A/N: I've got midterms but these two assholes won't leave me alone. Any mistakes are my own, this is unbeta'd and it's 1 AM here. A continuation is most likely in order.
Translucent raindrops pour down from the sky in an angry delgue. John holds his jacket over Joss's head as they walk away from the crime scene. Her car's busted, tires blown out, windows cracked. That's what, the fourth car in three months? Finch is going to have to start paying her car insurance bill (he probably already is, in hindsight). Conveniently, John and Joss are stranded in the seediest sector of Russian territory where any of the million taxi-men might pull a gun on them before they have time to say 'go'. But still, they walk with certainty.
John, for the most part, is silent, which is unnerving, eyes flickering down to touch her own. He's not one for small talk, but she's not particularly in the mood for his man-pain either. Last time she checked, he wasn't the one bleeding out slowly (but that's being unfair and she knows it).
If Joss wasn't so bone deep exhausted, if her goddamn arm wasn't bleeding out, she'd be pissed. But, as things are, she is beyond exhausted, and her arm is bleeding sluggishly (getting shot hurts, no mistake about that), so she sticks with the current reality, even though it really fucking sucks, and files the potent, mildly growing mixture of annoyance and frustration away for another day.
"If you had just told me what was going on, John…"
"Not now Carter."
"Fine." Her voice is sharp as the wind slapping against their cheeks.
(She knows John will make an on the down low call to Finch later. Tell him to somehow clean this one up. It's nice, she supposes, to have someone else clean up a mess for a change.)
It's a struggle to keep up with his long strides. The rain doesn't let up (they are drenched to the bone, she is cold and her hair damn it). Her arm throbs dully, one hand sliding unsteadily to keep pressure on it.
"John—" Even to her own ears, her voice is reedy. The case had her high on adrenaline but even that is pumping out of her system with each passing step. It's been a hellish week, with bodies dropping from all corners, and Joss has been on the move, hardly eating, sleeping less.
"I know." John says. Emotion is laced tightly in his undertone. "I'm going to get you out of this." When he reaches for her, Carter leans into his touch, to press herself closer against his side, taking in his warmth. His tall frame leans over her, in a lame attempt to shield her from the rain. It's natural, this is. So natural, in fact, they don't notice that they do it.
And even when they do, they don't pull apart. (They don't say anything about the close proximity to each other. You couldn't really explain these things, anyway. It's natural. That's all.)
Sirens whistle in the distance. "Shit." Cops ask too many questions (Carter is a testament to that. She's one of them, and she won't ever let him forget it).
Hurriedly, John pulls them into a small pharmacy as the cops fly past, throwing up sheets of dirty water that splash against the windows. Carter lapses into easy conversation. Defusing tense situations is what she does,
John picks up butterfly stitches, antiseptic wipes, painkillers. He holds up the bottle of ibuprofen with disdain, lip curling in distaste.
"Got anything stronger?" The woman glances around surreptitiously, sneaking her hand under the counter. Carter yanks John sleeve. "Whatever the hell that is, I'm not taking it."
"Fine. Don't say I didn't try to help." John slaps the money on the counter. Anxiety makes him terse and irritable and jumpy all at once, hand moving to his holster when the door slams open. Russians. Fuck.
"No change." She says. John narrows his eyes. Carter's wide eyes take in the two lumbering giants barreling towards them.
"Keep it." He grabs the bag, ushering Carter out with utmost haste, hand pressed against the small of her back. She looks pale and drawn; his fingers move to brush the plastered hair from her forehead.
Carter moves more slowly, sluggishly, her breathing labored. John quietly curses the number, the person who just turned out to be the perpetrator. (He doesn't regret not being able to save the man from himself. Just bad code, really. Bad code that got to Carter. Yeah, John really can't bring himself to fucking regret the two bullets blasted in that guy's chest. Idiot was wearing a vest anyways.) She knocks him out of his revere with a sharp gasp, her hands grasping the bloodstained arm of her jacket.
When she draws her hand back, it is stained red. John has little to say on this, except—
"You sure you're going make it, Detective?" His tone takes her off guard; it lacks the biting sarcasm and dry wit that she expects from him. When she stumbles, his large hands flits out, closing around her forearm gently. (The gesture is somehow more intimate than she can process right now, so she focuses on drawing cold, thin breaths into her burning lungs). She nods, leaning more heavily on his sturdy, steadying weight to catch her breath. It shouldn't hurt this god damn bad to breathe.
"Yeah. I'm fine."
"I don't appreciate being lied to." John says, hot breath blowing against Carter's ear. (The acrid stench of gunpowder washes over her nose. Gunpowder and, absurdly, mint.) He is close enough to feel the shiver run up her spine. Part of him wants to say her name. It would be easy (one syllable, infinite connotations). It might comfort her. (He wants that).
"I will be." Carter juts out her chin stubbornly, large eyes reflecting the vivid gold light emanating from the fluorescent lamposts decorating the streets. John presses his lips together in a fine line, eyes hard, expression heart wrenchingly serious as his thumb traces the soft lines of her cheek. His fingers do not avoid the bruise.
Part of him wants her to melt into that touch. (And if Joss was to be completely honest, she wants to. But he has to learn that she can take care of herself too, without him. So she averts her eyes, a concession of weakness, or more accurately a concession of his effect on her, biting her lip as his fingers trail down the pane of her cheek, stroking her ear, running down to fix her collar with the gentlest of touches.
He is surprisingly gentle with her, when no one else can see. She thinks she might love him for that). But now is really not the time for them to be having a moment. Carter sucks in another breath, like inhaling sharpened nails into her lungs, quick, stabbing pains that erupt in her chest. Despondent shadows lodge in the stark blueness of John's eyes, grip tightening.
He waves for a taxi.
"You sure that's smart?"
"We need to get you home." He doesn't like the look of those men that are trailing them, men who hold their guns in plane sight.
Finch babbles in his ear in a jarring, incoherent stream of sounds that John distantly recognizes are words, which turn make up sentences that are just beyond John's comprehension. There are at most two thoughts running around his head. The first is getting Joss to safety. The second, keeping her that way.
"Is she safe? Is she safe?" Joss rests her cheek on his broad shoulder. He turns, brushes his lips against her temple. Carter can't help but smile.
"Yes."
By some miracle, they make it to her apartment unscathed.
John averts his eyes as Carter strips her jacket off, bloodstained, and throws it into a crumpled heap on the wooden floorboards. Her shirt is the next item to be stripped and hurled from her person. John's hands involuntarily clench. Joss throws a semi-teasing smile over her shoulder. He has his back to her, but he feels the heat of her upturned lips.
"Relax white boy, I've got on a tank." He pulls his lips into a mocking half-grimace, blue eyes widening.
"That's a shame, Detective."
"Oh yeah? What exactly were you hoping for?" The question comes out less teasing, more serious, fraught with what she can only identify as frustration. Or want. Both emotions are unequally unnerving, but his eyes claim hers and she does not quell from the intensity of his gaze. He's tall, so she has to crane her neck up to meet his eyes.
"Are you planning on patching me up?" Her am has started to throb again. Shit, she's got so much work to do, paperwork and paperwork, a day job, a son damn it. There isn't time for her to be off playing hero-girl. If John notes her shift in mood, he doesn't comment, just bustles around doing what needs to be done.
The gash on her arms is, thankfully, more ugly than deep. Joss glances down at it in distaste, teeth gritting as it oozes crimson rivulets down her arm. It might be her imagination, but Joss thinks she hears a sharp inhalation is by her side in an instant.
"This is going to hurt." Joss gazes at him levelly. Something bothers her about this... Maybe it's the way he suddenly won't look at her. Maybe it's the dark, angry expression brewing in the watery blue depths of his eyes, or maybe it's the fact that he stayed with her this time, not that he really had a choice (no, that's wrong, people always have a choice, and he stayed. Her heart skips a beat. He stayed.
"I trust you." She says simply, pulling up her shoulder in an easy shrug (bad idea. the damaged muscles pull, she bites down on her lip and stifles a curse). Carter closes her eyes, one of her hands gripping the edge of the couch.
"You know, the last time I got patched up like this was before I left the army."
"Seems to be an occupational hazard. Maybe you should've stuck with being a lawyer." His touch is gentler than the medics. So is his voice. She closes her eyes, tastes sand and grit on her tongue, and briefly hears explosions, the yelling and screaming and dying of soldiers. Funny, how she can't remember the face of the first man she shot, but she remembers this stark, inexplicable pain, as if it's a welcome old friend.
He scrubs the wound with moderate pressure (an uncontrolled whimper escapes from the back of her throat; tears slipping unashamedly from the corners of her tightly shut eyes). He takes care not to hurt her, but does not pause in his ministrations. It will be worse for her if infection sets in.
"I'm just going to wrap it up now." Joss nods once, sharply. He closes the wound efficiently, then takes a warm cloth and wipes the dirt from her soft skin, taking care to run his thumb gently over the loose gauze affixed to her shoulder blade. She got lucky. It's not deep enough to require actual medical attention, and, if she takes it easy (he almost wants to smile at that unlikely thought) it will heal properly all on its own. Joss still lays back, eyes shut tight. He takes her face in his hands, wipes the trail of tears from her cheeks.
"It's over." He rasps out. She takes a breath, blinks twice. Even his voice doesn't sound like his own. He isn't himself when he's with her. (But this is a lie and he knows it. The problem isn't that he's not himself, it's that he is.)
"I'm hungry." It's a struggle to keep her voice even and not tired. John looks at her, pursing his lips, and Joss wants to laugh. He knows her. He can see the strain in her brow the tense set of her shoulders. He sees through that. More than anything, he understands this pain, like welcoming an old friend home.
"Come on then." There's his hand on her forearm again, helping her to feet. Joss has an illicit, sneaking suspicion that he's touching her more because he wants to than because of any real need. One shallow wound on her left shoulder does not make her an invalid, though it hurts like a bitch. Maybe he just wants to touch her, to make sure that she's okay and not broken, or dead. Compassion booms in the pit of her belly, its warm flames spreading through her limbs. He does care.
Not that she ever doubts that he doesn't, not after everything (after she's save him and he's save her), since every move he makes regarding her seems to be for her 'protection' when it's not number related… But this?
This is new territory. It's like walking on a minefield. Joss takes absurd care not to blow anything up. The smartass comment dies a natural death somewhere between her throat and lips, though she can't help the smirk that leaks from the corners of her mouth.
"Are you going domestic on me, John?" She says, teasingly, as he moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency.
"For you, I might consider it." He deadpans. She sits at the counter, and he passes her the tube of ice cream, and a spoon.
The house soon smells of a low, simmering heat, of crushed basil and sliced ginger. There is something else too, something deeper, less explicable. Hunger, maybe.
Her tube of ice cream sits forgotten on the counter.
"Taste." John turns off the stove, and slides his hand under her chin, holding the spoon out to her lips. Obligingly, Joss leans forward. His eyes never leave hers, only flickering with dark emotion as a moan escapes her lips.
All of a sudden, his mouth is pressing against her, lips moving over her own. Her hands grip the back of his neck, run up to tangle in his greying hair. When he swipes her mouth open with his tongue, pressing a wet kiss on the jawline of her neck, she whimpers. John pulls away again, spoon forgotten on the floor. Carter is the one to close the distance, though she misses her mark, kisses glancing off the corner of his mouth.
She wants to slap the smugness off his face, which very, very close to hers. So close, they share the same breath, his forehead pressed to hers.
"John. I'm fine."
"I shouldn't have gotten you into this." She's not sure if she should be irritated with the sentiment or not.
"I'm a cop, John. It's all part of the business."
"And I'm supposed to protect you." There is something raw burning in his stomach. (He'll recognize this as guilt later.) His hand lingers on her cheek. Joss covers it with her own.
"Don't look at me like that." He raises an eyebrow. She's tired, all of a sudden. He waits patiently for an explanation, when she pulls away. Her mouth twitches.
"Like what?"
"Like I'm broken." There is a palpable vulnerability lining her words, one that John picks up on immediately.
"Joss." He's never certain what to do around her. He wants to be a better man.
She shakes her head. "Maybe you should go, John. You've patched me up. I can take care of myself from here." He is her best friend (and more judging by that kiss, the heat of his lips is still a very vivd memory that she's loathe to release). But that doesn't mean she wants him here to see her fall apart. It's not the first time she's been shot in the line of duty, but it's the first time he stayed. It's such an intimate thought, Joss' stomach coiling.
"Joss." John says her name again, his voice warm and inviting. "Come here." He holds out his arms. While his voice is confident, his jaw twitches in uncertainty, though the rest of his face is perfectly stoic. Joss still hovers by the door, chewing on her lip. She gazes at his outstretched arm, a quiet refusal of the comfort he might offer.
John sighs, and is by her side in an instant. He bends and scoops her into his arms. The sensation catches him off guard, the unexpected flush from the heat of her legs pressed against the crook of his elbows, the way her weight feels like home in his arms, the warm expression beheld in her big eyes—
"God damn it John! Put me down!" — pulls her down on top of him on the couch. She lets out a loose bark of a laugh, lips threatening to curve up into a smile, nestling against him.
"You always have to make me do things the hard way, Joss."
"It gets me to where I need to go." She shifts over to one side, bad arm slung over her belly. It's obscenely comfortable, her head tucked under his chin, his fingers running through her hair in gentle, soothing strokes. It's enough to lull Joss into an easy slumber, her legs curled up her body. He stays awake, as long as he can, before burrowing his nose against the softness of her hair, guarding even in his sleep.
