WOMAN OF INTEREST 4: ON ICE
By
Lacadiva
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Jonathan Nolan, JJ Abrams, Kilter Films, Bad Robot, CBS, et al. We love you, but you already know that.
Summary: Reese is wounded. Carter's hurt. The car is totaled. It's a long wait for Finch to arrive.
==POI==
"John… John?"
He didn't answer her. He didn't feel like answering her. Even though Reese was quite conscious and alert, hyper-aware of his surroundings and still running on the fading fumes of adrenaline, he kept his mouth shut tight. Instead he preferred to keep his concentration focused on finding a solution to their predicament. He also needed all his strength to control the physical reflex to shiver.
He hated showing outward signs of pain.
Rather than answer, he chose instead to just stare ahead, fixing his eyes on the inky black road beyond the cracked windshield in case their attackers decided to return.
Detective Carter sat behind the wheel of her car, annoyed, somewhat afraid, confounded, and also in pain. Her cell phone was dead, the battery drained. Worse, her car would not start. The front end was majorly damaged. The front left wheel was so completely misaligned from the force of the earlier impact that, even if the engine did manage to kick-start to life, they weren't going anywhere. Worse still, they were apparently on the proverbial road less taken. In the twenty minutes since the incident, not a single car had driven by.
"Be nice to have a little heat," the detective said out loud, not meaning to. She saw Reese's mouth twist sourly into a smirk.
It was getting colder by the minute. New York nights typically could dip dangerously below safe temperatures at the blink of an eye. It was far worse along the outskirts of the city. That was exactly what was happening this night, while they sat waiting in the middle of nowhere. No office structures, no apartments, stores, fast food joints, gas station or newsstands. Just an empty two lane blacktop and naked trees drenched in cold evening indigo and twisting in the frigid wind. Sleet had begun falling a quarter of an hour ago, speckling the windshield and coating spindly branches with an icy sheen.
"Finch will be here soon," he said in a curt, hushed monotone. His intention was to encourage her, to keep her hoping. In truth, he knew that most streets this night were by now impassible, and anyone foolish enough to attempt to drive in this weather had to have a death wish. He didn't doubt that Finch would try, however.
Reese groaned - completely involuntarily and surprisingly – and slumped forward, bleeding in the passenger's seat. He could feel the heat leaving his body, and the volume of pain in his wounded right shoulder was steadily increasing.
"Reese! Don't you pass out on me!" Carter warned him, quite serious about it. She reached out with a hand to support him only to be caught off guard herself by searing pain and a rushing, stomach churning wave of dizziness.
"Keep still," Reese chided between clenched teeth. "Just sit back…try to…relax…but don't f...f…fall asleep…"
He cursed himself for the sound of his own weakening voice, but quickly pushed away the thought to concentrate on Carter. She looked as if she was about to protest, but she took his advice, sitting back and breathing harshly, jaw tense.
Carter's world slowly tilted back onto its axis, her dizziness subsiding. But the wicked nausea was still quite prevalent.
"…and whatever you do, Detective…" Reese continued solemnly, though a smile was playing at the corner of his mouth, "it's very important…that you… don't…don't vomit in the car..."
She wanted to laugh, but fought the urge to let loose, lest the head injury she was sporting remind her who was boss at the moment. She settled for smiling, which hurt enough.
"Man throws himself in front of danger and flying bullets like it's nothing, but he can't take a little vomit. You obviously haven't raised a kid."
Carter reached up to feel the gash and swollen knot near her hairline and winced…did she really think it would feel better? At least the bleeding had slowed down, forming a taut crust on her hair and sensitive scalp. As for her severely twisted, possibly broken ankle, she had no words. Were it not for the ankle, she could have gone for help on foot, she kept telling herself, beating herself up. Because of her clumsiness, John Reese may very well die.
She felt useless.
"It's okay," Reese said, startling her. Had he read her mind, heard her thoughts? His hand – blood sticky-drying in the space between his fingers – reached out, groping the air until she figured out what he was trying to do and offered him her hand. He squeezed gently.
"You wouldn't have found much…much help out there tonight," he continued, struggling with the words. "Nobody's out…because of the storm…."
"Lucky us," she snorted and attempted to wiggle her freezing right foot inside her short boot, trying to gage how much swelling had occurred since the incident. Pain reminded her to keep it still for the moment.
"How's the ankle?" he asked.
Again, with the mind reading tricks, she mused. "Bad," she said. "They'll probably have to cut the boot off my foot…and I liked these boots."
"Sorry about that."
"Whatever…It's just footwear."
"I mean…" He stopped, forming his words carefully, swallowing even though dry-mouthed, eyes wanting to lock with hers but also not wanting to. "I mean about…pushing you…so hard."
"If you hadn't pushed me, Finch would be bringing you a size six body bag."
He looked at her now. She had only seen that look on his face once before – after he had been shot by Mark Snow's rooftop sniper. She'd helped him into the back of Finch's car. Pained, forlorn eyes had sought hers before he and Finch had beaten a hasty retreat.
"I'm trying to say thank you, John…"
He nodded, though he did not seem assuaged by it.
"…But I still hold you responsible for the loss of my boots."
He closed his eyes and allowed himself to smile.
=POI=
EARLIER
They had been observing the comings and goings of the latest number: a plastic surgeon with a checkered past and a maliciously jealous husband with a penchant for spending money he did not earn. They were following the good doctor when John realized that he and Carter were also being followed by a dark sedan devoid of license plates and sporting illegally tinted windows. John decided the direct approach was best, and reached across from the passenger's seat to commandeer the steering wheel from Carter's grasp. After forcing a frightening, screeching 180 degree turn, John sent their car barreling directly toward the car that was following them, prompting a deadly game of chicken. Shots fired, issuing from the non-descript vehicle first. Carter returned fire while John managed to control their vehicle from his precarious position in the passenger's seat.
A bullet shattered part of the wind shield. The oncoming car waited until the very last second to steer out of the way, managing to catch the side of Carter's car, spinning it around, rendering it inoperable. Carter's airbag deployed, knocking the wind out of the pair but saving them from serious harm.
But the driver of the other car was not yet through. Turning, the car came barreling right back at Carter and Reese, hitting them a second time. Her head slammed hard against the steering wheel this time, even as the seatbelt fought to hold her back, causing even more trauma.
Reese jumped from the car firing on them, followed by Carter. He managed to take out one of their attackers before ducking behind the car to eject the spent magazine and slap in a fresh one. Carter covered him, wounding the driver.
A third man stepped from the back seat with a TEC-DC9; a nasty semi-automatic weapon Carter was sure was at the top of the banned list. The moment Reese saw it he knew that Carter was vulnerable. He pushed her out of the way hard…too hard. Even over the din of weapons firing, he could hear the liquid-pop of her ankle turning badly, and heard the Detective cry out a sharp curse at the suddenness of injury. His heart stopped for a moment in his chest – had a bullet found her? That split second of fear cost him.
A bullet ripped into his shoulder.
He jerked back hard but remained on his feet and continued firing. Carter quickly returned to her good foot to fire as well. A thin line of blood poured down her face, getting into her eye, but she kept blinking and firing until the men, daunted and no doubt expecting such a fight, grabbed their fallen comrade, hopped back into their car and retreated.
Victory tasted sweet but was short lived.
They turned to stare at one another, assess their mutual damage. John's stomach turned when he saw her bleeding, limping. He reached out for her, uncharacteristically so, not even knowing what he would do once took hold of her. But his move was interrupted by a fiery jolt – his wounded shoulder announced its overwhelming desire for undivided attention. Reese involuntarily crumpled and fell to his knees, against the car, right in front of her.
Not exactly one of his smoothest moves, he remembered thinking.
Blood was pouring liberally from the fresh wound, steaming in the chilling air.
Carter quickly helped Reese to his feet as best she could (considering her twisted ankle's inability to support her own weight) and helped him back inside her car. She held her place for a moment, breathing hard, white vapors billowing from her mouth, watching and ready should the men to return.
Praying to God they wouldn't return.
When it appeared the coast was clear she put in a call to Finch.
"No time for chit-chat," she told him brusquely. "John's been shot, and I'm not doing too good myself. We need you now!"
She gave Finch her location and then tried to call Fusco, just in case he could get there faster. No answer.
And then the blasted battery died.
Carter tossed her useless phone inside the car, then slipped her overcoat off her shoulders and let it fall to the ground. She removed her vest. When she un-tucked her white linen shirt and began to unbutton it…
"Carter…Carter…what are you doing?"
"Freezing my butt off! You mind not staring?" she asked as she quickly whipped the shirt off and reached for the vest. "You need something to stop the bleeding."
She shrugged back into her coat and climbed inside the car next to John. He thankfully took the shirt – smelling of her perfume, though now stained by the blood decorating his own hands and from her head wound – and pressed it against his the hole in his shoulder. He tapped his earwig a few times to get Finch on the line.
"H…Harold…how close are you?"
"Forgive me, Mr. Reese! Traffic is quite unbearable! Nothing's moving and I'm stuck in the thick of it. How bad is your injury?"
"Took one in the shoulder. No exit wound."
"Dear God," said Finch. "Keep pressure on it."
"Doing my best."
"How's Detective Carter?"
"Her head's bleeding…can't walk…"
"Was she shot?"
"No…but she could have a concussion. Hurry…"
"Do what you can to stay warm. Dr. Madan and I are on the way."
That was officially thirty minutes ago. Not a long time, unless you're freezing.
Or bleeding out.
Reese was lost in thought when he realized Carter was talking to him.
"What…?"
"I said keep pressure on the wound."
"Afraid I'll ruin your car?"
"You already did that, playing chicken with Snow's lackeys."
"How do you know they were sent by Snow?"
"Somebody else after you I don't know about?"
"Somebody's always after me," he said, equal parts disgusted and teasing.
"Carter…"
"What?"
"T…Take my coat."
"Why?"
"Because you're shivering."
"So are you."
Reese moved to slip his black overcoat off his good shoulder.
"I'm fine," Carter told him, reaching to stop him. "Finch will be here. Right?"
Reese didn't acknowledge her, remaining silent, eyes set dead ahead…
Clutching Carter's once-white blouse as hard as he could to the leaking hole in his shoulder…
Watching as icy moisture continued to accumulate on the frosty surface of the windshield in random patterns…
He pulled the garment away to take a peek at the wound.
"Put it back!" she reprimanded, hearing and regretting the snap in her voice. But she meant business.
"If you're going to ruin my favorite linen shirt, at least do it right." Carter reached over to demonstrate what she meant.
John flinched when she pressed the shirt harder against his wound.
She froze. "Sorry."
"Just…" John didn't say more. He couldn't. He didn't mean to let his eyes squeeze shut so tight, or for his lips to nearly curl as he ground his teeth against the pain. He didn't want her to know how bad it hurt, how bad it felt. He gave in to the reflex to shudder, having little strength left to keep up appearances.
"You're going into shock," Carter said.
"Thanks for the update," he said, and bit back the other choice words of frustration that threatened to spill out.
"Hey, I didn't shoot you," she reminded him. "I'm not the bad guy here."
John refocused and shook his head a bit to clear it, then turned back to Detective Carter.
"You need to elevate…elevate your foot…."
"Kinda limited on space here," she said. "Where exactly should I put it?"
John patted his thigh with his free hand.
She just stared at him. Was he serious?
"You need to elevate, and frankly…I could use the warmth."
He did have a valid point. Nothing said warmth like contact. She carefully maneuvered her body so that she could lift her right leg. She barely missed banging the swollen extremity on the glove box before resting it upon John's thigh. She had to admit that the elevation alleviated a fraction of the throbbing, bringing the pain level down to a manageable roar.
Reese looked down, straining to see in the dark, and reached inside the top of her short boot and felt the circumference of her ballooning ankle. Carter jumped, hissed.
"Sorry," he apologized, hurt showing on his face. "Just wanted to see how bad…"
"Where the hell is your boy Finch?" asked Carter.
"Fighting windmills to get to us…" John's voice trailed off as if he were falling into unconsciousness.
"John!"
He opened his eyes wide.
"What?"
"John, you have to stay awake."
"Doin' my best…"
Carter nudged him with her leg. John started, moved to sit up straighter, aggravating his wound.
"Easy," she cooed. "Let me…" She took the blouse from him, scooted as close as she could in the molded seat, and pressed the shirt back to his wound. He shook under her ministration, but she refused to lessen the pressure.
"It's okay, I've got you," she said, almost crooning.
"Keep talking…to me…" he muttered.
"Yeah, okay...so, how many does this make?"
"How many what?"
"How many times have you been shot now?"
"Lost count…"
"You need to learn how to duck, John."
"Didn't cover that in training…"
"Maybe you should invest in a few remedial classes. Or some body armor."
"You wouldn't have any wa…water, would you, Detective?"
"I had a bottle before your friends decided to swap paint jobs with us. It might be on the floor."
She reached over awkwardly, unfortunately bumping him, and cringed when she felt him cringe. She felt around the floor for the one liter bottle she'd had in the cup holder before their vehicle had been rammed. She found it, opened it and held it up to John's mouth for a sip.
He coughed, which caused discomfort, but sipped a bit more.
"Thank you," he said breathily when he'd had enough.
She took a swig herself before recapping the bottle and placing it behind her within reach.
"You're going to be okay," she said soothingly. He found himself wanting to smile, and let a little one find its way to his still moistened lips.
"I'm sorry."
"For what? This isn't your fault. Blame it on Snow and your black ops buddies who can't let you live in peace. You have nothing to be sorry for."
"I was distracted."
"By what?"
He just stared at her with serious eyes that made her look away. Silence fell between them, like a pale thin curtain cutting them off from one another, a barrier keeping them separate, apart.
"Why do they still want to kill you?" she asked, breaking the silence. "Why can't they leave you alone? It's not like you're selling state secrets to the highest bidder, or waging some smear campaign against them for unscrupulous practices or outing them on CNN. Why can't they just leave you alone?"
"They know that I know things. They want to make sure whatever I know dies with me."
He felt her tremble, and placed a reassuring hand upon her leg. John quickly moved it when he realized it was far too familiar a gesture. Instead, he reached for her hand and gave her digits a gentle squeeze.
"Your hands are cold," he said.
"Duh…" she retorted softly.
He didn't think…but acted…bringing her hand to his lips and gently blowing warm breath on her frosty fingers.
Carter stared at him. While her face gave no indication of the discomfort she felt, the rushing of agitated butterflies in her gut made her nearly gasp. She wanted to pull her hand away, but fought the urge to resist. To run.
"Sit closer," he said, shakily putting his good arm around her shoulder and drawing her a touch closer.
"Why?" Carter demanded.
"We have to…conserve body heat. Don't be shy, detective. I'm not."
"I bet…"
She inched closer, but still kept a modest distance from Reese. She did feel a little warmer.
"Is that better?" she asked.
"Some," said Reese, and pressed his ear bud again.
"Finch isn't answering."
"Maybe he's close."
"Maybe his car swerved off the road…"
"Way to keep it positive," Carter said. "You think that lady shrink we were following will be okay?"
"According the Finch, the danger is imminent, but not immediate."
"How does he do thats? How does Finch know when people are about to be in trouble? Has he let you in on how he gets his information yet?"
"Maybe."
"And?"
"If I tell you…"
"You'll have to kill me. Well, everybody's number comes up eventually."
"Funny you should say that…"
His voice trailed off again, eyes closing.
"John!"
"Yeah…"
"Wake up, John."
"Keep t…talking to me…Carter."
"Yeah…okay…um…tell me about…tell me about…"
She stopped. She knew where she was going, but didn't think this was the proper time to ask. She wanted to know about the woman in the picture with John. The lovely blond sitting next to him in a Mexican cantina. Holding hands. Smiling.
"You ever…been…you know…in love?"
"hm…?"
He was nearly unconscious.
"I said…have you ever been in love?"
"Everybody's been in love, Carter. Some point…"
"We're not talking about everybody. I'm asking about you."
"Once…twice."
"Who was…is she?"
"Doesn't matter…"
"She still around? Do you keep in touch? Meet for drinks or play catch up?"
"hm…?"
"Where is she?"
"Gone…."
"I'm sorry. I understand if it hurts to talk about her. Tell me about the other one."
"Other one…?"
"You said you'd been in love twice. Tell me about the other girl."
"She's..."
"What?"
"Warm..."
"Okay…what else?"
"She's..not interested…shouldn't be…"
"How do you know? She say so? Reese…wake up! How do you know she's not interested in you?"
"We're not good for each other."
"Says who?"
"I do."
"You should tell her anyway."
"What…?"
"How you feel, John. You may be surprised."
"Still wouldn't w…wouldn't work."
"John…sometimes people come into our lives for a minute, sometimes for a lifetime. So what if she's there for only a minute. It could be a great minute."
"Or… or, could be a d...disaster…."
"Promise me…if we get out of this, you'll tell her."
"No…promises…"
"John…"
"Carter…Joss…I can't…"
His eyes closed. His head lulled lifelessly to the side.
"John!"
He remained still. His face softened in unconscious reposes.
"REESE!" Then, softer, "Don't do this to me…"
"hmmm…"
Carter touched his face. His skin was icy cold, yet he was sweating profusely.
"John…"
No response.
"Dang you, Finch…"
High beam headlights appeared in the distance – as if she'd called it into existence – moving slowly, cautiously toward them.
"That better be you…"
Carter reached for her gun, hoping it was Finch, ready if it wasn't.
She gave Reese a shake; as expected, he did not respond. Whatever happened, she was in this alone.
"Whoever she is, John," she said, prepared to shoot if necessary, "you tell her I said you're worth the trouble."
==POI==
Carter expelled a deep breath and relaxed into her seat for a beat when she saw Finch getting out of the car, watched as he limped cautiously over black ice to their vehicle. She noticed another man alighting from the passenger's seat, a doctor's bag in hand.
Finch helped her out of the car and into his warm vehicle while Dr. Madan quickly assessed Reese's injury.
"Help me!" he called back to Finch, white vapors billowing fast and frantically from his mouth. Finch moved as quickly as his body and the icy ground would allow, and helped remove Reese from the car. They carried the tall man between them awkwardly, yet managed to slip him into the back seat of the SUV without further injury.
While Madan worked on John, Finch climbed into the driver's seat, turned up the heat, and took a close look at Carter's head wound.
"It appears to be superficial, Detective," he said, relieved. "Even so, head wounds have a tendency to bleed quite heavily. Any nausea, dizziness, vision problems?"
"A little…nausea, but my vision's fine. Is Reese okay?"
"He's in good hands. Doctor Madan is an excellent physician."
"He hasn't been unconscious that long. I tried to keep him awake as long as I could. I kept talking to him, asking him questions…"
"Really? What kind of questions?"
"Don't worry, he refused to divulge anything about you…or how you know the things you know."
"It's better for everyone that you don't know, Detective Carter."
"Whatever. I'm gonna find out one day, though."
"I'm sure you will, Detective," Finch said, appreciating the challenge she presented. "Thank you for taking care of John, Detective. Warmer now?"
"Yeah, I'm warm…"
=POI=
After two days of ice packs, Ibuprofen and elevation, Carter was back on her feet, though she maintained a limp to favor the still-healing ankle. She returned to work after two sick days, having already laid the foundation for the lie she must perpetuate to protect John and Finch, as well as herself.
"Yeah, that's last time I get up on a ladder for a while," she told Fusco and everybody within earshot.
"Talk about a run of bad luck," said Fusco. "One night you total your car on black ice, the next night you fall off a ladder changing a freakin' light bulb. You might want to check your horoscope from now on, Carter."
"You know I don't believe in that crap, Fusco. G'on, get to work."
Nobody questioned her or required further explanation.
As for John, she was tempted to check on him every hour for the first couple of days. Her urgency was mildly assuaged by Finch, who promised to call if things happened to go unfortunately south. But there had been no calls, and she remained satisfied that John was mending, healing, and should rest unfettered by her instinct for over-concern.
She remained anxious to get back to work. Not police work, however.
==POI==
When she arrived her desk her second day back to work, there was a gift bag sitting there. The bag was non-descript – a simple brown bag with two twisted loop handles.
"What's this?" she asked Fusco, who sat busily hunting and pecking on his computer keyboard.
"I dunno. It was there when I came in this morning."
She gave the bag a careful look before reaching for it, and cautiously opened it.
She pulled out a folded white blouse, very similar to the one she'd lost to John's bullet wound.
"Nice," said Fusco. "Did I miss your birthday, Carter?"
"No," she said, and sat down to begin her work day.
A few moments later, the phone rang.
"Detective Carter," she announced.
"Did you get my gift?"
She smiled. It was John.
"Yeah…how'd you know my size?"
"I'll tell you another time. How's the ankle?"
"Tight, sore. But I'm walking again. How's the shoulder?"
"A couple more days, I'll be good as new. Joss…"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
Words escaped her.
"I was thinking about what you said. About the girl," said John.
"And?"
"I'll tell her. One day."
She felt her insides flutter. Oh, to be that woman, she mused.
"Don't you wait too long. She might get away from you."
"I gotta go," he said.
Carter hung up the phone and smiled.
The End.
Thanks for reading. If this moved you in any way, I hope you will take a moment and shoot me a review…no pun intended. Enjoy the premier this Thursday night!