Chapter Two
Part One

He didn't know how he did it. How he kept breathing. How he kept getting up in the morning after a night without sleep, putting on his clothes and going to work. How he kept from just lying down on the ground and dying himself. He'd been plagued with nightmares most of his life, having to hide from all the things he'd done and seen by refusing himself the creature comfort of closing his eyes and resting. Instead he'd force himself to stay awake with as much caffeine as his stomach could take until he involuntarily passed into unconsciousness for a few minutes. He'd learned how to survive perpetrating and enduring countless horrors in his life.

But losing Joss, no. He couldn't. He couldn't think about it. He couldn't think about her. He couldn't sleep or stay awake or breathe without feeling a pain worse than he'd ever felt.

He tried to shut it out. He tried to pretend it wasn't real. He tried to go on like nothing had changed. It had, of course, as evidenced by how gently everyone he knew tried to get him to talk about it, about her, about his feelings, about what she would have wanted, but he brushed them off. Joss was the one who'd gotten him through his last loss, one that suddenly seemed trivial in comparison, and without her to hold onto, he wasn't sure he was going to make it this time. He didn't want to. He didn't see the point.

But Joss would be so disappointed if he ate his gun. He didn't need anyone to tell him that. He knew it. And so he didn't. He kept trying to survive. For Joss.

It happened every day. At least three times. Usually more. Usually a lot more. It was so common, in fact, that as he hastened his steps to catch up with her, completely ignoring his mark as well as his boss shouting in his ear that he was making a mistake, it almost felt like a memory. He was about as powerless to change the outcome too.

With his height, it never took more than a few strides, his hand reaching out for her shoulder, his voice hesitant but determined. "Joss?"

She'd feel warm and solid and alive under his hand for that moment, invariably turning at the unfamiliar voice calling the wrong name. Mostly, the woman would smile, shake her head, sometimes a bit disappointed that he wasn't actually intending to talk to her, apologize for not being a dead woman. Sometimes she'd be scared, terrified scream at the ready. Sometimes she'd be pissed off at his presumption to touch her.

Finch's voice would come back into focus, either gently reminding him that Joss was dead or angrily informing him that he'd fucked up yet another assignment by letting something happen that he was supposed to be preventing while he was instead distracted by a ghost. And then he'd feel his jaw start to twitch, his hopeful expression crushed by reality, his brief respite from the truth having been stolen from him yet again.

He'd try, if he was able to speak past the lump in his throat, to apologize, a hoarse 'sorry' covering both the strange woman and his unhappy boss. He'd step back, watch the woman go back to her life and wonder how the hell he'd ever thought she might be his Joss. If Finch thought John was having a good day, he'd point out that the woman was too tall or too short or too heavy or too light or too not Joss for John to have made such a mistake. After the fourth or fifth one of the day though, Finch would lapse into a long silence as John wandered aimlessly around, searching for another woman who wasn't Joss to accost before one of them would eventually suggest John go home for the day.

He'd go, devastated and confused, and spend the long night alone. He couldn't seem to wrap his brain around the facts. He knew Joss was dead. He wished he didn't, but he knew it was true. He'd been there. He'd watched the life drain from her. At the same time, he didn't feel it. Not that he'd ever been particularly interested in feelings, certainly not in place of facts, but in all his training and his current employment, he had to put some value in his intuition, his gut, his instincts. They'd led him to Joss after all, which he recognized was, hands down, the greatest thing that had ever happened to him. So he couldn't easily dismiss the feeling he had that somehow she was still alive. With that idea in his head, every time he stepped outside he caught a glimpse of her. It was never her, of course, because she was dead, but his gut told him that he'd find her. Somehow.

And if he couldn't make sense out of the conflicting ideas, he was in no position to explain himself to Finch. Finch would just tell him that he was nuts and recommend counseling. John couldn't say that the other man would be wrong either. But he was still sane enough to know better than to confess his certainty that he'd bump into Joss walking down the street.

Naturally, as the days dragged past, he never did bump into her. Finch was getting more irritated by his behavior, the women even seemed to be getting angrier, and John himself felt more disappointment with each one. He couldn't quite keep himself convinced that she was there anymore, even though he couldn't stop himself from looking either.

It was a particularly bad day when John grabbed the shoulder of a ninety-something pound Asian woman out for a run and wound up with a face full of pepper spray and a knee to the groin that dropped him to the ground. He watched with one squinty, watering, burning eye as the woman tightened her waist length ponytail with the fluorescent green highlights and wondered to himself what the fuck he was thinking.

"Mr. Reese," Finch started.

"I don't want to hear it." And he didn't. He knew.

Joss was dead. She'd died in his arms, after all. Bleeding out helplessly while John forgot everything he knew besides the fact that the woman he loved was dying from a bullet she'd taken for him. Maybe he could have saved her. Stopped the bleeding. Given her CPR. Something. Anything. There had to be some reason for the guilt he felt, for the utter conviction that he was somehow going to run into her on the street like nothing had happened, for the way he continued to feel like he was living in two parallel universes at the same time.

The burning from the pepper spray was getting worse, as was his vision, and he reached out blindly for the ground, aiming to push himself up. Instead, his hand found a piece of broken glass that dug deeply into his palm. He dragged himself to his feet, looking down through the haze at the blood spreading across his hand.

~
delicate hands
gentle
soothing
she would have made a great nurse, he joked
she glared
reminded him she liked kicking ass
she was so good at it, he joked back
a touch so soft he barely felt it as she examined his shoulder
so close her breath tickled his bare skin
always had to be blood when he felt her touch
she pronounced he'd survive unless he kept trying to get himself killed
her hand lingered after she'd covered the wound
soft
warm
loving, maybe
his eyes held hers as he smiled
she blushed
definitely
but people keep trying to kill me, he explained
she rolled her eyes
countered with can't imagine why since you're only the most infuriating man on the planet
his hands found her waist
her eyes widened
shocked
hopeful
raising an eyebrow, holding her close
it felt so natural he wasn't sure he could ever let her go
I'm wounded and unarmed, Carter, now's your chance
she thought about it
he knew it
her eyes darted to his mouth
a playful grin spread across her lips as her eyes climbed back to his
oh, I'm going to need you healthy and strong, John
thumbs on her hips
stroking
so tempting
it was her game
she called the shots
she always had
~

A car pulled up next to him, the driver stepping out to offer him a bottle of water and a hand to guide him into the backseat. The water helped ease the stinging, but he knew the redness would linger for days. Not that it would matter since his eyes tended to be red and sore from the lack of sleep anyhow. The car delivered him home, the driver never saying a word.

He knew he should say thanks. To the driver. To Finch. To the universe for giving him that time with Joss. They'd been acquaintances. Coworkers. Friends. For a precious moment, when he'd kissed her, when she'd let him, they'd been more.

Fuck thanking anyone or anything who would give him such a gift only to steal it away.

Fuck everything.

He changed his clothes and cleaned up the cut on his hand, tossing his suit on the floor, opting for jeans and a t-shirt instead. He thought about taking more, but he didn't really think he'd need it. He didn't expect to make it long enough to need a change of clothes. Joss was dead. What the fuck difference did it make if he died in clean clothes?

His phone, wallet, fake IDs, keys, everything was left on the kitchen counter where Finch would find it. The only things he kept were a nine millimeter and the few dollars in cash he had on him. He thought about leaving a note something trite and obvious like "sorry, I can't take it anymore," but decided against it. Finch had probably already known, likely from the minute she'd died, that John wasn't long for this world. He almost felt bad for leaving, except he couldn't feel worse than he already did.

He shoved his hands deep in his pockets and left his apartment without a backward glance. Then he started walking.

It was strange, although he'd left the earwig behind, he could have sworn he still heard Finch's voice, pestering him with stupid questions. Where are you going? What are you expecting to achieve? Do you need money? A car? A meal?

He chuckled to himself ruefully, wondering if somehow his conscience, what little of it there was, had started to sound like Finch. Or maybe he really didn't have a conscience. Maybe he'd been right about that all those years ago. What he'd had was Finch's voice in his ear and Carter's opinion in his head and that was enough to keep him in line. Without having to worry about what Carter thought of him, well, Finch stood no chance.

After a few hours, he stopped looking over his shoulder, expecting a black Buick to pull up with a couple of large, excessively-muscled men asking that he attend an impromptu meeting with their boss. Finch must have known he was gone, he certainly hadn't made any attempts to conceal it, but the fact that Finch did nothing to even try to stop him told John that he was right to go. Or that Finch had grown tired of babysitting him while he fucked up every assignment he'd had for months. Whichever it was, John was no good to anyone at all in his condition.

It was sometime the next day when he wandered into a shithole of a convenience store looking for coffee. Considering the limited dollars he had in his pocket and his inability to get anymore without causing more trouble than he felt like causing, he couldn't waste the four dollars on a decent cup of coffee at a nice place. He was splurging on the cup of sludge that only cost a buck.

He stood on the sidewalk outside the store, rationing tiny sips of the shit that tasted nothing like coffee, and contemplated his next move. Even if he was eventually going to kill himself, or more likely let himself get killed, he still felt like he needed a plan. No, not a plan. Fuck plans. All the plans he'd ever made had somehow resulted in his current state.

His feet hurt and after walking all night and half the day what he needed was a place to sit for a few minutes. He looked around, realizing that he was half a block away from a bus station. A bum resort. Perfect. He still looked reasonably presentable. He'd be able to pass for a guy waiting for a bus for a while at least, sparing him the trouble of security guards or cops.

It may have been minutes or hours, he really had no idea. The bus station was tiny and except for the guy working the counter behind several inches of bulletproof glass who really seemed to be hoping John wasn't going to bother him, the place was empty. The buses were few and far between; people even rarer. The hum of the vending machine he sat next to teased him with the idea of something to fill his belly, but he rationalized that he didn't have almost two dollars to waste on a tiny bag of chips. He decided, should he get desperate enough, he could bug the guy at the counter, offer a quarter or two for a cup of coffee from the coffee maker on the counter behind the glass. There was a bathroom and a few chairs and heat and no one to ask him any questions. Might as well have been heaven.

John noticed the guy at the counter staring. He ignored him, waiting while the guy finished staring, checked his watch, went back to staring, then eventually leaned a handwritten 'back in a minute' sign against the window. A moment later, John saw him standing on the sidewalk out front, relighting the half-burned cigarette he'd left on the windowsill from his last break. As he watched, John wondered if he should take up smoking. It was unhealthy, he knew, but in his passively suicidal state that would be a bonus. He didn't like the smell or the taste, but really, those creature comforts made very little difference to him. In fact, the stench and yellow stains on his fingers and teeth, should he really put himself into it, might help keep people from talking to him. Another plus.

Digging in his pocket, he checked his cash. He couldn't afford a new cigarette addiction. His stomach growled and he glanced at the vending machine. The bag of pretzels was an ounce bigger than the chips, nearly doubling the amount of food for the same price. He broke down, rationalizing that actually purchasing something would buy him another while of just sitting there waiting for something to strike him.

He chewed on the pretzels slowly, concentrating on the Styrofoam cups next to the coffee maker at the abandoned desk and wishing he could have something to wash down the stale pretzels. By the time he finished the bag, the guy was back at the counter, helping himself to a coffee and staring at his phone. At least he wasn't going to be a problem.

With a serious lack of people to watch, John was bored. Of course, he could go back to walking, but eventually he'd have to sit down again and he had no idea where the next relatively comfortable spot would be, so he was loathe to move before he had to. He checked his cash again. His eyes drifted to the arrivals and departures board. Next outbound bus was headed to Pittsburgh in just under a half hour, if the digital clock was to be believed. Something made him stand up and finally approach the window.

The guy, Nick according to his name badge, looked apprehensive. "Can I help you?"

"How much for a ticket to Pittsburgh?" He'd never been there and had no desire whatsoever to find out what he'd been missing, but for some reason, he was enthralled with the idea of being there.

Nick pressed some buttons. "Next bus is almost here. Ticket is thirty-two fifty."

John felt himself grinning, the ticket costing exactly what he had left. If he'd needed a sign, he had one. "Perfect."

Nick pressed a few more buttons before the printer sprang to life and produced a ticket. Grabbing the ticket and sliding it into a little paper folder, Nick moved it toward the metal bowl that bent under the thick glass. "That'll be thirty-three seventy-five."

Tax. Fuck. If only he hadn't bought the damn pretzels. Suddenly quite desperate to be on a bus going anywhere at all, he shoved the waded up cash and quarters into the bowl. "This is everything I have. Where can I get?" He didn't know why, but the idea that even a place as uninviting as Pittsburgh was off the table devastated him. Damn it, now he really, really wanted to go to Pittsburgh.

Nick looked dismayed, glancing at the ticket he'd printed likely before he was supposed to since it hadn't been paid for. Then he looked at his computer and made a face. He stared at the money, then at the ticket he'd already printed. Finally he shrugged and slid the ticket under the window, reaching into his pocket to produce a five that would cover the difference, going so far as to slide the "change" back to John.

"Have fun in Pittsburgh." Nick offered a smile, probably out of relief that he didn't have to deal with someone poor and pathetic moving into his bus station.

John tried to smile back, feeling guilty as he pocketed the money, unsure what to do with kindness. It wasn't something he found often. The last person who'd been selflessly nice to him had been Joss the night they'd met. And though he wasn't likely to follow Nick around like a lovesick puppy, John felt his heart cracking just the same. Decent people had no place in this world. They were doomed.

~
her eyes
her face
concern
worry
empathy
the sort of love for thy neighbor all those religious types talked about and never practiced
she'd been so damn nice to him that he hadn't even noticed she was fucking gorgeous
at least not at first
she would have helped him
probably driven him to the VA for a checkup before finding a place for him to stay
checked up on him in the coming weeks and months until she was convinced he'd be ok
not because he was a soldier
not because he was a homeless man
just because he was a person who needed help and she had help to give
he'd loved her from the very start
a moment in her presence breathed life into him that he'd never had
a single look into her eyes
his faith was restored in the world
yeah, he'd been sunk from the first second
she'd been hooked too
she hadn't loved him, not yet, that would have been crazy
but she was fascinated
drawn to him, the way he was to her
she'd fallen for him soon after, he tried to tell himself
it was obvious, from the way she let him flirt and joke and take up her time
from the way she was determined to catch him yet confessed she believed he was a good man
she'd loved him too
she told him so
every time she tried to lecture him and wound up smiling
every time she ran to his aid
every time she put aside her life, her family, her morals, just to sit with him
love at first sight
he never would have believed it possible
until it had happened to him
~

He nodded instead of the smile he couldn't force. "Joss would have liked you." Nick seemed baffled by the compliment, but said nothing.

By the time John was on the bus, settled in an aisle seat so he could stretch out his legs, the exhaustion had caught up with him. He leaned the seat back the quarter inch it would go and laid his head down. He was too tired for nightmares. He slept most of the way, only waking up at the driver's loud shout that Pittsburgh was the last stop and reminding all four of the people onboard to take their belongings with them.

What he was planning to do now that he had followed his ridiculous whim to go there was entirely beyond him. He climbed down the steps, saw the businesses that lined the street to the right, watched the flow of traffic indicating that the heart of the city was that way. He turned to the left and started walking again.