Chapter 26: Boundaries
"Taylor can apply to any college he damn well pleases."
Harold sighed. "You know that, John, and I know that, but Joss will never ask."
"She can buy any damn pair of shoes she wants for herself."
Harold chuckled at that. "John, despite the fact that the two of you have finally admitted your feelings for each other, she's still very independent and she's not going to take that as a sign that she can ask you for anything. Least of all money. Her sense of honor and fairness won't let her ask."
"Damn it, Harold, she doesn't have to sit and suffer, all she has to do is ask—"
Harold sighed. "John, you know she won't. And she's not exactly suffering. It's not absolutely necessary for her to do what she's doing. She has her reasons, but they aren't a necessity."
"You've been keeping an eye on her bank account, Harold. How bad is it?" Harold started to protest, but John raised a hand. "I know you have, don't bother to deny it. She's your friend too."
"She's been paying her bills scrupulously on time each month, as usual, but she's stopped using her credit cards. She opened a savings account for Taylor a long time ago with an eye toward this being Taylor's college fund; it has a tidy sum in it already but not enough for NYU. I think part of that was because Taylor was originally looking at New Jersey City University for a teaching degree. And because they're public, their tuition isn't as pricey as NYU; at about five grand per semester, what Joss has in his college fund right now would cover the NJCU tuition for four years but not NYU, whose tuition rate is about fifty grand a year. However, NJCU doesn't have a well-established program for cybersecurity, which is what Taylor's social media page says he wants to do, and NYU does. He does have the grades and the SAT scores necessary to get into NYU also, although he'd have to study in the undergraduate program for a year to get the necessary prerequisites to qualify for entry into their Masters in cybersecurity program."
"So Joss started funneling more of her income into that college fund because Taylor wants to go to a better school."
"Essentially. Though you have to remember that right after she started doing this, she was demoted at work. Her contributions to Taylor's college fund, however, didn't decrease even though her salary did—and even though she could change that whenever she wants to. This is why she's…economizing."
"Sacrificing. Sacrificing the things she needs in order to provide for his future." John paced.
"The problem is that I don't think Taylor would do well in cybersecurity. He's interested in safe computer code, yes, but his focus thus far has been compromising video game code. His social media page is full of posts where he tells others how he's managed to advance in a video game without going through the game's conventional series of steps. He's figured out how to 'unlock' portions of a game and he also develops what's called 'cheat codes' for his video games and his friends. His nickname among gamers is 'The Wizard' because he can figure out ways to get around gaming code."
Now Harold gave a sly smile. "In fact, his prowess, touted on social media, has recently come to the attention of an admissions dean at the Rochester Institute of Technology, who then discovered that Taylor's academic performance is sufficient to get him in the door. Although tuition at RIT is far higher than NJCU, he is certain to qualify for financial aid—the admissions Dean has been following the news of Taylor's shooting and Joss's kidnapping very closely over the last couple of days, and is well aware that Taylor's mother is a law enforcement officer and single mother, and he knows what a law enforcement officer makes—the dean's sister-in-law happens to be one.
"An approved application for financial aid will bring the cost down to something Joss is able to absorb. He will have the option of enrolling as a major in cybersecurity with a minor in video game design, and if, as I suspect, he finds that his talents and interests lie in the industry of gaming, he would be able to switch majors without changing schools or losing any financial assistance he might qualify for. Taylor should receive that invitation letter within the next two days."
John saw the glint in Harold's eye. "Very pleased with yourself, aren't you."
"I am not intruding on Taylor's or Joss's privacy. Merely bringing well-deserved attention to his rather remarkable ability to discover loopholes in computer code and exploit them in ways that harm no one and in fact bring a great deal of entertainment. It was the dean's idea to recruit him for RIT. My only concern is that Taylor may not want to go to college five hours away from New York, in Rochester—his previous choices would have allowed him to live at home, and I think his concern for Joss was a factor in that decision. They are very close, and I believe he worries about Joss far more than she realizes."
"He does," John said quietly. "He's very conscientious."
"Perhaps now that he knows you're a factor in her life, he will be less concerned about Joss and be able to focus on his future."
"Maybe."
"So what did you end up ordering?"
John smiled reminiscently. "Joss likes bacon on her pizza."
He could hear the smile in Harold's voice. "Why, John, I never knew you liked pizza. I've never seen you eat it."
"I was hungry." John fired back. "And Taylor made the decision. I don't think Joss even knew what she was eating." He sobered. "I'm going back to her place after her mother leaves. She's still in a lot of pain. She hides it well, and the pain meds helped, but she was definitely hurting while we ate." By the time Joss's mother came over half an hour after they'd finished eating, the pain meds had kicked in and Joss was doing a convincing job of making it look like she was doing well. John had quickly absented himself so that Joss could have her privacy with her mother—he wasn't quite equal to the task of meeting Joss's mother. Not yet. So he'd slipped out with a mumbled excuse he couldn't quite remember, and headed for the Library to talk to Harold about what Taylor had told him. "I'm going to stop at the market and stock her refrigerator," he said determinedly.
"Don't forget that you also promised Joss you'd take her out to dinner sometime—when she can wear that dress you like so much." Finch handed him a slip of paper. "That's a coupon for a free meal at 'Ettienne's'. I got an email from Captain Benson. She says that there is a table reserved for you at 'Ettienne's' whenever you decide to come there—and the meal will be a 'favor between friends', as she put it. Apparently she and Chief Warrant Officer Hart-Burnett talked and decided you needed an evening. Together."
Dinner. That Dress. And a long-held, deeply-buried fantasy of being able to take That Dress off Joss and make love to her. Not now, though; not until she was healed, off the meds, and no longer in pain. And not until the trauma of what Walker had done had faded and she was ready to accept him. He'd die if he hurt Joss, even unintentionally. "I'll keep that in mind." He slipped the paper into the back billfold of his wallet. "I'm going shopping. You know how to reach me."
His first stop, however, wasn't the market; it was the shoe store. A quick call to a puzzled Lionel got John the name of the store where Lionel had bought Lee's high-tops—and where Joss had subsequently bought Taylor's. He already knew the size and brand of her running shoes—they had been the ones that he'd taken up the mountain, never noticing the soles were worn through. He wondered now if anything had gotten through the sole and hurt her feet even more than they had already been hurt—and in any case, those sneakers were now gone, thoroughly ruined by seepage from the bandages he'd wrapped around her feet in an effort to get them off the mountain the first time. So he could replace them without Joss feeling like he was intruding—or suspecting that Taylor had let slip the true state of her finances.
He approved of the selflessness she was displaying; he was cursing her idiocy in not telling him. She'd been looking a little slimmer lately; he'd attributed it to her use of the gym regularly, mostly because Taylor had been using the game system at the gym to work some of his video game wizardry and Joss worked out while he was playing. But now he wondered if some of that was because she simply wasn't eating enough, and he winced—it was an ugly thought. Joss was not going to starve herself to get Taylor into a school to learn to do something he'd ultimately be miserable doing. Harold's solution was perfect, now they'd have to see if Joss and Taylor would be willing to go with the idea. Maybe Harold was right, maybe Taylor would be willing to go to college five hours away if he knew Joss was being taken care of.
Then the market. He loaded the shopping cart with things he knew they needed. Milk, bread, deli meats for sandwiches, fixings for quick, easy meals that would still be healthy. Protein bars as a quick snack for Taylor when he came home from school, and also something Joss could grab on the way out the door; some good strong coffee of the kind he remembered Joss used to get. He had seen her buying a can of inexpensive store-brand stuff not that long ago, and she'd just shrugged and said "Tastes change." Now he knew it for the excuse it was. Her tastes hadn't changed, her finances had.
He was loading groceries in his car when he heard a commotion in the alley at the side of the market. A child's voice? Curious, he went to investigate.
There was a child there, a little boy. Young. Thin, scruffy-looking, with a thin coat and sneakers that had holes in them. There was another man with him, tall, thin, rather better dressed than the boy. And his accent was faintly Russian. "You'll do as I tell you to."
"But Unchi…" the boy whined. "I don't like him, he hurts me!"
"Do as I say!" The demand was punctuated with a slap that sent the frail little boy staggering; He regained his feet, and, with tears running down his face, started walking, with 'Unchi', toward the end of the alley. John looked up, saw a well-dressed man standing there. Suit, hat, coat, tie. His clothes and demeanor screamed 'businessman' but the look on his face, as the little boy approached him, spoke of something else entirely.
Pervert.
John had zero tolerance for those who hurt children. When 'Unchi' held out his hand, and the businessman handed him a wad of cash, then reached down for the boy's hand, it became rather obvious. When 'Unchi' leaned down and said to the little boy, "Be good and do what he tells you, and I'll see you tomorrow," John's temper snapped.
Seconds later, Unchi was groaning against a side wall of the alley nursing a jaw that shortly would have a huge bruise on it. "Let the boy go," John snarled at the businessman, who hurriedly let go of the boy's hand. The boy had the good enough sense to stumble out of the way, against the opposite alley wall, and John moved with the speed of a striking cobra, grabbing Mr. Businessman's hand in his own. "So you like little boys, eh?" He said, exerting pressure; the businessman's mouth opened, but no sound came out; his eyes were popping, his face red."I suggest you change your preferences." He really wanted to do something else, preferably permanent, to a particular part of the guy's anatomy, but inspiration hit—this was the kind of thing Shaw liked. And he'd bet she was a little disappointed at not having been able to get her hands—and knives—on Walker. So, after one last squeeze, during which he distinctly heard something pop in the guy's hand, he dropped the hand.
Mr. Businessman lost no time in running for his car.
He turned to the other man, the one the little boy had called 'Unchi'—Uncle—and fired a single bullet into the man's left knee. "If I see you doing this again, I'll take the other knee," he snarled as the man screamed. "Take the boy home." As he turned away, he tapped his earpiece. "Finch."
"Yes, Mr. Reese?"
"I'm at the market. Just had an interesting encounter with a businessman who tried to buy a little boy off a man the boy called 'Uncle' in Russian. Can you find the identities of the businessman whose hand I just crushed, and the Uncle I just kneecapped, and pass that along to Shaw? This is right up her alley. Trust me, she'll thank you."
"I don't doubt it." Finch's voice was dry ice. "I'll do that."
"Thanks.'" And he headed to Joss's apartment with a lighter heart.
"John…no!" Joss stared at the shoebox sitting on the kitchen counter, then at the grocery bags he'd just deposited on the kitchen floor.
"Keep your voice down. Taylor's asleep." He ignored Joss's horrified look and opened her refrigerator door.
She lowered her voice. "John…no!"
"You said that already." He started unpacking grocery bags.
"I meant it. No."
He stopped, gave her his full attention. "Explain to me why."
"When I told you I loved you it didn't mean that I wanted you to feel obligated or required to do anything for us. For me."
"Joss…" he sighed. "Let's get something straight right now. I have never once felt 'obligated' or 'required' to do anything for you. Everything I've done—and Finch, too—has been because we want to. I want to help you out. I don't feel obligated to do anything." He looked at her. "Have you ever felt obligated to do anything you've done for us? Anything that you didn't really want to do yourself?"
A pause; she was thinking seriously, then, about the last three years of knowing them, about all the things their lives had twined and touched over. "No," she said finally. "Not even that evening in the parking garage when you got shot by Snow. No. I helped you because I wanted to. Because you were doing everything you were doing for the right reasons."
"And so are you." He leaned in closer, inside her personal space but not—quite—touching her. "You give so much of yourself, Joss, you help so many people. You rarely take time out to even help yourself. So let me do a little something for you. Even if it's as simple as buying you groceries."
He saw the first hint of a reluctant smile; then it blossomed over her face. He couldn't help himself; he reached up to touch the curve of her cheek, still discolored, though the swelling was starting to go down. Her skin was so soft, despite the bruising, and her lips…
He felt her hesitate for the barest moment, then her lips softened under his. He kissed her gently, feeling the harshness of the cracked skin against his own. Then she responded back, and he forgot everything else except the incredible joy of finally being able to touch her, feel her respond to him, to acknowledge some of the feelings that had lain between them unspoken for so long.
It took an effort for him to ease back on the kisses, an effort to bank the fire inside him and take a step back. He wanted her, and yet he was positive she couldn't be ready for it, ready for him, she'd just gotten out of the hospital that morning, for pity's sake. And she was standing, on her feet, and she wasn't supposed to. "Whatever you want, whatever you need. Just ask, Joss. Don't ever be afraid to ask me anything."
She looked up at him, slightly mischievously. "Can I borrow a pair of your boxers?" And then blushed. "I mean, mine aren't really comfortable and it's hard to get them on over the bandages—" She stopped, because it was his turn to put a finger on her lips. "Yes," he said gently.
Jesus God, she wanted him so much. And she was thoroughly disgusted with herself. She was still sore from her ordeal of the last couple of days, her feet were throbbing unmercifully just standing there, she could just barely see out of her right eye, and yet all she could think about was him. It took an effort not to grab him and pull him in as he took a step back, took an effort to throttle down her own desires, and the only thing that made her able to do so was some purely selfish embarrassment at how she looked. Her chest was bruised, her legs were bruised, her face was still a rainbow of colors from black to purple and there was no way he could find being in bed with a giant walking bruise at all sexy. So she forced herself to nod at his words, step back, and busy herself with helping him unpack the groceries. She wondered just how much he and Finch knew about her finances when she saw the coffee she liked—oh it had been a while since she'd had some!—but finally decided that it didn't really matter anyway. There was very good chance that the plans she was laying for HR's downfall would take her life with it, and if that happened, well…she was going to enjoy every precious minute she could with John.
But he stopped her as she started opening bags. "Joss, you're not supposed to be on your feet. Go on in to bed. I'll finish up here," he said gently, and she hesitated a moment.
"You're not sleeping on the couch tonight, are you?" And she held her breath, waiting for a rejection, for a dismissal.
But he smiled. "I won't…if you don't want me to."
"I don't." She couldn't stop the smile.
He grinned back. "Then I'll be in."
