Chapter 13: Argument
Taylor was in the bathroom silently cleaning Joss's bloody handprints off the counter when John got back. John gathered up the towels, dropping them in the hamper; dropped her ruined shirt in the wastebasket, and then wiped her blood off the floor. He took the bowl with the glass fragments into the kitchen, Taylor trailing behind him, and carefully emptied them, still sticky with Joss's blood, into a plastic grocery bag, then double bagged it before putting it in the trashcan. "I don't want your Mom to get hurt again when she takes the trash out."
Taylor nodded, and didn't speak again until John had washed his hands and was drying them on her kitchen towel. "I'm sorry I called you, Mr. Reese."
"Call me John. And don't be sorry. I'm not." John folded his arms, leaned against the kitchen counter, and gave the boy his undivided attention. "I'm glad you thought to call me. That's not something your Mom would have been able to handle herself, no matter what she thought. She would have missed something, and then she would be in the hospital. With an infection."
"She told me not to call you. That's when I figured you would be the best one to call. I knew you would help." The boy's relieved smile was punctuated by a yawn. "All right. I have school today so I should go to bed."
"Taylor." John's voice stopped the boy on his way out of the kitchen, and he turned back to John. "I told your Mom, a long time ago, if she needs anything, all she has to do is call me. I'm going to tell you that now, too. Whatever you need, if you're in trouble, if Joss—your Mom—is in trouble. I realize she's not too good about doing that herself, so if your common sense is telling you that she's in over her head—like tonight—please let me know." He thought for a moment, then decided what the hell. "Even if it's not trouble, if it's something simple—I'm still here for you both."
"I know you told her that a while ago. I told her that when she came home. She said she didn't want to bother you."
"It's not a bother."
"I know. I tried to tell her that you like her, so it's not a bother, but she wouldn't listen." He saw John's look, and with the perceptiveness and bluntness of the young, he said artlessly, "You like Mom. She likes you. I don't understand why she won't admit that she likes you." Earnest brown eyes looked a John. "You don't have another girlfriend, do you?"
"No." John had to force the words out. "I just broke up with Zoe Morgan." It was the only way he could describe it; he didn't know how to explain to Taylor that Zoe hadn't been a 'girlfriend' and it hadn't been a real 'breakup'—they'd simply ended a longstanding arrangement.
Taylor shrugged. "Then I don't see what's the problem."
John found his voice. "You don't have a problem with this? Me liking your Mom?"
Frank brown eyes full of honest puzzlement met his blue ones. "Should I? I guess there was a time when I thought I wanted Dad and Mom back together, but Mom's a lot happier now Dad's not…around. They…didn't really get along well right before Mom decided we had to leave. Now Dad's got a new girlfriend, but Mom still doesn't have anyone. I thought she liked Mr. Cal for a while, they had a couple of dates, but I didn't really like him. Mom liked him but not really liked him. Not like she likes you." He sighed. "I guess it's an adult thing?"
John seized gratefully on that. "Yes. It's an 'adult thing'."
Taylor shrugged…and yawned again. "Oh well. I guess it's like Mom says, I'll figure it out when I get older. Good night, John."
Alone in the kitchen, John thought about what he'd inadvertently learned. So despite his thinking that she'd been serious about Cal Beecher, it hadn't been. Taylor called him 'Mr. Cal' but he called John 'John'. Cal had never been on informal terms with Joss's son, then—and that spoke volumes about how intimate their relationship had really been.
John wandered out into the living room, looked at the pictures on the mantelpiece—slightly dusty. Not that there was anything wrong with that, Joss was a busy woman, and a little dust wasn't all that important. The picture inside was of Joss and Taylor, taken when the boy was about twelve; and Cal, in a frame next to them. Why had he never noticed it was a formal police department personnel photo, not something taken between friends in an informal setting? Her relationship with Cal Beecher had been friendly, yes, but not personal.
He stretched out on the couch, still thinking about it.
When he opened his eyes again, it was morning. Taylor was trying to creep stealthily around the apartment, trying to move quietly while he got ready for school; hopeless, because John was alert to movements from people who were trying to be unheard. Sneaking around him would be the best and fastest way to wake him up.
He stopped Taylor on the way out the door and insisted the boy wear a jacket; Taylor rolled his eyes but complied, and John poured his first cup of coffee as he wondered at the strangeness of the world. He'd never seen himself as the domestic type, never seen himself worrying about whether a boy wore a jacket to school—yet it seemed natural to be here, watching over Taylor while Joss slept.
Ten minutes later, he was glad that the boy had chosen to go off to school earlier; God only knew what Shaw would think of to say if she saw him telling Taylor to 'put a coat on, it's going to be cold.' As it was, Shaw simply raised an eyebrow as she saw him, standing shoeless in the kitchen with coffee, but refrained from asking. Instead, she followed behind John as he led the way into the bedroom. Joss was just stirring, moaning a little at the pain in her back and shoulders, and John quietly closed the door to the bedroom as Sam Shaw started unbuttoning Joss's shirt, no doubt to look at the damage.
His earpiece crackled to life. "Mr. Reese?"
Hearing Finch's voce reminded him of his broken promise—that he would call Finch and let him know what Joss's condition was when he was done. He tapped the earpiece to connect the call. "Sorry, Finch. I forgot I was supposed to call you and let you know how she was doing." Because she was Harold's friend too.
"It's all right, Mr. Reese, I was able to retrace Joss's steps last night. I understand why you reacted the way you did." A soft sigh. "I also understand why she said she couldn't go to the hospital."
"Well, enlighten me, Finch, because I still don't understand."
"I'll be very brief. HR was looking for her last night and if she'd gone to the hospital she might be dead now."
"The Machine didn't give us her number." John stared at nothing as he digested this fact. "How could they be looking for her if the Machine didn't see she was in danger and give us her number?"
"They weren't looking for Detective Carter specifically; they were looking for an armed assailant they thought was Russian who assaulted one of HR's couriers and stole his money. The courier was attacked when he stopped at a local bar for a couple of drinks. He was gunned down by an assailant who spoke Russian, stole the money and ran. The assailant, as you've no doubt guessed, was Joss Carter."
"Joss is starting a war between the Russians and HR?" He hadn't thought about that. The body count would be horrendous on both sides. And the head of HR would no doubt have to surface—unless Joss already knew who the head of HR was and was constructing her plan around trying to get that person to reveal himself.
"Apparently so, Mr. Reese."
"Damn." He couldn't hide the smile. "I never thought Joss Carter was that…devious." A well-crafted, elegant plan, but simple enough to pull off. "So how would they have pegged her for the assailant who killed the HR courier if she'd gone to the hospital?"
Harold's tone was icy with anger—anger that John shared when he heard Finch's next words. "During the scuffle an HR thug grabbed Detective Carter and body-slammed her on top of a table full of beer bottles and drinking glasses." So the colored glass he'd pulled out of Joss's back last night had been from broken beer bottles.
John wanted to curse Joss out for endangering her own life pulling this stunt.
Reese regretted that he hadn't been invited to the party—he would have enjoyed doing this, could have come up with a few more creative ways to do it, too.
But both the killer named 'Reese' and the man named 'John' were thoroughly pissed at Joss Carter.
"They had a bulletin out at the local hospitals for someone who came in with glass shards in their back and shoulders. While they were specifically looking for a male—no doubt underestimating the 'fairer sex' and the damage that a very determined woman like Joss Carter can cause—if she had gone to a hospital she would certainly have come to their attention. She might not now be alive."
"Thank you for that information, Finch," John said, then turned as he heard voices. Sam was coming down the hallway with Joss next to her. Joss looked tired, but was moving almost normally and it would only have been evident to someone who knew her very well that she was injured. "I'm going to have a talk with our Detective Carter." He didn't bother disconnecting the call; he didn't care if Finch heard this conversation. "Why are you starting a war between HR and the Russians?"
Sam Shaw wore a look that said 'I'm not getting in the middle of this' as she left Joss at the kitchen island and left the apartment. Neither John nor Joss noticed her leave. John repeated, "Why are you starting a war between HR and the Russians?"
Joss headed for the kitchen counter and poured herself a cup of coffee. "Good morning to you, John."
"Damn it, Joss, don't change the subject!" John slapped his coffee cup down on the counter a little harder than was strictly necessary. "What you did last night was stupid. Going out on your own doing this was stupid. The only smart thing you did last night was leave your phone where Taylor could get at it and call me."
"Yeah. After I specifically told him not to. I'm gonna have a talk with him about that."
"No, you're not." John's voice held a dangerous edge to it. "Taylor did what he did to protect his mother when she didn't even try to protect herself. Don't you dare yell at him for it."
"John Reese, you are not going to tell me how to raise my son!" She was getting angry now.
"I will when I see you hurting the boy's feelings because he tried to help you after you did something stupid. Which brings me back to my original question. Why are you starting a war between HR and the Russians?"
"You upset? Why? Because I didn't invite you?" Sarcasm dripped from her voice.
"Yes, I'm upset." The counter rattled as John slapped a hand down on it. "You're not doing this, Joss." He was going to have to talk some sense into her.
"Doing what? Let's just get this straight, John. What is it I'm not supposed to do?" A moment. "Or is this really 'what is it that John Reese isn't going to let me do'?" She stepped up to him, facing him with anger flashing in her eyes. "I got news for you, Mister Reese, I've been doing this longer than you have. I don't need your permission to do anything. I can take care of myself."
"Yes, like you took care of yourself last night," he shot back. "Tell me again, just how were you planning on getting that glass out of your back? By yourself? Were you going to get Taylor to help you? What do you think that would have done to him, watching you pass out on the floor in front of him?" Why did the woman have to be so…damn stubborn?
"I'm not discussing my son with you." There was a slight defensive note in her voice—she knew he was right, but she didn't want to admit it. "I didn't have any right to ask for your help last night, and neither did he. Neither one of us has a right to ask you for anything you're not willing to give."
"Wait a minute. Is that what you really think, Joss, that you and Taylor have no right to ask me for anything?" He felt stunned even as Zoe's words ran through his head again. That damn sense of honor and fairness she has won't let her ask for something you haven't offered first. "Even help? What are friends for, Joss? Three weeks ago you and Taylor patched me up as I was bleeding on your bathroom floor. Where's that quid-pro-quo that's so important to you, Joss? Is that only one way?"
"That's different, John!" She turned away angrily—and winced as her shoulder pulled on the bandages.
He saw the wince. For some reason, it made him even angrier. "Well then, Detective Carter, if you don't think you have a right to ask me for help then I guess I don't have a right to be standing in your kitchen watching you suffer." Seeing her in pain was hurting him. Every wince, every movement she made that suddenly stopped because she felt the pull of bandages on her back was hurting him, and it was taking all of his effort not to take her back to her bedroom and lock her in until she came to her senses. He grabbed his jacket and helmet from the couch and headed for the door.
It closed so softly behind him it was an insult.
Joss felt the tension deflate from her shoulders as John walked out—and as she relaxed, the cuts on her back reminded her of last night. "Damn it," she said angrily, her eyes stinging with tears. He was right, and she was wrong, but something he'd said, the way he said it, had gotten her pissed. 'You're not doing this, Joss.'
She sagged against the counter. She didn't owe him anything, he didn't owe her anything. They had no right to demand anything of each other—and she knew that, with Taylor calling John last night, that's essentially what last night was—a demand for him to help her, as she'd helped him a few weeks ago. And that was exactly what she'd been trying to avoid—no demands, no requests for assistance that he couldn't say 'no' to. Taylor calling him last night had forced him to help her out of a sense of duty, a sense of reciprocity.
His words 'you're not doing this, Joss' had been a hint that he'd been backed into a situation where he didn't really want to get involved but hadn't had a choice. She was thankful for his help, and she knew that Taylor had done what he did because he was worried about her and didn't know what else to do—and that was also her own fault, for backing her own son into a corner where he'd had to disobey her in order to get help. She should have never gone out last night; she'd been angry, frustrated and chafing at the restrictions of being a beat cop when she'd gotten used to the freedom of being a detective, and truth to tell, when she'd left the house last night she'd felt a bit of angry anticipation at what she was about to do; to strike a blow, however indirect, at the organization that was responsible for her current situation. HR.
Now in the harsh light of day, and with the throbbing in her back to remind her of what she'd done, she knew she'd been impulsive and reckless. She should have planned, should have thought. At least she should have worn a vest when she went out, it would have protected her from the glass fragments. Now her son was upset with her, she was upset with herself, and worst of all, that easy friendship she shared with John was over. Now he probably saw her as manipulative, creating a situation where he would have to get involved in a private feud that had nothing to do with him, Finch, or their crusade.
And in the process she'd lost one of the few people she could call a 'best friend'. Because in the last couple of months she'd been feeling something starting to shift in her relationship with John Reese. The first time she'd seen him, after the fight on the subway, she'd thought that he'd be rather nice-looking if he got cleaned and dressed decently. She almost hadn't recognized him the first time she saw him after Harold Finch took him in; clean, neatly dressed, the handsome planes of his face now clearly evident and not hidden under an unruly mess of unkempt beard. After he'd been wounded during the confrontation with Donnelly on the garage roof, and she had found them outside, Harold struggling to get John into his black Lincoln, she'd helped Harold get John into the car and then let them get away—the first, though not the last, time she'd broken a rule to help him. At that time she'd started seeing him as something different; not a fugitive from the law, but a man trying to satisfy Justice outside the bounds of the law. As she'd told Donnelly in the car that evening, John was, simply, a good man. He was a complicated person under a simple description.
But in the last couple of months, she'd started to see more of the man behind that badass persona—she didn't know when those perceptions started changing, but she knew when she became aware of it: the night in the gym, sparring with him on the mat. At that moment he'd crossed from being a 'friend' to something more, something deeper.
And she'd hoped…oh, how she'd hoped!...that maybe, someday, he'd see her as a best friend too. Although she definitely wouldn't mind getting him in her bed—she was intensely aware of his maleness every time he was in her personal space—she knew there was no way in hell she could compete with exotic, beautiful Zoe Morgan, or even Sam Shaw, fully John's equal in the badass department. She'd tried to console herself with thoughts of him being her friend, enjoying the time they spent together, whether it was at the gym or shooting up an illegal gambling room.
And now it was all gone. Because of her stupidity.
"Damn it, John," she said into the silence of her apartment, voice breaking. "I'm sorry."
The silence was her only answer.