A/N: A second chapter today because it's still Christmas, and because I have to make up for the first two days of Christmas when I couldn't post. In this one, there's a teeny tiny reference to 2x22 "God Mode". Oh, and since I forgot in the first chapter, here's the obligatory disclaimer: I do not own Person of Interest or any of its parts, never have, never will, never want to, but the idea for this story is all mine. Enjoy!
Day 2: Two Turtle Doves
"... and who gets married at Christmas anyway?" Shaw grumbled while speeding through an intersection.
John had a vague sense of déjà vu: he and Shaw, together in a car with her driving at break-neck speed, on their way to deal with a number at a wedding. "People who don't celebrate Christmas, maybe, or people who want an extra-special wedding date, or people ..."
"Yeah, thank you, Oprah," Shaw cut him off. "Get ready, it's over there."
John rolled down his window and tried to assess the situation while Shaw stepped on the brakes and slammed the wheel around, stopping the car right at the edge of the escalating wedding scene.
What happened next would always remain a little fuzzy. All he knew was that he got a shoulder shot into the guy with the samurai sword, who proceeded to stumble backwards, knocking over the birdcage behind him and releasing a pair of thoroughly irritated turtle doves.
The next thing he knew, Shaw was screeching in his ear: "GET THEM OUT! GET THEM OUT!"
And, yes, the car was currently very crowded with one panicking former assassin, two turtle doves, and a flummoxed John Reese.
"DO SOMETHING!" Shaw screeched again, and who knew that a human being could produce a frequency this high?
At her first "GET THEM OUT!" Harold's hands had flown to his head, plugging his ears with his forefingers. When he finally managed to turn the speaker volume down to a safe level, he wondered what just happened. He tried to ask John a question to that effect, but apparently his friend was busy dealing with cause of this highly unusual occurrence.
Meanwhile, John had managed to throw his door open and shoo the scared birds out of the car. Next to him, Shaw was sitting with her arms held protectively in front of her face, eyes squeezed tightly shut, and still making little squeaking noises with each frantic breath.
"Are they gone?" she finally asked in an unfamiliar voice, and for a split second John had a vision of a teenage Shaw screaming hysterically at something or other as only teenage girls can.
An ex-assassin with ornithophobia. Interesting. That, of course, was not what he said. "They're gone," he replied in an even voice, pulling his door shut and looking with disgust at the white splotches that now adorned the dashboard. He glanced sideways at the agitated woman behind the steering wheel. "Are you okay to drive?"
Shaw shot around, gritting her teeth and fixing him with her deadliest glare. "If you so much as breathe a word of this to anyone, I'll make you sing soprano", she hissed.
Before John could reply or react, Harold's voice came over their ear pieces: "You can try, Miss Shaw, but he'll never hit the top C like you just did."