Blue
Jezyk
Spoilers: Through Number Crunch.

AN: This is a slightly AU piece, only very slightly as it only alters about the last 5 seconds of Number Crunch.

Part One

She only had a second to make the decision. She'd already made the big one, holstering her weapon and helping the wounded man into the car. His friend, the weird guy, wasn't the fastest man on Earth, but it wouldn't take him long to reach the driver's seat. The only remaining decision was if she would stand there and watch as they left or if she would follow her instincts and climb in the car with them.

She stared at him, his pain evident in his paled skin, his sweat-covered face, his helpless eyes. She didn't have a choice. Not really. They'd lied to her. Again. Used her skills, her reputation, her trustworthiness, her honesty to kill someone. Again.

He wasn't dead, not yet, but she had little doubt he would be soon.

And the ache in his eyes, so much deeper than the physical pain he was feeling, was going to stick with her a long time.

By the time John's friend had reached the front of the car, her decision was made. It wasn't even hers to make, John had made it for her, with that pleading desperation and sadness he revealed in his expression.

She climbed over him, knowing he didn't have the strength to move over, knowing she didn't have the time to run around the car. Her hand landed on his leg, bracing her weight as she pushed herself over to the far side of the car, his grunt and the sticky fluid seeping between her fingers telling her there'd been at least a second wound.

God only knew how many there were. She'd only seen him hit the first time in the gut before he'd started firing. At first, she'd ducked behind the SUV, thinking he was meaning to take them out, only realizing after he started running that he'd been aiming for the headlights. He'd been hit twice by then, explaining why he'd gone for the lights, trying to buy himself time to get away.

How the hell he'd managed to get up, let alone run away and trip down the steps, with two gaping holes in him, she'd never know.

She pulled the door closed, hearing the sound in stereo as the driver closed his as well.

"Go!"

Snow and his buddy would be close behind and she knew they'd kill all three of them without a second thought. Snow had said they'd been best friends. She snorted to herself for believing it.

John's head fell back and his eyes were drifting closed. Running a hand across his forehead, Carter found his skin cold and clammy. He was losing too much blood. Soon it wouldn't matter to John if Snow found them or not. He was already in shock. She couldn't let him die. If she did, it would be her fault. His blood on her hands.

Frightened, and angered, by the situation, she tried to deal with the emergency rationally. Panicking wasn't going to help. She gripped John's chin, hard enough for his eyes to pull open to meet hers. "How many times were you hit? Two? Three? More?"

His eyes were straining to focus, confusion and uncertainty washing over his face. "Two," he whispered as his eyes drifted shut again.

"Turn on the overhead light." The car was illuminated immediately.

She pushed John down on the seat as she shifted herself onto her knees on the floor. Two bullets. So much damage. The one in his leg was bleeding heavily, but once the bleeding was stopped, she didn't think it would be too dangerous. "Do you have a belt?" She called over the seat, hearing a bewildered voice replying affirmatively. "Give it to me, he's bleeding out!"

A moment of crazy swerving later and the belt flopped over the seat onto her shoulder. She tied it around John's leg as tightly as she could, satisfied by the way the blood stopped pouring out. Then she moved onto the wound in his side, knowing without a skilled doctor, and possibly not even then, John wasn't going to make it. She had some medic training from her days in the army, but it wouldn't do anything for him.

All she could do was try to stop the bleeding and keep him warm. She pulled off her coat and covered him with it. Her blazer was polyester, but it was all she had. Taking that off as well, she wadded it up and pressed it against John's side. She leaned all her weight on it, hearing the pathetic groan of pain that was all the man had left to issue.

"You have somewhere to go? A hospital or something?" She hated the panic in her voice. "He needs a doctor now!"

The other man's voice was laced with the same panic as he answered. "There's a small clinic that will treat him without questions. We just have to get there."

"A clinic? He needs a hospital, surgery, real medical treatment, not a fucking flu shot!" She turned around, glaring at the man over the seat. "Your friend is going to bleed to death back here, stop worrying about having to answer a few god damned questions. What the hell is wrong with you?"

Anger eclipsed the worry in the man's voice, but the car speed up obligingly. "My friend wouldn't be bleeding at all if it weren't for you. He was trying to help you."

Carter swallowed hard, the taste of betrayal burning her mouth. The man was absolutely right. John was dying in front of her because of her own choice. If there was ever a moment in her life she wanted to take back, to do differently, to change, it was when she'd reached for that damn phone.

He'd called her. He'd given her information pertinent to a crime. He was helping her. She'd thanked him for saving her life. And when he'd said she was welcome, it was absolutely true. She knew from his voice, from the way he'd paused, that he wouldn't hesitate to do it again. She wondered if it was still true, if he were conscious enough to realize what she'd done, if he'd still risk himself to save her.

She'd bet her life that he would.

The man in the front seat made a phone call, calmly telling someone that he'd be arriving shortly and they should be prepared. She wondered how he could remain so calm, deciding it had to have something to do with the fact that wasn't in her position. He wasn't kneeling there, watching the life drain out of someone, knowing he was to blame.

When they arrived at the clinic, Carter could only watch helplessly while two large men swooped in and lifted John off the seat. They placed him on a gurney and rolled him away while a group of people in scrubs descended on him. John's friend limped along behind them, trying to catch up. He stopped when he reached the door, which he was holding open for her.

But she wasn't there. She was still in the back of the car, shaking from the adrenaline.

He walked back toward her, inclining his head toward the building's door. "You're more than welcome to come in and wait with me."

She looked up, letting the startled man see the tears that were pouring down her cheeks. She shook her head, not at the offer, but at the situation. "I can't-how-why," she met the man's eyes and hoped he would convey her heartfelt sorrow to his friend, should John survive. "This was my fault."

The man didn't blink. He simply nodded. "I know." His flat tone indicated that he did, somehow, know. "But we can discuss that later." He glanced at the door as though hoping there might already be an update on his friend. "As much as I would personally disagree, I feel certain Mr. Reese would not object to you waiting inside for word on his condition."

"Reese? That's his name?" The word rolled around in her head until she finally decided that it suited the enigma perfectly. "John Reese."

The man nodded, finally holding out his hand. "Yes. I'm Mr. Finch."

"That's not what it was last time we talked."

"Well, no." He glanced back at the doors again. "It is, however, what Mr. Reese calls me."

"I guess that's good enough for me." She shrugged, reaching to shake Finch's hand.

Upon seeing the blood, he snatched his hand back. Yeah, Reese's blood was all over her hands. In so many ways.

She wiped her hands on her pants before she swiped at her tears. "I'd like to find out how he is."

"As I said before, you can come inside." Finch stepped back to give her enough room to get out of the car, but seemed to realize the source of her continued reluctance. "I assure you, no harm will come to you. These are skilled medical professionals who know nothing of the situation and I am not inclined toward physical violence."

Carter looked around as she climbed out of the car. They could be anywhere in the city, nondescript brick facades in every direction. She hadn't been thinking when she'd gotten in the car with two dangerous men. She'd let her feelings rule her and, as she realized the enormity of the mistake she may well have made, it could quite possibly the worst, and last, mistake she'd ever made. But it had been her head, and her unfailing desire to do the right thing, that had started the whole domino chain.

With a hard swallow, she started toward the building. Whether it was a mistake or not didn't really matter. A man had saved her life and she'd repaid him by getting him shot. She owed it to him and to her conscience to see if he survived.

Finch was nothing if not true to his word. The inside of the building appeared to be a run-of-the-mill medical clinic. The late hour of the visit meant none of the support staff were there, however there was plenty of evidence that they would return. Charts and files were piled on desks, computer monitors with sticky notes taped on them stood by well-used keyboards. An empty coffee cup sat by a telephone. A high counter held a sign-in sheet with all its names crossed off, the times of their visits left visible next to the blacked out names. From the hallway on the left, Carter heard the drone of a TV with a pre-programed medical channel reminding the empty room about the importance of routine vaccines for children. Below the TV mounted high on the wall were vending machines. The whole place smelled of sickness and antiseptic.

She followed Finch as he walked through the double doors and down the right-hand corridor marked "staff only." It was ridiculous under the circumstances, but she still found herself looking over her shoulder, expecting someone to tell her she was in the wrong place. There was no one following them. In fact, removed from the drone of the television and the hum of the vending machines, the only sound she could here were their own footsteps. Though she knew she could best Finch in a fight, there were other people, deathly silent people, in the building. She just didn't know where.

The short man continued halfway down the long hallway, stopping at a group of chairs. He gestured to them. "Ladies first."

Spying a restroom along the opposite wall, she nodded toward it. "I'm just going to wash my hands."

His eyes darted down, seeing her hands again, perhaps for the first time recognizing that the blood stains all over her shirt and pants belonged to his friend. His face paled and he sat down heavily in one of the chairs.

It was refreshing to hear footsteps a few minutes after she'd finally taken a seat beside Finch. A petite woman was making her way down the hall towards them. The woman took one look at Finch and straightened up, squaring her shoulders, smiling widely.

"Excuse, miss," he addressed her as soon as she got a bit closer. "Please get something for my companion to wear." He motioned at Carter without turning his head. "Something less nauseating."

At first, Carter was pissed. How dare he insult her clothing?

And then she realized it was the blood, John's blood, deepening to a disgusting brown as it dried all over her clothes.

"Oh, yes, sir, absolutely, sir." The woman nodded, even offered something almost like a bow, as she scampered away.

"Unless you're busy with the patient," he called after her, realizing after she'd run off that she might have been better occupied with trying to help John.

The woman returned a moment later, a set of green scrubs in her hands. "Here you are, ma'am."

"Thank you." Carter accepted them as graciously as she could. It felt wrong to take them, to even think about changing into them, to strip away the evidence of what she'd done. Before the woman could walk away, Carter reached out to stop her. "Wait, how is he? Do you know what's happening?"

The woman's eyes darted to Finch, who nodded once. "They took him into surgery. I'm not sure what's going on right now, but I can go find out."

Finch held up his hand. "No, please, don't interrupt them."

"Yes, sir, I mean, no, sir, I won't bother them." She hesitated as though she feared a reprimand for trying to answer Carter's question. "Can I get anything for you?"

Carter expected him to dismiss the woman, but instead, he offered her his keys. "Yes, please have someone get the back of my car cleaned. I'm afraid there's some blood back there. I'd really rather not have to see it."

"Yes, sir, right away." She darted off again, happy to have been charged with something important.

Carter stared at the man in wonder, trying to figure out who the hell he was that a nurse at a medical clinic he obviously owned was so eager to get his car detailed for him.

He turned toward her then, his eyes almost amused at her expression. "Money can buy nearly everything, Detective Carter." His eyes moved down to her clothes, to the blood stains, then slowly back to hers. "Everything except justice, it seems."

Feeling like she'd been dismissed and like this very rich, very powerful man was extremely angry with her, Carter took the scrubs back into the bathroom to change. It wouldn't have taken her long, except she wasn't really in a hurry to return to Finch's side. As much as she'd be happy to hear an update, provided it was good news, on Reese's condition, she was more afraid of the opposite. Finch had said she was welcome only because Reese wouldn't object to it. If Reese didn't survive, she was certain Finch would overcome his personal disinclination toward violence.

Besides her physical safety, Carter had other concerns should Reese not live, most of which she really didn't want to consider. It was simply for the best that the man recover. For everyone involved.

She took her time, stripping off her bloodstained clothes and throwing them in the trash. She didn't want to see them again, not even if Reese turned out to be fine. They were ruined, not just from the stains, but from guilt. And guilt wouldn't wash out. Best to leave it behind in a place she'd never see again. The blood had seeped through the thin cotton fabric, leaving smears on her skin. Somehow, it was worse than seeing it on her clothes. She was crying again as she wet a paper towel under the faucet and then pumped soap on top from the bottle next to the sink. It felt like more of a betrayal to wash away the evidence of her involvement, but she couldn't stand to see it there either. Perhaps if she just knew that he was ok, even if he was still breathing at all, maybe that would make it better. She settled for just washing off her arms where they'd be visible beyond the short sleeves of her borrowed top. The rest could be dealt with later, when she knew what price Reese had paid for helping her.

She dressed quickly, unconcerned with her appearance. The scrubs were far better suited for someone like Reese, someone tall and thin and male. On her, the pants were too long and too tight while the armholes on the top were so big they hung nearly down to her waist. With a sigh, she turned away from the mirror and rejoined Finch in the hallway. Settling into the uncomfortable chair, she resigned herself to a long night.