R & R
Shards of the crushed watch crackled beneath Finch's boot heel.
"Hey, that was a gift!" Reese didn't really care, but he knew the response was expected.
The steely skies of mid-winter framed Finch's head, spiky tufts outlined in stark contrast against the morning's raw glare.
For a Thursday, the park was surprisingly busy: either lots of people were still unemployed or they were carefree enough to play hooky on a workday.
The bench they occupied was the only empty one on the park's tree-lined pathways. They had walked for twenty minutes before finding a place to sit down.
Without a word, Finch raised his gloved hand from the rubble of the destroyed watch. He dropped a GPS chip into his partner's palm and let the significance of the hidden tracking device sink in.
"Yeah, but that watch cost a million bucks."
"Two million, but who's counting."
Finch continued staring across the brown winter lawn stretching before them, his eyes tracking the leaps of their dog Bear as he bounded across the grassy expanse.
"It is a metaphor, you realize."
"What? The overpriced watch?" Reese made his voice higher than usual. "Or the spyware from a billionaire computer genius?"
"Yes, both I suppose." Finch sounded slightly exasperated. "But I was thinking about Bear needing a friend to play with."
The dog's frolicking with a flame bright Golden Retriever had carried him almost out of sight.
After a moment, Reese drawled the conclusion with exaggerated precision.
"Bear is stressed out so he needs to romp. Like I need to talk with a friend, huh?"
"Yes, something like that."
"And what am I supposed to say to that friend, Harold?"
Finch shifted on the hard wooden slats of the bench, but said nothing.
"Carter risked her badge, her honor, her freedom for me. You risked your life. You know I'm grateful to you both for that."
Reese rubbed at his eyes and then his mouth before continuing.
"And now I'm back out here saving selfish rich assholes like Logan Pierce."
"We don't get to choose who is identified by the machine, John. All we get is a chance to act in time to save them."
Reese rubbed at his eyes again.
He felt the red sand storm of doubt stinging behind his lids. He had washed it away several weeks ago, but now it was needling at him, threatening to invade once more if he let his guard down for a moment of rest between cases.
He wanted Finch to change the subject, to give him a new assignment, but his friend was relentless when on a mission.
"Have you seen Detective Carter this week?"
Rhetorical question. Reese knew that Finch already had the answer, but responding out loud was part of this talk therapy Harold wanted, so he did.
"No. Not in three weeks, as you already know."
"You should, John. To clear the air. It will help."
"Yeah. And how's that supposed to go exactly: 'Thanks for saving me, Carter. Glad you're not in jail. How'd Taylor do on that geometry quiz?'"
Reese snorted at the preposterous scene as it played out in his mind.
But Finch was calm and persistent.
'I'm sure you'll think of something more creative, John."
Reese stood from the bench and in three long strides reached the verge of the lawn. He whistled for Bear who turned immediately from his retriever playmate and galloped to Reese's side. The dog butted his head and shoulders against his master's leg, urging him to join in the fun.
Buckling the leash back onto his collar caused the dog to stop panting for a minute of disappointment, but the prospect of a new adventure soon returned the grin to his muzzle.
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Five days later, Reese saw Carter for the first time after Kara Stanton blew up. He was walking his dog in Clement Park near the library.
She looked beautiful, which was unfortunate because it took away his capacity for speech and severely hampered his breathing.
She greeted them both with friendly coolness, and he felt jittery from his two dark roast coffees, so he let Bear do the talking for him to avoid any missteps.
Bear was eloquent in his eagerness to sniff her and lick her hands and grin happily into her face and nudge her knees apart with his snout and beat her thighs with his heavy tail.
Reese thought Bear expressed his own feelings perfectly.
The dog forgot to ask after Fusco, so Reese did.
Fusco was fine, Carter said, keeping an eye on HR and staying out of trouble. Her tone was clipped, forced. She seemed ill at ease. Some puzzle to investigate there, but for another time.
Every day of their separation Reese had scanned the hours of footage of her from the doll camera on Fusco's desk. He knew that Carter had taken on three new homicide cases and was assisting in the roll-up of a complicated drug smuggling scheme.
He didn't give a damn about any of these cases, of course. But he kept asking questions anyway because he liked watching her talk in person rather than on the grainy surveillance feed.
Four weeks had passed since he was captured by his former partner Stanton and strapped into hell.
Four weeks since he had bid farewell to Carter and watched Fusco drag her away from him forever.
Four weeks since he had climbed that flight of stairs to what he believed was his eternity.
But thanks to Finch, eternity wasn't ready for him yet.
Now Bear tugged at the leash; he had satisfactorily resolved the mystery of Carter and was eager to move out across the park in search of new excitement.
The cell phone buzzed in Reese's pocket and he looked down at its blue face after casting an apologetic glance in her direction.
'Henri's, reservations/two, 8:30 tonight'
The message from Finch made no sense the first three times he read it. He showed the screen to Carter for her help in interpreting the cryptic text.
"Isn't Henri's that nice French restaurant where the four of us had dinner the day after Christmas last month?"
"Yes, it is. You're right."
"Well, Harold is reminding you that you have a dinner reservation there tonight, I guess."
"But I don't. Have a reservation there, I mean."
"Oh, O.K. Well, you'll have to sort it out with Harold then."
She turned to go, pulling the collar of her navy blue coat close around her angel face.
His gut was churning to an insistent chant: Fix. This. Now. Fix it.
"Will you have dinner with me? At Henri's tonight? At 8:30? I think that's what it means."
She stared at him briefly, with that dear frown line puckering between her eyebrows, and then accepted.
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That evening the red brocade on the restaurant's walls, the gold medallions on the ceiling, and the heavy carving on the chairs all made Reese's skin crawl.
But Carter seemed to enjoy the ornate setting at Henri's, so he damped down the sarcasm bristling inside.
A hidden hand had arranged the selection from Henri's elaborate and untranslated menu, so all Reese had to do was escort her to their table and watch her sip the succession of wines that magically appeared as each preordained course was served.
He half expected Finch to squeak into his ear to remind him which fork was used with each complicated delicacy.
As Carter blew on the steaming coffee that rounded off their dinner, Reese approached the front desk determined to win the battle of the bill.
Marcel the waiter insisted, in a thick Marseilles accent, that the addition had already been covered in full. Reese resisted.
Even the august arrival of Henri himself couldn't persuade him to accept the prepaid gift.
"But Monsieur Rooney, I assure you, payment has been made. You have no obligation here, Monsieur."
"I don't care who paid for it. Or how. Tear up the receipt and take this cash."
"If I do that, I risk to enrage Monsieur Wren and he is a most valuable client."
"If you don't do it you risk enraging me." Reese leaned forward over the mahogany desk.
"I'm not as valuable, maybe. But I can cause a lot of trouble for you here. You see my friend over there? She's a cop. If I start throwing waiters through your plate glass window, her brother officers will come in to stop me. You don't want that here in your quiet little establishment, do you?"
Reese's bluff worked.
Henri sighed elaborately, held out his hand, and watched with sculpted eyebrows raised as Reese counted out the pristine bills from his wallet.
The argument had been kept to a low growl so Reese hoped that Carter couldn't hear exactly what the ruckus was about. When he returned to the table, she didn't say anything about it, so he figured he had succeeded in disguising the disturbance.
He walked her back to her car and mid-way through the second block he took her elbow and drew her close to his chest since she was shivering from the cold.
At the start of the evening he had noted happily that the creamy blouse she wore under her gray business suit was thin and shiny and low cut. It showed the swell of her breasts wonderfully, but was not designed for winter weather.
Now the cold clarity of the dark air sparked his memory of that other night walk: The way she tilted her head to catch his words on the wind, the way her stride matched his, the gentle touch of her shoulder to his chest as she swayed beside him.
He irrationally expected Donnelly to leap from the shadows behind her car, brandishing handcuffs and a triumphant sneer all over again.
He must have shuddered when they paused at the curb because she took his arm then. As she squeezed both hands around his bicep, she murmured a reassurance:
"He's not coming after us, John. Not ever."
It was such a tiny thing really, but the weird sweetness of her words cheered him on the solitary ride back to his room above Pooja's restaurant.
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Saturday morning, Reese caught Taylor as he was coming out of the high school gym after basketball practice. He gave the boy two tickets to the Knicks' game that evening at Madison Square Garden.
"You coming with us?"
"No, I've got stuff to do. Can't get out of it. You and your mother enjoy the game, O.K.? The Celtics looked godawful at the beginning of the season but they're picking up steam now, so it should be a good match."
Their tickets were for premium seats right behind the courtside spot occupied by Spike Lee and his posse of celebrity Knicks fans.
Not front row, but as near to it as possible on short notice.
Finch had arranged to expose some shady financial dealings on a vast cattle ranch near Buenos Aires. These shenanigans were so unruly that they required the immediate attention of the wealthy investor who usually sat in that coveted spot in the Garden.
So Taylor and his mother got to watch the game over the shoulder of the chatty film director.
That evening Reese brought the aluminum box containing his dinner down to Mrs. Soni's parlor. Perched on her vine-and-flower covered sofa he and his landlady watched the Knicks edge past the Celtics in a thrilling double overtime victory.
As usual, television coverage of the game lingered frequently on the theatrical antics of super fan Spike Lee.
So Reese was able to see Carter and Taylor many times throughout the course of the game. He thought they looked like they were having a good time, laughing, clapping, standing to cheer a dramatic three-pointer at the buzzer in regulation.
Once he thought he saw Carter wink directly into the camera. She looked so happy at that moment, teeth flashing between her dimples, her pony tail bobbing behind.
His heart contracted to see her and the ache shot straight through him from throat to groin: Fix it now. Fix it fast.
He glanced quickly at Mrs. Soni to see if she had caught Carter's on-screen gesture, but with her eyes glued to the screen, she remained as impassive as ever.
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The following Thursday, Reese asked Carter to see a movie with him. He suggested the new version of "Anna Karenina," which was playing at a small theatre four blocks from her apartment.
From the way her eyebrows shot up, he knew she was surprised either at the invitation itself or at his choice of films, but she skipped the wry comment and accepted the offer.
After knocking on the apartment door the next evening, Reese wouldn't cross the threshold as he watched her shrug on her camelhair top coat.
Taylor seized the oddness of the moment to sternly remind Reese that his mother needed to be brought home safely before midnight or he would call in a missing persons report to the police.
Carter chuckled at the joke, but Reese nodded solemnly.
Once past the teenage ticket taker and supplied with a month's worth of popcorn, Jujubes, and Dr. Pepper, they settled into seats toward the back of the narrow theatre.
Within minutes of the opening titles, Reese slid down in his chair until his knees hit the row in front. He let his head loll on the back cushion, just lowering his lids a bit. Before the first swirling pastel ballroom dance was over he was thoroughly asleep.
When he opened his eyes, the final credits were rolling across the screen, a lush orchestral wave ushering them into the Russian darkness.
His mouth was pressed into the loose weave of Carter's cotton sweater and he suspected he might have drooled a bit onto her shoulder, accounting for the dampness he felt there.
He struggled to right himself and straightened his collar, brushing popcorn from his lap.
No point in pretending he wasn't asleep. "Did she end up under a train?"
"Yep. Just like in the book."
"I figured. Count Vronsky was prettier than Anna. No way he was going to be anything but trouble. Everybody could see it but her."
Carter was philosophical if not romantic: "She made her choice and she died for it, I guess."
They walked back to the apartment in silence. He wanted to touch her but with gloves on it seemed pointless, so he kept his fists balled up in his pockets.
When he held her at the bottom of the stairs, he brushed aside her bangs to press his lips against her forehead, over the remnant of the rough scar at her temple.
He felt her flinch. He didn't know if it was pain or memory that hurt.
"You know I never wanted any of this for you, Joss. Not when I asked you to join our work. Not when I asked you to my bed. Not ever."
She was practical, unsentimental in response to his chagrin.
"Of course not, John. I know that. I made my choice freely. And you have to know that too."
"I do."
When he kissed her again, her lips tasted like gummy fruit and salt. Her nose was cold as it pressed against his cheek and he was excited to feel her mouth curving into a smile against his throat as he hugged her close.
His body reacted to her as it always did: turned on, eager, happily ignorant of the past, unconcerned with the future, oblivious to propriety or safety or common sense.
He wanted her, always.
He was glad that the layers of their heavy coats covered his obvious need. He didn't mind if she assumed it, she knew him that well. But he didn't want to insist so early in the reconstruction of their relationship.
Her body felt warm, even through the coats. He didn't know if she wanted him as much as he wanted her, but he hoped so.
He needed to fix this. Fix it now.
He released her in time so she could creep over the threshold into her apartment just as midnight sounded.
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Sunday afternoon, with another case completed and the shaken number safe, Reese came to Carter's apartment unannounced.
But unlike the surprise visits of their more relaxed past, he knocked at the door this time and waited to be invited in.
He brought Bear and a large paper bag full of fresh figs and his iPod charged with music he wanted to play for her.
After greeting their hostess with lavish licking and making a quick inspection tour of the living room, the dog took his rightful place on her sofa, lounging across its entire length with a delighted grin on his face.
Reese thought he detected a single eye roll, but otherwise Carter accepted their presence without comment. She said that Taylor had stayed late at church to accompany his grandmother to choir practice.
She brought plain white plates and a paring knife from the kitchen and they sat at the dining room table.
Reese laid out the figs in a square array five deep and four wide like a battalion assembled for combat in alternating rows of black and green. Next to the fruit he displayed a veiny blue cheese and an aged cheddar.
He showed her how to slice through the plump fig to expose its delicate red interior. And to bite directly into the flesh, savoring the crunch of the seeds and the sensuous dribble of the lush liquid interior.
She laughed to taste the rich sweetness and was surprised by the tender texture of the juicy lobes. He thought the fruit looked like jewels between her lips.
He made her slowly alternate a taste of the yielding fig with a salty bite of cheese, instructing her to roll each morsel around in her mouth rather than just gulping it down in haste.
She laughed again as she ran to the sink in search of dish towels to wipe the pink juice from their chins.
Reese installed the iPod in her dock, happy it was in the kitchen and thus just a muffled background to their conversation.
He played selections from Esperanza Spalding, Nina Simone, Patsy Cline, and the soundtrack of the original Broadway cast of South Pacific.
He sang the words of several songs so that she would realize that these were indeed favorites of his, not random tunes picked on the fly. He thought he saw a few tears winking in her eyes, especially at the wistful South Pacific songs, but he couldn't be sure.
Bear raised his snout to the ceiling, crooning along in beguiling accompaniment, so if any tears were present they quickly changed to laughter.
Apologizing for not having any wine, Carter brought glasses of water from the kitchen and a bowl of water for Bear.
"I think he'll come back, even if you don't serve him wine."
Bear snuffled into the bowl, scattering drops on the carpet, and then resumed his place on the sofa to gaze fondly at the adored humans again.
"Are you mad at me?" Reese had to know.
"No." The way she drawled that single syllable caused him to remain silent in response.
"Well, yes." This was her truth.
"Because I almost died?"
"Yes. And because I almost lost you."
"It's going to happen again, you know."
"A bomb vest?"
"No." He felt his Adam's apple bobble with suppressed laughter at the absurdity of it all.
"But something else will happen, Joss. You know it."
"I know. This is your life. Our life."
"Are you going to be mad again?"
"Always."
"Can we fix this? Be right together, if we try?"
"Yes, always."
She lowered her eyes after this declaration. Reese's hands clutched involuntarily, squeezing a fig until its fragrant juices bled onto the white plate.
With a slight tremolo in her voice, Carter deflected, asking to finish the rest of the figs then and there.
But Reese warned that eating so much of the rich fruit in one sitting could lead to stomach trouble. So she slowly placed the remaining figs on a small platter made of woven reeds, palpating their firm bulbs, testing each one for ripeness as she moved them.
With a graceful motion, the dog rose from the sofa and stood before her, furrowing his brow.
"What do you want, Bear?"
She used a high baby talky voice that Reese found went straight to his groin. He wished she would speak to him in that cajoling sweet tone, although he would be embarrassed to ever ask her.
The dog placed his head in her lap and looked up at her with beseeching eyes.
Reese interpreted.
"He heard Patsy singing, 'I go out walking.'"
The dog swiveled his ears in the direction of Reese's voice, never taking his eyes from Carter's face.
"And now he wants to go for a walk with you."
"I thought he only understood Dutch."
"He's picking up English quickly."
"From country music?"
"Sure. Simple lyrics, simple ideas, repeated endlessly, easy to learn from."
They retrieved Bear's leash and, to his unbridled joy, they walked for an hour until the sun set.
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The next Saturday night Carter arrived at the door of Reese's loft, breathless and with her hair wild around her head.
Without make-up, in a thick navy sweatshirt, jeans with the cuffs turned up, and high-top sneakers, she looked so fresh and vulnerable.
Beautiful, so beautiful as she threw herself against his chest.
Her wide eyes were accepting and soft as she looked up at him now; her mouth, curving in resolution and confidence, approved of him again.
Together they could fix this. Fix it right now.
She didn't have any words for him now, only kisses and caresses as he staggered backwards from the door.
She quickly fit her fingers into the groove of his spine, clinging to his waist, holding him closer as they stumbled in reverse. Past the elastic of his boxers, she slipped her palms over his ass, gripping him, moving him to her will.
Her tongue felt like fire in his mouth, her face scorching his cheeks as she pressed her skin against him.
Reese had never hated the ridiculous spiral staircase to his sleeping loft more than in those few moments it took for them to ascend it.
He wanted to fly or float or simply leap until they landed on the futon and could entangle in each other's arms.
Tugging at the clumsy sweatshirt and grappling with her jeans and crazy sneakers, she undressed quickly and stretched beside him.
Listening to her shallow breaths, feeling her mouth hot against his neck, he was so aroused he feared he would come before he even had a chance to properly touch her.
But then he turned to her and saw her naked beside him, and the sight froze him where he lay.
Even after five weeks, the bruises from the crash had not completely faded from her skin.
He looked with horror at the mottled yellow and purple and blue patches that festooned the length of her body on the left side. Her shoulder, arm, chest, hip, and thigh, all stained by the dull rainbow; corrugated by stray scratches and scrapes.
She didn't seem to move with any hesitation or pain, so the bruises must not be deep-seated in the muscles, he thought. But the damage still marred her flesh, unerased and accusing.
She noted the path of his eyes along her body and saw the way he shrank from touching her.
Lying flat, her face to the ceiling, she sighed and ran a hand across her eyes. Her smile, when it returned, was weak and her voice trembled as she spoke.
"Well, yeah, there is all that. Still. It doesn't hurt anymore. But it still looks pretty awful, I know."
A dry sob rustled through her.
"Taylor saw me in a tank top last week and said I looked like a space alien. Like some creature from outer space. Is it really that bad?"
He could see tears starting on her lower lids.
He placed both hands around her face and kissed her hard on the mouth.
"Yes, exactly like a space alien. That's just what I was thinking!" He chuffed and gingerly moved his right leg over her pelvis.
"But only on one side."
He slowly drew a line down her torso between her breasts, across her stomach, to her pubic bone.
"Right down the middle."
He circled her belly button with a finger, teasing its tiny whorls.
"You're a genetic miracle: the perfect child of a human/alien marriage. Half and half, you know."
This had her smiling a little. He kissed her eyes and tasted the salt of her unshed tears.
"Those aliens are so gentle. See, you've inherited their traits right here."
He touched her bruised right shoulder with a feather light flicker of his index finger.
"But your human half is much more resilient and strong."
He pressed four fingers against her left shoulder, stroking firm circles as he spoke.
"See: left side tender, right side firm. Like this"
He let his hand play along the length of her left arm, gently dragging his fingers over the surface of her varicolored skin until goose bumps sprang up and she shivered.
Then he turned his attention to her right arm, massaging it with long deep sensuous strokes from her bicep to her wrist, tonguing her pulse points at elbow and palm and thumb until she moaned.
When he lifted his mouth to her left breast, his tongue fluttered delicately over the nipple as it puckered to attention. He kissed across the shadowy bruises on her ribs, lapping at the curve under her breast.
On her right side, he lowered his mouth boldly over that nipple, sucking deeply to draw from her groans and more sighs. With both hands he kneaded the ripe flesh, forcing it further into his mouth, against his searching tongue.
He continued his progress along her body; alternating caresses strong or tender depending on which side he was addressing at the moment.
She writhed under his expert touch, her thighs parting, her heart beat rising as her flesh warmed and softened for him.
He puffed gentle breaths against the pulse at the moist crease where her thigh met her body. Then he pressed his fingers firmly against that juncture, testing the sensitive skin there. His lips tickled the lips of her sex, his tongue curving to fit its contours, his teeth playing a gentle tattoo there until she cried out for him to stop. No, begged him to go on.
For a long while he held her captive in this hot suspense, pressing and retreating in an irregular rhythm that kept her deliriously chanting his name. When she came, a furious wave of contractions and curses pounded through her to him, the sweetness and salt of her rolling over him, intoxicating him.
After a time, she panted out a question.
"These aliens, do they have sex? I mean, can they?"
"Hah, well yes, they do. It's beautiful when they make love. Clouds shimmer and a sort of rose colored rain falls from the sky each time a couple comes together."
He was grinning down at her now, thrilled to see her so turned on for him, smiling at him again.
She seemed quietly skeptical as she whispered into his mouth.
"Sounds gorgeous, but the human ways, those are the best."
She closed her hand around his cock, which throbbed in happy anticipation of her loving strokes.
He nodded silently, transfixed by this hopeful moment, by the galaxy of possibilities opening before them again.