***The Flip Side
Reese thrust his hands into the pockets of his coat. He stood on the sidewalk through Carter's corner opposite her apartment. He watched as the lights in her home were shut off one by one. She'd gone to bed, finally.
His breath turned into a puff of smoke before his face, the temperature having suddenly dropped in the last hour. He hadn't brought his gloves with him and his hands were starting to turn red under the biting chill of the night air. He balled them into fists deep into the soft lining of the coat, but the fists were not just to coerce warmth into them. They were balled up in frustration and anger as well.
He'd been angry ever since Rikers, but at who? He couldn't accurately pinpoint who his ire was directed at. He guessed he was angry most at himself for his carelessness in getting himself caught in the first place. He had arrogantly thought that he would get out of the bank like he always did in a tight situation and come out unscathed. His recent thoughts, feelings of happiness had made him feel invincible in some way. He should have known it was a bad omen. Whenever he felt happiness, joy or any type of contentment something bad always overshadowed it.
He should have known better.
"I wish this weekend could go on forever….."
"…you have to go back to the base…..I won't see you for two weeks, which I hate…"
First Jessica…now Joss.
He'd teased her about Beecher, the cop she'd been dating, watched her smile, even though he hated the idea of her with another man. Especially after what they'd shared in her kitchen a few months ago. He'd told her he wanted to explore what was growing between them, but as time crept on, those feelings had been buried under a slew of missed opportunities and lost chances. So she'd gone out with Beecher, accepting his dinner invitation and he couldn't blame her. Even after he'd listened in on their date, he'd still been immobilized by something that had held him back from pursuing her, from telling her that this guy was a mistake, from telling her that he still very much wanted her.
"He messes with you, he'll be hearing from me."
He said it amusingly enough; his humor disguised his true feelings. He'd love nothing more than to lay into the Narcotics Detective if he hurt Carter, even if he didn't have the right to do it.
The next thing he knew he was being handcuffed and carted off to Rikers. She hadn't given him up, even when he nodded to her and gave her the go ahead. He wouldn't have blamed her if she had. He deserved it. He'd accept the punishment of his actions and get out of the situation on his own.
Finch, then Carter, had shown him that he didn't have to. They'd had a plan. And he waited while they worked, paced in his cell, unable to sleep, feeling suffocated in the box where he was placed. Thinking of the moments he and Carter had shared, moments he'd taken for granted figuring she'd always be there. He thought of the many times she'd come to his rescue, stood by his side, reeled him in, offered an ear. She'd asked him if he was ready to move on and he hadn't the opportunity to answer because they were interrupted by Detective Beecher.
Before she raised the question, it was something he hadn't wanted to think about much, but after their day spent together at her apartment, their breakfast, kissing her, holding her, he saw her in a different light. He realized they'd slowly been heading in the same direction together.
But what was his life anyway? He lived on the opposite side of the law. What could he possibly offer her?
He walked the corridors of the prison, his tiny cell disappearing from memory with each footstep forward and then he finally saw her. She was waiting for him. Waiting for his release with a look of relief in her eyes.
Careful, Carter, he thought then. Anyone who looked at her would think she cared about him. He tried to keep his face blank, aloof, but he knew his eyes showed the comfort her very presence had brought him.
But it was short lived and they'd all been taken back to their boxes. His eyes silently pleaded with hers as they put the cuffs back on his wrists. He saw images flash before his eyes, things he wanted to do. He'd ask her out on a date this time. Or he would take her back to his place and cook for her. They could spend some time together, no more games, no more waiting until the time was right. He'd finally tell her how he felt about her, even if he couldn't form the words to explain it to himself.
Donnelly had watched them like a hawk. He was truly a man on a mission. He knew Carter was under pressure. But she was up to the challenge. He took comfort in her being there, talking to him. Being John Warren allowed him to talk to her as a stranger, so he flirted with her, teased her, told her things about himself that he hadn't found the right time to share before. He loved her smiles, the way she blushed, the way she looked almost like an angel bathed in light against the darkness of the room.
"Ever been in love?"
"What happened?"
She'd asked him about Jessica. It was a story he'd told her before, but they relived it together and it felt almost like the first time he'd shared it. Except she couldn't take him into her arms this time, and he couldn't feel the bliss of her lips against his. He could only imagine, remember, recall.
They were both exhausted, drained, emotionally and physically and after finally being released he had to see her. He had to be near her. He wanted more than anything to scoop her up in his arms and hold onto her.
He stood beside her inhaling her perfume and felt like he was home. For a few brief moments he was. She stood next to him, her voice soft, gentle and he knew he was right where he wanted to be. For that brief moment, he was happy.
Donnelly's capture of them, then Kara's game…it was another example of happiness in his life being a bad omen.
He'd stayed silent in the car while she talked to Donnelly. Both of them were about to face prosecution and still she championed him to the FBI agent. She called him a good man, defended the work that they did. The words had pricked at his heart and she held tightly onto his hand where it lay on the car seat between them when Donnelly called him a murderer. He knew she didn't believe it, he wished he could silence her; tell her that what Donnelly was saying was right. He didn't deserve her fierce defense of him. She didn't deserve to be handcuffed by his side.
She was good and pure and everything he'd ever wanted to be. She lived her life helping people. It's all he'd ever wanted to do, but he'd spent years taking lives, destroying them, destroying people.
He hadn't deserved the things she'd done to get him out. Now he'd ruined her life and by extension Taylor's as well. He would never forgive himself.
With the bomb deactivated and both Snow and Kara dead, he walked out of the facility with Finch in tow. The expression on her face when she saw that he was alive and well brought tears to his eyes.
She loved him.
There was no denying what he felt in those seconds he looked into her eyes.
He was in love with her.
He vowed to stay away. His plans to talk to her, to be with her, have a life with her, discarded.
He couldn't. He shouldn't. She deserved better. She deserved to find someone who wouldn't complicate her life as he had.
But he couldn't keep his distance. He watched her, all the time. He followed her home, when she took Taylor to school. He watched her at crime scenes, when she was doing her job. He watched her talk with Lionel discussing their cases; he was like a moth drawn to a beautiful bright flame. He was afraid to touch it, but he wanted to with every fiber of his being.
"Have you been experiencing any feelings of stress?"
Finch asked him one night. It was an understatement.
Some nights he'd wake up in a cold sweat, shaking, feeling like he'd been held captive. He'd hear Kara's voice in his ears; feel the shot she fired at him in Ordos. Stress was an inadequate word to describe what he was feeling.
His work with Finch hadn't slowed down in the least. In fact the pace was steady, constant and he actually didn't mind. Having something to do, kept his mind off of his ordeal, kept him focused on other things, other people.
He didn't want to think about what was ailing him. He didn't want to dwell on what was really wrong and what was really missing from his life.
He couldn't eat. Food held no taste for him. He had headaches, heard voices when no one was there. He'd experienced flashbacks to being in the cell at Rikers, could feel the blows to his head, his neck and back. He oftentimes felt like he was back in the yard while the Aryan brotherhood took turns on him.
"Mr. Reese, I think you should take a few days off." He stared at Finch as he uttered the words this very morning. They'd just wrapped up their latest case with a young medical student.
"We don't have any numbers today?"
"No. We don't. But even if we did, I hardly think you're in the right frame of mind to deal with one, Mr. Reese."
"What are you getting at, Harold?"
"Have you taken a look at yourself, John? You're not eating….I can only deduce you're not sleeping either. You need to deal with whatever it is that's…..haunting you."
"I'm perfectly fine, Finch."
"If you honestly believe that you are….then you are even worse off than I thought. Go home, John. Please. Get some rest."
He hadn't gone home. In fact he'd resumed his stalking of Detective Carter. He followed her to the scene of a double homicide and blended in with the crowd, being careful not to let her see him.
She looked tiny, frail, and delicate as she walked over looking at the bodies. As she bent over to reach for something with her gloved hand, a tendril of hair fell over her brow. He wished for nothing more than to reach out and put it behind her ears. His chest grew heavy at the thought of touching her again. Lionel glimpsed him as he talked with the crowd behind her and Reese watched him crossing the street.
"What the hell are you doing here?"
"Just checking in, Fusco. What's going on?"
He halfway listened to Lionel's description of what they found. He wasn't really interested as he shared the awful details. He knew he should leave; he didn't want her to know that he was there, but a part of him wanted her to see him, to look into his eyes. He could feel her staring at him somehow and looked up, locking eyes with hers. He wasn't quite prepared for the feeling that overcame him. He couldn't look away; he was lost in her gaze, lost in that moment.
He wanted to touch her and involuntarily felt his hand lift from his side.
"Hey, you don't look so good. Is everything alright with you?"
Lionel was still there. He'd almost forgotten him. "Thanks for your concern Lionel, but I'm fine."
"No you're not. You look like the walking dead. You should take better care of yourself. When's the last time you had a good meal, or better yet some sleep?"
"Are you quite done, Detective?" He watched as Lionel shook his head. "How's Carter doing?"
"Not too good. She's trying her best to hide it, but….after Rikers and now Szymanski's death….she's having a pretty hard time."
Reese's ragged breath, his closed eyes all relayed the sadness and regret that he felt at the thought of her pain.
"Thank you, Detective."
He left the scene, disappeared and found himself at home sitting at the foot of his bed with his head cradled in his own hands. Tears rolled down his cheeks, dripping onto the floor in front of him.
He needed her. Needed to feel her beside him. Needed her to touch him.
He'd stayed away from her for so long. He hadn't the slightest idea what he would, could say to her.
He got up, stripped himself of his clothes and walked into the bathroom. He took a much needed shower, letting the hot water run over him. He watched as the combination of dirt and foam of his medicinal soap circled the drain then disappeared. He washed his hair, closing his eyes as the shampoo cleansed his scalp.
With a large towel wrapped around his waist he stood in front of the medicine cabinet, and wiped the fog from the mirror. He stared at himself closely. His eyes raked over his face, taking in the overgrown stubble, the dark circles under his eyes. His cheekbones, naturally high, were pronounced more than ever.
Finch had been right. So had Fusco. He had lost himself for a while. He applied some shaving cream to his face, gliding the razor over his chin and rid himself of the unkempt looking stubble. He slid into a pair of boxer briefs and threw a dark t-shirt on heading for the kitchen. He decided on a cold cut sandwich, it would be quick and easy. He opened the fridge taking out deli sliced ham, turkey, whole wheat bread, Dijon mustard and some lettuce and tomatoes. Although it tasted like paper in his mouth he forced it down along with some orange juice. After clearing away the used dish and utensils he padded over to his bed intending to take a long sleep.
That was his intent, but his slumber was brief, restless and he woke but a short time later feeling much as he did when he first lay down.
He ran an impatient hand through his hair, threw on a suit and his coat and left the apartment. Without intending to he wound up here, outside Carter's apartment, wondering what she was doing, how she was feeling.
Taylor wasn't home tonight. Two days ago she'd allowed him to go out of town with a friend of his and their family. She would be alone.
He stared up at her front door as the last light was shut off, feeling an almost magnetic pull in her direction. He felt it every time he came here and stood at this spot.
"Joss…" He practically breathed her name; the heaviness on his heart was desperate to be healed.