Work Text:
Back in 2010, in less than twenty-four hours, you lost your best friend, your fiancée, your health, your worldview, and your entire way of life.
In the months that followed, you watched dozens of innocent people die -- you would say ‘countless,’ but you know the count by heart. All the information and resources you’d had at your disposal couldn’t stop the count from increasing, day by day.
Trying to solve the problem, you’d accepted the risk of hiring Dillinger… and then, before the year was out, you’d been betrayed by him, seen him executed… buried his body with your own cold and shaking hands.
As you break bread with John, you reflect on the difference that a couple of years can make. In the past months you’ve seen only a handful of innocent people die on your watch -- unavoidable tragedies that still weigh on you, but that you can’t chalk up to any failure on the part of either one of you. You’ve been stepping up your game, writing new algorithms to make the research process more efficient, to cut down on the time it takes to give Reese the info he needs. Reese, in turn, has proven nothing short of miraculous in his quest to prove himself to you.
Only a few weeks ago, he brought you a newspaper just to point out that while the rate of violent crime in New York City has remained fairly steady (with a surprisingly high rate of knee injuries, the article didn’t say), the rate of murder has hit a five-year low. Given John’s success at (mostly) kicking his alcohol habit, you felt comfortable celebrating with champagne.
And tonight, after a long and strenuous day, after the successful close of not one but three cases that ended up tied together in an unexpected way, you’re sharing dinner at the library, quietly enjoying each other’s company. Gyros, with tzatziki sauce -- a delightful spiced yogurt with cucumber. Fries with feta cheese all over them, one of the few dishes that you don’t mind being a little messy with. And, of course, a cup of your Sencha Green to close the day.
The conversation has dwindled as you work on refueling. As you finish the gyros, you meet John’s gaze and match his sleepy smile; it’s probably past time for you to turn in. Normally, despite being an early riser, you’d stay up past midnight working on code or running upkeep on your various aliases, but tonight--
--has it really been that tiring of a day? More complicated, certainly, with a bit more running around at the last minute, but you’ve come back from similar missions all keyed up and ready to get a little more work done. You’re not feeling too bad; your back is a little sore, but, otherwise, you’re no worse than your normal level of chronic discomfort. And even that has kind of faded beneath this odd contentment that is fuzzing at your brain.
When you pick up your tea for another sip, your hand pauses in mid-air, and starts to tremble. You can feel -- there’s a weakness there, a lack of energy as your body starts to shut down, and you -- you know this feeling, you’ve been overcome by it before, not once but twice. Both were faster than this, but… it’s the same process, the same…
You set the tea down again, your head reeling as you try to work it out. Nobody could have drugged the food; both of you make it a point to never develop a routine when it comes to ordering food, and John picked up the food himself, so it isn’t the delivery boy. So it could be… gas, somebody in the library -- is John feeling the same, you have to, to get out -- you open your mouth to warn John--
But then you look at John watching you, and your stomach sinks.
It’s the tea, isn’t it? It’s the same as with Dillinger. You let your guard down and accepted a treat from the hand of someone you thought you could trust, and now--
Feeling sick, you stagger to your feet, part of you knowing it’s useless at this point, but the other part just wanting to put as much distance between you and Reese as possible, to get away--
--the stairs are, they’re so far from the table, they’re--
--you stumble, and catch yourself against the bookshelf, and find that it’s, it’s hard to keep moving your feet forward, to--
--and as the world is tilting and you’re tumbling toward the floor you fall into strong arms, holding you up, keeping you from getting hurt. Dillinger just, he just let you fall, he didn’t care, but Reese… he’s holding you now, and you struggle in his arms, weakly trying to get away, just-- just let go--
As the darkness is folding in around you like a blanket, you look up into his eyes (so close, too close) and try to give voice to a single word:
“Why?”