Title: (I Can't Get No) Satisfaction

Author: November9Noir

Rating: PG-13, T+ for alcohol use, some coarse language, adult themes and sexuality. Perhaps a bit fluffy.

Disclaimer: I do not own any characters from 'Person of Interest', nor am I profiting from this work in any way.

Author's Notes: Set after Ep. 1.6 The Fix, a few days after Chap.2 'Paint It Black.'

Very flattered to be on some 'Favorite Authors' lists already! Thank you to Belka, Leia, and Dickensian for your reviews of Chapter 2. They disappeared (I think) because I hadn't posted the chapter properly before. I think I've got figured out now! Enjoy & review!


It wasn't justice, not really, as far as Reese was concerned. Dana Miller was still dead, and the old man would probably die before anything came to trial. Lawson had an army of high-priced lawyers who would drag and delay until the end of time…

And Zoe? Well, Zoe had just been a tease.

He wandered the streets early Saturday morning, feeling out of sorts. Apparently New Yorkers were being nice to each other on these lovely fall days; The Machine wasn't pulling up any numbers with a bullet, so to speak. Really, there was nothing for him to do.

10:30 a.m. Reese ducked into a likely-looking Irish pub and put himself at the farthest corner, back to the wall and a view of all entrances and exits. Old habits die hard, he reflected, ordering the reserve label whisky, straight up. He nursed it as the place slowly filled with regulars, coming in for a late breakfast or from the local soccer or cricket match. There were cricket teams in New York? Who knew?

John had finished his second drink and ordered a third when four women came in and took their apparently usual place. Three of them sported armloads of shopping bags, while the fourth one didn't. He wondered why she had caught his eye and shifted his focus to her. Soft, wavy auburn hair, pulled back to fall behind her, blue eyes…

No…way. The day was suddenly looking much brighter. It was the same woman who'd picked him up at that hotel in Chelsea; there could be no doubt about it. He forgot about his drink as he watched her. She ate a hearty breakfast, no concern about carbs for this one, drank a lot of coffee and generally had a good time with her girlfriends. It seemed she knew everybody, and when the others cleared out she stayed to play darts with the other regulars.

She put her jacket on one of the tables near the dart board, and John moved closer. It was a rousing game, men versus women, with a lot of teasing and trash-talking going on, though she was a better than fair player. John stepped behind her about halfway through the match, close enough for her to hear him.

"The jeans and boots are nice, but they don't really do you justice," he commented in his soft voice. "A tight skirt and some f-me heels would show off your legs much better."

"Thank you so much for waiting until I had finished my round," she said sarcastically, not looking at him as she let the first dart fly. "I don't have any f-me heels," the second dart launched," and besides," the final dart left, "what do you know about my legs anyway?"

"How could I forget such a great pair of legs that wrapped around me so well?" John said. She finally turned to face him. Her eyes widened as she recognized him, and she smiled brilliantly.

"Hello, John. What are you doing here?"

John raised his glass. "Having a drink. Admiring the scenery. How about you, Claire? What are you doing here?"

"I met some friends for breakfast."

"You didn't come in until after 11," he pointed out.

"I'm really not a morning person, all right?"

"You left early enough the other morning."

Claire smiled. "9:30 is not that early. You were dead to the world. And you looked so peaceful that I decided not to wake you."

"Best night's sleep I've had in a long time." Her turn had come up again, and her fellow players were bellowing at her to pick it up!

"Can't you see I'm talking to the man?" she flared at them, a distinct Irish lilt to her voice. She took her turn, still making her shots, but not as well as before. John smiled to himself. She was a cool customer, all right, but he'd rattled her a little bit. The chase was going to be sweet on this one.

"I don't recall you having an Irish accent," he observed. "I usually have a pretty good ear for that sort of thing."

"Hanging around with my people here, I start to talk like them. I can't help it. Get me with some Puerto Ricans and I'll do the same thing."

"That is too cute," John smiled as the waitress came up to them.

"This man bothering you, Clarissa, love?" she asked.

"No, Patricia, it's all right."

"Too bad," Patricia smiled. "He can come bother me any time. Well-dressed, a good tipper, and those Black Irish good looks?" Her brogue was as broad and as outrageous as she was.

"When does your husband get home from the merchant marine?" Claire asked her.

"Next month. He'll have only a month's leave this time, and then by the time we're getting on each other's nerves again he'll be off."

The other players had moved on without her, so John suggested they continue outside. She agreed, so they moved to the glassed-in patio and sat at the high stools in the corner. John ordered another whisky, while she ordered a peach bellini.

"It's a little early for me for the hard stuff," she said.

John shrugged. "Suit yourself. So, tell me, what is your link to Mother Ireland?"

Claire thought about it for a moment. "I'm 10th-generation Irish-American. I have dual citizenship. I spent every summer in Ireland for the first 20-some-odd years of my life, and I lost my virginity when I was 17 to a nice Irish Protestant boy. Now that you know something about me, tell me something about yourself, John."

"Not much to tell, really. I haven't done much with my life for the last few years except try to drink myself to death."

"Oh, such a waste. Why would you want to do that?" He had no answer for her, so he said nothing.

She was sharp, though. "You lost someone." It wasn't really a question.

He took a drink. "She was murdered."

"Jesus, I'm sorry."

"The bastard that did it is rotting in a psych ward upstate. I've been in some hellholes, and it's no more than he deserves." Reese swallowed the last of his third whisky and started on the next one.

"You clean up well, John. What stopped your self-destructive slide? You're obviously not in A.A.," she said significantly, nodding at his glass.

"I got a job. Something I'm good at."

"Something you like to do?"

"No, not all the time. But it's necessary, and I'm sure you've heard the expression 'If you want something done right, you've got to do it yourself.'"

Claire put a hand over his. Her body language was relaxed, open and inviting. John reached over and felt the fall of her hair.

"I like your hair like this, casual. Your perfume is different, too. Lighter, more floral."

"Different perfumes for different moods," she said. He moved his hand over to that place on her neck, yes, right there, that he'd discovered the other night, that place that made her shiver and smile.

She leaned over and kissed him, moving her other hand to touch his chest. He didn't give it much thought until he heard the click of the catch on his wallet.

"What the hell? Did you just pick my pocket?" John grabbed for it, but she playfully batted his hand away as she rifled through it.

"About $100 in small bills," Claire announced. "Good for cab fare and drinks. No I.D. or credit cards." She closed it and gave it back.

"Almost exactly what you had in your purse the other night. Except for handcuffs. Where are you carrying those?" John teased.

"I wasn't anticipating needing them today, John, so they're at home."

He threaded his fingers into her hair, pulled her to him and kissed her deeply. Fortunately they had the place to themselves.

"There it is," Claire murmured when he finally let go. "Now we get to it. What do you want, John?"

"I think that's fairly obvious," John replied, his quiet voice now husky. "I want you, Claire. I want your legs wrapped around me. I want you beneath me, raking your nails down my back and screaming my name when I make you come. Or you can be on top. Either way works for me."

She sighed and leaned into him again, kissing him and pulling his hand out of her hair. "No, John. Not today."

"Why not?" he demanded, not quite letting her go. She gave him an icy look.

"Because I said 'no.' That should be reason enough."

"Let's clear out the vending machines in the restroom, get a cab back to the hotel, and spend the rest of the day together."

"Clear out the vending machines of what, cigarettes?" Claire asked. For all his intelligence, he missed the warning signs.

"Condoms, of course." Several things happened at once.

She kicked his bar stool from beneath him. John flailed, landed hard, and she dumped both of their drinks on his head, then threw the glasses into his lap. She grabbed her jacket and shot out towards the exit.

"Claire! Damn it!" he shouted as he hoisted himself up. The glasses fell to the floor and shattered. Patricia appeared in the doorway and blocked his leaving.

"Oi, sexy boy. You were planning on leaving without paying for those drinks?"

"Oh, you mean the ones she just threw in my face?" John asked sarcastically.

"Aye," Patricia nodded, not moving from the doorway.

"Fine!" he sighed in exasperation, pulling out his wallet. "Twenty enough?"

"Glasses are broken," she pointed out.

"That's on your precious Clarissa, being as she threw her drink in my face!" Patricia only shrugged, so he pulled out another twenty dollar bill.

Which she slipped into her ample cleavage as he pushed his way out past her. Reese noticed, but he had no time to deal with it.

Claire was halfway down the block by the time he got outside. "Will you wait, please?" John called after her.

Spinning on her heel, Claire shouted back at him. "Go away, John! I'm angry with you!" She disappeared down the subway entrance, and he hurried after her.

But he was far enough away that when he finally got downstairs himself she was already inside the turnstile, talking with the Metro attendant, who, inevitably, had already summoned a transit cop. "That's the man who's been following me, officer," John heard her say as security made his way over to him.

"You botherin' the lady, mister?" The guy was Reese's own height, but at least twice as broad, belligerent, just this close to getting in his face.

"Claire!" he called, but she shook her head and was gone down the platform.

"Hey, pal, is there a problem?" the cop asked. Reese felt like hitting him, but thought better of it.

"No, no problem, officer," John said, admitting defeat, for now. Even if he could get across the street and get another train, she could be halfway to anywhere across the city by then.

He was starting to feel sticky from the various types of alcohol dumped on him, so he decided that he'd better get back to the Library and get changed. He hoped he wouldn't get arrested for public drunkenness before he got there.


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