Six ficlets
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sholio hosted a "Happy Distracting Comment Fest" over on DW, and I filled a few prompts... collecting them here 'cause they're short.
The Kitchen Sink
Castiel looked down at his offering in bewilderment. "What's wrong with it?"
"What's—" Dean flung his hands up. "Those things ain't even fit to be called food, and you've contaminated a perfectly good pizza with 'em!"
"Dean," Sam chided.
Castiel wilted a little. "I didn't know what you like, so I got everything."
If anything, that exasperated Dean even further. "You coulda called and ASKED!"
"Dean," Sam and Bobby repeated.
Dean huffed loudly but stopped yelling.
"Ease up on 'im, son," said Bobby. "He's tryin'. We'll just hafta chalk this'n up to a learning experience."
Gabriel took pity on his crestfallen little brother and removed the offending topping with a snap of his fingers.
"Thanks," Dean said grudgingly, took a piece of pizza, and stalked off to eat it on the porch.
Sam took his own piece with an apologetic grimace and followed his brother.
"I didn't know," Castiel said mournfully.
"Well, you wouldn't," said Gabriel. "You've never used your taste buds before this assignment. So, lesson learned: never order Dean a pizza with anchovies."
The Red Book
The last pages are for you, Sam.
Sam ran his hand over the red leather of the book on his desk. Mr. Bilbo had started it, telling of his journey to the Lonely Mountain and back. Frodo had filled many more pages with the story of the Fellowship and the War of the Ring, having heard most of the rest of the group's adventures while they were still in Minas Tirith. (It was a mercy Frodo had been able to relearn how to hold a pen once Strider and Master Elrond had healed his poor hand as far as they could.) And Sam had managed to fill in the story of the trip to the Grey Havens and back, but for decades, he hadn't been able to write any more.
"Well, I'm back," he said.
The thing was, Sam was a fair hand at writing poetry--at least Frodo had said so when Sam had dared to recite a few of his own verses while they were on the road--but he didn't feel he was a match for Frodo and Mr. Bilbo when it came to prose. And what more did he have to tell about his life, anyway? There hadn't been any more grand adventures since he'd come home... the odd royal visit to the north when Strider had invited Sam, Merry, and Pippin and their families to come see him and Queen Arwen in Annúminas, true, and the one time Sam and Rosie took Elanor to Minas Tirith for a year, but beyond that, it was all babies and weddings and festivals and elections and settling minor disputes. There were no more dragons or battles or any of the things that graced the pages he'd long since memorized from reading them over and over to his bairns.
All the same, he was ninety-six years old now and retired from being Mayor. Mr. Frodo had told him to fill those last pages, and it was high time he got on and did it.
He just... didn't know how.
Rosie came into the study and put a hand on his shoulder. "Writer's block again, Sam?"
"I'm afraid so." He sighed and reached up to squeeze her hand without looking away from the book. "What is there left to say? Our lives have been so full, and yet... our troubles have been so small since the War."
"Well, maybe it isn't the story you need to add."
He looked up at her, confused.
"In all this time," she continued, "I've learned the stories of the War all separately, as Mr. Frodo told them, but I've had a terrible time keeping track of what happened when. If you could sort out what was happening on each day when you were all separated, and maybe give a... a chronicle or summat with what came before, it would be a good deal of help to the reader, and then at the end you could add a short chronicle of what's come since."
"A chronicle," he echoed thoughtfully and nodded. He'd need to do a fair bit of research for the early parts, but... yes, a chronicle would be far easier than a tale. All he'd need to include were the big moments, not the little everyday conversations that he couldn't even remember anymore. He nodded again, more decisively. "I can do that. Thanks, love."
She kissed him and left. He opened the book to a blank page, reached for his pen, and wrote the title before the idea could leave him:
The Tale of Years
By Samwise Gamgee
The GPS Blues
A/N: Gapfiller for 2.02 "Bad Code." Based on a true story.
John didn't know whether the GPS of the rental car was on the fritz or whether the Machine was sending them to Bishop, Texas, the long way to satisfy the code that blocked it from helping Finch directly. He definitely didn't understand why the only flight he'd been able to get had been to Houston when the Machine knew perfectly well that the article about Hannah Frey's disappearance had been in the Corpus Christi paper. Whatever the case was, there had to be a more sensible route from Houston to Bishop than the way the GPS was directing them, down back roads through rice fields rather than along the main highways. Even major construction work shouldn't have prompted this kind of detour.
At least East Texas was green. If they'd had to start from El Paso or Odessa, John didn't know if he'd have been able to stand the barrenness of the scenery.
"Do you even know where we're going?" Carter asked sharply.
"Would you rather drive?" John returned.
She huffed.
A few miles later, a town came into view. John's heart leapt... but his hopes were quickly dashed when the city limits sign became legible.
"We're in Egypt!*" Carter yelped as they passed it.
John wrestled down the aggravated growl that he wanted to direct toward the Machine. Instead, he managed to note mildly, "Cairo sure has changed since the last time I was here."
Carter smacked his arm—but then laughed, and the tension in the car eased.
---
* There really is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town called Egypt in Wharton County. It's the sort of place you have to be looking for to find--unless your GPS is acting up. (It's also way out of the way if you're going from Houston to Bishop, which is southwest of Corpus.)
The Perils of Suburbia
A/N: Gapfiller for 2.06 "The High Road." Surely Graham's hearings took more than two days....
With Graham Wyler's life saved and his former crew safely in police custody awaiting trial, John and Zoe were just discussing how much longer to stay in "their" house in Far Rockaway when there was a knock at the door. John's hand automatically went to his sidearm, but a look from Zoe stopped him from actually drawing it. They answered the door to discover a mother and a girl who looked to be about six standing on the doorstep.
"Hi, Mr. an' Mrs. Campbell!" the girl began with a bright smile and an air of having practiced a speech. "May I use your back yard for my birfday party?"
John and Zoe looked at each other in bewilderment. "Uh," said Zoe.
"We live three doors down," the mother explained, "but we have a pool, and one of the other moms is... a little paranoid about the risk of drowning. It's a long story. So I said we'd see if we could find another venue."
"Well... um." Zoe looked at John again, as if he had any experience in such matters.
"We've already bought all the decorations and everything," the mother continued, sounding a little desperate. "I mean, if you want to help out with, like, grilling and stuff and maybe arrange some kind of entertainment, that'd be great, but... you don't have to."
"We... might be out of town on business this weekend," said John, half hoping for another number to come up and give him an excuse for saying no.
"It's next weekend!" the girl chimed in. "I promise we won't mess up your house or be mean to your dog! Pleeeeease?"
John's resolve wavered. "Well...."
"We can pay in Girl Scout cookies," the mother pleaded.
John and Zoe looked at each other again and sighed in defeat.
"You want me to what?!" Fusco exploded quietly. They were in the break room at the Eighth, so they had to keep their voices down... or at least John and Fusco did. Carter hadn't stopped laughing since John first mentioned the party.
"Help me come up with some kind of entertainment," John repeated. "Finch didn't have a clue, and it's not like I can ask Leon. Surely you went through this kind of thing with Lee."
"My ex went through it with Lee. When he turned six, I was tied up on a homicide and hadn't slept for thirty-six hours. I think that's one reason she ditched me."
Both men looked at Carter for help, but she shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm not bailin' you out of this one. Either of you."
Fusco's mouth flattened into an irritated line. "What do you want me to do, show up as Koko the Clown?"
John shrugged his eyebrows. "It'd suit you, Lionel."
Carter laughed even harder.
Fusco heaved an aggravated sigh. "Look, you're s'posed to be some kinda home security salesman, right? How 'bout I have a word with McGruff the Crime Dog?"
Carter pointed to him and nodded. "Now, that sounds like a good idea."
John looked at them both warily. "Are you sure? Bringing in an outsider...."
Carter waved off his objection. "Far Rockaway's got their own McGruff. They're not exactly on the lookout for 'the Man in the Suit.'"
"Especially not one who's married to a hot broad like Zoe Morgan," Fusco teased.
John rolled his eyes and resigned himself to not having backup.
And so it was that the following weekend, John found himself grilling hot dogs and hamburgers for a backyard full of squealing six-year-olds while Zoe mingled with the moms and McGruff escaped into the house to cool off out of sight of the party. Far Rockaway's McGruff, it turned out, was the father of one of the girls who'd been invited to the party, as well as an old friend of Fusco's, and he'd been more than happy to come tell the kids how to "take a bite out of crime" with Bear as an enthusiastic sidekick. But now he'd finished his spiel and was about to be finished off by the heat building up in the furry costume, so John turned the grill over to one of the other dads and followed McGruff inside to get both of them something colder to drink than the kids' punch, in which the lime sherbet had completely melted about an hour earlier.
In the safety of the living room, McGruff pulled off his head and gloves with a sigh of relief and accepted the cold pop John handed him. "Thanks for doing this, Mr. Campbell," he said. "I've been wanting a chance to speak to the kids, but the elementary school has a new principal who hates cops. It's hard enough to get in the door as myself, never mind as McGruff."
"Thought Far Rockaway didn't have much crime," John noted and took a drink of his own pop.
McGruff shook his head. "Even the sleepiest suburbs have their share of dark secrets. Might not make it to the police blotter, but it's out there. And there's a lot I don't know in a sense that would stand up in court, but I still know there's something going on, y'know?"
John did know and had an uncomfortable sense that there might be a reason the Machine hadn't told Finch to shut things down out here and bring John and Zoe back to the city quite yet.
The two men had just finished their pop when there was a knock at the front door, followed by Fusco letting himself in. "Hey," he said.
"Lionel!" John replied. "What brings you out here?"
Fusco shrugged. "I heard there were Girl Scout cookies."
John laughed. "This way." He motioned for Fusco to follow him and held his smile until they were in the kitchen. Then he murmured, "Why are you really here?"
Fusco's own smile faded. "Got a call from our mutual friend." He pulled out his phone and showed John a picture of the birthday girl's best friend. "Said he called me 'cause he thought you might need backup."
"Dammit." There was only one reason Finch would have sent Fusco that picture: the girl was a number, and that meant she was in danger.
Before he could ask for more details, though, Zoe came in with the girl in question, who was holding Zoe's hand and biting her lip anxiously. "It's okay," Zoe said softly, closing the door behind them. "You're safe here."
Fusco swiftly put his phone away as John went over to the new arrivals. "What's the trouble?" John prompted at the same volume.
"Can I talk to Mr. McGruff, please?" the girl asked in a barely audible whisper.
"Sure," said John. "I'll go get him, if you'll wait here a minute."
The girl glanced nervously at Fusco. "Can I come with you?"
"It'll only take a second," John promised. "This is Det. Fusco; he's a friend of McGruff's."
Joining them, Fusco crouched down to meet the girl's eyes and smiled. "Hi, sweetheart. What's your name?"
"Amy Sullivan," Amy replied but clung more tightly to Zoe's hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Amy. How old are you?"
"I'm six."
"Yeah? My son, he just turned ten."
Amy thawed a little under Fusco's gentle interrogation, and John stepped away and poked his head back into the living room. McGruff, having evidently heard at least a child's voice, already had his gloves back on; he nodded once to John and put his head on.
John turned back to the group by the kitchen door. "He's in the living room," he reported. "Wanna go in there to talk to him?"
Amy nodded, and as Fusco stood, Zoe escorted her through the kitchen and into the living room, where McGruff was waiting.
"McGruff, this is Amy," Zoe began. "She says there's something important she needs to talk to you about."
"Hello, Amy," said McGruff. "What can I do for you?"
"I saw something I wasn't s'posed to," Amy whispered. "My stepdad said he'd kill me if I told the police or anyone at school, but... but he didn't say I couldn't tell you."
On a sudden hunch, John backed away to the kitchen door while McGruff sat down on the couch to get Amy's whispered story. John turned just as his fear was realized and a masked, black-clad man jumped over the back fence. All the kids and most of the moms screamed.
John wrenched open the back door and barked, "Bear! Aanvallen!"
Bear, who had a pink balloon tied to his collar and had been merrily playing Tag with a smaller group of the kids, spun on a dime and leapt on the intruder with an open-mouthed snarl. The impact sent the intruder to the ground and forced him to drop his gun. John was on his way to subdue him when a second intruder came over the fence, so John had to leave the first to Bear and take down the second himself. Then a third man came over the fence, and John saw why Finch had sent Fusco. A fight ensued, during which the moms got the kids safely inside, but men and dog managed to render the hit squad harmless without a shot being fired by either side.
"Who the hell sends a hit squad after a six-year-old?" Fusco asked, tightening the cuffs on his prisoner.
John had knocked his man out, so he stripped the mask off and recognized the man's facial tattoos immediately. "MS-13," he reported. "Amy must have witnessed a gang deal of some kind."
Just then, backup from Far Rockaway PD arrived, and John called Bear off the first intruder, who'd been spewing Spanish profanities without regard to children's ears. As the police left, so did the partygoers, although the birthday girl's mom promised to come back later to help clean up.
"Is Amy safe?" John asked Zoe and McGruff as he came back into the house.
Zoe nodded as McGruff pulled off his costume head again. "She's staying with her dad this weekend," McGruff stated, "and we've got a good case for making it permanent, considering that her stepdad's been dealing drugs. We're lucky those thugs didn't settle for a drive-by. With Amy's testimony, though, we should be able to put them, her stepdad, and some other names on the Most Wanted list away for a good long time."
John nodded. "Appreciate your help."
"Hey, no problem. That's what I'm here for." McGruff shook hands all around, gave Bear a farewell pat, and left.
Zoe took a deep breath and let it out again. "Well! Never a dull moment around this place." She turned to Fusco. "Wanna help us finish off the birthday cake?"
"No thanks," said Fusco. "I think I'll head back to The Bronx, where it's safer."
John snorted and handed him a box of Thin Mints, which he accepted with a chuckle and left.
"Think I should add this to my list of reasons for the divorce," Zoe snarked as the front door closed.
John laughed and got out the Scotch.
Bonfire Night
November 5, 2015
"Isn't this a British tradition?" Ms. Shaw asked as she heaved her burden onto the pile.
"Humor me," said John and slammed a stack of pallets into place.
Harold understood. New York—indeed, the world—had gone through harrowing times in the last four years and had come perilously close to the sort of upheaval that would have resulted had Guy Fawkes actually lit the fuse in 1605. So when John had suggested that they all come out here to have a bonfire, Harold had agreed that it might be cathartic, although he had drawn the line at actual effigies. He'd suggested the compromise of painting names on boards, which Taylor Carter and Lee Fusco were now busily doing. (The name "Guy Fawkes" was not among them, despite the date; this exercise was purely personal.)
Harold had supplied the location, far enough upstate that no one would ask questions. Elias had supplied the wood, and Mr. Marconi was bickering good-naturedly with Det. Fusco as the two of them helped John and Ms. Shaw build the bonfire. Ms. Groves was minding the torch--which Det. Fusco had grumbled about being a serious error in judgment, but she was on her best behavior so far--while Det. Carter, Ms. Morgan, and Grace looked after the thermos jugs of tea, coffee, and cocoa and chatted about the weather. And Harold sat by in a camp chair, petting Bear's head and watching the proceedings.
"You sure one torch is enough?" Elias asked, sitting down beside him in a camp chair of his own.
"Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw each brought several large cans of kerosene," Harold replied. "I believe it will be quite enough for the fire to catch."
Elias chuckled. "Leave it to the professionals, huh?"
Harold smiled at him, amused.
After a moment, Elias' smile dimmed slightly. "I'm not sure I ever said thank you."
Harold blinked in surprise. "For what?"
"Everything. Saving my life, saving Anthony's life, helping us take down Dominic, hiding us from Samaritan. Being probably the best chess partner I'll ever have." Elias looked at him steadily. "I owe you and John more than I can ever repay."
"Your own aid has been invaluable the last year or so," Harold admitted. "So I'm not sure the ledger is as unbalanced as you think."
"Still. I'm grateful."
"As am I."
They sat in silence a while until the bonfire was finished and John, Ms. Shaw, and Mr. Marconi set about soaking it thoroughly with kerosene. They finished about the same time the boys finished the signs, which the fire builders then placed: Mr. Marconi the one labeled Dominic, Det. Fusco HR, Ms. Shaw Decima, and John Samaritan. Then they stepped back, and John motioned to Ms. Groves, who picked up the torch and started toward the bonfire... but stopped.
"No," she said, turned, and held the torch out toward Harold. "You do the honors, Harry."
Harold hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly and let Elias help him up. He accepted the torch from Ms. Groves with a brief smile, but as he limped toward the bonfire, the memories of everything that had happened in the recent past crowded around him like ghosts, the more so the longer he stared at the Samaritan sign, which John had hung at Harold's own eye level. Suddenly overwhelmed with grief and rage, Harold thrust the blazing torch into the pyre just below the sign and felt a vicious glee when both the dry sign and the wetted wood around it caught fire immediately.
"That's for Arthur," he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek, "and for us, and for what you did to Grace." He paused, then added even more softly, "And for the Machine."
John touched Harold's back, which prompted him to step back from the growing inferno. Then he sensed someone else beside him, and he turned straight into a hug from Grace. When she finally let him go, she and John guided him back to his seat, where Bear licked the tears off his face. Harold spluttered and wiped his face with his handkerchief, and everyone else laughed, which lightened the mood considerably. Ms. Morgan began distributing drinks, and the boys, no longer on sign duty, dug into the crateload of snacks that Grace had brought. Ms. Shaw tried to eat a cupcake whole and nearly managed it; the remainder fell on the ground, and Bear snarfed it down before Harold could stop him. Mr. Marconi, meanwhile, disappeared into the darkness and returned with a case of beer, of which Elias, Ms. Shaw, and himself partook.
"I took a video for you-know-who," Ms. Groves told Harold. "She said to tell you, 'Good job and thank you.'"
Harold could only smile, and John rubbed his shoulder in understanding.
The fire reached the HR sign at that point, and Det. Fusco and Det. Carter, who had drifted toward each other while watching tensely, sighed and relaxed and toasted each other with their cups of coffee. Then they joined the circle forming around Harold's chair, Joss walking into a side hug from John and Det. Fusco swiping the cupcake tray from his son to share around.
"Hey, you know somethin'?" Det. Fusco asked, offering the tray to John. "This really was a good idea."
John smiled and raised a cupcake in salute, and as Grace put an arm around Harold's shoulders, Harold relaxed against her with a smile of his own.
Olden Times and Ancient Rhymes
December 2015
"We're here, Finch," John called as he reached the entrance to the park with Det. Carter by his side. "Where's the number?"
"I'm not sure," Harold admitted. "Ms. Shaw is checking the other side of the park, but he may be on the ice already. It might be wise for the two of you to join the skaters in case the threat is there."
John balked slightly, but Det. Carter, shooting Harold a knowing look, said, "C'mon, John. We can get across the ice faster if we've already got skates on, and we'll look less suspicious that way, too."
John looked suspiciously at both of them but then huffed and smiled. "Okay."
The three of them made their way through the festive crowd to the brightly-lit skating rink, where John rented skates for himself and Det. Carter and Harold found a bench with a good view from which to watch. It wasn't long before his friends joined the other couples circulating on the ice, with the occasional bobble as they got their feet under them. And it didn't take many laps before Harold could hear not only Joss' laughter but also--oh, rarest of treasures--John's free, delighted laughter as well.
Harold's attention was drawn away from them by a steaming cup of cocoa being pressed into his hands as the one person who could make the evening perfect sat down beside him with a smile. His own smile broadened, and he leaned against her slightly in thanks.
"There isn't a number, is there?" Grace asked.
"Oh, there is," Harold replied, marveling anew that she had accepted the truth with such an abundance of the virtue for which she was named. "Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw are handling it. I just thought... after everything...." He looked out to where John and Joss were spinning each other around and grinning at each other with shining eyes. "They deserve this."
Grace nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, they do."
They sat and watched and drank their cocoa while John and Joss all but danced on the ice for the better part of an hour until Ms. Shaw reported that the threat had been neutralized. John and Joss spoke to each other for a moment and finished their current lap before stopping at the exit nearest to Harold and Grace, but before they left the ice, John paused and kissed Joss, and she kissed him back.
"Do you have dinner plans?" Grace asked.
"Reservation for four at the Grand," Harold answered, giving her a sidelong look.
"Sounds perfect." She grinned and kissed him.
"Only for four?" Ms. Shaw asked in his ear.
"Good night, Ms. Shaw," Harold replied, shut off his earwig, and kissed Grace back.
sholio hosted a "Happy Distracting Comment Fest" over on DW, and I filled a few prompts... collecting them here 'cause they're short.Castiel looked down at his offering in bewilderment. "What's wrong with it?"
"What's—" Dean flung his hands up. "Those things ain't even fit to be called food, and you've contaminated a perfectly good pizza with 'em!"
"Dean," Sam chided.
Castiel wilted a little. "I didn't know what you like, so I got everything."
If anything, that exasperated Dean even further. "You coulda called and ASKED!"
"Dean," Sam and Bobby repeated.
Dean huffed loudly but stopped yelling.
"Ease up on 'im, son," said Bobby. "He's tryin'. We'll just hafta chalk this'n up to a learning experience."
Gabriel took pity on his crestfallen little brother and removed the offending topping with a snap of his fingers.
"Thanks," Dean said grudgingly, took a piece of pizza, and stalked off to eat it on the porch.
Sam took his own piece with an apologetic grimace and followed his brother.
"I didn't know," Castiel said mournfully.
"Well, you wouldn't," said Gabriel. "You've never used your taste buds before this assignment. So, lesson learned: never order Dean a pizza with anchovies."
The last pages are for you, Sam.
Sam ran his hand over the red leather of the book on his desk. Mr. Bilbo had started it, telling of his journey to the Lonely Mountain and back. Frodo had filled many more pages with the story of the Fellowship and the War of the Ring, having heard most of the rest of the group's adventures while they were still in Minas Tirith. (It was a mercy Frodo had been able to relearn how to hold a pen once Strider and Master Elrond had healed his poor hand as far as they could.) And Sam had managed to fill in the story of the trip to the Grey Havens and back, but for decades, he hadn't been able to write any more.
"Well, I'm back," he said.
The thing was, Sam was a fair hand at writing poetry--at least Frodo had said so when Sam had dared to recite a few of his own verses while they were on the road--but he didn't feel he was a match for Frodo and Mr. Bilbo when it came to prose. And what more did he have to tell about his life, anyway? There hadn't been any more grand adventures since he'd come home... the odd royal visit to the north when Strider had invited Sam, Merry, and Pippin and their families to come see him and Queen Arwen in Annúminas, true, and the one time Sam and Rosie took Elanor to Minas Tirith for a year, but beyond that, it was all babies and weddings and festivals and elections and settling minor disputes. There were no more dragons or battles or any of the things that graced the pages he'd long since memorized from reading them over and over to his bairns.
All the same, he was ninety-six years old now and retired from being Mayor. Mr. Frodo had told him to fill those last pages, and it was high time he got on and did it.
He just... didn't know how.
Rosie came into the study and put a hand on his shoulder. "Writer's block again, Sam?"
"I'm afraid so." He sighed and reached up to squeeze her hand without looking away from the book. "What is there left to say? Our lives have been so full, and yet... our troubles have been so small since the War."
"Well, maybe it isn't the story you need to add."
He looked up at her, confused.
"In all this time," she continued, "I've learned the stories of the War all separately, as Mr. Frodo told them, but I've had a terrible time keeping track of what happened when. If you could sort out what was happening on each day when you were all separated, and maybe give a... a chronicle or summat with what came before, it would be a good deal of help to the reader, and then at the end you could add a short chronicle of what's come since."
"A chronicle," he echoed thoughtfully and nodded. He'd need to do a fair bit of research for the early parts, but... yes, a chronicle would be far easier than a tale. All he'd need to include were the big moments, not the little everyday conversations that he couldn't even remember anymore. He nodded again, more decisively. "I can do that. Thanks, love."
She kissed him and left. He opened the book to a blank page, reached for his pen, and wrote the title before the idea could leave him:
The Tale of Years
By Samwise Gamgee
A/N: Gapfiller for 2.02 "Bad Code." Based on a true story.
John didn't know whether the GPS of the rental car was on the fritz or whether the Machine was sending them to Bishop, Texas, the long way to satisfy the code that blocked it from helping Finch directly. He definitely didn't understand why the only flight he'd been able to get had been to Houston when the Machine knew perfectly well that the article about Hannah Frey's disappearance had been in the Corpus Christi paper. Whatever the case was, there had to be a more sensible route from Houston to Bishop than the way the GPS was directing them, down back roads through rice fields rather than along the main highways. Even major construction work shouldn't have prompted this kind of detour.
At least East Texas was green. If they'd had to start from El Paso or Odessa, John didn't know if he'd have been able to stand the barrenness of the scenery.
"Do you even know where we're going?" Carter asked sharply.
"Would you rather drive?" John returned.
She huffed.
A few miles later, a town came into view. John's heart leapt... but his hopes were quickly dashed when the city limits sign became legible.
"We're in Egypt!*" Carter yelped as they passed it.
John wrestled down the aggravated growl that he wanted to direct toward the Machine. Instead, he managed to note mildly, "Cairo sure has changed since the last time I was here."
Carter smacked his arm—but then laughed, and the tension in the car eased.
---
* There really is a blink-and-you'll-miss-it town called Egypt in Wharton County. It's the sort of place you have to be looking for to find--unless your GPS is acting up. (It's also way out of the way if you're going from Houston to Bishop, which is southwest of Corpus.)
A/N: Gapfiller for 2.06 "The High Road." Surely Graham's hearings took more than two days....
With Graham Wyler's life saved and his former crew safely in police custody awaiting trial, John and Zoe were just discussing how much longer to stay in "their" house in Far Rockaway when there was a knock at the door. John's hand automatically went to his sidearm, but a look from Zoe stopped him from actually drawing it. They answered the door to discover a mother and a girl who looked to be about six standing on the doorstep.
"Hi, Mr. an' Mrs. Campbell!" the girl began with a bright smile and an air of having practiced a speech. "May I use your back yard for my birfday party?"
John and Zoe looked at each other in bewilderment. "Uh," said Zoe.
"We live three doors down," the mother explained, "but we have a pool, and one of the other moms is... a little paranoid about the risk of drowning. It's a long story. So I said we'd see if we could find another venue."
"Well... um." Zoe looked at John again, as if he had any experience in such matters.
"We've already bought all the decorations and everything," the mother continued, sounding a little desperate. "I mean, if you want to help out with, like, grilling and stuff and maybe arrange some kind of entertainment, that'd be great, but... you don't have to."
"We... might be out of town on business this weekend," said John, half hoping for another number to come up and give him an excuse for saying no.
"It's next weekend!" the girl chimed in. "I promise we won't mess up your house or be mean to your dog! Pleeeeease?"
John's resolve wavered. "Well...."
"We can pay in Girl Scout cookies," the mother pleaded.
John and Zoe looked at each other again and sighed in defeat.
"You want me to what?!" Fusco exploded quietly. They were in the break room at the Eighth, so they had to keep their voices down... or at least John and Fusco did. Carter hadn't stopped laughing since John first mentioned the party.
"Help me come up with some kind of entertainment," John repeated. "Finch didn't have a clue, and it's not like I can ask Leon. Surely you went through this kind of thing with Lee."
"My ex went through it with Lee. When he turned six, I was tied up on a homicide and hadn't slept for thirty-six hours. I think that's one reason she ditched me."
Both men looked at Carter for help, but she shook her head. "Oh, no. I'm not bailin' you out of this one. Either of you."
Fusco's mouth flattened into an irritated line. "What do you want me to do, show up as Koko the Clown?"
John shrugged his eyebrows. "It'd suit you, Lionel."
Carter laughed even harder.
Fusco heaved an aggravated sigh. "Look, you're s'posed to be some kinda home security salesman, right? How 'bout I have a word with McGruff the Crime Dog?"
Carter pointed to him and nodded. "Now, that sounds like a good idea."
John looked at them both warily. "Are you sure? Bringing in an outsider...."
Carter waved off his objection. "Far Rockaway's got their own McGruff. They're not exactly on the lookout for 'the Man in the Suit.'"
"Especially not one who's married to a hot broad like Zoe Morgan," Fusco teased.
John rolled his eyes and resigned himself to not having backup.
And so it was that the following weekend, John found himself grilling hot dogs and hamburgers for a backyard full of squealing six-year-olds while Zoe mingled with the moms and McGruff escaped into the house to cool off out of sight of the party. Far Rockaway's McGruff, it turned out, was the father of one of the girls who'd been invited to the party, as well as an old friend of Fusco's, and he'd been more than happy to come tell the kids how to "take a bite out of crime" with Bear as an enthusiastic sidekick. But now he'd finished his spiel and was about to be finished off by the heat building up in the furry costume, so John turned the grill over to one of the other dads and followed McGruff inside to get both of them something colder to drink than the kids' punch, in which the lime sherbet had completely melted about an hour earlier.
In the safety of the living room, McGruff pulled off his head and gloves with a sigh of relief and accepted the cold pop John handed him. "Thanks for doing this, Mr. Campbell," he said. "I've been wanting a chance to speak to the kids, but the elementary school has a new principal who hates cops. It's hard enough to get in the door as myself, never mind as McGruff."
"Thought Far Rockaway didn't have much crime," John noted and took a drink of his own pop.
McGruff shook his head. "Even the sleepiest suburbs have their share of dark secrets. Might not make it to the police blotter, but it's out there. And there's a lot I don't know in a sense that would stand up in court, but I still know there's something going on, y'know?"
John did know and had an uncomfortable sense that there might be a reason the Machine hadn't told Finch to shut things down out here and bring John and Zoe back to the city quite yet.
The two men had just finished their pop when there was a knock at the front door, followed by Fusco letting himself in. "Hey," he said.
"Lionel!" John replied. "What brings you out here?"
Fusco shrugged. "I heard there were Girl Scout cookies."
John laughed. "This way." He motioned for Fusco to follow him and held his smile until they were in the kitchen. Then he murmured, "Why are you really here?"
Fusco's own smile faded. "Got a call from our mutual friend." He pulled out his phone and showed John a picture of the birthday girl's best friend. "Said he called me 'cause he thought you might need backup."
"Dammit." There was only one reason Finch would have sent Fusco that picture: the girl was a number, and that meant she was in danger.
Before he could ask for more details, though, Zoe came in with the girl in question, who was holding Zoe's hand and biting her lip anxiously. "It's okay," Zoe said softly, closing the door behind them. "You're safe here."
Fusco swiftly put his phone away as John went over to the new arrivals. "What's the trouble?" John prompted at the same volume.
"Can I talk to Mr. McGruff, please?" the girl asked in a barely audible whisper.
"Sure," said John. "I'll go get him, if you'll wait here a minute."
The girl glanced nervously at Fusco. "Can I come with you?"
"It'll only take a second," John promised. "This is Det. Fusco; he's a friend of McGruff's."
Joining them, Fusco crouched down to meet the girl's eyes and smiled. "Hi, sweetheart. What's your name?"
"Amy Sullivan," Amy replied but clung more tightly to Zoe's hand.
"It's nice to meet you, Amy. How old are you?"
"I'm six."
"Yeah? My son, he just turned ten."
Amy thawed a little under Fusco's gentle interrogation, and John stepped away and poked his head back into the living room. McGruff, having evidently heard at least a child's voice, already had his gloves back on; he nodded once to John and put his head on.
John turned back to the group by the kitchen door. "He's in the living room," he reported. "Wanna go in there to talk to him?"
Amy nodded, and as Fusco stood, Zoe escorted her through the kitchen and into the living room, where McGruff was waiting.
"McGruff, this is Amy," Zoe began. "She says there's something important she needs to talk to you about."
"Hello, Amy," said McGruff. "What can I do for you?"
"I saw something I wasn't s'posed to," Amy whispered. "My stepdad said he'd kill me if I told the police or anyone at school, but... but he didn't say I couldn't tell you."
On a sudden hunch, John backed away to the kitchen door while McGruff sat down on the couch to get Amy's whispered story. John turned just as his fear was realized and a masked, black-clad man jumped over the back fence. All the kids and most of the moms screamed.
John wrenched open the back door and barked, "Bear! Aanvallen!"
Bear, who had a pink balloon tied to his collar and had been merrily playing Tag with a smaller group of the kids, spun on a dime and leapt on the intruder with an open-mouthed snarl. The impact sent the intruder to the ground and forced him to drop his gun. John was on his way to subdue him when a second intruder came over the fence, so John had to leave the first to Bear and take down the second himself. Then a third man came over the fence, and John saw why Finch had sent Fusco. A fight ensued, during which the moms got the kids safely inside, but men and dog managed to render the hit squad harmless without a shot being fired by either side.
"Who the hell sends a hit squad after a six-year-old?" Fusco asked, tightening the cuffs on his prisoner.
John had knocked his man out, so he stripped the mask off and recognized the man's facial tattoos immediately. "MS-13," he reported. "Amy must have witnessed a gang deal of some kind."
Just then, backup from Far Rockaway PD arrived, and John called Bear off the first intruder, who'd been spewing Spanish profanities without regard to children's ears. As the police left, so did the partygoers, although the birthday girl's mom promised to come back later to help clean up.
"Is Amy safe?" John asked Zoe and McGruff as he came back into the house.
Zoe nodded as McGruff pulled off his costume head again. "She's staying with her dad this weekend," McGruff stated, "and we've got a good case for making it permanent, considering that her stepdad's been dealing drugs. We're lucky those thugs didn't settle for a drive-by. With Amy's testimony, though, we should be able to put them, her stepdad, and some other names on the Most Wanted list away for a good long time."
John nodded. "Appreciate your help."
"Hey, no problem. That's what I'm here for." McGruff shook hands all around, gave Bear a farewell pat, and left.
Zoe took a deep breath and let it out again. "Well! Never a dull moment around this place." She turned to Fusco. "Wanna help us finish off the birthday cake?"
"No thanks," said Fusco. "I think I'll head back to The Bronx, where it's safer."
John snorted and handed him a box of Thin Mints, which he accepted with a chuckle and left.
"Think I should add this to my list of reasons for the divorce," Zoe snarked as the front door closed.
John laughed and got out the Scotch.
November 5, 2015
"Isn't this a British tradition?" Ms. Shaw asked as she heaved her burden onto the pile.
"Humor me," said John and slammed a stack of pallets into place.
Harold understood. New York—indeed, the world—had gone through harrowing times in the last four years and had come perilously close to the sort of upheaval that would have resulted had Guy Fawkes actually lit the fuse in 1605. So when John had suggested that they all come out here to have a bonfire, Harold had agreed that it might be cathartic, although he had drawn the line at actual effigies. He'd suggested the compromise of painting names on boards, which Taylor Carter and Lee Fusco were now busily doing. (The name "Guy Fawkes" was not among them, despite the date; this exercise was purely personal.)
Harold had supplied the location, far enough upstate that no one would ask questions. Elias had supplied the wood, and Mr. Marconi was bickering good-naturedly with Det. Fusco as the two of them helped John and Ms. Shaw build the bonfire. Ms. Groves was minding the torch--which Det. Fusco had grumbled about being a serious error in judgment, but she was on her best behavior so far--while Det. Carter, Ms. Morgan, and Grace looked after the thermos jugs of tea, coffee, and cocoa and chatted about the weather. And Harold sat by in a camp chair, petting Bear's head and watching the proceedings.
"You sure one torch is enough?" Elias asked, sitting down beside him in a camp chair of his own.
"Mr. Reese and Ms. Shaw each brought several large cans of kerosene," Harold replied. "I believe it will be quite enough for the fire to catch."
Elias chuckled. "Leave it to the professionals, huh?"
Harold smiled at him, amused.
After a moment, Elias' smile dimmed slightly. "I'm not sure I ever said thank you."
Harold blinked in surprise. "For what?"
"Everything. Saving my life, saving Anthony's life, helping us take down Dominic, hiding us from Samaritan. Being probably the best chess partner I'll ever have." Elias looked at him steadily. "I owe you and John more than I can ever repay."
"Your own aid has been invaluable the last year or so," Harold admitted. "So I'm not sure the ledger is as unbalanced as you think."
"Still. I'm grateful."
"As am I."
They sat in silence a while until the bonfire was finished and John, Ms. Shaw, and Mr. Marconi set about soaking it thoroughly with kerosene. They finished about the same time the boys finished the signs, which the fire builders then placed: Mr. Marconi the one labeled Dominic, Det. Fusco HR, Ms. Shaw Decima, and John Samaritan. Then they stepped back, and John motioned to Ms. Groves, who picked up the torch and started toward the bonfire... but stopped.
"No," she said, turned, and held the torch out toward Harold. "You do the honors, Harry."
Harold hesitated a moment, then nodded firmly and let Elias help him up. He accepted the torch from Ms. Groves with a brief smile, but as he limped toward the bonfire, the memories of everything that had happened in the recent past crowded around him like ghosts, the more so the longer he stared at the Samaritan sign, which John had hung at Harold's own eye level. Suddenly overwhelmed with grief and rage, Harold thrust the blazing torch into the pyre just below the sign and felt a vicious glee when both the dry sign and the wetted wood around it caught fire immediately.
"That's for Arthur," he whispered as a tear rolled down his cheek, "and for us, and for what you did to Grace." He paused, then added even more softly, "And for the Machine."
John touched Harold's back, which prompted him to step back from the growing inferno. Then he sensed someone else beside him, and he turned straight into a hug from Grace. When she finally let him go, she and John guided him back to his seat, where Bear licked the tears off his face. Harold spluttered and wiped his face with his handkerchief, and everyone else laughed, which lightened the mood considerably. Ms. Morgan began distributing drinks, and the boys, no longer on sign duty, dug into the crateload of snacks that Grace had brought. Ms. Shaw tried to eat a cupcake whole and nearly managed it; the remainder fell on the ground, and Bear snarfed it down before Harold could stop him. Mr. Marconi, meanwhile, disappeared into the darkness and returned with a case of beer, of which Elias, Ms. Shaw, and himself partook.
"I took a video for you-know-who," Ms. Groves told Harold. "She said to tell you, 'Good job and thank you.'"
Harold could only smile, and John rubbed his shoulder in understanding.
The fire reached the HR sign at that point, and Det. Fusco and Det. Carter, who had drifted toward each other while watching tensely, sighed and relaxed and toasted each other with their cups of coffee. Then they joined the circle forming around Harold's chair, Joss walking into a side hug from John and Det. Fusco swiping the cupcake tray from his son to share around.
"Hey, you know somethin'?" Det. Fusco asked, offering the tray to John. "This really was a good idea."
John smiled and raised a cupcake in salute, and as Grace put an arm around Harold's shoulders, Harold relaxed against her with a smile of his own.
December 2015
"We're here, Finch," John called as he reached the entrance to the park with Det. Carter by his side. "Where's the number?"
"I'm not sure," Harold admitted. "Ms. Shaw is checking the other side of the park, but he may be on the ice already. It might be wise for the two of you to join the skaters in case the threat is there."
John balked slightly, but Det. Carter, shooting Harold a knowing look, said, "C'mon, John. We can get across the ice faster if we've already got skates on, and we'll look less suspicious that way, too."
John looked suspiciously at both of them but then huffed and smiled. "Okay."
The three of them made their way through the festive crowd to the brightly-lit skating rink, where John rented skates for himself and Det. Carter and Harold found a bench with a good view from which to watch. It wasn't long before his friends joined the other couples circulating on the ice, with the occasional bobble as they got their feet under them. And it didn't take many laps before Harold could hear not only Joss' laughter but also--oh, rarest of treasures--John's free, delighted laughter as well.
Harold's attention was drawn away from them by a steaming cup of cocoa being pressed into his hands as the one person who could make the evening perfect sat down beside him with a smile. His own smile broadened, and he leaned against her slightly in thanks.
"There isn't a number, is there?" Grace asked.
"Oh, there is," Harold replied, marveling anew that she had accepted the truth with such an abundance of the virtue for which she was named. "Ms. Groves and Ms. Shaw are handling it. I just thought... after everything...." He looked out to where John and Joss were spinning each other around and grinning at each other with shining eyes. "They deserve this."
Grace nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. Yes, they do."
They sat and watched and drank their cocoa while John and Joss all but danced on the ice for the better part of an hour until Ms. Shaw reported that the threat had been neutralized. John and Joss spoke to each other for a moment and finished their current lap before stopping at the exit nearest to Harold and Grace, but before they left the ice, John paused and kissed Joss, and she kissed him back.
"Do you have dinner plans?" Grace asked.
"Reservation for four at the Grand," Harold answered, giving her a sidelong look.
"Sounds perfect." She grinned and kissed him.
"Only for four?" Ms. Shaw asked in his ear.
"Good night, Ms. Shaw," Harold replied, shut off his earwig, and kissed Grace back.
