Fic: Armor 2/?
It might have ended there. It might have, except the next Friday, just as Fusco’s shift is ending and he’s planning to go home, sleep for a couple of hours, and then pretend to not be going crazy for his kid’s benefit, Fusco gets a call.
“Now?” he asks, pained.
“Yes, Lionel,” Reese says in a firm tone. “Now.”
This is how Fusco ends up kneeling on a roof at three in the morning with a pair of binoculars pressing raw, pink circles around his eyes as he watches people walk in and out of a hotel, preparing to call Finch if he sees their suspect walk out. The person he’s looking for is, and he quotes, “Male, Caucasian, brown hair, mid-thirties, average height, average build, wearing a dark jacket.”
Fusco has made about fifteen calls in the last hour and he and Finch are completely sick of hearing each other’s voices.
“Maybe if you’d be more specific,” Fusco’s saying, “I could tell you something worth knowing. If you don’t give me anything better than that, I’m stuck telling you about every whitebread jackass that walks through those d - there’s another one!”
“Not him,” Finch says. Fusco’s not sure how he knows that. He thinks maybe Finch is watching all of this too, which makes Fusco the backup-lookout in this little adventure. That would be insulting enough on its own, but it’s made worse by the fact that Finch is probably watching this from a nice warm building somewhere instead of a freezing rooftop. Fusco shivers and thinks wistfully about the jacket, which is still sitting on his coffee table, in the original box, untouched because Fusco just hasn’t had the time to get rid of it yet.
“How can you even tell?”
“The nose is wrong. The footage I’m looking at is grainy, but even I can tell that.” Son of a bitch, he is watching from indoors somewhere. He probably has a chair and everything.
“The nose is - sorry, you wanna describe this one-in-a-million freak nose for me? Maybe give me a little help knowing what the hell this guy looks like?”
Finch pauses, takes a breath, seems to be gathering patience. “It’s very subtle,” he says, carefully.
“Or, hey, there’s this new thing you might want to look at, it’s called send me a fucking picture.”
“Detective,” Finch says in clipped tones, “I am doing my best. At the moment, there are no pictures, as the man in question has recently undergone plastic surgery. What we do have are eyewitness reports, which I obtained when he tried to kill me.” The last few words are said through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” Fusco shifts. The roof is hell on his knees. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.”
“You okay?”
“I escaped unharmed.”
“Yeah, but that’s not…” he begins, before stopping himself because he’s tired of fighting and he just wants to go home. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Fusco tries not to heave an audible sigh of relief.
They’re all out of things to say at this point, but neither of them hang up. They just sit there and breathe, not quite listening to each other, occasionally breaking the quiet with a quick exchange of “Is that him?”/”No.” It’s better not having to call each other every five minutes. This way, it’s like they’re in the same room, not forcing conversation, just keeping each other company. They’ve had maybe twenty minutes total of actual, face-to-face interaction since they first met, and Fusco wonders if it’d actually be like this if they ever spent any time together.
Finally, Fusco asks, “Are you still pissed at me because of the jacket thing?”
“Of course not,” Finch replies on automatic, but he sounds pissed, so Fusco knows what’s up now.
“I’m sorry for how I came off there,” Fusco says. “It fits, by the way.”
“Does it.” Not a question.
“Yeah. Really well.” Fusco clears his throat. “How did you…?”
Tersely, Finch says, “I estimated.”
“Well. Um. You were right.”
“How astute of me.”
“You did good.”
“Mmhmm.”
The silence this time is far tenser than before.
Fusco takes a deep breath, tries again. “I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me. I can’t keep it, but it did. It really did.”
“Detective Fusco?” Finch says. “Please stop talking.”
Obediently, he does.
It’s at around this moment that there is the sound of shattering glass and Fusco looks across the street in time to see a man falling from a shattered window on the 20th floor to the pavement below.
“What was that?” Finch asks, sharply.
“Looks like…” Fusco adjusts the focus on the binoculars, peers over the edge. “…Brown hair, Caucasian, dark jacket, average height, average build. He landed facedown, though, so I can’t tell you about the nose.”
Finch heaves a long-suffering sigh and Fusco takes a moment to look back up to the window, where he is unsurprised to see Reese, skulking just beyond the window frame. Reese is sidling from foot to foot, seems torn between staying safely out of sight and peering over the edge. He looks just a little bit sheepish. All at once, the line of his back stiffens. He raises his head like a dog catching a scent on the wind and he turns his head to stare across the way, from his high window to the roof where Fusco is hiding. Impossibly, Reese waves at him.
“I think that’s your guy who just took up skydiving,” Fusco says to Finch, waving back at Reese on autopilot before he realizes how bizarre this is and stops. “Either that or our friend in the suit just killed some innocent guy.”
“Oh, I hope it’s not that,” Finch says, sounding fretful.
“Me too.” Fusco watches as Reese pulls back from the window and out of sight. “So. Is that it?”
“I can’t believe this has happened twice,” Finch murmurs. “Yes, I believe that wraps everything up.”
“Am I ever going to know what just happened?”
“Probably not,” Finch admits. “Count your blessings, Fusco. I’m intimately familiar with the details of this case, and most of them are idiotic.”
“Yeah, kinda seemed that way.”
“Go home, Detective,” Finch says with a hint of fondness in his voice. “Get some sleep.”
“Yeah? You too. Good night.” As he hangs up, Fusco is struck by how late it is, how tired he’d be if Finch hadn’t been keeping him up.
He guesses he’s still tired because it takes until he gets home and the security chain is locked for him to realize that he forgot about Michael. Luckily, the kid comes to the door, eyes half closed and puffy with sleep, blanket draped over his shoulders, and stands on tiptoe to undo the chain and let Fusco in.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, half-whispering, not quite crossing the threshold of his own front door.
“Hey, Dad,” Michael says, swiping at one eye. “What time is it?”
“Real late. You weren’t still up, were you?”
“No. I fell asleep on the couch.” The dark room is filled with the flickering blue light of the TV. Fusco steps in, takes his coat off, goes to turn off the TV while Michael shuts the door and locks the deadbolt behind him.
“Did your mom leave you here?” Fusco asks as he hits the off button and the apartment sinks into complete blackness.
“Yeah. She waited for a while, but she had to go.” Michael tugs at the blanket around his shoulders. “She got really mad.”
Fusco bets. He walks half-blind to the kitchen, flips on the switch. “Did you grab any dinner?”
“I made a sandwich.” Michael sounds slightly proud of himself. He steps into the light of the kitchen and sits down at the table. It’s at this point that Fusco realizes the blanket around his shoulders isn’t a blanket. It’s the jacket.
Fusco gestures. “Whatcha got there, Mick?”
Michael, swamped in the broad shoulders of the jacket, shrugs. “It’s a coat. I got cold,” he says. “It’s yours, right?”
“Right,” he says, without really thinking. Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You were doing police stuff, right?”
No. I don’t know what I was doing, but it wasn’t that. “Yeah,” he says.
“Then it’s okay,” Michael says, decisively.
Fusco smiles at him, helplessly, like he’s taken to doing since his estimated lifespan got a hell of a lot shorter. “You’re a good kid, Mick.”
“Okay,” Michael says, rubbing at his eyes again.
“I think it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“But you just got here,” he says, miserably.
“I know,” Fusco says. “You can wake me up early tomorrow morning. That’ll be my punishment. Now go brush your teeth.”
Michael stumbles into the bathroom, loose with sleep, and Fusco takes the moment alone to loathe himself and fight off a headache. Michael’s an independent kid; he has to be, but Fusco hates that this can happen, that he can come home hours and hours late and Michael understands because that’s just how his dad is. That’s not the kind of dad he wants to be.
Michael gets himself ready for bed, and when Fusco walks by his room to check on him, Michael’s out cold on top of the covers, jacket draped over him, sleeve twisted around his arm. Fusco can’t get rid of that jacket now.
He can’t let this go.
“Now?” he asks, pained.
“Yes, Lionel,” Reese says in a firm tone. “Now.”
This is how Fusco ends up kneeling on a roof at three in the morning with a pair of binoculars pressing raw, pink circles around his eyes as he watches people walk in and out of a hotel, preparing to call Finch if he sees their suspect walk out. The person he’s looking for is, and he quotes, “Male, Caucasian, brown hair, mid-thirties, average height, average build, wearing a dark jacket.”
Fusco has made about fifteen calls in the last hour and he and Finch are completely sick of hearing each other’s voices.
“Maybe if you’d be more specific,” Fusco’s saying, “I could tell you something worth knowing. If you don’t give me anything better than that, I’m stuck telling you about every whitebread jackass that walks through those d - there’s another one!”
“Not him,” Finch says. Fusco’s not sure how he knows that. He thinks maybe Finch is watching all of this too, which makes Fusco the backup-lookout in this little adventure. That would be insulting enough on its own, but it’s made worse by the fact that Finch is probably watching this from a nice warm building somewhere instead of a freezing rooftop. Fusco shivers and thinks wistfully about the jacket, which is still sitting on his coffee table, in the original box, untouched because Fusco just hasn’t had the time to get rid of it yet.
“How can you even tell?”
“The nose is wrong. The footage I’m looking at is grainy, but even I can tell that.” Son of a bitch, he is watching from indoors somewhere. He probably has a chair and everything.
“The nose is - sorry, you wanna describe this one-in-a-million freak nose for me? Maybe give me a little help knowing what the hell this guy looks like?”
Finch pauses, takes a breath, seems to be gathering patience. “It’s very subtle,” he says, carefully.
“Or, hey, there’s this new thing you might want to look at, it’s called send me a fucking picture.”
“Detective,” Finch says in clipped tones, “I am doing my best. At the moment, there are no pictures, as the man in question has recently undergone plastic surgery. What we do have are eyewitness reports, which I obtained when he tried to kill me.” The last few words are said through gritted teeth.
“Oh.” Fusco shifts. The roof is hell on his knees. “Sorry about that.”
“It’s fine.”
“You okay?”
“I escaped unharmed.”
“Yeah, but that’s not…” he begins, before stopping himself because he’s tired of fighting and he just wants to go home. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“No.”
Fusco tries not to heave an audible sigh of relief.
They’re all out of things to say at this point, but neither of them hang up. They just sit there and breathe, not quite listening to each other, occasionally breaking the quiet with a quick exchange of “Is that him?”/”No.” It’s better not having to call each other every five minutes. This way, it’s like they’re in the same room, not forcing conversation, just keeping each other company. They’ve had maybe twenty minutes total of actual, face-to-face interaction since they first met, and Fusco wonders if it’d actually be like this if they ever spent any time together.
Finally, Fusco asks, “Are you still pissed at me because of the jacket thing?”
“Of course not,” Finch replies on automatic, but he sounds pissed, so Fusco knows what’s up now.
“I’m sorry for how I came off there,” Fusco says. “It fits, by the way.”
“Does it.” Not a question.
“Yeah. Really well.” Fusco clears his throat. “How did you…?”
Tersely, Finch says, “I estimated.”
“Well. Um. You were right.”
“How astute of me.”
“You did good.”
“Mmhmm.”
The silence this time is far tenser than before.
Fusco takes a deep breath, tries again. “I just want you to know that it meant a lot to me. I can’t keep it, but it did. It really did.”
“Detective Fusco?” Finch says. “Please stop talking.”
Obediently, he does.
It’s at around this moment that there is the sound of shattering glass and Fusco looks across the street in time to see a man falling from a shattered window on the 20th floor to the pavement below.
“What was that?” Finch asks, sharply.
“Looks like…” Fusco adjusts the focus on the binoculars, peers over the edge. “…Brown hair, Caucasian, dark jacket, average height, average build. He landed facedown, though, so I can’t tell you about the nose.”
Finch heaves a long-suffering sigh and Fusco takes a moment to look back up to the window, where he is unsurprised to see Reese, skulking just beyond the window frame. Reese is sidling from foot to foot, seems torn between staying safely out of sight and peering over the edge. He looks just a little bit sheepish. All at once, the line of his back stiffens. He raises his head like a dog catching a scent on the wind and he turns his head to stare across the way, from his high window to the roof where Fusco is hiding. Impossibly, Reese waves at him.
“I think that’s your guy who just took up skydiving,” Fusco says to Finch, waving back at Reese on autopilot before he realizes how bizarre this is and stops. “Either that or our friend in the suit just killed some innocent guy.”
“Oh, I hope it’s not that,” Finch says, sounding fretful.
“Me too.” Fusco watches as Reese pulls back from the window and out of sight. “So. Is that it?”
“I can’t believe this has happened twice,” Finch murmurs. “Yes, I believe that wraps everything up.”
“Am I ever going to know what just happened?”
“Probably not,” Finch admits. “Count your blessings, Fusco. I’m intimately familiar with the details of this case, and most of them are idiotic.”
“Yeah, kinda seemed that way.”
“Go home, Detective,” Finch says with a hint of fondness in his voice. “Get some sleep.”
“Yeah? You too. Good night.” As he hangs up, Fusco is struck by how late it is, how tired he’d be if Finch hadn’t been keeping him up.
He guesses he’s still tired because it takes until he gets home and the security chain is locked for him to realize that he forgot about Michael. Luckily, the kid comes to the door, eyes half closed and puffy with sleep, blanket draped over his shoulders, and stands on tiptoe to undo the chain and let Fusco in.
“Hey, buddy,” he says, half-whispering, not quite crossing the threshold of his own front door.
“Hey, Dad,” Michael says, swiping at one eye. “What time is it?”
“Real late. You weren’t still up, were you?”
“No. I fell asleep on the couch.” The dark room is filled with the flickering blue light of the TV. Fusco steps in, takes his coat off, goes to turn off the TV while Michael shuts the door and locks the deadbolt behind him.
“Did your mom leave you here?” Fusco asks as he hits the off button and the apartment sinks into complete blackness.
“Yeah. She waited for a while, but she had to go.” Michael tugs at the blanket around his shoulders. “She got really mad.”
Fusco bets. He walks half-blind to the kitchen, flips on the switch. “Did you grab any dinner?”
“I made a sandwich.” Michael sounds slightly proud of himself. He steps into the light of the kitchen and sits down at the table. It’s at this point that Fusco realizes the blanket around his shoulders isn’t a blanket. It’s the jacket.
Fusco gestures. “Whatcha got there, Mick?”
Michael, swamped in the broad shoulders of the jacket, shrugs. “It’s a coat. I got cold,” he says. “It’s yours, right?”
“Right,” he says, without really thinking. Then, softly, “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” he says. “You were doing police stuff, right?”
No. I don’t know what I was doing, but it wasn’t that. “Yeah,” he says.
“Then it’s okay,” Michael says, decisively.
Fusco smiles at him, helplessly, like he’s taken to doing since his estimated lifespan got a hell of a lot shorter. “You’re a good kid, Mick.”
“Okay,” Michael says, rubbing at his eyes again.
“I think it’s time for you to go to bed.”
“But you just got here,” he says, miserably.
“I know,” Fusco says. “You can wake me up early tomorrow morning. That’ll be my punishment. Now go brush your teeth.”
Michael stumbles into the bathroom, loose with sleep, and Fusco takes the moment alone to loathe himself and fight off a headache. Michael’s an independent kid; he has to be, but Fusco hates that this can happen, that he can come home hours and hours late and Michael understands because that’s just how his dad is. That’s not the kind of dad he wants to be.
Michael gets himself ready for bed, and when Fusco walks by his room to check on him, Michael’s out cold on top of the covers, jacket draped over him, sleeve twisted around his arm. Fusco can’t get rid of that jacket now.
He can’t let this go.