Refracted
fleeterberry
Set after The Crossing; AU
Consider this work hereby disclaimed.
Chapter One
Part One
It was always the tears that woke her. Of all the horrors that tortured her day and night, and there were so very many vying for her attention whether she was awake or asleep, rather than the memories of Afghanistan and Iraq or the equally terrible sights she'd seen as an NYPD detective, the worst of the nightmares were the tears.
His tears.
The man who'd tried so desperately to convince everyone that he was an unfeeling robot, failing entirely with her all along, had revealed how completely human he'd been. He'd already told her something she'd suspected for a long time, admitted to her that she'd saved him, and yet, it had still shocked her in that moment to see the tears on his face as he tried to make it ok. Seeing the devastation on his face at the thought of losing her would have been a miserable way to die, to have his crushed, heartbroken eyes wet with tears be the last thing she ever saw.
As bad as that would have been though, it was worse to live through it.
And this night, the same as every other night since, she saw it all again, felt the unimaginable pain he suffered as sharply as she felt the bullet in her chest, and, like all the other nights, she woke up with a sound halfway between a scream and a sob ripping from her throat. She sat straight up, the memory so vivid that she forced her grip loose on the sheets to clutch at her chest, fully expecting to find blood saturating her shirt. When the only moisture she found was sweat, her eyes would dart around in the darkness, searching fruitlessly for John. She wanted the comfort of John's intense gaze, warm and steady and full of unspoken emotion.
But it was never there. He was never there. His face was frozen in her memory the way she'd seen it last. Aching. Broken. Utterly destroyed.
Long after her breathing calmed, long after her tears dried, long after she told herself it had simply been another nightmare, she'd sit on her bed with her hand over her heart silently enduring the excruciating pain that Simmons' bullet hadn't caused. In the intervening time, she'd tried everything. A hot bath, warm milk, a cold shower, a hard workout, staying up late, going to bed early, even quiet meditation. No matter what she did, her nights always went the same way.
Then she would splash water on her face, make her morning coffee at 3AM, and spend a few hours boring herself into distraction with a home shopping show. And in those quiet hours, she'd remind herself of the truth. As much as that night hurt her, it hurt him worse.
She'd been the only reason he'd survived losing Jessica and she wasn't sure he'd be able to survive losing her.
Every Monday was the same damn thing. Drive to the office, unable to vent any of her frustration on other drivers simply because there wasn't enough traffic in Bumblefuck PA, swipe her ID badge through the time clock a minute or two before her appointed eight o'clock shift, drop her purse in her bottom desk drawer, and boot up her computer to find a shitload of "urgent" emails she didn't give two fucks about. As with every week day, her office mate would show up one or two minutes past her appointed shift at 8:30, collapse into the chair across the small room, and dramatically announce that there had to be something wrong with the clock because she'd left home in plenty of time to not be late. The routine was so ingrained that she paid the other woman no attention. It wasn't personal. She held no grudge against her coworker. The simple fact was that if she paid enough attention to respond to the closest thing she could call a friend anymore, she'd be really fucking pissed about the direction her life had taken.
She'd joined the army. She'd gone to law school and passed the bar on her first try. She'd been a cop. She'd singlehandedly, well mostly, taken down the most well-organized and highly connected organized crime syndicate New York City had ever seen. Hell, she'd apparently even given an emotionally absent assassin a heart, a conscience, and a reason to live. It was one hell of a resume.
And fuck if she wasn't stuck spending her days as an office worker, mindlessly processing fucking car insurance claims and listening to irrational people bitch that they deserved more money since that pole came out of nowhere to dent their bumper.
Jennifer spun around in her chair to offer her a paper cup, while upturning her own cup at her lips. "I don't know how you face the day with that decaffeinated shit."
She eyed her tea with a fake smile. No, she wasn't a fan of what, to her, was brown water, but after so many cups of coffee shared with John, it seemed wrong to share one with anyone else. The only coffee she drank anymore was in the middle of the night, when the memory of John was so fresh in her mind it was almost like he was there. Almost.
~
the middle of the night
tired, yawning, still twitching with adrenaline
the stale air of a diner
the perpetually sticky booth
waitress asking what they wanted
they just wanted to be together
their eyes locked with the unspoken truth
her gaze drifted down to the still spreading blood stain marring his white shirt
he adjusted his blazer to hide it
looks worse than it is, his eyes assured her
two coffees, she requested
how did they take them
had to be the first diner she'd ever seen without a sugar jar on the table
cream, she answered, a smile coming to her face as she met his gaze, no sugar
twinkling eyes didn't blink
black and sweet, he said
alone again
still grinning
I'm not sweet, she protested
I was talking about the coffee
then a wink
the hell he was
She thought of the four cups she'd had in her living room that morning, every single one of them reminding her of him, making her wonder if he could still enjoy a damn coffee without thinking of her. Knowing he'd drink it if only to torture himself with the pain of losing her, of not being able to save her, of thinking he was alone again.
"Hello!"
She gave a start at the loud voice, smiling weakly at Jennifer. "Caffeine makes me jumpy."
Jennifer shook her head. "Jumpier than you already are?"
Witness Protection did that to a person, she wanted to say. Instead, she nodded with another fake smile. "Exactly why I don't drink it."
As though to confirm, a sudden knock at their door nearly scared her out of her seat, leaving her clutching at her pounding heart. It was just another coworker dropping by to greet them and tease Jennifer with a morsel of gossip about the boss. For the most part, people there were polite to her and ignored the way she seemed to panic at the slightest sound. Jennifer was too outspoken to let it slide. There'd been no other choice than to call on her undercover skills, crafting a story about an abusive ex that had a history of tracking her down.
Her backstory was up to her, they'd said. Something about it being easier to remember if she made it up on her own. They gave her a job and a car and a place to live and pretty much no assurance she'd even live to see the trial, if there ever was one. It was just as well. She wouldn't have believed them anyway. If anyone ever got wind of the idea that she hadn't died on the sidewalk that night, she'd be dead all the same. The transition from having a hyper-vigilant ex-CIA assassin and his omnipotent boss watching over her to a disinterested government drone, well, it would make anyone jumpy.
She would have taken her chances with John, especially after what he'd revealed to her that night, but the damn feds had played hardball, bringing up Taylor, and not in a heartfelt vow to protect him. In fact, they'd been downright cruel, informing her that both she and her son would be safer apart, that her death would appear legitimate only if the boy didn't simultaneously disappear. They'd argued that he was nearly grown, that disrupting his life was unnecessary, that she'd be back before she knew it.
Talk about tearing the beating heart out of her chest. Might as well have killed her themselves.
And really, none of it had even been up to her. She'd closed her eyes for what she truly expected to be the last time with the warmth of John's body cradling her. By the time she'd awoken, Joss Carter was dead. Had been dead for a week. She was in a hospital in Ohio, using an assumed name, three assumed names later. It was the only way to keep her alive, they'd said. And they needed her alive, in case other members of HR appeared and they needed her to connect the dots.
They'd failed to mention that she'd feel dead anyway. She had nothing. No friends, no family, no past, no future. She couldn't even answer a basic question without running through a mental checklist as to the "right" answer. The resulting exhaustion had the outward appearance of utter stupidity and left her preparing to spend her time alone. Alone and ruminating on the cost of her actions.
Her own pain was bad enough.
Knowing her son was suffering the loss of his mother instead of celebrating the resurfacing of his father was enough to kill her when she let herself think about it. She told herself that Taylor was a smart, strong, wonderful boy, damn a man almost, who'd been raised right and he'd be ok. Maybe not happy about what had happened, but he'd survive. He'd recover. He'd be happy someday.
But John - oh god the thought hit her like a knife every time - she couldn't be sure he hadn't, wouldn't, take his own life over it. She'd been what had stopped him before, he's told her as much. After failing at his self-appointed task of protecting her, she knew there was likely nothing that would stop him this time. If she went through all of this, only to return home, whenever that might be, and lose him all over again - it would change the answer to the question as to if it was worth it. She needed to know the future to make any decisions in the present.
It wasn't like she could look him up on Facebook. Not that she wasn't tempted. She didn't expect she'd find him, but it seemed like the sort of thing that might get Finch's attention. Maybe she could google John Reese and Harold Finch. Someone would be at her door in an hour, she was sure.
She thought about calling. She knew, despite their ever-changing numbers, Finch would find out. He, or someone he paid handsomely, monitored their old numbers. She was sure of it. Finch would know it was the last one she'd had for him. He'd tell John. It might be enough to convince him to hold on. But only if he hadn't already let go. She couldn't be sure he'd still been alive when she'd woken up in Ohio. And breaking her cover to have Shaw show up and offer to accompany her back to New York was pretty much exactly what she didn't want.
"You planning on doing any work today or just staring at the phone?"
Startled again, she fought back her instinct to jerk at the voice. No matter her reality, nor how long it lasted, it was never going to be Jennifer's voice she expected to hear. Not on her phone, not sneaking up behind her, not teasing her about daydreaming when she was supposed to be working. Taking a deep breath, she willed herself to concentrate on the monotonous day. Once the phone started ringing - and it would soon - her desire to stare longingly at a phone would fade. Her work wasn't satisfying, interesting, or all that important in her opinion, but it kept her occupied for a while. Between the incessant phone and Jennifer's melodrama, of which there was seemingly no end, the day disappeared as most of the others had in the last year. Noise and activity that added up to nothing. Macbeth had been right, apparently, life was full of sound and fury and signified nothing after all. At least, it was true of her new life.
So different than the days she'd spent with him.
~
a cold night
eerie shadows cast by leafless branches
the thick coat had done little to protect her against the bitter wind
hot enough in the car for fogged windows
one cracked to allow him to see
silence, thick and comfortable
just him and her and the dark
the occasional moment of eye contact
charged as a live wire
minutes stretched into hours
coat in the backseat
the heat of two bodies acutely aware of each other far more effective than the down lining
she yawns
he tells her to sleep, he'll wake her if he needs her
the car seat more comfortable than her own bed
she awakes to the familiar brick of her building
a warm hand on her knee
her head on his shoulder
cheeks burning with a blush
his eyes so warm
loving
he is happy with her like this
his smile is infectious
She turned down Jennifer's offer to hit up the nearest pub for happy hour. Alcohol wouldn't make her nervous; it would relax her. She'd forget to lie, to answer to the right name, something she did enough already. She'd feel eyes on her and mistakenly believe they were his. She'd smile flirtatiously at the back of a tall, suit-clad guy, anticipating a face that wouldn't be there when he'd turn around. She'd wind up sobbing inconsolably into her double malt.
No.
No happy hour for the walking dead.
She'd leave the happiness to the living.
Instead she drove home, listening for a few minutes to the blather of the traffic reporter as he rattled on about congestion on roads she didn't recognize and recommend detours through neighborhoods she'd never heard of. She switched it off quickly, always preferring the silence that reminded her of him. If she tried really hard, she could pretend he was sitting in the seat beside her, until she glanced over to smile at him and remembered his presence was a ghost. Or she was a ghost.
Maybe they both were.
Maybe this was hell, although if she had been the religious type, she wouldn't have expected to wind up there.
She made it home, changed into her pajamas, and tossed something in the microwave for dinner. Insisted on waiting fifteen minutes, during which she mostly pushed the food around on her plate, before dumping the still warm black plastic tray full of her meal in the trash. She'd dropped a full size since she'd died. She imagined he'd be worried if he knew. He'd want to take her to one of those greasy diners he loved and force feed her fries.
He'd liked her ass the way it was. She'd caught him looking more than once.
She longed for the day she might see his disappointment with her slimmer figure, with the shrinking cleavage he'd be able to steal a peek at when she looked away. She told herself that day would come, when he'd lie about how good she looked, just to let her know he'd noticed. A tear slipped down her cheek when her demons whispered that she'd never see him again, that even if she went home, he wouldn't be there. And even if he was, he wouldn't have waited for her.
But how could he not? If she'd meant as much to him as he'd implied. Though maybe he hadn't implied it; maybe she'd inferred it. It was difficult to infer a kiss, but the more time she spent lost in her thoughts, the easier it was to confuse reality with fantasy. Maybe she'd made the whole thing up.
She turned up the TV and stared unseeing at the screen, waiting for him to appear at her door. He never showed. He thought she was dead, if he thought of her at all. The third time she nodded off and started awake to find herself alone, she dragged herself from the couch to the bed and prayed for a peace that never came. The blissful unconsciousness was always absent. The nightmares never were.
His tears. Always his tears.
As one day slid into the next, she knew this was no kind of life. But she was too scared to go back. Scared she'd really die, scared he already had, scared their relationship was the only casualty. Honestly, she preferred the torture of not knowing to the pain of ever finding out for sure.
Monday to Tuesday to every damn day, they all felt the same. Dreading the silent weekends as much as she desperately wanted the uninterrupted solitude. Solitude was the one thing she'd never really had, certainly not since she'd met her man in the suit.
~
annoying
stifling
claustrophobic
she'd never felt so strangled before
resentment at his constant presence
the phone, the email, the shadow behind her
she was never alone
she hated it
she'd never been dependent on anyone
until him
worse still, she counted on it, on him
she could stay out later, not be careful
he'd never let her get hurt
he made her sloppy
then icy blue that stopped her mental tirade
a smirk sent blood coiling between her legs
she didn't hate it
not a bit
and he knew it