John didn’t think of his own death often. It wasn’t worth dwelling on. He supposed after the fourth close call you started to get used to the idea of dying and that it will come when it comes. So he didn’t think about it, he just accepted that someday he would die and if he was lucky he’d die saving someone. Beaten while locked in a barn in the middle of winter wasn’t the ideal way, but he had ended up there because he’d been trying to save someone so it was a good enough compromise.
His captors had been smart enough to shatter his kneecaps as soon as they had him and he was fairly certain at least three bones were broken in his right hand. He hadn’t broken, he’d been trained too well for that, but he was getting pretty tired of playing their games. Always the same three questions: who are you, what are you doing here, who do you work for. There were only so many answers to those questions that he was willing to give, and only so many those were funny.
He had been left alone for the time being. They didn’t like to let him get rest so they’d be back before long but for that moment he let the one eye that wasn’t already swollen shut close and leaned his head back against the post that he had been tied to in the middle of the barn.
In less than a second, he had drifted off to a half-sleep while he waited for the telltale sounds of them coming back. It wasn’t quite peaceful but it was as close as he would be allowed to get before it was over.
He was startled back to full consciousness a while later by the sound of a car door slamming shut.
There had been a few shift changes of his watchers in the past week he had been held but there was something different about it this time. Then the shouting started and John swallowed down hope that welled up in his chest. The likelihood that they were there for him, that it was Shaw, was low. Finch knew better than to waste resources on him when Shaw could so easily replace him and he’d ended up in this position because of his own carelessness. Finch might have been upset about it but he knew that the numbers took priority. It wasn’t like when John had abandoned the numbers without him. Finch was a better man, and he wasn’t in love with John.
Fifteen shots later silence fell. It was followed by muffled crashing from the direction that John had been able to determine was the house. John took a second to guess if he would be better off with the new crew that had arrived, they’d probably search the barn but if he could manage to find a hiding spot they might miss him and he could have enough time to attempt to recover enough energy to escape. He was able to slip his arms free of the restraints, biting his lip against the pain.
Gravel crunched towards him, it sounded like only one person but there could have been a lot more still in the house or searching other parts of the property. He tried to slip out of the ankle shackles that were all that was keeping him tied up when he heard a voice. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” a woman said. It sounded like Shaw but John had been tricked by wishful thinking before and now wasn’t the time to be reliving that experience. He was able to get one leg free before there was a crashing, crunching noise of an ax hitting the half-frozen wood door and breaking off the lock.
He curled his one good fist as he looked up, bracing himself against whatever was about to happen. The door was kicked in and he saw Shaw standing in the doorway with an ax.
“Well, I guess you’re alive. That’s something,” Shaw said as she went towards him, still carrying the ax. “Don’t move.”
“Not a problem,” John said, fighting against the urge to pass out. Relief had flooded through him at the very sight of Shaw and it was like his mind had decided that he was safe even though he knew that he wasn’t. They were still very much in enemy territory.
Shaw swung the ax down and the sharp sound of cold metal shattering rang through the air. With a grunt, they were able to get John back up, leaning heavily on Shaw as they stumbled.
There was at least two feet of snow in every direction, reflecting the light of the setting sun back up into his eyes that were far too used to the dark of the barn. With a lot of complaining about how heavy he was Shaw was able to deposit John in the backseat of the car where he finally let out a breath bracing himself as he tried to relax into the seat with his legs stretched out as much as they could.
“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she said, pulling a tight u-turn in the driveway and pulling out onto the road quickly. John fought to stay awake, as he tried to find a way of sitting that didn’t tweak the broken ribs, or his shoulder, or his knees.
After nearly an hour Shaw dug around in a bag on the passenger seat pulling out an orange bottle of pills, which she tossed back to him, then a power bar, and finally a bottle of water. “Eat, drink, two pills. In that order.”
John looked at the label of the pill bottle. Oxycodone. At least he’d sleep. He ate the bar that managed to have the texture of wet cardboard and the taste of powdered fake blueberries, which only made him feel nauseous but that was what happened no matter what it was you ate after a week like he’d just had. “If you throw up I will leave you here. I’m not smelling that all the way back to New York.”
“I’ll do my best.” He drank half the water and then took the pills with another gulp of water. “Thanks.”
Shaw just hummed once and then turned on the radio.
Ten minutes later, John was asleep.
John woke slowly, his face stuck to the window, and his head filled with cotton. He was also starving.
Shaw looked up at him from the rearview mirror. “Welcome back.”
He spotted the stuffed-full bag of McDonald’s in the passenger seat. “Any of that food for me or are you going to eat a bag of burgers by yourself?”
She dug around for one and threw it back to him. “Go back to sleep.”
“Where was I?”
“Maine. You made me drive to Maine in fucking January.”
“I didn’t make you.”
She shot him a look that he couldn’t quite read. “Go back to sleep. We’ve got another two hours before we get where we’re going.”
John would have shrugged if he’d been able to actually move his shoulders without sending pain through his whole body. He ate the greasy and now lukewarm burger happily, glad when it didn’t make him sick to eat this time. He tried to stay awake but the passing of the street lights lulled him back to sleep before the song had even changed.
The next stop was a city that was definitely not New York. He snapped awake when Shaw pulled up to the hospital, stopping abruptly next to the emergency room. She handed him a wallet with John Randall’s ID and cards in it, including an insurance card from Universal Heritage. A few seconds later a nurse helped her wheel him into the emergency room.
He was taken in and treated for more things than he could track, his mind still fuzzy from the meds which he had at least told them. Soon he was booked and in for surgery.
When he woke again he wasn’t in the hospital anymore. He was laying in the hospital bed in the back room of the safe house with Bear nudging his hand every few seconds with his nose. Finch was sitting next to him sipping a cup of tea. For a moment, the image of Harold sitting with the dog they shared, waiting by his bedside for him to wake up warmed him, even if Harold was only sitting by his friend’s bedside and now how John allowed himself to imagine for that fleeting moment.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Reese. How are you feeling?” Finch asked, setting aside his tea on the table where he picked up a water glass with a straw in it.
John reached out for the glass only to finally register the cast on his hand that was covering most of it and only leaving two fingers out. Finch put it in his other hand As soon as he started drinking John realized he was parched and drained the glass before taking another breath.
“I'll get you some more,” Finch said. Bear didn’t move from where he was sitting and John used his two free fingers to scratch at the top of his head as Bear looked up at him with big, sad eyes.
“Here you are,” Finch said, handing him the glass before he sat back down.
“Who’s taking care of the numbers while you’re here babysitting me?” John asked.
Finch took a sip of his tea. “You don’t need to worry about numbers right now.”
“Why?”
“You need rest. I assure you it’s been taken care of,” Finch said, his tone soft and placating like he was talking to a number who had just asked who they were. It ground against John’s nerves, they were supposed to be partners, friends. They had come so far, John didn’t want to go back to the days when he was kept firmly at arm’s length just because he’d slipped up and been captured.
John was quiet for a while. “How did you know where to find me?”
“Well, we knew who had taken you so it was only a matter of finding the right members to tell us where they kept people that they wanted something from.” Finch wasn’t looking at him anymore. Instead, he was looking between Bear and his tea.
“You spent a week doing that?” John asked. He could feel a fight rising up in him. He knew it wasn’t fair, he should have been grateful to Finch for spending the time to find him but John couldn’t stop thinking of the numbers that must have come up in that time; the innocent people who had suffered because they had been too busy saving John.
“It did take longer than we would have liked. There were some complications, but now hardly seems the time to discuss it.”
“How many numbers came up then?”
Harold just stared at him for a long moment, trying to read John. For a moment John saw a flicker of anger and confusion across his face before it settled into a cold, distant mask. He wondered what it was that Finch saw. “Are you upset with us because it took too long to find you?” Finch asked in the cold voice he used whenever he was genuinely angry about something. John wasn’t used to it being pointed at him and he didn't enjoy it. “Or because we found you at all?”
John looked away to the far wall. “You wasted time trying to find me. You could have been helping people.”
“Did you expect that we were just going to leave you there?”
“How many people—”
Finch cut him off, standing. “You are worth saving, John. You may not believe that, but I know it. Your life has value and leaving you to die was never an option. Now, I think it’s best that you get some rest. I expect Ms. Shaw will be returning soon as well.”
Finch left the room again and John didn’t think he was coming back anytime soon.
John healed slowly. Excruciatingly slowly. He spent months in physical therapy to adjust to the new knees and repair the muscles that had weakened during his time in bed. When he wasn’t in direct pain from the healing injuries he was sore from the physical therapy and when he wasn’t sore either his whole body seemed to ache for no real reason. The doctor insisted that it would get better as he got stronger and he believed her, even if it was miserable to get through.
After months of work his knees still tweaked oddly at times that seemed near-random, stopping him dead as he regained his balance and breathed through the pain. His hand wasn’t as dexterous as it had been. When he sparred with Shaw he had weak spots a mile wide that Shaw made sure to point out with a sharp punch.
But those were things that could be worked out, he was sure of that. And he’d get over the fact that sometimes if the night was too chilly, and he took too sharp of breath, and the cold air shocked his lungs his heart stopped for just a second as he remembered where he was. The only thing to do was brace against it and press on.
He was after a number who was trying to kill her husband, chasing her down the stairwell after stopping her from completing her plan in their apartment. One second everything was fine and a moment later he stepped around to turn the corner and his knee tweaked and he was down, holding onto the handrail to stop from falling further. “Shaw.”
“I got her,” she said, calm as ever and then there was a distant grunt as Shaw knocked her out.
“Mr. Reese, are you alright?” Finch asked.
John stood back up, stretching his knee out as he did before he started back down the stairs. “I’m fine, Finch. I slipped.” He was grateful when Shaw stayed quiet.
“Detective Carter is on her way to pick up Mrs. Kimbal,” Finch said, though he sounded distracted.
“I’ll hold on to her until she gets here,” Shaw said and then cut her line.
John considered going back to the library but Finch was there. He’d spent years with Finch talking in his ear and he could tell from the distracted tone that there was something he wasn’t happy about and John had a feeling he knew what it was. Going back to the library would just be asking for trouble.
“Call me when we have another number,” John said, his hand already poised next to his ear.
“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Mr. Reese.”
John tapped his earpiece and started the walk home. Mentally he understood why it was happening. His body had tried to heal itself while it had still been too shattered to heal properly and it had caused more damage to the structure than they could permanently fix. It might slip and pop and tweak for the rest of his life. But he didn’t want that to be true because that meant he’d continue falling if he took the stairs wrong and he’d continue to ache when he first woke up and he would continue to have a limited range of motion in his right shoulder which left him wide open to attacks.
If he couldn’t fix it he’d become a liability.
John had been home a few hours, stretching and exercising and massaging his joints just like the physical therapist had shown him. It hurt but it would be worth it if he could keep working numbers.
There was a knock at the door and for a moment he stayed perfectly frozen where he was. With his phone he checked the small bug on the door and saw Finch standing at the door with Bear at his side. He got up off the floor, setting aside the weight, to let them in.
“Hello, Harold.”
“Mr. Reese. May we come in?”
John moved out of the way and waved them in. Bear ran to his bed next to the couch and laid down with the bone that was tucked into the cushion. “Is there a problem, Harold?”
“Yes. I believe there is,” Finch said, standing in the middle of the entryway and going no further.
John just raised a brow to cover the panic he felt in his chest.
“Mr. Reese, it occurs to me that I may have allowed you to return to fieldwork sooner than was healthy. I think it’s for the best if you recover fully before returning to such physical work and putting yourself in danger.” Finch looked almost pained to say it but he kept his voice steady and pity free which John could appreciate.
“I’m fine, Harold. The numbers can’t wait, they need our help,” John said walking to the couch, expecting Finch to follow. He did. “I didn’t exactly get into this line of work because it was safe.”
Harold sat on the opposite side of the couch, perched on the edge and with his hands in his lap. “You got into this so that you could help people.”
“Exactly.”
Finch sighed. “There are other ways for you to do that until you’ve healed.”
“And what if this is as healed as I become? This could be it.” John didn’t like how close his voice had gotten to cracking at saying that out loud. He cleared his throat.
“Then as I stated there are other ways for you to help people. You are more than just your physical prowess.”
“You hired me for my physical qualification, Harold. Or did you forget?”
Harold sighed and moved closer as he held John’s gaze. “I hired you because you were the best man for the job. There are many thugs in this world who would fit the bill if all we needed to help the numbers was myself and someone who can throw a punch, but that’s not the case. We are able to save numbers because you are good at more than just chasing and shooting and fighting. You are extremely talented in many of the other aspects.”
John had to break eye contact and look away. It was like the sting of alcohol on a cut, painful yet healing. “If I can’t fight anymore who’s going to protect the number while I also go undercover or whatever it is you plan on doing with me now that I’ve lost my usefulness.”
“John,” Harold snapped, grabbing his hand. “First of all, you have not lost your usefulness. And second, you are more than your ‘usefulness’. You are a good man and that counts for more than you allow it to.”
When John looked back at him there was a fire in Harold’s eyes, close to anger but with something more, something softer. One look and John felt stripped bare. “I need to help them. It’s my purpose.”
Harold smiled at him sadly. “We can find a new arrangement. Ms. Shaw would likely appreciate it if you took over all the undercover portions of the jobs. Especially those taking place in offices. And it’s not as if you wouldn’t be capable of protecting them in a fight if needed, it would just be a change that makes Shaw the primary asset for the more physical parts of the operations. You can still help more people. You will help more people.”
It wasn’t a weight off of his chest immediately, but a lessening, a moment where there was hope. He could almost imagine it, just a slight shift where he stuck closer to the numbers, part bodyguard, part investigator. It might work. He smiled at Harold who was still holding his hand and smiled back, a little more genuine that time.
“Thank you.”
“Of course. Now, I think it’s time Bear and I leave you to finish your routine,” Harold said, leveraging himself up off the couch. For a moment he stopped, standing over John. “And please remember that your worth is not defined by how useful you are. You are a good man who is very important to a great many people and you always will be.” With one more smile, Harold started towards the door.
There was something soft in that smile and it took John a moment to parse out what it was. It was patient and understanding but just a little bit sad. Like Harold was forcing himself to accept something upsetting, like it hurt him that he couldn’t get John to understand how important he was to him.
John felt winded as clarity splashed over him like ice-cold water. “Oh.”
“Bear, komen,” Harold said from the front door.
John stood up and turned towards him, still caught between the clarity of Harold’s feelings and the daze understanding those feelings had left him in. He’d been so sure that Harold would never want him that way. He’d spent years learning to accept that, but now, of all times, he could see clearly. “Harold.”
“Yes?”
“You’re in love with me.”
For a moment Harold looked afraid, his eyes wide and the grip on Bear’s leash tightening, but he didn’t take a step back, he just looked dead-on at John. “Yes. I am.”
“Do you want to stay for dinner? I can cook.”
Harold smiled. “John, you should relax and rest. It was a very busy day for us all.”
“Fine,” John said. “Do you want to stay for just dinner? I can cook.”
For a long moment, Harold just looked at John, gauging his seriousness. He must have seen something he liked because he bent over and unclipped his leash again and Bear went happily back to his bone. “Just dinner.”