A/N: This is the first chapter of a fic I had started after the new year, and that would have been my first one, but it got gutted by the technology beastie, so this all I have of it thus far (and I had gotten pretty far in it, too. Damn!). I haven't given up on rewriting the rest and finishing the last, but with a lot going on, it's been hard to get back to. In any case, here's what has survived.
This story focuses on Leila from "Baby Blue" in Season One, with a little bit of a dip into "Lethe" from Season 3 later on. Joss will be sent on a very special mission, but what she finds when she gets there could have either tragic ramifications—or romantic ones. If I get around to working on it again, we'll see!
In any case, I hope this little bit finds you well, and you enjoy it. And if you want to toss story ideas this way for it, feel free!
Disclaimer: I own no part of Person of Interest or its characters. This is all just for spits and wiggles.
****Note: (May 29,2015): Hi guys. I am updating this story (at long last!), so what you see here, while much of the same as it has been, will be now be arranged slightly differently, in order to get it ready for additional chapters. The italicized selection will now be 'Chapter 1," with the plain-text copy "Six Months Later" moved to start "Chapter 2." There, I will have added a little more to round that out, as well as to set it up for Chapter 3 and beyond. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you continue to enjoy 'Missing Reese' as it comes along, as well as the other stories. Blessings to all of you!*****
They had decided on Washington Square Park to clear the air. Joss had been too busy, and frankly, to upset from the events taking shape at the multiple crime scene to get the answers that she needed. But she knew he had something to do with it when she saw him appear from the kitchen of the safe house they'd just had Moretti stashed in, blood on his hands. As more police cars careened on the scene, John quickly made himself scarce out of a bedroom window, but not before his eyes met hers, a mixture of panic, regret, and something else within them, something she would have thought alien to him before then—guilt.
He was "guilty" of course, of many crimes—but he never apologized for his actions when it came to the criminal element of the city, so sure was he in the fitness of those actions; if he had to go after somebody, they more than well deserved it. Now, on this chilly mid-autumn day, on a bench in a more secluded area of the park, they sat together, facing Garibaldi's statue, the gulf between them wider than it had ever been. In fact, she could ever think of a time when it had been this wide, even when they'd first met in her precinct, after his fight with those punks on the subway.
"John, what were you even doing talking to Elias?" she demanded. She had heard snatches of the details from Finch once she'd gotten her bearings about her later that day (and couldn't reach John), but as was often the case in his purposely vague way, not the meat of the matter. The pieces she did get, though, left her no doubt that anything John told her here, in addition, wouldn't be good news.
He sat stock still against the bench, straight backed, and pressed his eyes shut. He turned his face into a grimace, as if he were a child who'd just broken his mother's window with the biggest rock on earth. When he continued to pause, Joss bellowed, "Answer me!"
"I had no choice. Finch and I lost the kid." His answer had been quiet, almost feather light.
At that moment, the memories of baby Leila flooded his mind, and he recalled his experiences. Her cooing, her toothless grin, the way she'd reach for him when he'd come with her bottle, or to change her diaper. It made him smile. He hadn't been wild about Finch bringing a baby into the library, but she needed help, and it wasn't long before she had him wrapped around her tiny little fingers. Pretty soon, the overwhelming need to see her safe, to protect her at all costs, consumed him. When the baby's callous grandmother had been able to abduct her, he made a deal with the one person he knew he shouldn't trust in order to get her back. Even Finch tried to warn him off that Faustian course. But their other options had been exhausted.
John growled low then. Until his dying day, he swore he would find a way to repay Elias for letting his war with Moretti take such innocence as collateral.
Joss listened, of course. She listened with her heart breaking for him in his agony. She knew he'd done what he thought was best, would never willingly endanger a child. She also knew he was suffering. But she couldn't overlook this. Elias indeed could not be trusted. And the domino effects only aided in making this tragedy with Leila even worse. Syzmanski was now in a hospital bed, a bullet to his abdomen. Moretti was missing. And Leila had been sold into a child trafficking ring, the worse kind of double-cross. Elias didn't have to lift a finger to get his father in his clutches; John practically delivered the old man to him, giftwrapped.
She pressed her lips into a firm line before she spoke. She shivered, and it had very little to do with the raw cold surrounding them in the park. She had to get herself under control, or she might choke with the gravity of it all. When she finally did speak, her voice was low, her words carefully measured. However, there was no mistaking the anger, the disappointment in her tone. She swiveled to face him. He brown eyes bore into his so hard that he had to turn away.
"Jesus, John…you say you had no choice. But you know what? You did. You did have another choice. It's called the 'the police.' It's what we do. If you'd trusted me with this from the start, I could have helped you and the baby. But you couldn't do that, could you? You and your friend have all the answers. Carter? What about Carter? Oh, she's great for accessing the sealed files on juvvie runaways, of course, but anything involving actual police work? On the up and up? Nah, we're the smart guys, we got this. Well, it's more than clear that you don't. You got nothin.' The baby is gone, more than likely forever now. "And, she punctuated firmly, "Syzmanski might not make it because of you!"
John let go of the breath he now realized he'd been holding. His face was haggard, unshaven. Losing Leila to a life of hell on earth ate away at him like nothing else ever had. He hadn't been taking care of himself, hadn't slept properly for days, and he'd been seeking solace in the one solution he found made sense when all the others failed him: the whiskey bottle. Now, this from Joss. God, that she could believe that he thought so little of her and her abilities made him physically ache.
He shut his eyes ever more tightly. Had it been anyone else, there'd have been tears spilling from them. It was as if he thought he could somehow magically make the words she'd been saying, and more importantly, the perceptions behind them, disappear by doing so. She had to know she meant more to him than that. So much, much more. When allowed himself the indulgence of happy fantasies, in those rare moments when the numbers were few, he would thing about this beautiful park being the perfect setting for him finally telling her so, directly, explicitly. Even now, his heart and tongue were restless to reveal how she affected him, how much he needed her in his life, how he would rather not go through this alone. How he prayed she wouldn't hate him, could forgive him somehow. He hated himself enough.
But he didn't. Instead, he whispered gravelly, again, almost to the point where she couldn't hear him. As if he weren't really there. "That's not true, Joss. Everything I have done, Finch and I have done has been about protection—you are a part of that, a big part. Your career. That moral compass pointed in the right direction. I told you before, once you go down that road, there's no going back."
He stumbled over some of his words, as if his brain was all a jumble and he was running on pure feeling instead of coherency. He was grasping at anything that would make her hear him, understand him. Believe in him.
"It's not that I don't think you're capable, Joss. Never that. You are one hell of a detective. I trust you completely. I just—always, my concern is to keep you safe in the long term, and the less you know, the better."
Joss shook her head, not believing what she was hearing. Was he serious? "Safe? Safe, John? Come on! You and Finch still won't tell me where you get your intel from. And yet, I have looked the other way on your behavior more times than I can count! I'm not 'safe,' John. I'm already in way deeper than I ought to be. My life is already on the line, not to mention, my job, my freedom, my kid's life, all of it. So yeah, baby, I'm in it about as much as I can be without holding a damn press conference announcing as much. But I'm here, John. I'm here. Why is that so hard for you to understand? Why can't you see that?"
Her emotions were on high burn now. She was eternally grateful to John for everything he had done so far, especially for saving her from Bottlecap that night in the alley, but she was no shrinking violet. He could have trusted her. And while it had been nice to have someone of his caliber and passion give a damn about her the way he did, this time, with so much loss he couldn't think this declaration made it all better. This was bad. Ridiculously bad. And the only way for her to regain some perspective over the situation was to change the situation. She was done.
"You know what? Don't. Don't answer that. Really. It wouldn't change anything anyway." Putting her gloved hand up in sorrowful exasperation, she cut off any reply he might have been willing to give.
She then reached into her trench coat and pulled out the burner phone. The only people who called her on it were John and Harold. She had decided, even before she'd come there to meet him, even before she heard him out, that she was finished doing the side jobs with them. And that whatever connection she had with John alone, as infuriating, crazy—and amazing—as it had been, or could have been, had to be ended too. No more half measures, no more letting it slide for the greater good. She had to figure out a way to clear up this mess, and she couldn't do that while still being complicit.
Hell, she had a pair of cuffs on her; she could just arrest him. But then, where would she even begin with the charges? And how would she explain her own involvement in all this? Besides that, she knew she could never stand to see John caged in any way, after the incident with Snow. He wouldn't survive something like that forever, ex-Special Forces or not. The very thought tore at her heart.
"Here. You might want this. I don't anymore."
John looked slowly down into her hand. He stared at the phone for several seconds before his gaze lifted to hers. So beautiful, he thought. A man could get lost happily in those soft baby browns. Hell, he did get lost in them, practically every time he saw here, loveliness and light residing in their depths. But at the moment, he saw nothing there but sadness—and the resolve born of conviction to do what she thought was best. He couldn't fault her for that, he knew. Still, the deeper meaning behind her gesture was like a two-punch to the chest.
He swallowed slowly, and with a heavy sigh, gently took the burner phone from her hand, allowing his fingers the briefest brush across hers before putting it in his own pocket. He focused his attention on some random woman passing by on a bike. His reddened eyes watered slightly, the normally startling blue now pale and distant.
"You know, John, this doesn't change what I feel for you."
John raised his eyebrows at that one. He couldn't help himself. He had found his voice now. Deep, though slightly raspy. "And just what do you feel for me, Joss?"
She had let that one slip. Damn! There was no way she was going to tell him ALL of what she felt about him. That topic had never come up before in all the time they'd been friends and work partners. And now was absolutely not the time for it to come up. She had to think fast, stay on point. But how could she do that? Even now, in this horrific circumstance, even here, he was just so…irresistible. She must have been nuts, but there it was. However, she, too, found her voice all the same.
"I…I still think you're a good, kind man with a giving heart and a conscience that's less corrupt than half the priests in this city and most all the cops, b-but I can't…I can't do this any longer. It-it pulls me in far too many directions that I'm just not comfortable with. I'm sorry."
He returned his gaze outward again, where the biker had been, but who was now long gone. That wasn't what he wanted to hear. But then, what else would she have said? What had he expected her to say? He knew the risks she put herself in by being associated with him, knew them all too well. She had the absolute right to pull away, but still, she couldn't possibly know just how much he was starting to die at hearing her do it.
Meanwhile, Joss' lowered head stared at her lap, the threads of her trench coat catching in and out of focus as wetness blurred her vision. She chalked it up to the cold. She couldn't possibly be crying over ending this, could she?
The whole thing was crazy. She was a cop and a mother, and she had responsibilities to both of those vocations that John and Finch couldn't possibly understand. Because she'd been slow on the ball with them, a child was sold into slavery, a good cop was injured, and the man they had been protecting was now in danger. This had to end, the sooner the better. But then, why was her heart pounding so hard she thought it would come apart? And why did she feel as if she was killing something good, something rare and precious? Cold weather didn't do that.
When he spoke, breaking the silence, his voice was deep. Steely. Cold. Joss heard the change and it broke something within her. He hadn't used that tone with her since the days of his being the shadowy Man in the Suit. His mood had blackened, turned almost…dangerous. And while she trusted him as much as ever never to hurt her, she'd have been lying if she'd said he wasn't scaring her, just a little.
"Right, Joss. Whatever you need. Effective immediately, your partnership with Finch and me is officially dissolved."
"It's nothing personal, John. Like I said, this doesn't change how I feel about you as a man, as a friend. I just—"
John grunted and laughed bitterly, cutting her off. "Somehow, I doubt that, Joss. With you, it's always personal. That's why I picked you for this. You actually give a damn. Who knows? Maybe you give more of a damn than you should." And then, looking fully into her eyes for a moment before letting his sloe-eyed gaze leisurely travel to her lips, "maybe we both do. I think I have to stop making that mistake."
"John…" She could see the transformation in his face complete itself. The lines got harder, his eyes grew darker. And soon, the emotional mask, the one he used to keep everyone at bay, save for her and Finch, was now confronting her.
"We're done here, Detective Carter." There it was. Her impersonal title. Not "Joss." Not even "Carter." Formal, icy, calculated. Her spirit screamed its despair, and all she wanted to do was reach out and hold him, desperate to keep the John she knew from slipping away.
"John, please, try to under—"
At the touch of her hand on his arm, he stood up as if he'd been hit by a bolt of electricity and left her there on the bench, disappearing into the throngs of the park goers and out of her life. She called after him, the last utterance of his name coming out a broken sob.
She couldn't say just how long she cried in her bed that night before drifting off into a deep sleep, his name a whisper on her lips as her battle against exhaustion ended.
A/N: Again, present-day additions will now be in the next chapter and beyond. Thanks again, all, and be well!