Chapter 23: Debrief
Author's note: So, three documents uploaded today, three very emotional pieces. Two of them are for 'Catalyst'; the third, titled 'Breath', isn't a chapter of this story but I think might turn into a novel in the long run—I have some different directions that I think I can take 'Breath' that will open it up into a novel set in present show continuity. In the meantime, enjoy these two chapters of 'Catalyst and check out 'Breath'. Oh, and just for a change of pace—I started writing a short story for POI with a Valentine's Day theme, and damn if that one didn't take on a life of its own—proving to me once again that I'm incapable of writing less than 10,000 words on anything. Check out the first couple of chapters of 'Valentine's Dance' while you're here. Enjoy!
Thank God for military expediency.
Apparently, the military connections that The Guardians had decided it would be easier just to take John and Joss—and Bear—all the way to New York. They didn't stop at Kingston Hospital in Kingston, New York, as John had thought; they ended up at Manhattan General. He'd fallen asleep sitting on a bench beside Joss's bed, and when he woke up, it was to find his had pillowed on the bed next to her right elbow, with the fingers of his left hand laced with the fingers of her right. They'd managed to get her hands mostly clean, but he could still see the crusted, dark blood under her fingernails. Her blood, from the bullet wound. Another silent reminder of his failure.
Doctors got on the chopper first, took Joss off as the woman codenamed Lady Jaye—the woman who had saved Bear—helped him climb out carefully. He was exhausted, still tired and dizzy, desperately thirsty, with hunger a sharp ache in his stomach, but he ignored it all as he craned his head to see where they were taking Joss. "Where's she going?"
She started steering him into the hospital from the roof helipad. "They're going to take her into emergency, check her out. Her feet are pretty messed up, they want to do a head scan and make sure she doesn't have a concussion, and she's badly dehydrated and needs liquids and antibiotics. And they need to put stitches on her gunshot wound and the nail holes in her hands, and make sure her hands function properly after the trauma." They stepped onto the elevator, ready for a trip down to the first-floor emergency ward. "You're not as bad though—I'll bet you want a good meal, a hot shower and clean clothes, and a soft bed, in that order, but you don't need the hospital."
"I'm not leaving Joss," he said.
Her tone softened. "I heard your talk with her back there, before you both fell asleep. You're extremely lucky you got a chance to tell each other how you felt before you lost each other. It could have easily gone the other way, you know."
Yes, he knew. He was going to wake up in a cold sweat from nightmares, for a long time, thinking about what could have happened and how close he'd come to losing her. He had to force his attention back to Chief Warrant Officer Allison Hart-Burnett beside him. "It's going to be a week before she's capable of getting up and taking care of herself. She's going to need someone to be with her, take care of her—and her son, if I remember correctly, she's a single mother—and if you don't take care of yourself, it's not going to be you who has a chance to help her. Either she'll have to stay in the hospital—and trust me, cops make lousy patients, I know this from firsthand experience—or she'll have to have a nurse come in and help her. Just walking to the bathroom by herself is going to be excruciating. I saw her feet."
He hadn't thought of that. He hadn't thought of what kind of aftercare she'd need, but of course, what Hart-Burnett was saying was absolutely correct. And he felt a surge of fierce protectiveness at the thought of someone else, anyone else, helping Joss through her recovery. "She won't need anyone else. I'll be there."
"If you don't take care of yourself you won't be able to take care of her." Hart-Burnett gave him a gentle push in the direction of a large glass door as they got off the elevator. "Go take care of yourself. Get cleaned up and get some sleep, then deal with everything else. Don't worry about anything else until you get up. Arlington took your dog to a veterinarian down the road—I swear that dog was hamming it up in front of the press camped outside the front door."
"Press?" he stared at her.
"There's been a three-state manhunt going on for Tony Walker. Your Mr. Finch will be able to give you details when you see him—there's long black Lincoln at the back door. Waiting for you, I suppose. But for obvious reasons, we decided you didn't want the exposure of trying to take Bear there yourself, or have Mr. Finch take him. It would run your anonymity. And right now everyone wants to get a look at the hero of the hour who tried to stop the killer from leaving Manhattan at a tollbooth, then chased that serial killer and his kidnapped cop victim into the woods and found them—and took the killer into custody alive. And I don't think you want cameras popping in your face either. The Guardians have another member living here in New York, Daniel LeClaire, a jungle recon expert, who is about the same height as you, and with a little bit of bottled gray brushed into his hair at the temples, he could pass for you when compared to a grainy, off-focus tollbooth surveillance camera. We'll prop him up as the figurehead so you can escape out the back door."
"Why would you do this?" John was astonished.
Hart-Burnett stopped walking. "One. Because Tony Walker was our problem, he was one of us, and we have an obligation to fix the mess we created when we let him go." And by 'we' he understood that she wasn't talking about The Guardians, she was talking about the US Military. "Two. As the officer who completed the preliminary inquiry into Walker's actions and it was my recommendation to our commanding officer that led to him being tried by a special court-martial, I kind of have a proprietary interest in him. Indulge an old Warrant Officer." John had to smile a little at that—despite the few faint gray strands in her cropped curly brown hair, he couldn't imagine anyone calling Allison Hart-Burnett 'old'—not and still be able to walk away afterward. "Three. As the close friend of a New York cop myself, I have an enormous and abiding respect for all of those 'domestic soldiers', who are no less soldiers than the servicemembers of the US military. They simply fight a battle a lot closer to home than we do. And four…"
She smiled, and there was a twinkle down in the bottom of her brown eyes. "I've always had a soft spot for the 'underdog'. Your team—Mr. Finch, Joss Carter, and yourself—are more like us Guardians than we like to admit. We take on international assignments, you take them on a lot closer to home—but the end goal is the same. To keep bad things from happening to good people. In fact, if you didn't already have this team of yours, we would have asked you to join ours. But you have your crusade and we have ours, and we're just glad we could help you out." She took something out of her pocket, flipped it to him.
He stared at it. A small piece of metal, about the size of a quarter, but it was brass, and it had a sketchy line drawing of an angel on it—a sweeping line of a skirt, two other lines reminiscent of wings. On the reverse was a stylized G. "You helped us bring some closure to the tale of Tony Walker, so to speak," and her voice was light but her eyes were serious. "And for that we owe you. That's a marker for us Guardians. One of us sees it, or anyone familiar with us sees it, they'll know you're entitled to our respect and our help. Whatever we can do, we'll do."
He stared at the little brass coin for a long moment, then tucked it into his pocket, next to the bullet with his name on it, and the bullet he'd dug out of Joss's stomach twenty-four hours earlier. "Thank you," he said, and meant it.
"And if I'm not mistaken, there's your ride." She gestured to her left, and he realized as they'd been talking that they'd come to the back door of the hospital. And there was a long black Lincoln waiting there, and Finch was standing by the driver's door. "Get some food, clean up, and some rest. They'll probably let her go tomorrow and she'll need you."
He saluted her; she saluted back, watch him get into the car with a wry smile, which was the last thing he saw as Harold drove away.
"I am gratified that you and Joss made it," Finch finally broke the silence.
To anyone else it would have sounded stiff and stilted, but John knew Finch well enough now to know the other man didn't mean it that way. He simply wasn't good at expressing his feelings.
"We wouldn't if it hadn't been for you. We'd still be on that mountain trying to figure out how I'd get Joss off with a gunshot wound and her unable to walk."
"A gunshot wound?" Finch looked horrified. "She can't walk?"
"No, no, no," John realized he wasn't making sense. "Sorry, Finch, I'm not explaining things clearly." He took a deep breath. "Walker drove Joss up to Phoenicia, parked his car, then force-marched her through the woods. Bear found a scent trail from her—she didn't have shoes, and the forced march cut her feet up, the doctors are treating an infection there—and we followed it up the side of the mountain to a clearing. He has a cabin up there, a survivalist-type cabin." John sucked in a harsh breath as he remembered what she'd looked like when he'd found her, stared out the car window at the darkness of the streets outside—it had to be after midnight, by now. "Jesus, Finch, there was a moment I thought she was dead. He beat her up pretty badly—her face was so bruised, she couldn't see out of her eyes. He followed the same pattern he'd followed with his previous victims, Murray and Spencer—beat her up, tied her down to the crossbeam of a cross, and then he…" Now that the adrenaline had worn off, she was safe and so was he, reaction was setting in and he had to clench his fists to stop them from shaking. "He nailed her hands to the crossbeam. I can't imagine how that must have hurt, he had to gag her to keep the whole park from hearing her scream…" He heard his voice break, had to take deep breaths to steady himself.
"Take it easy, John." Harold sounded quietly horrified but still sympathetic. "Is she okay?'
"I got her off, we hid in a cave on the northwest side of the mountain. Her hands and fingers seemed to work okay, but she looked so bad that first moment I thought she was dead, that he'd killed her…I never realized, Finch, just how much I'd lose if I lost her."
"Thank God you didn't."
John had to smile through the tears that filled his eyes. "She said…the whole time he had her, she kept wishing she'd be able to see me one more time. That she didn't want to die without having told me she loved me." And he'd been startled by that pronouncement, startled and stunned. "I never thought she'd say that to me. I'm a criminal, and she's a cop…."
"In that, I guess we have Walker to thank for being the catalyst that finally got this all out in the open. Love doesn't have a reason, John. Love doesn't care about social status, laws, or society's rules. You don't pick who you truly love—it just happens. That's when you know it's love." And again, he was reminded of Zoe's words; I can see it, Sam can see it, I bet even Harold can see it. And then Harold confirmed that with his next words. "I saw your talk with her, that night at the police station after the subway fight, on the station's security cameras. When she walked in you were prepared for cutting words, snide comments, the same kind of verbal abuse that the homeless usually get from law enforcement. But she was different. She offered sympathy, respect, assistance; a kind word. And a smile. And I saw your body language change after that. At that moment she became something more than just another person, just another cop. I don't think you realized it at the time. But that was when I decided to approach you with my admittedly unorthodox job offer."
"That was when you decided I wasn't another random homeless veteran angry at the world; when you decided I wasn't another Tony Walker, when you decided I had something that would make me good at this job? Because of Joss?"
"Yes. She brought out the best in you, even in such a brief, chance meeting. And she's the catalyst that continues to bring out the best in you. She brings out the best in all of us, really; even Lionel. He may have started out as a member of HR, dragooned unwillingly into being a reluctant partner in our little venture, but his attitude changed with exposure to her. He sees what a good cop is, and he wants to be a good cop. She's had a profound effect on him, and I don't think he—or even she—realizes how much. She doesn't know it, but she's had a profound impact on many of the people whose lives she's touched, criminal and citizen. And particularly on you."
John couldn't think of a single thing to say as Harold brought the Lincoln to a stop outside the Baxter street apartment building. Sensing that he was at a loss for words, Harold wisely switched topics. "Taylor stayed with Lionel over the last couple of days; Joss's mother decided it would be safer to leave the boy there since Lionel's a cop and there were two cars posted outside his house. There's still crime-scene tape on Joss's apartment door, though I believe they're planning on taking that down tomorrow. She should be able to go home."
"I'll take her home. And I'll stay with her and Taylor until she's on her feet again and can take care of herself." John climbed out of the car, wincing a little; he was stiff, and tired, and a hot shower sounded awfully good right about now. "Good night, Finch."
It was good to be home, he reflected as he closed the apartment door behind him with a sigh of relief. His own place. But as he turned around, saw the deep burgundy curtains in the windows, the plush comforter on the bed, it hit him all over again, and he sat down hard on the edge of the bed as he took off his boots and socks. Joss's presence was here, too, in his apartment; the décor and colors she had picked to fill his apartment providing a gentle reminder of the woman who had come to mean so much to him. She knew him, so well; knew what he liked, what would feel good, what he instinctively wanted but hadn't been able to consciously translate. She felt real to him, here, as if he would turn any moment and see her there; her presence here wrapped around him like a warm blanket.
He was too tired to do any cooking, so he simply opened a can of soup, emptied it in a bowl, and set it in the microwave to reheat as he stripped off his clothes, then unwound the bandages from around his fists. The cuts on his knuckles from bashing in Walker's face would heal without further attention, now. He set the water in the shower as hot as he could stand it, letting the heat soak into tired muscles, sore and stiff joints, wash away the sweat, dirt, and fear of the last forty-eight hours. Had it really only been two days? It felt like a lifetime. The last time he'd stood in this shower, he'd been a lonely, bitter old man. Now…oh, Joss.
What was she doing now? Lying in a hospital bed, being pumped full of fluids and painkillers, sleeping—he hoped. But at the same time, he would have loved to have her here, in the same shower, feeling her smooth warm skin sliding under his hands. He could even almost smell her, the scent of the perfume she wore, never overwhelming; like Joss herself, not blatant, demanding attention; but quiet, subtle, a scent that he always smelled first before he saw her, as if she used that perfume to gently request his attention. He loved that scent—he'd have to find out what it was.
The evening he'd gotten his arms slashed, and she'd patched him up—he remembered the scent of her perfume on her pillow as she laid him down in her own bed, seeming more like a gentle, intimate embrace, a welcoming hug. Not intrusive or overwhelming—not like some of the scents Zoe wore, brassy, attention-getting, bold scents. There'd been a time when he liked that; now…Zoe was right; he'd changed.
The water ran cold; he turned it off, stepped out, grabbed a towel. Dark cranberry, seemed to be Joss's favorite color for him, but he liked it. She'd bought some exquisite Egyptian cotton towels, towels that felt almost sinfully comfortable against his skin, and he smiled as he pulled on boxers and a t-shirt and wandered back out to the kitchen to grab his soup. His eyes drifted to the bed as she stood in his kitchenette eating, and that mental picture flashed through his mind again—Joss, wrapped in shimmering red satin sheets waiting in his bed for him.
And he ached for her, suddenly, sharply. In a very, very physical way. He understood it; when he was winding down after a fight, his coping method was to either drink until the adrenaline wore off or to work the rest of it off in physical bedroom activity. Formerly, that had been with Zoe. She embraced Reese, the wild predator in him; the dark, dangerous side that came out in the aftermath of a fight, and had been perfectly willing—and able—to match him in bed. But he didn't want that, now; yes, the killer named Reese was a part of him, but now suddenly Joss's subtle strength and quiet passions attracted John, in ways that Reese's physical relationship with Zoe suddenly didn't. He wondered when Reese's relationship with Zoe had stopped being enough—and then wondered if that relationship had ever filled John's emotional void.
He put his dishes in the sink, promising to wash them in the morning, then started picking up his clothes from where he'd dropped them on the floor. Something jingled in the pocket of his pants and he reached in, pulling out the old bullet with his name scratched on it; the bullet he'd dug out of Joss's hip, and the Guardians' small brass marker.
And something else. Two pictures.
He discarded the photo of Walker immediately. Didn't need that. But the other one, the one of Joss and Taylor…he stretched out in bed, holding the picture, studying it. It had been taken at a park, with sun-drenched green grass behind the two of them. Taylor was a couple of years younger, so the picture was a few years old. Joss, however, looked the same; a wide smile and a bright light in her eyes that he wondered if he'd ever see again, after this. His heart ached. "I'm sorry, Joss," he whispered now, his finger tracing the smooth curve of her cheek in the photograph, thinking about the bruised, discolored mess her face was now. "I'm so sorry…this was my fault…" Her picture blurred. He felt a hot track down the side of his face. Felt a sob rise in his throat. And then he could no longer control it.
All the terror, heartache, exhaustion, guilt, and pain of the last two days crashed in on him all at once. "I'm sorry, Joss…I'm so sorry…" He hugged her picture to him as he curled up in his bed, under the sheets she'd picked for him, and gave in to the harsh, racking sobs that tore from him. He didn't bother trying to make himself stop. He wasn't sure he could.