to John, willing him to be ok. Although most college students would declare it a rite of passage, as a cop she'd seen plenty of incidences that ended very badly. She pushed them out of her head, unable, unwilling, to think of John dead or with permanent brain damage. That was what she'd been trying to avoid, after all, by cutting ties with him.
The car turned into a parking garage, moving deliberately past open spaces before coming to a stop at a door on the sixth floor. Her mute friend got out of the car and opened the trunk. Unsure of what else to do, Jos got out and stood beside the open car door. She shouldn't have been amazed to see the man pulling a wheelchair from the trunk, but every once in a while she forgot Finch was, well, Finch. Of course he'd send the driver with a less obvious way of transporting an unconscious man than slung over his shoulder in a fireman's carry.
It was a good thing, she realized, when the driver loaded John into the chair and propelled him through the door. No, while no one had batted an eyelash at the two of them escorting John out of the dive he'd been staying in, the upscale hotel Finch had procured would definitely have noticed and probably called the police.
Ten feet down the hall, the driver stopped and tapped sharply on a door. Finch opened it, something almost like a smile appearing when he recognized Jos and the other man, however it faded immediately on seeing John.
"Good god," he motioned toward the interior. "Thank you, Mr. Roth. Dr. Tillman is waiting." He met her eyes for a brief moment. "Detective."
She didn't bother responding, not when she was liable to berate the bastard for renting a hotel room when John should have been in a damn hospital bed. Instead, she followed Roth into the room, vaguely surprised to find a young woman with long brown hair waiting between the bed and a table covered with medical supplies.
She turned a friendly smile toward Jos while Roth placed John on the bed, but as soon as the driver stepped away, the doctor was all business. She examined John, grilled Jos about any details she had, and then went about starting up an IV. John muttered something in complaint when she stuck the needle in his arm, which she declared was a great sign. As soon as she finished that task, she covered him with several blankets and turned back to her audience.
Roth had quickly disappeared, but Finch and Jos were waiting, the former with barely concealed worry, the latter not bothering to pretend. The doctor smiled, extending her hand to Jos. "I'm Megan Tillman."
It was instinct that caused Jos to shake the woman's hand when she wanted to scream at her for information. "Detective Carter."
Tillman's eyes widened a bit at the title, then darted to Finch as she shook her head. "I'm not even going to ask." She inclined her head toward John. "Barring ingestion of substances of which I'm not aware, it looks like alcohol poisoning. The hypothermia, the irregular heartbeat, mostly absent reflexes, it adds up. If I had access to-"
Finch jumped in, his phone at the ready. "Name it, anything you need, just give me twenty minutes." Jos wanted to hate him for his cockiness, but she was certain he wasn't trying to show off. He was simply speaking the truth.
"A hospital," she finished with an unimpressed glare, "I'd have his stomach pumped and admit him for observation. Getting the alcohol out of his system is the most important step right now, along with getting him hydrated. The IV will do its part, and hopefully John will do the rest." She glanced at him, nodding when he grunted something unintelligible without opening his eyes. "As soon as he regains consciousness, I'll be able to better able to assess him."
Finch reached out, shaking Tillman's hand, then holding it between both of his. "Thank you so much, Dr. Tillman. Your kindness is appreciated."
She smiled uneasily as she withdrew her hand. "As was John's discretion."
With a rueful sigh, Jos wondered if John and Finch had dirt on everyone in the city. It would go a long way toward explaining how they managed to get access to everything they needed. Although, she realized, they'd managed to reel her into their web easily enough. She imagined a few of John's smiles were enough to convince most women and many men to willingly do whatever he told them.
Tillman sat down in one of the arm chairs across the room and picked up a magazine from the table. Finch walked toward the other room of the suite, pausing at the door to look at the two women. "You'll let me know if there are any developments, Dr. Tillman?"
She smiled and nodded. "He'll most likely sleep for several hours. His body will concentrate on healing itself from this assault."
Finch offered a tight smile. "I'll be awake." Then he disappeared through the door, closing it behind him.
It was only then, while she was being thoroughly ignored by both other conscious occupants of the suite that she considered what she was supposed to do with herself. She had a job she was supposed to be working, which she'd been completely ignoring for days. She also had her son, the protection of whom had started the whole domino chain in the first place.
But then there was John, the man who cared so much about her that he literally couldn't face living without her companionship. He'd quit his job, abandoned any friends he had, and tried to drink himself to death. That was a level of attachment she'd never before had directed at her. No, he hadn't been quite able to communicate it to her in a traditional way, but she had to consider his suicide attempt, whether active or passive, every bit as heartfelt as any verbal confession of love could have been.
She couldn't leave him. Not again. She had to be there when he woke up, she had to be the first thing he saw when he realized he was still alive because she knew she had been the only thing on his mind when he'd passed out. She thought about pulling one of the fancy chairs over closer to the bed, but she knew it would be a long night and, quite frankly, they didn't look that comfortable. After a glance back at Tillman, who wasn't paying her the slightest bit of attention, she took a seat on the side of the bed. Reaching over, she wrapped her hand around his.
She'd wait. No matter how long it took. He deserved that much from her.