The three of them, enemies by default, crashing through a window. Breaking someone's family—again. As if a mad-crazy-desperate act of defiance to the system that threatened to tear them apart.
//"You don't have to run."//
Fletch was just as lost as he was then. It was in them all, but Fletch said it, pleading, helpless, hopeless and the second in command, the responsible one, who could have spoken what anyone felt but Fletch? It hadn't been right then, and it wasn't now. Because it was all the same--
Fletch still saying what everyone knew but no one wanted to be stupid enough to say.
Knott still solid as the walls he went crashing through.
Anderton still aloof, still boss, still the captain and the link to suit-and-tie men who made all the wrong decisions.
A hand touches his shoulder and he looks up and there's Fletch, looking down at him with the strain riding high on his face, tautening the muscles in his neck, just a shade off, not even that, from the look when he's coming, when the last low grunt escapes from his teeth and—//God he's beautiful, did I ever tell him that or was I too chickenshit?//
He looks like he's about to speak, but for once clamps his mind over his mouth and just half-sits, half-falls, a graceless jumble of bare limbs, landing hard, landing tired. He rubs his eyes, and then looks at Anderton as if searching for something—someone—lost.
None of them was ever good at the talking part of this. Not even good ol' motormouth Fletch, who talked whether it was stupid or not.
"Did she want you back?"
"Yes. She said...she missed me."
"Did you miss her?" Knott is somehow on the other side of him, rough hand planted firmly on his back.
"Ye—I—uhh...umm...well..."
"It's a fucking yes or no question, John."
Oh, thank god for Fletch. Like a choking man slapped on the back, he spits out the first thing that attaches to his tongue. "I missed her, but then, I didn't know her, and, I think I didn't miss her. I love her. But I don't...want...to go...back." He is amazed by the wonders the human mind can work when it comes loose from common sense, reason, and logic.
Except that it all seems to make sense now.
From the first time--
//"Jesus, John. Sleeping in the office. Come on—the precogs will futz with your head for sure."
"Only if you're here."//
--To the last--
//"John?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep staying here, we'll have to split the rent threeways."
"Please stay."
"You think I could leave?"
"Jeff, he loves us!"
"Regardless. You're guarding the sides of the bed."//
--Everything in between. Five years.
//"You are one crazy son of a bitch. Sir."
"Gordo, make the damn coffee—John, what're you doing?"
"Just hold onto it, okay?"//
--Five years, three, four days a week--
//"Hold still."
"I am."
"Who's moving?"
"Not me."
"Jeff. The cat."
"Fucking christ."//
--And he knows he isn't dead.
But his whole life is flashing before his eyes. Or parts of it.
The hand slides up the back of his jacket, rubbing a part of his spine that Lara never managed to find. Fletch is breathing in his ear, driving him insane.
The last time they did this, a ball was spat from the precogs' machine with his name drilled into it the next morning. Then in the afternoon, he'd run. They'd chased him, of course, as was their duty—and he'd hurt them both. Physical, mental, emotional, whatever—he'd done it to save himself.
"I'm sorry," he says.
And the hand stops rubbing his back, wraps around him, pulls him close. He is several inches shorter and several more pounds lighter than Knott, and finds himself being held as easily as though he were a child. Hard, callosed fingertips stroke his stomach and side.
It takes him a moment to realize that Fletch is poking him to get his attention.
"John?" A sharp poke. "Hey, John. Boss. Don't be sorry, okay? Whatever you did, boss, don't be sorry. It can't be anything we wouldn't do."
"I ran," he insists. "I hurt you." He sounds like a petulant six year old—his words are something Sean would have said before he was killed.
Knott laughs, a tight rumble next to Anderton's ear. "Tax dollars pay for good padding, boss. We're okay. We're not dead. You're here." The unspoken reassurance in his tone: you're home.
//"You don't have to run."//
Fletch was just as lost as he was then. It was in them all, but Fletch said it, pleading, helpless, hopeless and the second in command, the responsible one, who could have spoken what anyone felt but Fletch? It hadn't been right then, and it wasn't now. Because it was all the same--
Fletch still saying what everyone knew but no one wanted to be stupid enough to say.
Knott still solid as the walls he went crashing through.
Anderton still aloof, still boss, still the captain and the link to suit-and-tie men who made all the wrong decisions.
A hand touches his shoulder and he looks up and there's Fletch, looking down at him with the strain riding high on his face, tautening the muscles in his neck, just a shade off, not even that, from the look when he's coming, when the last low grunt escapes from his teeth and—//God he's beautiful, did I ever tell him that or was I too chickenshit?//
He looks like he's about to speak, but for once clamps his mind over his mouth and just half-sits, half-falls, a graceless jumble of bare limbs, landing hard, landing tired. He rubs his eyes, and then looks at Anderton as if searching for something—someone—lost.
None of them was ever good at the talking part of this. Not even good ol' motormouth Fletch, who talked whether it was stupid or not.
"Did she want you back?"
"Yes. She said...she missed me."
"Did you miss her?" Knott is somehow on the other side of him, rough hand planted firmly on his back.
"Ye—I—uhh...umm...well..."
"It's a fucking yes or no question, John."
Oh, thank god for Fletch. Like a choking man slapped on the back, he spits out the first thing that attaches to his tongue. "I missed her, but then, I didn't know her, and, I think I didn't miss her. I love her. But I don't...want...to go...back." He is amazed by the wonders the human mind can work when it comes loose from common sense, reason, and logic.
Except that it all seems to make sense now.
From the first time--
//"Jesus, John. Sleeping in the office. Come on—the precogs will futz with your head for sure."
"Only if you're here."//
--To the last--
//"John?"
"Yeah?"
"You keep staying here, we'll have to split the rent threeways."
"Please stay."
"You think I could leave?"
"Jeff, he loves us!"
"Regardless. You're guarding the sides of the bed."//
--Everything in between. Five years.
//"You are one crazy son of a bitch. Sir."
"Gordo, make the damn coffee—John, what're you doing?"
"Just hold onto it, okay?"//
--Five years, three, four days a week--
//"Hold still."
"I am."
"Who's moving?"
"Not me."
"Jeff. The cat."
"Fucking christ."//
--And he knows he isn't dead.
But his whole life is flashing before his eyes. Or parts of it.
The hand slides up the back of his jacket, rubbing a part of his spine that Lara never managed to find. Fletch is breathing in his ear, driving him insane.
The last time they did this, a ball was spat from the precogs' machine with his name drilled into it the next morning. Then in the afternoon, he'd run. They'd chased him, of course, as was their duty—and he'd hurt them both. Physical, mental, emotional, whatever—he'd done it to save himself.
"I'm sorry," he says.
And the hand stops rubbing his back, wraps around him, pulls him close. He is several inches shorter and several more pounds lighter than Knott, and finds himself being held as easily as though he were a child. Hard, callosed fingertips stroke his stomach and side.
It takes him a moment to realize that Fletch is poking him to get his attention.
"John?" A sharp poke. "Hey, John. Boss. Don't be sorry, okay? Whatever you did, boss, don't be sorry. It can't be anything we wouldn't do."
"I ran," he insists. "I hurt you." He sounds like a petulant six year old—his words are something Sean would have said before he was killed.
Knott laughs, a tight rumble next to Anderton's ear. "Tax dollars pay for good padding, boss. We're okay. We're not dead. You're here." The unspoken reassurance in his tone: you're home.