Summary: We all fall down. Or, in which Finch comes to some realizations and Reese breaks from the CIA. Backstory, pre-series, will cover events up until the pilot. Character death, strong language, and kneecaps. Lots and lots of kneecaps. Six parts total.
Author's Notes: Cara Stanton is Reese's CIA partner/handler-thing. Mark Snow is an epic asshole. Nathan Ingram seems like a genuinely nice guy, and I think it's funny that Finch's first alias was "Harold Wren."
Disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest.
"So go ahead. Fall down. The world looks different from the ground." -Oprah Winfrey
Down
May 2010
Istanbul
The Company is, if you ask Cara Stanton, a bunch of fucking idiots. Yeah, yeah, the CIA has one of the highest mission success rates of any intelligence service in the world, and yes their operations are generally quick, brutal, and efficient, and of course their information is generally very good, but still, fucking idiots.
She's losing John. Blood bubbles up from between her fingers, warm and dark, and she can feel the edge of bone digging into her hand. He's dying, and the CIA isn't supposed to pick them up for another five minutes.
"Don't wear a wire, they said," she spits, pushing down as hard as she can. "Don't take any cell phones, they said. We'll meet you at the drop, nothing will go wrong, it's just an in and out job, they said. Fucking idiots."
In and out job her ass. She doesn't know if the information is bad or what, but there were four more insurgents in the bunker than they told her and now she's got a gash on her face and John is dying.
"Reese," she says, and his eyes flutter open and shut, teeth bared and sticky red. "C'mon, stay awake for me, just for a little longer."
He doesn't give any sign that he hears her, his breathing going harsh and splintered.
"Fuck," she growls, because she will not lose him here, on a dusty street in Istanbul because some moron in Ops fed them the wrong information. "Damn it, c'mon Reese, you've had worse, this is just a little bullet hole."
Which is a lie, there's nothing little about it, but whatever, she's good at lying to John. Her sleeves are stained crimson and blood seeps under her knees, but he's still breathing, he's still alive.
Less than a minute now, and she's going to murder whoever's in charge because this should not happen. People like Cara and John are hard to come by and goddamnit, they shouldn't be sent into hot zones half-blind with an idiot at the wheel.
"Stay with me," she chants. "Stay with me, stay with me."
John's breathing harshens into short, sucking gasps, a wet rattle that makes her skin crawl, but she ignores and keeps pressing down. Father down light spills from an open doorway and people rush out, waving guns and screaming I see them, I see them! in Arabic.
"Shit shit shit," Cara mutters, but now above the joyful screams and John's horrible, choking breath is the roar of helicopter blades, and strong white light cuts through the darkness.
The Company's here.
"C'mon, John, hang on for me, hang on," she says, and the insurgents are turning and bolting back into their dark, dusty holes. "They're almost here."
She isn't really aware of the SEALs coming down around them, only that there are bigger, surer hands covering hers, holding John together, and she's being pulled up and away into the helicopter, her vision blurring as the SEAls swarm down and lift Reese up.
Five hours later, when her forehead has been stitched up and her anger has gone from frantic and afraid to strong, hot iron, they tell her John will live, and it is then that she realizes his blood is still dry and crusty on her hands.
New York City
"Weirdest thing," Nathan says, dropping his suit coat onto a chair, already reaching to loosen his tie. "I felt like I was being followed all the way from the bar."
Harold doesn't look up from his computer screen, but his lips twitch into a smile. "You're just paranoid."
"Maybe," Nathan agrees. "But can you blame me? Ever since you told me what that thing does—"
This time Harold does look up, forehead crinkling. "It's not a thing," he says.
"Right, right, I forgot, it's your baby." Nathan throws up his hands in surrender. "Seriously, though. I felt like someone was right behind me the whole time."
"The machine is everywhere," Harold points out dryly.
"Yes, thank you for the paranoia, Harold."
"Don't mention it."
Nathan sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "You sure no one knows about the machine? None of the mobs or anything?"
"Eight people in the world know about the machine," Harold says. "Two of them are in this room and the other six are all high up in the United States government, sworn under multiple oaths to complete and total secrecy. No one else knows."
Nathan nods, sinking into a chair and letting himself relax. "I'm sure I'm just imagining it," he says. His eyes are closed and he doesn't see Harold cut him a long, measured glance.
"Yes," Harold murmurs, fingers blurring at his computer. "I'm sure you are."
"Will's graduation is next week."
Harold raises an eyebrow, his fingers pausing for a second. "And?"
"It would mean the world to him if you were there, you know. He adores you."
"Where is it?" Harold Wren already knows, of course. He knows where it is, what time it is, and how many people will be there. He knows that Will Ingram will be giving a speech and scanning the audience for his father and his Uncle Harold, but neither of them will be there.
"Central Park," Nathan says, smiling at his friend. He's told Harold three times now. "You coming?"
Harold Wren resumes typing. "No," he murmurs. "No, I don't think so. Too much work."
"Come on, Harold," Nathan argues. "You can't possibly have that much to do. Your machine's done, right? Fully operational?"
"Yes," Harold says, because it's true, the machine's been finished for nearly two years now. It is fully operational and self-sufficient, and has brought twenty-two would-be terrorists to the attention of the US government.
And yet…
"It's Will's graduation," Nathan says. "How many times will he get to graduate from college? Just come. Please don't leave me alone with my ex-wife and all her relatives. I'm pretty sure her mother is planning to kill me with knitting needles."
Harold's lip twitches upwards. Could it hurt? He thinks. The machine is fine without me… Finally, he pulls his hands away from the keyboard and smiles at his friend. "Alright," he says. "I suppose it couldn't hurt. Where is it, again?"
Nathan laughs, relieved. "Central Park. I'll pick you up at ten on Saturday."
Harold nods, standing and rolling the stiffness out of his shoulders. "Want to go for a drink? I could use the exercise, I've been in here all day."
Nathan rolls his eyes, because he just came from a bar, he doesn't really need any more alcohol, but if it means he can get Harold out of his work room for a while…
"I know a place a few blocks from here," he says, tugging his coat back on. "They make the best martinis in the country, probably the world."
Harold cracks a small smile, looking behind him at the glowing computer screen. He thinks for a moment, and then, like he's afraid he'll change his mind, shuts the monitor off.
Nathan grins, and leads his friend out the door.
Kuwait
Three days after the fiasco in Istanbul, John is still not awake. Cara paces outside of his room, shoes clicking on the floor. They won't let her in, but they can't make her leave.
So far, no one's come to see them. She's kind of surprised—the Company delivers its punishments quickly, and she's still half-waiting for the hiss of a sniper's bullet and then nothing.
Though technically they're still assets. Well, Reese is an asset and she's his handler, the only one he really listens to. (They tried, once, to give him to Snow. That arrangement lasted a week and ended with a pipe bomb in a foreign diplomat's car and three men without kneecaps.) As long as he's alive, she is too.
But he almost died.
She turns the memory over in her head—a quiet, dim café, out of the way, in the center of Pakistani control. A back room, full of crates and metal boxes, the smell of ash and gasoline. Seven insurgents—three members of Al-Qaeda, four of Hamas—when there should have been only three, and the click of guns, the sudden burst of light and sound and bullets as Reese lunged forward.
They'd made it out, but barely. She had been grazed by a bullet—there's a four-inch gash on her forehead held together with stitches and glue—and he'd been hit in the chest, breaking three ribs, puncturing a lung, and lodging in his spleen.
They had almost died because some screw-up running things got the intel wrong, and that makes Cara Stanton furious.
It's a dangerous job, she knows. Every operative, especially the ones like them, fully expects to die in service. It was part of their job—kill and then be killed.
But to die because somebody couldn't be fucked to read the reports right? That's not what she—or anyone else—signed up for.
The Company is going to get them killed, she's sure of it. It's been almost ten years since this whole mess started and they're getting frantic now, frantic and furious, and they're letting intel slide through the cracks and good people, useful people, are dying.
Cara Stanton doesn't want to die, not like that. In a good, clean op, sure. Dying for her country, fine. She's okay with that. Hell, she expects that, that's what she wants.
But she's not going to die because the Company wants her dead. She's not going to let them do that, to her or to John.
The sharp click of shoes makes her jerk her head up, reaching for a gun that's not there.
"Easy," Mark Snow says, holding up his hands. "It's just me."
She doesn't relax. "Company send you?"
He smiles. "What, I can't be worried about you guys? I heard that your op went bad, that Team Six had to come in and get you. What the hell happened? That kind of thing never happens to you two, you're the best of the best."
She smiles at him, all teeth and that hot, throbbing anger. Mark fucking Snow. Of all the guys the Director could've sent...
"Our intel was bad," she says. "Somebody fucked up, Mark, and we almost paid for it. There were more insurgents that we were told, and they got the jump on us."
"I'm sorry," he murmurs.
She has to hold back a laugh. "Sorry," she says. "Right."
"You don't believe me? The Director himself is furious, we've never had such a gross failure in intelligence gathering—"
Lies, she thinks. All lies. If there's one thing Mark Snow is good at, it's the lying. She's honestly amazed he didn't go into politics with a silver tongue like his. He could fool almost anyone. But the benefits of being a CIA long-term operative, a shadow in the dark, are a healthy sense of paranoia and an excellent bullshit detector, and Snow is lying.
The Director isn't upset. The CIA isn't busting balls back home. No one particularly cares that bad intel almost got John Reese and Cara Stanton killed.
"—going home," Snow says, and she blinks.
"Sorry, what?"
"You and John are going home," Snow says. "As soon as the doctors declare him stable, anyway. How is he?"
She shifts in front of the door, blocking him. "In a shitload of trouble, that's how he is. Getting shot in the chest tends to do that to you."
Snow holds his hands up again, saying look, I'm not the enemy here. "Relax. A plane will come and pick you two up tomorrow. You'll be home and safe before you know it."
"Safe," she starts, but Snow shakes his head.
"And Cara?" He waits until she's listening, ever the control freak. "Don't tell John what happened."
"Excuse me?"
"Don't. Tell John. What happened. Don't tell him that the intel was bad. Don't tell him that the Company screwed up. We need his faith in us, Cara. Don't tell him."
The threat is implied, and she glares. He nods, smiles, and walks away.
Stanton watches his retreating back, eyes narrowed. Safe, under the Company's protection. The Company, that gave them bad intel, that sent them out again and again to kill, to get tortured and shot and stabbed. The Company.
Yeah, she thinks, slipping inside Reese's room, regs be damned. Right.
New York City
Will's graduation is tomorrow, and Harold (sometimes) Wren, doesn't want to go. It's not that he's not happy for the kid, because he is. Will is smart, and he's proud that the kid is graduating and going on to medical school.
But graduation means crowds, and crowds mean people, and people mean danger because Nathan Ingram's number came out of the machine a year ago and Harold is still terrified he's going to die.
The machine doesn't make mistakes. Each and every person that has come out of the irrelevant list has been in trouble. Not all of them die, thankfully. Some of them do, but some of them only get hurt, or some of them are even the criminals.
And Nathan's name came out of the machine.
But it's been a year and he hasn't died. There haven't even been any close calls—he's been safe, comfortable, and alive for three hundred and seventy-one days now.
Originally, Harold was going to create a virus that would wreak havoc through Nathan's mainframe, give him a few thousand security breaches to keep him occupied on the day of his son's graduation.
But now…
It's been a year. The machine might have gotten it wrong. Maybe the danger has passed. After all, who picks a target and waits a year to attack them? Maybe whoever was going to hurt Nathan changed their mind. The machine is still fairly young, after all. It hasn't had time to develop the right patterns yet, to be one hundred percent perfect at tracking its subjects.
Yes, Harold tells himself. Nathan is fine. It's been a year.
Nathan can go to his son's graduation. It'll be okay, for all of them.
He chews his lip, staring down at his computer. He turned the machine over to the government almost two years ago as a complete model, and ever since he's been making minor tweaks here and there. In another three months, he'll be completely done, and the machine will be out of his hands forever.
That thought both terrifies and relieves him.
It's just a machine, he tells himself, grapping his suit jacket. It's just a machine.
In three months, he won't have access to the machine. It'll be a closed box, entirely self-sufficient and resistant to all forms of hacking. No one will get at it; it will do its job, give NSA the relevant list, and wipe the irrelevant list every day at midnight.
"It will be done," Harold says outloud, pulling his jacket on. It's unnaturally late and he really should go home and sleep. He should forget about the machine and building himself a back door. It's wrong. The machine is not his. It's the government's, it's America's. It doesn't need him, and he doesn't want it.
He doesn't want to know their names and faces, those people that the machine tells him about. He doesn't want to know that Nathan might die tomorrow (he's safe, Harold tells himself firmly. He's safe.). He doesn't want to know these things.
But—
Harold Wren sighs, turning his back on the computer and lines of scrawling code, walking to the elevator.
It isn't his problem, the irrelevant list. It's just that, irrelevant. He doesn't need to worry about it.
The elevator doors slide shut and take him down.
Bethesda
"You're awake," Cara says, and John coughs, opening his eyes. He's somewhere warm, white, and clean, and his mouth is desert-dry.
His chest hurts.
"Cara," he wants to say, "where are we?" but it comes out as a bunch of dry wheezing because ow, he was shot.
"Easy," Cara mutters. She gives him an ice chip. "We're in Bethesda, Stateside. Welcome back."
He blinks, frowning. The ice tastes good. Stateside? But he hasn't been Stateside in two years. Why are they back…?
Oh, right, he thinks. I got shot. He's a little fuzzy on the details—he remembers dark and shadows, flashes of gunfire, Cara screaming and then white-hot teeth in his chest, but that's about it. How the hell did he get to Bethesda?
"Snow sent us back," Stanton explains. "Nice of him, right? I think he feels bad. He got you flowers."
Sure enough there are some obnoxiously yellow flowers on his bedside table. How thoughtful of Mark.
"What happened?" he manages, struggling to sit up. Ow, fuck.
"Mission went sideways," she murmurs, petting his hair. "It's okay, don't worry about it. These things happen, right?"
He nods, because they do, especially to someone like him.
"Rest," Cara Stanton says. "We're going to be here for a while, might as well enjoy it."
John Reese closes his eyes and settles back down, trying to breathe without killing himself.
Somewhere in the white above him, Cara laughs. "Isn't it good to be home?"