Three by Homeric

Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me

Three times Joss let John go, and one time she didn't.

She doesn't run down the stairs to the garage, she slips and slides, the steps slick with what she knows is blood. Her heart hammering against her ribs, her gun heavy in her hand (God, had it always been this unfamiliar or was it just the memory of the bullets slamming into Reese that made it so strange in her hand, despite the way it curved into her palm as though it was supposed to be there?). Oh to have conviction, and she did, she did. Carter could hold her head up and snarl with the best of them â€“ she's seen war, she's raised her cub right. She's a lioness. She does what's right.

She doesn't falter when she sees the short man, the panic in his eyes amplified by his glasses. He's holding the taller man up. Perhaps propping him up would be more accurate. There's blood on the concrete, on his shirt and when she looks at Reese his skin is so pale that she almost takes a step backwards.

But there is no time for that. Take him in or let him go.

No. Not much of a choice. She pushes John into the car, those long limbs and wide shoulders utterly graceless, his skin parchment white. His eyes are clouded with pain but even though he can't say anything she knows that he's trying to tell her that it's ok. That she shouldn't be doing this. When they are gone Joss throws up , wipes her mouth with a tissue from her pocket and does her best to keep it together when the SWAT team arrive.

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There's a photo in her pocket and she doesn't know what to do with it.

It's a memory that doesn't belong to her, and the blonde with the lovely smile is long since dead. The man with his arms around her is sort of/a little bit like the man that had saved her life. The colour of his eyes are the same, basic physiognomy... The man in the photo is different now.

Part of her physically aches to know how much it must hurt Reese to bow his head and accept the burden of being responsible for the lives of people who will never even know his name. But when she takes the picture out of her pocket Joss hides it in the cupboard that houses dead batteries and DIY paraphernalia that her husband never got around to using.

There isn't a way of making things better and Joss knows better than to try.

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Taylor thinks that John is a superhero, or at least some sort of guardian angel.

Joss is not impressed.

She's fought for her country, fought to be taken seriously as a detective and brought her son up on her own, thanks very much. Ridiculously attractive tall men who swan in and attempt to take control are not a father substitute.

Even if they save your life.

Or look out for your son.

She's absolutely fine on her own, and she absolutely doesn't wish that he had stayed when he delivered her son back home after getting abducted.

When she says goodbye she isn't even sure that he hears her.

She resists the urge to recite every swear word she knows on the off chance someone is listening.

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Carter spent so long saying "no" that when she says "yes" she's not sure whether she or Reese is more surprised.

The odd thing is that when he walked her to the door of her apartment and asked her if he wanted to check under the bed for bugs Harold might have put there, letting in a trained killer didn't so much as flicker on her radar when it came to bad ideas. Reese meant it as a joke, Carter took it as an invitation.

Joss isn't stupid. Taylor was staying with friends; and oh God thank the Lord for that. She knows where her gun is, she knows how to use it, and she knows that she won't be able to get to it if Reese doesn't want her to. It should be frightening. She wonders why it isn't.

But still. She didn't expect John to be so hesitant when he unbuttoned her shirt, those long, clever fingers gentle as he traced her ribcage and sliding down further. She didn't think that when he was inside her, his breath hot and ragged against her neck that she would feel protective. He was so very careful with her, making sure that she came first, holding back even when she knew that he wanted to let go that she wanted to smack him upside the head and just tell him to fuck her. But when he curled up beside her, that big beautiful body marked with scars of things she didn't want to think about it was enough just to look at him and sooth him through whatever nightmares threaten what little peace he can find.

When she asks him to stay he does, one arm around her waist, the other brushing the Glock he hid beneath the mattress when she went to the bathroom.