For Shecka. Not really sure what to call this, but I hope you like it!
Series: Person of Interest
Pairing (sorta? mostly implication, more of a pre-actual pairing thing?): Reese/Fusco
Rating: T (I guess. I’m never good with this rating thing. Whatever you’d rate the show itself is what I was going for.)
Summary: Reese has had a rough day. So he visits Lionel to crash on his couch.
It had been another one of “those” numbers. Stubborn-ass kid wanting to get out of a bad situation but not letting anyone help. And it got ten times worse when it was revealed that the Russian gangs were involved. Typical. Thankfully, the kid escaped well enough, got to Grand Central, and got out of town. And John Reese had the bruises, scrapes, bullet holes, and blood stains in his suit to prove it. He was so glad that he could report to Finch that it was over so he could go home and just lie down and sleep.
Of course, the gash in his side that he “forgot” to tell Finch about had something else to say about that plan.
So, instead of finding a way back to his own place with a bleeding side and hoping that he wouldn’t pass out at the door, he opted for a closer venue. Sure, it required some sneaking around alleyways, climbing a fire escape, and hoping the kid wasn’t there for the day. But it would be safer. And the couch wasn’t too bad, either.
John clambered his way up the metal ladders and platforms to reach the fifth floor. There was a light on in another room. Pressing his ear to the glass, he could tell that the television was on. Sounded like it was an old Western movie or something, judging by the gunshots accompanied by horse whinnies. John carefully opened the window, trying his best to not leave blood or fingerprints on it, and gently stepped in. Or, it would have been gentle if he hadn’t stepped on a shoe and landed face first into the other one. Just as he was regaining his composure, he looked up and found himself staring at the barrel of a Glock. The light flipped on.
"Jesus, Mary and Joseph! If ya wanted to come in, you coulda come through the front and just knocked. Geez." Lionel Fusco holstered his sidearm and helped John up. "What brings you here at this time a night? Be thankful it’s a Thursday… What the hell happened to you?!" he exclaimed, noticing that a good section of his usually white shirt had turned red. Just as John was about to answer, Lionel stopped him. "Forget it. Don’t wanna know. It’s you.” He then motioned for John to follow and led him to the bathroom. “Cop a seat on the john. First aid kit’s behind the mirror.” John sat on the toilet and removed his jacket.
"So, the detective is now a doctor, huh?" he quipped, as he started to unbutton his shirt. Lionel gave a small chuckle.
"Nah. Just the dad of a kid who wants to go into the NHL." Lionel grabbed the kit and set it on the sink. Opening it, he had pretty much all he’d need. Bandages, antibiotic ointment, gauze, even some thread and a needle for stitching, if necessary. He glanced over at John. Yeah. Definitely needed stitching.
"Don’t think now’s really the time to be ogling, Lionel. Unless you’re into this kinda thing…" John teasingly said with a smirk, raising an eyebrow. Lionel looked at him with a start.
"No, I was just… assessing the damage." He cleared his throat and grabbed a towel, soaked it in warm water, and started cleaning the wound. John winced and hissed. "It’s not like I started with the antibiotic stuff. This is just water. Relax."
"I’m not really the relaxing type," John replied through clenched teeth. He guessed that that sniper guy was better than he’d thought. Or it was the swift hit from the kickboxer on the same side. Or both.
Lionel finished mopping up most of the excess blood and put the towel back in the sink. He cleaned the wound with the ointment which was answered by more wincing and hissing and Lionel quipping that John’s being whinier than his nine-year-old kid. He then got the needle and thread. Then he just stared at John. He didn’t know how to do this. Stitching up a torn shirt was one thing. But a person? John could tell that Lionel was unsure of himself.
"You don’t have to do it. I can handle it. Done it before," John offered. But Lionel shook his head.
"Nah. It’s a weird angle. And you’re a lefty." John raised his eyebrow at that. "What? I notice these things, alright?"
"Alright. Then let me talk you through it. Best if you knelt down." Lionel got on his knees next to him. "Now, start by threading the needle…"
After ten minutes of what should have taken two, Lionel successfully stitched up John’s side. It wasn’t pretty, but it did the job. Lionel then grabbed up John’s shirt and jacket and started to exit the bathroom.
"What are you doing with those?" John asked pointedly. Lionel craned his head around.
"I’m gonna make a quilt out of ‘em. Whaddya think, Einstein?" He left the bathroom and John went ahead and bandaged the rest of his smaller wounds.
"Make sure to read the laundry tags on those, Lionel!" John called. He got a muffled "yeah, yeah" in response.
Lionel put some detergent on the shirt itself to try and lift some of the blood out. Also made sure to turn the washer to cold water. While looking at the shirt, he couldn’t help but notice other holes that had been stitched up. Other shots he’d barely escaped. Other near-death fights. He wondered just exactly what John had been through over the years. Not just in the time he’s known him. Before all that. What was he like? What all did he see? What places had he been to? Who all else had he shot or killed in the past? And then he wondered to himself why he even cared to know? It was like he said when John fell into his apartment. He didn’t want to know. Not really.
The shirt was washer safe, thankfully. Just a plain old dress shirt. The jacket was another matter. Some fancy-shmancy dry-clean-only nonsense that Glasses Guy must’ve bought him. Luckily, his old college roommate sent him a bag of those dry-clean as-seen-on-TV ball things. Worked on his own trousers, so it would work on John’s jacket. Just then, there was a slight noise coming from the kitchen. A tinkling sound followed by what was probably muffled cursing. Once Lionel was sure the shirt wasn’t being torn apart by the washer, he went to investigate.
Mr. half-dressed and half-bandaged had tried getting a glass down. And failed. Thankfully it was just some cheap glassware he bought at a department store ages ago. John was trying to sweep it up, but Lionel stopped him, putting a hand on his shoulder. John looked up at him. Lionel gave a small smile and nodded that he’d take care of it. John then stood back up, allowing Lionel to clean the mess. Once that was done, he poured John a glass of water himself.
"Hydration’s important after losing all that. I mean, I’m sure you already knew that, but… y’know," Lionel stated, stammering a little. He caught sight of John’s bare chest again. He wasn’t sure what to think. God, how could someone even LOOK like that? That’s what it was - jealousy. That’s all. He was just jealous that John looked like a half-mummified Adonis right now.
"Right. Thanks," John replied stiffly. Which probably only added to Lionel’s sudden awkwardness. But John didn’t really mind that Lionel was clearly staring at him. He actually welcomed the attention. Not that he’d say anything aloud about it. Not that he wouldn’t. Just that Lionel would think he was kidding.
"Ya wanna sit down?" Lionel asked, motioning toward the living room. John nodded, and they walked in together. John sort of plopped down on the couch and immediately regretted it. Quick motions were not favorable for a body that was as injured as his was. "You alright?" Lionel asked concerned. John nodded, setting his glass on the coffee table.
"Yeah. Peachy." Lionel didn’t believe him, but didn’t say anything. Instead, he just sat down on the other side of the couch. Mostly ‘cause it was the only other seat in there. Lee broke his other armchair with his hockey stick the other day. The old Western was still on the screen. Paused, ‘cause of the clatter John made coming in. The faint sound of the buzzing washing machine could be heard in the distance. It was almost meditative. The fatigue of the fights and blood loss were finally getting to John. Adrenaline was wearing off. Lionel noticed.
"You sure you’re alright?" he asked. John sleepily looked over at him. He gave a — and Lionel couldn’t believe it — sweet smile back. He started to move, like he wanted to sit closer together, or just wanted the pillow in the middle of the couch. But he started to lean over and was about to land on the side they’d just stitched up. Lionel quickly scooched over and met him halfway, John’s head landing on Lionel’s shoulder. John let out a small, quiet laugh.
"You really do care," he said softly, and slowly fell asleep. Right there on Lionel’s shoulder. He couldn’t believe it. The rough-and-tumble, shoot-first-ask-questions-later, walking enigma badass John whatever-his-last-name-is was asleep. On his shoulder. And… it was actually kind of comfy.
So, Lionel let him sleep. He did want to finish his movie, though. So, he turned down the volume, just enough so he could still hear, and unpaused. He then moved his arm so it was a little more comfortable, making it so that John was resting against the crook of his shoulder, and his arm was around John’s shoulders.
If someone had told Lionel that the guy he’d called the bane of his existence would ever be peacefully asleep in his arms on his couch a few weeks ago, hell, even two hours ago, he’d have called them nuts, along with a few other choice words. But, since that’s really what was happening?
It was nice. No way in hell he’d admit it aloud though.
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- theasylumsabyss said: Oh my god, Jackie it’s fantastic! I can’t believe you took the time to write it. Thank you so much! I love it :)
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