WOMAN OF INTEREST 5: FACE TIME
By
Lacadiva
Disclaimer: All rights belong to Kilter Films, Bad Robot, Jonathan Nolan, JJ Abrams and the gang. I get nothing but a serious case of the giggles for doing this. Rating: PG-13.
Summary: John is being held and viciously interrogated by HR. How does he survive? By keeping his mind on a certain Detective...
~ POI ~ POI ~ POI ~
His hands were behind back, held tight by cuffs to a metal chair. Dark room with one dim light. He could feel blood once warm turned cold and congealing on the side of his face. His vision was clouded. Head throb like a house beat. And he was angry.
John rarely lost a fight. Rarely found himself at the mercy of others. Unless it was part of his game plan.
This was not.
"Tell us your name…"
A thick, ham-fist to the face…once, twice, thrice. Mouth filling with blood. I'm going to kill you for this John thought as he spat out bloody sputum, making a direct hit to his torturer's shoe.
It only earned him another blow.
"Who do you work for, huh? Who told you about HR?"
Another hit, this time to the gut, forcing the wind out of him. I am going to kill you slowly…
"How much do you know, huh? Mr. Guy-in-the-black-suit? How the hell much do you know?"
John just stared at the fat, red-faced man with the bad attitude. Then he smirked.
"Who you got working for you on the inside? C'mon, save us some trouble…give us a name and we might let you live…"
"You can bet," John said, "I'm not gonna be that nice to you…"
Ham-fist lit into John again.
~ POI ~ POI ~ POI ~
CARTER IN A BLUE DRESS
"Hey, John."
"Hey yourself."
He hadn't meant to speak aloud. He felt a something akin to embarrassment.
She was wearing the blue dress this time. Caribbean blue. Sleeveless, form-fitting, and an inch or two above the knee. Her hair was worn up in a tight French twist, with a single ringlet falling just over her left eye. Her lips were scarlet. Heels were ultra high. John knew she'd never dress this way; her job wouldn't allow it, unless she was working undercover on loan to vice. Even then she was far too elegant to pull off the prurient role she'd have to play.
He laughed derisively at himself for this mental infraction, for his not-quite-innocent imagining and flinched. It hurt. Every part of him hurt. They'd finally stopped beating him, these nameless men. They had done so unmercifully on and off for the last few hours, stopping only because they had grown bored and weary at John's ability to withhold information. Had they any idea with whom they were playing? John would not be so easily broken.
Even so, if he had to suffer and endure much more of this, he knew he would probably not survive.
So then, if he was to die this way – his freedom taken, his body broken, his mind shattered - why not take a mental trip outside the ordeal while he could? What harm would there be?
It was quite possible that he was never going to see Jos Carter again.
He was quite sure there would be no rescue. Finch would try. So would Carter, even Fusco. They'd attempt to move Heaven and Earth, so determined would be his friends. But as sloppy as his abductors may have been, John was certain by the time they would find him, there would be little left but a broken corpse. His captors would want to send a message to anyone remotely sympathetic to John to keep their mouths shut or face the same.
John's nose was bleeding, as was his mouth, and his body felt as if someone had run over him with a big rig, then backed up and rolled over him again for good measure.
"Hey…you still with me, John?" Carter in Blue asked.
Each version of Carter had some distinction to help keep his thoughts organized, logical and keep her perfectly embedded in his mind.
He hadn't thought of this Carter in a while. She only came out in times like these.
"You've gotten yourself in quite a pickle," she said, smiling, mostly with her eyes. A sign of approval. Attraction. Expectation.
"Occupational hazard," John said, closing his own swelling eyes, willing the dull ache in head to abate. He'd wanted to sleep, but this was better. So much better. Seeing her. Here.
He watched as she sat down on one of his tormentor's metal chairs and crossed her long legs.
"Zoe Morgan wore this dress the last time you saw her. Didn't she, John?"
"Jealous?"
"Maybe."
"Just thought it'd look better on you," he said out loud, accidently.
"Does it?" she asked in a near-whisper, subtly rocking one leg back and forth over the other. Her dark eyes were as deep as a cool ocean at night.
Reese smiled, closing his eyes. That was enough, he told himself. Time to get back to logical thinking. Combat thinking. Strategize a way out. Turn the table on his captors. Take them down. Get free.
Get back to the real Jos.
World…he meant world…get back to the real world, to his job, to Finch and the machine.
The twisted his wrists, hoping to be able to work his hands free from the cuffs that bound him, now to a rusted pipe leaking foul water. The pipe was old enough that, with enough force and perseverance, he could loosen it, get free. Reese used the cuff's chain against the pipe. The metal encircling both of his wrists were becoming slick with his blood as his flesh became twisted and rubbed raw.
"You didn't answer my question, John…"
The image was persistent.
"I'm starting to get a complex..." she spoke again.
"Kinda busy here," John said, refusing to look as she stood and walked toward him.
Silence.
He fought to keep his concentration on his work. Pain made it infinitely difficult. Fear of pain made others leap to divulge everything they knew, even fabricate or accept responsibility for things they never did.
Not John. He could take the pain.
But it didn't make concentration any easier.
And then he heard the door. The locks disengaging. Metal scraping against metal. Footsteps. His torturers were returning.
Let the fun begin again.
~POI ~ POI ~ POI~
SANDBOX CARTER
"All right, soldier! On your feet."
No way was that going to happen. Not after last night...or whenever it was. He lay on the cold, rough concrete floor now, hands still cuffed. His white shirt was mostly red.
This was not the way it should have been.
"Go away," he said weakly between split lips.
"You can't get rid of me that easily, John."
John opened his swollen eyes to Sandbox Carter.
She stood there, hands on her hips, no makeup, hair pulled back in a tight, regulation pony tail. She wore camouflage pants, faded green, sweat stained tee shirt and sand colored combat boots. Her dog tag dangled from a chain around her neck.
"You eye-ballin' me, soldier?" she asked.
John tried to smile, but only one half of his face responded.
Sandbox Carter squatted down close to John.
"Don't tell me you're giving up…because that's not acceptable."
"I haven't given up, Carter, he said, his breath hitching. "I just can't bring myself to move right now."
"You want me to help?"
"Can you?"
"That depends on you."
John tried to move. Just as he suspected, the pain was overwhelming, his body too weak to respond. He fought not to cry out, fought to breathe.
"C'mon John, you can do a little better than that."
"Not at the moment, Carter."
"That's Sergeant Carter to you, Reese. When you're ready to bounce, I'll be with you. Until then, you can keep me company."
John closed his eyes for just a second. When he opened them again, Sandbox Carter was sitting at a low table with several weapons laid out before her.
"So what's keeping the Brain?" she asked as she picked up an AR-15 and began to strip it.
"The Brain?"
"Yeah, you know, Finch. He's the brain. You're the brawn."
"I guess that makes you the beauty."
"Yeah, I'm a real knock out. Speaking of knock out's…how's Zoe doing?"
"I wouldn't know. Why do you ask?"
"Just making casual conversation. She's quite a looker, that Zoe. She seems to have a little something going on for you."
"I hadn't noticed."
"You'd have to be blind not to notice. Or dead…"
"Where is this going, Jos?"
"Have you two been out?"
"Define out."
"What do you think of her?"
"I don't…"
"You have to have an opinion of her, John."
"She's…gutsy."
"What about Maxine? The cute newspaper reporter. .."
"Not my type."
"Too inquisitive?"
"Curiosity kills."
"She's a reporter. That's her job."
"Unfortunately," said John, trying to readjust his position on the floor, "our jobs don't jibe. Carter, why is my private life suddenly so important to you?"
"I'm just making conversation, John. We don't have to talk at all if you don't want to. If you want me to go way, I can do that, too. I'm in your head, remember?"
"It's not…don't…go away."
John pushed himself hard until he sat up, back against the cinderblock wall. The pain was intense. He felt himself losing consciousness.
"You okay, John?"
"Yeah…no…"
"Talk to me."
"What do you want to know, Carter?"
"Why not Zoe?"
"Zoe is a very attractive woman. Maxine, equally so. But they can never know who I really I am…what I am. If they knew the things I've seen, the things I've done…some people do consider me a monster."
"You do the things the rest of us are too terrified or too weak to do. We're genteel, civilized… we can't get our hands dirty…"
"So they create monster to do the dirty jobs for them."
"You're not a monster, John. You're the bravest man I know. Life is dirty. It's a mess. We live in a broken world and we aren't smart enough to fix it. If it wasn't for people like you…hell, there aren't any more people like you. And for the record, you're not that scary."
"I was for a minute."
"Yeah, you were. But that was before…"
"Before you got me shot."
"You are never going to let me live that down, are you?"
He actually smiled this time, despite the pain.
Carter smiled now, as she sat the weapon back down and reached for a second one. "Why am I here, John? You could think up any woman you want…"
"I can't think of any other woman I'd rather watch field strip an AR-15 but you, Jos."
"You smooth talker."
~ POI ~ POI ~ POI ~
CARTER IN A RED DRESS
"He's over here!"
Was that her? This was not one of his Josses. No way. He'd already decided that thoughts of her were as painful as they were pleasurable. He bid goodbye to her in his head and heart and prepared himself for what he thought was the inevitable.
So who was this Jos in a long red dress…one shoulder exposed…her hair swept up and makeup perfect? This wasn't one of his Josses but he like her, and thought he should add her to his repertoire, should he live long enough to remember…
"John! Talk to me!"
He was surprised how unnerved this Jos was…he could feel her trembling as she hovered over him, hear it in her voice. See it in her tearing eyes…and in the slight trembling of her lips…
He was even more surprised when she lifted him from the floor, the bloody, dirty mess that he was, and held him in her lap.
"Stay with me, John…We're here…I'm here…"
He opened his swollen eyes a bit more. The image was still a bit fuzzy, but she was no less beautiful.
"Over here, Finch!" she screamed. "Fusco!" she screamed even louder, "are they still here?"
"Long gone," John heard Lionel say. "Looks like all our HR buddies split."
Wait…Lionel? What was he doing in his head?
Suddenly other faces appeared in view, along with Carter's. Finch. Fusco. Madan.
This was real. They were real.
They had found him.
"Easy, John," Finch said. "We are getting you out of here right now."
"How…?" John asked weakly.
"You should know by now," said Finch, "that I can be rather relentless..."
"More like obsessive," Fusco said. "We've been looking for you non-stop for three days."
"Nice dress," He whispered to Carter.
"I had to crash a fancy police affair and twist a couple of arms to get some answers."
"Now they know we're onto them," John said. "Good. I like a stand-up fight."
"I'm afraid you won't be fighting anyone for a while," said Finch sadly as he gingerly removed the handcuffs from John's wrists. "It appears that their abuse was rather thorough."
Together, the four lifted John and carried him from the dark room to Finch's waiting black Sedan.
~ POI ~ POI ~ POI ~
EPILOGUE
The knock on John's door was gentle and tentative. He pushed away from the table where he sat cleaning weapons to keep his mind and hands busy, and ambled stiffly to the door. His body was still recuperating, still mending.
John was surprised when he saw Carter's fresh face staring at him through the peep-hole; he quickly opened the door.
"Before you aske, Finch told me," she said quickly.
"I find that hard to believe…unless you threatened him."
The Detective smile mischievously. John let her in.
"Nice place…roomy…could use a little more furniture…"
Her eyes fell upon the table filled with weapons and parts.
"…and a little less hardware."
"What do you want, Detective?"
Jos shrugged. "To check on you. See how you're doing, if you need anything."
"I have everything I need, Jos."
"You could use a decorator."
John smiled and sat at the table to continue stripping and cleaning. Jos sat down across from him, staring at the arms on before them. She reached for the AR-15 but hesitated.
"Go ahead," said John.
She picked it up. The huge weapon looked very natural in her trained, capable hands.
"When I was rockin' the sandbox," she said, "whenever we had downtime, we used to make bets over who could field strip their weapon the fastest. I won pretty much all the time."
"Yeah?" John removed his watch, set the timer and placed it on the table. "Show me."
Jos instantly went into action, her face a mask of pure concentration, her limber fingers flying, breaking down the weapon into parts and laying them neatly upon the table. She clapped once and began to put it all back together again in the space of a few short breaths. She lay the gun down and smiled.
John stopped time and checked the results.
"Impressive," was all he could say. He smiled the biggest smile he'd ever allowed himself around the Detective.
"Dang straight," she retorted. Then, "I better get going. Things are a little hairy after your HR incident."
"We're going to get them, Jos."
"I know," she said as she stood and took a step away from the table. "I just wish it was behind us. This might get bloody. Or in your case, bloodier."
Before walking out the door, she stopped and turned back to John.
"What's on your mind, Carter?"
"Something you said, when we found you at that warehouse. You looked at me and said 'It looks better on you.' What did that mean?"
"I don't know, Detective," he lied, and hoped she could not tell. "I was delirious."
"No lie," Carter said with a smirk, one she had picked up from hanging around John much too much, she imagined. "Good night, Reese."
"Good night, Carter."
He watched as she walked away, imagining her wearing Caribbean Blue.
THE END
Hope you enjoyed it. If it appealed to you in the least, I hope you'll tell me in a review. Thanks to all of you for your very kind attention.