Chapter 1
"We're done here, Finch."
Reese slipped out through the back door, flipping up his collar. The snow was coming down heavier.
He moved discretely.
The Number was safe, but the back of his mind was buzzing.
He stared at the car. Government plates. Motor off, a faint silhouette inside. It had been there awhile now because the snow was covering it.
And he knew.
He hesitated.
"Finch?"
A dark overcoat stepped out.
Reese pulled his own gun, before the coat, but the shots rang out at the same time.
Two bullets, one echo in the nearly empty street, a juxtaposition to the graceful, silent flakes.
"Mr. Reese?"
He cursed softly, rolling to his knees, the snow no cushion.
"Fine," he lied.
If Fusco were being honest, it creeped him out that Finch even knew he was in the same neighborhood as his wayward employee.
Or that he specifically knew the detective had "passed by the establishment a mere ten minutes ago".
He wouldn't even bother, if Fusco hadn't owed Finch a favor. But the guy had saved his ass, so there was that.
Such it was that he found himself, in a dive bar on a snowy Monday evening, scanning the dingy room for their mutual friend.
When he sank onto the old stool next to the man of the hour, he gave a gruff, "Hey."
The man in the suit's reaction to him was just a hair slower than normal. He gave a curt nod in greeting. "Lionel."
"Answer your phone anymore?"
"Dead."
"Does Glasses buy that excuse?"
No answer.
Fusco shook his head. What was he even doing here? What Reese did on his own time was his own time.
These guys needed more friends.
Reese motioned to the bartender, signaling for another.
"Hey." Fusco frowned.
"S'okay." Reese turned his head, lifting his chin and giving Fusco an appraising look. "You too?" He signaled the bartender to make it two.
Fusco shook his head at the barkeep. "No thanks," he mouthed.
"Lionel." Disappointment.
Fusco frowned at the slightly slurred use of his first name. "Just how many shots have you had, Wonderboy?"
"Just one," Reese defended. His eyes flickered down to his abdomen before catching himself. He looked to the refilled glass on the weathered bar top. Oh. "Shots," he repeated, actually registering the question.
"You were shot?"
"What?"
Fusco reached for the overcoat that hid the Reese's midsection, but his hand was knocked away.
A teasing tone, an amused smile. "If you wanna get lucky, Detective, you're gonna have to drink a little first."
Fusco growled something under his breath and reached for him again.
"Detective..." The word was iced with a warning this time, all teasing abandoned. Reese glared at him, took a long drink from the glass. Grimaced.
"You said you were shot," Fusco said, trying to keep his patience.
"Never said that."
Fusco's eyes narrowed.
Reese's voice was calm. "Have a drink, Lionel."
"Do I need to arrest you?"
The look on Reese's face was loud and clear. Good luck.
Fusco grew annoyed. He reached out and took the challenge, grabbing Reese's arm as he blocked a second time, yanking back. Reese countered quickly enough, almost knocking Fusco from his stool. But it was enough.
The white shirt, hidden again, had been caked in blood. And not a small amount.
Reese shook the grip off his arm. A glare, a slight shake of the head. A slow drink from his glass.
"What the hell?" Fusco hissed.
The bartender was eyeing them now, particularly Fusco.
Reese took another swallow. He stared at his drink, circling it slowly in his hand.
"You're bleeding. You know that?" Fusco shook his own head. Honestly.
"Not mine."
"Where's the other guy then? You drive 'em out to Oyster Bay?"
Silence. Reese was staring sedately at the glass.
"C'mon. Let's go." Fusco was on his feet.
"Suck it up." The words were mumbled.
Fusco shook his head. "What?" The dimness of the room was the only reason he could have missed it before, because Reese was looking rather pale.
Reese, unruffled, gazed back at him, focusing on the detective's holster first, the badge clipped to his belt. Last to his eyes. "I can suck it up. One last drink. Then bed."
2007
"Suck it up, John." Kara was impatient, annoyed even. She grabbed a half empty handle of liquor from a shelf and shoved it at him roughly.
Reese took the bottle before it fell from her hand, but didn't unscrew its cap. He lifted the towel pressed to his side, waited a second and then watched the ooze begin again, a mix of darker clots and fresh blood, bright and red.
"Fuck..."
"You want to?" Kara shrugged, stepped toward him.
His blue eyes shot daggers.
She pushed him until he was at the bed, until he was losing his balance, sitting, then lying back.
"Kara-"
She was straddling him then and he hated it, pushed back at her, but she liked that. He knew. So he stopped.
The handle was pried from his fingers; he heard the metal of its cap unscrewing.
Her palm was on the flat of his stomach and he reared upward when he felt the burning, stinging, fire of the liquor. But her hand was on his chest now, pushing him down.
"Fuck," he repeated, nearly a whisper.
"Thought you didn't want to?"
He squeezed his eyes shut. Going somewhere else in his mind.
Kara slapped his cheek. "Stay awake."
"I'm awake," he hissed, eyes opening, aimed at her.
She was done with her game, off of him and throwing the bloody towel onto his stomach. Taking a drink from the bottle.
"Clean up," she said. The words were clipped. "Meet us downstairs. One drink."
One drink, he repeated in his mind.
"Unless..." She raised an eyebrow at him. "Unless you want to go home?"
One drink.
"John?" Irritated.
"One drink," he agreed.
He didn't have to look at her to see the self-satisfied look on her face.
One drink. Sleep it off. They were out in the morning.