Fic: Tactical to Practical (2/3)
Author’s Notes: To be honest, I wasn't entirely thrilled with the last chapter. While Reese's voice comes pretty naturally to me, Finch's (and indeed his thought process) does not. Unfortunately, I feel like it showed in the dialogue exchange between Reese and Finch. Or I'm just being overly picky, because I'm used to writing Kirk, McCoy and Pike from the Star Trek fandom - three characters I could literally write in my sleep. In any case, Fusco's voice comes as easily to me as Reese's does, so I'm hoping this chapter will fare a little better.
Disclaimer: Still not mine? No? Really? Damn. All right, if that's how it's going to be, then I guess I'll have to claim no money made from anything I write. I do it only to appease my muses.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 |
========
Chapter 2
2013
Lionel Fusco was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a philosophical man. He took things as they came and at face value, both good and bad, and made with them what he could. But even he had to admit that every now and again, he wondered how different his life’s path might have been had he followed through on Stills’ order and left Reese rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay. Left him dead - emphasis on ‘dead’ - and rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay, specifically.
One thing was for sure: one actually dead John Reese would have meant a lot fewer headaches for the beleaguered detective, his current predicament being no exception. Fusco really thought that this time he might actually kill the man, CIA-trained weapon of destruction be damned. It was one of those days that Lionel wished he spoke a language besides English, because cursing someone to the seventh layer of hell in Russian would probably have been a lot more entertaining than doing it in English.
For the fortieth time.
In the last half hour.
November in the northeast was always predictably unpredictable; Fusco spent the better part of the day wishing the weather would shit or get off the pot. Rain or snow - not both, and certainly not both at the same time, and especially when he was forced to tail the Mystery Boys’ latest infatuation on foot through half of Brooklyn. By the time Fusco slid, boneless, into his cruiser, his shoes were soaked, his slacks were ruined (courtesy of a FedEx truck who Lionel swore was aiming for the puddle at the corner), his tie was missing (he had no idea how or where he lost it), and his hair was a hopeless, tangled mess (probably from pulling it by its roots in frustration). All he wanted to do was go back to the station, change into something dry and have a scalding cup of coffee to warm up.
And maybe shoot John, if he could find him.
It took three tries after he pulled the car into the lot reserved for fleet vehicles at the 8th, but eventually the detective managed to summon the energy to peel himself from the driver’s seat. Digging through his pocket, he checked his phone, thankful it survived the trip through the great outdoors. He let out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t missed any calls from Lee or his ex; pissing off Lee’s mother was the last thing he needed now. Lionel sighed and trudged up the cement stairs, glaring icy daggers at anyone who dared look at him on his way in as he made a beeline for the locker room. Fusco tossed his destroyed suit in the garbage, threw on his street clothes and made his way upstairs to the precinct’s crash pad for a little R&R.
Though the layout resembled a scaled-down army barrack, the creature comforts adorning every available nook and cranny of the room spoke to the more civilized (and downright childish) nature of the inhabitants. A small refrigerator sat tucked away behind one of the bunks; resting on top of that was a microwave that actually worked. A coffee table, fully stocked with an assortment of sporting, firearms and Maxim magazines respectively, hid behind a privacy curtain that separated the bunks from the recreation area. Above the coffee table, someone had the foresight to install a TV, complete with a Playstation 3 propped up on a shelf just adjacent. Soda cans and food wrappers littered the area near the trash can; clearly, the desk sergeant hadn’t been up here in a while to remind his underlings to clean up after themselves.
Fusco snorted as he walked by, giving the handful of patrol cops playing Call of Duty a quick nod of his chin. He shook his head, wondering when blasting away at computerized bad guys in Kevlar vests replaced bonding time over a cup of bad coffee and good conversation at a local diner. Pushing the thought from his mind, Lionel flopped down gracelessly onto one of the eight bunk beds lining the small room and attempted to block out the sound of the game coming through the TV’s speakers.
The edges of sleep were tugging relentlessly at the detective’s subconscious, willing him to give in. But there was something familiar about the dialogue wafting from the game a few feet away. It was almost as if he’d been there, as if his brain could fill in the conversation and supply him with the visuals before it actually played out on the screen. With a hearty groan, Fusco cracked his eyes open, propped his face up on his fist and watched the game’s cut scene play out.
If he didn’t absolutely and unequivocally detest John Reese when he was wringing the water out of his unmentionables, he most certainly hated the guy now. Lionel reminded himself to breath - in and out, in and out, slowly and in control - while he tempered some rather robust homicidal urges that popped forth in his brain. He felt the tips of his ears go pink as his blood rushed through his body. Equal parts embarrassment and anger flooded his system as Lionel watched as a brief snippet from his life play out on the game’s screen.
High-ceilinged, half-empty warehouse? Check.
The pair of protagonist characters tied to chairs? Check.
Psychotic Aryans with very large bolt clippers, too much testosterone and not enough brains? Check.
One anxiety-ridden, barking Belgian Malinois? Check.
One figurative lone wolf, forced to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, with a maniacal gleam to his eyes? Check.
Fusco all but sighed, remembering to keep his jaw closed as to not draw attention to himself. He knew what was coming next even though he couldn’t completely make out the exchange of dialogue. The sharp staccato barking continued, matched a half-second later by a throatier set of foreign words Lionel still had yet to master. The incessant sound stopped instantaneously; it was followed by one more command, softer this time, almost careful. Fusco heard the pitch of the game’s music ratchet up in anticipation as the patrol cops took back control. An exchange of gunfire, some fisticuffs and the man with the bolt cutters thrown through a broken window later, the three protagonists managed to free themselves from their binds and were on their merry way to their next mission.
Knowing sleep was all but futile, the detective rolled off the bunk and snagged his phone from his jeans pocket. What he was about to do probably wasn’t classified as wise, but Fusco’s slightly wounded male ego quickly cast aside logic in favor of retribution. Pulling up Reese’s name from the list, Lionel dialed the number, found the inside of the supply closet and waited for a response.
‘Hello, Lionel. Did you miss me?’
Fusco all but growled at Reese. “Like hell. If you were standing in front of me right now, I might actually shoot you.”
‘And here I thought we got along so well. What have I done to deserve this kind of hostility?’
“Well for starters, you and Glasses dragged me halfway around the world today. In the snow and the rain, I might add. You know, you boys don’t pay me enough for this kind of shit and it’s starting to piss me off,” Fusco exclaimed, stabbing one finger through the air as if Reese was standing in front of him.
John huffed, no doubt smirking the way he did when he was just about to start a fight. He let out a breath and asked simply, ‘And?’
“’And’? What the hell do you mean, ‘And'? That’s it?” Fusco half-exclaimed, right hand shooting out at his side as he gesticulated animatedly in the empty room.
‘Well you say this like I should be concerned.’
Lionel barely resisted the urge to slap himself in the forehead. Shaking his head, he said to the ex-CIA agent, “Has anyone ever told you what an ass you are? Because if they haven't, let me be the first to say it. You're an ass.”
‘I'm glad to know I'm so popular with you. Now what's your point?’
Fusco snorted out loud. "My point is that, after I finally get back to the house to clean up, I go up to our crash pad to find a small army of flatfoots playing Call of Duty. And what do I see on this video game?” Fusco stopped for dramatic effect, swallowing hard a couple of times to wet his mouth.
‘I don’t know, Lionel. I haven’t honed my psychic abilities well enough yet to see the world through your eyes,’ John replied.
Fusco ground his back molars so hard against each other he was certain his dentist was cringing on the other end of New York. “Let me tell you what I saw, Reese. I see a scene that’s scarily similar to the predicament of one Leon Tao in the middle of Call of Duty. Complete with an angry Belgian dog and Aryans wielding large bolt cutters. You wouldn’t happen to know how that wound up in the game, would you?” he asked accusingly.
‘Why do you automatically assume it was me? As you mentioned, Leon was there, too, and he’s a much bigger pain in the ass than I am.’
Lionel snorted. “That,” he began, “is highly debatable. You’re always a pain in my ass, and this? This has your name written all over it.”
Some shuffling on Reese’s end of the connection made its way through the feed. ‘You’re right,’ the former CIA agent admitted almost smugly.
Caught completely off guard by John’s confession, Fusco sputtered out a few choice curse words intermixed with half-sentences, trying desperately to bridge the gap between his brain and his mouth. Lionel closed his eyes, took a breath and finally said, “So lemme guess: one of your aliases found a new career.”
‘Something like that. Finch insisted,’ Reese said casually.
“Just my lucky day.” Grumbling, Fusco grabbed a seat on top of a five gallon bucket while he propped his feet up on the shelf next to the toilet paper rolls. “So you want to tell me what the hell you were thinking? Because let me tell you - you should stick to kneecapping people if your secondary career is to embarrass me every chance you get,” Lionel said, huffing out a large breath at the end of the sentence.
‘Lighten up, Detective. It’s for your own good.’
“Yeah, I don’t see it that way.”
‘Our mutual experience with the Aryans worked perfectly with the storyline.’ Reese’s end went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his tone was different. Lighter, still antagonistic, but almost friendly, if only in a slightly psychotic way. ‘Besides, I left out the part about the ball gags during our planning sessions.’
Fusco opened his mouth to reply, to attempt to tear Reese a new one over the phone, but tell-tale click in his ear told him Reese terminated the connection. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. Glaring at his phone, he gripped the plastic device so tight his knuckles turned white. The detective pursed his lips, shoved the phone back in the pocket of his pants and ran one hand over his face. He killed the light in the storage room, threw the door open and stepped out into the entropy that was the 8th precinct.
Yeah, fuck John Reese.
Pain in the ass.
========
Next Up: "John Reese from Lionel Fusco at 11.46 of the second period. Reese from Fusco at 11.46." Or, Fusco proves there are some things even Wonderboy can't do.
Disclaimer: Still not mine? No? Really? Damn. All right, if that's how it's going to be, then I guess I'll have to claim no money made from anything I write. I do it only to appease my muses.
Chapter | 1 | 2 | 3 |
========
Chapter 2
2013
Lionel Fusco was not, by any stretch of the imagination, a philosophical man. He took things as they came and at face value, both good and bad, and made with them what he could. But even he had to admit that every now and again, he wondered how different his life’s path might have been had he followed through on Stills’ order and left Reese rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay. Left him dead - emphasis on ‘dead’ - and rotting somewhere in Oyster Bay, specifically.
One thing was for sure: one actually dead John Reese would have meant a lot fewer headaches for the beleaguered detective, his current predicament being no exception. Fusco really thought that this time he might actually kill the man, CIA-trained weapon of destruction be damned. It was one of those days that Lionel wished he spoke a language besides English, because cursing someone to the seventh layer of hell in Russian would probably have been a lot more entertaining than doing it in English.
For the fortieth time.
In the last half hour.
November in the northeast was always predictably unpredictable; Fusco spent the better part of the day wishing the weather would shit or get off the pot. Rain or snow - not both, and certainly not both at the same time, and especially when he was forced to tail the Mystery Boys’ latest infatuation on foot through half of Brooklyn. By the time Fusco slid, boneless, into his cruiser, his shoes were soaked, his slacks were ruined (courtesy of a FedEx truck who Lionel swore was aiming for the puddle at the corner), his tie was missing (he had no idea how or where he lost it), and his hair was a hopeless, tangled mess (probably from pulling it by its roots in frustration). All he wanted to do was go back to the station, change into something dry and have a scalding cup of coffee to warm up.
And maybe shoot John, if he could find him.
It took three tries after he pulled the car into the lot reserved for fleet vehicles at the 8th, but eventually the detective managed to summon the energy to peel himself from the driver’s seat. Digging through his pocket, he checked his phone, thankful it survived the trip through the great outdoors. He let out a sigh of relief that he hadn’t missed any calls from Lee or his ex; pissing off Lee’s mother was the last thing he needed now. Lionel sighed and trudged up the cement stairs, glaring icy daggers at anyone who dared look at him on his way in as he made a beeline for the locker room. Fusco tossed his destroyed suit in the garbage, threw on his street clothes and made his way upstairs to the precinct’s crash pad for a little R&R.
Though the layout resembled a scaled-down army barrack, the creature comforts adorning every available nook and cranny of the room spoke to the more civilized (and downright childish) nature of the inhabitants. A small refrigerator sat tucked away behind one of the bunks; resting on top of that was a microwave that actually worked. A coffee table, fully stocked with an assortment of sporting, firearms and Maxim magazines respectively, hid behind a privacy curtain that separated the bunks from the recreation area. Above the coffee table, someone had the foresight to install a TV, complete with a Playstation 3 propped up on a shelf just adjacent. Soda cans and food wrappers littered the area near the trash can; clearly, the desk sergeant hadn’t been up here in a while to remind his underlings to clean up after themselves.
Fusco snorted as he walked by, giving the handful of patrol cops playing Call of Duty a quick nod of his chin. He shook his head, wondering when blasting away at computerized bad guys in Kevlar vests replaced bonding time over a cup of bad coffee and good conversation at a local diner. Pushing the thought from his mind, Lionel flopped down gracelessly onto one of the eight bunk beds lining the small room and attempted to block out the sound of the game coming through the TV’s speakers.
The edges of sleep were tugging relentlessly at the detective’s subconscious, willing him to give in. But there was something familiar about the dialogue wafting from the game a few feet away. It was almost as if he’d been there, as if his brain could fill in the conversation and supply him with the visuals before it actually played out on the screen. With a hearty groan, Fusco cracked his eyes open, propped his face up on his fist and watched the game’s cut scene play out.
If he didn’t absolutely and unequivocally detest John Reese when he was wringing the water out of his unmentionables, he most certainly hated the guy now. Lionel reminded himself to breath - in and out, in and out, slowly and in control - while he tempered some rather robust homicidal urges that popped forth in his brain. He felt the tips of his ears go pink as his blood rushed through his body. Equal parts embarrassment and anger flooded his system as Lionel watched as a brief snippet from his life play out on the game’s screen.
High-ceilinged, half-empty warehouse? Check.
The pair of protagonist characters tied to chairs? Check.
Psychotic Aryans with very large bolt clippers, too much testosterone and not enough brains? Check.
One anxiety-ridden, barking Belgian Malinois? Check.
One figurative lone wolf, forced to his knees by a blow to the back of his neck, with a maniacal gleam to his eyes? Check.
Fusco all but sighed, remembering to keep his jaw closed as to not draw attention to himself. He knew what was coming next even though he couldn’t completely make out the exchange of dialogue. The sharp staccato barking continued, matched a half-second later by a throatier set of foreign words Lionel still had yet to master. The incessant sound stopped instantaneously; it was followed by one more command, softer this time, almost careful. Fusco heard the pitch of the game’s music ratchet up in anticipation as the patrol cops took back control. An exchange of gunfire, some fisticuffs and the man with the bolt cutters thrown through a broken window later, the three protagonists managed to free themselves from their binds and were on their merry way to their next mission.
Knowing sleep was all but futile, the detective rolled off the bunk and snagged his phone from his jeans pocket. What he was about to do probably wasn’t classified as wise, but Fusco’s slightly wounded male ego quickly cast aside logic in favor of retribution. Pulling up Reese’s name from the list, Lionel dialed the number, found the inside of the supply closet and waited for a response.
‘Hello, Lionel. Did you miss me?’
Fusco all but growled at Reese. “Like hell. If you were standing in front of me right now, I might actually shoot you.”
‘And here I thought we got along so well. What have I done to deserve this kind of hostility?’
“Well for starters, you and Glasses dragged me halfway around the world today. In the snow and the rain, I might add. You know, you boys don’t pay me enough for this kind of shit and it’s starting to piss me off,” Fusco exclaimed, stabbing one finger through the air as if Reese was standing in front of him.
John huffed, no doubt smirking the way he did when he was just about to start a fight. He let out a breath and asked simply, ‘And?’
“’And’? What the hell do you mean, ‘And'? That’s it?” Fusco half-exclaimed, right hand shooting out at his side as he gesticulated animatedly in the empty room.
‘Well you say this like I should be concerned.’
Lionel barely resisted the urge to slap himself in the forehead. Shaking his head, he said to the ex-CIA agent, “Has anyone ever told you what an ass you are? Because if they haven't, let me be the first to say it. You're an ass.”
‘I'm glad to know I'm so popular with you. Now what's your point?’
Fusco snorted out loud. "My point is that, after I finally get back to the house to clean up, I go up to our crash pad to find a small army of flatfoots playing Call of Duty. And what do I see on this video game?” Fusco stopped for dramatic effect, swallowing hard a couple of times to wet his mouth.
‘I don’t know, Lionel. I haven’t honed my psychic abilities well enough yet to see the world through your eyes,’ John replied.
Fusco ground his back molars so hard against each other he was certain his dentist was cringing on the other end of New York. “Let me tell you what I saw, Reese. I see a scene that’s scarily similar to the predicament of one Leon Tao in the middle of Call of Duty. Complete with an angry Belgian dog and Aryans wielding large bolt cutters. You wouldn’t happen to know how that wound up in the game, would you?” he asked accusingly.
‘Why do you automatically assume it was me? As you mentioned, Leon was there, too, and he’s a much bigger pain in the ass than I am.’
Lionel snorted. “That,” he began, “is highly debatable. You’re always a pain in my ass, and this? This has your name written all over it.”
Some shuffling on Reese’s end of the connection made its way through the feed. ‘You’re right,’ the former CIA agent admitted almost smugly.
Caught completely off guard by John’s confession, Fusco sputtered out a few choice curse words intermixed with half-sentences, trying desperately to bridge the gap between his brain and his mouth. Lionel closed his eyes, took a breath and finally said, “So lemme guess: one of your aliases found a new career.”
‘Something like that. Finch insisted,’ Reese said casually.
“Just my lucky day.” Grumbling, Fusco grabbed a seat on top of a five gallon bucket while he propped his feet up on the shelf next to the toilet paper rolls. “So you want to tell me what the hell you were thinking? Because let me tell you - you should stick to kneecapping people if your secondary career is to embarrass me every chance you get,” Lionel said, huffing out a large breath at the end of the sentence.
‘Lighten up, Detective. It’s for your own good.’
“Yeah, I don’t see it that way.”
‘Our mutual experience with the Aryans worked perfectly with the storyline.’ Reese’s end went silent for a beat. When he spoke again, his tone was different. Lighter, still antagonistic, but almost friendly, if only in a slightly psychotic way. ‘Besides, I left out the part about the ball gags during our planning sessions.’
Fusco opened his mouth to reply, to attempt to tear Reese a new one over the phone, but tell-tale click in his ear told him Reese terminated the connection. “Asshole,” he muttered under his breath. Glaring at his phone, he gripped the plastic device so tight his knuckles turned white. The detective pursed his lips, shoved the phone back in the pocket of his pants and ran one hand over his face. He killed the light in the storage room, threw the door open and stepped out into the entropy that was the 8th precinct.
Yeah, fuck John Reese.
Pain in the ass.
========
Next Up: "John Reese from Lionel Fusco at 11.46 of the second period. Reese from Fusco at 11.46." Or, Fusco proves there are some things even Wonderboy can't do.