Fusco sat heavily in the driver's seat, pulling the door closed with barely enough force for it to latch. The remaining dried blood in the crevices of his knuckles was flaking off, his hands still trembling slightly. In the enclosed space, the stink of his shirt, front soaked with drying blood and bowel, hit him hard. He leaned forward and stripped it off, not bothering with buttons, throwing it behind him toward the backseat.
It landed right as John began to get in. Lionel watched in his rear-view mirror as John paused in the normally smooth, fast maneuver to gingerly move it aside. Instead of looking forward at Fusco, John continued to stare sadly at the saturated shirt.
"Sorry. I shoulda known you'd be here." Fusco took a handful of tissues from the glove compartment and began the task of dabbing as much blood as he could from his undershirt and chest. "They offered me some scrubs, but I just wanted out of there."
"What happened, Lionel?"
The calmness in John's voice sent a chill down Fusco's spine. John blamed him. Shit. "I got there as fast as I could. I did everything I could think of. I tried to save him. I really did." Despite the soft voice, the piercing blue-gray eyes in the rear-view could have stared down death itself. It was the gaze of a man who had killed countless times and would kill again. "Look, you can't blame me for this! It was-"
"I'm not blaming you, Lionel. I just want information. Tell me everything that happened. Everything you saw."
Relief for himself was, strangely, replaced by concern for Reese. According to Carter, the guys responsible were dead already. There were no clues to be revealed from the play-by-play. No one else was at risk. There was really no reason Reese would need the details, except… "You're not much for post-mission debriefings. So I guess you just want to know what he went through?"
"That's right."
"I know you're used to knowing everything about everyone. But please, if you've ever trusted me at all, trust me on this." He looked down at his lap, trying to suppress the images of the room, of the mutilated victim, that kept popping back into his mind. "It's better for you not to know the details."
"Tell me, Lionel…" The ex-op's voice had a tone of warning. "I need to know."
"For what possible reason, other than to torture yourself?" Fusco turned around to physically face Reese. "Believe me, if telling you what I saw would erase it from my mind, I would!"
He turned back to the steering wheel, running his fingers over it, trying to bury the flashes of tactile memory that he would never be able to forget- The slick blood. The spilled viscera as he tried to stuff them back where they belonged. The broken bones moving under flesh. The burned-crisp skin against his arms and chest as he carried the man out so that the EMTs would reach him that much sooner. "I'd hand these memories off for my own sanity, so that I might be able to sleep at night. Jesus, I wish it did work that way."
Reese leaned closer, his face mere inches behind Fusco's head. And then, for the first time in Fusco's experience, he raised his voice. "Tell me!"
"Look, I know you've seen some fucked-up shit. Way more and way worse than I ever have or ever will. But there's no reason you should be burdened with the knowledge when it's Finch we're talking about. Please believe me that you don't want to know!"
"I can hear it from you, or I can be done with you and wait for the coroner's report," John replied in a near-whisper again. Somehow, the transition from shouting to whispering was even more frightening than the opposite.
Fusco gulped. "Wait for the report, then. You want to torture yourself, I'm not gonna help."
With a glance in the rear-view, at Reese's cold-as-steel eyes, he was suddenly very deeply afraid that the ex-op's cracking stone facade might explode, that Reese might tear his throat out bare-handed for such disobedience. Such presumption, to think he knew what was best for John Reese.
God damn it. What am I doing? The Jiminy Cricket inside me must have a death-wish. Fusco's mouth went dry as sand as he gazed at the reflection of those eyes and anticipated the worst.
After several moments, Reese broke the staring contest by turning without a blink, and began to get out. Fusco sighed with relief. But something in Fusco, something very brave and very stupid, made him suddenly turn around to face the ex-op again.
"Wait."
John stopped, still facing the car door. To Fusco's amazement, he was actually waiting.
"You're lookin' to swallow a hot coal, John. And it's gonna keep burning you till the day you die. Please, don't let your good memories get overwhelmed by the ugly end."
John still hadn't moved or looked at the detective. "Thanks for the psychotherapy session, Lionel," he spat, the sarcasm biting. He opened the door and exited the vehicle, striding away into the shadows of the hospital parking garage.
Fusco got out as well, standing with one foot still in the car, and shouted after him. "No one wants to be remembered for the way they died, Reese. Remember his life."
If Reese heard him, he didn't acknowledge it.