Work Text:
John doesn't like this part of the grief process, mostly because he has no idea how it works. He's seen people die, sometimes in horrific ways. He's buried people, and murdered people, and heard people scream and beg and felt the life leave their bodies.
Usually he doesn't stick around for the whole mourning thing, least of all when it involves facing the people who cared about the departed one. It's not like he held funerals for all the terrorists and spies he's killed or seen killed.
But this is Carter, and Carter was more than a randomly assigned fellow spy. She was a friend, and even a little more than a friend, and she'd asked him to look in on her son. He'd tried to deny that he'd need to, partially because he thought if he convinced her she could somehow force herself to hang on.
But here he is, standing on what used to be her front porch, shivering just a bit and trying to decide whether or not to ring the doorbell.
In the end, he doesn't have to, because a man opens the door. Carter's ex, Paul. His face is drawn and he looks tired.
"Can I help you?"
John pauses for a moment before answering. "My name is John Reese...I worked with Carter. I was with her last night, and she asked me if I could look in on you all, see how you're doing..."
The man nods. "She mentioned you a couple times. Come inside."
Not sure if he's reluctant or relieved, John leaves his wet shoes by the door and follows Carter's ex husband into the house.
"We're about to leave...go back to my place, you know. He doesn't want to stay here right now, and I'm not sure if I feel right doing it either. You know, with the divorce and all. It was tough while she was alive, but to be honest I'm not sure what it will be like now."
John nods, not really sure what to say. "She was a good woman, and a good friend to me."
"If you want to talk to Taylor, he's upstairs in her room. Make yourself welcome, Joss wouldn't mind."
Reese gives Paul a light pat on the shoulder and goes upstairs.
Taylor looks up as he comes in, but says nothing. John just sits down on the bed beside him and can't think of anything to say either.
After a while, Taylor stands up and moves towards the door.
"She was a good person, Taylor. And her last thoughts were about you." John doesn't know if that's what he should say but it sounds okay.
He freezes for a second and looks back at John with a slight nod.
John listens as Taylor's footsteps echo all the way downstairs and his voice calls for his father.
He knows he should go now, but god, he doesn't want to go just yet.
This is her room. It's as close to her as he can get anymore. It's not like he can't believe she's gone, or doesn't think she's actually dead. He knows she is. This is not new, this empty feeling.
But it is different every time, especially when it's someone as...well...just plain good...as Carter.
John knows the feeling of chaotic good...it's in Shaw, it's in Finch, and most of all, it's in his own veins. The turmoil, the feeling of being pulled apart by making the choice to help people rather than hurt them. But Carter? There was no chaotic about it. She was just good. It was her nature to help, and to rescue. John might be that way now, but he hadn't always been. Not like she had.
He's jolted out of his trance by the sound of the front door closing. Outside the bedroom, he can see that the lights downstairs are off. A car starts nearby and pulls away.
Taylor must've assumed he'd already left while he was talking to his dad.
For a minute John contemplates leaving, heading home and having a drink. But he doesn't want to leave her. Not yet. And this is the last he has of Carter.
He did, however, need a drink.
It takes him only a second to find Carter's stash of whiskey in the nightstand. It's cheap, and it doesn't taste like his bourbon at home would, but it's here, and it's half empty, which means, most importantly, it was hers.
John takes a swig and looks around the room. He wonders, dimly, if she's here.
Damn, he needs another drink for this.
Before he knows it, the bottle is almost empty, and suddenly, he feels like he can finally say things he couldn't before.
"You know, Carter...you really could've picked another time to bite it."
"Really? And when would that be?"
John almost jumps, but he knows it's not real. It's the drink bringing her here, and it's not fair that it can do that, but here she is.
"Sometime when we don't need you, Carter!"
"John, you don't get it." He can almost see that sarcastic smile of hers. "You'll always need me to pick up your sorry asses."
John cracks a smile and pours down the last of the whiskey.
"Damn straight, Carter. And that's why you weren't supposed to die. Ever."
"John, I'm not happy about it either. Taylor needs me too."
"I'm sorry, Joss. If I could've done anything...if it could've been me instead..."
"John, it's not your fault."
"You know me, Carter...always gotta be the hero." John lets himself fall backwards, falling spread eagle on her bed and looking up at the ceiling.
Her laugh is as clear as if she were right here with him. "Yes you do, John. But you can't. And that will have to be okay."
"Carter, you're a better person than I've been."
She's smiling again, shaking her head, rolling her eyes. "Don't do that, John. Don't do it. You said it yourself. There's no one I'd have rather been with at the end than you, and there you were. You were there for me so much these past few weeks and months."
John can feel his eyes growing heavy, but he doesn't want to stop talking to her. "Joss...promise me you're still looking out for us? I just don't know if I can handle the thought of you ditching our war effort down here."
Carter is sitting there, sitting on the edge of the bed, looking down at him, and his eyes are closing more heavily now, and he can barely see her.
"I'll be there all along," she whispers, her hand sliding along his cheek. "I'll always be looking out for you, John. I promise."
John closes his eyes and is asleep. The last thing he feels is the warmth of Carter's blanket being tucked in around him.
When John awakes the next morning, he's still curled up in Carter's empty room and the sun is streaming through the curtains. As he sits up, the blankets come untucked and the empty whisky bottle hits the floor with a thump.
She's not here. Of course, John knows she never was. But for some reason he feels comforted.
After he's remade her bed, put the whisky bottle in the recycling, and closed the front door with a click behind him, he realizes something.
The blanket.
The blanket was tucked around him.
It's impossible, he knows it, but as he walks to his car and starts it, he looks back at the house and shakes his head.
Maybe she is here. And if she is, maybe she really will always look out for him.