AN: This is my first ever fanfiction. I would love your feedback! Trigger Warnings: mentions of abuse/domestic violence/suicide.
Disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest or any characters except my own OC, Miss Haywood.
/ /
"Storm's comin."
The old woman who'd spoken was staring up at the cloudy sky, bony hands outstretched over the fire burning brightly in the old metal barrel. Clara watched her silently, trying to stand as close to the fire as possible. The old woman's face was gaunt and hollow and she was waif thin.
"Best be ready."
Clara shivered. She wasn't ready. Her sweatshirt was worn thin and she'd lost her hat. The sneakers she'd found in a dumpster were coming apart. At least she had these thick woolen socks they'd been giving out at the shelter. They'd had coats too, but all the security cameras had spooked her. Maybe she could go back, in a week or so, if nothing happened.
Maybe.
The teenage boy next to her suddenly started and fled. A police cruiser was pulling slowly into the lot. The old woman watched it impassively, but Clara and several others scattered.
She ran, trying not to trip over the flopping soles of her shoes. The cops didn't give chase. They didn't really care. Not unless they were looking for you specifically, and they weren't looking for Clara. Not yet. After a few blocks, Clara slowed to a fast walk, coughing hoarsely into her sleeve. Her lungs were burning. She'd been sick for a few weeks now, but she didn't dare go to a clinic. It was just a cold. It'd go away. It had to. She wiped her nose with her sleeve and then wrapped her arms tightly around herself. Somewhere to sleep. That's what she needed.
The sidewalk grew rougher, disappearing altogether in some places. She kept her head down, hood pulled as far over her face as possible. Groups of people were loitered about. They didn't pay her much attention. She was just one more homeless person in the largest city in the country. A few catcalled and made rude gestures in her direction, but she ignored them. It was still daylight, so the odds were in her favor. Eventually she found an abandoned parking garage, full of men and women and children, all dirty, all hungry, all like her. Some had makeshift tents and fires. Others huddled under blankets or oversized coats.
Clara picked a spot against a wall, wedged in between two old women. They were both sleeping, wrapped in ragged blankets. Clara sat with her back against the wall and drew her knees up to her chest. A fresh burst of coughing wracked her thin frame. She leaned her forehead against her knees, arms around her legs, and tried to stop shivering.
Gunshots woke her. The people around her were scrambling to their feet. Clara tried to follow suit, but her legs wouldn't cooperate. The dimly lit garage spun dizzily, and she slid back down to the floor. Bodies blurred together as they ran past. Clara tried to get up again, clutching desperating at the wall. Her teeth were chattering so hard, she was afraid they'd break. She managed to stand, squinting blearily, trying to see the source of the commotion.
He seemed to materialize from thin air. One minute he wasn't there, the next he was. Clara blinked, a burst of fear and adrenaline shooting through her veins. A man in a suit. A nice suit. And he was looking straight at her.
"Clara?" He said in a voice smoothly emotionless.
Clara bolted, terror giving her strength. This man in the suit had to be working for him. She hadn't told anyone her real name in seven years. How had he found her? She'd been so-
A hand seized her arm and spun her back around. She swung wildly at his face with her free arm, but he captured it easily. She fought him as he stood calmly, holding both her arms in front of him. She landed one good kick to his shin. He didn't react at all except for a slight flair of his nostrils.
"Please don't do that." He said.
"Let go, please, let me go, I can't, I, don't do this, please, please let me go!" The panicked words came tumbling out of her mouth. "Please don't do this! Please, just let go, let me go, let-"
She doubled over, silenced by the horrible rattling cough, gasping for air. The man in the suit pulled her back upright, his steely eyes scanning her.
"You're sick, Clara."
"Please. Don't." She gasped.
His hand pressed against her forehead, icy cold. "She's burning up, Finch."
The entire room went sideways and Clara closed her eyes. When she opened them again it took her a few seconds to realize that the man in the suit was carrying her outside, towards a sleek black car.
"No." She whimpered. "Please, no."
"I'm not going to hurt you." He glanced down at her face. "My name is John. I'm taking you somewhere safe."
Her entire body was shaking now, whether from cold or fear she couldn't tell. She couldn't think straight. She couldn't think anything except for the paralyzing terror. He lowered down, placing her on a soft leather seat. She tried to scramble out of the car, but he easily pushed her back, climbing in after her. She weakly clambered across the leather seat towards the opposite door, but he caught her arm and pulled her back next to him.
"Finch, turn the heat up. Let's go. She needs a doctor."
The car jerked into motion. A flash of glasses in the rearview mirror.
"Please." She mumbled.
/ /
The girl was slumped in the seat, feverishly mumbling a string of desperate pleas. John shrugged out of his jacket and wrapped it tightly around her. She was crying now, a quiet keening sound that made his throat ache. He reacted without thinking, pulling her into his lap and against his chest, cradling her as though she were a child.
"Clara. We're not going to hurt you." He said softly into her hair. "I promise, you're safe. We're here to help you."
She didn't respond, but her body suddenly sagged, her head lolling backwards. He met Harold's eyes in the rearview mirror.
"She passed out." He said. "She's really sick, Finch."
"I've already called the doctor and asked him to meet us at the Library."
John nodded, pulling the girl tighter against him as her entire frame shook with chills. He could see the surprise in Harold's expression, but he ignored it. The girl's eyes had been glassy and feverish, but there was no mistaking the fear there. Someone was definitely out to hurt her, and he was certain she knew exactly who it was. Harold had told him that she was twenty-five, but she looked much younger. Of course, it didn't help that she was so frail and thin. A protective anger stirred in his chest, fierce and awake, taking him by surprise. He hadn't reacted like this...hell, he hadn't felt…
He clenched his jaw, trying to ignore the pain in his chest, as the memory of her limp bloody form in his arms forced it's way into his mind.
No. He would not let that happen again.
/ /
Clara woke slowly. There was a soft beeping sound in the background that she recognized, but couldn't quite place. She opened her eyes and looked at the white ceiling above her. She blinked slowly, but it was still there. She raised her hand and started when several different tubes came with it. There was an IV in her arm. This was a hospital bed.
A hospital?
Panicked, she tried to sit up, but a body appeared from nowhere. Strong hands gently pushed her shoulders back down.
"Easy." That velvet voice was vaguely familiar. "You're safe."
Clara stared, eyes wide in shock, at the very attractive man leaning over her. Salt and pepper hair. Strong jaw. Calculating eyes. A suit.
The suit.
"Where is he?" She strained to sit up, to look around the room, eyes wild. The man in the suit didn't move, easily holding her down, but his brow furrowed slightly.
"Who are you talking about, Clara?" He asked.
At the sound of her name, her terrified gaze snapped back to his face. His expression was calm, but his blue eyes were watching her closely.
"That's not my name. I don't...I don't know who you're talking about." Her voice was shaking.
"Are you not Miss Clara Haywood?"
The voice came from a bespeckled man in the doorway. He had a tray in his hands with a bowl of steaming something. He limped over, carefully placing the tray on the table beside her bed before regarding her owlishly.
The man in the suit gently released her shoulders. "Don't sit up too quickly. You have pneumonia."
Clara pressed her lips tightly together and tried to shrink as far back into the bed as possible. She coughed hoarsely, her heart pounding. So this was it. They knew who she was. This was the end.
"Miss Haywood, we are not going to hurt you." The man with the glasses said earnestly. "My comrade and I help people who are in trouble."
Clara stayed frozen, her eyes flitting quickly around the room.
"I am...Harold." The man in the glasses said. "And this is Mr. Reese. John." He paused. "This is not a hospital. We didn't want to take you somewhere public without knowing more about your...situation."
Clara's eyes were immediately on Harold.
"We did have a doctor come here, however. You are on antibiotics to treat the pneumonia and an IV to treat the dehydration. You'll need a few more days of bedrest before you are fully recovered. You were very ill."
Clara glanced between them, her face still a rigid mask of fear and distrust.
"Perhaps it would help if I told you what we do know." Harold said kindly. "We know your name is Clara Haywood, daughter to George and Sybil Haywood of Columbus, Ohio. We know that your mother died in a car accident seven years ago."
Harold paused, watching her closely. Clara felt her entire body shut down, her face changing from frightened to completely blank.
"What's strange is that you died in that car accident as well. At least, according to the official reports. And yet, we received information that your life may be in danger, which is indeed odd given the circumstances."
"Who told you about me?"
Harold hesitated at her flat voice. "We have our sources."
Clara closed her eyes, her face paling.
Harold blinked, glancing at her vitals. Her heartbeat and respirations were rising. "Perhaps we should let you rest-"
"Where is he?" Clara interrupted without opening her eyes.
"Where is who?" Harold asked.
Clara opened her eyes and looked at him, struggling to keep her composure. Her hands clenched the sheets so tight her knuckles were white.
"My father."
"We have not contacted your father." Harold said, brow furrowing. "But of course, we can if you would like-"
"NO." Clara burst out, so sudden and panicked that Harold jumped. She covered her mouth with shaking hands, trying to stuff her outburst back in. A cough shook her entire body.
John stepped closer to the bed, his face dark. Harold shot him a look, and John stopped.
"No one knows you are here, Miss Haywood. And we will keep it that way if it's what you prefer." Harold said gently.
Clara looked fixedly at her hands, trying to think, to make a plan, anything.
"I brought you some soup if you'd like it." Harold was saying. "We can talk later. For now you should rest. We will be in the next room if you should need anything."
He gave John a pointed look and turned, limping out of the room. John hesitated, then followed.
They left the door open a tiny crack. Clara waited until she heard their footsteps retreat before she sucked in a shaky gulp of air.
They weren't cops. She could tell that much. Harold looked more like an accountant than a hitman. John, however. She shivered. John was dangerous. He seemed sincere about protecting her, but she knew all too well it could be a lie. He would want her to stay put, to think she was safe.
Clara sat up slowly, coughing again. The room spun a bit, but settled. Her eyes scanned the room. It was mostly bare. Just the hospital bed, the machines, an armchair, and the side table. The far wall was full of windows. They seemed to be about ten stories up, maybe downtown? She pulled the oximeter from her finger and slid her legs off the side of the bed, careful to pull the IV drip along with her. Her legs were bare. She was wearing a hospital gown. She swallowed hard and forced herself not to think about who undressed her.
The soup smelled delicious, but she ignored it. She stood up, feeling shaky and weak, and used the IV drip as a sort of walker to help her towards the window. The windows were old, but they opened. She pushed the sill upwards, wincing as it squeaked alarmingly. Harold and John must have heard that. As quickly as she could, she swung one leg out the window. The people walking on the sidewalk below looked like small toys. There was no fire escape.
She swung her other foot out, perched on the edge of the window. Her entire body was shaking. Behind her, she heard a noise, and she twisted rapidly, clinging to the side of the window frame.
"Don't!"
John stopped in his tracks. He was halfway into the room. Behind him, Harold was standing in the doorway, his eyes wide with horror.
"Clara." John said, his eyes locked on hers, his voice surprisingly soft.
"Don't come near me!" She was shivering in the cold wind, but her eyes were sharp and determined.
John raised his hands up in surrender. "Clara, please come down from the window."
"No." Clara said fiercely. "I won't go back."
"Miss Haywood, please!" Harold's voice was panicked.
Clara glanced quickly out the window, past where her bare feet dangled, to the sidewalk below. All she had to do was let go and lean. Then she would fall. Then it would be over. She didn't want to die, but she would rather die than go back to him.
"I will never let your father touch you again." John said suddenly, his voice rough. "Clara, do you hear me? I will never let him hurt you."
Clara froze, eyes locked on John's face.
"He's the one who's after you, isn't he?" John's face had hardened, anger flashing in his eyes. "He's the one you've been running from."
Harold was glancing between Clara and John. Clara's teeth were chattering, and a bout of coughing made her gasp for air, but she still didn't move.
"We do not work for your father, Miss Haywood." Harold said urgently. "We help people who are in danger. People like you."
John took one step towards her and she tensed. "Please, Clara. Let us help."
He took another step, slow and cautious, his hand outstretching towards her. Clara watched wide-eyed and desperate. Were they telling the truth? Or was this all a trap? She glanced down at the sidewalk again, and that's when John made his move. He grabbed her arm with one hand and circled her waist with the other, jerking her quickly backwards. She let out a startled yelp. The IV drip tipped over with a crash as the two of them fell to the floor. John landed on his back and rolled to his side, holding her tightly against him. Harold limped quickly past them, slamming the window shut and leaning his forehead against it, heaving a shaky sigh. Clara stared up at him numbly. Behind her, John let out a ragged breath.
"You really scared me there." He said quietly.
For some reason, that simple sentence was her undoing. She squeezed her eyes shut, tears rolling down her face. John pushed himself up to a sitting position, pulling her with him. She felt him take her arm, checking to see if the IV needle was still in place. She coughed and her lungs ached. Then something wet and cold touched her face.
Her eyes popped open to see the face of a dog, a large German Shepherd-ish dog. He was standing next to John, head tilted curiously at her. Clara reached up with her free hand, touching his nose to make sure he was real. He licked her hand happily.
"Clara, meet Bear." John said, amused.
He stood, lifting her up in his arms. Harold righted the IV drip and pushed it along as John carried her back to the bed. As soon as he'd pulled the blankets back up around her, Bear jumped up and laid down on her legs. John quirked a half smile down at the dog.
"Alright. This once." He said to the dog, eliciting a long suffering sigh from Harold.
Harold was hovering by the bed as John got her settled. Finally, he awkwardly reached out to take Clara's hand. He hesitated, his eyes full of emotion.
"Thank you, Miss Haywood." He finally said, then turned and limped out of the room.
This time, John didn't follow. He settled in the armchair, leaning back, eyes on her. "I don't think I could take that much excitement again." He said lightly, but his eyes were intense. "So, if you don't mind terribly much, I'll sit with you."
Clara flushed, unable to hold his gaze. Bear shifted to lay alongside her, resting his head on her stomach. His dark brown eyes were fixed on hers. She smiled shyly at the dog and his tail began to wag, thumping lightly on the bed. She glanced at John to see him watching their exchange with a strange expression on his face. It vanished as soon as he caught her eye.
"Let me know if you need anything, alright?" He said smoothly.
Clara nodded slightly, then hesitated. "I...I'm sorry." She finally whispered.
John looked surprised, then smiled. A real smile. It transformed his face. "You're forgiven."
Clara felt a smile creep over her face in response, catching her off guard. She burrowed back down under the blankets. Bear let out a long satisfied sigh. She was certain she wouldn't be able to sleep. Not with John sitting there watching.
/ /
John watched the two of them thoughtfully. The girl had fallen asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow. Bear had certainly made himself at home, curled up beside her. He smiled softly. The dog didn't usually take to strangers this quickly. Clara appeared to be an exception.
Yes. She was definitely an exception.
Harold normally would have taken them to a safe house, but instead he'd gone straight to the Library. And then there was his own reaction. He frowned. She wasn't a child. In fact, she wasn't much younger than Shaw.
And yet when he'd seen her perched on that windowsill, he was certain his heart had momentarily stopped.
He hadn't felt that since...
He stood up abruptly, trying to prevent the memory from rising again. Bear's head shot up, looking at him questioningly. John moved to stand by the bed, ruffling the dog's fur gently. Bear laid his head back down with a huff.
The girl was still running a small fever. Her dark hair was a mess, clinging damply to her face. She was too pale and too thin. He'd seen the scars. The doctor had called them in, his face grave. They were old scars, but they still stood out sharply against her fair skin. Jagged lines. Small round burns. He knew what they were. Someone had beaten her viciously, over and over. The burns were most likely from a cigarette. But they'd been careful. No injuries anywhere visible.
His hunch had been confirmed after her reaction when Finch mentioned her father. John hadn't needed any more proof. He would've been on his way to Ohio if Finch hadn't stopped him. He wanted to make that man hurt until he begged for death.
He scrutinized Clara's face. Again, he hadn't reacted that way since...
John swallowed hard. It had been just over a year, and yet he still found himself thinking of Joss as though she were still alive. As though she would call him at any moment, probably to yell at him. He smiled slightly, his eyes glistening. He hadn't been able to protect her in the end. He wouldn't make the same mistake with this girl.
He felt her presence behind him and forced his emotions back down where they belonged. "Shaw." He said low.
The female operative joined him at the bedside, her eyes narrowing on Bear who looked at her from the corner of his eye and wagged his tail.
"Why is Bear on the bed?"
"He wanted to be there." John said simply. "And she seems to like him."
Shaw glared at him. Harold had been very insistent that Bear sleep in his own bed. It hadn't bothered John, who preferred to sleep alone. Shaw, on the other hand, had been less than pleased.
"So this is the new number?" Shaw's dark eyes were quickly and efficiently studying the girl.
"Clara." John said, a bit harder than he intended.
Shaw's eyes moved to him, one eyebrow raised. John held her gaze, forcing his expression to stay impassive.
"I'm going to bed." Shaw gave him one last look, then left as quietly as she'd come.
John rubbed his eyes and returned to the chair. He really needed to work this out. Whatever this was.
